Author: foxtongue

if there were someone for me to love, I might be happy

In my considerably pathetic attempt for wisdom, I set aside Friday. Now I can’t think of why. Reversal of fortune, too soon to tell. I’ve been alone in my head  too many days now. I’m starting to get a bit wierd again. I’ve found my bottle of random raver drugs and I think if I don’t go out tonight, I’m going to start looking at it a little bit more speculatively than I care to currently admit. I’m almost certain it’s cocaine in the gelcap.

The internet can tell me what to do with them.

It’s another week before I get to go dancing. A long seven day countdown before SinCity.

Ethan was kind enough to messenger me. Hero tonight at seven. I’ve already seen it, but oh the beauty. I can go see it again. It stops my mind. The tumoult ends for just that moment of crimson and gold and Now. Silken folds clamouring in graceful sheets of rippling movement. oh . so . slowly . The theater in it is tangible. It’s like watching music elegantly unfold. It made me think of Bill, the way he moved when he was singing sometimes. Right there, in the thick of it, lost with his eyes closed. Chestnut hair for a mahogany voice.

Yeah – he’s never yet called back.

For months I’ve been trying to get myself back. Tear myself from strange dependance. I need an invitation to the world. I’ve been disconnected. Black and almost hitting the high C. I don’t know how to interact anymore. You know where to find me. I’m always at the computer, just corner of your eye. Hit me now, please. Bare your fangs and sink them in.

I don’t know if I’ll go tonight. I’m feeling fey. More than I feel free to inflict on anyone. Nightmare laughter curling out to lash blood. Lick these lips like a pained cat.

I’m certainly the eccentric of the building.

My day’s been improved. The backyard might go belly up in lava and flame. Seems St. Helen might pop her top. There’s little seismic shudders and steam and ash are pouring from the peak.

It’s about bloody time something happened today.

   I have nothing to do in the slightest today, so I want to saturate myself with colour to save myself from lonely madness. I’m weighing the pros and cons of it being rent day. At some point the landlord will come by. It’s the timing of the two actions that I’m wondering about. Actually – there’s only one real question: Do I really need to be shirtless and covered in plum when I answer the door?  It’s something to ponder. I will answer my door dressed mostly in hairdye and a bra. I know this, yes. I answer the door in practically towels. (They’re not quite towels). As well, knowing my life as I’m beginning to, I’m almost certain that would be when he arrives. It’s not really a dilemma, but it’s enough of one to make me consider how much of a twit I am.

I think I’m going to go for it because I’m stupid. To be fair – Pictures if you want them.

Mental notes: Hide the pet. If need be, put on the elbow length gloves again to hide the writing. (*rolls eyes* because that would make a better impression. sheesh my brain.)

But don’t you dare ask what sort of shampoo I use.

Spending the night at a friends place = goodness. Spending the night over with a friend who is also a sometime professional masseuse = extra good. Spending the night over with a friend who was recently in a play about peadophelia and can quote it knowing that you’ll get the damned creepy references = bloody wonderful.

Suddenly exploding into laughter is a good way to wake up.

Honest.

“hey hey hey-a now now now sing this corrosion to me”

I got in to find out that I’d left the ferret out unattended overnight. I have a new carpet of clothes. The floor and bed are covered in jewel-toned purples and greens and blacks. I also left a drawer open.

To hell with it. I’m singing. Alistair may be on the Jhayne version of suicide watch, but there will always be some that are safe, sane, and a-ok. *waves to A.* (I know you read this. Sorry.) I assume that people can take care of themselves and lately I’ve been wrong. Fine. I should stop being so concerned. Dominique – you want to make a documentary? Go ahead. I’m off the hook already by deciding this.

“hey hey hey-a now now now sing this corrosion to me”

You know what the problem is? You need a boyfriend.
I have a boyfriend.
No you don’t.
You’ve met him.
Yes, but this doesn’t address the difficulty. There’s two, no, three points.
One: you should be crushed. He’s not around and so you should be making us sick of hearing about it. You should be crying yourself to sleep on us every damned day.
I’m not fifteen.
Doesn’t matter. It’s the form of it that counts.
Two: you should be over in the other province or
Three: He should be here.
As none of these apply, you are single until spoken for. Now I am willing to be the gallant and take you on myself. For the small price of $14.50 a month I will pose as your boyfriend.
*explodes into laughter*
No – really. We’d make a terrifically cute couple.

fuzz pedal guitar


pelvis
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I have to keep myself awake till past midnight to hit the bank properly. There’s a little bit less to do around here, but I know my room is back on it’s way to messy when x-rays are scattered all over the floor again. The ferret slides on them, sending them skimming across the carpet in little sheets of morbid blue. It’s distracting. I’d forgotten what a bitch it can be scanning darker ones. There’s no detail being captured at all. No delicate panty-lines, no arching skull screaming. I’m going to have to take them somewhere else to get what I want.

