cathairs, the universe and everything

Cat's cradle

2012-01-27T08:23:00.000-08:00

Hello my conscious self,
Reality didn’t just slap me in the face yesterday. It slapped me with a door on the face. Just as I thought things were back on a good track, reality said, oh yeah? And used the steel door of a safe to slap me around a little. I feel a bit battered today, that’s all. Just an elephant size bit. Oh well. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of the problem, but naive as I am, I was certain it was better. Never mind. One more relationship down the drain.

Despicable bastard.
You’re not helping me any.
My hormones are making this even worse.
I honestly wonder what the hell we need hormones for.
There is no answer to that.
There is no answer in general, and that forces me to come up with new interesting variations of an answer. And new fantasies I am too tired to do anything about. Just thinking, thinking, thinking, and consequently feeling horny, and eventually the day ends, and a new day comes, ad infinitum. The days succeed each other in the same meaningless manner. And I am about as aware of residing in flesh as the average ghost is aware of haunting a place. Hmph.

I was watching a friend of mine talk about martial arts and I envied him. Envied the ease with which he moves, envied his effortless posture. And thought of one of my characters, my beloved Takeshi. But there is no meaning there either, trying to live your life through other people’s experiences.

“…
I live in people’s heads
I live on borrowed wings
in between spaces and notes
and in other writers’ dreams

Meaning is a midnight thief
meaning is a lie
meaning is the director of every small drama
we call life…”

Where is the meaning? My inner voice demands. Tell me where the meaning is.
There is no meaning other than what we choose.

I am so tired.

I did not lie when I said to my friend your energy is barbed. It has thorns and fangs and barbs and it’s dark red, almost crimson black, solid and wet and sticky at the same time. Like the inside of an exotic flower that first attracts you with its smell and colour, then traps you and sucks you dry. But at the same time it gives, it gives fever dreams, nightmares and weak mornings. You are all devouring, all demanding. You leave love bites and secret poison as proof of your having been there, and finger marks on wrists and napes. You make women muffle their moans in between sheets and inside pillows, and next morning as you make your bed those moments fall on the ground like the beads of a broken necklace. I wonder, truly wonder how happy you are with what you have.

Are beings like us ever meant to be happy? And I don’t mean be happy together. It will never happen. I am just wondering, that’s all.

It’s not like I am doing anything more noteworthy anyway.

Ample illumination

2012-01-24T03:57:00.000-08:00

After all the anger and the heartache last night, it is with great pleasure that I make the following announcement. I got the little bastard who was responsible for my fits of rage and now we're having a glorious time together. If you consider fucked to death a great time, that is. >:-E

I am going to bed... just not yet.

2012-01-23T16:17:00.000-08:00

My mind is running at many hundreds of miles per hour. I am busy inside. At the same time I am listening to the inner “motor” of the Earth warming up, the swirls of energy moving once more. The planet is preparing her engines and takes deep breaths, ready to pick up more speed. I think this will be a no bullshit zone/plane very fast. And I can’t fucking wait. I can’t, fucking, wait.

I am more attuned to what’s going on now. And the more I work on myself, the more I clear out the accumulated clutter inside me and make space for the messages and whatnots, the more I’ll receive. Back to the time of innocence, motherfucker. You did everything within your power to steal my innocence, turn me into a copy of yourself. But you have not. I think you have not. And trust me when I say that I’ll dance on your grave when the time comes. I may be heading to become the next Buddha, but I’ll take breaks in the meanwhile. I’ll be human whenever I get the chance, and quite low, and happy to see a worm like you where it belongs. Six feet under. You think you are so smart, and smart you are, but not wise, and certainly not kind. I’ll be the one to pour you more wine when you dine in hell.

Walking last night on my way to my Japanese lesson, I was listening to music and looking at the sky. I couldn’t help but once more realize how unique and kind you are, and you are not aware of it. Not in the slightest. I heard the tiniest sound of something breaking inside and I think it was my heart. I also think you’ll be the only one I’ll miss when I go, and you know where I’ll go to; we discussed it in my house. But I’ll find you again. I can wait, and time will be the one thing I’ll have in abundance. Besides, I was the one who made you, flesh of my flesh. I was the one who gave you form together with your father. I am not even sure who is the father and who is the mother anymore. I am not even sure if the strongest one descended or stayed up. Remember who is the biggest? Remember what I told you about your father’s dragon? Remember Magdalene, and how it appears that they captured the weakest of the two? The female in body and male in spirit appears to be just as strong as the male in body and female in spirit, if not more. It feels so wrong, so ridiculous to claim such power that does not belong to me and at the same time the mind makes connections I never asked for or understood. Who remained? Who descended? Who was the mother and who was the father? I was the mother, but Altamon is male and the most powerful. It’s a mess, isn’t it? And it probably makes no difference.

I have been defiled. I have been twisted out of shape and all I can do is breathe anger in and out. I have been mercifully deprived of my full power, otherwise that anger would have given Earth a brand new facelift. There are days all I want is to kill, torture and hurt, and believe me when I say I am not doing that bad. It is my secret shame, my burden. Nobody has seen me in my darkest moments. Nobody? Those who suffer at my hands have seen me alright, and it shames me and saddens me and yet I cannot stop. Like a junkie that always promises this time will be the last, but there is no such thing as a last time when you are a junkie. And I am a junkie. I do what I accuse others of doing, and I am blind, just as blind as everyone else.

And there are nights I just want to die, knowing that I may do the same things to my children, I may yell at them and drag them around in the house by the hair like my mother did to me, I may relish every single moment that I’ve scared them shitless and terrorized them because they stepped out of line. Control, control, control, control, control. I do the same thing now to my dogs, I yell at them and kick them into obedience and then I just want to die.

There is only the illusion of control that vanishes as soon as the river of anger fills again with red. And the river is always ready to run wild, always ready to swallow and carry everything away with it. And I’m riding the red wave like I was born to do that. Born only to do that. Maim and destroy, hurt and frighten to death. And perhaps I was shaped into that, but I need to somehow befriend this. Not control it. You cannot control a hurricane or a lightning. Accept it and befriend it before I wring someone’s throat till their eyes pop out together with a blackened tongue. It's not my conscience that prevents me from such an act, but my basic self-control.

I’d kill so many people if only I could.

And at the same time, so much understanding, such an innate ability to comprehend pain and such a strong need to soothe it. How can anyone be so violent and so tender at the same time? How can I feel in my heart of hearts the gentle sigh of each blade of grass trampled underfoot and at the same time hunger so deeply for destruction? How can I cry for each tiny life that ends and at the same time feel the need to kill so many of the so-called sentient beings? How can the same person still cry for the kitten that had died in my hands years ago and for my little humming bird, and be so sadistic and callous at the same time? It makes no sense. How can these two feelings share the same body? How can they both be so powerful and encompassing? My entire being hungers for death, bloodshed and destruction and at the same time the concept of pain, people hurting other people and animals makes me burst into sobs.

At times like these, I want to go hide in a cave for the rest of my life. I want to shoot me in the head. I want to sleep and never wake up again. Still I am here and can’t go anywhere without giving up. And I am not a quitter.

However, I am certain of two things. One, I am not relationship material. I’ll never be relationship material unless I undergo through some bizarre personality change that happens only in bad Hollywood movies. My own self, my questions and inner seeking will always have priority over everything and everyone else. And that’s not negotiable.

Two, I still like myself a lot and wish to improve as a person, and would not change a thing about me even if I could. The only thing I want to change is imposing my anger on others. And that’s it. I love my anger. It’s truthful and part of me. I just don’t want it to run the show, that’s all.

And I should just sleep.

Personal responsibility

2012-01-19T04:39:00.000-08:00

"Bullets are the beauty of a blistering sky,
bullets are the beauty and I don't know why..."

There are moments in one's life that change the course of that life forever.
Done can't be undone.
Seen can't be unseen.
"You cannot unring a bell."

Do you all realise that every single moment is one such moment? It may not feel like it, but it is...

New year is here...

2012-01-03T03:02:00.000-08:00

...and all the old troubles are hanging from my butt like a bizarre tail. Or tale, if you'd rather.

I have a cold. I am coughing and donating mucus in hankies like there is a special challenge and the biggest donation gets an award. Judging by my production, the award will be this huge golden nose on a mini pedestral. This year from the summer onwards I have been sick three times already. This is not usual. The money situation is shit and I get stressed on a daily basis, trying to make ends meet. As a result, my immune system has all but given up the spirit. You'll tell me, don't get stressed, it's not helping you any. You think I don't know this?

I am trying to make my mood better by making pretty things with my hands and studying kanji as if there is no tomorrow. You should really be able to see me sticking ribbons and confetti and sparkly thingies in photos while listening to Amon Amarth, Lamb of God, Dir en Grey and Cavalera Conspiracy. It's appropriate. Half of the time, I also accidentally stick my hair on the photo or stick sequins on my hair, and when I am done decorating I look like a person mistakenly decorated as a Christmas tree. Other than that, I am watching about one movie every night. God/dess knows what got into me. I think I am trying to keep my sanity in place. I am not even sure if there is such a quality about my person anymore in order to keep it there but I try.

Then I watch youtube videos with inconspicuous Japanese singers shaking their hips and licking microphones. Bad, bad, very bad. Especially if the singers in question have this outstanding face with the super wicked eyebrows, killer cheekbones and really long, narrow, evil snake eyes. And they do all these... um... affectations to no-one in particular. Then it's not difficult to imagine they come to your bed late at night and they give you this long, sensual, detailed massage. And just as you have turned into a mass of goo they fuck you blind, deaf and in multiple other ways challenged. Oh yes. Someone please. And that someone in particular, certainly yes please.

I also discovered I am married to Silvia, one of my oldest (female) penpals after accepting a request she sent me in facebook. Good. She's a really beautiful and talented young woman and being married to her is very flattering. Too bad she is living in Germany, otherwise I might have tried to take advantage of the situation. Heh. I can see me, coughing like a sick dog and with two tampons stuck up my nostrils to block the constant flow, trying to seduce her. It would be a smashing success. And then her boyfriend would enter the scene and things would quickly get out of hand. Things would also get out of their appointed places and quickly enter in other places, and I am not referring to the tampons. :-DDD

Other than that, here is the video in question to make you inspired for the rest of the day. And here is the link for the BEAUTIFUL dresses and gothic/period clothes my friend Silvia makes. Her work is fantastic, she speaks English and can take orders as well. You ask for it, she makes it.

http://www.kostuemgeschichten.de/

Have a great new year everyone!

The one who put "ass" in "Christmas".

2011-12-25T15:20:00.000-08:00

Christmas makes me depressed. Me, and other half of the world's population, I think.

Today I was going through some old stationery that I have. Korean stationery, in manga style. An old penpal had sent it to me back in 1997. The beauty of those pieces of paper is unbelievable. The colours, the compositions, the way both sexes are depicted. That's why I have kept them for so long while I have given away so many others. I have even lost contact with the girl who sent them. It once more made realize what I am looking for when buying Asian comics and art as well as music by Asian bands. The illusion of perfection. Pretty men dressed in loose lovely clothes together with beautiful women, enjoying the sunset or spending time relaxing. But this perfection I am looking for doesn't exist. People are more stressed than ever, they don't look like this at all and usually run from one job to the other while their parents babysit the kids. They also smell bad, fart, get sick with diarrhea, have wrinkles, terrible taste in clothes and girlfriends/ boyfriends, extra kilos, lisps, are cross-eyed, moronic, boring, stubborn and as for the idyllic places the stationery depicts, the entire earth is polluted beyond measure.

I am getting sick of the way the human mind works. Always wanting more, more, more. Never being happy with what we have. I suppose I can understand why we're made this way; we're supposed to be continually looking for ways to improve our situation, learn more things, apply the knowledge to gain even more experience.

Yeeeeeeeeeah, RIGHT. All I see is people who refuse to grasp the basics. And though they struggle with the basics their entire lives, they whine "more, more, more" like hysterical, spoiled children. Until the day they are dying, and they are dying complaining they did not get to live. As if someone else took all the decisions for them and they weren't there when their life was happening. And I want to smack their stupid heads and bruise them "more, more, more". Hmph. My usual misanthropic mood; pay me no heed.

If I ever manage to go to Japan I'll make sure I turn my back into a fucking tapestry of tattoos. Oh, and here's the conversation I had with my mother on the matter of tattoos:

My mother: "Your tattoos are all... black."
Me: "Yeah, I know. The next ones will have more colour."
My mother on the verge of a breakdown: "What?! You are going to have MORE???"
Me: "Yeah, quite a few."
My mother: "Wait till you get married and then you have some more." (She is obviously afraid no man will marry me because I have tattoos. And unless I get married, I am not a "proper" Greek woman. *face palm*)
Me: "You are turning into such an idiotic example of a prim and proper moron of the middle class. Who gave you any kind of guarantee that my future husband will have no tattoos?"
My mother spends a few moments considering this devastating possibility. Finally, when she manages to speak again, she tells me:
"But I don't like men with tattoos."
Me:"Well then, if he proposes you, turn him down."

ARGH! Remind me again what we need parents for?

PS:
Actual order of things happening now:
Eating pralines, writing at my blog, and sharing my bed with my two cats while listening to Dir en Grey.
Preferred order of things:
Eating pralines, writing at my blog about my two cats while sharing my bed with Dir en Grey.
Very wrong order of things:
Eating Dir en Grey, writing to my pralines about my two cats, while sharing my bed with my blog.
Surreal order of things:
My pralines eating Dir en Grey on my bed while my blog writes to my cats recipes on how to cook Japanese rock stars. (Eat the motherfuckers raw, they taste better.)

Writing poetry, fumbling with the unknown...

2011-12-23T08:08:00.000-08:00

I am writing a poem for someone who has been by my side ever since the day I was born. If it turns out to be a half decent one, I'll publish it here. Generally speaking, I avoid uploading poetry here because anyone can take it and say it's theirs and publish it. It is the same reason I have never posted any of my short stories here. But I don't think this poem is such a big success anyway. Contrary to the person it talks about.

Life is becoming stranger and stranger. In the past I used to read my cards. Lately I am having talks with supernatural entities while being wide awake and under no influence of anything (except for a Greek milk chocolate bar with almonds). They tell me things, things I am not sure I want to know or do something about. Then I go home and read my tarot cards to see if I have gone nuts or not, and the cards verify the "conversation" I had had earlier on. Aaaaaaarggghhhh... *miserable moan* I am not sure I want to know all that. Hell, I am not sure if I want to be reading books as a pasttime and know that the writer made a deal with a supernatural entity to become famous. How do I know this? Oh, it's just the energy feedback I get. I feel like I am eating entrails of still living infants stuffed with cockroaches, that's all. And the fact I am yawning like I haven't slept for ten days, or there is a yawning contest. I am not sure I want to look at people and know so many details, know that they have hidden motivations and entities attached to them, know what their souls are like, know why they do the things they do. Ignorance is bliss indeed. But I can't help but wonder, what. The. Fuck. Don't other people feel it? Don't they realise there is something WRONG, fundamentally wrong with the book they are reading or the person they are talking with? Am I too sensitive? Too weird? Too picky? Is it all in my head? What is wrong with me? Is it wrong with me or with them?

Questions multiply by water, answers are scarcer than unicorn shit, as a friend says.

Talking in my sleep...

2011-12-15T14:01:00.000-08:00

I have just finished re-reading 1602, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.

Yesterday I re-read the first Books of Magic graphic novel.

Three days ago I saw one of the First in my sleep. His back was turned and he was walking away. "Talk to me" I pleaded. "I'm busy now" he replied and left.

A week ago I found out about a health problem I have. Not very serious. Not simple either.

Two weeks ago I finished another short story.

Three months ago in my sleep I talked to the one who tries to destroy me in any and every way possible. I hugged and told her, "You can still stop it. You can ask for forgiveness". She pushed me away, furious. "I won't!" she said.

Six months ago I started talking with someone who will probably be important for my future in a foreign country. She is important to me already.

Two and a half years ago I found out who you are. Are you?

Three years ago I accidentally linked with a photo and discovered that someone, an eighteen yer old someone had been murdered and his parents still expect him to return home. I cried so much that night I though I would die.

Three and a half years ago I tried to help the one who had killed me in the past. I accidentally connected to the Source. Have not been able to disconnect ever since.

Almost four years ago my father died.

Six and a half years ago I broke up with the last relationship I had.

Eleven years ago I was in love.

Eleven and a half years ago I came back to Greece from United Kingdom.

Thirteen and a half years ago I left for United Kingdom for my studies.

Fifteen years ago I was still drawing. Not anymore.

Sixteen years ago my father left home.

Sixteen and a half years ago I fell in love for the first time in my life.

Nineteen years ago my mother was still hitting me.

Thirty years ago I was victimized.

Thirty three and a half years ago I was born.

How come I feel one hundred and fifty years tired?

Is it over yet?

Frustration.

2011-12-08T14:11:00.000-08:00

Something happened today which made me think about my future.
The body is a frail thing.
I miss my original form.
I miss the freedom of the wondrous.
I miss, miss, miss my freedom.
I sometimes think about choice and always come to the conclusion there are no true choices.
Only the illusion of choices.
In theory I can help anyone; such a pity I did not help myself more.
But I did not know more.
I did everything I could according to what I knew and understood.
Everything I did went exactly as it should.
It all went the way it would.
Would, should, could, my pink hairy asshole.
And now what?

[Beautiful art by gunnmgally.deviantart.com}

Toshiya

2011-12-01T08:54:00.000-08:00

I feel tired and frustrated today.
Perhaps it is related to what I did last night on another level.
If the information I got is correct, what’s happening is beyond my scope and understanding. And I have the feeling my information is correct. It’s karma of some thousands of years old. It’s hardcore stuff. Then again, I am the hardcore girl. I am not the kind of person who ever has it easy. I sometimes enjoy the challenge. More often than not, however, especially in the last years, I wish I had it easy.

I spent a considerable amount of time downloading photos of Toshiya, my personal favourite from Dir en Grey. He’s a surprisingly sexy Japanese male who looks gorgeous in drag and very attractive in ordinary clothes with his bass and badass rock star attire. Lately he has taken a shine to cross-dressing again, even though the rest of the band members prefer jeans, t-shirts and shirts. Their cross-dressing days are far in the past and yet pretty Toshiya once more wears skirts and dresses, minus the make-up. Now, if you ask me, I think he looks gorgeous in dresses and skirts and he should keep on doing it. I have never been the traditional kind of woman who likes her men masculine, hairy and uncompromised. Then again, beautiful Toshiya is probably doing it because the female fans love it so much. I enjoy the visual result since the actual person is about as far beyond my reach as the moon; something everyone can see and admire, but cannot touch or possess on a personal level. I often wonder how gullible I must be in order to think that a member of a world famous band could possibly do things because they want to, and not because it’s a management order or a technique to acquire more fans. Then I tell myself not to be harsh on myself and not bother with particulars that don’t matter and just enjoy. The self-inflicted head bashing must stop.

I would love to meet this man. Really love to. If he is as sexy as in the photos, I wouldn’t want to just tumble him, but eat his flesh as breakfast, dinner and supper. But photos are often deceiving, and there are a million other things that get in the way, so I just waste my time looking at photos. It’s undoubtedly a pleasant way of killing time, but I nonetheless feel I’m wasting my time.

How much time can you fit in the palm of your hand?

Radical radish

2011-11-29T07:08:00.000-08:00

And then comes the day that you decide you just want everything gone from your email. And the best buttons in the world are: Ctrl+A+Delete. You don’t stop to see what’s useful and what’s not useful. You don’t save anything. You don’t care about anything. Everything has to go, and it does. Bye bye now. Off with their heads, said the mad queen. So I erased all my emails before I could change my mind. And I feel ecstatic about it. Yay!

In the future we'll be able to erase all our emails using bombs. Meh. Kind of a way to check your mail and ease your tension at the same time.

Then I went into Facebook, and for some reason all the advertisments on the right appear in Japanese. The fuck?!? Not certain why this is happening. Not even certain IF it's happenning. Perhaps I'm having a bad dream about it. After watching three really bad horror movies by various Asian directors I am sure I am seeing Kanji and entrails everywhere. It's the vlad, I tell you. The vlaaaad. That, and the awful directors. Very postmodern bullshit with psychoanalysis elements my two smelly feet.

