Author: foxtongue

Can anyone recommend a good photography community? I miss having wonderful pictures.

I need a camera again. Very badly. Would anyone like to come over and take silly art pictures? I can’t guarentee they’ll turn out any good with only my point and click, but it’s worth a shot. I’ve got a lovely idea regarding ribbons.

In about an hour I’m to meet Javina. She called this morning, but the phone was in the other room and I missed it. Her voice is as surprisingly familiar as her picture. I suppose in such a small place, this isn’t strange, but it’s still has me wondering.

Gavin, roomie, gave his Notice last night. I’m going to miss him, though lately we’ve been rather wrapped in our own worlds. One step in the process of leaving behind. James is to move in, though details have yet to be worked out. The landlord will want to meet him, and he’ll have to give Gavin money for his half of the damage deposit.

There’s something manic in my apathy. Too wired to sleep, not caring enough to find anything to do. It’s time for a movie, but there’s no-one I care to have over. No-one in this city, at any rate.

I’ve never decided to write anything before. As this is my first try please tell me what you think.
Because of the meme, this is for thenowhere:

She turned on the shower, twisting the brassy taps until the temperature was right. The blue bathroom walls caught by the falling water splashed cerulean into the ceramic tub. She was cold, kneeling with one hand in the spray until she decided it was ready. Checking to see the door was closed, she turned and stepped into the shower. One naked foot after the other, the hot water striking a moment of pain on her skin before blossoming into a soothing heat. It felt good to be in the warmth after a long chilly day. It’s fall, turning into winter soon. Every day will be as cold or colder. The room flooded with steam, dripping down the mirror. Her back to the water, she let the heat knead into her muscles. Her arm was just reaching for the soap when something twisted inside of her. Someone else would have cried out, but she merely caught herself with the wall. A tight feeling, catching in her gut. For a moment she thought she was dizzy with fatigue, but no, the feeling came again. A hard knot, trapped under her stomach. Looking down, she saw the water turning black. A stream of thick blood had gushed from between her legs. Darkness swirling around her toes. She got to her knees, leaving the water running. The clear water mixing with her fluids and staining. She dipped a hand in and it came up clotted with flesh. “Am I sick?”, she thought.

Sharing the tidbits off my friends list.

Full Body Vibration Coat made of Tickle Me Elmo Dolls. (replace your lover)

Electronic Voting, see: Florida. 

Alf, the alien pornographer (I don’t miss the telly)

Spider Man & Friends, the album. (snippet here)

The War On Terror (propaganda = good)

Next the Hologram will flicker. (president listens in)

Exploding clocks for sale. (this is a re-post, but from awhile ago)

David Stoupakis. (art that makes breathing worthwhile)

and a meme from that would make me happy to have a chance to participate in:

Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it’s got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine.

Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I’ll reciprocate.

If someone can explain the senior citizen in this, it would put me slightly more at ease. I’m well aware the 80’s were a strange time for culture, but somehow she doesn’t fit in some disturbing way. You would have many thank you’s because at the moment I think my brain shuts down in denial. Only a little, but it’s enough to bother me.  It’s difficult to actually break something in my mind. Used to heavier lifting, I suppose. Something more like this. I’m telling you right now, straight up, not to click on that. Chuck Palahniuk is a wretchedly talented man. Just don’t. It’s not the sex. There are plenty of sexual horror stories. It’s that the man can Write. I’m not a hateful person, it’s not like I linked to The Eels Video. This is not a passive piece of pain. The old lady though, if you can figure her out – you’ve made the world a better place.

Or well – give a looksee at this instead. It’s harmless.

 

It was nice to curl up with someone last night. Stupid, in it’s own special hormone driven way, yes, but nice. Allowing me to hold a body, it’s like a gift. This week it’s not so simple as sleeping. It’s a void beside me, a lack in the night. I despise need, but giving in can be like breathing fog. Letting in what beautifully obscures the world.

