{"id":755,"date":"2004-08-25T12:14:00","date_gmt":"2004-08-25T12:14:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/2004\/08\/25\/turning-bottled-water-into-wine\/"},"modified":"2004-08-25T12:14:00","modified_gmt":"2004-08-25T12:14:00","slug":"turning-bottled-water-into-wine","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/2004\/08\/25\/turning-bottled-water-into-wine\/","title":{"rendered":"turning bottled water into wine"},"content":{"rendered":"Sometimes I think to myself that I accept too much. That I should argue less and about different things. These gray skies days tell me nothing. One after another they reinforce the end of summer. There are no girls singing when I walk by the houses at night. The cloud cover smothered them and stole their voices. The wind has them now, it’s off sweetly singing to creatures in Nepal. <\/p>\n
Woke up this morning not quite rested. Occasionally my friend stays awake too much, his hands thinking about me. I wake up with the breathing changing and the feeling that somehow I’ve given back teenaged youth to a man in his forties. There’s a mutter in the dark, I appreciate using communication to avoid sexuality. Shut that off. Snap close case close, end that bloody thier desire thing. It’s a pressure and it doesn’t bode well for dreaming. I don’t mind though, because really, what have I got happening today? I dropped off my film before noon and that was my only errand to run. Sleep when I drop, when I can no longer type, no longer write. Sleep when the world has gone to bed. <\/p>\n
Walking to his house last night, it was warm and wet. Air thick and I let my coat drop to my waist within a block of my house. I took off my shirt, rolling the velvet up to tuck into my waistband. Too pale these days, as always, I glow in the dark. So lovely to feel the rain sprinkle on my skin. I had to change my route to avoid the still open shops on Commercial Drive. Felt strange to be outside walking before midnight. People were still sitting in the coffee shops. A street back and I almost didn’t see anyone. Only a pair of almost elderly italian who gentleman bowed to me as I walked past them. They said something to me, but I don’t know what. I’m going to choose to think it was on my violet tophat rather on my lack of reasonable clothing. They were to gracious to be talking D-cup, right?<\/p>\n
The ocean is trying to claim Vancouver by sky. It’s hard coming down, step outside and it hits. There is no mistaking this for anything but water. I said yesterday that there is no glory in this rain, it’s only wet. Well, it’s worse today. This is rain that would depress Susan Vega. I love it. Drenching, but not in torrents. It’s possible to see the knife edge of every drop. I don’t know what’s shifted, it could be there’s an alcoholic in my genes, but I want to be loud on a beach with a bottle of something. All I have is cherry kirsch and that’s just nasty. It’s the booze that diabetics use to suicide. Not appropriate for shouting at the incoming waves in the slightest. Not even appropriate for drinking, really. Plus I’d rather a bottle I could slip a note inside and toss spinning into the ocean.<\/p>\n
{insert acoustic guitar solo here}<\/p>\n
There’s to be a jam at wreck beach this friday night. Cellos and violins on the nudist beach. Mishka wants me to sing, but I think I’m going to decline. It’s going to depend quite a bit on the weather if it even happens at all. I may volunteer my apartment box and attempt to piss off the neighbours with rowdy wine-drinking artists, but I also may have another Global Freeloader on the couch. Another young woman and I’m liking the trend. <\/p>\n
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Who’s been commenting in your journal?<\/h4>\n
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