Aristocratic

 

Would you look at that. Those fingers, those nails.

And I presently look like a homeless woman who's trying to give birth to the Antichrist through a zit on her forehead. Or maybe I am on my way to becoming a unicorn. The possibilities are endless.

Wah.

:-/

Go away, 2013. Just go away.

You suck.
[Sherlock]

Fuck me

Art by Xiao Bai

Fuck me. Fuck me standing, sitting, lying, in any position possible, fuck me like you mean it, like we won't live to see another day. Fuck me hard, fuck me gently, fuck my brain for weeks before you seduce me out of my clothes. Fuck me by the way you touch your glass, fuck me by the way you play with your cufflinks while talking about your life. Fuck me with my clothes on because you smile that evil smile of yours and I melt to see it addressed to me only. Fuck me by getting up and moving into my space, asking me to dance with you, while your clean body’s scent makes my knees turn into jelly. Fuck me anywhere you want. Fuck me till I beg, fuck me till neither of us can move, fuck me until even fetching a glass of water means one of us crawling on all fours because walking is impossible. Fuck me until reality breaks down into pixels and colours explode inside our heads and when we try to talk we speak in tongues and all we can do is cry in each other's arms. Bite me, suck me, lick me, kiss me, eat me, tell me how good I taste, look at me with irrational wanting, like I’m the only person left on earth. Let me worship every square inch of your body with my mouth and my fingers. Let me hear you yell until the neighbours jump out of their beds in fright. Let me feel your fingers in my hair, hear your sharp gasp as you orgasm. Let me hear your breath catch in your throat as I lower your zipper with my eyes full of murder, feel your pulse race under my fingertips. Fuck me raw. Fuck me on all fours while strangling me and biting my back, fuck me slowly as I lower myself on you again and again, taking you in, keeping you my willing prisoner. Fuck me in bed, in the kitchen, in a public library, in the bar's toilet, in a back alley. Fuck me because you can second-guess me accurately enough to be frightening. Fuck me and let me drink from your sweet blood and seed and saliva like I am having communion from the living body of my personal Christ and saviour.

Be mine, be mine, be mine. 
STID:K

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Chemicals

 

Art taken from here

I am sad tonight.

It is silly to be sad about what doesn't matter.

It's silly to be sad about movies, books, music.

Those three things make me sad more than anything else.

Sadness is nothing but chemicals. The brains experiences a stimulus, gives the order to the appropriate glands, they saturate your blood in chemicals. Our very own tailor-made, fit to perfection drugs.

There you go, dear. Have a cuppa. All yours, choke on it.

Drink it down to the last drop.

I have no protection against art.

People I have protection against.

Art, I don't.

Solstice.

Biggest night of the year. Darkness knows no end tonight.

I am not afraid of darkness. It is a caress, a luxury, a friend.

There's a kitten in a box near my feet.

I don't know if he'll survive the night.

Let's hope it does.

[Sherlock]

Birthdays and namedays and keepsakes

So many people have lost me and they haven't realised I am not there anymore.

They 've lost me because they are petty and jealous and ungrateful. They are worse than ungrateful actually; they try to harm me while I have only done them good. But that's humans for you.

Most of the time that I press on I have no idea why.

I've settled in a life of quiet desperation and all I do is count my blessings.

I still love. I still care. Or I pretend I do. When I caress my cats, half of the time I do it because I know they need it and I don't want to let them down.

But I am so tired.

Tired to my bones. Tired to my very soul.

Tiredness is combined with bouts of mania and desire, where I do one million things to avoid thinking. Or I download pictures from the internet and look at the things, places, people I cannot have and get more depressed.

There are days I can see the world in all its ugliness, destruction and decomposition.

I see me for the disgusting sack of meat that I am, for the death waiting to happen, for the old age setting in, for wasted chances and potential and absolute lack of anything noteworthy. I think that if I was to die tomorrow, on my tombstone would be written, "she tried".  

Of course, we live in a society that success is not measured by effort, but achievement.

