Cats, blogs and masochism.

How can I put feelings in words?

I don’t think I can.

When I cannot put feelings in words there are three things to do.

One, be silly. As silly as possible. I am good at this.

Two, cry my eyes out. I am good at this too.

Three, walk. I am not very good at this but hey, I try.

Right now my lower back is killing me. The weather turned cold and humid and once more it started acting up. I hurt my lower back when my father was living with us before he died. I was taking care of him and picking him up. That was three years ago. Another unpleasant thing I owe to him, except for the lousy taste in boyfriends and the general mess he left concerning the inheritance. Thanks, daddy. Nice one. Remind me to give you a piece of my mind when we meet up there or down there. Together with a lit stick of dynamite or a homemade chocolate that contains milk, hazelnuts and TNT.

And I read silly novels about death and choice and no easy answers. Mmm, tell me about it. And I also read Mr. Gaiman’s blog entry about his terrible shortage in cats and of how he will miss Princess, his terribly evil white fluffy cat when she’s gone and of how he cannot explain to anyone why he’ll miss that cat. A kind one, yes, but Princess is not such a case. Having a similar case of an evil Persian I think I know what he’s talking about. You see, I have this orange fluffy log of a cat that lives for is eating, purring and running around the house at maximum speed for reasons unknown. He does that in a cute bouncy way that more often than not ends up knocking my mother’s legs out of his way with all ten cute kilos of him. Needless to say, he makes me happy beyond words to have him purring on my bed. And then I also have this white Persian that’s a case of Spite and Malice and very sharp claws all-rolled-in-one. I have accepted my fate; I was the one who picked her from the streets so I belong to her. And yet when she’ll be gone I know I’ll be bawling like a baby, for in spite of her nasty demeanor she follows me around the house and is always happy to be close to me. Never mind the vicious bites and scratches she gives me when she is irritated by the way I pet her, for example. That’s another thing. Try to imagine Hannibal Lecter following you around and trying to be sweet to you and you’ll probably know why I’ll cry when she’s gone.

And then I had my cards read for me. It’s always so much fun when this happens; when I discover people's true sentiments it makes me want to take up new interesting hobbies. Such as knitting (and giving away as gift) explosive pieces of underwear, or installing electrical eels in plumping systems of the aforesaid people, or reversing hinges in doors so that instead of entering a room, have the door land on their heads or toes or chop off their nose. Does this make me mean? You haven’t heard about the glass-shard enhanced pillows yet, so don’t jump into conclusions, ok?

I think I’m going to go and get some sleep before I start telling you about the homemade make-up removing lotion with sulfuric acid. And before my Persian indeed manages to sniff the lit candle as she’s been trying to do for the past one minute. Bye now.

Lightbringer

No matter where one chooses to lose themselves, it's all valid.

Time goes at normal speed only when we are deeply shocked and brought back to our senses. Then each moment is rich with gravity.

The wine of understanding is the blood of stones themselves.

There are no mistakes.

There are no meaningless days.

Don't let yourself be lost between someone's thighs because you have nothing better to do.

Don't let yourself be fooled; most things you buy and most things you do count for shit.

Yet every little helps.

Time is just another tool in God's toolbox.

So much pain, so many times repeating the same things over and over again, so many lives of going through the same things for what?

The red eyed bunny has no answers as it is crushed between the wolf's jaws, no more than a human has answers when shot to death in a dirty street for reasons they do not know.

Life is cheap.

Life is priceless.

Each death, written in a bland book, is no more than statistics.

Each death experienced on a personal level is nothing but a full fledged tragedy.

Can't you see?

There is no actual line. No distinction.

Each person you meet is yourself.

Greet them with a smile.

Take some time to listen.

There are no mistakes and no meaningless days.

Discover the meaning for yourself.

Be brave and shine, shine from your deepest core to the outside.

Shine till you burn.

Beautiful

This pretty much proves my belief the human body can unfold like a flower... If we could take the time to actually not look, but SEE...

Peruse

Re-reading stuff here in the blog.

Surprising myself sometimes with the validity of my written speech.

Yet no words can describe the colour of your hair.

No description would ever do it justice.

Black.

Always black,

firing blanks at your shadow.

And the smiles, and the hypocrisy, and the questioning looks she gives me.

All while pretending innocence and genuine care.

You can have him. He's all yours.

