Author: foxtongue

I need to not listen to music that tells me that “daddy likes rubbing up against little boys on the bus” right before going to sleep. “Daddy likes ten dollar whores and that’s why mommy left us” Especially not as it’s a lullabye. Very quiet and slight and irish. I’d forgotten it was on my playlist and had to pull myself out of bed to make it stop. To replace it, I’ve put on what I have to say is possibly the perkiest jazz I may have ever heard. This jazz tweaks nipples and gets the tail waving. You know it’s good when you catch yourself typing to the snare.

I had someone ask me a few weeks ago why I liked jazz. It’s too weird, they said, no-one actually likes it. They only say that to look good, to seem sophisticated. What can you say to that? To me it’s thrilling. Play of piano against tick tick shuck of the drumkit. Unique arrangements complex and hideously catchy. Plink, bang, horn swell here. I admit, passion’s not my deal. None of it in me. I like the warmth of it beside me maybe and I love to taste the idea, but oh! Music. Layer it on. Ice the damned cake and savour every rich bite. Get the hips swaying in circles, get those hands up and moving. Your head will sway, keeping time if they get it right. Ever notice how different musicians have the different groove? DJ’s coming in low in the shoulders, guitar players anointing the notes with their chins. Might just be me, but I think it’s indicative to see how someone responds to music. That woman there, she taps only her toe, she’s been in classical before, but that fellow on the right? He plays bass. Jams with his buddies in the space beside the garage. It’s in the way he stands, do you see? Clear as spotting the dancers in the crowd, clear as crystal. As simple to see as this melody, bending in the middle to let the other section in. Punctuate. Every. Last. Bar. Twirling music, long skirted down the steps with a modern Astaire. This has mix to it, this has scratch. Sinuous, solid, set.

newsflash: panicky ferrets will calm down in the shower if put on a shelf made of breast. However, attempting to leave them there after the water has been turned off its a mistake. Give them their own towel and save yourself. {she says with a stinging chest}

The nighttime is too far away. I’m stuck here with this plastic box. It has no brain. Fortunately, some of the folk who people this surreal place do. I spent a good ten minutes sitting in awe at this piece of writing. Only three hours to go. I’m working, but feeling particularly without purpose. Can’t even concentrate on science today. This is the kind of mood where I suddenly want to be practicing dance lessons on a roof downtown with someone who’s just had a half bottle of wine or dressed up as a brightly swathed fortuneteller with so many bangles that I jingle when I read the palm of the hapless shills. Something! Anything! Let’s go throw bibles at children from horseback. Last night was Kol Nidre, maybe I can find some recordings of the prayers on-line to sing with. Fill my room with the click of the chat and the raised voices of those who believe in something bigger than themselves.

< rant >Thief in the night bloody hands time. I’ve done the unthinkable even and picked up the phone. Returned all the phonecalls I care to. The rest can wait. Maybe when I was fifteen I would have found them attractive. Now they’re only making me weary. The next person to suggest going back to their place is having their head chopped off with something blunt, like their intelligence. What on earth possesses people that they want me? It’s moronic. You want to get laid, that’s more than fine, but don’t expect my involvement. I will laugh at you with harsh acid. Don’t hang out with this girl with such motivations. You will be frustrated and annoyed. Slip away you horrid boys, ease yourselves out of my life and into somewhere you can date. < /rant >

Perhaps I could meet you at the airport. Too many hours sitting in canned air, stand a minute at the glass wall, watch the planes taxi in after landing. A purple head bent over a paperback book in the reception lounge where you can watch without my knowing. A split second certainty that you should just keep walking, but you say hello in spite of it. You come up beside me and I look up to meet your eyes. Silence. “Hello”, I say, with a slow, slow smile that spits feathers. Perhaps, instead, you arrive at my door. I’m still asleep but the roommate lets you in. The bedroom door closes behind you with enough click for me to start waking. I don’t flinch as you press into the mattress, but I open my eyes. In the soft light of morning, I think I’m dreaming until I reach out and take your solid arm. By then it’s too late. You’re here. Perhaps it’s somewhere else. Perhaps I’ve gone dancing and I see you in the club. I walk up to you, my mask hiding who I am. Walking up like I own you, I take your hands, lead you out into the black clad crowd. Leaning my body against yours in the thick heat quietly, “Like fire, remember?” before I make you kiss me. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, maybe you call me and I meet you on the street. You give a little wave when you see me and all the sweetness in the world is in that gesture, fit to break my heart.