And there are days I look inside and it's so beautiful. Everything makes much more sense in there. Just next to the tower of abyss where my dark side is having one of her usual parties, there is so much beauty. I feel like a person deprived of speech that hosts paradise, and so I write, and write, and write, and pretty much nothing changes.

I just write. And then I read what I've written. And it's good, or I think it's good. And I pat myself on the back for it. Well done.

And I go back to my life of quiet desperation.

I wish I wasn't as strong and I had given up already.

I wish I was already dead.

And then my friend's words come to my mind, and she said to me, in one of her letters, we've crawled through every road in hell, and we never gave up.

And she said to me that all she has stayed back for are her rabbits, because she doesn't trust a single soul to take care of them. Don't laugh, that's as valid a reason as any.

I just wish I had given up already.

That's all.

But there are so many out there with less than I have.

And so I count my blessings and press on.

Stardust and immortality

There is so much you don’t understand even now.

There is nothing left of us. Nothing.

We’re stardust and we return to being stardust.

Do you want something left of you?

Teach other people what you know. It may be a simple trick to make better coffee. Or you may be able to teach them something more ambitious. Every single thing that enriches their life, every bit of knowledge you share, is your bet on immortality. It will be left behind when you’re gone.

Don’t judge. They’re doing the best they can. Make sure you do the same. It’s very tough.

Don’t compare. There isn’t another person like you, not one. Comparing is useless, it’s poison for the mind. Ask yourself what you want to do, make sure you do it for the right reasons, and try to make it happen. If it doesn’t work, try something else.

Don’t ask why. Understanding other people’s motivations or knowing why something is happening is like wanting to know why it is raining while you’re caught in the middle of a downpour. It is raining. Either open an umbrella, find cover, or start dancing and enjoying yourself. The reason it is raining won’t make your enjoyment bigger, or offer you cover. Sometimes things are that simple. Don’t waste your time speculating while you should be using it to see what you’re going to do about it.

Move on, be strong, and make sure you do something new every day. Try a new recipe. Pick up a bit of litter and throw it in the bin. Smile to that grumpy neighbor of yours. Plant a single seed in a bare patch of land and see what comes out of it. Open a dictionary and read what an elusive word means. Pet someone’s dog. Take a different route to your work. Put your cell phone aside while you drive or when you meet a friend. Don’t worry, they’ll find you. You cannot escape so easily. If only it was that easy. 

Make sure you are here before you go back to being stardust. Make sure you live.

I love you.

Autumn is all about making tea and lighting candles

Autumn came very suddenly. I love this season. I can light candles again without sweating like a pig and wanting to exit the room. I make tea! I read books. I do read books all year long, but drinking tea while reading a book makes both taste better. :)

Once more I am digging out useless things from the four corners of my room. Yes, unbelievable, but there's more. I am going through cds now. It's actually fun! There's also a pad of recycled paper I have had in my possession since I was 18 or 19 years old. That, too, needs to go. Don't ask me why it hasn't gone already. I forgot it was there. It had become part of my mental wall paper/ room furniture.

I am reading free e-books I download from amazon.com. They are awful, and as a result I write stinging reviews in Amazon. One of them was short stories by Oscar Wilde. Wilde is anything but awful. He makes me cry every damn time. I may know what the story is about, I may have read it before, and there I am, crying again. Same with Andersen and his blasted mermaids. I hate these two writers. They don't just tug at the strings of my heart, they use them as a trampoline. :( It's unfair.

I can't write. Other things are going on. I hope to go back to writing soon. :) At least I read and recycle/ pass on stuff. And make friendship books. And feel sleepy. :P

An urgent announcement

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/awesome_native_american_grandmothers_capture_and_burn

This made me laugh like a mad woman. Way to go ladies!!!

A change of plans

We’re such a silly race. We cling onto our plans and carefully designed routes with single-minded ferociousness.

We fear change and anything that threatens to throw us off course. At least off the course we had thought as ideal. We’re so silly and scared. I am so silly and scared. Going with the flow is supposedly the easiest thing to do, yet how unwilling I am to do that. How scared I am of any kind of commitment on any level and for any reason. 