He's not mine

He's not yours

He's not his either,

pity.

Beware of Greeks bearing presents.

And gifts fashioned in the green mist of jealousy are the worst to receive any day.

Yet I accept them.

And she thinks she wins.

No-one wins

no-one loses.

God is playing dice in a cheap bar.

You both lose.

I know the one for me.

He's mad.

I know the one who made me what I am.

He, too, is mad.

It's only fair that he'd be the fairest of all.

No such thing as coincidence.

The serpent inside my spine unfolds.

My wings open slowly.

Painfully.

The dice come into my hand.

My turn now.

Almost everything.

It is only natural that I don't write everything here. Save for the obvious reasons of not every thought or occurrence being worthwhile of recording, sometimes written word does not cover one tenth of what I really need to say.

Haha.

The other reason is perhaps less obvious; the people reading it, at least the ones who know me personally. The other ones, well, there are lots of warnings everywhere in the blog, so let the reader beware, right?

Sometimes I am thinking about starting another blog and writing whatever the hell I want there, no matter how extreme or weird or whatever. But truth be told, this one is almost as good as I want it to be. Almost. And I am against too many blogs and too many accounts in too many sites. A lot of people are total attention whores, but I say to myself I am not. This is a bit of a lie, as writers are terrible attention whores. Then again there are things I would do and things I would not do to get attention. And sacrificing the blog I have created bit by bit in the past five years would not be something I'd do to get attention. Posting naked pics of me would also get me lots of attention, but not the kind of attention I want. I mean, I have breasts, hips, and generally every body part women have. What's new?

The only new thing I can display and flaunt in people's faces is my mind. Nothing more, nothing less. That, and the way I understand and experience reality. The way I interpret what we call life.

Human beings are very fragile creatures. A single gust of wind and we are gone. But the mind and its creations stay. And the word "mind" is actually too narrow to describe what I want to say. The Greek word would be "pneuma", πνεύμα. A beautiful word meaning spirit and soul, related to breath and the mind.

I think that's about the only thing that stays behind in some form or other. And this is what this blog is about. It may be poor, it may be lacking, it may be anything. But that's what I have, that is my treasure. They can strip me naked of everything but they cannot take this away from me. It's my treasure hidden in the deepest vault of my heart and yet open for everyone to see and partake if they so wish.

That's all I have. And I am both proud and grateful for it.

"God[/dess] is hidden in the details."

Fun lessons

Trying to learn Japanese.

Reading a relative book.

Yeah, right.

Japanese has a curse as a language. One may learn both alphabets and be able to read the letters when seen on paper. Or almost able. Then one tries to write a word down and suddenly both alphabets scurry out of one's head as fast as a swarm of millipedes on a stampede. You're like, fuck, I know this letter, I know what "ne" looks like. But is this "ne" or is it "ke"?

The minutes tick away and no matter how much you squeeze your brain cells you cannot remember. You try to recite the letters in your head and much to your horror, you realise you have forgotten even more letters. And you try again and again. Exhausted by the effort, your mind connects with a Chinese laundromat somewhere and you hear happy sounds all the while, birds chirping, wheels spinning, the washing machines of the laundromat on the rinse cycle, someone whistling an interesting tune while putting the g-strings in the dryer. Empires collapse, women lose their virginity, the warden of the Imperial Prison loses his entire batch of keys and you still cannot remember if that letter is ke or ne. Slowly the season changes, the eon is gone, the entire human race is wiped out including all the Greeks regardless if they came from Sirius or Yuggoth, and the Japanese fly away back to the planet Zerg where they originally came from, riding a super-space flying sandal. Or something.

Do I need to say you still cannot remember what that letter looks like?

'Tis the season.

'Tis the season of family happiness again. It began a little before equinox and it's riding me like the man who came across the armies of Satan while on a pleasant day out.

Not a day passes without a major fallout with my mother. It's fucking charming is what it is. Like putting a cobra and a mongoose in a pit and showering them with red hot volcanic pebbles for more effect. Like arranging a blind date between a fascist and an anarchist. Blind date I said? No, not quite. More like the two of them stuck in a narrow elevator due to a power cut that will last for a week. Make that a year and you'll know what I mean. If she wasn't my mother, people would have thought we have been married for half a century. Only such couples hate each other's guts so much.

