As I laugh at how wonderful this is, I am laughing at myself.
She’s from San Diego. I hope she finds him.
I’ve been considering putting up a description of Rakim up on
Should I?
Author: foxtongue
LJMeme.com Crush Meme |
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Number of crushes on me so far: 2 |
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So this is the first time one of these has ever had a number in it, so I’m posting in spite of the fact I know one of them is Zok being a whore.
Artist of the Day: Sigur Ros. The music isn’t to everyone’s tastes, but this link in particular is a video available on-line worth taking a peek at. “Synopsis: Differently-abled angels frolic on the sloping, verdant Icelandic terrain as trancy Eno-esque sounds pulsate.”
if I am wrong, I will have some serious issues
Today is apparently The Day of the Telemarketer. Four phonecalls before 9 o’clock this morning. My mother just called. Odd conversation. She just now accidentally hung up on me, but not after opening with, “Translink just called. They said they’ve found Robins buspass in a bag with a pair of women’s runners and bra”. It’s an odd combination. Now, considering that A. I am the only female who spends any time with Robin, B. He has been off to camp since Monday, C. I don’t own any runners and D. I only have two bras and they are right here and accounted for thank you very much, this strikes us as being a bit odd. The logical conclusion is that he left it one the bus perhaps on Friday and someone else has been using it. Still, the fiction possibilities are fairly amusing.
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The last two nights I’ve been walking home at one thirty in the morning from far away. It’s an odd habit to develop, but I’m considering it. It’s a pleasant walk. I think I need to be starting off earlier. In time enough for when I walk under that lit window I don’t feel rude for throwing pebbles. No hesitation, just a look up then a look down to scoop up little rocks. I haven’t seen certain people in awhile and it would be nice to go hit them up for company. Play catch-up over the ice-cream I have so handily in my bag. If it’s not your favourite, you’ll taste it anyways. *grinning* Because, well, you like me back.
Ah the glories of infatuation. Such an odd thing to sprout in the heart. A little crimson plant whose roots grow deep quickly, but the flower, it grows like a silk balloon filling with heat. In little time, the blossom slowly pulls completely out to gracefully float away, roots vanishing, beautiful to watch.
This week is SinCity and the European will be there. It’s been telling in how my reactions to him differ from time to time. When I was completely unattached, I could barely look away. He spoke so intelligently in the line-up, his voice elegantly phrasing his thoughts. He caught me worldly. It was possible to see my attraction for him. I was a bashful girl, shy and blushing. His face and form, I danced for him. Told his wife before we left that I thought he was beautiful. The next time I saw him, I was already on-line with Gavin and he made far less of an impression. Still beautiful, but I believe I was less interested soley because I was interested in someone else. He is no different. Still handsome, still smoothly confident. It was fascinating to notice. My monogamy apparently encompassing. I’ve never had such a perfect example to point at.
As if to spite what I’m pondering, I’m going to be bloody this weekend. I’m going to be wanting. We talked the last time I saw him. He’s asked me to dance with him and I will. I will enjoy it, but I suspect the entirety of my attraction will be gone this time. I am already spoken for. I speak for me. I say that I love already. I think the hormones won’t connect. I think they’re going to be directing themselves soley at Gavin. I think my monogomy is more ingrained than the animism.
It will be an interesting evening of self-discovery. Either I will confirm what I think I may have always known or I will shatter it.
flying high
Mishka’s calling me from a plane she’s flying 8000 feet up over Invermere to talk about boys.
how can anyone not adore her?
in hair
Scent and it’s mysterious associations. Inflections of the smell caught in clothing. Checking through things to put in the laundry I come across almost too few people. this was sunday with west coast swing Recognizing the people from what they leave behind in my shirt. Where it touched them when I hugged them. It’s worse when it gets caught in my hair. Perfume, incense, what sort of soap do you use? Cigarette smoke has so many associations. People who used to but have now quit, people who I kissed with that taste in their mouths. Bitter and poison, but worth it for the touch of the tongue. Almost a sexiness in the taste of alcohol. It’s related. It’s a language. I feel confused sometimes when I come across friends who share the same preferences in toiletries. “Who do you smell like? Not Grady, Grady was apples. Who was it that I patterned that to?” Hauntingly familiar and with the wrong face. Gets me every time caught in pondering. I flash back to where I was when I knew that unknown person. Where was I standing, how far around me might their arms have gone when I bid them goodbye. I thought Grady, was it at the Studio? Keely?