The fuck. Now I think my customers speak to me in Japanese. Let me try cleaning my ears a little. Aaah, still I'm hearing Japanese. It could be worse. I could be hearing little children singing. Not ghost children. Off tone children. Those are worse.

Why on earth do I still hear Japanese?

“All those born with wings.”

2011-11-24T14:41:00.000-08:00

It is time. Tonight.
That the wind blows like a gale, like a curse, like a threnody.
It is time.
For me to spread my wings. Ebony black, darker than the heart of darkness.
To take flight.
To roam the skies between the blind screams of the elements.
I shall land on those rooftops that despair has proclaimed her own, and her ragged flag, invisible to all eyes but my own, is dancing to each hellish gust.
I shall enter from locked windows and darkened mirrors, unseen and unheard. I shall answer your prayers. Tonight.
Feed on you.
Feed on your hearts.
Feed on the reek of your sins.
Feed.
Tonight.
Till all that is left will be something so mutilated, so torn, that won’t pass for human remains.
Till your true nature is revealed. Rotting sacks of meat. Nothing that could be called a soul residing in you.
There.
Do you see me on the floor, wiping my mouth?
Between the dark blood, and entrails, and the broken bones sticking out from torn limbs?
Do you see my knowing smile?
Do you know my name?
No?

It is time.
To enter in places where there is no hope.
To touch the brows of those dying alone.
To kiss the cheeks of children crying even in their sleep.
I’ll wipe the blood from my lips before kissing them goodnight. I shall leave no trace.
And if I cannot save them anymore I‘ll steal them from you.
I’ll whisper in their ear.
Suicide. What a tragedy.
Surely not as bad as the so-called life they had.
And my sister, the shepherd of the lost, will pick their souls from the crossroads, and embrace them like you never did.

I’ll mix poisons in boiling cauldrons and feed them to you secretly.
I’ll feed you when you think yourselves invincible. The purest milk from my breasts.
The source of feelings becoming the source of death.
Vagina transformed into a grave.
You will pay.
By the blood from your veins you will pay.
For the blood of your children that you shed with such ease you will pay.
No-one can stop me.
No-one can make me spare you.
Tonight that the wind knows no rest, I come on wings as black as the negative of matter.
Bare like the moon.
Black like my Sun.
Because you called me back.
You raised me from the river of Lethe and named me.
You gave me my wings.
You armed my hand.
You sharpened my sword with your outrageous crimes.
No land will hide you.
No god will save you.
You are mine.

“And her name was like a blackbird, like a night bird crying out in the most desolate of all deserts; the human heart.”

Beautifully mad.

2011-11-21T14:10:00.000-08:00

It's pretty much useless.
He is not Nuare and I don't have thigh high boots yet, to trample him underfoot.
Still the thought persists.
It's them again, pestering me. Damn Japanese. Always pestering me. I swear I was only making labels. Not looking for trouble.
*Sigh*
And he is beautifully mad too. Isn't it a shame he is so far away?

Personal favourites

2011-11-13T08:51:00.000-08:00

Experts from the book “Oranges are not the only fruit” by Jeanette Winterson.

…“In those days, magic was very important, and territory, to start with, just an extension of the chalk circle you drew around yourself to protect yourself from elementals and the like. It’s gone out of fashion now, which is a shame, because sitting in a chalk circle when you feel threatened is a lot better than sitting in a gas oven. Of course people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things, so there’s no need to take it personally. Why will it work? It works because the principle of personal space is always the same, whether you’re fending off an elemental or someone’s bad mood. It’s a force field around yourself, and as long as our imagining powers are weak, it’s useful to have something physical to remind us.
The training of wizards is a very difficult thing. Wizards have to spend years sitting in a chalk circle until they can manage without it. They push out their power bit by bit, first within their hearts, then within their bodies, then within their immediate circle. It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something which you do not understand is the true nature of evil.”
…
“‘Don’t you ever think of going back?’
Silly question. There are threads that help you find your way back, and there are threads that intent to bring you back. Mind turns to the pull, it’s hard to pull away. I’m always thinking of going back. When Lot’s wife looked over her shoulder, she turned into a pillar of salt. Pillars hold things up, and salt keeps things clean, but it’s a poor exchange for losing your self. People do go back, but they don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities. There is much pain here. Some people think you can have your cake and eat it. The cake goes mouldy and they choke on what’s left. Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to see you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.”
…
“If the demons lie within, they travel with you.”
…
“Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.”
…

“Mommy, it hurts! I need a band-aid! Big enough to cover the entire me!”

2011-11-12T15:11:00.000-08:00

You ungrateful self-centered little shit.
All you care about is your own self. Your deluxe little black box of misery where you want to lock yourself for the rest of eternity.
FINE. You do that. I’ll come and empty a fucking lorry full of cement on it to make sure you will never come out of it again even if you change your mind.
You fucking moron, little deluded idiot. You are the only one who hurts, aren’t you? In a world of absolute happiness and perfection only you suffer. Your little frozen heart, your anguished cries, you poor thing that feels like garbage and was never given any love… That you can live in squalor because this is what befits you. Strange words coming out of the pen of a man who has his own brand of clothes and god/dess knows how much money he makes in an average year doing what he loves most. Masturbating over his failures.
You miserable stadium-sized egotist. A whining leech, a male drama queen asking to be patted on the back. A hypocrite through and through, deceiving first and foremost yourself. Never thought the emo movement would make it all the way to your country, but it did. And you were the father of it before it even came. Congratulations, another candle lit in the altar of stupidity.
What the fuck is it that you are trying to show to the rest of us? That human pain has your name in the copyrights section? That you can spell the alphabet of hurt, a knowledge gained by the countless times you’ve mutilated yourself? Every single time you’ve done this there is only one person you are thinking of and that person is your own self. Every time your hands hurt your own self, every time your choices hurt you THE ONLY FUCKING PERSON YOU ARE THINKING OF IS YOUR OWN SELF. How to prolong your pain because you enjoy it so much. How to keep getting your fix, because you are addicted to your own misery. YOU ARE A JUNKIE. You are not deep, tormented, traumatized or misunderstood. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A JUNKIE ADDICTED TO THE CHEMICALS YOUR BRAIN PRODUCES WHEN YOU LOATHE YOURSELF. You’ll do anything on a daily basis to get your fix, you’ll care about nothing, appreciate nothing and stop nowhere in order to get your drug. People like you will ignore, destroy and sabotage everything good in their lives in order to keep their fixed ideas of living in hell. And there is only one thing I want to do to your kind; spit you in the face. But I wouldn’t do that, no, because you’d get your fix then, you’d get your pleasure. And people like you deserve to get back only what they give out. NOTHING. Nada. Zip. So please stop masturbating over your issues and crawl back to the hole you came out of. No-one here will pay attention to your antics or pity you. No-one will bother with you any longer or care. I RENOUNCE YOU. In the name of the one I love the most, my other half, I renounce you. In my own name that I hold sacred I renounce you. In the name of humanity and hope I renounce you. All bonds between us, past and present, are severed. Go in peace or go to hell; it makes no difference to me anyway. I’ve had enough of self-centered whining leeches. Enough of meaningless BULLSHIT. To hell with it.

Fingers on the keyboard, fire under my pants

2011-10-22T07:21:00.000-07:00

I see my fingers on the keyboard… And it looks both comforting and promising.

Q: How do you know a past life in regard to Japan is resurfacing?
A: I try to read a simple text in Japanese and get a motherfucker of a headache. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame is playing drums on my skull with many ample-sized elaborate hammers, or someone has strapped a length of leather around my temples and is squeezing slowly to check my cranium collapsing point. Nice! I also get restless, fidgety, depressive and distracted. It’s the perfect conditions for studying hard.

(Right now the only hard thing I want to bother myself with, in the sense of scrutinizing and studying, is hard candy. Or that other, occasionally hard, interesting thing. End of period, beginning of ovulation. Armies of nekkid elves and imprisoned J-rockers inside my head will be taken care of before the end of the week).

I wonder why I see such complicated dreams lately. I take no drugs save for the occasional over-indulgence in chocolate. But my dreams, oh my fucking gods. Last night I surpassed myself again. I do remember pushing a bathtub with wheels and two women inside, holding oars, towards the sea… I also remember stealing some heavy silver and gold rings from the queen of vampires, and having to carry them… And I am not sure if I really want to remember much more. It seems I am having too much fun with True Blood. And as always, I am partly aware of the reason why my dreams are so complicated. As for sharing with the rest of the world, uh-uh.

There are things that can be shared and those that cannot be shared.
I have just acquainted myself with some new pen pals I cannot write to. What the heck can I tell them? That the energy of the one of them is totally incompatible to mine? They will probably think I am nuts. I get a headache just by reading her letter; how the hell am I supposed to answer and keep regular contact? The other has just moved out of one oppressive relationship to the next one. I am supposed to keep my mouth shut. What in the blue blazes? I know I must not say a thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t itch with desire to tell her to stop picking the wrong kind of person to get involved with. Yet I cannot do that, because if I do, I’ll get into the wrong kind of conversation with her. Which means, telling people what they need to do “for their own good”. But what people do, even if it is a poor choice and for me it’s self explanatory why, it’s still their business. Why?

*Because I was not asked for my opinion.

*Because I would be seriously enraged if someone told me what to (not) do.

*Because each has to discover the truth for themselves. Even if I tell them what they should do and why, experience cannot be communicated. Perhaps they would do what they were told, but would still be as clueless as they were before I told them. One has to experience in order to understand and some of us experience and still don’t understand.

*Because telling others “the right thing to do” is one hell of an ego trip. It makes one feel important and all knowing and useful but offers nothing to both the giver and the receiver of advice. The one that gives advice tries solving other people’s problems instead of their own, retaining the delusion that their opinion is the only “right” one. The one who receives the advice has no initiative, no responsibility (“it wasn’t my idea, they told me to do so”) and feels very comfortable doing nothing, since someone else does the thinking for them.

*Because, at the end of the day, I cannot keep a neutral perspective and not get emotionally involved in a situation that is not my problem or responsibility. And since I get involved in the wrong way it is best not to get involved at all, until I learn to keep a neutral attitude and believe, truly believe that everyone is safe no matter how poor their choices are. Even if their choices lead them to death, they are still safe. Energy is never lost, merely transmuted. They’ll be back, much like the Terminator, to try their luck again. That’s the game of life and I should bother with my cards instead of telling others how to play theirs.

Nice thoughts. But I wonder if I’ll be able to practice what I preach… :-(

The battle rages on…

2011-10-08T11:18:00.000-07:00

And I try to win by writing poetry. And listening to Dir en Grey, of course. What else.

I have not written here in ages. It has been a busy time. Most of the time, not in a good way. But as I said before, the battle rages on. I don’t give a flying fuck. I will win. I will win because I am on the right side. The one that has butter, that is.

I am trying to be positive. I already am A positive as a blood type. It counts for something, I guess. I also am watching the True Blood series. It has a positive impact on me. I think. Vampires and rednecks. Why the hell not. Thank you, K. for giving the series to me. I have always hated that part of US and now, watching vampires trampling rednecks underfoot I swear I would have gotten an erection if that was anatomically possible.

Ahh… There is so much I would like to write about. This time I’ll refer to a fantasy I have, if only to please my black velvet heart. I have a friend of mine who looks like a crossover between Van Diesel and the guy from Machette, only with less scars and more ways to kill. Let’s call him P.G.R. (Initials stand for Petite Grim Reaper.) As expected, he has more male friends like him who are of equal dimensions and skills, if only to be able to play with the boys without any repercussions. Read between the lines: exchange friendly slaps and pats on each others’ backs and be casual about it. To help you understand, slaps and pats that would have knocked professional wrestlers unconscious and would have caused the average person to suffer multiple spinal fractures. So I have this fantasy of my friend P.G.R. and two of his friends knocking on the door of a specific rock star saying “packet for you sir, signed delivery please”. As soon as the rock star answers his door he’s silenced with a friendly concussion-causing knock on his head, grabbed and ushered inside a large wooden box. Next scene is taking place in a sunny green field, where I am sat in a director’s chair sipping chocolate milk from a large mug and watching those three friends playing rugby using the aforesaid rock star as a ball. There is also this curious brick wall serving no obvious purpose, built in the middle of the field. Idyllic, isn’t it? Just think about it. Think of how many times he’ll slip off their grasp and land on the ground, preferably head or face first. The number of times they’ll miss and send him though the brick wall, onto tree trunks, into the small picturesque piranha-infested stream nearby. And if he doesn’t slip we can always undress him save for a loincloth and cover him in Vaseline first, then continue. Oooooh, naughty! I think I am getting wet. I go do other things now.

PS: I had a friendly conversation with P.G.R. a few days ago. I was complaining to him about the need to practice my speaking skills in a foreign language and once more he offered to kidnap and bring me the same rock star to help me. Then he added, “of course, I’ll break his pelvis first, in case you get any funny ideas.” When I complained to him that the rock star speaks too fast and I won’t be able to follow, he offered to rip off his jaw, too, if only to assist him in speaking more slowly.

Busy with mundane tasks

2011-08-28T18:28:00.001-07:00

I have been busy throwing away stuff, like I do every summer. Mind you, I would be doing this regularly, but as I have said perhaps two million times before in this blog, when I work so much, I just can’t. I let stuff gather and then when I manage to find some time I throw away as much as I can. Tastes change, needs change and stuff has to move on, be recycled or given away accordingly. Books, comics and manga fly to all directions through bookmooch.com. Old letters from people I no longer write with are recycled. Trinkets and useless clothes are given away. Clippings from magazines are finally read and then either stored away or recycled. Books are re-arranged, items used up, energies move. Good stuff happening.

Then I busied myself with my pc, erasing stuff I don’t need. And I made new labels, a ton of them, and I moved on some swapping items. Exciting stuff, I know. You can’t contain yourselves from the sheer adrenaline. My library is filled to the brim and I still have no proper space for all my cds. I have also been fighting with my mother. I don’t let those facts bother me anymore than I let the continual presence of cathairs in my life bother me. That’s the way it just is. I don’t think it will ever change.

I am listening to the latest Dir en Grey cd, which is so very odd that I have no words to describe it. It’s just so weird! It’s quite exceptional but so very unusual, so full of different and often contradicting sounds and influences that I need some time to digest it. The singer has gone quite nuts and has been trying new stuff throughout the album, as well as the rest of the band. I can hear melodies and rhythms I have never before encountered in their music. Have they advanced? Certainly, it’s just that they are more chaotic than ever, and sometimes I find myself lost half way through a song. I already know and love Lotus, Vanitas, Diabolos and Hageshisa to kono. They were released as singles and I had the chance to listen to them many times and fall in love with them. The rest of the album needs listening to and I am glad it does. We live in a fast food era; some things need to stand out from the rubble and demand our full attention. I wouldn’t be happy with a fast-food album from this particular band. They are not Placebo or Tokio Hotel. Don’t get this wrong; I love Placebo and Tokio Hotel for very different reasons. But let’s not put shovels and swords in the same place, they don’t belong together.

Vanitas means emptiness… It’s a sweet song, easy to listen to, and the singer doesn’t scream at all, making it a safe choice to use in compilations I make for other people. Of course, I would love to see those people’s faces if they ever decide to look up Dir en grey in youtube after listening to a song like Vanitas. It’s like inviting to your place that pretty, mostly silent girl you met at that party, and seeing her arrive armed with a sword, a gun, an iron maiden on wheels, many meters of barbed wire and two kilos of TNT. It really makes one wonder what she has in mind. It also makes one wonder what the person who introduced you at the party was thinking. Hahaha!!!

(The picture was something I have had for ages in my pc... Very beautiful.)

Up the wall

2011-08-18T15:44:00.000-07:00

I was listening to my mother talking with another woman. They were commenting on the fact an old Greek singer has a son who's gay, and the father got so mad about it that he stabbed his son when he caught him in the act. My mother was explaining to the other woman that this singer is a proper man and he cannot put up with such behaviour on his son's behalf.

I kept my mouth shut, because there was absolutely nothing I could have said that would offer something to the conversation. I wanted to spit on my mother's face at that moment. And what would that offer?

"None are as blind as those who will not see".

When I had heard this quote for the first time, I did not understand to what it referred. Now I do. It refers to people in general. We all more or less have that infuriating quality, the ability to ignore that which is in front of our eyes because it is not convenient. We do not want to see because we are afraid, or don't want the responsibility of our own actions, or it does not fit with our world view and does not agree with our plans. It's far easier to reject or fear that which we don't understand or like. In this case, it's being gay. "It's wrong. It's abnormal. It's against God". So much utter crap people will pose as arguments against what they are afraid of, because it is different than what they themselves do.

I am sick of this planet in general. The best thing I can do is keep myself to myself because I am sick of having conversations that end up with me in a screaming fit. I am just too tired to listen to bullshit. I am not going to judge people because they want to sleep with people of the same sex. As long as they are both conceding adults, why the hell should I be the one to play traffic regulator in their beds? Who cares if they want be fucked with men, women, scout girls, Arabic stallions or dwarf ladies with beards? Unless it's your ass their dick or fingers are preoccupied with, if you'll excuse my language, what the hell do you care?

Argh. No, I must not buy another deck of Tarot cards to blow off steam...

We are sick inside the heads. That's all I can think of. I am sick too, I just don't know it. I don't see my bias because they are my own. I am sick with a terrible disease called being human. That race of morons and degenerates that will worship trinkets and ignore the truest treasures. People want bling blings. They do not want pearls of wisdom, they do not want the truth. The truth is never pleasant or amusing and yet it cuts to the heart of the matter like the sharpest scalpel, like the most refined diamond blade.

We are all very, very sick. And I feel sorry for all of us, including myself, and there are days I wish I was the blindest of all.

But my eyes will not go away, my spirit will not cease to thirst. My eyes will never go away, and they do not fail me, they no longer fool me. Not after all this time and all the shit I have been through. I have become the opposite of innocent; I have become a suspicious curmudgeon that views people as a possible source of annoyance, their mouths true springs of stupidity, their hearts barren wastelands, devoid of anything of value. I am sick of it all. And it does not end. It never does.

All I can do is rest temporarily; I sleep like a bird upon the fragile melody of a song I love. I rest my eyes upon the sheen of the raven black hair of a beautiful man I cannot have. I smell a rose and know that this flower knows all there is to know. It doesn't hold back; it blooms in all its glory for all to see and smell. And no-one sees it. No-one bothers to smell it; they pass by it walking in a hurry, hypnotised by their lists of "IMPORTANT things to do" "IMPORTANT people to talk to" "IMPORTANT phonecalls they cannot miss" no matter if they are driving, fucking or taking a crap. Their cell phones follow them even in the toilet. They all behave like cocaine crazed gangsters closing in on a target. I on the other hand see the flowers blooming in the evening gloom and they are poems, they are explosions of colours that stupefy the mind and defy all attempts at description. These colours are sometimes strong enough to feel that they leave an afterglow, a haze of colour in the space around them. I remember describing one of my heroes in a story, perhaps the most beautiful one I have, and his skin is at the same time transluscent and blinding, like an angel or a white iris that immaterialises in front of one's eyes, the colour of his face a ghostly white like thick milk that slowly dilutes in water.

I live only for those moments nowadays. The unexpected rose waiting for me at the next corner. The humble jasmine that smells all the way to heaven, not yelling but chiming its beauty in a tapestry of smell that sounds like a wild array of the tiniest silver bells you can imagine. I live for the next album by my favourite band and the smell of my cat's fur when he sleeps next to me in the morning and the Pre-Raphaelite paintings that make me lose my speech. I live for my next ice-cream, and the next kawaii order, so full of colours and designs, and the next book or manga I'll read and the next time I'll sleep and my life will be once more exciting. I no longer live for understanding; I no longer live for human fulfilment. I see myself screaming like a woman that's gone not just slightly crazy but all the way homicidal bananas and I scare myself with how much sick I am. Sick just like them.

I just wish, wish, wish I could once more dream like I used to.
I try.
God knows I try, while looking frantically inside my heart for the spark to set it all ablaze.

Thankfully the newest album by Dir en Grey is out. "Dum spiro spero". As long as I breathe, I hope.
Please god/dess. Please.
I have no strength left anymore.
Thank you.

All the people I want to sleep with tonight are somewhere else...