I am trying to see what I am doing wrong and I can't locate it even if my life depended on it. In this case, it is not my life but my sanity; at least a negligible amount that is left. I will try again tonight to do my little hocus pocus. If this doesn't work, I will have to ask the patience bank to extend my credit for an undefined period of time. And I'll also replace all the knives in the house with plastic ones. Just in case.

When everything goes wrong I always try to remind myself of one of the most valid truths from my magic quotations box. "This too shall pass". And just like any other rule, or quotation, or anything that there is, really, it has exceptions. Every rule has exceptions; even this rule.

I am just so tired. I am almost thirty three and there are days I feel sixty. All the things I want to do are always inaccessible, and I don't think there is anyone else with more suppressed desires than me, except maybe for someone who was sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment at nineteen. However, there are cracks on my prison wall now, I can see them clearly. Perhaps this is what she too sees, and she is scared.

She should not be afraid. It's what they say: If you really love something, set it free. If it comes back willingly, it will be yours forever. If it doesn't, take a shotgun and shoot the motherfucker. :-)

[I borrowed the picture from Alexia's photos- it's Mr Argh! Say hello to Mr. Argh, everyone.]

Blood tidings

[Beautiful art by http://feimo.deviantart.com]

And yet that night she spoke to you.

She had not spoken to you countless times that you craved her presence more than dear life. But that night she spoke to you, and endless days without her by your side vanished in a blink.

In a dream she came to you.

Be careful, my love, she whispered.

And the sweetness of your native tongue on her beloved lips was a gift you were not prepared for. Yet she gave it just the same.

Dead, you said, before you could stop yourself, head spinning, heart beating out of control. You're dead, aren't you?

But her sensation was more real than anything in your waking life for the past twenty years, and the pain was more that you could stand. Blinding and crippling, like death itself. You shakily extended your hand and found hers in the near darkness of that room, and it was the hand you knew, small and warm and beloved. Something broke inside you then and you found yourself on your knees.

Stay with me, you whispered. Please.

But the only thing that stayed with you when you opened your eyes were your tears.

My beloved Japanese pixie yells his pain out in what feels like gusts of wind. And I write, because there is nothing else I can do. Nothing else.

I am sorry, Mr Takeshi.

The Fool

I have spent the entire past hour editing parts of past posts. Youtube has deleted lots of videos due to copyright claims and I had them embedded on my blog. :-( And since I always choose the music/ pictures accompanying my texts with the utmost care in order to enhance the effect of my writing, it is nothing less than frustrating.

Oh well.

Last night found me wandering the streets again. Night? Five in the morning. I could not sleep. I was angry, and wanted to save the culprit (my mother) from a nasty if silent death by pillow smothering. So I was walking like a person on drugs in the wee hours of the night, hands in pockets, disheveled, dirty hair half hiding my face and a thin t-shirt on. When I went out, I was not thinking. It did not take me long to verify it, as soon I was shivering from the morning cold. But then walking made me warm. Made me feel a little better.

I cannot find the edge of this fucking stage comedy that we call reality. I am sure, you see, that if I find the edge and give it a hearty pull, this entire parody of life will just peel off like an old poster and reveal what's behind, and then someone will give me some explanations. They should better. But no matter how frantically I try to find the edge of the reality poster with my fingertips there is nothing to pull on, no edge, not even a hint! Gods damn all the lemon sorbet ice creams on the planet, there is no lead to pull at. And this leaves me walking at five in the sodding morning, only to return home and discover I'm still angry and cannot sleep even though it is daybreak and I have to get up in less than two hours.

Hell and damnation, there is not even discolouring or a tell-tale little unevenness around the edges. Not a hint. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because I know I can pull the damn thing down if only I could find that little edge. Those bastard reality architects really did their homework well this time. They know me too well, you see. They know I'm crazy enough to actually pull.

Hmph.

Strange stars are brewing in the skies lately, foretelling of your death, oh mighty one. Your time is almost done. Do you feel it?

Play with me.

You run after me but I am faster.

I am not a rabbit.

You think yourself a wolf, a mastermind. And you certainly are.

Yet every dog has its day and your day is long past.

I let you give chase and whenever you think you have me cornered I bite.

Chunks of angel flesh between dragon teeth.

Feathers on the ground.

And the day comes.

It will be my turn to give chase and much to your horror you'll realise I actually mean business.

So who's been playing with whom all along?

