Author: foxtongue

*ring ring* Augh! What’s that?

The phone just rang, a woman from Wales calling long distance. She’s doing the geneology of her family and has reached the Holmes branch. I love how her accent compliments her voice, like the ultimate strict yet kindly librarian. She was looking for a Mr. Holmes, but we chatted a little in spite of it. We’re fairly certain that we’re related. I think she’s looking for my uncle, who’s in Winnipeg.

I think I might start liking the phone again if that’s the sort of thing that ends up on the other end. I’m growing a bit distant from it. Maybe that should change. Last night I got a call from a friend of mine, odd conversation about how he can’t talk about what he’s doing for the british consulate, but he’s certain he’s doing the right thing. It made me happier. Balanced out the hippies some.

Jason’s here now, so I’m afk.

(Sorry Warren, it’s his birthday – I’m whoring you out)

now to print a pad to use as my stationary

*stretches* Now that was a bit more successful. Nothing like hippies and painfully bad text to dispel lingering romance. I’ll have to remember the trick. Keep a file on hand of atrocious prose to be offended by to banish soft fluttering. With the world the way it is, I can’t imagine it to be a difficult thing to find in spite of having never tried. My time on-line’s been blessed with the sane. I’ve been told it’s unusual to not run into horrid folk here, but so far I’ve only found the intelligent and the wonderful. Really, I hardly ever encounter pop-ups. It’s like St. Jude watches over my wanderings. (Bless her and thank her for being).

Now if I could only manage to do so properly in realtime. The world of flesh and bones. I woke to a mixture of fire painted canvases, space flight updates, and essays on Greek philosophers. My mail-box opening to give me a blueprint for a theramin and a letter from a friend trying to work me out. Oh world, how I love thee, with moonlight and starlight and unexpected friends. With technocrat saviours and microchip dreams. It’s a splendid universe to play in, in another ten years it can only be better. The trick is to make it there without someone killing me in a jealous rage.

I think I may write up a form letter.

Dear sir/madam,
I am uninterested in your suit. Your company, though pleasant, is not enough for me to desire your sex.
Thank you for your interest,
The Management.

welcome to my exasperation

The candles have made it so hot in here that I can pour the cold from my gelati in a smokey stream that pools in the hand. It’s like playing with dry ice. I feel lucky to have had my time with it before Ryan unexpectedly buzzed up. This week he’s going back east for an undetermined length of time. Tonight he brought over the other roommate Luke. He was over last night as well. It’s sweet he wants to spend time, but I’m suspecting that I was being shown off a little tonight. (Which makes no sense whatsoever). I love that I live a life where friends may drop by at midnight without preamble, but also it would be nice if they were slightly less likely to monologue about psychedelics and how world politics is the groaning of the earth mother. Please feel free to talk about such things, but do so even vaguely informatively else I will want very much to tromp all over you with verbal spiky boots. Wake up and smell the literacy people. This is now, this is when you need to know about if you want to change any of it. You need to know about a problem before you can fix it, yes? I’m not going to smile and nod and agree that “our will is the next source of power, with it we can push spiritual light to turn back the nukes”. Don’t tell me that you are uninterested in learning more about your world because you think it’s depressing enough already. Take this. What’s happening and what’s next. The Drive is endemic to patchouli children, I know, but in my box, either learn or take your djembe elsewhere. Enough, though. There, I’ve rinsed that stale water off of me.

So that was not exactly annoying, but more effort that I would have cared to spend. I was attempting to create a comforting den of iniquity, not an evening of applying warpaint. I suppose I’m just not destined for wickedness. If nothing else, my lover decided he was going to attempt to be naughty. This was a bit of a mistake. However wonderful, the man simply should never attempt to write desire ever again. Not even in waterside love letters written in sand. The ocean will erase them, but not before I get to stand there embarrassed. I would rather he write dry sermons. There is a flavour to language. There is a notation of meaning attached to the vocabulary. Want not half so interesting as need, though not to take. To mismatch splay with extract, well – there’s not a lot I can say about it. Dissection comes to mind. Frogs laid out for the incision. I thought all readers picked this stuff up. Enough books and doesn’t it bleed into your conscious? Learning the emotives and associations through osmosis. Ah well, I’m not a writer. I’m not even a hack. What do I know? Just as likely someone will now tell me that the word splay is very sexy.

flurries of funk fill feeding the fanatic

Another name scratched off the list last night. A short list that is quick becoming a very tiny list. The names of people I may feel free to spend the night with. I feel made of a rather catastrophic sickness. Black sores welting on the throat and mind and so few immune. There should be preachers, “The death will be upon you lest you lie with a woman! Yes it can! It can! It can! Beware!” I am saved by an infusion of chocolate. I don’t know what’ll save them. I refuse to be lonely because I speak the truth.