2011-08-15T17:18:00.000-07:00

It's a problem, isn't it?
I hope this will not turn out to be another night of insomnia.
Dir en Grey have a new album out! Yipee!
Eventually I will smother that cute screeching and wailing hobgoblin their singer is.
Keep that thought afloat my milk white dove.
Sanity, sanity, who needs that nuisance?
Amen to that.

Ought to be sleeping already

2011-07-30T19:39:00.000-07:00

I have at least six decks of tarot cards and not one can give me what I am looking for: answers.
Answers can take many forms.
If every choice is valid, then it is almost self-explanatory that we should strive to avoid pain and experience happiness.
Now, almost everyone makes the kind of choices that in the long run will make them unhappy. If asked, the answer is almost always the same.
"I didn't know."
Didn't you?

It seems absurd to me that we spend such a big part of our lives getting to "know better" and then, once we do know better, we are too old to choose between wisdom and passion. There is only wisdom as a choice, because passion has departed forever. We are too old to be passionate without being ridiculous. We are too old, period. We are way past our prime, way past the age we inspired others to be naughty, daring, to seek moments of passion within our arms, in our company.
It's just absurd.

I see the first light of dawn seeping through the balcony door and I wonder: is it too early? or too late?
Does it matter?

I have to choose wisely.
I always have to choose.
There is not enough time.
Time is an illusion of the mammal brain.
Time makes me most unhappy.
Time heals all wounds to replace them with new ones.
Time is a tyrant.
There is no escape.
There must be another way to do things.
There must be something.
I will just sleep now.
Sleep lies outside the clutches of time.
Ah.

The complexity of being

2011-07-10T07:27:00.000-07:00

Most of what we think is never known to others.
Passing feelings, notions and ideas are never known to others.
I share myself as much as I am capable of.
Yet there are things that cannot be shared.
Moments when the sunlight has a specific way of illuminating things.
The feeling of being content when I hug my favourite animals.
[Perhaps it is the "here and now" these beings encompass fully that reminds us so well what being content in the present tense is. Not expecting happiness and fulfillment. Not thinking of times past.n But BEING here and now.]
There are things I cannot share, perhaps because of our human deficiency, perhaps because I safeguard the inner core of my being in such a manner.
There are those things that cannot be shared and sometimes are driving me insane.
The feeling of sexual hunger for a curve or a smooth line on someone's body.
The hunger for eternity while I immerse myself in the hue of blue on a pre-Raphaelite painting.
The hunger for life itself while watching an astounding performance.
The need for vanity as I caress a smooth fabric.
The yearning to leave as I look at the line of horizon.
The arbitrary hunger to fly while a splendid sunset blooms like a wound in front of my eyes.
The feeling of power in my guts while my favourite music shakes me to the core.
Those things, and so many more, only remind me of one thing.
Live well.
Love deep.
Forgive.
One day you will close the door behind you and leave it all here.
Make sure you leave no loose ends.
Blessed be.

Cats, butts and radioactivity.

2011-07-03T17:51:00.000-07:00

Experts from a letter to my penpal B. in Canada.

I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.

See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…

[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?
A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]

So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.

I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.

I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.

And the shitty mood persists.

2011-05-23T14:28:00.000-07:00

I have no illusions. It all vanishes in a blink.
It disappears faster than snowflakes entrusted in the care of sun.
Life as a collection of misconceptions on the way to the end.
Moments of ecstasy, moments of terror all mixed up like photos thrown out carelessly on the street after someone emptied a house.
Moments. What entire lifetimes consist of.
Precious, meaningless, countless, finite moments.

The sword of my speech is dulled by age and disappointment.
It can no longer reflect my face.
Perhaps the face it reflects is not my own.
Perhaps I do not recognise my own face.
Perhaps I am nothing I can recognise or associate to anymore.

The sword of my soul is dulled by grief and inconsistency.
The sword of my soul is dulled by battles I cannot win and I myself have chosen.
There is no sword, and no soul, and no battles.
Look deeper.
Open your eyes.
And see.

"Some are born in endless night."

It's the dark night of the soul.
Only dawn can follow.

I have seen the face of my enemy.
I have to be careful. If I slip now, it has all been for nothing.
She said he can change or postpone some things but not everything.
She said there are things he cannot postpone or change.
And that's true.
As for what those things are -if they ever happen- it's something that will once more end in tears, grief and heart break.
He wouldn't want to change or postpone that, would he now?
Going aroung in circles as a small-hours-of-the-night-specialty for the writer.

I wish, oh how I wish I had a smidgen of my past understanding.
A moment of time at your side.
But I cannot stop now.
I cannot rest.
And I am so unbelievably tired that my soul itself feels replaced by ashes.

Life, of course, goes on, and I am still consumed by meaningless chores and meaningless conversations.
I wish I could still my heart.
I wish I could put my heart to rest.
But the hunt is on, and the great beast beats his wings once and soars high.
He cannot be stopped.
Run, hide, do what you want.
In this lifetime it ends, even if I have to go down with you.
It will be worth it.

DEATH XIII

Yet no man is an island...

2011-05-14T15:47:00.001-07:00

Some people are clutching at straws to make sense of what's going on. I am clutching at pieces of paper. My entire life is nothing but piles of paper, heaps of paper, castles of fucking paper.

I think it's time to strike a match and to hell with it all.

I am just too tired for words and yet words are all I have left. Words and cathairs as well as cats, the avid producers of the aforesaid hairs. Enthusiastic producers they are for certain. I'll give them that.

Fifteen years old, and with a lovely voice. Raped, killed and thrown down the cliff. The razor straight, almost vertical cliffs of beautiful Ireland, going all the way down to the pounding sea.

Less than thirty. Slowly executed in a concentration camp, the kind of living death when every day you are stipped naked of everything that makes you human. It was a crime to be of gypsy blood. Seventy years later, it still is a crime.

Twenty three years old. Killed by her abusive, drunkard husband for having a relationship. What's new?

The thoughts and stories and little lives circle me tonight, cicle me like large goldfish, like dragonfish, all orange and green and golden, and they all want a piece of me.

Have a piece. It's all useless anyway. I am living a pretty much pointless life. It does not make much difference one way or the other. It's Zen, baby. Zen to the rotten core. That apple is zen. My life is zen. I am so fucking zen that the great masters of Zen stand ashamed in front of me. They slap their foreheads and wonder why they didn't think of it themselves; living a perfectly empty existence.

(The last strings were cut, cut free, cut clean, and even though I am floating the gravity of my own mind pulls me down, pulls me down viciously, and my soul feels like a lead balloon, and I don't want this kind of soul, I want a different one with lots of colours, not such an old, dirty and torn thing. I don't want this kind of soul with the weight of countless ages, the weight of so many deaths on my hands, on my memory, no no no, please take it away, please take it away, I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE)

The art of living is such an easy thing. Breathe in, breathe out. The rest will follow.

I have never felt about any one thing that it could be such an exercise in futility as much as I feel it about my life. Never, ever in my life have I ever considered something as useless as those thirty something years here. What the hell do I struggle for? Why do I fight, why do I insist so much? Why do I torture my mind over so many pieces of paper, why do I work like a slave and say no to so many things, and put up with so much bullshit, and discuss about so many matters of utter stupidity with such a variety of idiotic people? Why do I bother sticking to my code of honour and asking what would be the best path of conduct, and brush my teeth and wash my hair and all that shit? Why oh why do I bother with all these, give me one valid reason why I bother, why I even try, why I spend so much time and put so much effort in this semblance of existence?

Poor Daisuke, poor little child of mine, birds of a feather always flock together, don't they? You just came into my head uninvited one day, just like we all come and all leave one day, you came to stay and all I can say is that I am sorry, I am so sorry my little boy. I am sorry because I am not a story weaver. I am a teller of tales, which means a witness. I am merely a witness to what's happening anyway, behind closed doors, by people with no conscience. I know why you can't connect. Don't let it bother you anyway, it's the same here. Some things are not meant to be, and I cannot be like them because I know, and they cannot be like me because they don't. And I don't blame them one bit if they don't want to know after all. I chose knowledge and look where it got me anyway. To the madhouse, in a room with a view.

Don't let it bother you one bit.
Just raise your gun and shoot once. Aim true. Make it impeccable. Make it a mercy killing, make it a banquet. Make it like I am sleeping. Make it like I was torn apart by wolves. Make it any way you like, it doesn't really bother me at all. What truly bothers me is this so-called life.

To hell with it all.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXdXi4CIx1E

Dyslexia as a bomber's cocktail.

2011-05-02T15:17:00.000-07:00

It’s late. I should be asleep already.
Breaking news, isn’t it?

I haven’t written here in quite some time. I haven’t had internet for weeks, and now that I have internet I am up to my neck in a variety of things I ought to have done ages ago/ came up unexpectedly/ aren’t really important but are certainly as time consuming and as meaningful as peeling lentils with box gloves on.

Hmmm. Reminds me of what someone who has supposedly quit drinking would come up with as soon as his wife caught him in the embrace of hard liquor again.

“Um, no, honey, it’s not a bottle of Scotch, I mean it is, but I swear, it has lemonade inside. I mean I went to the grocery store and I know you wouldn’t believe it, but they only had their own lemonade left and then the aliens came, I swear to god, and then (insert long winding story about aliens here) and then the Pope (insert story with Pope of Rome making guest star appearance) and then an opera singer was having her voice exercises just next to the grocery store and all the glasses and bottles broke in a ten mile radius and then (another long story here) and finally, I swear to god, I came home with the lemonade in this whiskey bottle.”

Yeah, right. There is one thing I hate more than lame excuses and this is long sorry-assed stories. Point being, I have been busy. But I have internet at my disposal. And when I get get home, after a minimum of 12 to 14 hours of work I usually spend at least one hour trying to unwind. This doesn't leave me with too much energy to do anything more deep than ogle Asian gay porn, write a few emails, eat, take a shit and so on. When I get bored of looking at pretty Asian bums being rubbed by pretty Asian hands and interesting Asian penises, it's usually so late that my brain and eyelids are making squeaking sounds of disorganisation in Unison. (Unison with a capital U is the mental institution I work for as a silent assassin of the night, aka the enthusiastic bean-eater as opposed to another thing with gardeners.) So yes, what was I saying? Something with beans, dicks and gardeners anyway, watering my sayonara with soy sause. (Sayonara in Greek means flip flop shoe.) So. Um. Yeah. Asleep already. My flip flops are full of eels. Now, fuck off. Oh sorry, I have to disconnect.

I think what I have must be called Sympathetic Dyslexia. It catches with me when in the company of dyslexic people. Naturally, almost all my friends are dyslexic and those who aren't, look up to me as their incarnated avatar of instant dyslexia-waiting-to-happen, just add sugar and shake well before use.

*fart* Now out of my way, lamentable *fart* creatures of the *fart* capitalistic society. *FART*FART*FART* *FAAAAAAAAAAAAAART* *RIIIIIIP* (Sound of underwear spontaneously combusting) Ffffffff...FUUUUUUCK!

"Look mommy, that lady is flying! And look how funny she is, trying to dance while her bum is on fire!"

Oh screw this.

Goodnight.

[First lovely picture: Wicked_by_sideshowsito
Second lovely picture: Cinched_by_miss_mosh
Both photos found in deviantart.com]

Praying time

2011-03-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

[video here used to be "Lotus" by Dir en Grey...]

Such a sweet, sweet song. It breaks my heart even more to listen to it now.

ANY OF YOU WHO CAN, PLEASE SEND DONATIONS TO JAPAN.
Any of you who cannot, pray.
For those of a more violent disposition, threaten whatever deities you worship. It works, I have tried it.

Usually the best way to beg favours from gods is by cuddling your cats. Seriously. Or by waving big fucking axes, claymores and two handed motherfucking ridiculously huge swords in front of the aforesaid deity's nose. Sooner or later they get the message.
Pray today and repent tomorrow when the bill arrives.
'Nuff said.

Link for donations to Japan:

http://members.canpan.info/kikin/products/detail.php?product_id=1080

(Please copy and paste onto your browser)

Sing us all a merry song

2011-03-10T13:54:00.000-08:00

I am back. Although I haven't the slightest why. :-)

English not first language leads to all kind of interesting and hilarious mistakes when writing stories.

"He wanted to get to know every crook and nanny of her body."

NEWS FLASH: the present incarnation has trouble accepting her place in the world and this reality.

Okay, let's discuss this. Where would you rather be?

Let's not. I'll be too graphic and I don't wanna. There's people watching us. But Dir en Grey have a new and very pretty song out.

How can anyone call a Dir en Grey song pretty?

I can and even shooting me cannot make me change my phrasing. You need to lure me with Skinny Buttocks to change it.

What the hell is Skinny Buttocks? A snack bar for those on a diet?

Nope, a snack for those who haven't had any in the longest time.

Haven't had what? Skinny buttocks? Your buttocks are far from skinny. They look like a, hmmm, peach?

Yeah. Do you see any hands on the aforesaid peach?

Gods forbid! What are you, an alien?

No, you idiot, not GROWING OUT OF MY BUTTOCKS, fondling them, groping them, something along these lines.

Mmm. No.

See what I mean?

Not really but I am getting confused here. Would you like to explain that bit about where you'd like to be instead? There is no progress concerning the buttocks thingy.

Hmmmmm. Right you are. Good question. Let's listen to some Gazette because they have two TRULY fantastic songs in their latest album. Let's embed one as well. Hmmm. Make that two. Can I choose any place and time I want?

I suppose so. I mean, we are just talking, no harm in asking for anything you please.

Yeah. And I have always been of the opinion that if you are going to sin, sin boldly. So yes. I would like to be back where I was. Before the fall. Before everything started being such a pain in the ass. Back "home".

Um. That's not really an option, you know.

Oh yes, trust me, I know. Even if I kill myself, I cannot go back there. And besides, I have never been the quitting type.

I'll second that. Any other options?

I'll pick the pretty boy with the wavy black hair. The one that looks like you know who.

Yes. So what about him?

He's a dashing creature, isn't he? I swear I could lick sexiness out of his skin, emitted together with his smell.

So what would you like to do with him?

Can I choose any time I please? Hmmm? Can I? Can I?

Yep, go on.

Then I choose the time before we get to know each other, that we are still landscapes waiting to be discovered. The time he'll be keeping his mouth shut for fear he'll insult me and make me go away. When he'll be genuinely hungry for me and each touch will be as honest and full of longing as breath itself.

Nice choice. But why that?

Just because. Because I know it doesn't last. It is replaced by habit, familiarity and contempt.

But there is also tenderness and understanding and kindness there, when time passes. There is genuine knowledge of the other person instead of loving a fantasy or a projection.

Hahaha. You are hilarious sometimes, aren't you? There is never actual knowledge of any person. We just touch something with our hands, keeping our eyes shut, and we describe what we think it is.

Do we?

Of course we do. And since he'll only see what he wants to see anyway, I might as well do the same. And believe it. That's the trick to happiness in falling in love. Believing.

So do you want to fall in love? Is this what you are saying?

No. I don't think this will ever happen to me again. Not anymore. But even if it does, I have no say on the matter. It just will. *shrugs*

Don't you feel lonely?

What does this have to do with anything?

I get the feeling you are lonely.

I am lonely alright. But what's worst is my homicidal mania. All I can think about yesterday and today is about killing two particular people. It won't solve anything. Hell, even killing about two fifths of the earth's population won't change much. Since the creator decided they should exist in the first place, who am I to know better?

Indeedy. So what are you going to do?

What, now? Go home, of course. What else can I do? Go home and discuss it with Her. She is ballistic, thirsting for blood, and it does me no good to be like that.

Unless I am mistaken I don't think there is any room for discussion in such a case.

There is always room for discussion, especially in such a case. Trust me. And I have grown weary of the things I don't do because "it wouldn't be right", "my karma would go to hell in a hand basket", "I don't deserve to become like them" and so on. I see so many people hiding behind their finger every single day, thinking I don't know what they think about me and how they feel about me. Pretending they care about me. And they have it oh so easy because I don't want to be like them. I don't want to destroy, I want to create and preserve. Life will destroy anyway, why should I do it? Why should I be the one to dig their graves when they do it themselves? Living -and doing it well- is the best vengeance of all. And you know what? What really keeps me is the knowledge that even when wallowing in the darkest pits of despair I have never once given in and followed the easy path. That's my only treasure. I have nothing save for that and nobody, fucking nobody can take it from me, while they chose the easy path every single time. Every time they had to choose between their ego's petty games and between being human in the true sense of the word, they chose to be scum. And there will be a time scum will be separated from humans, and they will go where scum goes. To the dirt.

So, what's the thing you want tonight?

I told you. The essence of dreams. The time we both won't know a thing. It's that, or a very sharp knife. And that's that.

Okay then. Sleep tight...

Even I don't know what my problem is.

2011-02-14T13:39:00.000-08:00

[Both upper photos: Toshiya, the bassist of Dir en Grey.]

It's past surrealism and right into the realm of Nonsense.
It's past eleven and close to midnight.
Ahem, ahem.
Ladies and gentlemen. Κυρίες και κύριοι.
I have officially lost it.
It's always the photos that do this.
I am not annoying anyone and those goddamn photos come and disturb me.

Can someone tell to Gackt, this bloody idiot here, just above the text, that he's Japanese, so he's not supposed to look like this body-wise? Thank you.
I think I soaked my knickers.

And can another person tall to that idiot bassist of Dir en Grey that he's not supposed to look BOTH like a truly enchanting woman and like a drop dead gorgeous guy just by changing clothes and adding make up? Again thank you.

I am going home to lament for the fact Toshiya looks like this (picture just below) and he's living in Japan. I have had enough of this!!! I think I am truly going for a sex change this time. Long live my mustache. Do not try to find me.

I have an itch I cannot scratch!

2011-02-04T13:57:00.000-08:00

And a cat I cannot pick up anymore! Or my kidneys will go "flop" and fall off and just roll on the floor before coming to a stop.

I have also missed the most important thing! Connection with the funny train I wanted to ride in order to be writing here! I caught a connection to an ordinary train and now all I can see around me is boring people and old ladies with hairs coming out of their chins. Which reminds of the fact I have a mustache I ought to be doing something about. I think I am the only person who sees this mustache. However, it is not an imaginary mustache, I swear, and it has all the appropriate conditions for taking over the world. Or the rest of my upper lip. An uncaring owner and lots of space, as well as the hormones of a body that's past thirty and not getting any younger.

Goddammit, I am sure I will wake up one day and it will have developed into a fully blooming gentleman's goatee during my beauty sleep. Perhaps it will go even further, it will cover me whole and I will transform into a female yeti! Yikes!!!

Perhaps I should add fertilizer to it then. I am not getting laid anyway, whether I am male, female or genderless. Perhaps I am hiding something interesting in my pants and don't even know it myself. I am not looking much down there, to be honest. Not much to see. Darkness, spiders, mold. It sounds like a cellar. Not a lady's lower region.

It's interesting to have undiscovered areas on one's own body, isn't? I am falling apart anyway, soon I will have detachable arms and legs on top of everything else. And as I was telling to my best friend, a detachable vagina would also be handy. I would leave it at inconspicuous places, then walk away indifferently as to avoid suspicion.

Someone might even find it and fuck it. Imagine that.

Freedom to vaginae everywhere. Donate them to people who will be nice to them. Put them up for adoption if you cannot fulfill their purpose and fill them. Perhaps someone else will do a better job than I. It's the head's problem, you see. No matter what my vagina dictates, my head refuses. So the poor thing just sings indecent songs to itself during the wee hours of the night. I think it calls out to penises in the vain hope at least one will appear. Whenever one appears, the owner is a dick too, so I just shoo them away and then the vagina complains to me like a child that has been promised ice-cream and I have not delivered.

One of these days it will rebel against me, I know. I will be trying to wash it with nice lukewarm water and gentle liquid soap and it will bite off my fingers, then jump off and run away together with my kidneys. And I won't say a word, I swear. The poor thing will have every right. I have earned it.

I think this is the right train after all. :-)))

Random strangers

2011-01-21T13:24:00.000-08:00

“You know it’s best not to get attached to things.”
“But isn’t that the point of it all?”
Grant Morrison, WE3

Sometimes I am pretty certain I am weird. Other times, I know I am weird.

Right now, for example, I have no idea what it is that I want to do. I’m restless, but haven’t a clue why. I want to do something meaningful but meaningful is a word with many different interpretations. I don’t want to write a letter, I don’t feel like studying, reading or filling in fbs. I hunger for something and I am under the impression that this ‘something’ is human touch.