So many questions and no answers. Dark windows in the darkest hour before morning, empty streets echoing the footsteps of the lonely, the stark mad, the unwanted.

Hear my footsteps, then. And run, little wolf. Run for dear life.

Your kingdom is forfeit.

"You did not dream of us, you miserable creature. We dreamt of you. We gave birth to you in dreams, before reality existed, and this is how you repay us."

[Arachne to a liar writer- then again, all writers are liars...]

All my fault.

“For all that is worth the blood on my hands is the blood of divinities.” [Tiamat]

The path is getting stranger by the day. Stranger and harder.

Divinities.

I have killed many of the so called divinities of modern age. The killing is done inside, not outside. I have killed notions of family, friendship, love. I have killed my so-called parents and faith in blood relatives, I have killed romance, gods and archangels. I have come to comprehend myself as god/dess, and yet the dissatisfaction persists. The need for affection and the yearning persists. And as a result, the sadness is the one constant that never changes or stops. It never wanders afar. It is always at arm's reach. An inexhaustible fountain of ever-overflowing melancholy.

Where is the one for me?

Not those sad imitations of people who walk around hypnotised. Not another candidate for baby sitting, not another candidate for busting my balls. I am sick of it.

When you sleep late at night, do you too feel that something is missing?

Exhausted by yet another day, do you see how futile everything is?

Is it worth fighting for?

Is there any meaning in this endless recycled trouble?

When my soul flies away in the arms of Morpheus, do any of these worries matter?

Where is the one who will remind me that flesh is something more than just a jail, something more refined than future food for worms? Where is the one who will make less sick of my desires, less sick of the whole parody of reproduction?

Why can’t I escape my desire for affection? Why can’t I escape the animal side of flesh?

Where is the one who will make me give up control by not trying to subdue me?

In dreams late at night

you come

whispering

just before wakefulness claims me

and oh how fast reality manages to pull out the knife and stab me in the back.

But it’s my fault.

I am the one who's doing something wrong and I think I know what it is.

I have connected what's natural with the lewd people I experienced it with. I have equated it with them. But the Universe can also provide me with an different experience in order to judge better.

Okay then. Let's concentrate on making this happen...

Shopping spree

Now, I have heard of women who buy shoes as shopping therapy. I've heard of those who buy lingerie, jewellery, cosmetics, you name it, change their hair style, begin yoga lessons or go to beauty salons and let other people smear them with all kinds of gooey, sticky and icky substances.

Never heard of one buying a printer as a shopping therapy. I suppose that makes me a freak of nature? Meh. :-P

Still have not found any salons where sensible, well-developed young men give you a massage and then screw you till your eyeballs pop out. :-)

Yes, I am buying magazines with Japanese singers again. And my friend K. is downloading porn with Asian men for me. Again. God bless her (un)holy fingertips and her gift-bringing, eye-bulging, orgasm-sharing internet connection, I have nekkid Asians in my hard drive, in various stages of getting hard for my eyes only. Bless you girl. That latest Thai one was... mmmgrrr. Mew!

The problems Asian rock stars present me with are endless, and my hormones are presently cascading like a waterfall from the mount Venus. First of all, it's the glitter and the eye-liner they use. Why oh why? Why not let me draw on their skinny bodies with pieces of praline? Where is the sense in getting onstage to sing wearing only bits of fur and suspenders? Why is my rabid grace endlessly tortured with pictures of boys who barely reach my nose, all made up like a present, hairless and skinny, with ding-dongs that look like my finger? (That latest bit I choose to ignore on the grounds that, with another race, I'll never have the chance to fuck with a male someone who wears more make-up than I do and looks prettier in a skirt than I). Even worse, what in the name of Buddha was God/dess thinking when S/he placed them at the other side of the globe? (probably their safety...)

On the happy side of nonsensical news, here is a new video by Dir En Grey. I am sure K. will appreciate watching her precious Die (the charming guitarist who resembles a hardcore Yakuza criminal) with his arms covered in what looks like infected dragon scales. I surely enjoyed it. Kyo is singing in his usual amazing style, like a man who accidentally swallowed first a smurf, than half a dozen frogs and finally a pit demon. The bassist is one of the most exquisite creatures you can hope to come across, with a neck that can make even a zealot vampire hunter develop strange urges. And the drummer... Mmmm. Pistachio.

*Mmmmm*. Busy licking imaginary neck right now. Talk to you later.

