Heaven is beautiful girls dangling from ribbons...

Circus Artemis was lovely, their debut was better than could be expected and performers- beautiful. Trapeze artists, stilt-walkers and a gorgeous hand-balancer! I feel quite lucky to have shared the experience in such good company. As joy can travel to and fro on a heartstring- so can regret and sorrow. The elation of rhythmic movement making a fool of my senses, the delight in shared sentiment and growing grins soothing away the dread of mornings misfortunes. Is it psychological or supernatural this knack I have for second chances, as I feel fearful once again.

A less indignant discussion on the topic of mind-wandering…

I am daydreaming, traveling frivolously throughout the unreal. As the minutes tick farther south I briefly wonder, “is it wrong to relive one tale so many times?” Eyes unfocused I begin a journey in grayscale. Distant becomes the hum of a large box fan, my hair curling at its ends from humidity and dense as weaved cords about my neck, cradling my shoulders. Copper to gray, I see past the pebbled ceiling- gray trees pared to bones, upward reaching. Black coats, the porous wool and my attention drawn once again to the tactile. My fingers grip the wood of the boat side. Peaking at either end, ornamental. It is lovely, ancient, dark. It is tethered, it is pulled by this heart cord. Otherworldly, devoted- I am propelled. The sky here is painted all in textures, the dirty whites and swirls of darkening gray. But I imagine my pulse, eyes diverted, beating fierce to reach its source. A heart chamber, filled to breach with hundreds of firm, juice filled pomegranate seeds. I speak of this tale at length, an ode to the canon from which its characters were conceived. It lives in my mind beside Carter’s the Bloody Chamber and Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors. I transpose upon its dreamscape, trespassing on the intimacy of plot lines. I tangle the strands of its flowing verse, fingers twined through the encompassing g’s and open backed w’s. weaving the plot to fit my form, I am surfeited in my fixation. I want not for anything more, I am whole in my deviation.

Time for tea before first light...

What a nightmare! It was a little past 2 a.m. when David woke me from my successful no-pants-nap-time-couch-party, to deliver horrible stories of close encounters with our hometown. The most enjoyable perk of our moving around as we did is that we have rare occasion to see these ‘ghosts’ of a former life unless we have sought them out. Incantations and such, very complicated- do not trouble yourself with the details dear. The trouble is that too many are migrating this way, as recent transplants I suppose long term transplants may consider us part of this growing legion of invaders but I say nay, we are awesome and you are lucky to have us! I have never been so proud of a place, Portland is where the weirdest dreams come to have themselves reenacted by nontraditional theatre types on street corners , glorious. Easily it is the most interesting and pleasant sort of place with the most delicious people and food, yum. My point is defiantly lost in my enthusiasm and I am totally okay with that.

Perhaps writing blogs in the middle of the night before collapsing into weekend coma mode is not in good judgment, anyway. David had the unfortunate displeasure of unwillingly conversing with someone from high school who it turns out held a very low opinion of my ability to form lasting romantic relationships. Yeah, not that I am offended that he holds me in such low regard but rather the audacity of this maybe recovered junkie thinking of me at all. Ecstatic I missed out on this uncomfortable event by joining #LOFNOHC and celebrating the doctrine of Morrissey *swoon* with like minded, albeit agoraphobic, math loving, sweat-pant clad types. They have llamas, confused? See @amandapalmer via twitter for further details.

Today was also gym membership day one, meaning I am sore and a little exhausted. David spent a great deal of the time mocking me for not sweating enough, it is okay though I will kick him with great enthusiasm as he sleeps drunkenly on my side of the bed. Then I will take photos of him sucking his thumb and hugging the newest stuffed monster toy in my collection, twittering them, at least two a minute! Maybe not, though I am quite tempted now, damn. Seriously, what kind of ass criticizes people at the gym? Has he not read the manual? The gym is for cruising people and exercising at the same time to eventually look better naked. I watched the wedding singer on the elliptical machine, as well. I love the gym, mostly because I find it ridiculous.

