James Holden - "The Caterpillar's Intervention"

Attir the fox poses for a passport photo. His fur dusts his leather collar and his face has a cocky lift. They say don't smile in a passport photo, but if a fox can smirk, Attir is smirking. He lunches from a water fountain, and in the garbage can next to it he throws every other piece of ID away. His driver's license, his health insurance card, his SIN, even his Scope Video Membership card with the little sniper crosshairs on it. Hasn't rented anything in a couple years at least. Attir takes the train to Central, terminal 3, and heads through security. Head down, unnoticed. Aboard the flight it's tomato juice and his hoodie up. He lands to the sun still shining, or shining again depending, a waft of hot air, and the sound of guitars.

Attir the fox slams his fist against the large metal door. The password is I don't give a fuck and let me the fuck inside. He sits down at a rickety table across from a figure with a dog's beard and a missing eye, just a little sucked-in hole where the eye used to be. Outside the street is hot, the sun is hot, everything is yellow dust. "Little warm for that leather jacket," the one-eyed figure clacks his claws on the table. Attir sits as if tied to a board, his whole being is hungry, "It breathes." "Hm, that's good," says the one-eyed figure, his dog-bearded chin lifting, "Not everything breathes these days." Attir flinches. He reacts without thinking, "Seems that asshole on your face still has to shit out another eye." The dark-furred minions close in, but the one-eyed figure calls them off with a raised hand. "No no," he says, "I'm not upset. He can say whatever he wants. He doesn't even exist." An open paw, Attir tosses the passport. The figure hands it to a dark-furred minion at a computer, who seems more rat than dog, who furiously begins typing. Bank accounts, birth records, transcripts, addresses, it all comes up. "Ah, the great Attir. The fox. I shall enjoy being you." As Attir is hauled away he watches a tiny printer print the driver's license, the health insurance card, the SIN, all with a one-eyed Attir. Even the Scope Video Membership card, and these bastards wouldn't return anything. Well, it seems they might return one thing, at least.

Attir falls into the cell and they instantly embrace. The smell of her fur is unmistakable, the sound of her cry, though dry in a chapped throat, is still the same. They are blindfolded and driven through countless turns and hills, and dropped somewhere in the thick yellow dust, left to their own devices. They have nothing but each other, foxes mate for life, and Attir, no longer Attir, still has that lift, that arrogance, that smirk.

[Buy]

Sophie - "Bipp". That weird thing where you dive off a diving-board and never hit the water. Twists in the air, somersaults, fanning limbs, cannonball -- but no splash. No landing. No clap and spray. Suspended spinning in the air, cascading glints, longing downward -- and nothing. Ready and waiting. [buy]

(photo source: Collectie SPAARNESTAD PHOTO/Het Leven)

Nü Sensae - "Raven Tussle"

58 of the greatest seconds of screaming.

[Buy the newest, Sundowning]

(image from consumeconsume)

Just a quick one today, before I run off to watch Owen Pallett unveil the 2013 Polaris Prize long-list.

Cem Karaca - "Niksar"

In solidarity with the protesters of Gezi Park. In solidarity with boldhearted gatherers everywhere, fighting for their neighbours. Especially if they are fighting without fighting. In solidarity with the family of Ethem Sarisuluk, struck by a tear-gas canister, now dead. Longings are utopian; manslaughter is not. Sarisuluk's death is a terrible tragedy, more than anything simply unjust. But protest is not as romantic as it seems. It is about persisting, persisting, tedium, courage, tedium, persisting, persisting. It is about trying to say true things, remaining wary of mobs. It is about persuasion, at its core - as much a serenade as a battle-cry. It's hard, and easier than it looks. [buy]

(photo by Emre Kasap)

Bastardgeist - "Coast"

How they make crayons. Truth serum†. Ox Tongue, chilled. A secret handshake, hands in pockets. The dawn an hour early. Flight plan explained. The synchronous footstep, the synchronous kiss, the synchronous moment when a book falls off the shelf and Germany invades Poland. A shower in reverse. Theatre of protest. A buckle, tightened. A suicidal tulip (Tulip?). Meaningless words, the way the sun is meaningless, the way the wind is totally meaningless. [Pre-Order]

Fleetwood Mac - "Tusk" †"It was over before it even started." [Buy]

Mikal Cronin - "Am I Wrong". He goes in with the bumblebee washed off him. No more, no more, he says to himself. This time he is hornet. This time he is wasp. He weaves through the crowd with his stinger cocked, scanning each fabric and face, each glinting eye, for the one he wants. No, she's not here yet. No, she's not here yet. No, she's not-- yes there oh shit hold up. There is still some pollen on his sleeve. He is bumblebee yet. [buy]

---

Three recent honours:

- I won a (second) National Magazine Award last week, for a Walrus piece about Montreal's circus scene.

- I was so flattered by Anis Mojgani's reply to our recent We/Or/Me post. Let's form a gang together.

- Finally, belatedly, Jordan White used Said the Gramophone's dumb style to wrote about a basketball play. What an absurd & lovely thing to do. Thank you.

(photo source unknown)

Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guébrou - "The Homeless Wanderer"

I took Meena's son Patrick on a trip across the sea. Patrick was a genial boy, quiet, and like myself at that age, liked numbers and games. There was a daily game of Bingo on the ship, and we structured our days around this. And dinner. And a cocktail when the skies were the right colour of grey. That summer I didn't go to Africa, I took care of Patrick, whose mother, unbeknownst to me, was falling in love.

A friend of a friend invited me one night to a party at Sigmund Freud's house. I left Patrick with Mrs. Pritchett and stopped for a cocktail on the way. It was a dry night in July and I felt like a freed but saddled man, out of prison, but still in shackles. I saw the artifacts that Freud had and I didn't want to tell him but I suspected they were all fakes. I talked to a woman named Carolyn who seemed allergic to eye contact, and a short man kept begging for the room's attention to show some of his rather transparent magic.

Meena communicated to me through Patrick, which was, again unbeknownst to me, the first sign of trouble. Tell Robert hello for me, make sure to hug him twice at bed, once for me. I merely thought it was the kind of sweetness you send to someone you truly love, not needing to tell them directly, and not a way of simply keeping home fires strategically alight.

The nights I would spend. Whole nights when I could have been in Africa, uncovering time itself, spent on the porch smoking into the apple tree and thinking about Meena. Her wrists, her calves in a light dress, her stomach that seemed to prove to the world that simple function was the greatest beauty. A bridge got people across a gap, a bowl served soup to the hungry, and Meena's stomach would swallow that soup and stuck slightly out and all these things were perfect.

[Buy]