The nipple theory

I have a theory I'd like to share with you. Actually, I have many theories but let's focus on one for the time being.

Some nipples are rebellious by nature.

I pee. The sudden wave of relief caused by emptying my bladder makes them poke out. As if I didn't know their whereabouts and they had to make sure I am not worried or anything.

I take a hot shower. They get happy and stand out like the insolent little bumps of flesh they are.

I am cold. Et voila. You wouldn't believe it, I know, but two nipples giggle to themselves and make their presence known to me.

I am not ever referring to what takes place if I happen to get really excited about something. Something like Japanese gay porn, in my case. They rise to their fullest height like they are the champions of Nipple Land facing a possible pretender to their title. But anyway. The problem goes beyond that. For example, another part of the problem is that I presently have the tummy of a lady of a castle. And a very inactive and slothful lady for that matter. Or of a four months pregnant female elf, accompanied by the appropriately slim legs, and the hips of a woman painted by fucking Frazetta. All that topped by the face of a charming American Indian with tuberculosis. One would have thought I didn't need rebellious nipples as an addition, but I have them too, whether I asked for them or not.

A positive note is that I am happy about my boobs, blown to surreal proportions after gaining about ten kilos, and forcing me to hug them tightly whenever I have to break into a run. I wouldn't have thought this possible as a skinny teenager, but life had other plans. And there is obviously the matter of gay Japanese porn, found in my links. It's a pity it's not happening in my guestroom, but let's look at where gods decided to put nipples and count our blessings, eh? I am glad we don't have them on our forehead as a species. Like an unwanted alarm of some sort. Just imagine it. You'd see this oddball guy staring at you with his forehead nipples hard as rocks and you wouldn't know if you ought to shit yourself and run for it or he had just had a fabulous toilet time.

[Speaking of foreheads, I wouldn't mind having one of those Jap boys sat on my face. Then again, they are in Japan, and my nipples presently napping inside my bra.]

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Possible answers to stupid questions

A friend's grandfather had just died and she was about to leave work early. A colleague asked her,

"What, you are leaving now? What for?"

Here is a list of possible answers to this kind of question:

1. To try and resurrect him. I actually have a good success ratio. Here is my card.

2. Don't tell anyone, but my grandfather was the head of Free Masonry. I have to go and make sure our world domination plan carries out as agreed.

3. No reason, just feel like goofing off. Next week that we take inventory I'll off my grandma.

4. We have a family tradition that goes back thousands of years; to eat the bodies of our deceased loved ones. He was my favourite grandpa. Wouldn't want to miss out on that. He had always been so... um... soft.

5. *in an irritated, exasperated manner, as if explaining something to an idiot:* And who's going to open the mouth of his mummy, smart ass? Do you happen to know the ritual?

6. We're prone to turning into vampires from that part of my family and you just wouldn't believe how good I am with a stake.

7. What are you talking about? I need human brains for a potion! This is my chance! Next week is full moon!

8. Oh, it is just a perfect opportunity to unchain my grandma and finally release her from the closet before anyone else sees.

9. Because he has beat me in every single game of poker we've ever played! I'm gonna stand over his grave and yell, "who's the lucky one now, motherfucker?!?"

10. It is just that I have no money for the dentist with the present crisis and all, so it would be a good idea to get his false teeth before someone else does, you know? It's called persevering.

11. Uh... Um... I like, um, don't get this the wrong way, *blushes and starts fidgeting with her clothes* I just, um, just like being around dead people, you know? I guess, um, I guess it is not that unnatural, is it?

12. *Starts bawling hysterically* He was my sweetheart! My sweet sugar granddaddy! He was the one who turned me into a proper woman!

13. I don't know if in your family you turn your dead relatives into compost, but very generally speaking, there is a thing called funeral.

14. I actually don't want to go and it it is very convenient that you propose to go in my stead. Don't worry, I'll call grandma and explain to her I've been through sex change. Her eyesight is not what it used to be so it will be fine. Here is the address. Thank you so much, you are an angel, a life saver!

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God hunt

Desire is the cruelest god/dess that exists. By far the cruelest entity. And the one I wish I could hunt down and draw not letters, but whole stories on him or her using blunt knives. Desire always drags me by the hair no matter how hard I try to resist, no matter how much I kick and yell. No matter how good I am at suppressing countless things for unfathomable amounts of time, desire always has the last word. And for some reason, he/she appears to be the Siamese twin of sadness.