I think of people as islands or landscapes. This is why I loved drawing portraits when I did draw (back then in antiquity, when I was fifteen). And this is probably the reason I never describe the environment when I write stories. I don’t care about the setting unless it somehow affects the plot. People, however, are fascinating. The way they look, what they are made of, their faces, their hair, bodies, clothes they choose, reactions, the aura or sensations they create when entering a space. That’s what catches my interest.

Presently I would love to write something but I have nothing to write about. I stopped writing longer stories years ago and even short ones are a very rare occurrence nowadays. Poetry comes and goes according to the whims of the Muse and the Muse has a headache. What I have in mind is snapshots. Nothing to write a story about. Snapshots that don’t even show a full face. Black hair, a tiny leer, a pink nipple, a ring on a finger, the lines of expression next to the mouth. A bowl with two goldfish. A part of a tattoo on a person’s chest, depicting a kitsune, a fox spirit. The cuff of an expensive shirt died crimson with blood. I know what they are; stolen moments. Moments in the lives of the people/heroes inside my head. I am a peeping Tom in their lives and can’t even help it.

I ordered the new Dir en Grey DVD as I watched some videos in youtube and the boys are back on the Path of War and mean business. Not that they had ever left this path, to be honest, but it’s nice to know one of your most favourite bands is alive and yelling, isn’t it? And I am also ogling the new Gackt photo book, with a long-haired Gackt dressed beautifully, sword in hand. How original. I never. Waaay, waaaaaay too expensive to buy at this point, but I am sure I’ll locate it in a friendlier price later on. Or I won’t. I already have a ridiculous number of magazines and photo books with Gackt and not a single one can give me what I desire the most. Contact with a real person, or meaning.

There is no actual meaning. We all devise meaning but there is no meaning at all. A strand of hair, a gust of wind, an old photo in a drawer. I have some photos that belonged to my father and they are at least forty years old. I have no idea who are the people they depict. Perhaps they were friends of my father or relatives, but my father is dead and he can’t anymore tell me. So to my eyes they are just random strangers. No matter how important (or not) they were to him at the time, they are strangers to me now.

For all of us comes the time when we are unknown people in photos that are accidentally wedged at the back of ancient drawers. Meaning is very relevant. It presupposes attachment, connection. Time eats away at attachment and connection. No-one remembers. No-one knows. And it’s not really important.

What is important? I keep wondering and wondering and have no answers. I remember times I was so in love that I thought my heart would burst. And I remember all those times I almost went mad with pain or anger. It’s all gone now, like it happened to someone else. All those moments are gone. I am a random stranger typing furiously at a net café and writing, writing, writing what she can’t live. I am an old photo in a drawer. I am a ghost in the machine. And all the photo books in the world, all the DVDs in the world cannot give me the thing I crave the most. The smell of your hair.

[ Images from GACKT Nemurikyoshiro Buraihikae Official Photobook]

Baby steps

2011-01-13T11:25:00.000-08:00

"...People, men and women, have told her that she is beautiful, and she has no idea what they mean. When she looks in the mirror she does not see beauty looking back at her. Only her face."
Neil Gaiman, Rattlesnake

The door does not open by force.
The door does not open by guile, or by fear; it refuses to yield under pressure.
The door only opens by time and effort.
Time does not exist and effort is nothing but the tiger inside, refusing to follow.
I will make you follow, I will make you fucking dance.
Because I can.

Nothing can stop me if I am determined.
Nothing can stand in my way if I am doing that which I was meant to do.
Nobody can withstand the flow of karmic river.
No matter who you think you are, no matter what you think you can do. No matter if people worship you, no matter if you have fucking wings on your back, no matter if reality itself obeys to your every nonsensical and vile whim. You will be crushed under the flow and removed from my way.

When mortal, make sure to fight with a bloody good backup, I always say.

Cats, blogs and masochism.

2010-12-27T12:41:00.000-08:00

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 waist is killing me. The weather turned cold and humid and once more my waist started acting up. I had hurt my waist when my father was at home. 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 all he 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 having 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

2010-11-12T10:41:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-08T09:45:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

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 at 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.

2010-10-27T10:04:00.001-07:00

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 and before entering the blog, so let the buyer 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 that is. 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 all 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 have all the body parts 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 all 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 all 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

2010-10-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

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 braincells 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 more. 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 superspace flying sandal. Or something.

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

'Tis the season.

2010-10-04T13:21:00.001-07:00

'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 others' 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.]

Warnings

2010-09-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

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 all 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 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 all that stayed with you when you opened your eyes were your tears.

My beloved 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.

[Beautiful art by feimo.deviantart.com]

The Fool

2010-09-13T10:37:00.000-07:00

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 traitorous 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 hint. 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.

2010-08-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

“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 arms’ reach. An inexhaustible fountain of ever-overflowing melancholy.

Where is the one for me?
Not those sad imitations of people who walk around hypnotized. 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 it all is?
Is it worth fighting for?
Is there any meaning in all this endless recycled trouble?
When my soul flies away in the arms of Morpheus, do any of these worries matter at all?

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 all 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

2010-08-28T10:27:00.000-07:00

Now, I have heard of women who buy shoes as shopping therapy. I've heard of those who buy lingerie, jewelery, 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 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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7IXmV6A6Bk

The nipple theory

2010-07-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

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.]

Possible answers to stupid questions.

2010-06-24T13:55:00.000-07:00

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 has 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!

God hunt

2010-05-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-05T13:34:00.000-07:00

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 all the moments, 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 about this?
I have no answers.
I have nothing.
I am, in reality, nothing.
A dream that strayed.
Please let me leave.

It is raining again.

2010-04-20T04:48:00.000-07:00

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 fight. 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 all 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 all these things he keeps his silence with his dark eyes focused outside. It is raining again.

Conversation

2010-04-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-03-31T13:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-08T13:26:00.000-08:00

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 all 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

2010-02-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

I live a secret life.
Perhaps after a fashion all people do.
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 nights' (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.

A part of a long talk...

2010-01-12T13:32:00.000-08:00

"...because I honestly believe I will still remember, I will know to the full extent how wrong it will be. But what the heart knows and what the mind knows are very, very different things. And the heart and the mind can never reach an agreement between them. They take up swords and attack each other mercilessly. They hack and slash and they only stop when they are exhausted, when they are too weary to even raise a finger. Only then do they stop, and the heart goes somewhere quiet to cry itself to sleep, and so does the mind, it goes somewhere quiet to wallow in its pain. And the distance is never, ever, ever bridged between them. The names that we whisper in our sleep is something only the deepest wounds of the heart know and echo even when the mind has mercifully forgotten, and the heart cries till it has no tears left and it only whispers one thing, why, why, why didn't you try a little harder, you were almost there, like Orpheus when he turned the very last moment and looked and Eurydice just flew away from the tips his fingers. Why, why, all you had to do was change, and you were so close, and I will never again love someone as much as I have loved you, and all you had to do is take that single step and fall into my embrace. I would not let you. I would hold you! I would hold you. Just one single step. And the mind, hidden in his own little hell replies, he did not want to, and it is a matter of free will. There is nothing you can do. And the heart ululates and shudders and sobs and says, it was only one step, one more step, and I would have caught him. And the mind replies, it was one second. One more second. All it would take would be one more second. And the heart replies, I know, I know, and I will never again love someone as much as I loved him, doesn't he see this? Doesn't he see what he did? And the mind replies, still, you cannot go back now. The choices were made. And then the heart screams like an animal dropped in acid and flame, it screeches to the heavens and all the way down to hell, and it cries like a banshee gone mad because it knows it's true. The heart knows the truth even when the mind is deceived. And its maddened screams are loud enough to cover the mind's silent sobs as it cries in the corner of its own jail.
They both cry in their cells and their sobs are united but the distance between them is never, ever bridged."

[Picture: Uruha, guitarist of the Gazette.]

Discovered!

2010-01-01T02:30:00.000-08:00

With the help of my dear friend K., the table Nuare fucks (previous post) is finally discovered!
Happy new year everyone! :-D

Vampire Hunter D.

2009-12-16T12:35:00.000-08:00

I am presently reading the Vampire Hunter D series of books. I have five of them.

I am pissed off with the series.

When I read the first book I had been left speechless. The book combined hack and slash with a fantastic setting in the far off future. There are spaceships and laser cannons and at the same time people travel on horseback and fight with vampires and werewolves. There is a very interesting basic character, D, who sports outrageously good looks and is about as involved with other humans as the moon is involved with your average bus. He merely shines his grace on them. And that's about it. Now, having the kind of father that I had and all the lovely traumas and confused childhood years that I had, it was inevitable that I would be immediately smitten with D and would want to read about him. And the first book was very good. But then I read the second, and the third, and then the sixth and tenth. And in the tenth book the basic character is still as evolved as it was in the first. He never mingles with humans. Never uses the bathroom. Never masturbates or fucks or shows even a glimpse of interest in anything else than "flying like a mystical bird through the air" and slashing everything around him in bloody confetti.

And I got really annoyed and bored with the series.

In my stories I have Nuare. Nuare is similar to D in some ways. But he fucks. In fact he would have fucked just about anything that caught his fancy. Even a wooden table with three legs and a vase with flowers on it. I swear. He cannot fuck anything he wants but when he does fuck there is enough detail in there to make the reader sidestep to avoid a flying ribbon of spank that is coming through the page and seems to be aiming at their eye. (I swear this is accidental, by the way.) It just happens that any realistic character will have some sort of sexual life at some point if it is a humanoid being. Right? And if not sexual life he will have friends. Some kind of emotional involvement with SOMEONE, for the sake of fuck.

But no. D "flies like a mystical bird through the air". Of course. How stupid of me. That should be enough.

Give me five years. That's all I am asking for. And they will all eat my dust. That, or I'll find a way to slip half a dozen viagra in D's goblet of wine and make him show me his other bird. Not the mystical. The one hidden inside his trousers.

"And there was much rejoice".
Monty Python

Please help if you have seen him!

2009-12-08T13:40:00.000-08:00

EMIL 19 YEARS OLD FROM FINLAND, OUT OF REACH SINCE 1st OCTOBER

1 October 2009 Emil, 19, from Finland, was in WARSAW, POLAND, on his way to start hitch-hiking via BERLIN towards STOCKHOLM where we live. He was trying to be home for the 8 of October, and planning to then travel to Finland together with me.

PLEASE CONTACT ME: emma.amande@gmail.com IF YOU HAVE SEEN HIM SOMEWHERE between Warsaw and Sweden or anywhere else, also if you have met him earlier and have any information about him that could help us find him.

If you have not seen him you can help us by forwarding the link to this page to Everybody you know.
We, his worried sisters, brothers, parents and relatives, are very thankful for that!
THANK YOU / Bigsister Emma
Stockholm, 4.12. 2009

We are the raven-haired and live grave-deep.

2009-11-21T11:44:00.001-08:00

Music: Amber Asylum: The natural philosophy of love.

It happens with pictures.

You see a picture of something or someone you desire. It reminds you of where you are and in an indirect manner, points out the fact you are nowhere near home or where you wanted to be anyway.

It is always funny considering the contrast: where you would like to be and where you actually are. Where you are is where the universe figures you’re supposed to be. Not an arbitrary guess; after all, we are the ones who give feedback to the universe concerning our understanding of the situation and where we stand. Our thoughts and actions are a moment to moment report of our progress. Nobody can fake this report or brag about achievements they haven’t made. You can lie to other people, not to the night sky. Not to matter itself. Matter sings; atoms, quarks, every little bit of what we understand as reality around us SINGS. It vibrates and dances and sings and repeats the most beautiful phrase ever:

Live and learn.

I seem to never learn. Because even though I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be, I still wish I was somewhere else.

It all passes so quickly.

[There is no such thing as time.]

It all hurts so much.

[There is no such thing as actual gain and actual loss.]

I so wish I was somewhere else.

[Yes, but demons, if found within, they travel with you.]

I can outsmart myself quite easily.

Yet feelings pour out like an ocean; unchecked, roaring, wild.

Rationalize what? Desire? Sorrow? Anger? Tears? Why even bother?

Why do we shed tears when nothing has entered our eyes? What do we try to wash out with the salty essence of experience? Perhaps our fear of death?

But Lilith.

They desecrated your garden, oh Wild one.

They desecrated your holy vagina.

They trapped you in human flesh.

They gave you a human name and a human destiny.

They took your orgasms away, oh Holy one.

They took your memories, your children and your lovers.

They gave you time in exchange for all those.

They birthed and condemned you into darkness eternal.

They seek to put your light out forever oh Wise one.

What will you do?

Nothing. It’s what I chose. I’ll ride the wave, see where it takes me, said the Wise one.

But is it what you wanted?

In the garden of No choices I’ll carve my name with blood and flame and screams, said the Wild one. Till the walls are torn down and tyrants are brought to heel.

And if this fails?

Well, I’ll just find another way. Because, after all, we are only as big as our dreams and aspirations, said the Holy one.

In the garden of earthly delights let me accept my burden, in the garden of my womb let there be Time, born again through me.

There is no such thing as time.

Live and learn.

Live and love and learn.

Nothing can stop me.

(Special thanks to Moonspell, Neil Gaiman and T. for inspiration and quotes...)

Raindrops

2009-10-15T12:26:00.001-07:00

If I could make you understand. Just for one moment.

What it means to love.

So banal.

Taken for granted.

So much ink and saliva spent on what seems a chameleon of a subject.

If only.

If I could make you understand for the fraction of a second what it means to dread losing the one you love.

If I could make you for the fraction of a second vibrate like a chord touched by human fingers.

Resonate like a whale's song.

If you could open up and see.

No colours.

No names.

No countries.

The eyes of a child.

They all cry the same.

They all need the same things.

If I had the power to offer you all a glimpse of what my heart ungrudgingly holds secret and rocks to sleep to keep me sane.

Now I know what my soul knew from the start. We'll never meet.

In your endless mercy you have provided. Caring for me, you tried to find a replacement.

In your endless sadness you dive inside the Heart.

The Heart holds you.

Like a child.

Judgement Day

2009-10-10T05:07:00.000-07:00

And then comes one day that you want to turn Angel Safari into a national pasttime. Hunt the fuckers. Raid the Elysian fields or aetheric levels or whatever place they live in, sleep and tan their gorgeous bodies while gracefully sipping mojitos or whatever shit they drink. Pluck their feathers out with pliers. Take a plane and fly over them while they snore peacefully and throw them anvils and safes to flatten them in their sleep. Paint them with black nail polish. Chase them with a flame thrower. Throw them big cactuses with the entire clay pot attached while they merrily chase each other in the ever green fields of the paradise. Next time I am introduced to one of those lazy motherfuckers, I will kung fu their brains out of their skulls. Yeah right, why EVEN TRY to bother with the earthly shit? Oh noooooo, THEY are TOO IMPORTANT to bother. It doesn't matter that this plane of existence has turned into a demo version of hell. Oh nooo, it is not their fault, you see there is this thing called FREE WILL, and since that thing exists, well, THEY CAN'T do anything, it is not their RESPONSIBILITY. You see, there are RULES.

I will rule your ass out of existence you shitstained pieces of feathered ego, you Pharisees of heavens! You bloody scum! Handing over your powers to the exactly wrong kind of humans without caring as long as you will not bother with us lowly mortals, with those oh-so-unimportant mortal affairs. You see we're flesh and blood, too disgusting for your divine hands and standards. When you fucked mortal women they were good enough. Now there is no fucking involved so you can't really bother with the rest of us, can you? Oh no. Too much work and a very dirty job. Too much trouble. A whole fucking planet turned into purgatory and billiors of souls screaming in misery and despair every single day of their lives and you can't move a finger to help. No no no. You are safe where you are. Why bother?

You miserable, arrogant, pretentious pieces of crap. You fucking hypocrites. YOU LOWLY, COWARDLY SCUM. If you cared, really cared, if you indeed served the Creator you claim you serve you'd be too ashamed to show your fucking faces. The brave ones of you have taken the dive in flesh and live amongst the mortals, suffering just like any other human. Being oppressed, victimised, raped, scorned and used like asswipes by mortals and immortals alike. Behold the wonder of existence and what it has turned into. I hope you are proud of yourselves. This is your responsibility as much as anyone else's. When you see a crime committed and you do nothing to stop it, you are as much a criminal as the one commiting it. Hail to the entire angelic race! As above so below; as below, so above. Go fuck yourselves and see if you multiply. Douchebags!

PS I swear, the next forty something American lady/healer with the serene, all knowing smile and the catchy New Age vocabulary I come across in the net, "channelling messages" from this or that or the other Archangel or Teacher or entity, I'll track her down and fuck her up the ass until she recites the entire Greek alphabet backwards.

Reminiscence

2009-09-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

Photo: Die, the excellent guitarist of Dir en Grey.

I am once more working like crazy, finding myself home around eleven at night the earliest. Consequently there is not much I can do concerning my emails or my blog. Hopefully beginning next week I will start working less hours again. Which could be good. Should be good. But unless I leave my present job, less hours is pretty much like using aspirin to treat a cancer patient. :-)

My life course twists and turns unexpectedly, my comprehension of reality constantly changes, my battles never seem to end and more than anything else, what makes me sad is that experiences cannot be communicated. All this knowledge and experiences, no matter how much I wish to use them to help other people cannot be used. Others can perhaps understand but not comprehend and benefit from it. Experience is not a "one size fits all" achievement. And one day that I'll be gone it will all be gone with me, like the funerals of ancient times or the gypsies of today: burying the dead with all their jewellery. That alone should make each of us try to live to the fullest, in order to be buried like kings and queens; take with us all the treasures of a full life. Memories, colours, sounds, tastes.

When the singers we love die, they take their treasures with them. Their voice. And modern day equipment has allowed us to listen to the same songs again and again; in older times, if you were lucky enough to listen to an exceptional voice it was an one time occurrence, a rare treasure only you had in your possession.

Technology has made us forget to treasure the moment.
Photographs and videos and cds cannot be treasured. They are but ghosts of what took place. They serve to remind us, but a slothful mind and a shallow heart cannot be urged to remember if they have lost interest to begin with.

Please try to understand how important and valuable every day of your life is.
Please try to live it to the fullest.
Please try to realise how important you are to yourself and others.
A true treasure collector.

Treasure chest

2009-09-05T09:58:00.001-07:00

[picture: Shinya in action, the fantastic drummer of Dir en Grey]

I went through my usual summer cleaning binge. I threw away stuff, recycled old magazines, gave books and items to friends or charity, recycled old letters from people I no longer am in contact with. Suddenly, while being amidst a mountain of torn paper I stopped fully, because I found a small pile of letters. They were the letters my fictional characters had written to the characters of another lady. We intended to write stories together but this never happened as she was ill and we eventually lost contact fully. But the letters were there; I had kept copies. First letter I came across was the one gentle Sergios had written to one of her vampire characters. I paused and re-read it.

It is hard for another person to understand why a writer may feel the way they do about a particular character. After all they are not real, right? But Sergios is or rather was me. All my characters are pieces of my personality, facades of what I am, was or could be. And as such I love them more than I love my own two hands. My hands will wither and rot one day, but my characters are immortal; they are the closest thing I have to a soul.

I stood for a while. Remembered all the things I know about my dear Sergios. Felt very depressed because he belongs to a different storyline and the copyrights for that world belong to a company, so I can never have anything published. I wallowed in my misery for a little while and eventually scolded myself because I once more remembered what any serious magic practitioner of magic (and anyone familiar with the fundamentals of physics) must not forget: energy is NEVER lost. It changes form but never vanishes. The solution had been there all along: I slapped my forehead and concentrated, then called upon the Liberating One and handed them all to Him. There you go, these are my creations, the closest thing I have to a legacy. Take all the old characters, all the undeveloped stories, all those "what ifs" that will never take place in any world and return them all to the Heart, the Creator/Creatress. Let Himher have it all back. They were once born in dreams, I now return them all to the Womb of dreams to be transmuted and reborn and returned to me to a new form. He naturally was only too happy to do this, and I was not happy at all (because I am such a insecure, sentimental sucker) but felt released. I bet that if a child was looking at the sky that night they would see this flock of multicoloured Pegasi passing by and vanishing in the black horizon...

