Author: foxtongue

Looseleaf singing is ringing through my head. Harmony like bells in the old fashioned chuches. It’s a contraceptive against love iconic. Radio transmission from the inside of my brain. Trying to stay awake, trying to make things matter.

Murder of crows time, stepping from the shower to find a letter from an imaginary lover. Maybe I should send them a picture. Knuckleball warfare, an adventure in breathing. Bomb thier harddrive with sex, don’t let them sleep peacefully.

We may even meet one day, a solution to this damage control.

My mind stands still when I’m working. The children wash over me in meaningless waves. I had an interesting discussion on theology with one of them today. He signed on as God_loves_me and began to ask me if I “knew God”. I told him that I know a person named God, but I don’t ascribe to what he believes in. I think I made him cry, he’s very sheltered. I feel somehow that I might be doing something wrong, but I can’t abide the brainwashing. He’s twelve and has never heard of Darwin. A private school kid in Jackonville, where-ever that is. We chatted for almost two hours. I don’t want to take away someone’s comfort, but wandering around with a stupidly happy grin because science doesn’t exist isn’t something I can approve of. If I’m the devil walking up and transfixing him with a heretical brain, I can live with that. His parents may not like it, but there’s no reason I can’t tell him about evolution.

I have just received a phonecall that I am usually guilty of giving.

-ring-
“Hello?”
“Hello! Inexplicable question? (round or straight)”
“You’re not allowed to be me!”
“Yes I am. Answer the question.”
“Um, answers question (round)”
“Another inexplicable question? (silver or gold)”
“What are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing, answer the question.”
“Damn you, you’re getting me a present? I hate you. You’re getting me a book, aren’t you?”
“And the answer?”
“Answer. (never gold)”
“There is it then. Thanks! Love you! Glad you read my post.”
“Which po-”
-dialtone-

Now I know what it’s like to be on the other end of such conversation, will it stop me from calling people with things like this? No, of course not, I am unfair. I am wretchedly unfair, but now I know for certain what it does to them.

I didn’t even call back.

The U.S. federal government today said it would ban gays from making anonymous donations to sperm banks. [link]

Michigian preparing to let doctors refuse to treat gays [link]

 

That’s it. I’m going to bed. Thank you to   for the post. I sent you music what mentions librarians.

Dear Holy Hells, it’s made of stars.
I may have never quite seen anything so beautiful.
This mans brain, bring it to me so that I may worship.

I’m 22, social and not completely unattractive. You’d think it would be simple. Instead I’m hovering over my keyboard, waiting alone for my night to blend into daybreak. I imagine the people I love lying in beds I might never see and how they curl in their sleep. Different personalities looking lifeless but for breathing. I can touch their hair in my mind, take their hands and lay down beside them, but it doesn’t matter right here. Really, I’m listening to my pocket watch ticking the hours away until the sun rises to strip my clothes away and I can finally fall asleep.

The smell of a boy is in my hair. A perfume spice, a personal holy water. It’s a perverse distraction, like I expect to be able to lean back and meet a welcoming body. I should write for him, I think he likes it. Talk about our elastic inevitability. It stretches, but there’s no escaping it. Such a personal oddball relationship. Sort of waiting for one of us to pick it up. We the polite with the painfully sharp wit. Sometimes I think, “at least we don’t leave bruises.”

(I’m listening to Wolf Parade again. Months later and it’s still showing up to haunt my play list with deathless bouncy rock. Now say, it’s in god’s hands, but god doesn’t always have the best god damn plans, does he. Watched The Life Aquatic again this evening. I still laughed the second time around, though not so much at the cinematography jokes. There’s something compelling about the soundtrack, I find it odd that I’m finding it hard to download.)

I want to reach an antennae to heaven. A wire to catch the sound of crying angels. They spit on us for rain, manna pooling on the forest floor with water and we never notice. How this is possible, you’re not allowed to know. This is my secret, my earthly curse. My wings are dying, fading fast. I require True Love’s Kiss but it doesn’t exist. It’s a human thing, a fairy tale told by the women in romance comedies to the younger women in front of the television with a pint of depressed ice-cream. Programmed behavior and it can’t save me now. I’m lost, my signal blaring unheard. I never flew on feathers, but dreams.