We left just after the halfway point, Robin and Alistair and I. The poetry was uninspired, uninspiring. Robin to the bus and we on our bicycles, riding homeward. To his home or mine, it wasn’t spoken about. Instead we called back and forth about desire and emotional entanglements and what we mean to eachother in our actions. First Street caught us for a pause. Jacques was just arriving home as we whirred past. I left him there, after confirming Withnail and I on Friday, to continue to fly. The weather outside cold yet pristine. Riding with someone else feels so right and perfect. No light in the sky but for the chilly moon, everything lit by sodium lamps. Spinning in under blocks of orange light and black shadow, commercial sold halloween colours. I can almost ride again with no hands steering. Freedom to move, like soaring. Standing on the pedals, I brace myself and let go. We went and picnicked at Trout Lake. Nutella sandwiches and an apple each, like children. There was no-one else there at midnight. Only the two of us discussing wretched literature on a bench dedicated (like them all) to the dead. We can go there now, though it’s raining. Clouds came bringing water sometime in the early morning while we lay asleep. It’s cold today, gray and Fall-time. The ever present Vancouver Talk About the Weather.

I want there to be great damp piles of coloured leaves today. I want there to be pumpkins wet from the sky.

Javina and I are going to meet for coffee tomorrow. The internet becoming a tiny bit smaller. I’ve noticed that people tend to flock by interest here. No matter where it is I’m going, there’s some incestuous overlap of friends. Less than six degrees, more like three. Where I find is defined by what I like, roving tribes of us brushing up against eachother. Who are you that you read this? How do you know me?

!! They Fight Crime !!

That I am so amused by this, as are my friends, portends doom for the lot of us. We are simple people. Simple people who dance around in their underwear to violently anti-plur dance music while on the phone with their mothers while brushing thier teeth. Perhaps it’s just me who does that last bit, but still! We’re too easily amused.

I’m glad I’m going to the Slam tonight. I need distraction, interaction, something outside of my head. I owe myself a foray into the world. I likely owe some of the poets a visit. I could have at least phoned, I know, but I have my reasons. I’m looking at my phone with a bit of trepidation these days. When it rings, who knows who’s on the other end? People from all over have been calling. I’m the International Girl Of the Wrong Number. Wales and Australia, both this week, as well as five, count them, five drunken phonecalls that were for someone’s boyfriend. “I know you shlept around you bastard. She’s right here and we’ve been telling eashother everything..” “Yes, um, Hi! you called me last night too! I’m not the guy! Thanks!” *click*

Now I’m off finally to the Cafe Poetry Slam, which is just like every other, except for the words, and even they stay the same. Like memory enters into it not at all.  Take off the beret!  At least we host the best of the best. Otherwise I don’t think I could do it. I’d walk in one day with a clip to empty.

Is it a sign of my declining mind that I think of you too much?

from boingboing:  The age of commercial space flight officially began this morning: SpaceShipOne successfully completed the second of two flights into space, securing its win of the $10 million Ansari XPrize. On today’s edition of NPR’s “Day to Day” I speak with host Alex Chadwick about today’s historic news — as well as some of the lesser-known space history surrounding Mojave airport, now America’s first licensed spaceport. Link to today’s segment.

I’m not sure how I feel about that. Seems rather meaningless considering how well they did. How about awarding it to someone whose plane didn’t almost roll out of control? Still, one step closer means much. Take us from this disaster, let us look at it from above, like a game of chess. Every day you can look up and see nothing, how would it be if that were to change? If one day we look up and see the sparkle of a city?

from Ian:  Searching for ways to convey law enforcement professionalism to the Iraqi police, Marine MP Company C in Camp Al Asad, Iraq, developed a costumed mascot, “Farid the Crime-Fighting Falcon” (patterned after the famous “take a bite out of crime” dog, McGruff, but using an animal they believe the Iraqis better respect). Cpl. Justin Weber has the easy job, putting on the falcon suit; his comrades have the more difficult task of explaining to their classes just how Farid fits into effective law enforcement. [Marine Corps News, 8-28-04]

Found at News of The Weird.

