Author: foxtongue

edit: Friday may be Winged Migration, with Chaplin beig bumped to Saturday.

SILENT SUMMER NIGHTS

Presented by Eye of Newt/Rumble Productions/Radix
Theatre/Celluloid Drugstore
Friday through Sunday, September 3, 4, 5 at 8:15 pm
Grandview Park, Commercial Drive at William Street
Tickets: Free
Info: 604.662.3395

Do a little something different this
Labour Day weekend ­ stroll into Commercial Drive’s
Grandview Park for the 4th annual Silent Summer
Nights, three glorious evenings of the best in silent
(and not so silent) film. Park your blanket under the
stars and enjoy a selection of cinema’s “Great
Showdowns,” all to the thrilling accompaniment of
original live music by Eye of Newt and invited guests.

A Labour Day classic.

Friday, September 3 ­ Modern Times. This
classic is suitable for Chaplin fans of all ages.
Featuring live accompaniment by Pepe Danza
(percussion), Chris Kelly (saxophone and laptop),
Stefan Smulovitz (viola and laptop) and Brad Turner
(trumpet).

Saturday, September 4 ­

Trinity is Still
My Name. Saddle-up for this Spaghetti Western/Live
Improv spoof of Clint Eastwood-style outlaw flicks.
Featuring live accompaniment by Brad Muirhead
(trombone), Ben Wilson (drums & electronics), Jesse
Zubot (violin) and dialogue by The SSN Voice-Over
Ensemble.

Sunday, September 5 ­ Enter the Dragon. A
classic martial arts movie of grace and timelessness
with a sensational new live score conducted by Coat
Cooke and surprise guests and performed by the SSN
Monster Orchestra.

The love incarnate, my adonis, the darling child of fire and paint, he is talking of quitting his job to come see me sooner. End of September rather than November. Weeks difference, days, hours. I can taste how he’s counting. Centuries. If it’s been too long, we will be strangers again. I suspect I will have to remember the heat again. Last time it took me three days of pure company to find him pretty, but when it came, it conquered. Take this flicker of light moving in a line from one side to the other. Sitting on the train, I could feel how. Transformation in breath. The head and heart paid attention for once and agreed. When I met him for the first time again, I was brash. Brazen I conquered and forced myself to force him. Touch this man I don’t know, tell his hands they can hold mine. I drank the moments and we walk together better now that I’m older. His hip fits into mine as my steps fall into his. Hills, not so much. Hills I will demolish in my perfect future. Slopes will be ignored and I’ll learn too to run again. I’m glad I was off the cane by the time he met me. No pity darling, I could find a wild boar to finish you properly, though I am no Aphrodite. As Psyche, I will kill you in your sleep and mutilate the corpse with fucking.

I don’t know how long he’ll be able to stay this visit. More than a week, I’m hoping. Grant me time enough, time enough to recognise him on the street, time enough to make him real. If it weren’t for the studio, he would stay. I don’t know how many times I can say goodbye in a year without snapping. Twist the wire this way, twist the wire that way. Bind my wrists until fingers turn blue, but it will break. He won’t make it here in time for Fringe, which I suppose is a good thing. Certain aspects of the theatre community will be far too interesting this year to bear him perhaps. I plan on striding through if I can, knocking the feet from those who are expecting me to be as small as I was. Alone it will be easier. Slash and burn. I worry a little for Bill, but I don’t know his involvement this year. There must be some. I know he will come to Jacques’ show and maybe one of John Murphy’s. I don’t know what Tom Jones is up to nor Johnathan Ryder. I’m sure the Shameless Hussies will have something up, but I know not if he would go. If I were more certain of what people have been told about me, I would hit up David Garfinkle, but, well, I don’t have tha vaguest idea. I’m cut out of the loop. The noose was let go for a sad faulty knot. If anyone knows – I would appreciate the heads up. This is no guillotine.

I’m still getting letters over the opium evening. They’re puzzling me because I haven’t been recieving them from anyone I know or know of. Annoyingly, the majority of the letters have been “If anyone could handle it, it would be you”. This is slightly too much for me. Who are all you people? How did you find me? How is it that I have an audience? Trouble brewing. Apparently in Russia, there’s a household of five people who follow my life like a comic strip. Every day I am an unfolding short story that “moves them greatly”. This is the picture, this is the lens, I press this button and it posts my words. I’m not very interesting. I don’t understand.

Last night was to be the evening of Jennifer’s bridesmaids eating ice-cream. I arrived last but as Marcella is down in Atlanta with about ten of our friends, there was no planning for me to have missed. Walking up to the the shop and back, we degenerated quickly into ice-cream purring. FIlthy minded plastic spooning, which I claim will never happen in my bed thank you. Tiramisu was used by Italian concubines as the in-between pick-me up. The european cocaine. Satisfied puddles of female on all her couches. I’m sure we were a giggling spectacle. (And – news – Bill Stretch doesn’t have a stammer? I’ve known the man four years and he doesn’t have a stammer? This is MY fault? What??) Movies were next. Jenn, Kim and I swishing through the ill-lit hallways over to Marcella’s empty apartment. Time to feed the cat and slouch about in a cluttered apartment full of fantasy novels. Watching Robin Williams led to heavy political discussion for about an hour, then we put on Zoolander, which, if by then we had been more awake, I think also would have led to heavy political discussion. It was beautifully offensive. As it was we drooled heavily over David Bowie. A litre of ice-cream each was a bit of a drug. Derek came over at about that point. He missed us being intelligent completely. Proof in point – the next thing we put on was Tomb Raider.

