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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-07-03, 3:01 a.m.

human sextant,

��������� �����there are too many lights on this campus at night. the row of four flourescent at woodward, just over the entryway, the glaring peach-colour streaming down from the theatre, a halogen moth-attractor on the other end of the theatre - a black cat pacing up the stone path now, slinky and inspectory. a very odd urge to go outside and bring it in. it's gone now, a shadow slid around the brick corner. i entertain notions of filling a small bowl with the milk that's in my fridge and leaving it outside.

pangs of empathy. tonight there was much -- carousing, minus the drunkenness -- in jason's room. casey spent the night. we went to gorham house of pizza for dinner, after the show of "imaginary invalid" which played here tonight. the atmosphere - baseball game on a raised tv, the steam and smoke from a giant pizza oven, half-italian yells from the back room.

i wish it would rain. thunder would be nice. i'm missing the secret hush of wet curtains drawn across the land. maybe i'm just eager for the impetus to write again, the dreary drizzle and jazz-inflamed patter of it against asphalt, the cymbals-crash of thunder against the backside of clouds. of course a thunderstorm was written by dave brubeck, scatted out by ella fitzgerald. (white camellias fall from the clouds intermittently - )

i keep hearing footsteps outside, and then i bend to look and no-one's there. no curls of cigarettesmoke yearning toward the window.

someone paint me a picture.

&

mystery man. cloaked in the rumour of another story told by a woman with a cigarette. she says 'i hear tell of a man who's darkhaired and wears the collar of his coat up. no-one's ever seen his eyes -- except for me. i'm the tall redhead in his life. my shimmer catches anyone offguard, like the northern lights. they call me ms. kittycat.' and the man laughs a little bit - nervously.

'ms. kittycat?' he says, disbelief coating his voice. 'you've got to be kidding.'

'oh, no, darling,' she says. no, purrs. 'it's quite apropos.' she pauses and lights a cigarette. 'tell me. what's your name?'

he fumbles with the silence for a moment, like a gawky highschooler with a football. 'ah. james. j-jim.'

'expected, of course,' she flicks the ash. it sizzles to a smouldering death near the sewer grate. 'and you've seen him? mr. -- what shall we call him?'

'i hear he's jewish.' jim fiddles with his collar.

'then we'll call him elijah, and hold the door open for him on passover.' god, her voice is sexy. humourless and full of laughter at the same time. steam hisses up from the manhole in the middle of the street. the moon rises a bit more, it looks like a fat eyeball, glaucoma'ed over with age and excitement - a neurasthenic attunement to detail, and too much crazy rolling. it's too old to rise on its own - now it's cranked up by the gnomes behind the flat buildings, the scenery of the city.

&

maybe you will be present at my next Dissection. grin grin teeth teeth, sharp white and whiter, so sharp that my smile will incise the night sky and reveal the gremlins with yellower eyes and reddish claws. lurking in the wings, waiting for the moonset, tugging it down so fast that the pulleys squeak. and, counterweighted,

the sun will rise. (watch out the window for the man in the brown suede jacket and the highlighted brown hair, one hand in the pocket, the dark jeans scuffing the asphalt over dark shoes. the other hand swinging freely at his side, a pale reminder of foucault's pendulum, eyes firmly fixed on the apparition of ursa major in the sky - flinching at the too-bright lights, and losing his grip on his direction.)

i'm down to $50 in my account and i may have a job by saturday. shining moments, folks. shining moments. tarnished by phonecalls and mother's strident tones.

goldfish-out-of-the-bowl.

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�SEH