I find myself wondering if the suit is body-armoured.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m making the right decisions in my life. It’s a very rare thing for me to wonder, as I don’t tend to think about my motivations much, but today is one of those days. This is entirely the sort of crisp fall day that should be spent lying naked on the bed with a lover. Anything else is wrong. I know there are at least five people in town who would be more than happy if I were to pluck them from their lives and slot them into this place. I think, how horrible of them to offer me this. Sometimes I could almost hate them. Sometimes I agree that having my relationship in another city is odd. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not being a fool. I need to make some hot tea to go with the veritable pile of grapes I’ve got and run my toes down the back of a leg. Gently talking about nothing in particular, reading maybe, just lying in the sunlight together. We could both have books and be only part under the covers. Another day and I’ll go mad. It’s that time of month again. Could you tell? Red dripping lines like the oldest language, like lipsticks prints on the inside of my thigh. Curves and gravity of crimson driving me into desire. I’m not going to dare spend the night with anyone this week and I’ll be glad when it comes to dance. Saturday, saturday, saturday does not help me now. I’m craving affection like breathing, and hands, and touch, and cupping me right there like this, but with tongue. It’s blackness. I hate need. I can’t imagine what I’d do to someone if there were anyone to take this out on.

This day deserves more than I have.

I’ve been reminded how immensely marvelous bototron.com is. It reminds me of black and white sun cascading down my face. Especially the witty little advert they put together for thier deathrays. It’s vile that Ray doesn’t have one. Practically a crime.

I’m slipping into a quiet day. I know that somewhere along the line I made plans for today, but unless the person I made them with steps forward, they’re going to be stood up. Many apologies.

Mckenzee was just saying yesterday that he finds it wonderful how much life is documented here and I agree. Little windows into the world, it’s fascinating. Doug is getting married and Sarah left town on Alix. I’m touched by both of these, and I may never meet them. When I do start traveling, this place may decide my itinary. How splendid might it be to visit everyone who matters on your friends list. These people you know through text and image only. Meet thier husbands, smell the paint in thier studios, have the cat you’ve seen in so many pictures curl up in your lap as you sip some tea, rain pounding down outside in a way utterly different than where you’re from. I think there could be a slight feeling of awe. We live in a world where this is possible, where we meet these people, where these connections exist. It’s what I want, it’s what is here. How lunatic to meet people over the internet, to give them our image, our personal information. How breath-takingly joyous.

You people are more real than my neighbors. 

I came across the line every time I lose a girl today on my friends page. The thought of losing a girl lets me into an image of forgetting her behind on the subway, like a bag or a book. Just a girl, sitting emptily and you see her through the windows and the door whishes shut and you yell for a second, but there’s nothing you can do. You try and catch the train, but you never find her again. She never comes home. Every day for the next three months you remember her, sitting with her hands in her lap, hands curled together on her green skirt you got her for her birthday. She laughed and insisted on putting it on, right there in the park next to the basketball court. You reached up to help her wiggle out of her pants when she got caught and she looked down at you on the red plaid blanket and said ‘thank you’. It broke you, remembering her in that skirt. Her laughter, however cliche, was like bells to you. It chimed. The light was yellow when you lost her. It was night and the only light was from inside the train. Sallow light on her rich hair, but still she was beautiful. The tips of it brushing her shoulders, you had been secretly delighting in watching her that night. Wanting to run your fingers through that hair, to brush it from her face before kissing her. It was going to be a deep kiss too, and now it’s The Kiss. Your entire relationship shifting to center on the Kiss That Never Was, because she never came home. Lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, you imagine her sometimes still on the train, going around and around. One day you’ll step on a car to find her there, sitting, waiting for you.