A friend wrote to me in one of her letters, “I always had an escape route handy in case something went wrong.” I know exactly what she means, and this is how I usually plan my life too. Making sure I need to rely on no-one except myself, and if relying on someone cannot be avoided, I certainly don't choose to rely on someone I am evolved with in an erotic manner. Depending on my lover is my greatest nightmare. I want to be free. I want no power games or need involved. I want to be myself, and approach someone because I feel the need for companionship. Not their help. Feeling helpless drives me nuts, being in need for something only another person can provide makes me beside myself with distaste and annoyance. It’s actually better than what it was; in the past I got sick with self-loathing whenever I even thought about such a possibility. I probably am the most deluded fool of all, wanting to exist alone in a perfect void, where desire and need cannot take root. This cannot happen, such a state of being cannot be achieved. Not while I am still human. Perhaps at some other point. Oh no, you will not capture me again, I say to desire, I will never again be your prisoner, as if desire is the executor, or the bad guy. And this coming from a person who’s nothing but desire in its purest form. I have the ability to bridge and understand and download and merge and shape, using desire as my guide, and the one thing I do understand to a frightening degree is desire. Yet I struggle against it tooth and claw. At least the erotic type of it, because I splurge in every other type. They’re safe. They cannot make me depend, or humiliate me. I have avoided drugs and alcohol and every single option of desire that can make me lose control. The rest, yeah right, bring it on. I’ll dive head into it. Music, any kind of art, food, pets, even friends have been safe choices. Never sex or love. They are the dangerous choices. And even with friends, I make sure to choose the ones I can guide and help to my advantage and therefore control most of the time. Sad freaks, those choosing not to play the game. Sad addicts, those choosing to play it. And I pretend to be standing in the middle ground. Yeah, right. Jesusing my way on the angry sea. You go, girl.

If only there was a way to re-acquaint myself with erotic desire in a safe way, with no strings attached and no stupid power games. With respect, responsibility and an open mind. Then again, if pigs could fly… (I would make swarms of them circle the houses of those I hate, and shit on them non-stop. Ha ha!) Yet, strangely, my best friend has managed the balance. Maybe I can do it too.

Sometimes the cure to a very unusual problem is an equally unusual solution.

The solution in my case, strangely enough, involves death in an indirect manner.

Not my death, and not through my hands. I did my part seven years ago. It nearly killed me, yet I did my part. I tagged you and I wait.

Let me hear good news from that front. Please.

In the mean time, I’m ovulating. Pretty boys, cover your rear. The butt chasing menace is out there, salivating and making gurgling noises. Need I tell you how dangerous she is for the sanctity of your butt? No sir.

Exceptional

Combining talent, humor and sensational movement. Him being French is just an extra bonus for me, since I love the damn chauvinists. Anyone who doesn't like belly dancing, or deviations of the norm (like male belly dancers) can go watch something else.

Enjoy.

Discussions and black butterflies.

I’ve just discovered that my diary is at home. 

I was seeing many interesting dreams last night. Most have to do with therapies. Hence the amount I’ve paid in direct deposits whenever I visited the bathroom today.

One of my friends and I were discussing about magick, magic, making things to sell on the internet, and then another friend came and the ascended masters, painful memories of past lives as a killer and the disbanded (?) black brotherhood entered the equation. The conversations of the past days have become a roller coaster of numerology, the wondrous, dead bad guys, contemporary writers, pendulums, orgonites, people (?) with three chakras, the Golden Dawn, (not the fascists), angels, (self- righteous dicks), demons (ruthless bastards), souls, poisoned pets, advertisements, the long-dead series Carnivale, the astronomical sums actors are paid, marriages, christenings, and all the jazz surrounding the aforesaid components.

Life is funny with those things as part of it.

I need cats, good music and a pen name. And to wash my hair before it jumps off my skull and starts running on its own.

What are we doing here? What the hell are we doing here? Please remind me. What do we even bother?

