Author: foxtongue

Gods flashlight banging on the car windows of my eyes. “Excuse me miss, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Horrible. Woke upon a couch in New West with my brain clicking on with a sound like heated porcelain. *tingtick* Get up! You have to go to work now. There are better places to wake up than New West. I can think of twenty without trying. Under a bridge, perhaps. Least I didn’t sleep in my corset again. Caught by the rain, this princess was not going to slog home freezing and so I was, yet again, as always, one of the die-hards. Last to leave.

Marks of a good party may include having to borrow to change before bed, waking at someone else house, leaving in said clothes, (hopefully from as many people as possible), and getting home just in time for something else. Better parties also have berry waffles in the morning or pancakes, but with the amount of drinking geeks can get up to, I wasn’t expecting such. Jenn passed out in the night, as did Steve. I attempted to leave earlier with Aiden and Nicole, but weather said it wasn’t happening. They actually arrived slightly before I did. Took me twenty minutes to take the hill while laced in. I showed up dying and suddenly my LiveJournal was the topic of conversation. It was slightly disconcerting. New world order, self evident. We share this media and it is ours now. This artist, that script, this little piece of programmed code bleeding into our livingrooms with the glow of the computer screen. It makes me happy. Watch the war, upstage the so called news to spread our own.

Step one: Check out the upper right hand corner. Step two: Applaud Harvard.

Step three: If you’ve more time on your hands or appreciate darker humour, Warren and William have both put up fiction today that’s worth a read. One of these days I have to learn how to shut off the part of my brain that’s decided I’m lying when I try and write the stuff myself. Also in the dark humour vein, if you don’t want one of these around, I’m not sure if I’ll be your friend. 

In other news,  Joey puts up a new Softer World every friday and they’re viciously pretty.

Last night was a riot of ridiculous moments. Yelling, jostling for position, they hold up placards with “DESCRIBE ME” on them in neon blue paint. I’m surprised there isn’t one in dreadlocks with a marijuana pattern t-shirt. I just live in that kind of city.

Aiden and Nicole had to cancel on me last night. She’s got a touch of something, so rather than spend the night here, it was implied that Aiden was spending time holding her long auburn hair out of the way. My heart went out to them, and I planned instead on heading out to Jacques play for eleven. I was surprised that the time between went so quickly. Unexpected saviour on-line. A ridiculous angel when I needed one to play Wit with me. If it’s true that somewhere a small child was shot brutally to make up for it, I’d still do it again. Maybe they were shot with candy. I know I was certainly laughing and happy, though attempting to type in a fishnet glove is a bit of a bitch. Live and learn lovelies.

Catching the bus, it occurred to me that I should have called ahead to reserve my free ticket. Too late now, I’m looking out the window at the junkies singing Bob Marley in the rain and wondering if there will be anyone at the hall that I know. Hiking through the underbrush from the alley, I could hear the traffic on Granville Street and I looked up to see a knot of people smoking outside the Venue. Worry proved useless, as my name was called out before I could get close enough to identify anyone. Placing the voice took me a moment, I needed to be ten feet closer before people came into focus. Will was there, looking red-faced and slightly inebriated, and Mark, trying to remember where he knew me from. We decided that at least once I must have met up with Will when he was sober, but we couldn’t think of once. Must have been when he was with Leslie however many years ago. I knew the rest of the group as well, though not so well. Not enough to have collected their names from memory. It’s been so long since I’ve stood outside in the dark with people talking and smoking cigarettes. There’s something about it that I miss. No matter where I am, simply standing in that outside the door pool of light feels familiar.

Inside, I walked in to get a ticket and the woman there asked “Are you Jhayne?” Immediately I shift my weight back trying to place the face and form. I’ve seen her before and she has my name. Turns out she’s AJ, the lovely lady currently attached to Adrian. I saw her last Saturday at SinCity, but I suppose with the mask, she didn’t place me. We stood and talked, with mentions to how it’s about time we met properly. In this town, it’s so easy to have many people in common. “Two degrees apart in every direction”. There’s even a mention of Triton. I sincerely hope I don’t run into him again. He’s not working Fringe this year, which is unsurprising. I heard he had a bit of a trouble with some girls last year, but it’s mostly unconfirmed. I know Daniel’s sister complained. When time came to go upstairs, I found a seat had been saved for me in among the cool kids. Six or seven of us taking up two rows. I stepped over the chair into air soaked in Rum and coke and Granville Island beer. Home again, home again. Lights down ten minutes later to come up on actors looking far too serious. Delightful.

Fringe club came afterwards. It’s getting too easy to put my arm around women. My mock sleaze seems to work and it bothers me slightly. Walking to the van to discover there was still two litres left of rum & coke, finished as we drove the five blocks to the Island. The club is held in the Granville Island Brewery, an open room full of wooden tables and gold light. We lucked out with a table and settled in to be loud noisy celebrants. “TWENTY YEARS! WHOO!” Everyone cheering with their milky plastic cups full of lager. There was a line in the play I didn’t understand, but now, oh yes I do. I asked what bedroom eyes were and was treated to a full demonstration. We attempted to practise them on one another all around the table and all but Jacques failed miserably. Next came paper airplanes that I successfully threw into everyone’s beer. Only twice did I have to explain my divorce and each time was because of Will spouting on about how unbearably attractive Bill is. “This is the girl who dated Bill Moysey. He’s damned sexy, just ripped and so talented. The man is wonderful, I love him dearly”. Someone asked if he was famous. I hurt and laughed all at once.

