Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

#570: IT'S SATURDAY MORNING

It's Saturday morning, and you want to make a pot of coffee, but there is only enough grounds to make a single pot. You want to save those grounds for when the Palinode wakes up, so you are happy to notice that there is still some coffee in the pot from yesterday morning and weigh the pros and cons. The argument weighs on the side of It's coffee, and you pour the old juice into a mug, a mug you realize too late needs washing. You scoop out the bit of onion skin that is swirling on the surface of the coffee, heat the mess up in the microwave, and add more cream and sugar than usual to mask the day-old, sour flavour. It seems passable, but you wonder if this is a condition stemming from your hangover.

You went out to a fundraising event last night for Queer City Cinema with the Palinode and Saviabella and proceeded to make a joke of drinking yourself around the world, which entailed choosing a different kind of beer each time you bought another one. First it was Calgary, then it was Stella Artois, and then it was Red Stripe. This morning, you know exactly how bad an idea it was to do that. You promise yourself not to do anymore world travelling for a while.

Intergalactic Virgin

A friend's band, Intergalactic Virgin, was the opening band at the fundraiser, and they made you feel like it was the late seventies/early eighties. You wished that Joy Division would appear from the side door by the stage, as though time were a ribbon that could fold in on itself. You almost thought it could, but the here-and-now of beer and popcorn reminded you that you were in a club in 2006 and that Ian Curtis has been dead since 1980 and that the ribbon of time usually behaves as though it were taut.

my feet in a bathroom wearing Aidan's wedding shoes

You found yourself overwhelmed for some reason. You were sitting quietly at your table, nodding your head along with the singer's synthed robot voice, when you suddenly felt so tired. Not sleepy: weary. You walked to the bathroom to find a quieter spot and laughed at yourself for checking the little male and female signs on the doors when the place was peppered with gender-bending queers and you're not so unbent yourself. The fluorescent light was harsh and the mirrors too clean, so you shut yourself in the stall and took pictures of the toilet, because it looked so cold and matter of fact. It screamed I am a toilet by its very toiletness. It was ice-cold and glazed to a sheen, and if it were cleaner you might have embraced it.

But now you were heading down the wrong path again, and someone had entered the neighbouring stall. You realized that if the other person were to notice your feet below the metal enclosure, they would wonder why you had jambed yourself into the left corner facing the toilet, so you unzipped, sat down, and forced yourself to squeeze out some water in order to round out the story. When you realized that the last thirty seconds were about constructing a believable account of the goings on in your bathroom stall, you found this funny. It was funny like the dichotomous signs on the bathroom doors. So many things are about not standing out.

Kelly & the Kellygirls

Kelly & the Kellygirls broke your mood with horns and glitter and glam, thank gawd, and you even danced to a couple of songs. You danced with the cool people, which was cool, and you decided that this was indeed a good night, despite the earlier weariness, although you know it was that bottle of Red Stripe that was the tipping point. It was when the level in the bottle dipped below the D in Red.

Later, you shivered outside in the cold and stared at the chunks of ice while you smoked the last half of a saved cigarette. The ice had been chewed up into chunks by tires during the day and was now fused back together into a jagged mass by the chilly night. A cat caught your eye as it ran along the side of the warehouse across the train tracks, and it looked at you when you said kitty under your breath. In between smoky exhalations, your breath fogged in the air, and you knew that cat wouldn't make the winter. It looked just like the one you have at home.



NaBloPoMo 2006This post is my submission to (Inter)National Blog Posting Month 2006 on its eleventh day.
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Canadian Blog AwardsI have been nominated for the 2006 Canadian Blog Awards Best Personal Blog. Remember to vote for me on November 15th.

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