Goddammit.

I am angry, no, I am ballistic with that fucking asshole, that excuse of a man who had the nerve to suppose I am the kind of idiot girl or snake girl he is accustomed to mingle with on regular basis. I wanted to chop his head off, cook it and serve it to his oh- so- important parents. But as per usual, he will never know a thing. My nuclear explosions are the size of my own brain. No-one gets hurt save for the usual suspect, me. And sometimes reality.

Desire desire desire. That demon of flesh, the only thing that gives us meaning.

I am depressed and at the same time unstable and giddy which results to the hilarious effect of talking out loud to myself and engaging in surreal conversations with mother Teresa Elizabeth / psychotic Elizabeth who wants to kill/create, maim/sooth, do spells that will unravel reality, fuck everyone in view/ nobody ever again, kill people of her immediate environment/ move to another planet or plane of existence.

Desire, desire, desire. No excuse at all for your trespasses, is there? No need to apologise or explain. You just exist. Just like heroin and rainbows. You just exist. Nothing about it. Nothing at all.

Save for inarticulate screams just behind my lips, at the tip of my tongue. Never making it out save for late at night, late, late, late. Too fucking late. Too late to explain, apologise, count your blessings, change your mind, sing us all a merry song, go have a flying fuck around the moon, die, die, die.

Cockroaches. Fucking cockroaches, a fucking shame on the face of the universe. That's what we are. A waste of flesh, breath and resources. A waste of divine inspiration.

Perhaps if I curl very very tightly around myself I will create my own little Moebius strip and vanish in it.

Perhaps desire will leave me alone to leave the remaining of my life quietly and without any meaning.

Perhaps.

Not certain anymore

You say that you miss my wisdom, but my wisdom (if I can call it such) is telling me one thing. I am scared. Very scared and very sad. I no longer know which direction to take so I sit and stare at nothing.

Any better options out there?

And I still pick at scabs

and my mind won't let me rest

and I cannot take one deep clear breath.

My only wish is not death. In the past it would have been death, but it is not anymore.

Now I pray for rain.

It will come like a gift from the heavens and wash away every moment, good and bad.

It will free me.

I will melt like sugar, become smudged like a watercolour picture and hide in the reflections of the wet pavement. Slip away like a dream. Not exist anymore.

That would be so nice.

Everything would take care of itself afterwards.

Why am I here if there is no place for me?

Why am I here if this reality disagrees with me?

For just how longer will I be able to carve a breathing space in the rock with my nails?

Why should life be nothing but struggle?

I have no answers.

I have nothing.

I am, in reality, nothing.

A dream that strayed.

Please let me leave.

It is raining again.

So many things I could say. But what is the point? What would that achieve?

I am gorged by art and unsatisfied desire.

I was reading a piece I wrote four or five years ago. It was a good piece. It will never be published.

It’s funny how we always seem to go in circles around ourselves. Round and round we go, like a shark that circles its prey, and always preoccupy ourselves and our minds with the same thoughts. Our poems and prose follow familiar patterns, our habitual interests a safe ground we can rest and enjoy the sights we already know. Our obsessions dress our minds like a comfortable old leather jacket, like an old faithful pair of boots. Comfortable enough to ignore even the fact they are threadbare and full of holes, and the only actual warmth they give us is imaginary.

What will become of all those stories that will never make it beyond the shores of my own eyes, never be read by any other person than me and perhaps two more friends?

Let the wind take them. Let the wind and water take these boats not fit for travel, and undo them. Let the waves take them for if you try to sail on them you will sink with them. And more than anything else, let time serve you in building that boat which will be stronger, and take you to the other side. The other side of yourself and reality, where you have nothing to lose or gain, and the stranger with the knowing smile that will greet you on the coast will embrace you and ask no questions.

My cat knows. In all his fat ginger fluffiness he knows there is no time for a single moment to be spared, and yet there is no such thing as time. He does not expect tomorrow to curl around my arm late at night and purr his content. He knows the greatest secret of all. There is no tomorrow. There is only here and now. Seize it as best as you can.