Later, I’ll arch into you. Later someone will be on top. Heavy and smooth. The sounds no-one hears lifting into you. The ones you ask for, the ones I never give. Maybe you’ll find the cigarette scar no other lover has noticed. I’ll let you guess where it is. Now is introduction. Now touches lightly until the heat is combustible. Stealing my thoughts. All of this for you, spilling like a wasted life onto the sheets.

It’s repeating, with more detail every time. Illumination from a barely open door doesn’t show me enough but to know my setting. Light glinting barely off the brass finish lamp on the side table. If I were to look at the stiff blanket, I would see that ubiquitous floral pattern that no-one has in their home but welcomes travellers into every hired lodging.

Holy hell. I can’t think straight now. Sex-drenched musky thoughts, dreaming of fingertips, teeth, and that damned hotel room. Waking to something worse, deeper. This is my bed, but I can’t lie in it. It’s empty. Trying to fall back into sleep was not working and oh terrible, as I write this the alarm just went off. I can’t stop my fingers from turning into claws, I can’t stop my involuntary curl into myself. Pulse. There’s a knot in my belly, a tender pain above my knees. Hell is made of wanting. Pooling like water, I wake when I get to the interesting parts. Desire freezing into the most painful hot fire. Perfect little dreams, the sort that seem to kill me. I’m not used to it. This is new. Open my eyes to pad barefoot and naked into the day. Insanity, these feelings. Does everyone get this? I can still feel you, in spite of the distance. Hands caught in my tangled hair even so far away. There’s cruelty here, of the most poignant sort. Poise an inch above me, waiting until I beg. I can see it. Yeah, you’ve got that soul. Don’t think for a minute I can’t do it too. Wait until I wake up, I’ll play right back.

I’ve just stumbled home from a sweet gathering up at Tara’s place. My SPANK BRIGADE sticker has been peeled off and stuck to the bookshelf. If I keep this up, I’m going to have quite the odd collection of little labels. Jen is leaving the country for her merry home Austrailia, so we got together to send her happily off. Elaine was there with Spike, and Ennis, a girl I know through Mike. Too tired to remember any more names now, though I’ve known some of them for years. Jen went for a walk and when she came back, about half of us had the stickers on. I somehow ended up being number counter for everyone. Sitting in the big round bamboo chair, my voice quietly counterpointing the resounding smacks that bounced off the walls. Crack. One. Crack. Two. Crack. Three. Maybe I should feel a little guilty as when it was my turn I broke the toy, a blue plastic shovel, but I don’t at all. The second toy to die. Elaine’s “Who’s Your Daddy’ paddle also snapped. It’s the little details that help me remember. How the little balls of chocolate crisps were greasy on my fingers and how the light shined off a silver ring shaped like a hand grasping that girls finger. I tried to trade the lube in my grab bag for candy when I left, but no takers. Candy I have a use for.

Earlier I went for dinner and a movie with Ray. He didn’t get the message that this evening was canceled, so we said to hell with it and went anyways. Zubees then Tinseltown. The restaurant was packed with film industry people. There’s a particular leather coat the men wear, I swear. I can pick them out of a crowd by that coat. We sat outside, sandwiched between conversations that had nothing to do with movies and everything to do with away from set gossip. I felt lucky we were off to Sky Captain. They sent us first to the wrong theater, so we missed the very beginning, but oh, it was beautiful. They even had dinosuars. I can’t think of one precious moment in pulp culture they left out. Even the plot was blatently foolish, yet still had that printed on cheap paper logic. I couldn’t stop smiling, not for a moment. Every few minutes one of us would punch the air in victory. “Yes! They did it!” Zepplins, towers, giant robots that didn’t look useless. Hugo Gernsback might have cried. Ray pointed out that the gun the hero first pulls out is the same make that Burroughs shot his wife with, and I wonder if they did it on purpose, it’s that well put together. It’s laid on thicker than blood. Don’t go expecting anything but raygun gothic with every stop pulled, but go. I’ll go with you. I want to see it again. Cocaine powder, right in the eyes.

Alright – I add my voice to those bitching about the new update page. An hour vanished when I hit post, with this text glaring at me in among the broken images.