This is a one-shot kill.

Earlier today I went down and I think picked out some frames. If I can get enough money together to hit the optometrist, I’m going to do it this week. I want to see things sharp again. I want eyes in my head that work. I remember a long time ago that things had edges. That there was a line between the top of a tree and the sky, defined. I remember.

The hardest thing to lose has been faces, friends. People see me faster than I see them. I learn your movement, your shape, your sound or I don’t know you. There’s not a chance I’ll see someone from across the street. Yesterday I enthusiatically greeted someone I’d never met before because they walked like my friend. I can’t bring myself to write about it yet. Not properly. I can’t breathe. Photographs are precious things. Take as many as you can.

In fact – would everyone here please show me thier face?

I would dearly love to see my friends.

Damn you Kerry! Set him on fire!

I’m sorry, but what the hell? Have I found a very carefully crafted parody of the Debates? This can’t be it. MSNBC’s been hacked. Well, maybe no. It’s suddenly dawning upon me that Bush is actually this.. well.. unintelligent. Bush is spouting catchphrases. Kerry at least isn’t coming across as a talking monkey who blinks too much, but HONESTLY! No-one so far has said anything!

It’s Hard Work. Troops. Honour. Iraq. Hunt and Kill Terrorists. Homeland Security. Protect America.
Bush Speaks In Headlines. Kerry talks with his hands.
Every question is answered by the same things.

I’m appalled. This is ridiculous. I want to be in a room full of people shouting at the television. First impression: Stupidity incarnate going up against disarming harmless fluffy hair. That, and Red VS Blue. (Look at thier ties). At least Kerry has a vocabulary. In comparison to Bush, he might seem a little too slick, but I imagine that anyone articulate might seem such when put in such a situation. Was there even one single question without the word terrorist in the answer?

What should happen is that whenever anyone obviously is spooling for time, a large man should come out and smack them with a wifflebat. No looking silently at your hands, no ‘ums’, ‘ers’ or ‘uh’. Hesitation and you get whapped. A bright yellow wifflebat. Oh! And buzzers. Big shiny red lights that shine on with a loud !BRAMP! whenever they say something like “negotiating with enemies is counterproductive”.

This hurts my brain.

what is a pupkis?

I walked home from downtown. A bit of reclaiming my honour after being a literary fool. Michelle gave me a Chapters Giftcard for my birthday and I decided I was finally going to reclaim House Of Leaves. Black covers enfolding hot, sweaty intellect. Letting a copy of Witpunk catch my eye and softly seduce me into carrying it from the shop wasn’t so wise, nor was letting the teller get away with not using the giftcard. No deadline on the sliver of plastic though, joy. More opportunities to crash into the rocks at a bookstore. Text siren calling.

Walking my route entails striding through the very worst part of town. I know people who quail at simply taking the bus through Crackton, but I don’t worry. I’ve lived there. I dress eccentric enough to not quite have money and I walk confidently enough to never have problems. Ten long blocks of addicts jonesing, the streets a smear of hard-luck. I got the average two streets in before I was propositioned. A man in army fatigues, explaining carefully how he was available. I smile and keep walking. He brought to mind a girl I’d seen earlier on Robson. Someone I could imagine him having better luck with. She had dead eyes, dolls eyes. Made up so heavily her lashes looked like a brush. Glass eyes that would roll back into her head when you laid her down. She spooked me. For a moment I imagined her saying mommy in a small innocent voice when she finally sat up afterwards.