Speaking of ridiculous, I am having so very many scheduling maladies at the moment. I really wanted to have this whole road trip following the Whomping Willows and the Remus Lupins on their summer tour in the NW but I have no passport and now Tori Amos is going to be here at the same time. I am beginning to think that planning anything in advance will be my ruin. It is most likely that I will cancel the road trip, buy Tori tickets for Saturday and see the wizard rock heartthrobs on Sunday. Unless I can get my passport in time (and get the time off work) to go to Vancouver mid-week and leave Saturday morning to see Tori back here in Portland, then wizard meet-up on Sunday. Still only seeing them twice but clocking many miles on the station wagon .

Troubles with the television, is how I would sum up my newest time expense. I am heading into finale season with my heart on my sleeve and popcorn at hand. Dollhouse, Lost, Supernatural… omfg. This is becoming so indulgent! However will I explain this on my annual time-expense report! *a flash of panic slowly fades as she adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and then taking the pencil pensively from behind her ear she worries at the abused eraser nub, eyes focused on something unidentifiable, not likely of this realm* Sigh, it appears that tonight will likely see an early end as I have spent too long out of bed and will be unable to soundly return to my slumber. Bother, you are lovely.

This could be the best summer ever...

It is late afternoon and I am perusing the want ads in search of the ever elusive time-travelers assistant position (constant vigilance), enjoying a delicious cup of tea and rolling my eyes at the incessant vocal complaints of my cat- it must be Monday. Which means four more days until Friday, three more days until Supernatural, two more days until the Lost season finale and one day until we begin brewing butter beer for the upcoming Wizard rock tour. But today I am not obligated to any task besides reading and writing something for this long neglected blog of mine. I only wish I had more to offer, daily drabbles on Twitter reflect odd developments and new affections leaving little left to discuss at length. I suppose I have been sleeping less, therefore dreaming less and dreaming is often the first inspiration for new blog entries. I am currently avid about time-travel, especially in fan fiction (this is evident in some of the new additions to the links, stage right) and have managed to finally finish several whole novels rather than reading six at once. Morrissey and Amanda Palmer are still dominating my playlists and I fear I have developed a morbid reliance on my iPhone. Work, if it can be called that- has merely become a place for daydreaming and cultivating quirks. I have taken to cataloging strangers and acquaintances, long-listing all the various details I obtain for my own personal amusement. They have nicknames like Late Omens, or Work Crush #1, most are indicative to their relevance for which I am quite proud of myself for not being impractical. In other news, Sasquatch! Seeing Nine Inch Nails on their last tour would be enough but with all the other great bands- magic. Then there will be the Whomping Willows/ Remus Lupins tour in July. We are planning to visit Vancouver BC, then Seattle, then Portland. This is totally inspired by the multiple same day shows they played in Portland last year, now we can't help ourselves. That is where the alcoholic butter beer brewing comes in. I know in between all these events will be other shows, camping, more working and whatnot. I must remember that twitter is a very poor substitute for blogging, or something like that.

There will be notes...

When I die there will be no one left to describe others by odd observations and often overlooked characteristics. One less devout admirer that was never known by those who were so intriguing, by their vague interactions. What weight a thought can bring to what were certainly abandoned concepts, but are now alive with activity. If I had to pick a body to tell me such things, I suppose it would always be you.

Revealing or Reveling...

What ever could be more damaging than opening my heart to an idea, an entity that would soon leave me. If I fell in love with a person, a feeling or a bond- what then could be saved of my heart. An organ beating fierce like a fist, seizing with passion at the mere sight of such a thing. Too large, with pressing urgency- take a breath. Even the discomfort of its sting has all the sweet, unencumbered resonance of a kiss to me.

To hold a child or is it holding me. I am at first set with panic, only through detachment do I concede to this. To personalize would be most damaging. I think, half present- alternative histories yet to unfold. As any of us could be so many things, feel so varied a motion- I stand, carried in the current of my own detachments. The subtleties of their admission, the delicate threads weaving- they join. Entanglements hold me. My ornate desires an art, a craft once used to cheer sorrows hold the tale of a wanton spirit. Acceptance with fond intention is but a prelude to so many things.

The point of it all...