Spell checked entry:
No spelling errors found

Oh yes, thank you. I feel oh so much better now. My mass compendium of links had no spelling erros. Yes, well – I knew that. Which is why I clicked on POST. This is annoying in ways that I have no words to properly express. If I were at the Studio, I would be preparing something to light on fire as you read this.

Ah well – for your edification, I re-attempt to share pictures… goofy people

Finally when I have reasons to go visit the Island, I can’t. Friday Daryl’s getting married and Saturday is Mishka’s birthday. I was just chatting with her on-line. We agree that it’s a very surreal thing, Darryl getting hitched. I remember when I met him, how he cried into his fluffy hair because I was involved with Lidd and not him. Why do boys always cry? We’re wondering if Lidd is in fact going to show up to the wedding. We’re wondering if he knows or if he’s alive. It seems no-one’s seen him since January or Febuary, and reports from then say he’d been turned onto meth in a bad way. Chemical addiction to add to his violent drunken rages. Such suffering in that one. I remember nights spent bruised. Sitting on the balcony, looking out over the city, I would realize my cheeks were wet. I assume the cat has died, and Sue the crazy neighbor still drinks too much tequila in front of her giant television that’s never turned off. That woman was a minor mystery, we could never figure out what it was that she did with her days. Always inside, except when she was breaking in to ply us with odd plates of snacks. We would wake up to the sound of her clearing space in our wretched kitchen. I suspect that at least once they slept together in drunken loneliness. There is no possible way they could have not. My mind can’t imagine a world that doesn’t supply the circumstances. I only hope it happened after we broke up. After I left him and the city and learned how to love.

Peekaboo was over today, looking over the apartment. That she’s also on Livejournal gave an odd perspective to it. I’ve seen her drunken pictures and she’s read my chicken scratchings. We didn’t have to sketch out some of the more basic aspects of ourselves. Some of the usual roomate interview was missing because, hey – this dyed hair stranger already knows. It’s a nice feeling. I can understand how religion must be a comforting glue. This person also. They write, they click the same buttons. I see what they do. Raise the chalice and drink my child. Not a secret society, but a community none the less. Welcome to my home.

My nails are growing longer, making typing a tiny bit more awkward. All the better to claw thin lines of red down your back. All the better to write desire. “Oh the way you make me crawl” Not, really, that I should be thinking of such things these days. Only result is keeping me from sleeping. Until circumstances make it happen. Then I roll on my tongue the secret names tattooed on my fancies. Taste in my mouth those fingertips that trace ice into flame.

Until then, architecture.

I’ve got too many windows open and it’s sucking my computer back into the bronze age. I’m just going to post the mess of them here.

I’s a sad thing, but happens to everyone. The guy behind uppity-negro has passed on. Every time I dropped in there, I’d learn something. I don’t know if the site’s going to be kept up or even if it could be properly with different brains behind it. Russ Meyer has also just died. The amusing twist of mind man behind Faster Pussycat Kill Kill.
We in Vancouver have a new overnight quest. One that will require a little prep, but will be worth it. We have to go here. We’ve an abandoned town within reasonable distance. A jaunt into a modern ghostown. As I already list trespassing and clambering as hobbies, this simply sounds nice.

IBM scientists have measured a fundamental magnetic property of a single atom — the energy required to flip its magnetic orientation. This is the first result by a promising new technique they developed to study the properties of nanometer-scale magnetic structures that are expected to revolutionize future information technologies. Technology makes me happy. Spreading information, go now, more. We the people, etcetera et al. It seems to be a theme in my reading. I suppose that’s what happens when I find something I believe in.  Which leads into this open letter from the computer industry to the music industry that is worth a laugh. This is also funny, though I admit,  in a less intelligent way. Maybe one with more insanity and less precision.

To go with the horses head, there’s these. Microbe stuffies. I can imagine a row of them on my windowsill next to Animal. Make my window perch comfier yet that much more surreal. Bad enough the x-rays apparently make me a “wacky neighbor” (thank you Rowan). I think I’m especially in love with ‘sleeping sickness’ Hypochondriacs beware. Not, of course, that we don’t seem to be finding ways to deal with fear. Of course, sometimes it’s good to be wary. There’s weapons out there now that I remember reading about as fiction in Mondo 2000 when I was a kid. In fact, if anyone has any issues kicking around, I would dearly appreciate them. I’ve lost most of mine traveling along the way from age six.

Bonus smile: Stephen Fry being interviewed by The Onion.