I cried for your inability to say you are sorry. I cried for that hurt little boy in the room with the mirror and I cried for the grown man, all tangled up in his own stories and hurt ego. You want the sacred words circled around your body; you want the ode for feelings tattooed on you. And yet how far from understanding your own feelings you are. I touched your face, accepting you just the way you are, loving you just the same, but I cried for you just the same too, and for me, and for the petty ego tricks we fall victim to when we should shine from the inside. I cried because we think we are going to be forever, that there will always be a time to set things right, to reconsider or change our minds. Somehow we are certain we need not apologize or look back. We behave as if we are larger than life and invincible when we are but mere candles, flickering in the garden of Eternity and you, having seen death as often as you have, should know this better than anyone else. I cried a little bit for both, but more than anything else, I think I cried for what I already know too well: no matter how much I care, I cannot save you, or anyone else. I’m not even sure I can save myself.

I am not exactly sad. Merely reflecting on my choices and next steps. Disengage, my dear Takeshi-san would say quietly. Do not worry. Do not anger. Let time serve you while you pay servitude to yourself. And unsurprisingly, happiness, when it knocked on that little man’s door, was to him as sweet and unexpected as warm summer rain. It did not last for long. But Takeshi-san knew how to make it last. He knew how to drink sips from that elusive rainwater as he fed his goldfish, as he took care of his precious bonsai, as he brushed his teeth. He was there every single moment. His mind did not wander. His full attention was on every single thing he did like that task was the most important thing in the world, like that moment was the greatest moment of achievement in his life. But I am not Takeshi-san. I am merely Elizabeth. And I worry, and I anger, and I am not focused on every moment that passes. And time slips from my fingers like grains of sand, and the more I try to hold the sand into my grasp the more it flows freely.

Takeshi-san, forgive me for being such a poor student to your wisdom. Forgive me for being too cocksure when I should be humble and keep an open mind, and forgive me when my mind wanders on the paths of anger, and worry, and cheap desire. Forgive me for being impatient and lacking faith, for fighting when I should give up and giving up the times I should have fought. Forgive me for all the times I have wished I was never born, and have been disgusted by the entire human race including myself, and have given up hope or resolved to violence. Forgive me for being human when I should shine, and for being rigid when I should have bent with the wind.

Takeshi hears that without commenting or interrupting and gives me the slightest of nods when I am done. I know what he thinks: “I have been cocksure, and proud, and close-minded. I have been impatient and have lacked faith, I have fought when I should have given up and run away when I should have stayed and fought. I have wished I had never been born, and have been sick with the entire human race and myself. I have given up hope and have resolved to violence. I thought I had to prove myself, first to others, then to myself. Did I prove something? I don’t know. I do not think so. But I have two goldfish to feed, and they need food daily, and three bonsai to take care of, and they cannot wait. They will take the food and the care I offer and will not ask me if I am worthy. And if they consider my care adequate to live and flourish, that is all the proof I need.” But instead of saying these things he keeps his silence, his dark eyes focused outside. It is raining again.

Conversation

It’s strange how I realize that I want to write here. Usually there is a mild cacophony inside my head, different voices talking about different matters.

One voice was commenting on how funny is the way Japanese men speak. No matter how sweetly they sing, when the average Japanese male talks while trying to sound manly or important, their utterance is a very curt and guttural sound. Another voice added that we have no actual idea how ancient Greek sounded, and that certain letters and symbols perhaps meant that the vowel was longer or doubled, giving words a very different sound. These two voices engaged into heated conversation, and I let them to it.

A third voice commented on the unusual brilliance of the moon and how odd it was, because we were still days away from full moon. The entire sky was pearly gray and radiating in a very powerful and odd frequency. Someone replied to that comment and congratulated me on once more walking the dogs a few squares before going back home. It observed how, out there in the quiet of the night, the impossible seemed merely improbable. It mused that mystery has the tendency to shy away from the voices of the crowd and the sound of mobiles and to enjoy meeting me in empty alleys and quiet courtyards. 

At that point, mystery itself stepped forward, caressed my cheek with fingers like smoke and promised me something I didn’t quite catch. That’s the problem with mystery. You can’t quite make out what it says, but by the sound of it you know it’s damn delicious. I was busy with that sensation, trying to extract some extra information, literally pry it loose from those elusive, smoke tendrils, when a little bit of information popped up in my mind from the place it had been tucked away and almost forgotten. It would appear that when the new airport was built, something was forced out of its nest. It appears to be a harpy, which means, something with the body of a bird and the face of a woman. During the construction of the airport, the working teams discovered items that show the place was populated during antiquity. Right now, there are quite a few reports from the locals who have repeatedly heard or seen her; they say she is ululating, and that her screeches are truly unsettling. They cut down a lot of trees from that area; no wonder she is upset. I would have attributed these rumors to overactive imaginations, but now I know better…

Gasp!