Myself though, I had a hand tight on my bag of books. Just a little swing and I would be free. Gravity working in my favour. Instead, I touch a gloved hand to my hat and don’t say a word. Why bother? Across the street is a knot of people, better to look through them. Tight mini skirts yelling at scruffy men who looked like they walked out of a bad comic book. Some holding eachother, crying. A bottle of liqueur’s been smashed on the cement, there must have been a fight. Calmed now. Walking through, I wasn’t paying much attention. Minimum thirty of them, but harmless if you know what’s what. Ahead is what concerns me. Someone washing the sidewalk with a hose. We all know that scum is death. Watch that man there drive his bicycle into oncoming traffic rather than into the spray of water. Who knows what might be alive in the gritty spray?

That’s when it happens.

Someone says in a broken jaw slur, “Watch your step, bitch, or we give you to Danny Holmes. Let the crazy fucker kill you.”

Mid-step, I can’t flinch. To look around is to die. They know he has a daughter. I want to pin point who spoke, but in the messy crowd I don’t have a hope in hell.

What sort of man is my father now, that he is a threat to throw? I can imagine him cornering someone in a dark alley and kicking them with metal toed boots until all thier bones are shattered. He’d spit on them, he’d grab hair and smash thier face into brick. He’s that kind of guy. I want to ask questions. I want to go down and scour the streets, drawing myself a picture of his reputation, but I don’t dare. It’s sobering. It’s painful.

He’s one of the last things to scare me. I walked home shaking.

Is there anyone who’d like to go for coffee?

Bless James, for he has fixed my photoshoppe. Had a rather spectacular crash earlier this week that took out all the programs that were open. Bloody thing never should have worked on my OS in the first place. Now to wreak doom with it. Well, later. The days have ridden past into a full month. Time to brave the office and pick up my cheques. Then the doom. Okay, first the bank, then the doom. Maybe no doom at all, actually. Perhaps I’ll end up playing with it for hours again until I shut it off in a surge of uselessness. That sounds somehow more likely.

Actually, a day like this, where even the ferret doesn’t want to play, I think I may end up sitting in my window nook writing all over myself in various coloured markers. Something to make the scribbling on my arm less noticable. Worst case scenario, people begin excusing my oddities by assuming I’m an Artist. *shudders*

Damnit people – what am I going to be for Halloween?

She’s lifting her dress up, fingers of one hand racing along the edge of the railing. Her shoes clatter hollowly in the stairway, her clothing dripping colour. Whatever I’ve been thinking’s been erased in just this moment. I want very much to hear her laugh. Thought flickers at thousands a minute, but mine’s been slowed by a sudden change in blood flow.

public service announcement like nobodies business

All the americans in the audience!!

Registering takes just a few minutes — register online NOW at http://www.yourvotematters.org/vote/vote_center.cfm?itemid=16862.

Once you’ve filled out the form, print it out, sign it, and be sure to mail it in TODAY. All registrations must be postmarked by Monday, October 4th.

Then, send this along to your friends and family. Make sure you’re registered, right now.

Like come on – look at these folk. Election Day is still five weeks away, tonight’s presidential debate is only the first of three – yet voting has already begun in several states.

Don’t let the idiots win. You guys who have the most effect on the world are the ones with under 50% of your population voting. If this is still striking you as effort, boingboing was nice enough to put together a package on how to get off your deadbeat ass.

forgive us, oh world, for the eels

This goes out to  .

 http://www.littlefluffy.com/ – free on-line games daily

http://sixsixfive.com/ – a list of potentially interesting things

http://badmovies.org/ – exactly what it says

http://www.crank.net/ – crackpot ideas

http://heartlessbitches.com/– there are terrible boys afoot

http://www.losers.org/ – sort of self mockery gone farther than self

http://www.newmoanyeah.com/ – geeky pop culture

http://www.stileproject.com/ – for when if you get any more bored your eyes will melt in thier sockets

the ink itches


cam writing
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Does this happen to anyone else? On transit or sitting and waiting for someone with no reading material, nor paper nor pen. A passage of words occurs to you and you simply must write it down. Searching pockets produces a marker. Is not the logical thing to write it out in full on your clothing or body?

I would like to think it happens to everyone, but as I have yet to see legions of people wandering about covered in awkwardly scrawled text, I suppose I must be somewhat more the eccentric. Please – anyone? I’ve covered at least three pairs of pants now, and put off countless showers so I could write down what I so hurredly put onto my skin.

I’d like to think this isn’t pathology.

It’s a bad time to be near me when I have to write something down and have nothing. It’s one of the few times I’ll feel true frustration. Heads get bitten off, heads go rolling. I approve because I can use the blood to write along the hem of my t-shirt.