It’s a relief to get home today and out of the office-wear. I started to losing clothes on the block of my apartment. Coat off, hat, shoes torn off. I close the door of the apartment behind me and start shedding skin. Shirt off, skirt off, I reach my room and toss it all on the bed. I don’t care. Baggy and comfortable today. Shapeless mens clothing. I’ve claimed the mystery shirt as of today. It’s mine now, you can’t have it back, you who left it here new with tags. Fie on your claim of proof of purchase! It has been annexed!

My smile slapped on too quickly. This is what danger feels like.
To save my grace I will claim the sky. The crash as my saviour and alibi. Otherwise I don’t know if I could respect myself in the morning.
–+

It’s interesting to see how the various people I know are going about New York with thier press passes. William and Kyle Cassidy in particular. I would like to see them hook up. Join forces, as it were, and unleash journalistic doom upon thine enemies. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck in this bloody room with Nice People. Current conversation topic: sport celebrity wives.

edit: Home again in my own little box, in my own little chair. I got out early because I couldn’t lock up. They covered for me as I rushed back. Who knew I could like it here?

So it seems Kidzworld has a pet seagull named Arthur. The fact this seems fascinating attests to the sheer weight of the boredom inherant in this job. When I’m not being an educator I tend to wish quite a few of them to meager lives full of fast food jobs and walmart style. There is thunder rolling outside like an old theatre sheet shaken backstage. Someone in whitefaced costume standing on a box to wobble the metal into rain. The sound crawls across the sky on shattered thumbtack knees, begging to kill us all. My eyes catch thier breath at the depth of it. It pulls at me, down through my throat to the core. Breathing it in without thought involved. Nothing I can do changes my reaction.

I want to be on a hill under the sky. Stand next to me, this is green grass. Face me and take this that I offer. Hard and the rain falling. Tongues, teeth, urgency calling. Beware me when the lightning hits.

I’ve been left alone in the office. This has so many possibilities yet I forgot to load my bookmarks up on-line.

The children are vociferously arguing the merits of Avril Lavinge VS Hillary Duff.

I may have just accidently landed myself in Purgatory.

Today is my first day of work in the office. Gray light in a gray room talking to the children. I’m not the same cloth as the other employees. It occurs to me that listening to Clint Mansell before going is maybe not the best of ideas. The music tears into me, demanding that I dress in flowing black and set my hands afire. Miracle spectacle. Quick spray of canvas sealant and the snick of a lighter. The fire lasts if you do it right. Flame blazing and bright. I would be in New York today if I could be anywhere. I’d like to watch the place go crashing down. People have been flooding the downtown core. Tourists who stepped out for a play have joined peaceful protest and been arrested. There will be a victory there somehow, over the internet even I can taste it. Stride down the middle of a street and be certain the fire goes nowhere near my hair. Silent but for the hiss of my fingers stretching out and dripping with heat. Heavy as swallowed stones. It’s not anger, no – it’s harder. Hate is for those who don’t have anything powerful.

I’m feeling cruel. I think it goes hand in hand with female boredom. The girl is stealing my soul. Particular boys are mattering to me. In spilling this obscenity, I suppose it means I’m growing into the whole estrogen thing. Bill’s lucky that there’s people keeping me occupied on-line right now else for lack of anything better to do I would be concocting the harshest playlist possible for him to walk in on. I’m fairly certain I have every song that could possibly be tied to Me and Us. That dream asleep from days back before I wasn’t a priority. I’d have to dig a bit to come up with something that wasn’t Bowie, but I’m certain I could do it. One, two, three, four. I dance like you darling. Flick it on like a switch. That taste for detail stings. Of course, as I’m not actually a vindictive person, it’s only something I want to do for the hell of it. I have no reason to, I’ve just been left alone too long today. I’m not so good with pointless malice. There’s no swap of love for hate in my soul, so it won’t happen. Bad enough I’ve re-done my hair. He knows I do all of it. I’d make for an interesting pin-up, curly patches of plum fur on pale skin. Somewhere a tiny voice will be screaming inside of him to fall on his knees and kiss it.

I’m even sorry for that.

I admit, that yes, four in the morning is a good time to get ahold of me. I admit also that I have stated that anyone with my number is to feel free to call at such a time. Welcome to, in fact. What I do not understand is why it seems the only time that Bill will call me. What is about four in the morning that takes away his nervous fear? *rubs eyes* Captive audience? I keep the phone by my bed at night expressly for those people who call me late at night. I don’t mind. Jacques calls regularly at two, after all, but four? I suppose I’ll ask him when he’s over later. My humour claims it’s because I can’t gather enough brain to be intelligent, but I imagine that would only backfire. *yawns* If someone is upset with me, even a little, they should not under any circumstances call me when my self-editor is turned off. I barely have much of one to start with. *yawns more* His message this morning says that he’s to be coming over today with my things. A proper bed! Hoorah! *chuckles*

Going through the photographs of the past few months have let me in some astonishing emotives. There’s some on the rolls stretching back as far as my night hosting at Placebo Sofa Cinema. I came across those and I smile, happy, then I stop walking. So many people? Was it really so many people? A dead town like Vancouver and I filled a movie theatre? Tier upon tier of people all laughing. I put them away in my pocket as I get onto the train, trying to remember the names of everyone who showed. I can’t. There were too many. I’m feeling suddenly less clever. At home I take them out again, keep going through them. There’s a few of myself that look odd. I couldn’t place it, but then I know. I find the roomate’s bathroom scale to weigh myself and recieve another slight shock, because, yes, I suppose thirty pounds less will show up in the mirror. No wonder I needed the corset re-laced. Six months to change the world, darlings, six months to change myself. I never even noticed.

When the scanner stops being bitchy, I’ll post them.

Oh sweet jesus christ fragging bunnies. WHY do I know the lyrics to Baker Street? Kyle must die.