We have forgotten so much. I have forgotten so much. Yesterday I could  hear a kitten meowing somewhere. Probably the owner had abandoned it. Their cat gave birth and after a few days they got rid of the kittens. I did not do something. I was putting the clothes on the line and listening to the desperate cries and did nothing about it. I didn't even know where it was. I just knew it was scared and desperate; I know what scared and desperate sounds like. I already feed about thirty cats and have six in my flat. I can't take more. There was a phase in my life that I took home every single kitten I found abandoned and it wasn't working either. I couldn't live in that house. Yet yesterday I felt bad for doing nothing about it. What could have been an evening at the rooftop enjoying the last evening light and the sounds and smells, was turned into a guilt trip thanks to someone else's irresponsibility.  

Why the hell do I bother? Why the hell do I try? Who cares about ascended masters and solar consciousness when most people spend their lives with their heads up their ass? Gods damn.

As a rule, I don't like modern Greek music. I love that song. Here are the lyrics roughly translated in English.

John Charoulis sings for the series "The Island" the wonderful song "Black Butterfly."
Song: Helen Fotaki
Music Minos Matsas

Stark white and white, white waters
won’t wash you clean this time
Your angel is looking for you carrying a candle
show yourself, black butterfly, so that he may find you.

The knives are asleep at the mountains
and the black butterfly awakens them.
Death gives his kiss elsewhere
and the black butterfly summons him.

No desire ever remained hidden
and you fly too close to the light.
Incense is burned and the heavens weep
and the coming of night won’t find you alive.

Stark white and white, white waters
won’t wash you clean this time
Your angel lights three fires
get out, black butterfly, show yourself.

Ever tried googling your name?

Here are some of the weirdest (and least related) results I got after I googled Elizabeth V in images:

Maybe more related than I think, this one. xD

Dreams of heaven, dreams of hell.

More of the second variety actually. Long, confusing, tiresome dreams full of ill omens.

I have started writing again. Late at night, when I can hear my inner voice clearly. It's not easy, yet unless I write, it won't be written. And I cannot have that.

It's a game, and therefore I decide what to be. I choose the mask. I call the shots. Then luck and life and death throw the dice and laugh at me and each other. 

Second time I am finishing a book.

Second time I am finishing a game.

Two different games have been paused, or finished. The trio of above players will decide. 

Twos are good. Everything is good. As I said, it's a game. I need the harlequin mentality more than ever. Time to call upon my dearest Lash. Lash is a fictional character. Lash is I. Lash is a harlequin. Lash exists outside time. And time is out there to get me.

I need to speak with that barbarian friend of mine concerning blood and entrails. He can help me. He always does help me. I cannot complain. His help is invaluable. His love is also invaluable. I never take people's devotion for granted. I have seen the opposite too, far too often. And more often than not, from so-called friends. :) That's people for you.

I love being me, I just wish I had intelligent company more often.

All good things come to an end, all good things are given to me in small amounts.

I will work on that.

Promise.

Guidance is overrated :P

Last night I asked for guidance before I slept. The result was waking up with my left back side stiff. The back is related to issues one is not aware of yet, and pain located there is a premonition of some issue coming to the conscious mind. Or perhaps it's the result of a draught and there is nothing else there. ;)

This week I've "gobbled" down almost the entire first season of 'Carnivale', the TV series. It's very good. A pity it was discontinued after the second season. Finished with five Seasons of Supernatural, feeling very happy with the series. This abruptly stopped after watching the first episode of the sixth Season. It was so disjointed and stupid I was sure I was watching another series. I guess when the creator wants to finish a series at a point, they know what they are doing and why. They worked on their plot, they counted the breaths and the stops and the pauses in the flow. The original creator of Supernatural did want to stop there. The series, however, was too popular to stop, and they hired someone else to continue. Money talks, I can understand this, but if the sixth season does not improve after an episode or two more, I'll just stop watching it. It was the same thing with Deathnote. It should have been brought to conclusion much earlier.

I am waiting for thing to happen since actively chasing them brings no results.

Waiting brings no results either, so I move from one to the other- chasing and waiting, waiting and chasing.

Let's see. Keep your fingers crossed for me. 

It's amazing.

