Knitting Ferocious Spiders

You know, there are certain situations that are Beyond Your Control. Like your place of employment suffering legal battles over who-owns-what portion of whatever, and after it all comes tumbling down -- when the winds blow out of their twisters, and the rains unknot from the sky -- what's left past the storm is fairly simple: Devastation. A big mess. Loss of property. Loss of confidence. Lots and lots to pick up before rebuilding. I'm tired of telling the story, so I'm not going to re-print it here, but I will sum it up. There was a little restaurant. Charming, soft, delicious. There was it's creator, Ro5e, and there was the crazy person she put in charge of it out front. They got along for a while. Then, not so much. It was time for a split; the relationship was not, entirely, successful. Snap. Crack! went the crazy person, and suddenly there were lawyers and judges and landlords, oh, my ! You never really expect the inmate to actually take over the asylum. Oh, people ...

When I was younger, I felt of my body as a cage, and resented it frightfully. My most prized attribute had always been my brain. I liked it's freedom, it's ability to cope. The brain, for the most part, never let me down. If I wanted to understand, I would. If I needed to create something new, something intense and absorbing, I could conjure it from the nether-realms of the corners, the four cardinal inner directions: Instinct, Intuition, Memory and Knowledge. I could also laugh, and laugh, and laugh at any number of ridiculous assertions which were completely untranslatable to the outside world. My body was never so pliable. Nor so accommodating. Thin, effeminate and not given to physical outbursts (I walked -- a lot -- but not much else), my body was resistant to any demands that I put on it (and it was down to that: me and it ). I did not like the things that you were supposed to do with it : sports; physical feats of acumen; even sex seemed like an awful lot of work after ...

is apparently no match for a closet door braced with a green, plastic patio chair. My first and only darling, Logos Rue (Rue for short), has been driving me crazy for a full two hours. As he is a kitten of only eight months, I am willing to forgive a certain amount of joie de vive at two o'clock in the morning; however, this trick of picking the coat-closet door open with his claws (pick, Pick, PICK-PICK-PICK), then scaling said coats to the upper echelons of the storage space, so that he can throw down my retired scarves and rip them to shreds, is less than endearing. The door itself has no catch, so the only thing keeping it closed is the tight seal of the frame. So, I have resorted to the solution best used during chase scenes in any number of films. Voila! Chair against doorknob. Rue has now enlisted the help of Pangor, the visitor. Together, they are displaying a remarkable amount of deductive reasoning for a couple of creatures with individual brains no bigger than half of a...

Two days before my birthday, I am feeling symptoms more than anxiety: sore throat, runny nose, sinus congestion. Either I have a cold, or I've developed allergies for the first time in my life. No big deal, whichever the case. I've been being productive . Besides the fact that I have gone from zero to blog in less than two weeks, I've managed to get a start on Hypersomnia , the dream journal portion of this online endeavor, and have mapped out plans to include other writing as well. It occurs to me that I'm going to have to learn HTML to pull this off with any flare. Ah, well. I need another sunny project. The simple fact that my days are actually filled with energy now rather than depressive, low grade self-loathing is all that I need to know about my relationship with the evil day star. I need you, my little ball of nuclear flame. I really, really do. Never leave me again. I've also got my entire passport application finished, photos, supporting documentation and...

It does the trick. Duty free and made in the motherland, Mustardseed had brought home a nice, big bottle of the stuff. It helped, shall we say, lubricate the slide through the details (the twists and turns) of her recent troubles. So, we plowed through a few glasses of that, along with a host of MP3's, and came to the realization that yes, gin is better when it comes from the source. Huzzah, Britain! You grande damme, you stern nanny; you giveth and you taketh away... most especially that icky, to close for comfort feeling of feeling , so acute and unwelcome. We'd rather be intoxicated. After enthusing that, we did go out. To a retro-sleaze party being held on the second floor of Remington's , the only gay male strip club in the city; salacious in itself, i know. There was a lovely boy with brown hair and glasses, a large bullseye on his t-shirt, hanging about the room. Oh. A target.... My aim was off. However, fun watching the strippers all the same, both amateur and pro. ...