Ahhh, what the hell. Some things are never meant to be. Back to my boring life of blowing up reality, snuggling with Archangels, scratching Yahweh's face because he kept bugging me and showing me his hurt nail, slapping the asses of Japanese rock superstars silly because they won't let me be, fondling the Babylon whore and lending her money and getting into the pants of my female email pals in dragon form during my sleep. Now, if only I could figure out a way to win half a million euro, it would simplify my life a lot but spare me none of the drama.

Home sleeping.

2009-08-29T14:57:00.000-07:00

This is what I should be doing right now. But I am not. What comfort can sleep offer to a restless mind? Rhetorical question.

Many people are bugging me to get in Facebook in order to be in contact and chat with them. But I don't want to be in contact 24/7. Even if I had the time, I don't want people to see my photos. I can't bother to take photos of myself in swimming suit and full makeup to acquire more "friends". I don't want all my ex boyfriends to know who, and if I am fucking someone presently. I have no desire to meet new people or meet friends from the old. If they were meant to be my friends still, then they would be my friends, here and now. I don't want to meet my friends from school. I had none most of the time. I still at this age see nightmares about being in school and wake up gasping for breath. I was 15 and reading Lovecraft, listening to metal music and loved vampires. No-one considered me normal or trendy enough to be friends with me. Why would I want to meet again all those who made fun of what they could not understand? To be asked if I am working in a highly paid job, have two kids and a husband? Do I owe them, or anyone else an answer? What I do is my personal business. Even if I work as a prostitute, sniff coke and pluck my toenails out with pliers, I owe no-one explanations.

God/dess dammit, I still read Lovecraft and listen to metal music and love vampires.

I don't want to be part of any team of people. I am a very private person. I don't want to have to deal with the politics, cliques and whatnots of any group of people. Yes, I feel lonely. But my loneliness has to do with mortality, with the fact I am one separate entity cursed and blessed with the isolation and confines of one single mind. I have no delusions about "being understood" by others. We all filter reality through the personality we have developed, which is mostly a result of our experiences. Even identical twins who have grown together have different personalities, though they see their own reflection every time they look at the other twin. Even identical twins at the end of the day are alone.

No, I don't think that Facebook can make my loneliness go away.I don't think that watching photos of abs and nearly exposed breasts has any insight to add to my understanding of reality. I don't want to talk with "like-minded others" (read between the lines: they listen to the same music or read the same books, but what about the way they treat actual people?) and I don't think what I am in need of is more friends. Perhaps I am unfair towards all those people who use Facebook and enjoy themselves and indeed find what they're looking for. But obviously I am not looking for the same things.

Here and there.

2009-08-23T03:16:00.000-07:00

It could be funny. Mindlessness is an art I excel at lately. I spend money to avoid thinking. I buy myself magazines with Japanese rock stars, cds, cute stationery; what most men would call cute pink crap. I look at pink frilly little designs. The child inside me, cornered, frustrated, sad beyond words, for a moment sighs with relief. A small pink breath for her and I wish, I wish I could connect with her again and tell her it's all going to be fine. I don't dare connect because then I will cry non- stop for everything, for all the things that life has turned me into, for all the things I wished I would be and never came to be, for all those moments I fail to face the world with an open heart and my eyes filled with innocence and thirst. Like she would.

I am so sorry sweetheart. I am so sorry for all the things that have happened to you and for all the pain you had to go through. I am also sorry for the times you will be disappointed in the future, because, you know, that's human nature.
But that's not how it was supposed to be.
It's not.

I wish I could tell her it's all going to be fine and believe it myself.

I wish I did not have to cry in the middle of the fucking net cafe like a goddamn idiot.

She doesn't want kawaii stationery. She wants to be loved.
She is lonely and scared and wants someone to hold her.
I am so very sorry sweetheart.
So very sorry.

Odds and ends

2009-08-11T12:19:00.001-07:00

"Where is our fortunate future? When does our fortunate future come?"

*I love the night. I love to take long walks during the small hours. However, were I to live in darkness for the rest of my life, unless my eyesight became nocturnal too, I would miss the colours of nature very much...

*I find it hard to sleep on my back. Then again, tiredness works miracles.

*My sense of hearing and smell have become more acute lately. It does not work to my advantage.

*Most of the time I am certain I am invisible. When I receive compliments by men, I feel immediately alarmed. I am sure they have something bad in mind.

*When I start conversing, actually conversing with people, they either irritate me, disgust me, or both.

"For all that is worth/ the blood on my hands/ is the blood of divinities."

*In my happiest moments I have always been alone. I don't think this will change no matter what happens. The purest contentment is always found inside one's own self. I have recently come to the conclusion that happiness while being with others presupposes a rather naive mind. I've recently also come to the conclusion I am very damaged.

*Beautiful images attack all my senses to the point of actual physical pain.

*I use music the same way others use class A drugs.

*I don't like being touched, hugged, fondled or petted for more than ten seconds at a time, any time.

"I will scream as much as I want and if my voice dies, then let my voice die."

*I can't sleep unless I have a pillow between my legs. Failing to find that extra pillow, I place both hands, a jacket, or anything else I can find.

*I think humans go contrary to nature in a million different ways. The concept of females beautifying themselves is alien to nature; in all cases, the male has to be beautiful and make highly ritualistic approaches for the female to choose him.

* In the blowing of the wind I hear the trees chatter away and share secrets. I wish I could understand what they say.

*I'll always regret not becoming chaos in its most refined, unstoppable form. I'll always regret not leaving behind me a trail of corpses. I'll never, never stop hungering for destruction. All behind the perfect mask.

"Your scars, my love, show me your scars... What a delicate pattern they must dance across your heart..."

*I sometimes marvel at the ease with which people trust. The human body is so fragile, and yet with how much eagerness they entrust it to perfect strangers. Look at me. An utterly inconspicuous nobody. So simple to take someone home. So easy to get on top of a brain dead, excited male. The wall next to bed. My hand on his head. One sudden, decisive push. I am strong. The blunt item in my hand as he is shocked and dizzy. End of game. Only trouble, getting rid of the body. Could I live with myself afterwards? How many times a day do I step on an insect and don't even realise it? What is the difference between the average human and a cockroach? The fact they plead once they realise what's going on? Perhaps cockroaches plead too, if we could hear them. And girls... Girls look so pretty when they're scared out of their wits. Big eyes. Tender big eyes and lovely soft parts on their bodies. I could be the woman you ogle at a bar. I could be someone you have known for the past five years and have never ever given you reason to doubt or suspect me. I am the woman some of you have known for years and you don't doubt or suspect me. How can you know the kind of strange flowers that take root and bloom in my garden? You can't.

"In the dark morning I hear you whisper goodbye. Love me. Abandon hope."

*There are days I see those women in their sixties or seventies, with dead eyes and dead souls. They have nothing to look forward to and nothing good to recall. Becoming one of them is my greatest nightmare.

*Sometimes, the greatest act of heroism is to keep on living.

Wandering

2009-08-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

...aimlessly. From one stupid site to the next.
Checking mails. No. Nothing of value in my mailbox.
Ebay. I don't want to buy anything, thank you.
It all looks tempting, but empty.
Blog. What the hell am I doing here anyway?
What is it that I'm supposed to find and I can't?
Where is the link I am looking for?
Perhaps I ought to be asleep already.
My dreams are much more interesting.
If only I could remember them.

I am just so tired.

2009-08-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

And work never seems to end.
And no escape seems possible.
And the time is always now.
And I just want to get some rest.
But he, the Judas, won't let me.

I wonder if I am the only one in this position.
Obviously not.
But I cannot see anymore.
Others, or myself.
Nothing.

Ah, all the supernaturals power of the multiverse can go fuck themselves for all I care.
I would indeed sacrifice not one, but two fingers.
One for your unlikely lover, whomever he may be, to walk true, right into your arms.
And one for that small dream of mine.
Thank god we have each other, my oyabun.
Madness lurks just too close tonight.

Mistake

2009-07-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

I am sure I have made a mistake somewhere.
It can't be explained otherwise.
It makes no sense.
All my choices, though valid, take me to dead ends.
I rerun this story in my head and yet find no escape.
But this is not how it was supposed to turn out.
No, it was not.

What have I done wrong?
Your hands, my beloved, look so immaculate.
What have I done?
My eyes cannot be read anymore.
You will never know.
Even if the time comes, you'll never know.
I'll make it gentle.

But late at night
When I toss and turn in my bed
Thinking over and over again
this sad turn of events, that might turn me
into the hand of fate
Who will take away my sin?
Who will grant me sleep?

Even you
the one supposed to love and forgive us all
the one who stayed in delicate balance
you ask me to do
what you could never.
You cannot absolve me.
I cannot absolve me.
I can only pray
that future will never come to pass.

Predicament

2009-07-20T10:01:00.000-07:00

"I know, the past will catch you up as you run faster, I know..."

All bonds break
Reality subsides
All hell breaks loose
It all crumbles to dust
No turning back.

This body will eventually fall apart just like everything else and it won't even have fulfilled its purpose, which was to be loved.

I am left with no choices. You left me with no choices.

Loneliness creeps in and sadness pours down like a unexpected summer shower. Startling cold.

I was handed a sword. Entrusted to cut clean.
I did not refuse it.
"Fear cuts deeper than the sword."

I twist and turn in my sleep, pushing the nightmares away, flailing, gasping. Not now, I will not have those memories surface now. I will deal with them in my own time. When I am awake. NOT IN MY SLEEP.

One day it will all be gone. No more second chances. No other choices, no alternative pathways. Nothing. Void. Back in the Embrace.
Do you realise that?
Have you played the game well?
Have you done all you could?
Have you tried all options?
Have you given your best?
Cause one day you'll be gone. Gone for good.

No one will ever again smile like you did, with the same knowledge gleaming in their eyes. No one will make your favourite food or coffee like you did. No one will touch your lover, or child, or parent in the same way. Nobody will throw tantrums in the same manner or be sad in the same degree. Nobody will be able to replace you. No one in the world will be able to appreciate a moment the way you do. Do you realise that?

Do you realise your time here is finite? Do you appreciate every day? Do you give your best, or plainly drag your feet in a half-hearted existence? Do you understand, fully understand, feel to your bones the irreplaceable void you'll leave in your place once gone? Do you appreciate yourself for all that you are and do, every little quirk and gesture that make you unique? Do you comprehend that one day there won't be a next day to set things right, to apologise, to touch someone or kiss them, to say sorry or "I love you"? Do you really, truly understand that some people will never hear this from you if you keep postponing it?

Do you really think you are going to live forever?

Do you sleep easy at night?
Do you have secrets?
Do you cry?
Do you get mad when people smile at you?
Does anyone in the world hold you when you are alone and afraid?
Do you care?

Late at night, when I walk the streets with my dogs, my footsteps echo in the distance and manage to stir only dust and memories.
Sometimes I sing with my MP3 player shutting off all sounds and I wonder what my voice sounds like.
[A mad woman, an owl, someone calling out to ghosts.]

So many ghosts
so many goddamn ghosts
hordes of ghosts following my every step and me crying out like a monster, an owl with the face of a woman, a harpy, a miasma.
My hands weave spells secured by my voice; tightly woven intricate patterns of energy like some spider from a fairy tale or stories from the old, and I grow older with every passing breath and yet there isn't a single stone on which I can lay down my burden and rest...

Everything carries power and special weight
and I wish I could embrace you and show you my love
Break your frail, bird-like bones in my grip...

Tiny creatures
we're all tiny creatures digging a pitiful existence in the mud
our eternal loves and ideals swept away in a single blink of a dragon's eye
and yet the pride, oh what pride we have...

Name the reality drug that keeps you going
name the illusions that feed your ego and make you feel invincible
name the addictions you harbor that make your world make sense
and all these while our existence lasts only for a scream
and our souls flutter away blind
leaving as blind as they arrived
and it's all repeated into eternity.

Is it all meaningless?
Is it all futile?
All those years, were they wasted time?
Only time will tell.
Till the dragons fly again,
farewell...

Much needed inspiration...

2009-07-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

Moonspell: Scorpion flower

Curse the day, hail the night
Flower grown in the wild
In your empty heart
In the breast that feeds
Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?
Can I stop your heart for a while?
Can I freeze your soul and your time?
Scorpion flower
Token of death
Ignite the skies with your eyes
And keep me away from your light

Surrender tears to your mortal act
Flower cursed be thy fruit
Of your courage last
Of your grand finale
Flower crushed in the ground
In your empty heart
In the breast that feeds
Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?
Can I stop your heart for a while?
Can I freeze your soul and your time?
Scorpion flower
Token of death
Ignite the skies with your eyes

In your empty heart
In the breast that feeds
Flower worn in the dark

Can I steal your mind for a while?
Can I stop your heart for a while?
Can I freeze your soul and your time?
Scorpion flower
Token of death
Ignite the skies with your eyes

(Song from the latest Moonspell album, Night Eternal. Full of my favourite themes: Lucifer, Lilith and darkness. The scorpion symbol an added bonus.)

Angels, devils and guitar players.

2009-06-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

It is time.
The time of frosted moon and de-frosted Asian buttocks.
I shall be merciless.
I shall chase them like a mad dog to the gates of hell and even further. Into police stations, into libraries, into churches. It is the time of ultimate doom.
Ovulation has kicked in.
I need Asian boys all wrapped up in ribbons and fake fur.

First of all, Uruha. I shall tie him up and throw him in the oven and roast him. And eat him beginning with his little ass.

YES! YOU! YOUR ASS! ASS! BRING ME THE ASS OF URUHA on a silver platter, well roasted and topped with mustard! Onions and potatoes will mark his passage! And leave me to it! ~AAAAAASSSS! That will teach you to shake your hips in videos in such a slutty, despicable, unacceptable manner! ASSSS! ASSSSS!!! Your ass will be GRASSSS!!!

Then Gackt will be the one to suffer. I shall wear my armor and go find him in his fortress. He shall hear me approach, me and my minions of evil, and he shall know me by my evil boots of DOOM. Thigh high platforms that imitate the sound "DOOM" while I march to war. "Doom, doom, doom". Like a frost giant wearing two anvils instead of shoes, walking half-heartedly to his own wedding. The kind of sound that makes the ground shake and the fillings in your teeth vibrate. And behind me, millions of my evil man-eating gothic smurfs chattering away like demonic locusts. All white, with black gothic clothes and tiny very sharp teeth. We shall prevail!

[Gackt, as soon as he heard the news of me approaching, is trying to disguise himself and flee. NO such luck you yellow bastard! Your penis will decorate my hall of trophies tonight!!!]

Then Hyde must fall victim to the power of my ovulation. He will try to escape, try to run and hide, all in vain! VIOLATION! Random violence and undiluted pain in my hands! All tied up and covered in marmalade and me shaving him with a chainsaw while one gazillion ants run all over him, tickling him to death! His defeat and humiliation will be unparalleled, an example to every other Japanese rock star thinking he's more feminine than I am, and prettier as well! BASTARDS! BASTARDS! Why do you have to live in Japan from all places? I need 2000 euro to come there and give you a piece of my mind! I shall take Japan by force and have it under martial law! All of you will be forced to walk around dressed like ugly transvestites for the rest of your miserable lives!

[Hyde under my martial law, mocking my authority. Take him inside and WHIP him till he bleeds, the bastard!]

And then...
What?
(Someone from behind a curtain speaks to me in a low voice.)
Oh.
I see.
I was just informed that a specific someone brought me gifts in order to reconsider.

Hmmm. Bananas. I love bananas. Come here sweet Uruha boy. I hope you know where these are going.
[Cries of panic echo in the courtyard. A door slams. Then silence.]

Crash test

2009-06-10T11:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, this post will not make much sense to anyone not involved with Japanese rock music. Then again, I want to make my friend K. laugh because she's a true blessing in my life, and she has made me laugh at times I needed it more than dear breath. There you go girl, this one's for you.

SEX CRASH TEST!

Between two major J-rock musicians: Gackt (Gakuto) Camui (musician, performer and singer) and Kyo Nishimura (Niimura), singer of the cult band Dir en Grey.

Gackt: tall, (1.80?) slender but beautifully worked out, lovely smile with blinding white teeth, the androgynous beauty of an angel, mid thirties to late thirties, quite the charmer and the playboy. He is too good not to be vain, conceited and self-involved to the wrong degree. You know, the "for fuck's sake get the fuck out of the bathroom, I need to pee, there are mirrors in other rooms of the house too goddammit!" type.

Kyo: too short, (1.60?) very slender, full of tattoos, a tiny man of solid muscle, yellow teeth that look like a traffic jam after an accident, rather ugly to downright grotesque, early thirties, oddly quiet and polite. The type of quiet and polite that makes you wonder if he's got a closet full of mummified fans hidden somewhere in his house.

Why fuck them?

Gackt: because he's too good to be true, the bastard. Criminally pretty. And grows old beautifully as well.

Kyo: because on scene he behaves like an epileptic orc during a psychotic episode, even to the point of self-mutilation. If he is the same in bed, he's gonna be the fuck of a lifetime.

What would they think if they saw me in a crowded room?

Gackt: Hmmmm... She's too tall (note:I am 1.77m), taller than I (in high heels). How dare she be taller? *annoyed* And she's got tattoos on her arms. Yuck. Such bad taste! How unfeminine! And bags under her eyes as well! Hasn't she heard of concealer? Plus she's not even blond! And she's got boring brown eyes! But I haven't fucked non-Japanese pussy in quite some time, so perhaps I will devote SOME of my PRECIOUS time to her, but only a little.

Kyo: wow, that woman is TALL. (His eyes inevitably fall on my cleavage, due to them being at that exact height.) Er. *Blushes* But why is she staring at me? (Starts looking left and right, certain I am not looking at him.) Perhaps she is looking for the ladies' room?

Romantic courting:

Gackt: Women are such sensitive creatures. (Pours more wine in your glass, to make sure this sensitive creature in particular will be too tipsy to say no.) They bring true joy to my life. (Read between the lines: especially those 90-60-90 types, born mute and perpetually hungry for my divine penis.) Sometimes the loneliness gets me down. (Translation: I haven't scored in two weeks. I need to get laid to satisfy my manly urges and desires. You, lucky girl, you.) I wonder if I will ever find the one I am looking for. (Translation: you could be this one, you luckiest woman on the planet.) Then he smiles a kittenish smile while 'accidentally' touching skin, and you really want to smack his face because he's such a douchebag, especially those perfect teeth are begging for your knuckles, but the lower part of your body has a very different opinion on the whole matter.

Kyo: (Looks at you mystified, then points at a random direction with a barely audible polite whisper:) That way. (Meaning "to the ladies' room".)

Line to make them fall for you:

Gackt: No line. He likes his women mute anyway. Just IGNORE the bastard, ignore him with all your might and fury.

Kyo: ??? Perhaps using a baseball bat would be more effective than any line I can presently think of.

SEXUAL ARENA

Size matters:

Gackt: I'll be damned if I know. Then again, he's Japanese, so what the hell do you expect down there, the Tokyo Tower?

Kyo: He's tiny. I surely hope he's not tiny everywhere. I think in his case you are in for a surprise. Now, whether this will be a pleasant or nasty surprise, we can all pray to the Phallus god. And buy a strap-on just to be on the safe side.

About giving you oral:

Gackt: *twitches his -plastic surgery- perfect nose in serious distaste.* Do what? Yes, I suppose I could do that, being an exceptional lover and all that, but why don't we try this other thing first? (My perfect face is NOT meant to be between the legs of ANY woman, you deluded moron! It is meant to be worshiped, photographed and depicted on magazines worldwide. JUST WHO do you think you are???)

Kyo: You don't ask him to give you oral. In fact, you don't speak at all. You just grab him by the hair and direct his head between your legs. Once down there, I have this very strong suspicion he knows very well what to do.

About you giving them oral:

Gackt: But of course. It took you some time, but you finally understood your purpose in life. That's the only fitting place for a woman anyway. In the bedroom, after she has satisfied all my manly desires. In the kitchen, while at the same time cooking a heavenly meal for me. In the living room, while I am sitting comfortably in my designer couch and she has just vacuumed. In the recording room, while I am writing yet another romantic song and need gentle inspiration. I think I will compose a new song now and perhaps even include you in my thanks section of my latest album.

