Author: foxtongue

It gets harder to sign off. Tonight was difficult like it hasn’t been in awhile. He’s so very close and I can’t reach over to touch him. Fingernails would clink against the screen and I might cry. Salt tears to curse myself with. I’m already reaching the point where it’s uncomfortable to sleep in other peoples beds. My mattress is already off-limits. I will go sleepless to have his absence beside me. It’s physical, a pull of silence. I ran home over glass to get to him tonight. Put the ferret in the bag and flat out ran. The glitter on the street, it cut me in my carelessness. Stopping for traffic, I looked back over my shoulder to see that I had left footprints in the bloodiest cliche imaginable. He’s creating props for the Douglas Coupland show opening Tuesday. Up late painting and hoping I would appear on the screen. We haven’t getten to talk much lately. I caught him, but barely. My pathetic empty schedule is still varied enough to not synch up with the brief gaps in his full life. His internet connection is only from the studio halfway across town so to me his dedication is harder than mine, more effort. After all, I am more than used to saying No. Missing him though. It’s becoming too long. This is becoming a very personal knife I twist. The handle has been polished well by use and the inscriptions inlaid in the blade are all banal. We don’t have a pattern for comfort, we have scattered impressions and a strange interaction from five years ago. Memories of a whore and liar and the wrong street bus. That condo wasn’t empty – I lived there. Smoke and mirrors and things to live down, my darling. Things I hold over his head because I care and can. Because he lets me. I remember this feeling then. The worthiness lack. The not being as fascinating, as intelligent, as this person should have as company. It’s going to feel empty, my bravery. My assumption of tie and hold. I will be continually surprised when he smiles at me. Every last one undeserved. I’m slipping, the strength fading again. I need more to do. Another job to hold onto. My reasons for continuing are all parceled into waiting. End of September is closer than November, but pragmatic says November. Through a glass darkly maybe, but breath. Kindness, kindling, life right now is empty like an old warehouse building. I need a spark to flare into a waterfront disaster.

I’m almost finished reading Papillion. Gavool is planning on sending me another book, but I’m not to know what this time. He’s written a note in soft pencil on the title page. It’s a hard worn book. Tattered cover and broken spine. These pages have been halfway around the world and back in a well worn knapsack. It’s possible to tell by looking at it that it’s been tucked into the pocket of cut-off jean shorts for too long. Loved books are sweet to have. *chuckles* I’ve fallen asleep beside it more than I have with him.

Pictures: fireworks

There were gunshots and fire outside the building painfully early this morning. My only complaint is at the time. My window was wide open and the sound filled my room. Crack. I jerked from dreams to see a hard flash on my wall. I remember that sound. Shotgun maybe, but the light? Too much light. I was up in less then a second, my hand automatically reaching for my glasses and slipping them on as I leaned to my window. There was a cloud of smoke drifting over from the park on the corner, but my modesty prevented me from sitting in the window alcove and perhaps seeing better. Time for a shirt. Slip it on over my head and toga the sheets. I can always put them back in the morning. Another hit and flash. I’m not about to go investigate at five:thirty in the morning. Someone running but away, no more information that that. I sat for five minutes more until the chill began to bite into me, then I fell back to bed.

My neighbourhood makes me happy. I only wished I’d been in the park.

Charlie Chaplin in the park starts soon. Half an hour maybe. I should get going but it’s difficult. I don’t know who else will be there. In spite of a rather engaging chat with some of Silva‘s brilliant friends, I’m feeling rather alone this evening. I need work that let’s me accomplish something I suppose or let’s me pretend I do. I’m alone in the box now, wandering about looking for the ferret, underwear, and warm things. If it were slightly warmer I would collect dashing apparel and kill my way through the park but.. *sighs* Chill cancels out fishnets. Maybe I’ll wear the gloves anyways, just so I know they’re there. I’m learning how to look like someone you would want to kick your ass and I’m liking it. Keeps me stablized when I’m feeling lonely and violent. Time to go blow things up. Time to get my boy back in town. I need some boots that lace halfway to heaven and I’m set.