There’s a large bakery in the neighborhood flooding the air with the thick smell of sugary doughnuts. Instead of wandering futily in the dark trying to find the building to beg, I am gong to flood my box with candlelight to banish the siren cry with a thought entirely unrelated.

later: There. Room is now on fire. There’s an interesting juxtaposition of shadows. The rosy flame glow intermingling with the cold blue of the computer screen. One in front of me and the other behind. The heat of so many candles creates a sticky sweetness. The ivory ferret’s glowing asleep in my cast off clothing. Now to replace the bed with a claw foot tub drifting high with milk white bubbles… I suppose I’m missing rose petals as well, and the essential loverbeing. I’ve been told that the body can be successfully replaced with a romance novel, but as I haven’t any I must make do with science fiction. How well will nasty and gritty satisfy this train of thought? Possibly adult fairy tales would do better? Socio-political treatise on Snow White and her pale pale skin. Words of death and golden apples. The theme, as it were, of hot feminine summer nights, exactly as I’ve ever done. Simplicity, surely. I’m going to pin this girl thing down. If they can do it, then I can do it. If Mishka were in town, I could drag her over here for a rub down with spicy feeling oils. Cast our eyes up to the moon through the open curtains together and let her talk about boys. Nice to see how well I could do it.

willing participant

At 2 pm, it’s the morning finally. The sort of morning I keep under my bed. Keep them pressed between mattresses like a prince from a ridiculous story might keep sadistic instruments of vegetable torture. Pushed awake too soon. Executive decision said Now You Who Sleep Awake. Don’t be like this, I pled, but no. The correctional facility wasn’t answering. this call has been disconnected To sleep at eight and up at two. Set in pliable stone.

Difficult night, I could say. Insistent guests on-line, on the phone, at my door. Everyone leaving finally at four. I might have had a chance to sleep, but I threw off the groggy shawl to don a silver mantle of piqued interest. Talk to me of drugs, this drug, she’s your cocaine. To everyone else, this door is shut and locked. Meltingly asking for admittance will not suffice. The key’s been swallowed. Break it down and die boys. To lay your hands upon me once upon a time is to expect regret sooner than I can scratch you. The people watching from the street would never get pictures.

Someone’s moving a little lower than angels allow. They’re whispering to me, but my hands are empty. I feel there’s a skin to this, a grace.

It’s Jason’s birthday today. The fellow who’s reading through this sorry mess from entry one. I’m going to bring him something tasty and finally meet him.

Today’s list: anti-kid pills, ferret food, one ticket to TV on the Radio.

e e coming down the mountin

Love is thicker than forget. Sweetness embraced in your smile. I don’t get anything that I deserve, I believe these days I get far better. I’ve been writing a lot lately though passion’s not my deal. I like the warmth of it beside me maybe and I love to taste the idea. Drifting because I’m tired, I want more of your letters. Enough to fill a tub with arial point eight. Cascading to create a bath that sizzles against my flesh like the most delicious honey coated bee-stings.

Finally home after a ferret preamble. Simple groceries took three hours to fetch, leaving me feeling wasted. It’s midnight at eight:thirty at night. I’m glad to be at my computer. Enter this house or let me escape. Living in this room without a view, darkness taking away the buildings and trees to replace them with reflections thrown by the nicotine light of a low wattage lamp. My in-box welcoming in it’s lines of text. Show me places where I can forget my name. The city was quiet today somehow. Muted. Everything sounded far away while we were walking, the whitenoise of traffic loud in the hush. I felt somehow that every step I took should crush into inches of peppermint snow.

I’m picking apart a friend, they’re asking to be the center of attention. Ian’s to be writing me a treatise on how I’m terrible, but I’m certain I could never reach the purity of this person’s PMS bitchiness. Our conversation’s escalated into the grandest of all battles. I don’t having chiming laughter, but she’s surprising me. I love our most bitter recrimination, how it’s cheerful right now. It’s sad she’s so far away. I want to sing a song to her. Stand tall to belt out something horrible. Arms wide open, I would look up to her pretty blue eyes full of stars and lay it on as thick as humanly possible. A lovesong likely, just to piss her off. She’d be delighted. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to L.A.

toronto cat

Yesterday was nice in spite of work. Dominique spent the day with me and Alistair dropped by. The tedium banished utterly. The children not tearing me down to nothing. Sparks instead, flying up to flash like a metal grinder on steel.

Ethan’s party was also a nice bit of de-tox. Wandering around in purple lit darkness, shooting at people with light. How sci-fi in that teenage way that guns bestow. My dyed hair goes a peculiar flat colour apparently making me an easy target, though the only person to do worse than Robin was Kyle. On the second game I came in fifth. Back at his place, we watched something called The Last Supper. In theory it was a nice idea. A group of liberals having conservatives of the worst sort over for dinner simply to kill them if they can’t change their minds. In practice, it was less than thrilling, but still had moments.

I’m on-line with an old lover right now. My dark haired angel from Toronto. Hair that looked black flowing down to his waist until he stepped into sunlight and it flared the darkest red imaginable. We had the oddest relationship. Never left alone enough to consummate anything, but always together. It’s odd to talk to him as he’s not on-line very much, but we assume off the hop that we’re still as close friends. We used to have an arrangement, that if we were in the other’s town, our current relationship would be put on hold for a duration of the visit. A long time ago I think the deal slipped away. I carried him away with me when I went and I need no more. He might be coming out in January, staying for two weeks on vacation.

I met him only perhaps twelve hours before I took this picture, and there he is already wearing my clothes. This is early, before the fire was added to until it crackled with heat like the Metatron. Huge soaring rage, fifteen feet to a side. The bikers who ran the party fed it with broken picnic tables and empty industrial spools. This was the night of the Widow, the night I remembered I could live. There’s a better print of the picture somewhere. Flame rippling into a curl above him, like a frame with an elegant top crown.


I wonder if I’m taller than him now.