Author: foxtongue

What awful things happen in the dark. Victoria and I had a wonderful time, but as soon as we parted the monsters fell. Ticketed for lack of fare to find the busses have been shut down on the Drive. There was a long walk ahead, underneath my feet the pavement stretches forward. It won’t be so bad by the time I reach First, but before I can make it so far a drunk falls into step with me. His long hair would fall into his eyes and he would push it back to look at me out of the side of his face. “You sheem like a nice enough kinda girl. Why doncha come home with me and we’ll see how pretty I can make ya” Unreal conversation. I imagine him talking to many young women on many other nights, but when I tried to imagine what this man must do for a living, I couldn’t think of any realistic possibility. He exists only to be the stranger who begs my steps on this night home. Later he will shrink into the shadows and change, becoming the next odd stranger who picks me to talk to on thier long walk home.

When I came even with Grandview Park, the man had been left far behind and ahead, where I looked, there were lights. Too many lights. Bright ones, white and yellow and flashing. The sidewalk thick as ants with people. The block of Sweet Cherabim was blocked off for filming, but there was no action and too many people. The crowd seemed too large. “The blue people.. Adventure Four? Fantastic Four”, I thought to myself, coming even with set that changed the lino shop into a cashiers and a blank sheet of sidewalk into a subway staircase. Ahead I found the reason for the traffic clog. The police have taken it upon themselves to come down on De Kine, the store that was openly selling marijuana. Timing it with the filmshoot was an act of pure media grabbing. Last I heard, stopping such a shoot adds up to about $1000/minute and every business along the blocked off area is going to claim for lost business. I cringe for the nine to five folk who pay taxes. The chemist was outside. The sweet long haired hippy of a man who gave me the Snow White tea. Sleep, sweetness, sleep and never wake up. He asked my forgiveness again and filled me in on things. I’m glad to know him. Seems this morning a politician knocking on De Kine’s existance was front page news so it was decided that it was time to crack the house down. Pity, really. I read the bitching earlier this afternoon and laughed that a fuss would be made of such a small establishment. There’s no money there. The window sign sloppily painted on by hand in cheap green paint.

I stood talking for half an hour, collecting all the information I could gather before heading homewards again. The police were reticent, but expected to be. There were some idiot baiters showing us for less than we are, but I left as they started getting louder. I’m sure they’ll make wonderfully incriminating footage. “These are the people who want this place to stay open. This shop, selling it’s illegal drugs, was open on Commercial Drive for a good six months before VPD stepped in to right the law.” Oh, yes, what is this city coming to?

Now I’m home withe my Love on-line. He’s drunk and so a lousy typist, but somehow he keeps his wits. Perhaps one day I will get over my wary love of happy drunks, but so far I still feel thier company is a gift. He’s saying a visit soon. Two weeks as a possible count-down. His collection of roses for me is growing. Dried twisting flowers hanging in a row added to one by one by one. I’m going to ask he add one every week. I count our time apart by the moons flood now. Another week bleeding, another month his absence. Today begins three. World, I demand his presence. World, I demand his breath. Bring me the head of my Saint and lay it for me on my cotton pillow plate. Bring on the spear, bring on the closing lines. That sound will shatter the sky and I want it, oh, I want it to fall.

and now the links I keep meaning to get around to;

More on antique german artists, why the states has some hope still, and yet another reason why I should never have a credit card.

Seemingly, one of the latest things here in Van for the geek kids to do is take whatever psychedelics that are lying around, (this being Vancouver and drugs simple to get), turn off the lights, then watch this. Follow it right up with this, then this, then finally this.

I wrote for an hour this morning only to lose every last letter to a system failure. Blue screen of death taking away my dreams of effort. To the wind, to the rain. It’s not like it’s art, it’s not like it was important. I don’t Write, per se. The loss is nothing but a personal irritation, but oh. A day like this, my morning following my night. Irritation borders on the despair of old Steppenwolf authors. In retrospect, trying to brush up on my German before sleep was not the wisest of courses. Not after my less than satisfying evening. The book I was reading was obviously written in the middle of a bleak winter with killing winds howling outside. The writer would hunch over the paper with his pen, looking up occasionally only to stare for indeterminable times into the fire. It used to be I could read from one language to the next without noticing, but it’s been too long. It’s effort now, a constant clicking onto the computer to use a dictionary. In spite of the distraction that causes, even the chocolate cherry truffle Haagen Daz that Ray so kindly left in my freezer could not dispel the gloom that creeped from the yellowing pages to settle on me. It was trying to find sleep. I can’t imagine what dreams I would have had if I had attempted Russian.