Less sleep as I adjust to shared transportation and currently opposing schedules have been fortuitously paired with a more chaotic workplace. Miserable, scheming coworkers contend to take my position as the daytime lead, all of them at least twenty-five cents my superior. Researching data, printing transactions and filing them away replaces afternoon reading. I am behind in my novels once again, terminally distracted or professionally indisposed. Nearly finished with Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, addicted to the BBC miniseries Lost in Austen, a dozen pages at a time through several of the most amusing punctuation handbooks and other varying reference pieces. Ignoring the things that were most distressing and consuming for the last month plus, in hopes of regaining my calm. With composure secured I hope to be more useful, until then I have fizzy alcoholic beverages by the bottle and a very long straw.

Soapbox of Despair....

If I were to break down these complex and often compounded feelings of late, it is a lack of intimate attention I am suffering. Is this perhaps a selfish plea, have I been attentive to those around me? Not really. Feelings of separation both internally and externally are the likely cause. Although I know I am not alone it is often difficult to dispute the emotional isolation that I feel. Many months of close quarters with my dear Kate has been a contributor to the absence I harbor. With proper cause assessed, I know that my weekday solitude is most problematic. I often feel the need to make responsible choices with my time, knowing that an evening with friends that may be temporarily gratifying will cost dearly the next day. But I can feel the absence of life, the preference of fantasy to reality growing. I am detached, literally, from my friends here. Little things possess greater meaning and consequence through internal experience. The books with which I am so familiar have taught much about introspection and life on a macrocosmic level. This shiny hamster wheel is most distracting and endlessly reflective. Or I suppose what I am really trying to say is that I am lonely and sad.

Leather elbows on a tweed coat...

Twitter has become a ruthless blog thief, I am transfixed. I find myself often wondering if perhaps there are more intriguing people out there yet to be found and followed. Once so many interesting profiles have been claimed, I am then no longer able to keep up with so many posts- forced to ‘untwitter’ someone, sadness. Even worse I think are the most delectable persons who fail to update nearly as often as they should.


Outside the virtual realm, I spent over a hundred dollars yesterday on nibbles and accessories. Worse yet I spent most of the day still hungry. It appears that the hungrier I become the more far fetched my last eating experience was, until finally- the last I ate was in a previous life as a struggling ‘up and coming’ deity somewhere in India. Oh, sweet curries- scratch that, chocolate almond cake. Yum. In light of my now tightened budget I did acquire a few things I had either been eyeing or needed, not quite desperately. Finally, I have a lampshade for infamous broken beaked bird lamp, love. A pair of precious gold heart locket earrings, and a burgundy hand bag that was $88.00- paid $9.99, satisfaction of victory. Oh, and a pair of peacock ornamental scissors, lots of treats and cat food I am less likely to cry over when reading the label.


Recently in pages, haven’t managed to polish off a single book in quite a good while. Too many anthologies are likely to blame. Must remedy this before it becomes a prevailing statistic! But what book to best due so with? That alone will take hours to decide. Bugger.


On the subject of activism, I am still hiding in my mole hill, not making new friends. I have however been keeping much better tabs on things happening locally, nationally and globally. The Let Live Conference is coming up in June. I plan to attend and meet many like minded misses and misters. Also, my vegan cooking skills are greatly improving!

Dreaming in grayscale...

If I am not reading then I am watching French films and learning trademark expressions for varying levels of defiance. If viewed twice over then I will be in the kitchen pressing vegan gingerbread with regal tin cutters, so sweet with black tea beneath a drafty window. If the reading light fades and the cookies are all but gone then search the blogs of various publishing houses and that of Mr. Neil Gaiman. You will surely find me there… with all new posts devoured and nothing but fragments remain I will stand before the closet mirror, balancing my auburn eyebrows and placing pins in my hair. When the hour hand reaches the top I will be winding down, listen and you will hear the crooning of female artists such as Cat Power, Amanda Palmer, or Madeleine Peyroux. Then a great tumbling will cause an avalanche of grey linen to cover me in warmth, heavy and still- she sleeps.

But on the desk is where I want you...