If my life was a comic, there would be no background in the panels. Every single frame would be filled to the brim with brain flotsam and jetsam and random whatnots. That's what I do. I manage to squeeze in humble everyday life insane amounts of tasks in order to avoid thinking. Thinking makes me depressed and depressed is not good. 

I think it's time to start threatening deities again. I am good at it. The deities can testify it. If something happens to me you should all know that the usual suspects are Jehova, Raphael and some asslicks of similar magnitude. Now that I said "asslicks", I just remembered popular Supernatural (the series) swearwords. Bobby uses "eejits" but the medal goes to angel Castiel for his ingenious "assbutt". A man after my heart, Castiel. I love you for managing to fit the word ass twice in one swearword. Four ass-cheeks in one go. And there's always Alistair, a demon, referring to angels as, "you righteous dicks!" Oh indeed. With exceptions, of course.

I got my short stories back, corrected by an editor. I opened one of them, saw countless red lines. Closed the document again and went away to clip my nails. The next day I opened another. Another red sea there. I closed it and went to feed the geese. (I have no geese but I am sure you know what I mean.) It was the same with essays in my university years. I would go home, clean everything, re-arrange furniture, fold all my clothes in the closets (because if your closet is in disarray, you obviously cannot write an essay. It's self-explanatory. Closets are vital to essay writing) and then I'd go grocery shopping. In the supermarket, I would put goods back on their right place on the shelves, making exasperated remarks on the irresponsibility of people. When I went back home, I'd spend copious amounts of time re-arranging everything on my desk. Doing the laundry. Taking a shower. Anything to delay writing the damn essay. I'd enlist for an astronaut if it was possible. Same with the short stories now. I only started going through them after a month and a half. And now, instead of checking them I write in my blog. Procrastinating? No way!

I go now. I need to feed the bears. The polar bears. :) See you later.

The voices inside my head.

Liz: No, no, don't do it that way. Too easy. It's just too easy. Plus, if every time something wrong happens she appears and saves the day, there is no stopping it. She'll be deus ex machina every goddamn time. You can't do this.

Elizabeth: Yeah, smartass. And what do you propose? He saw them, he will alert the rest. What if they kill him? This is the logical thing to do.

Elizadeath: I want to die. It's all meaningless. I don't know why I bother writing. It's going to be a failure anyway. I'll never be good enough. English is not my first language. Why do I even try?

Liz and Elizabeth in one voice: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: They can't kill him. She won't allow it, and none is powerful enough to do it. He has to stay alive. But if he remains alive, cut the memory loss crap. It just isn't a good idea. Work your way around it.

Elizabeth: For the fuck of love. Why make things complex? He saw them, she erased his memory. If he dies it will be World War three in London. The Overseers from the other capitals will fly there and then London will be turned upside down. Two out of three protagonists will have to flee. How the hell am I supposed to write a book with two of them in different countries?

Elizadeath: I have become so fat. My tummy is like I am pregnant. I will never get laid again. Look at how white my hair has become. I want to die. I want to eat an ice-cream. Everything is meaningless.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: Plus the "erase the memory" thing is basic in Identity Crisis. You cannot do that, you know it's not really a solution. You really need to find another way of doing it. Even if it means killing him.

Elizabeth: I thought about that. I am not sure I can handle the way this will go if I kill him. Simple solutions always work best.

Liz: That's not a simple solution. It's a sell-off. You can do better than insult the intelligence of your readers. You need to find another way to do it. Quit it already with the 'no can do' routine. You can, and you'll do.

Elizabeth: Arrrrrghhhhh I hate you! I fucking hate you! You make my life hell!

Liz: But you know I am right.

Elizadeath: Stop arguing. You're giving me a headache. Life is meaningless. No-one loves me.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Elizadeath: Whatever. I am making tea. Who wants some tea?

Liz: Roasted Japanese tea for me.

Elizabeth: Vanilla flavoured black tea for me.

Elizadeath: Fuck you. I am making some rosemary. Make your own.

Liz: Eat my shit and die.

Elizabeth: Get stuffed.

Elizadeath raises her middle finger to both and goes off to make tea.

Both pictures taken from here: http://pavel-petel.tumblr.com/