I’m thinking I want to be lying in warm sand, dry sand. That california beach sand baked by the sun I didn’t get to see while I was down there. I want to curl up under a tree, in long dark grass, with hot light playing in green shadows above me. Lie on my side and let the branches keep off the skin burn. I want to be in bed with you, my head in the crook of your arm, content and tasting your kiss on my tongue. I have a trick where I can match heartbeats for a little while, I’d do that. Really I want to be somewhere there’s heat and daylight, somewhere where there’s a pillow of natures flesh. My fantasies are of lying down, letting rest overtake me. I want the day to come, to release me to dream.

Shame erases needing my own little world to stay in. I don’t feel pointless when I’m around you. You don’t get angry either. I still count my years because I need to, I don’t know what you do. There’s always something. A little thing, unmentioned. Trigger moments, I can’t believe I talk about it. Here, and again, and touch me please.

I was in the shower, enveloped in heat. I remembered being cold. I remembered taking the pills and my fingers turning blue. A different room, another life. Teeth chattering fit to break. The water turned on so hot, so hot, not hot enough. I burned myself, crouching in water, dying. Watching out the open door for someone who wouldn’t come to me. Smoking in the basement, probably more important. This is devotion.

I was at school when they stole me. My father had broken down the two inch door and the cops had come down. A woman in a skirt who was too fake for me to like her, she came to my classroom and tried to take my hand. The principal told me to get into her car and I was quiet. I was trying to remember every word said, evaluate and plan.

He tried to hit me and I got away. Slammed my knee into his belly and twisted under his arm to the door. I wanted to sit a moment in the hall and catch my breath, but I knew that would be stupid. My neighbor wasn’t answering her door, she probably heard the one sided yelling, the crash as I ducked thrown dishes. I sat on the street a few blocks away. There were stairs there, and a fountain, the open courtyard of some apartment building. I had nowhere else to go.

I am thinking about a chair. How two bodies may fill the same space. I’m thinking geometry. Jezabel angles and the curvature of spines. Skin and bones.

Yesterday could have been fiction. A brass band of events strung together. My mother woke me, my mother with plans for my brothers teenage birthday. Brr-ring. I pretended to be more awake then my four hours of sleep and nodded when I needed to say yes. Tumbling out of bed, the phone rang again. I wanted my quarter back, but no return. There was a strong Thumbalina moment of wanting to crawl back into the rose petals and let the day continue without me before I sighed and answered the phone. Discharged the day before yesterday, my friend was free from the coma ward. Stress snapped like a band wrapped too tight. His voice shattered my branded pictures inside my head of stretched canvas people, baffling in their immobile insensitivity. Two days under, going on three, they wouldn’t let me in to see him anyway. He’d fallen and couldn’t get up. He’d fallen from a building and his head smashed in, cracked like an egg cliche. The surgery was delicate and the surgeon admitted that he had no hope. His call was short, “come see me”

So I went. He’s taller now and his scar spectacular. Building webs over his left temple, it radiates outward from a moment of impact. Time encapsulated in pink lines, lobotomy style. I like it. He seems practically unchanged, his grasp of words the only missing piece. Strangely, I’m not worried in spite of supplying half the nouns in every ten sentences. It seems like something that can be dealt with. A drawback that can be worked around, a concession which could possibly go away. The doctors are amazed he’s alive. They were shocked when he sat up and spoke.

I took he and his mother for dinner. Robin’s birthday and they’re family, after all. My book was gone from Taf’s. Someone found it yesterday, told the staff they found it and said, “but I’m taking it with me.” There was nothing they could properly do, I understand, but it would have been nice if I had a chance to finish it first.

We went to Sweet Confections, after, on Denman street. The tiramisu cheesecake may not have been the wisest thing to order on bloodtime when I know I’m going home alone, but it was worth it. I was not alone in my response, we all drowned in flavour. Quality sweets can be where it’s at. Fingernails clutching the table. Robin overdid it, had to excuse himself for a moment of feeling ill, but recovered admirably and finished his cake. On Monday I’m taking him to get an ear pierced. We don’t have ceremonies into adulthood anymore, transition state moments from childhood that mean anything, so I’m going to do my best to give him something permanent this year.