I feel all the lingering benefits of human interaction for now. I am thankful for even these small impersonal exchanges. Some reprieve from the somewhat serious, thoughtful novel I am nearly finished reading, is proving a good thing. When all else fails I can watch Bijou sprint towards the stairs without an ample leap and skid into a face plant at the far end of the dining room- like just now. He’ll tear the loose packing paper to ribbons, he’ll hunt shoelaces with vigor. So, as I was saying before… reading The Coma by Alex Garland, twittering to Raishawn, texting to Paige, emailing resumes, talking to Lily, talking to David. I feel so full of affection, unlike the often deflated- cold feeling I find myself reeling in. Everything seems to grow exponentially in the positive, as though possibilities multiply. I was walking earlier and thought to myself:

“It is time, opening my eyes- I am a concierge. I am the Innkeepers daughter, lurking the halls late into the night. I am a secret keeper, small pale hands clamped over quivering lips. I am a chalice of the unspoken- fill me up.”

Not really sure where that is going maybe I will write a short story or a poem, incorporating real life hotel stories told through the lens of colonial America. Perhaps it will be no more than porn in my brain, either way. I continue to overindulge in Morrissey, Neil Gaiman, soy lattes and twitter. I have been very, very bad.

Nightmares...

Her toad like features growing as she comes closer into view, how her glasses tremble with each wet cough. Her skin differs from that of your average toad, it is paper thin. The blossoming of blood vessels speckling the overall dull grey, of its powered surface. The skin it puckers and wrinkles with each breath, at each bend of wrist and turn of head. She is also not near the size of her amphibian kin, towering in her squatness to a height of nearly five and a half feet. Surely no toad has ever seen such height or girth! Her waddle is ever paired with a lipless grin, congestion rattling her chest with every heave. As part of what we can only assume was good natured humanity, she was taught of many human customs. Atop her head there lays a disheveled wig, brown tangles clipped sloppily with an ornate barrette. The fringe piece forming a large bump hung near center of her forehead that is capped by two curved wings, much like that of a handle bar mustache. Her eyebrows thick with adhesive crown her strange eyes in a most unsettling way. In her longing for ponds she wore large netted sweaters frayed and patched with long grasses, the weaving of twigs and were often riddled with gnats. It was this day that she turned to me with her large magnifying glass, center over one half of her face- like some chemical causality, and began to dissect me. The large antique tweezers had prongs tainted by rust and bent askew from ill use. They were sharp as blades on the soft skin of my arms and neck, how her eyes grew and bulged with her amphibian delight. All wincing, pain and tears took no pause from her. I was to be tortured, for I was unlike the toad- for I was but a girl.

* * * * * *

It was dark near the cabin, headlights giving little away but a small path made by previous travelers framed on each side by spindles, by trees, by twigs. The knocks of an old engine, the bumps of knotted roots, patches of grass and hard stone slowly surfacing the soil. Something so oddly familiar fills me, relief with an edge of doubt, it tastes like summer, like fear, like traveling. I am not alone but they are not with me now in consciousness, they are dreaming elsewhere despite the shaking of this old truck, they drift onward. Finally, we come to a stop, a man dressed in worn blue jeans, red flannel shirt and black vest. His features hidden by a beard, his eyed so dark, lashes so long- that his expression gives me nothing. We walk the unlit path, we come upon the door, it opens. I feel a strange pain sometime later and I begin to see my nose come into view. It is fierce pain, it is red flames, it is the crackle of broken bone and no explanation. I cover it, I run- time is lost then until I am in the cabin once more, I see my reflection in a dirty mirror. My profile, horror- my nose is flesh, all red with burst capillaries and perfectly round! It is a clowns nose upon my face and suddenly everyone is gone. There is something so cold in my right hand, I know better than to touch this thing I see so clearly despite the grime threatening total supremacy on its reflective surface. I try to swallow, remember to breathe- I am counting steps. I finally recover enough of my senses to realize that there is an ice pack in my hand. Cool could relieve the swelling, I think aloud. I press it to my face and feel nothing, my eyelids spread wide in panic and I cry. I wonder how this could happen, I plead for them to return for me, I pray to gods I have never known and curse my very maker. I feel the cold on my lips and chin even from inches away. I wonder if my nose will simply fall off or if the rest of my face will soon follow in its swelling. I am so alone, so frightened, so lost- it is then I reach out with those lips and grasp cold plastic casing that keeps unknown blue fluids inside and I bite, hard. It fills my mouth, the tartest poison- it tastes like bleach smells and dishwashing soap. The texture burns my throat and takes my mouth from me. Whatever would I need it for anyway, I am alone.