Author: foxtongue

Bill used to sing for me. Out of nowhere sometimes, he would swing me around with one strong hand and sing along to the music throbbing form the stereo. Rich brilliance just for me. My eyes would glue to him, this performance, this gift. I could eat it, his voice, the cream was so thick. He would dance with the voice of a dark throated seraphim. The sound would glow. I could see it in the dark. Vibrant and rich and love. Singing like intense coloured earth, life you could get trace with your hands along.
for Bill

Does it still count as girl music if you have it cranked loud enough to possibly convince the neighbours that the thumping last night was you moving a full size piano in? How feminine can it be when the volume sends harmony spiralling howling into the sky? The crash of the keys is felt in the bones. Fingers can be tasted crashing into the keys. The music being slammed from the instrument. Key of C, of D to F minor now MEZZO FORTE THAT SUCKER INTO THE GROUND! The black glazed case shatters with the strength of it. We’re talking notes fighting dirty. We’re talking cruci-fiction. Tumbling over and over until the speed catches and they gang up to chain you. The black and whites settling their differences to capture and plead.

Oh, oh, oh yeah.

Tonight is SinCity and I’m dancing already.

This
is
going
to
hurt

I believe my tiny little soul is warmed today for utterly selfish reasons. One, I’ve got a fushia feathery mask to play with as if the Red Death were at the door and Two, I’ve been picked to be in the next Noxious Minutia. Hip hoorah. Published on paper finally. Again. A first being printed in another city at least. I could almost count it as an accomplishment. Practically. You know, if I were a writer.

This is so going to be used by my mother to justify her continually pushing me into “careers”. I take a job, I do anything, it’s my new vocation. I know she loves me, but honestly, I’m lacking the passion she believes I require.

Jen posted a quiz result and as I really have naught better to do, I took the silly thing.

I loved the answer in regards to my week.

who knew?

I went to sleep finally at seven o’clock. What bad thing did I do to deserve only two hours sleep? It’s not like I’m a junkie for the stuff, but dreaming would have been nice.

Outside looks like a crisp sunny fall day too. The sort of day to head down to Kitsilano and crash through the sharp toothed bracken chasing after rabbits as the first red leaves fall around you. Maybe even catch one. Squat in your black shoes and look down in wonder at it’s soft struggling fur in your lap as you wish you had a carrot to offer its panic. It’s the beginning of this and I shouldn’t even be showing signs of life. The morning, the morning is for bedding down upon. Sunrise is to tell you to go warm the pillow with your head.

I must be defective. Call me when the world says I have to work, I’m going back to bed.

I’ve come home with literal bags of delicious food and a fine feathered mask. It’s five:thirty the next morning and I work at noon. I’ve been wearing my mask for hours. Little things make me happy. Ridiculous gunfights for example. Being challenged to properly step to turn and shoot was delightful. One Two Three Four Five Turn I Win. I would call it a successful night. I do hope I wasn’t too odd for the group by the table. I caught them looking at me as if I were mad a few times. A red velvet girl in a bright feathered mask flashing past… Usually when I was running after someone about to take them down with the archery set. It’s dangerous to give me such a thing. That’s when the deep throated laughter sets in and people suddenly learn my aim. It’s not.. unsuccessful. I think we were all shot rather a lot, especially once people were armed with more than one gun each and the rocket launcher was brought out. We’re dangerous people, after all. We play video games.

The sky is lightening. When this day begins for me, when I wake, I know I will join the ranks lined up to march and I will type my tapping way to the Towers. One sombre step after another. I’ll create respect in the childrens chat. I will not hold for mockery. Until then, I hold my day on hiatus. Light cannot burn away walls like these. It’s not tomorrow until I wake up or deal with an authority. I play defiant to the sun. He may burn away morning, but my yesterday stands strong.

The smell of rain is invading my room. There’s a word for it. James told me once. I can enjoy the fresh air without a clinical name though. The wash of cars going past and sending waves throught he puddles is calming. I’m not worried about running late, though I should be. For the past three hours I’ve been waiting for Ian and Ethan to show up. I have my tranchcoat laid out against the weather. As if to spite all conventions, I’ve even put on socks.

This week starts the Fringe. Today, in fact and I’m blowing it off for Victorias party. I’m not sure how certain folk will feel about that. It’s going to be sordid, darlings. Divorce is alway smessy.

Damn this bloody hang-up. I’m caught. Trapped by my own pathetic useless brain today. I need to go out and get things done but I can’t manage to leave the house. I’ve reached the front door three times so far and each time I stop, my hand on the handle, unable to turn the knob. Futily, I run inventory in my head. Coat, shoes, hat, keys, bankcard, phonebook, pen for writing, I know where I’m going, I know what bus to take, I know.. I know I’m not turning the damned knob is what I’m knowing. Judge and jury are bearing witness and I am condemned. It’s not exactly fear, but an inability. I was left alone too much last year. I turned, went weird. I’m aware that as soon as I’m at least a block away, the anxiety will drain as if I’m a jog upended.

I’m slowly breaking myself of this, but not damned well fast enough. Left alone far too much. Solitary, trapped in an empty house without the busfare for escape, without anyone to leave with. The few times I went out, I was punished for leaving when I got back. It’s left a behaviour. I was taught strong. I can help this, I can work on it. I refuse to be a girl with her eyes blank and red. I’m looking for answers to this what confronts me. I’m calling people to find someone who can rescue me. It’s been a few months since I haven’t been able to break past. There must be a word. A term for my failing. I want to know what it is so I can lashingly mock myself with it. Reach into myself armed with knowledge and shatter the block of stone sitting there that leaves me immobile.

Don’t tell me that I’m an idiot, I know it already, just tell me you’ll come over and help me leave the house.

This is for the students. Written by a teacher and worth a read. Go cringe and laugh. The run-down of proffessorial pain in thirteen points.

Bonus:  A medical doctor has recreated the experience of schizophrenia.  A closely researched recreation of visual and aural hallucinations, based on interviews of real schizophrenics has been plugged into a computer. Viewed as a hospital ward, in first person, it’s apparently a disturbing set-up. Voices, shifts in perception and hallucination. I want to try. 

When the disaster hits, when Minerva looks down and grants us our earthquakes, our floods, our crashing and knashing of meat and teeth, I would like to think you would find me. I would like to think you would walk over cracked pavement, climbing over rubble to find me. I would like to think that in among the sprayed jets of water flashing into the cloudy sky you would be there, wondering where I was.