Mum dropped me off on Davie Street at Burrard and I stalked up to Numbers, stripping layers off as I walked. By the time I reached the door I had clothes what met the dress code. It was the official opening of The Leather Loft and a partial celebration of the Vancouver Bears Club yearly anniversary. Upstairs was filled with shirtless men in harness, leather pants and vests. Officially, I was there to take pictures, but I mostly stood waiting for the award ceremonies while S&M gay porn played meaningless on the monitors. Silva was being honoured, a certificate and flowers.

From a micracle recovery to a teenager birthday to an S&M night. I like.

Gord called today! Exclamation mark! He’s been discharged from the hospital and going quietly out of his mind. Seems he’s recovering fine from brain surgery, but he’s housebound for a week. I’m going to jazzercize over to Uprising Bakery and bring him something delicious with sugar on top. I’ve no idea what we’ll talk about, we haven’t seen eachother in over a year, we have no grasp of the other’s life, but somehow we’ll manage. We keep tabs on the others whereabouts, after all. I’ve lost track of his brother John, but I tend to run into him enough to spite that. When he was listed as a missing person, when the city was on alert for him, he walked up to me at Wreck Beach in the middle of the night and started talking to me before he knew who I was. His parents are another story entirely. I see Bob occasionally on the Drive and our conversations, though friendly, always peter out from the dire poison that is having utterly nothing at all in common. There’s a generation gap, a technology gap. My life is completely unaccessible. His mother, Francis, still talks with me though. Sometimes we’ll spend an hour on the phone together, chatting away about nothing in particular. It’s like being female gives me an in.

I’m pleased with how social I’ve been since returning. Last night I was up sharing music, swapping songs over the globe with Jessie, and Dee, and Joseph, until when I went to bed, I could finish a chapter of a book with the lamp turned off. My empty trip South seems almost unreal. Yesterday was a guest over, a movie, dessert, and Brians concert. (The movie, by the way, Alone in the Dark, is a good runner up to Teh Flim. It’s stunning like a big rock). Tonight is Robin‘s birthday dinner with family, Mum didn’t give me enough warning to plan involving anyone else, (though if you’re interested, it’s 6pm at Tafs on Granville & Robson, friends welcome), (I’m starting to think I live at Tafs, I left my book there last night and didn’t even blink because I knew I would be coming back too soon for them to lose it), then Silva is winning an award at the official opening of The Leather Loft. I’m going to have to remember to wear sparkly things under my clothing tonight so I can strip down when I get there. Tomorrow blonde Bill is due over after work, and Sunday is Ian‘s birthday Lazertag. I’m considering throwing together something more social for him on Monday evening. Sophie was saying she might bake him a cake.

It started when she asked him to dance. Traditional dress ruched across her thighs, she was divine. He’d been watching her all night, high heels turning on the parquet floor like they were princess slippers made of glass that he could snatch up and claim her with. Her lips were painted red, rose red, sex scent red, crimson like her dress. He imagined the blush of her cheek under his finger and looked down again to her feet before saying yes.

When he took her proffered hand, it was like accepting a challenge. Her glance slapped him across the eyes with both feet perfectly planted. He guided her to the dancefloor, hips shifting to the music. The band was playing old blues tunes with a sad salsa twist. He was going to win this war. They stepped in time, in then out, a little turn to the left and here was a dip. She twisted like a flower following sunlight, she moved like beaded water rippling over rocks. She leaned in close and he caught his breath. In her eyes was flame, a promise of sweat in darkness.

The music shifted to something less demanding, more intriguing, more sensual. Her body pressed against his, his world narrowing to the sensation burning his skin. Hands met and twined, breath slowing deeper. A lower key on the piano and she slid across him with quiet desire, a flourish of finespun subtle touch. She regarded him under lowered lashes and he wondered what it was that was so illusive while lost in the slow shift of weight from foot to foot, her heavy limbed grace like she danced underwater. There was a mystery to her, like she glowed with some insinuating glamour.

The music was drawing to a close. They never said a word, but fell into a final set of steps and stopped, panting, frozen together on the last note in a complex arch of grace. The next song carried on but flowed around them. He felt alone with her, felt as if they stood in profound silence. There was nothing in the world but her breath.

He left a tip at the door when he collected their coats.