Author: foxtongue

rabbit: it’s a monument

I know I haven’t said anything before, but my pet spider began talking to me last week. Sometime around two in the morning last Sunday, I realized that my computer tower isn’t the source of that murmur I’ve been bitching about, it’s really been coming from the aquarium on the shelf next to it. You know when you get tired, sometimes you have these ridiculous ideas? Mine was something like, “How cute, it almost looks like Draco’s talking with his hands” Duh – idiot me. Turns out he was.
Remember I accidentally dropped him when I went to clean his cage? I felt terrible guilty about the whole thing. Like what sort of person am I to drop my pet with an audible clunk, you know? But it seems that I rattled something in his head the right way round, because now he can whisper his thoughts out loud. It’s not very good, heavily accented or something, but I’m pretty proud of him. His eyesight is terrible, it means he can’t read or anything, so I’ve started reading to him. We’re going through the Narnia Series right now. I thought he’d like it for the talking animals but instead we’ve been talking about the underlying themes. I feel like I’m back in high-school or something, doing that Onion thing. We watch little movies together too. That’s sort of why I’m finally talking about this.

Last night someone sent me this cute little movie called Everyone Has More Sex Than Me and we got to talking about the stupid mating habits of our species. I think I said something like, “Oh come on – if a rabbit could sing like that, he’d totally get laid.” and Draco pointed out that singing might not be attractive in such a case. That’s where it got a little weird, because next thing he says is that he finds me pretty attractive, in spite of not being a spider and everything and I didn’t really know what to do with that. Has anyone got any ideas? I really like him, but I think I want to just keep him as a friend. How can I say anything without being, you know, mean?

rabbit: oh my love

I woke her up this morning by sliding inside of her. I took her quietly from behind, slipping my hands between her thighs and starting slowly. She moaned before she woke, the sun fire lighting the sky. I like days like this. I love her green hair and her dark brown eyes, her eleven fingers, the way she paints her weekly henna. I rhapsodize about it, I’m sorry. You always have to hear of her, I know. She’ll be going back to the colony soon. I’m going to really miss her. It’s hard when she’s away. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and dreaming of her tongue dripping ice-water on to my belly by candlelight. That was my favourite anniversary. When we celebrated spur of the moment with a picnic basket and a beachside fire. The ice-bucket with wine had been my idea and the marshmallows on sticks was hers. Sand and silk, clear liquid and hot fire. It was glorious with the stars above singing to us. The salt water ocean delicious on her lips, I licked every drop of water off her body. She’s in the shower now, she’d blush if she knew I was writing this. It’s my little secret, this journal.

My daily train in SoCal crashed. I have to admit that part of me wants to have been on that train. What a grand adventure it could have been.

Yesterday’s show was bloody wonderful. C.R. gets on stage and I fill with pride because he’s come so far, he’s got a chance again to make things happen. It’s like a little gift from somebodies heaven. A beatbox angel, judging the world to not be quite well enough for his daughter. Thrilling glow spreading from the mike to the room, smiles erupting erasing everyone’s shame to cry. I’ve been around so long I remember when it was almost too hard for him. A forever uphill battle to get the show on the road, because it ain’t poetry, it’s rock and roll. It was like touching something special, a peal of soul thunder blues, glorious. I can’t explain the movement of it, the flow and move your body feel of it. On my daughters fifth birthday, I gave her a doll house and a pocket knife. Harmonica, false drum machine effects spitting from his tongue. I finally understand what it means to have your heart swell. I carried her around one day, when she was almost too small to walk. Last night C.R. shined with a star quality, he made some people die.