I’ve got what I think of my soap going again. For once I’m starting to smell again what I thought I did. I can’t catch my own scent, so instead I make do with Nag Champa and Vanilla. I like finding other people in my things, it’s nice to think I might do it to other people in spite of not wearing scent. Knowing who the last person to touch something was. Knowing that I saw this person or that and that we smiled. I think of the day and other days and it makes me happy for a split second. The fact that I also have a small collection of other peoples left behind clothing amuses me when I think of it. Lendings and left behinds. I have a pair of Bryans socks from, like, six or seven years ago. {a blue tent up on the airfield. he spent the night in the tent with mishka and myself. his socks were quickly stuffed into my bag when we noticed them in morning. her parents would have been furious we’d been up all night talking, especially with a boy, no matter it was her brother}
It reminds me of music.
everything but the girl
J is interesting in that I don’t know how to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I feel young around him, I can’t click into his brain. It’s not that I feel less intelligent, it’s that I don’t know how he thinks, how he talks, where his sense of humour will take him. He’s older in a way that the auto-mimic slips off of him like it never existed. It’s unsettling, but he seems to put up with me and like my company in spite of what I feel is mindless nattering about nothing of importance. Of course, with how much stress he’s dealing with right now, perhaps someone who can take his mind of the important things is the Why behind it. I kneaded him into a rag while we watched a terrible movie, The Secret Window. He fell asleep, but I can tell you, he didn’t miss a thing. I was welcome to stay the night but didn’t relish the thought of either waking up before the sun when he does or waking up in a strange apartment. *laughter* Either way it would have been my turn to act like a one night stand. Poke at his books in the morning maybe, if I were a charactor I would make myself a coffee and drink it while sitting on his balcony. Instead I walked home. Thought about James a bit. I decided that efforts to stop by late at night continue to meet with nothing and so paused, looked at a dark window, and kept walking. Apparently he never got the little candies nor likely the notes I’ve left. Walking down the hill in the park on 2nd, I thought for a second how nice it would be to be lying there in the dark with him talking. We could stare up at the stars and maybe in among the bad jokes about Elvis and how Pornstars would make good cheese-spread he’d might tell me something I could do to make him feel better or even when he’s coming back.
this until evening, which is now and so has yet to be written
Woke up the second time this week to “murph, warm thing is leaving?” Bastard boys, always being so sneaky I’ll let you sleep. Got some groceries on the way back to my box. Nectarines, strawberry newtons, a head of lettuce and some potatoes. Nowt exactly anything to live off of, but better than I had at present. On the phone were some messages; A blast of music that made me laugh, loud and cheerfully spastic, someone peaked thier phone sharing with me music; Sophie calling from Toronto. Package delivered though no-one was home which is a bit too bad. It would have been nice for someone here to have met Joesph, the long haired demon who reminded me that I can always smile and taught me that I will always love; and next was Mike, who I was to be meeting in an hour so I didn’t bother calling back.
There was a tiny bit of drama on the bus. Undercover police arresting two men in the back. The bus stopped and stayed awhile as handcuffs were clipped on and the victims read thier rights. Bit of an odd thing to happen on public transit, but no matter. I wasn’t late. *smiling* Mike was ther already, and I seemed to arrive perfectly on time to help carry heavy silver dishes of meditteranean food out into the garden of Silva‘s yard. Delicious food and sweet conversation involving life and politics under a hot sky. Soup turned into nibbling and watching the black cat stalk an imaginary friend in the lush green. A dark ribbon of feline slinking it’s way through flashes of bright colour, intent on hunt. It’s a treat to visit. After, in the house, identity came up as it often does at her house. I suppose because she’s so good at having one. *grins* She said she was refreshingly surprised at how fluid my life was. Mike agreed and neither one could explain it to me. I think I know a bit of what they were referring to, how I feel sometimes that everything happens at it should, event into people into both. She explained that I was odd in that my private life and my perceived life flow into eachother. My index and my.. drat. I’ll ask later I suppose. It was an interesting thing to consider. I have a ferret eating strawberry newton in my lap right now. I can be forgiven for my faulty memory by blaming the indescribable cuteness.
Turns out it was Mike who left me the message. He listened to it on our busride back. I’ve given him my password so that he canfetch it out of mailbox. Record it off the answering machine with a dial-up modem. *singing singing singing* *solo solo*
The ferret is now chasing Gavinroomie around the apartment. He took his slippers off because of the heat. Apparently Skatia in his four or five years of life has yet to clue in that feet are part of people. He likes biting the tops of feet and attacking toes. We don’t know how to break him of it and we’d like to, but this minute it’s only amusing. “Ow ow! No! Get out of there! Go! Be distracted ! hey!”
Now off to dinner with J.
media links of the day
Five terrible fake Eve Ensler plays
- The Fallopian Follies
- The Clitoris Cycle
- An Evening Inside My Cervix
- The Ovary Improvisations
- Chattin’ with My Labia
Artist of the Day : Daniel Martin Diaz
Iconography with a dark heart twist. Eyes upward saints that look sweet enough to french kiss. Oil painted dolls of religious frame, hopeless and wishful thinking, crowned and incomplete. These are paintings that deserve to be set in a house with dark red walls.
but I can’t call you back until I know who you are
To whomever called to play Psycho Killer on me, thank you. You’re wonderful.
irony like spoons
“inlove” belongs to
lovelorn is about obsessional relationships complete with checklist
so has
and