Gavool was at the opening of the Douglas Coupland play last night. Unsurprisingly, the man is a brilliant conversationalist. If I could have been anywhere last night, I would have wanted to be there. Red theater seats and laughing technology referances. I look out at the gray rain today and I think of my day upcoming and his. Tonight is to be at the Jack Singer Concert Hall for the unveiling of the new sound system. “Bring your own music” One Yellow Rabbit all the way. Invite only. The rooms will be filled with his friends, his family, the people I want so much to meet. I want to exist in that world. Our time can be so hard sometimes because no-one there knows I exist. I want to be a face, a form, a style that laughs less bitterly. So far I’m only a name. To a few more, I’m also a picture. The rest know me as an amusing story. “I found her on my porch one day, wrapped in a sheet. An artists dream. I’ll never forget it. I was stricken. See, I didn’t know she was seventeen..” His hands following the story with graceful lines and self-mocking gesture. Why is it I meet the interesting ones through what I look like?

Damn I miss him.

There’s a hollow feeling that sits in behind your sternum when you’re left behind. Somehow an emptiness hangs inside where your ribs meet and fills with a cold heavy vacuum. Dinner was lovely, but afterwards I was ditched alone on a downtown corner, watching my friends walking away without looking back. Really, I know I am a fool. There was a game at my elementary school actually called “ditch Jhayne”. I should be glad I’ve reached Wednesday midnight without being stood up. This past month, it’s a record. The day I get used to it is the day I’m no longer a good friend to anyone.

Walking home I ran into Alicia, I showed her the ticker tape sticker on my stocking and she laughed. Made me smile. Enough so that I stood up straight again as I walked. There was a group of older gentleman farther up who stopped to look at me. A great seriousness in how they told me they liked how I dressed. “A good eye” I can only admire and love the gravity of their respect. One man, he bowed to me and another asked if I were an actress. Old world grace and silver hair who wanted me to know that I understood his appreciation of my head to toe plum. It occurred to me two steps too late to proclaim a time for coffee to the one who bowed with such civility. The moment would have been perfect. I should have called out a time and place. “Next Wednesday, Roma’s, three o’clock”. I would have gone too, brought dark chocolate for him. An afternoon of thank you. We would have sat together drinking bitter espresso in tiny cups, while surrounded by conversation in languages he would try to teach me a few words of. In the world where it happened, it was wonderful and I made a friend.

Drip, drop, the day’s showers done. Hot water with no-one to scrub my back, a sun to dry me of water. Who needs towels anyways? Nasty things made of coloured fluff. Leastwise I have somewhere to put them, hide them away. Mum and I moved a wonderful wooden chest of drawers from Silva’s last night and now I have clothes to put away. Silk and cotton have all but taken over the room. There have been some surprises in what would be considered a prosaic way to toodle through an afternoon. It seems that somewhere in the past few months I have collected more items of other people’s clothing than otherwise suspected. I’m used to knowing when chaps leave their things behind, so this is slightly strange. I’ve just discovered a gray waffle shirt, short sleeved with a V-cut neckline. I have never in my life seen it before. Could the owner of this unexpected item of clothing please step forward? I’m going take a big step and assume that it’s not the mystery lad who left behind the black long-sleeve, as that was size XXL and this one could conceivably fit me. As per usual, if I don’t discover the owner sometimes in the next two weeks, I’m keeping it. Finders keepers, it’s my bloody closet, what are you doing leaving clothes behind in the first place?

Sluts.

At any rate, I’ve caught up with my friends list to find out that other people have begun their Halloween planning. I can only suppose that September 7th is The International Day of Remembering That Halloween Is Coming. Indeterminable waiting comes next. My only planned event is at seven. Dinner at O’Doul’s tonight for Sophie’s unofficial birthday party. I’ve been told to “be swank” but I’m not very certain what that implies. I’ll likely end up going dressed as if for a job interview. Secretary office gray informal. It’s lush decor and rich food. Expensive and worth it. Above the diners is an intricate map of the world in muted colour, the style of ‘here by dragons’. Gorgeous, though my eyes don’t let me see the details. Sadly, no longer is it the place for Tiramisu. They used to create the most endearing confection possible. A plate would be brought with a chocolate tulip filled of heaven upon it. We would sit in leather seats in the lounge area, nibbling on the divine. It was a push of life, paying for a melting high.

I’m hoping Laurie is playing. I remember Tuesdays being her night to waft chic jazz through the room. It’s a long shot, rumour says after she got married she went touring the world. Ah sigh Laurie, we all were sad when you married. We wanted you ourselves. You and him. Bon Voyage you amazing woman, if you’re not there tonight, I’ll know you’re gone.