Kyo: *blushes tomato red*

On scratches and bites:

Gackt: OW! (He jumps out of bed and runs to the bedroom mirror, strategically placed somewhere near bed to be able to watch himself while fucking you.) Are you CRAZY? You scratched my face(/back/arm/leg)!!! My beautiful face(/back/arm/leg)!!! I have a photo shooting in two days and this CAN'T be covered by make-up! Argh!!! (Don't be very surprised if he slaps you at that point and then ties you up, to make sure you won't be able to scratch him a second time.)

Kyo: OW! THAT felt good! (Then he either reverts to epileptic orc mode and starts fucking you as if there is no tomorrow, or he gets confused, thinks he is on stage and starts singing. Good luck with that.)

AFTER SEX

Gackt: Was it as good for you as it was for me? Of course. How could it not be? I am the perfect lover. Tomorrow I will make breakfast and bring it to bed, BLAH ME BLAH ME BLAH ME BLAH ME BLAH ME... ME ME ME ME ME ME, BLAH DE BLAH... (Just pretend you are asleep. It will save you.)

Kyo: Sleeps like a dead man, probably curled, snoring lightly and drooling on your pillow.

LINES YOU CAN SAY TO...

...make them marry you:

To Gackt: No lines. Zip it for the rest of your life. And read this blog entry from the beginning. Are you sure you want that? Now, I don't think you've been paying attention!

To Kyo: You know, I can scratch, slap and bite you like that EVERY time. Plus I love little fluffy animals. (There are pictures of Kyo nearly shitting himself with joy while petting doggies, cats, rabbits and the like.)

...make them run for dear life and never look back:

To Gackt: I think I am pregnant.

To Kyo: You know, I LOVE torturing and killing little fluffy animals. And hey, actually you look like one. Why don't you get some sleep now? You must be tired.

... make them dump you and possibly execute all your relatives as well:

To Gackt: Kyo from Dir en Grey does it better. Plus he's got a bigger dick than yours.

To Kyo: I have been cheating on you with Toshiya (another member of Dir en Grey) since the beginning of our relationship.

No meaning

2009-06-03T09:49:00.000-07:00

Sleep
sweet sleep
give me back my meaning
When the sky fails and the wind falls silent
silent croon of dreams
partner in crime
give me back my purpose
When reality refuses to hand over
what is rightfully mine,
give it to me and pry it back tenderly in the morning
from my unmoving fingers

Sleep
sweet sleep
Motherfather of all realities
sacred thread in the hands of the Weaver
open embrace of the divine
void between the heavens and the blood drenched soil
Give me back
the mind of a child,
the wonder filled eyes
and the open heart
of the miracle maker.

Restlesness

2009-05-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

For the past one month I have been on the lookout, continually deflecting psychic attacks from someone. "Attacks". Hmm. Not attacks. Not direct attacks. That would be a lie. Someone was "checking" me out after a reiki therapy I did to him. No problem with that. But then he decided to turn this into a power game. It was partly fun and partly stupid. Spells started flying at all directions. As soon as I realised what he was up to, doors were repeatedly shut at his face, to keep him off my case. He is perhaps as stubborn as a mule enraged by a three hour beating, if more. Amazing, I said to myself.

I closed all the doors I have to my conscious self.
He went dreamwalking.
I shut him off my dreams.
He wove spells.
I tore them apart.
He used other people trying to once more reach me.
I shut those doors too. On top of that I had to give therapies to those people as they were contaminated by his shitty energy. Power games= ego= left path energy= shit energy.
We reached the point of him using one of his friends to borrow energy in order to re-open the doors to me.
Ah, great, but sorry my friend, I have a water dragon who acts as my protector and I did not even ask him to; he simply wants to. I did not need his help, I think I could put you both down singlehanded if needed, but he butted in anyway. You see, he too received help by me and he feels obliged to protect what he understands as a woman against two men. Different mentality I suppose.

And the grand finale? The discovery I made three days ago about a spell blocking my erotic life. It was then that I've had it with this person and finally got permission to explain to him a few things up close and personal. I never attack, I always deflect and ignore. But this time it was different. I have no idea exactly what I did to him, but I know he deserved it. I hope it was very painful for his pride. I do know two things; one, he got me furious and he should have avoided that because I only helped him, and two, there is possibility of him being in the hospital right now. This second thing I hope is not true, but he should let sleeping tigresses lie, not step on their tails repeatedly.

I'll keep my ears perched, and if he indeed is at hospital I'll give him another therapy. *snigger* :-P

I don't want to be funny.

2009-05-23T12:48:00.000-07:00

I have thought of two different funny posts but I don't feel like being funny. I will be funny some time in the future, when the stars are right. In the past days the stars are right only for biting off people's heads. Judging by their behavior, they don't need them anyway. They are just empty spaces, well aired and with plenty of light inside, due to their ears and eyes.

It is amazing. I am sitting at the kiosk. Some guy in his sixties comes whenever walking his dog and tells me he is the son of god, this is why he will be elected Prime Minister. It is valid the other way round too, from what he says. He will become Prime Minister and this proves he is the son of god. He gets very insulted if I don't agree, so I agree. He also tells me he will make sure I start working in the TV. Okay.

Another thing that defies my common sense. I sell chocolates at the kiosk. The weather has the tendency to change from one day to the next, from cool to rather hot or even stifling. So I had not placed the chocolates in the fridge yet. A lady comes, buys a chocolate and after one minute returns it and tells me "this chocolate is soft". Yes madam, chocolate has the tendency to be soft when the weather is hot, dunno why your brain cannot inform you this is the case. Unless it is not chocolate and it is cement or soap neatly wrapped in a chocolate wrapper, the chocolate WILL BE SOFT WHEN IT IS ALMOST THIRTY FUCKING CELSIUS DEGREES OUT THERE! Does it take more than half a fuckhead's brain to realise this? Unless you expect YOUR chocolate in particular to be an exception to this universal rule. Don't know how this is achieved. Perhaps with a negative gravity field installed in each separate chocolate, with tachyons running around to keep YOUR chocolate cool and dandy. If you find out how the hell this is done, I am interested. I want to install one such system exactly between my legs, to keep my pussy cool and well-aired. There are days in the summer that if I remove my underwear and wring it, I can fill a bucket with the sweat. So it would be perfect. I can already visualize the effect. The gentle breeze making all those cobwebs down there fly like white sheets, washed and placed on the line. All we need is Monica Belucci placing those sheets on the line and we have an Italian drama for the next century. But this is just a humble kiosk and not NASA, so I would appreciate it if you did not expect chocolates to behave like insistent hard-ons when the heat is abnormal even for Amazon Indians. Is this too much to grasp?

I hate summertime. I hate the heat. The sun is kicking my retinas as if it's trying to score for the World Cup. Everything stinks. The garbage bins stink, my dogs stink, people stink. They are too manly for deodorant in this country. You walk into the bus and there is an array of exposed armpits waiting to get you, due to their owners happily holding the roof handles. It's like walking into the Prom of Ninja Academy. Silent and deadly, all of them, gathered to make you pay. Attacking you relentlessly, mercilessly. You can even smell their lunch in the armpit odor. Garlic. Salami. Onion. A true joyride. WHY? Why spend the summer in Greece to have every idiot kung fu my nostrils because he had an argument with his bathtub? And when I finally go home and lie exhausted on the warm sheets, my nine kilo (twenty pounds) fluffy orange tom cat comes and sits on my face. NO. Absolutely NOT. I am not Hugh Hefner and you aren't the 2009 Playmate, mate. Go sit somewhere else. Like the other end of the room in the exact opposite part of the house. You are adorable but too hot.

BETRAYAL! This is, after all, a funny post.

I need to get laid. I need to get laid. I need to get laid. You wouldn't have been able to tell, would you now?

Days pass by

2009-05-12T11:41:00.000-07:00

Nights pass by
divided between prince charming and the monster
Thoughts pass by
I do not heed them
Strangers inside my own head
Go away
Go away
I do not want to know
I clutch my ears shut and yet the screaming never stops
A little girl crying at the back of my head
Go away
Go away
I know your true intentions
My own flesh and body no longer belong to me
Just let me be

What will it take to tear you off
what will it take to strangle you into darkness
Erase you from my skin
What will it take to kill you, delete you, plunge you into hell
What will it take

Angels
and yet they come uninvited
Monsters
and yet they beg for permission
Strangers
they smile to me with all their heart
My own blood
with the leer of a sadistic madman
No longer, no longer, no longer

Please
between the comfort of my own two arms
tightly trapping me in a self-embrace
with my nails dug in my own skin
Please
Please
please promise to that little girl
that will never stop crying
Please promise her
Promise me
All I need is a promise
And I swear I will go on
I swear I will pretend I forgot
Please
I am begging you
Between my scratches in my own skin
Slip gently late at night
Invade me silently
Invade me tenderly
Travel on my body
like a leaf tumbling on the balcony
Promise me
promise me
promise me

That you will make me forget
that you will make me yours
that you will make me mine again.

I cannot yell any louder
I cannot hope any longer
I cannot ignore this anymore

Please be there when the time comes.

Farewell

2009-05-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

I wish I had more actual things to refer to rather than dreams and happenings in other planes of existence. It's not that I disregard those. I am fully aware of the importance of dreams and how they are as valid as "real" life, if not more. It is myself I have a problem with concerning dreams. I can't help but think of myself as a miserable idiot counting dreams instead of actual deeds. Which is funny, as I always go for the quote "as above, so below." I know that all changes happen to the inside first and then the environment, what we call "reality", changes to adapt to ourselves. Dreams are as important as real life, they are a second life, much more attuned to the divine spark inside than daily existence. And yet, when it comes to my dreams, my experiences, I always question my motives. "Question my motives". Yeah, in the manner of a officer of SS interrogating a saboteur.

"Perhaps you WISH to be able to do what you think you are doing."
"Maybe you LOVE to live your little personal dramas and you are nothing more than a DRAMA QUEEN addicted to her own pain, real or imagined."
"Oh yeah, let's SUPPOSE you did that. I you were THAT powerful, don't you think your life would be different?"
"Of COURSE that happened. Who do you think you are, the next fucking MESSIAH? Wake up from your reverie little deluded girl, you are not Buddha with boobs."

No-one can be as merciless as I am. Nobody can hurt me the way I do. None can pull the carpet from under my two feet the way I do it. I am unforgiving to myself. I grew up learning to disregard anything that I could not prove, under continual suspicion of me being incapable of dealing with reality. I learned not to trust my instincts and thoughts, not to pay attention to gut feelings unless there was a practical usefulness to them. And there was none. I am still fighting tooth and claw to UNLEARN these things. The power of conditioning is just beyond description. There are times I have hurt myself physically, I have reduced myself to nothing, absolutely nothing, while the voice of the interrogator kept spitting accusations non-stop, hitting me under the belt in the manner only I myself am capable of. Nice, isn't it? Your own private tormentor installed within your head thanks to your family, married with you and living happily ever after inside your thoughts, chewing at your self-esteem until you go stark mad. Until you want to knock your head on the wall to fall unconscious and make that cold, precise, merciless voice SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP.

Today was hard. Very hard.

The only way you can regain control of your life is unlearn these patterns and conditionings. All manners of crazy things take place during that process, ranging from trivial to unbearable. Usually the installed "program" starts to behave like a virus, attacking the host, making you feel like you have gone bananas. Outbursts of violence towards one's self are not unusual either. I have experienced very interesting side effects. However, I am a very stubborn person. No-one will have control over me to the degree this is possible. And certainly not my ego, not my patterns and other people's misconceptions installed inside me. Therefore, I cringe my teeth and onwards I march, pressing it to the end. I will get rid of this shit from my head. I need to be free! I need to reclaim my being from three disturbed people that are my family. If I am to be disturbed, at least I will be serving my own vices and the voices of my own head, not theirs.

I feel like I am walking in a desert during a terrible sandstorm. I almost have no idea where the ground and where the sky is. I am continuously attacked by howling winds, I cannot see a fucking thing, the sand is inside my mouth, eyes and nostrils, my tongue is so dry that it feels like a piece of cotton wool, my lips are split from the heat and sand and I taste my blood every time I open them, I cannot swallow and the sun batters my head mercilessly in spite of the goddamn wind. I stumble on, having no idea whether I am on the right track or not and no proof this is the right decision. I mumble and curse on the inside, feeling a growing despair that since I have no way to verify my direction perhaps I am walking towards the center of this desert instead of the oasis. Needless to say, if this is true, I am as good as dead. And yet I have no choice, I need to press on. I cannot live with myself the way these people have distorted me.

This is the problem with the journey of self-discovery. There are no guarantees, there is no safety net, no assurances, no do-it-yourself little help book with directions. "Here be dragons" and I knew it. With that in mind, someone would have expected I would take any and every scrap of help I could summon. But this is my journey, my soul's journey. Other people cannot help. And today was particularly hard for me because I knew what had to be done. This beautiful creature that came to me some time ago, this water dragon that had encircled himself around me like a ring of protection, had to go. He came to help, and his intentions are pure, and he wanted to show his gratefulness for the therapies. And more than anything else, more than sanity itself, I NEEDED him to be here. I needed him to be close to me, not because I cannot protect myself, but because I am so lonely that it feels like actual physical pain. A pain like someone is tearing off bits of my soul. I needed his being here because he is the only one who has approached me to protect me and soothe me in any way he can, although he cannot soothe his own pain. And I needed his being here because I need a companion more than dear breath, this agony inside cannot be ignored anymore. I knew I could trust in him. And once more I took the hard way, once more I did what felt right. I asked him to go away because I have to go through this alone. He did not want to go away. He even thought I rejected his help, which god/dess knows it is not true. However, he needs to learn to love himself for what he is, not because he is useful to others. And I need to concentrate on here and now. He is not here now, he is not an actual person in my life. Perhaps one day he will be a real person, someone in arm's distance. Someone that can curl next to me in bed and will sleep with his breath caressing my arm and I can smooth his hair and watch over him, just like he did for me. But this is not now. The desert is now.

Will you ever forgive me for sending you away?

The name of the game

2009-05-02T12:56:00.000-07:00

[A note concerning the video. All the wounds on the singer's body are self-inflicted. Please DO NOT WATCH IT if you are put off by such a thing. And while you are at it, don't read the entry either. It will be of disturbing quality.]

There is sadness and sadness.
There is sadness that is a temporary wave, a fleeting, passing fragility, like a moth touching one's cheek on the way out of a room. And there is sadness that has those roots that reach down, down within, entwined and thick and tightly enclosing one's soul in a lover's embrace, in an odd unbreakable love knot. You learn to love this second kind of sadness because you cannot part with it. You cannot tear off those roots without tearing bits of yourself, whole chunks of your being, without denying what you, essentially, are. "What brought you here". What shaped you into your present form. God/dess forbid I would ever refer to the emo movement. No. I am talking about the sadness of poets, visionaries, artists, of those mad, broken and burned beyond repair. Those who have lost too many loved ones, those molested or regularly violated, those who see things. It is the inevitable sadness when the world you see with the eyes of your inside has absolutely nothing in common with what you see around you. The feeling that makes you kneel and moan because it essentially means your very being is forever branded with the mark of isolation.

I have always loved my sadness like the leper learns to love what cannot be changed. This does not mean I enjoy it. There are days I would give anything within my possession to be able NOT to share my life with this permanent visitor. Yet I try not to complain, for I see things and taste emotions on the overdrive exactly because of it. Happy or not happy, I always overflow with feelings. My joy is violent like a drug; my melancholy deep like red wine. Madness, when it strikes, is a tidal wave. It sweeps me off my feet and sends me sprawling on the floor. One such night I took the right turn by accident. That's what I want to refer to tonight.

Some months ago I was on the floor of my room, tearing at my hair. It was well in the a.m. and I was trying to mute my screaming in something that would not make the people of the second floor jump out of their beds in horror. The joy of flats- one is not even allowed to scream and yell their pain out. As a result I was down on the floor letting gurgling sounds, while breathlessly punching things and flailing. My crises are quite clockwork; the pain builds and builds and just has to be released somehow. This leads to me simply losing it. However, that night was different. Because I did something I have never done before. I started writing things on my arm using a razor. "I need you. I am in hell. Where are you? Please help me." Those words were aimed at someone out there whose name and face I do not know, but I do know he (or perhaps she) is looking for me, needing me in the same way I need them. What my lips would never speak out loud was written in blood, because I cannot escape forever my need for another being in my life. Still I will probably never say these words to another human being. I simply cannot, in the same way I cannot reach into that part of my heart and claw till I tear off that need. I would if I could; trust me. So I wrote what I will never say. Writing, after all, is my precious bane.

Much to my surprise there was a response. In a dream. My dreams are a huge map of the impossible and the improbable, trapping things from the ether and dragging them all the way down in this reality. What arrived was an answer to my distress signal but I only realised now, that more things have fallen into place. And it's still far from being real, but at least now I know what it is about. Or do I?

In that dream, a gigantic being landed on my rooftop, almost making the building collapse under its weight. A dragon. Light orange and light cypress green on a beast that looked like a crossover between a Chinese dragon and a koi, those sweet Japanese goldfish. Huge fins that almost resembled wings, floating around him like fabric. He levitated effortlessly in mid-air, like swimming in heavens instead of the sea. He was following me around throughout the dream and I thought that he wanted me to do something for him. I am used to that. People coming to me and asking for things, never giving anything back. With the exception of my very close friends, that's what happens. I only recently managed to shift my perception concerning that matter and comprehended for the first time that he had arrived to help me and not the other way around.

So, a water dragon came to stay. He was the only one taking my therapy and offering something back, pressing me to accept his help. He is also the only one whose intentions are pure. He made me wake up crying just one night ago for he is even more unused to accepting love than I am. Like a tree that prefers not to drink water or a fish that tries to swim on the pavement. I was crying over the roots of that tree, begging it to drink the water I was offering it, shifting the soil at its roots which was bone-dry like sawdust. Mingling tears with the water I was pouring, knelt on the soil and sobbing from the deepest core of my soul. "Please drink. You will die. Please drink, I am begging you. Drink. You will die if you don't. I am begging you." Woke up with my chest into a knot, but the soil was moist. Perhaps he will drink. Perhaps he will not. I cannot help him understand. I can only love with no strings attached like I always do for all people and hope for the best for each of us, whether I will ever meet him in flesh or not.

The night after the therapy to him, I went to the rooftop for a while. The night sky was clear and beautiful. Only two clouds were visible- two oddly shaped clouds that looked like two fabulous beasts chasing each other.

"And to the winding vines
the pretty boys dive
And thru the pinhole stars
into the shadow mind
Will you lose him then
on some gentle dawn
This boy is here
and gone."

Smashing Pumpkins

Small steps

2009-04-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

Tattoo number two is at place. Now both forearms are decorated on the inside, in a rather unusual way for a girl. Then again, I am a rather unusual girl from what I gather.

I am sick and tired of those who come to me with problems they have absolutely no intention of solving and then get mad when I tell them so. It happened today. Then again, I have no patience and I owe no-one explanations. They can just take their leave from my life. I am not expecting anyone to solve their problems. But I surely expect them to keep them for themselves since they love them so much that they can't part with them. I have enough of my own. The fact I tend to keep them for myself or talk about them only to people I trust does not mean I have no problems. So let's try not to screw my nerves and turn them to shreds, eh? I'd appreciate it.

I've hit rock bottom concerning things I want to do. I mostly let things happen to me. And things do happen. Short stories and poems, fights because I am forced to reclaim my space and kick intruders out, little creatures coming out to greet me and me shitting myself (hehe, some occult practitioner that I am XD ), total strangers considering me a blessing while friends are turning to strangers, or are rediscovered as the weeds that they are. Life goes on with me following suit. And there is nothing I want to do anymore. Perhaps this is trust- perhaps I am dead and rotting while still conveniently walking around. However I am calmer than what I have been in years. I suppose this is as good a compass as any.

Now all I have to do is find a way to lose my tummy so that I can once more fit in tighter pants. Maybe I can forget it in a bar and someone else will accidentally pick it up? :-D

Baffled and bewildered

2009-04-26T14:03:00.000-07:00

That fucking thing called pure intentions. Oh that goddamn elusive chimera, so important for those needing to sleep peacefully at night. How can anyone be certain of good intentions when our mind pulls the blindfold over our eyes while whispering seductively in our ear, sweet talking us into yet another little game with our familiar toys? Mind games and other people, power games, games of possession, obsession, victimization. The promise that if we play the game the pain will stop or be forgotten. And the sweet shiver down our spine, the tingling inside our loins. He or she fell for me. He or she mistreated me. I am powerful/ I am a victim of circumstance. I am the one in control. I control my possessions/ I control my misfortunes. I choose my toys/ I choose who's gonna turn me into a toy. I will make myself crazy/ other people will make me crazy.