{some notes on a piano in an old house with blue painted walls and a hardwood floor}

Talking with William adds to my procrastination, but it’s also a nice one. Bloody bastard world, sending me to all these wonderful people. I need to start up a dangerous hobby so I can be as interesting. Any suggestions?

We are under attack. Our kitchen is held hostage and the invaders are creeping into the rest of the apartment. I am talking of fruit flies. One look and it’s assumed that we have had an accident with black spraypint. This is not the case. The air is gritty with flying specks. Sudden population explosion. Thousands. They’re creeping us out. It is a slight war, but an important one. Our food is in there…

These were taken the afternoon of the Zim Marathon. Bill wanted to take pictures of my being pretty as I was being upset that he was blowing off my event. I think my general unhappiness can be seen, but whatever. I like how I can follow the arguement through the three photos, from wanting the camera put away now to finally just giving in because there’s nothing left, but honestly I’m more concerned as to how I could have completely missed the fact that my corset is now laced to fit me properly at three inches less. How could I not have noticed thirty pounds? I would assume I would have felt lighter somehow with so much less to carry around…
That and wow never cross me so that I look that depressed and pissed off ever. I may have to kill you.

aerodynamically curvaceous doesn’t cut it

Have you never heard of No shirt No shoes No service?
Yeah – from the seventies. Back when you could put a sign up front that said NO MEXICANS.

For the first time in my life, I have been asked to leave a place of business for lack of shoes. This amuses me to no end under the circumstances as I have been a regular customer for the last six years at this particular shop. Not only have I the habit of wearing no shoes as a matter of course, I have in the past also come in with no shirt. Sweaty middle of summer, cooked feet on the pavement and it’s nighttime summer. Sticky, hot, and salt tasting skin, believe me when I say that if they had reason to comment, it would have been then. Keep me where I belong people, let me pad around. No! The young impeccable man who informed me that I wasn’t welcome without footwear doesn’t like me now. I didn’t tell him off, not exactly. I just turned a little on him without saying anything in particular. The way I do, with a grin that kneads into sarcasm with a bloody knife. It’s worth so much more that way. A comment on his hair and he’s ruined. The facade of polite dropped utterly and all I did was compliment it. I think I’m a bitch and I’m not from your country.

Tell me I should have a concience. My fish died today.

Winged Migration proved its excellance by being wonderful to watch in spite of being shown on a rumply sheet screen in a cold orange lit park. Chilly doesn’t describe the numb fingers nor toes, though maybe blue does. A thank you to Ethan for being warm and a biologist.

now – the ZIM!!

Here’s one I took of Stephanie when I ran into her on the Drive the other day. There was so much rain that day it was obscene and I swished around in it, dripping all over shop floors.

I just finished a bottle of blackcurrant juice. Let me tell you, you think Red Bull is interesting? This stuff makes your tongue tingle. Tingle like a 9 volt battery. Take a swig and your head pulls back. It’s amazing. Inside the cap it says, “CZESC, CO U CIEBIE?”, which is as far as I can make out, “Chezch, How Are You?”

Called the scanner filthy names and sweet ones and got it working again. Little thing just needed some sugar. All my fireworks are caught now in digital, and the dyke march. Ones and zeros tracing back months.

Vancouver Dyke March, family under the cut

The work of Carlee Fernandez. Odd taxidermy of the most artistic vein. I’m quietly in love with what is done with the idea of animals here. Fur and form, they are all functional objects for human use in spite of keeping thier heads. The lower life-form solliliquey is obvious and painful. Taking damaged taxidermy, she skillfully squewers sticks into birds. A white rhino is meshed into a ladder, a buffalo into luggage. Go look. Slightly disturbing and lyrical, hers is work that will never make it to this conservative town.