[forgive a certain amount... I'm drunk as I write this.] I have no idea if there is any correlation between me starting to blog, and my life becoming that much more interesting, but... wow. Let me explain. Today was Mustardseed's day. She and I were due. Mustardseed has been away on vacation; five weeks in all. Five tortureous, long, weeks. She is, I have discovered, one of my very dearest, very closest friends -- an apparence that has only revealed itself recently, despite the fact that we have known each other (well) for a year shy of a decade. Friends, yes. Close, yes. Integral... not so sure until now, but now, integral . She is as important as anyone can be in my life, and I hope that I demonstrate that in how I treat her. I know that when she returned I felt relief, more than anything; but back to topic. Thank god she's back. And again, yet again, she's had a horrible (wonderful... Beautiful... Devastating) time; and she's reeling. It's part of the theme:...

My sister, it turns out, did not sleep with Edward. And this is the email that my father wrote to her (original punctuation intact): [Turtle]; [Your mother] and I are going to separate. How do you go about this...there is no easy way . What is the best way to say it or how do you say it....I suspect there is a right way and this is probably the wrong way. But it has been coming for a long time. We have grown apart. We are very different people. I have strayed into doing my own thing and your mum has longed to do more of her own things. She has spent a lot of time doing things for others and she would like to do things for herself. For me I have been selfish in my wants and I do feel some guilt for that but again we have just drifted apart. We have lots of things to straighten out between us but it is very civil and it is my hope that friendship will be part of the separation. I am still getting my head around all the implications both physically and emotionally and would like to talk t...

So, there is this punctate, eviscerating silence, and I press the End button on my phone. Now I get to ruin my sister's birthday. Now I kinda hope she has been having sex, that at least she has had some human connection, something ephermeal and positive to hang her day on. Maybe there's nothing for it. Perhaps none of it is possible. Everyone in my life right now seems to be having a terrible time of it: their own choices and connections, breaking up, falling apart. Motivations ruined, plans devastated and mourned. This shit is supposed to be part and parcel with winter. It's now spring. No matter what I said before, get over it! We're all about newness now, kids! Cobra, Satan's Little Pixie, Mustardseed; my surrogate nonsexual hetro boyfriend; AI and Ms. Montieth; my mother and my father; they're all *going through* something. For that matter so am I. Beyond all the petty squabbles, false starts and meandering (which I can deal with, they're part of the pac...

Seriously. I put them on this morning at Cobra's house, and apparently the 12 hours of semi-continuous dancing have resulted in very loose fitting sneakers. I took my sister out for her birthday Saturday night, to some uber-mega-multistaged-dj-extravaganza called Re-connected, down at the Docks (The Entertainment Complex. Usually to be avoided at all costs. Full of all those obnoxious fuckheads you'd rather see bronzed in a museum, exhibition named: Those People You Never Want To Be). Killer dj line-up. Killer music. Killer price. $50 dollars a head. You're joking. Well, it is a birthday. We're already down to the end of Cherry St.; the end of the world. In we go. And the place is filled with Those people. I had imagined all the old ravers, out of the woodwork, shaking out the phat [fat?] pants, prancing for all they were worth. "I'm sorry, Turtle. I thought the crowd would be better." "It's okay. The music's great." Brave face. Brave gi...

It is a beautiful day. Slowly spelled out. Languidly taking its pleasure across the sky. It has to be stoped. Not literally, mind you. I don't want to see the sun drop out like a lead marble, run down the sides of the cosmos, and wing little circles into oblivion... not yet. What I want, is to see this visceral appreciation of light, of final warmth; the emergence from that lowest of holes, winter, into this spring; this life; I want to see it be given it's due. Fuck, man. We've tried hard. We've toiled hard. We've sloughed, and sloughfed, and plowed our way through winter; more than once; knowing better. Having been taught a lesson once or twice already. We've been as demeaned as any green recuit to this op could be: frostbite on the homestretch, dead animals up the flew, a city of 4 million laid low by the frozen emblems of the condensation fairies. What have we been thinking? And what have I been thinking? Why have I imagined that the unadulterated funk I...