Good intentions. Not pure intentions. The way to hell is paved with good intentions. Literally. Good intentions can be a one way ticket to hell for both doer and receiver of the action. I know all these things. Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is what makes good intentions nearly lethal and so immaculate in the eyes of the doer/decider. I know all those things. And yet there is one thing I cannot see in a situation, one blind spot that makes all the difference, and I'll be damned if i can see it. I know I will. Ask and you shall receive. And I asked. But damn all the mainstream monotheistic guilt-ridden religions of the multiverse, I cannot see it YET. It drives me nuts. Hell and damnation! Being evil is certainly less trouble! At least I would be able to indulge in power games (which I sooooo love) without my conscience throwing fits and tantrums that there is something I cannot see. I would be able to violate lots of underage Asian boys as well, to the point of them always screaming my name when they have an exceptional orgasm. Always and forever. Till their last fucking days. Arghhhhhh!

I'm reading lots of English grammar lately. Perhaps this is to blame for my condition???

The symptoms

2009-04-19T11:20:00.000-07:00

"Hello. I'm French."
"Hello. I'm sleepy."
(My reply to the guy who was trying to get my attention on a recent night out.)

The symptoms are easily recognised. I get a feeling of desire without a specific target, combined to uneasiness and restlessness. Then I want to listen to mushy songs in youtube and don't really want to reply to my emails, but still I want to write. What does this mean? It means another blog entry is in the making. Rejoice, oh crowds. I am back. And damn, I wanted to keep my silence a little longer. Make you miss me.

The Dir en Grey cds arrived. They sodomized and vandalized my ears. They violated my sense of appropriateness and dragged my aesthetic criteria into mud, shit and vomit. They even made me write dark poetry, full of gore and corpses. Now I have one more purpose in life. I've got to see them live! And donate my nice boobs to the holy purpose of shoving short, ugly Japanese singers on them, to comfort, soothe and pet the aforesaid singers. There, there sweetheart. It can't be that bad. Here's a pair of exceptionally nice boobs for you to rest your face on. See how good that feels? Now stop screaming your little black velvet heart out, stop scratching yourself till you bleed. Rest for a while. Sleep too if you want. I don't mind.

[Damn. Having said this, Kyo (the singer of Dir en Grey) is SO short that I have the impression that I will need to first put him on a stool and then shove him on my boobs.You gotta love this possessed little pixie.]

I recently had a interesting conversation with Mr Osram. Mr Osram is a very sweet supernatural entity, whom my best friend has nicknamed thus. He (she?) is a fellow lunatic member of the ones that decided to land flat on their ass down here on this miserable planet. So here is a part of the "conversation" (me nagging and him/her listening without complaining).

"...I mean, this sucks. I am not cut for this. I don't get along with flesh. Flesh and I are just not compatible. I feel like a goldfish on a fucking bicycle. What am I supposed to do here? I am offered all these gifts in this recent incarnation and still I can do shit. Look at me. I have an exceptional voice, my writing ability surpasses by far what many of the so-called professional writers out there can manage, I can practice reiki on perfect strangers living in fucking Australia, even my doodles are better than what some deviantart members upload, and what do I do? I am working in a kiosk and putting up with morons and eejits on a daily basis, only to return home to have terrible rows with my mother. I don't have a sexual or social life. I use nothing of what I have. I live every day of my life trying to give the best I have and at the end of the day, nothing changes. What a fucking waste of flesh, breath and resources. I want to die, Mr Osram. I really want to die. Don't get me wrong, you know I don't mean commit suicide or hurt myself, but somehow find myself in spirit again. Not in flesh. Fly again like I used to. I am sick and tired of this shit. I am not cut for this, I swear I am not. I feel pity for everyone and compassion for the entire human race, even for so and so (referring to two people who have done some really nasty things to me). But I am tired, Mr Osram. This is not what life should be like! This pitiful existence is NOT life. When I was a kid I imagined that life at this age would be full of beautiful moments with my friends, with something new and wondrous every day. Not necessarily buying something, but you know, something silly, like trying a new flavor of ice-cream, watching a new movie, talking about a new experience or book, seeing a new flower blooming in my garden. And this... thing, this life that I am living is just killing me, I can't take it. *starts sobbing* I want to die, Mr Osram. I don't want to die literally, but even if I died I would not mind, I have made my peace. I just can't take more of this ...life. I want to move on. Please help me. Show me what I need to do to change my life situation. I can't continue. I have started inspecting buildings when I walk the dogs, trying to locate those with the many stories and wondering if the door to their rooftops will be locked, in order for me to jump from there. This is not me. Please help me."

The worst thing is that I know what needs be done. I need to continue doing what I do, which is, live this kind of life. Typical contradiction of reality. In order to change things, you have to continue doing what you already do without any visible change. All changes are happening inside, that wonderland of despair and Japanese singers sleeping peacefully on my boobs (probably holding them and drooling on them, while the rest of the band around the bed play soft melodies.)

Thank god/dess for my sense of sarcasm, because there is an awful lot of tall buildings in my area.

D'ah!

2009-04-07T10:09:00.000-07:00

[Photo by lesta.deviantart.com]

God/dess give me strength!!!

This will be a rant. Be prepared. Both feet firmly on the ground and off Elizabeth goes like a rocket screaming GAAAARHHH! Picture the incredible Hulk with brown hair and olive skin, blogging and cursing like a sailor who got shat on by a flying cow.

I need to express something or I'll burst. Can someone please explain to me why some people have a prison inside their heads instead of brains? I suppose there is no answer to this question. But still. My rant will be sex and gender related. Any of you gay "sensitive", meaning homoerotic material offends you? Then buzz off, for this will insult you and neither of us needs that. Plenty of other blogs to read! Shoo!

HOW can someone use the characterization "disgusting" in relation to sex practices concerning two conseding adults? How can ANYONE pass judgment on what other people do and enjoy? How can someone JUDGE other people because of this? I understand someone saying- well, that's not my cup of tea, or, boy, that's something that really must hurt, I'd never try it. Or even something stronger than this. But how can you call another human being sick because he likes the same sex as themselves, for example? Why is this thing sick? In what sense? How can you disregard and badmouth another person just because you are different? Why so much fear and hatred for something that is not enforced or practiced on you and at the end of the day it's none of your goddamn business? I will never understand this.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love...
*sigh* It's useless. But I'll try to put it to words anyway.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love, reality is shut off. I lock it out of the room with a kick on its butt. There is NO reality save for the reality of two bodies. No time, no space. Reality begins and ends on the other's flesh. I do not see gender there. I do not see genitals. I see only soul and desire, I see need and heat. I touch the other person the way I would touch a statue I wish to bring to life. I kiss and caress them from head to toes, I love them and accept them and thank god/dess for the chance I was granted to merge for another soul, for as long as this is meant to be. I see their skin responding to touch, their heartbeat racing, their bodies blooming like flowers, opening like wings, unfolding like miracles. I see them lost in the sensation, for body is meant to be pleased regardless of sex, size and shape. I feel them entering another realm, in which there is no mind, no thoughts, only submission to mortality. "With you inside me comes the knowledge of my death." I live to make them scream and cry from pleasure, I live to hold and embrace them and make them forget death, make them forget tomorrow, make them short-circuit and drown in desire so much that they transcend flesh. I am the universal Mother that gave birth to them and held them like their mother perhaps never did; I am Death, letting them know through orgasm what it means to lose control of one's body. This is what my gender is originally meant to do, impersonate compassion, mystery and death. Be as the great Ocean, suck them in, cover them fully, claim them whole and eventually guide them back out, safely on the shore. Blow their fucking brains out, send them sky high and catch them on the way down. Finally let them sink into sleep, smoothing their hair with kisses, letting them know they are safe between the sheets.

How can anyone call this disgusting?

The wheel

2009-04-04T13:46:00.000-07:00

The wheel turns on and on.

We have met before. Why should this surprise me?

We have craved each other again. Why does it have to hurt so much?

We were to be husband and wife.

Both killed on our wedding day.

Never touched each other.

And now I am here and you are there.

Unable to touch each other.

I thought I am crazy, deluding myself. Just a miserable thirty year old woman who, incapable of having a real life, weaves dramatic tales to satisfy her ego. But my best friend met us both in dream time yesterday. Two Chinese teenagers on their wedding day. Painfully young. Soon to be husband and wife. We talked with him in dream time. Today that he told me about the dream without knowing what it was I thought my heart would stop. This isn't my wishful thinking.

Why do past stories have to hurt that much?

"Future's out to get you all."

Why do we have to go through fire and sword? What comes out of so much pain and unjustified cruelty? Why do we have to find each other just to be snuffed out like candles before we even touch?

The wheel turns on and on.

Perhaps in this lifetime the cycle will close and old scores settled.

Please. I beg you. If we meet again, don't break my heart.

There we go again.

2009-04-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

Once more I find myself accidentally linked with someone and giving them a reiki therapy without ever intending to do so. This is the third time this is happening to me with this person. I think he should place an aetheric block around himself from now on, to avoid me spamming him with therapies. Ha-ha. They are worse than uninvited farts, these therapies. Always coming out of the blue and manifesting in a very inconvenient manner. You just get them whether you want them or not.

On a more realistic note, I am trying to discover if it is me attracting all this shitty mood and the feeling of imprisonment to myself, in order to first understand WHY and then stop it.

On a humorous tone, I think Buddha should be watching his back from now on because I am dangerously close to enlightenment. Can you possibly beat the flaky Greek oh Buddha? Do you have what it takes?

Sure, Buddha said. My tummy is bigger than yours and I laugh all the time. Beat this! Ha! Eat my dust!

Damn. You win! But heed my words: perhaps I need to dye myself blue and walk around in a loincloth, but this shall not pass!

I will soon be the proud owner of the entire Dir en Grey discography. If any of you have seen the videos I have embedded on my blog, you probably think they are a rather mild and melodic band. I thought so too, until I saw those videos in you tube that, ahem. You do know how disgusting and wrong Marilyn Manson can get, right? Well take the grotesque factor of MM and multiply it by three, then add plenty of disgust points because they are Japanese (and we all know how disgusting and wrong they can be, I suppose?). It is a full scale visual attack accompanied by blood curling screeches by the singer who does his best to look like a grotesque pixie covered in self inflicted scratches. What's worse, those screams are interchanged with vocals of breathtaking sweetness and feeling, while a teenager kills his father with a golf club, fiddles with the fingers and other body parts of his dead mother slumped on the dinner table, and cockroaches walk around. In the second video the singer vomits with his face half covered by torn black stockings, band members play between hanged corpses, geisha demon women with black teeth covered in a sticky substance vomit blood and please each other, one guitarist pulls his heart out and starts chewing on it and other such visual treats or horrors, depending on someone's point of view, take place.

Damn! They are cooler than Yeti, Buddha said. You have to dig this shit.

That's exactly my sentiments oh Enlightened one. Hence buying their discography.

Anyone who wants to watch those two videos should use these links:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9WWL5kDhwo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxP4R6F-etQ

Just don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Desert made of glass

2009-03-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

There are days I would do anything to be able to touch you.
It feels like I am stranded in a desert but this desert is made of glass.
It is cold and dry at the same time.
Nothing grows here.

Glass is something comforting.
It keeps me safe.
I live behind glass.
Blood is the only proof of my existence.

Blood spattered on the glass.
Blood filling my mouth with its sickly sweet taste.
Blood between my legs, mocking me, speaking of the possibility of birth.
Nothing grows here.

I still carry messages scribbled on my flesh.
I hope the mark will never fade.
It was honest. A sacrifice made in the quest for knowledge.
And just like Ulysses, I found the way home.

But Ulysses left everyone behind.
The dead claimed more than just animal blood after all. No-one made it home.
Only Ulysses. More dead than alive.
Knowledge presupposes a voyage. The voyage asks for a sacrifice. Blood.

[Oh yes, I am aware of going round in drunken circles.]

I found my home. It is built in the middle of a glass desert.
The blood paints the walls and vaguely reminds me that there is a way out.
Eventually it dries and becomes a powder that flakes off.
I watch it fall on the ground. Dust to dust.

There are days I would do anything to be able to touch you.
It feels like I am stranded in a desert but this desert is made of glass.
It is cold and dry at the same time.
Nothing grows here.

[Tears are too salty to make flowers grow.]

She said she found relief in my words.
She said she read them again and again.
Blood makes them grow out of me like thorny flowers.
At least their fragrance soothed you, for it cannot soothe me...

Much to tell, nothing I can write about here...

2009-03-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

[photo by lesta.deviantart.com]

Okay. Here we go. Just a bit, to keep both me and you happy. Or perhaps hungry.

Thought that has been pestering me for the past two days and need to get it out: to make a specific someone close his eyes and start breathing lightly on the soft skin over his eyelids. Then touch him with my lips. Not kiss him. Caress him with my mouth, let him feel the breath, the source of heat inside the mouth, a bit of the wetness inside. Open my mouth and use the lower lip to leave just a hint of that wetness on the light curve of the eyelid. You know how when we close our eyes all our senses are augmented; so just imagine lying on bed with your eyes shut and feeling this. Another human being on top of you, breathing lightly over your eyes. You can hear their breath, the light rustle of their body as they move on bed, limbs and cloth on the covers, the shifting of weight. Their smell close to you- clean clothes and clean body. The heat of another body close to yours. The way your entire body craves more touch, but all you can feel is the ghost of touch over your eyes. No fingers. No body. Nothing testifying that there is another someone close to you save for a breath. It could have been a hallucination. Right?

When the clothes are off, so many people lose most of their charm.
I think you'd shine from the inside.
There is a core in you that shines like the rarest diamond, dulled only by the fire of egotism.
But angels have always been egotistical creatures, presuming their way is the only way, presuming they know everything. Why should you be any different?
You belong to the order of death and messages.
I am a wildcard as you yourself discovered recently. One of the first. Crazy lot, those ones.
I don't think we can get along. Or rather we can. The ocean will swallow you whole just like you fear and let you on the coast once more, half drowned and weak like a newborn kitten.
You've done this once already. The second time might just kill you.
Perhaps you should step back this time.

I feel like doing something stupid tonight.

2009-03-20T12:40:00.000-07:00

But I have no idea what this could be.

Sometimes I wish I had superpowers just so that I could jump from one rooftop to the next when I am THAT much bored. Or land next to some irritating fuckhead in the middle of the night to make them pee in their pants. Yet if we keep in mind that I am about as fit as your average sloth, I would end up beaten up as well as used to wipe the floor clean. What a super-heroine...

If it was early I would probably dress up and walk the streets. Or go buy some ice-cream. It does not matter that I am alone. I can always take a book with me and eat my ice-cream dressed like a medieval lady... But it is not that early to begin with and I am too bored.

The sense I miss more than anything else when I wake up is flying. And what pisses me off more than anything else is my inability to bring specific items from over there to over here. No matter how hard I try to concentrate and how firmly I grab them in the dream world, I fail to bring them over here. I often open my eyes and start looking furiously on my pillow, under my bed, under the covers. No success as of yet. But I am stubborn. Or motivated, if you prefer.

I feel a bit inclined to blow the universe tonight. However I did blow it in the afternoon and I think once is enough. The energy blast must have rearranged reality on a global scale. Hey, don't you give me that look. When we change ourselves, that minute portion of reality that we have power over, we change the entire universe. So no sympathy looks for my mental condition, thank you very much. The only side effect of my type of reiki/magic/sex on reality is the number of times I visit the restroom afterwards. Small price to pay. No alien invasion, no going insane (at least more than what I already am), no R'lye rising from the watery abyss. Hell, not even the electricity bill paid by magic. This is some shitty magic that I practice. Literally.

At least I re-read something that made me smile. Neil Gaiman has written some very small short stories to describe fifteen cards from a vampire tarot. Those texts are published as introduction to 'The art of Vampire the Masquerade' by White Wolf. My favourite is the one he wrote for the Tower.

The Tower

The tower's built of spit and spite,
Without a sound, without a sight.
The biter bit, the bitter bite.
(It's better to be out at night.)

I know it does not necessarily ring any bells for you, but it does for me. Who knows why certain things affect us the way they do? Yet the more I look at it the more it makes me smile. A perfect short story. Ideas waiting to be used. The word and sound play of the third line. Ah... Just perfect.

I have not role played for five years now. Time is there to remind us to be on our toes.

Maybe I should try to type a short story I wrote last December. I know at least one person who would love to read it. Perhaps she is crazy, but she says she wants to read it. So why not.

I am confused.

2009-03-18T14:08:00.000-07:00

I invoked the demon of bad humor to possess me about five minutes ago. But I do not feel that evil tingling in my stomach and spine that tells me the demon is here yet. Perhaps s/he is busy helping lawyers worldwide. Therefore I will busy myself too and burn some more incense and frilly underwear later.

I am stranded at the net cafe right now, and though I want to go home and take a nice hot relaxing shower, lie face down on my bed with my fat cat purring next to me and a book placed on my pillow, I can't. My mother is at home. It is amazing; she can turn me from a disjointed, if harmless human being, to a curse spitting sonar screech emitting flailing berserker in milliseconds. So the net cafe it is. I don't go home before one in the morning that she's gone. I suffer from continual sleep deprivation thanks to her and my own stupidity. Because, when I finally go home, instead of dropping dead on my bed, I do such things as shower, enjoy long luxurious craps with my nose stuck in multicoloured magazines stashed in the sink for this exact purpose, squeeze pimples, try to understand why there is an empty box of pizza under a manga under some cds under my underwear under some other books on the bed with my cat sleeping on them, etc. I have developed amazing juggling skills. I can retrieve items from the pile I just described without disturbing the pile or the cat. I can even locate things after the appropriate ass scratching and pondering and sacrifices to the appropriate demigod. Usually this involves me ritualistically upturning heaps of items and throwing them at all directions while using colourful language and special gestures, such as pulling of my hair, banging my head on walls and closets -accidentally or otherwise-, pretending I have three legs in order to walk on the sea of items I have created without the tell tale crunching sounds informing me I have just stepped on a limited edition cd, balancing on the tiptoes of one leg while using both hands to hold onto place a avalanche of cds intend on surfing on my head AND holding some books with the other leg, etc. So after all the struggling usually it is very late and I sleep at 03:30 am instead of 01:00. Needless to say, the next day I have all the intellectual capacity of something that's been dead for four days and all the fluidity and grace in movement of a pregnant elephant. I am sure that one of these days my mother will come home early in the morning and will find me sat on the toilet, dead asleep, with my head resting on the sink, slowly drooling on the pages of the magazine I will still be holding and my cat sleeping on my back.

Not in the mood for jokes.

2009-03-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

I am in a weird state of mind.
Not exactly happy.
Not exactly sad.
Not very angry either. Once more I have managed to balance between the constant need to inflict violence and the overwhelming desire to be genteel in the way my family and close ones never were to me.

Time is pressing me. There is no such thing as time, time and space are illusions of the mammalian brain, and yet I am pressed for time. Isn't this ironic? One of the nicest things I read on a tea tag recently was "we are spiritual beings having a human experience." When my time comes, I will miss having a body, though I am not too certain what to do with it presently.

Watching the above video with gorgeous Gackt I can't help but wish I lived somewhere else. Somewhere or perhaps sometime I could pull a sword and hear that gut warming sound a perfectly balanced, razor sharp blade makes while unsheathed swiftly. The slashing and hissing of a good sword through air is a song I have missed, and something my soul still murmurs at nights between red dreams and vague memories.

I don't think I will ever forgive myself for choosing a female body this lifetime. I can understand the reasons, they are more than justifiable, but this doesn't make me hate it any less. I don't have a problem with my body per se, but I certainly have a very serious problem with the fact my sex needs to be penetrated in order to mate. I hate the man who sees me naked no matter who he is, I resent the hands that touch me for they defile me. I don't want to be entered. I do not want to have a vagina. I do not enjoy being the receiving part. It fills me with terror and rage to belong to the sex that has been systematically abused, forced, victimized and tortured for the fact we are designed to receive. I feel irate for the way this world treats my sex. Yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can stay away from relationships for the rest of my life; I have already been almost five years without one, but from a point onwards this is cowardice. And I am anything but a coward. I would rather be accused of being a serial killer than a coward.