It was a little like watching Shane. It’s unreal how silence falls when he’s speaking. His skill with words is meaningful matchless. It’s like he’s cruel to have us sit and listen. It’s animation and spirit incarnate. I remember stories of magic, fantasies spun from the finest silks, when he mouths them to life. It’s pain and desire spun into one to make us laugh and it hurts. There’s a certain something in the way he says things. I wish I had the words, but I have nothing like his. In this forever I will be a girl in his shadow. They ring with fire and passion and he means what he says. He’s got a book coming out soon and I trust it will be a bible. It’s like sparks flash off his hands as he gestures in a little bit of wanting fury. Sometimes I think I’m his little dream and sometimes he agrees with me. For years he’s softly haunted me. Last night he quietly dedicated something to me in a way that no one else could see then met my eyes before launching into his poem about his mother. Write, hand, write. I will forever be sorry that she died while I was away. We cried together in the hallway after. It’s an odd friendship, but I should have been here. The power in his speaking, it takes you over, winding in your ears and holding on with hooks in darkness made of light. I have never heard anyone more transporting. I don’t think it’s possible. I wish I could show you more than just a little piece of video of him winning some finals or a piece for the CBC. I wish I could take your hand and drag you to him, to see this gift, this symphony. I’m scared one day my name will appear, but I don’t think it’s in the unwritten rules. Somewhere out there he’ll say it, but I’ll be far away. On the wind I’ll hear a faint In Excelsia and gauge it rightly in admiration. Poems as music, as the finest tradition. The devils tongue encased in a brilliant frame.

I’m about to give this chatroom the boogie

I’ve put put to work today. The usual tuesday moderator has had to take her father to the hospital. I had five minutes warning. I’m now attached to the computer straight through to seven. (Feel free to blather with me on MSN). Seven hours of messing about on-line with brief respites in sinfully happy visits. Working weekdays always seems so easy, there’s hardly anyone on during the day. I have to wait until after their american skools let out for things to get hectic. Three o’clock sweeping across the countries in guilt stricken time-zone increments. I have some visits to look forward to, however, and tonight is Shane’s show. An Imperative You Be There sort of fing.

TUESDAY JANUARY 25TH
CAFE DEUX SOLIELS (2096 COMMERCIAL DR)
DOORS @ 8 SHOW @ 9 $5-7

Another moment in time that should be interesting is crispers Thursday: Down The Rabbit Hole. I’ve not the slightest clue what I will write about, which, I admit, is the same as any other time I sit down in front of the keys. I think it would be nice to post to tell him that we’ve taken part. I can’t imagine how many posts he would get if we all did. Several hundred is a general guess, his in-box flooding over-flowing with snippets of creative substance dealing half with the macabre. The deep blue walls buckling under the weight of a thousand amused attmpting writers. He already received over three hundred comments to his suggestion alone.

As a matter of curiosity, who hasn’t seen The Gods Must Be Crazy??

I’ve been neglecting someone

One thousand hits in twenty days. I never knew I had so many visits or so many friends dropping by. If I put up an entry what allowed anonymous posting with no IP logging, do you think I could perhaps have some people give me a hello?

She looked at him over the rims of her glasses and smiled. The rain began to fall, pattering like a sycophantic melody begging for umbrellas. Blood rushed from his head, “I’ll sell my soul.” She smiled, amused, “That’s not necessary. I’ll think of something far more precious.” She turned her gray eyes to the sky, “Isn’t the water glorious?” and took his arm, her enameled nails flashing in the streetlamp light. He thought of her hand on the leather of his coat and shivered. It was unexpected to stand here with her. When he considered meeting her, she was an amalgam ghost of his ex-girlfriends. He pictured someone else writing his letters, someone older, not this sleek woman. Instead she, with a wicked edge, was something like a dream. Her skirts flaring, scattering water, she talked quietly as they walked. “What you want to know”, she asked, “is it what you need to know?” He steered her past a puddle before answering, “I’m not sure. I want to know everything. How you got into the business, I guess.”

Today has been pleasantly social, though not particularly kind on my voice. Jenn called at four this morning, though my throat gave out after only twenty minutes, and Bliss visited in the afternoon with a friend. Sophie arrived next, followed by Robin. She left, leaving me with Robin. We have Monday’s out together. We’ve decided to go see House of the Flying Daggers up at the VanEast for 9:30. He’s promised he’ll get up tomorrow for school and it is the week of his seventeenth. He should be capable of such a thing by now, right? I have a nagging feeling somehow that I’ll run into someone at the Safeway afterward, in spite of how ridiculous such an urge tends to be. I’m currently blaming my mounting level of pseudo-guilt stemming from my continually putting off any grocery shopping.