If you like figure skating, see it.

If you don't like figure skating, see it because he has a marvelous ass.

If you are not interested in nice asses, this blog is not for you.

*proceeds to watch it again and sigh blissfully*

Eat proper food, exersize, don't smoke, don't drink, don't fuck. Die healthy.

I think I want to organize an orgy.

Fat chance of that. I can barely organize my thoughts lately. I read everything wrong. I am either arbitrary relating it to sex or my misreading gives everything a new, more interesting meaning.

Jewelery makers become undertakers.

Travel agencies suddenly specialize in crepes.

Bet newspapers turn to sex marathon reports. And so on.

It could be funny. It is funny. But my energy has become lopsided, my grounding ability has gone to hell, I drop things, feel tipsy all the time and still have to think, work, walk... My attempts at walking are often misunderstood as tango between a drunken person and an invisible three legged bull on high heels. Fun, fun, fun. All my cds seem to be playing gibberish, like I've had my entire music collection stolen and replaced by the Martian top 40. And I am eating non-stop. My jaws are working overtime, gobbling down prodigious amounts of chocolaty, delicious, sugary, non healthy CRAP. Arghhhh...

I want to fondle tits, or have mine fondled. I want to be an Emperor, or run a ninja organization. I want a massage. I want to kiss the delicate fingers of Shinya, the drummer of Dir en Grey, and smack the Pope of Rome for his comment on gay people. I want all my farts to be silent and non smelly and my legs and magic carpet always waxed. I want to my tom cat to turn into a 1,90m tall black were-panther, who's well hung, polite and loves to lick me. I demand vacation, evacuation and non-smelly perspiration. Free chocolate and ice cream delivered to me till my last days by handsome ninjas in leopard thongs. Massage by the pretty Asian boys I ogle, all of them dressed exclusively in badass leather or period dresses for ladies, both versions with full make-up. Someone to take care of an indecent winged fellow that refuses to die in spite of my best efforts, and I am not referring to a mosquito. I want pillows stuffed with hamsters that smell like an almond tree in full bloom, a Japanese tattoo on my entire back, Sephiroth as my lover and Vampire Hunter D as my husband. And to cheat on them both with Totchi, the bassist of Dir en Grey dressed as a goth slut (see picture). And to give my period to someone else when I have it. And not get any zits or colds ever. And always have enough money regardless of anything else. And very very long hair.

I DON'T WANT TO TURN 33! WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Upgrade

I live a secret life.

Perhaps after a fashion everyone does.

I live two different lives.

One is what is expected. A boring succession of working hours followed by sleep, food and chores. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The second life is not separate or easily distinguished. It's a sudden flash of knowledge while I converse. A dream that is the last thing I remember from last night's (mis)adventures. Or a surge of energy leaving or entering my body without warning.

Suddenly words become landscapes and people are not what they seem at all.

I live two lives at once.

In one life I am nobody. In the second, I'm everything I never thought I'd be.

I sing and weave spells in between selling cigarettes and shutting my ears with both hands because the traffic is deafening.

I try and succeed in being invisible.

I am a supernova made flesh.

I speak but share no actual information.

I keep my mouth shut and let my body be cradled in the arms of the most unlikely lovers.

I hide in plain view though I speak my mind loud and clear.

The things I have experienced in the past two years are far from preposterous. They are insane and as valid as they can be.

Myth becomes reality, religion propaganda.

The fabric of reality is woven by delicate spiderweb.

Treat lightly, lest you are revealed, a little voice whispers.

But they cannot see what they do not believe in... Even if it's right there under their nose. Don't you just love this?

PS Digging up dirt as per usual. Another old story surfacing soon. More tears probably, but what the hell. Out of the way. Away with you. I have work to do and these past stories just won't let me. I get irritated!

PPS Hahaha, let's place a bet. Do you know how to make love? My money goes to the "you know how to fuck" option. Let's see what can be done about this, shall we? You have a lovely face anyway and the rest of you is just as beautiful. It won't exactly be a sacrifice on my behalf.

PPPS: Confused? You should be.