When the club closed, our group got out a white frisbee and started tossing it back and forth over the traffic. Yelling back and forth across the sodium lit street, the bridge looming over us, blocking out half the sky with it’s girders, it was beautiful. The cobblestones were wet with rain so a little slippery to add to the fun. Extra points if we bounced it off a cab. When there were less passer-by’s at risk of beheading, we broke into teams to play a game of tipping. Crashing into eachother and running into posts, we must have been a sight. Once we climbed onto the train caboose to fetch our lost toy. I don’t know if anyone else saw just how breathtaking our night was. It was a gift. The frisbee scraped the sky in a graceful arc to land, finally, on the roof of the Children’s Market.

The play was fabulous. Utterly mindblowingly nasty. I’m in love. If you’re in Vancouver you’re in serious luck, there’s two days left.

How I Learned To Drive — Sat @ 5:45 – Sun 6:45

It’s three:thirty and as I’ve been playing a rather heavy version of contact frisbee for about an hour and half, I’m not exactly co-ordinated enough to properly type. My fingertips have been scraped raw by pavement. I was being slightly stalked by some doofus named Steve who reminded me a bit of Wallace from Wallace and Gromit. Jacques rescued me well though and we ranted a bit in the car about the lack of boundry respect in the modern male. Happily, the earlier play was excellent and I laughed fit to die. Hideous topics. I realizing that I have a bitter, bitter humour. The relationships were set up so perfectly honest that I kept choking down laughter at parts where everyone was horrified. I’m a bad person. I’m glad I know at least one someone out there loves me else I might have felt guilty.
More tomorrow when I’m not shaking from food lack fatigue.
Harrass me about it and I’ll feebly bat at you.
*falls asleep on your floor*

I’m a bit of a fool, but I’m having fun, so I hope the world forgives me. I know the importants involved already do.

Jacques play is tonight. My very last chance to see it, and I really should. Two failed attempts on the record already. Laughing at myself for ‘what to wear’ syndrome. Irony escapes anything but personal mention sometimes. I’ve finally learned a variation of the Emo costume though, and that’s clean. It’s either that or I go as a Gothling. I’d rather not, really. Clothing as costume. Costume as charactor. I’m going to a play. It’s the little things that make me lonely sometimes. Dressing up so obviously on my mind because of the startling revelation that I can be obscenely flirtatious with the ideas inherant in clothing, though like every other geek on the planet, I need to do some laundry. Slay me for this thought is so tiny. Bless the internet in that a year from now I can look back on this and try to puzzle out exactly what was going on today in spite of my not writing about it at all. It’s an eight hour difference. I’m starting to think I know you a little. Clues.

Ever get those moments in interaction where you either backpedal or push harder than you think proper? Yeah – I’m thinking that maybe I’m unlearning the backpeddle. My deadpan’s getting too good.

It’s ten:thirteen, play’s at eleven,  I suppose I should hit the road. Slip shoes on and step out the door. Lucky I didn’t leave them with Alistair this morning. It continually occurs to me how incriminating I could word our association so far. To put it mildly, “well – I met this Scottish guy at Fetish Night last Saturday and went home with him. Got a ride off this other guy in a leather kilt I met last month. Crashed over three nights now. Tuesday he’s taking me over the border.” From outside my head, that looks like something different.

Now could you imagine the pictures if I were a fiddle player? Silences deceiving with fruit so full and pretty. Light sinking into the velvet and gleaming off the wood. I’ll figure this out sometime. I have yet to pay attention when I take them, but I could watch myself in a digital mirror to send you something finally worth looking at. Feedback delicious.

I’m reading The Wasp Factory by washed out light while waiting for the reply to my letters. I just realized that my inner monologue has acquired the appropriate accent. I’m clipping my T’s in proper UK fashion. “Yew don’t beleeve me” No one says you have to except the yes, the eyes, the knowing in spite of myself. I don’t want this one. I want these. Racing home to fly onto the black keys, I feel like a child offered sweets. Heavens know that my mind has been raided. For some reason I could almost feel pretty today. Close your mouth, press that flesh together. What are you thinking? It’s the mantra, the constant question until the day I finish the puzzle. Unspool the story like a thread of vibrant yarn being pulled from your lips. See without having to ask.

It’s all that I need right now. Just words. Give me words, give me music. Gift me with your blessings. I wouldn’t be alone, but there would be a missing joy. It’s been so long since summertime already. Hasn’t been a sunny day since the seventies. I wish I could entertain the reader. Express myself to the point of a sensory communion. Describe a moment in details that catch it. Somewhere someone can put on paper the soft feel of those lips pressing into mine when I said goodbye in the hollow halled airport, but it’s likely not going to be me. The frustration I felt at letting my lover dissolve into a blind blur when I tried to watch him out of sight. Flooded with something I’d forgotten, I turned and walked into the bookstore. Those awful kiosks with bestseller authors and never anything worth reading that isn’t pop art. Distraction, desperate, I wouldn’t have gotten on that plane unless you paid me.

Ben Christophers, Craig Armstrong, David Holmes, Dick Dale, (still forgetting to write him back… is a month too long?), Enigma, Explosions in the Sky, Julie Doiron, The Cinematic Orchestra, The Dining Rooms, The Secret Machines, Tom McRae, TV On The Radio, UNKLE, Love as Laughter, No Doubt, Piano Magic, Republica, Spiritualized, Starsailor, Suba.