I hate myself for desiring that which makes me sick. I hate myself for choosing to be incarnated and live the life I did. I'd rather be somewhere else. Give me a horse and a sword and a woman to love me and I would be nice to her in ways beyond imagination. Or give me just a sword and nothing else. Just let me be. I don't want to be female anymore. Or if I am to be female please take me somewhere else. I can't stand those creatures who call themselves men anymore. They turn my guts.

[Funny to consider the fact my best friend is male and he's one of the four most respectful people I know. It is not men I have a problem with. It is not men that are twisted out of shape and suffer for it, but society as a whole.]

eYE cANdy

2009-03-12T12:36:00.000-07:00

Today I feel artistic.

Truly artistic!

Chaos...

2009-03-10T14:56:00.000-07:00

There is nothing wrong with chaos. Chaos is a natural state of things. Much more natural than the fake, strict order we strive to enforce. If we just left chaos alone to do its job, perhaps we would comprehend how open it is to new realities/actualities and how perfect in its apparent lack of order. But people fear that which they cannot control or understand.

I am pretty much a chaotic disciplinarian, if that makes sense. I fight tooth and claw to let go of control, often with comic results. Control what? Myself, my environment, others? What for? To feel safe? The only certainty is change. The only certainty is death, the transmutation of energy in its purest form, the thing you can bet your ass will happen. All the rest are possibilities, actualities waiting to be shaped. Why not ride the wave of reality and let it take you? If you let it, you might discover it unerringly takes you where your soul needed to be all along.

So many people bother with the occult because they want to satisfy their silly little mind games and power games. They gather knowledge for the sake of knowledge and learn by heart the three million names of god and the correspondences of all the planets with all the whatever, the secret names of stringless beans of another dimension. They throw in physics, math, ritualistic sacrifices, their bed sheets as garments, their period and various chemicals of dubious nature. They fuck, or they don't fuck, or yell their guts out to make their chakra vibrate. They invoke spirits, dissect frogs, bleed their eyes out over birth charts, eat nothing or their own shit or someone else's shit, imported directly from the Himalayas. OK, if that does it for you, I suppose my opinion is irrelevant, but can I ask you one persistent question? Just one? Why? Why do you go through all this trouble since you haven't done any actual work on your relationship with yourself? How can you possibly be sailing to discover the miracles of faraway lands and kill their monsters when you have your own house dirty, undiscovered and in ruins? When monsters lurk under your bed at night and you have no fucking dignity to admit to yourself you are going through all this trouble to feel powerful- and therefore safe? You can be master of the fucking universe for all I care, but PLEASE, for the love of whatever you hold sacred, admit to yourself you are as afraid now as you were when you started out on your journey. Don't admit it to me. Don't even say it out loud. Grow a fucking will and leave the spirit manipulation for later on. Learn not to take everything personally, learn to trust in yourself, stay out of other people's way and then bother with love spells. Try to grow some personality and break your idiotic patterns and then learn to grow homunculi, or inflict curses. First be human and we'll see about superhuman...

I am not saying I have accomplished all these things myself. I have not. But at least I am not feigning ignorance; I know what my problem is and don't attribute it to outside forces, curses and opponents. The only target I have and the only thing I'm working on is myself. The outside will inevitably follow.

My beast is beautiful, my beast is gorgeous. And it loves me to its last breath...

Rest

2009-03-01T10:53:00.000-08:00

[To see the light failing inside someone's eyes, to feel their breath faltering on your fingers, to hear their very last heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.]

There's a monster on the loose inside me and it cannot be comforted, no matter what. No blood can sate its hunger. No entrails can fill its gut. No fingers can caress its claws and no kiss can put it to sleep. It wanders all alone inside my head, crying out its anger and loneliness, its hurt, its frustration, its disgust. And it only wishes for the pain to go away though it is made from that very substance. It is on the loose again, dining with empty words, feeding on lies, living off anger and fear. Pregnant with possibilities.

Come and embrace me. Your claws will hurt me. Your fangs will draw blood from my shoulder. Your breath will make me sick. It is okay. Come and embrace me, rest in my arms. There is one place you can call home now and forever more. I love you. I love me. Now sleep.

[The entire winter sky is dying inside your eyes as your soul departs.]

I am angry.

2009-02-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

I am angry because one of the people in my building is throwing away the courier notifications and two packets that I have ordered have arrived ten days now already and no-one told me. I am pissed off because I went against my personal code that more or less tells me to mind my own business and not interfere with other people's blogs and comments. In the aftermath, it feels like I have lost valuable time- and time is the only thing that cannot be replaced, bought or brought back. I am also pissed off because of a million other things- because of the person that calls herself my mother and she doesn't know how lucky she is I have not used a pillow to kill her in her sleep. I am raging mad at the fact people have a very sick idea of what human relationships should be like and consider this normal. I am hopping mad at the fact I have to deal with this really twisted way of viewing reality on a daily basis from all people save for four whom I consider actual friends. I am disappointed because I want to have more tattoos done and need to wait. I am disgusted by the fact some people consider a torrent of swearwords and flame the standard way of communication in internet, because they don't show their ugly mugs and don't use their real names, so it is safe to be insulting towards everyone else. I am even more mad at the ones who call themselves open-minded but the only humor they considered approved is their own. I am generally, totally officially and awfully ANGRY and know just the way to deal with it. I will listen to the two GazettE cds that arrived today a few more times and enjoy those pretty Japanese boys in action.

In other news, I am happy I have not yet succumbed to the sirens singing in my head to send a few people directly to their next incarnation. Because I am sure that if I want to, I can. Who will stop me? And it is not like they are offering something by being here, quite the contrary. But then again, the worst thing these people do to someone is turning them into a version of themselves. And I will serve no-one, not even my wrath. I will not change myself for their sake. I will not change myself for the sake of anyone but myself. I can see your faces, thinking, owwww, the poor thing probably broke a nail and she wants to kill the manicurist. Hahaha- I wish. I wish my problems were of this kind. I wish I was one of those unthinking blobs of meat out there. I wish the pain would stop. But the pain never stops. I wish I could at least befriend it but it keeps biting me, the damn thing.

Interesting.

2009-02-20T11:18:00.000-08:00

I think I have discovered a haunted place. I am not sure if this is the case but I don't really think there is any other way I can describe the feeling I got.

I went out for one of my usual night walks. I am always unafraid- perhaps I do not realise the possible danger I am in, walking the streets all alone after midnight. But the night winks at me and I wink back. I have never felt afraid that something might happen to me, on a physical level or otherwise. Yet as soon as I entered a particular street I felt afraid. I actually felt the beginning of disquiet before entering the street and this feeling of something not being right insisted throughout my walk in that street. I felt threatened. I kept looking around me, kept looking back, but there was no-one there. I first attributed my feeling of discomfort to the fact there are not many streetlights in that particular place. The darkness is insistent. Some of the lights are not working and there are not enough to begin with. Not many buildings either. Some older houses, some neglected spaces. But that was not the reason I felt discomfort. I am used to the darkness-it is no more than a passing thought usually while I am busy with my walking and soul searching at the same time. I am only careful not to knock my head against the lampposts because I'm so damn absentminded that I could be walking through all the walls of my area without understanding why the buildings collapse after my passing. Anyway, have you ever felt that someone is eyeing you in the absolutely wrong way? The kind of intense attention that it is the prelude of violence? That was the feeling I got that night. That someone was staring at me and waiting for the right moment to jump at me and ...well. Not give me flowers.

The sense of danger kept bugging me even after leaving that street. I did my tricks, called upon my hidden aces and yet whatever had spotted me seemed to be following me for a while. Then it left me alone. Of course I could not see or hear anything, but knew I had ruffled the feathers of the wrong something in there. Now I seriously consider returning there to look for more details, but I'm so organised, insisted and interested-NOT. Besides I have enough material in my life to already win the title of a supernatural circus of surrealism without adding a single pinch of anything.

Don't let me go to Japan!

2009-02-17T11:19:00.001-08:00

I am serious. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what it will take, but ban me from that country. And while you're at it, ban me from eBay as well.

Just imagine me there. Or rather don't. A sex starved, androgynous beauty devotee western girl unleashed on the streets of Japan. Like Hiroshima, Nagasaki, a Mongolian riding excursion and a banquet sponsored by Viagra and Dionysus all rolled in one and interrupted by deafening farting sounds. I get excited just by thinking about it. I am sure I will somehow spot Gackt. Or Uruha. I will sniff them. I will use my bionic super senses, trained to locate all hairless males with arms slimmer than mine and promising lips in a hundred mile radius. I bet they smell like cotton candy, hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla and cat fur. I will locate them and the entire police force of Japan won't be able to open my jaws, firmly secured around Gackt's underwear (with Gackt wearing it and struggling in vain, of course). They will lose so much manpower trying to get close and being repelled by a mysterious poisonous gas that makes even gas masks melt that they'll decide to let me have him and that will be the end of it (and him). I will drag him unconscious to my lair and lick him till he has no bodily hair left, not even eyebrows. Mmm, sweet smelling flesh, stupidity and obligation free. He can wail and scream all he wants, I don't speak his language. I will then raid all shops that sell those fantabulous clothes I can't buy from here, unless I sell my entire mother and one of my kidneys to the organ market. And finally, I will leave Japan with three hundred suitcases, at least fifty of which will be delivered to FedSex (see post: advertisement) because they'll contain nekkid Japanese boy-toys (although Gackt is over thirty five). I will declare those at customs as "bedroom decoration articles/other".

Seriously. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what I'm capable of, but I'm sure I will find out on the spot. Someone declare Japanese visual kei artists as endangered species and post my photo as the natural predator of this species before it's too late! Act now to prevent disaster from happening! You have been forewarned...

Like beating a cat with a bagpipe.

2009-02-09T13:35:00.001-08:00

Talking about bagpipes... I don't know what kind of wrong food combination I've made today, but the results are spectacular, to say the least. Watching people's faces around you blistering, melting and falling off with a single fart can only be described as spectacular, right? Then again, girls are not supposed to be capable of farting. Yeah, right. I bet that when I meet the man of my dreams he won't believe that someone as sweet and endearing as I am is capable of producing such nasty results by the simple procedure of processing food. Well guess again- this woman is an exception. She hides a nuclear waste unit inside her ass to match the brothel inside her head. Even worse, if he has the romantic idea to sleep by my side at nighttime, he's as good as dead. I mean, save for the fact I toss and kick like I'm struggling against the armies of Darth Vader, what about my food byproducts? I do have an idea what I'm capable of when I'm awake and have some control over what's going on (or should I say, what comes out?). I'm sure that when I finally fall asleep and let go of control fully, I am transformed into a one (wo)man orchestra, with my ass performing all kinds of sounds, from strings to percussion. I'm serious. Imagine that in the morning, the first thing I do when I wake up after a particularly productive night is pick up my cat that sleeps next to me and shake him, to make sure he's still alive. If I do the same to that future boyfriend, his head will probably come off, together with the arms from their sockets.
[This one is for Danie- she knows how to make me smile.]

Fun with our friends the Japanese.

2009-02-06T12:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, by now I have a LOT of magazines and books on Gackt, an eerily beautiful and feminine Japanese singer, style somewhere between pop and rock. I also have quite a number of magazines on The GazettE, a band featuring the gorgeous guitarist Uruha- the rest of the band vary from attractive to very attractive. I had never bothered listening to any of their songs- I had been too busy burning my brains with Gackt's songs. And since pop music is not my forte, I could not really listen to it for long without my toes involuntarily curling and my liquidized braincells dripping from my nose. Then I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to investigate The GazettE in more depth. Like an idiot I typed the name in youtube and waited to listen to something mellow, rock-pop, you know. They are all girly gorgeous and wear clothes that look like a crossover between dresses and glam rock suits with silk 'n' velvet 'n' studs, long lace gloves and garters an added bonus. How hard do you expect the band to be with this image? So I heard the normal intro of the song and relaxed, and suddenly my poor ears were attacked by an all guns blazing succession of growls from the singer and metal riff outbursts like machine guns from both guitarists. I paused and stared at the screen, with a stupid expression on my face. *blink blink* WTF?!? I looked at my bottle of chocolate milk with the same moronic expression, wondering what the fuck was wrong with my ears or perhaps if someone had slipped something in my drink. But The GazettE went on with all their members merrily headbanging their napes away and I actually liked what I was listening to, since the basic genre I love IS metal. So yes, the next thing that came to mind was Slayer members dressed like The GazettE and that was the end of my sanity.

[The video is removed due to copyright problems, but you can still look for "the Gazette: Filth in the Beauty" video in youtube.]

2009-02-02T10:17:00.000-08:00

Beautiful men make you squeal? Your love life sucks? Falling in love with what you can't have? Sick and tired of hearing excuses why he doesn't want to go out with you? Why not use FEDSEX(TM)? We' re the fastest growing company in the world and specialise in kidnapping and shipping worldwide! FEDSEX(TM)- brought to your front door naked, blindfolded and tied! Free vial of ViagrAOURRRR! for only 300$ extra- all for your convenience! Call us at 00696969-XXX! Fast, reliable, discreet! Satisfaction guaranteed!
[Lawyer charges not included in the basic package]

Please note- although we offer a wide variety of services, in the case of celebrity kidnappings extra charges and handling fees apply. We also regret to inform you that particular celebrities are excluded from our range of services due to them being perpetually chained to the bed of the company owner. Unavailable articles include Gackt Camui, Bill Kaulitz, Olivier Theyskens and Uruha from the GazettE. We apologise for any inconvenience and hope to serve you soon!

[Rachael, half credit goes to you- I hope you will find this funny!]

Whoopsie

2009-01-23T12:41:00.000-08:00

An overly active blog in my case means two things:
1. that I have time to kill and absolutely no intention to return home.
2. that I can moan my little gothic black heart out.
3. that I strongly advice you AGAINST reading it for these two reasons.

This said, I need to refer to the fact this is not how I imagined my life will be at 31.
This also said, I honestly hope I'll manage to somehow put my finger on that which needs be done.
Not for any other reason, but because from my present point of view I can clearly see the fair green fields of banana-land and they are alarmingly close.

Hmm hmm, the little blue boy hummed to himself. Your toes don't look like toes anymore.
They look like something trapped inside the washing machine for too long.
You betcha, I admitted. And you really don't want to know what other parts of me look like.
I tried to sleep on the earth, but the drizzle did not let me.
The skies are perpetually gray these days.
Yes, the little blue boy said. The skies are wearing their winter clothes at this time of the year.
I'd go for transvestite, I replied. Something like the northern lights over Acropolis. Just for a change.
I'll tell them, he said. But it is hard. Perhaps you can dream about it if it will make you happy. Would you like that?
I am not sad. Not when I am alone.
Living with my mother makes me sad.
You also make her sad, he observed. You shout at each other all the time. Your faces turn ugly when you do that. It's like you are both drowning, only there is no water in the room.
Yes. It's a neat trick, isn't? I feigned ignorance. Mothers learn their daughters this trick when they are very very little. They in turn learn it from their own mothers.
My mother did not teach me this trick, the little blue boy said hesitantly. Is it something only girls learn?
Yes. It comes together with wombs and expectations.
I do not understand this, the little blue boy complained, but are you sure you like it?
Do you remember when someone gave you that purple hat with the the bumblebees inside? I asked. And you were stuck with it because the bumblebees wanted it for their home and you wanted it for a hat?
Yes, he nodded.
It is the same. I am stuck with this. Someone has to give way.
I gave up the hat, the boy reminded me. I will find another hat. That one had been the home of the bumblebees for so long that it would buzz even when empty.
Well, imagine what it would be like if the hat with the bumblebees was stuck on your head and you could not get it off, I suggested. It is something like this, only my mother wants the hat to remain there and I want to get it off.
Do you want me to find another hat for your mom? the little blue boy offered. I think I can find one, only it won't be purple. If she doesn't mind this, I can find one pretty hat for her. Blue and orange, with long ribbons. A princess had it once.
My mom is not a princess, I protested. Perhaps the princess will need it.
My mom told me that all girls are princesses, the little blue boy said. And my mom does not lie. Would you like the hat of the princess for your mom? Would that make her happy? Because that princess left one day and never came back for her pretty hat. It just sits there and there is dust on it. It's no trouble. I can get it for her. Would that make you stop doing the drowning trick?
I bit my lips to stop myself from crying. The little blue boy saw it.
Oh no, you're sad again, he piped miserably. Did I say something wrong? Do you want me to look for a hat for you too? Is that it? Perhaps there is a second one in the garden. I think I...
It is okay, I whispered. I'll keep the one with the bumblebees for now. One is enough.

Slipping...

2009-01-22T11:52:00.000-08:00

There is a nagging feeling that something is struggling to get out.
Last night I was bitten by dragonflies in my sleep.
This day and yesterday I have been trying to oversaturate myself.
I am not doing bad. My eyes certainly hurt.
I need to shed blood again. One way or the other, it will happen.

Long gardens, filled with poisonous plants, filled with wonders.
Cloaked figures walking under ivy covered archs.
The silence interrupted only by screams ending in gurgles.
Nightshade leaning over the the writhing bodies of the poisoned neonates with the slightest smile on her purple lips.
Not a whisper. Not a word.
Tearing the cocoon. Watch.

Behold the wonders of daylight.
Sullen faces. Fingers counting money. The passing of a car. A starved dog.
Night descends.
Shut eyelids. Fingers on soft, living flesh. A shadow dives inside a mirror. The dog's reflection shows a human face.

You are my oasis in this desert. But your water transforms to sand inside my mouth.
You are my refuge. But your white palm hides needles and pieces of broken glass.
When guided by you, our path is marked by drops of red and copper.
When guided by me, it becomes a trail of tears.

It's a last song. A good-bye. No angel will appear to save us.
No god will bless this union. No priest will grant us absolution.
It is the last door remaining shut.

Let me be. I cannot take this any longer.
I have no more blood to mark the way. No more tears to water future hopes.
No flesh under my skin.
A ghost.

Traveling on the night winds I kiss your eyelids.
Traveling on the sound of your voice I mourn for the loss of my memories.
The mirror is empty.

Leave your window open for me tonight.

All is violent, all is bright

2009-01-18T11:52:00.000-08:00

The title is from a great God is an Astronaut album.
The mood is the following:
I am tired of existing in other people's heads and lives because of the thing I do for them, or give to them.
I want my existence to fulfill my own needs and desires from now on.
I want to leave a legacy of creation. Kindness alone is not enough. Wisdom and understanding don't fit the bill either. I want to be alive to fulfill my own being, but not through servitude to others anymore. I want to fulfill my own need to be served. I want to spoil myself, not by buying things to myself, but by quality time. Time from myself to myself only.
If I was to die tomorrow, what would be my legacy? The memory in other people's heads? Their kind words?
I do not want this. As I have said before, when my ashes will be traveling the planet, other people's opinions will not matter in the least. I crave creation. And I will turn the earth upside down if it needs must. I will enforce my will on reality if it needs must. Not enforce, but kick all obstacles aside, shove all those people out of the way. Out of my fucking way- you think I do not know who you are? You think I am not aware of the fact my weakness offers you flesh to secure your hooks on? Of your idiotic juvenile mind games? Well this is already changing- best to subtract your hooks or you'll be dragged and thrown with me into the volcano I am about to jump. Trust me, you can't take the heat. You don't have what it takes. If you did, you would be human beings, not poison ivy, crawling all over me. The tree you are riding is about to start walking before it turns into a pillar of light and fire. You have been forewarned- let go or you'll be singed.
I know this doesn't make much sense. It is okay. Just one last thing. I am not nice because I don't know any better. Being gentle is a conscious choice on my behalf- and one that can change at any given moment. Some people have already tasted that in an excruciatingly painful way. Don't add yourself to the list. Thank you.

PS I bought some gorgeous new books with the object of my latest desires- Gackt. I cannot resist but place a photo here- it is always soothing to look at something serene after the storm. If I was a vampire I would feed on beauty, only... and if anyone feels like saying the "gay" word I strongly advise them to insert a few fingers up their own anus, in order to get some idea of what they are missing. I can always tell them how via e-mail and I am sure they will grow to appreciate it.