Fun with our friends the Japanese.

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 liquidised brain cells 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, velvet and 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. xD

All is violent, all is bright

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.

I am so ashamed.

I have tried so hard to create an intellectual profile. I have written entry after entry mixing semiotics with symbolism, the occult, culture, ecology, romanticism and depression. I have made my eyes bleed and my brains (the what?!?) melt with the effort to be serious and badass. Well now I am about to toss everything out of the window. I am deeply ashamed but will admit it regardless of the consequences, regardless of what people will think of me. I will fear no criticism and no comments, I will bear the pain, So yes- the cat is out of the hat now.

I LOVE CINEMA BIZARRE.
 
I love the fact they are over the top, gay, fluffy, glittery and absolutely-not-serious entertainment. I appreciate the ridiculous statements they make, i.e. "style is war". You bet YOUR style is war- to all 'manly' common sense. And I LOVE THAT. I am fascinated by the fact the singer looks like a rather ugly yet attractive woman and behaves like an annoyed schoolgirl primadonna. I worship the gay GOD Luminor who plays keys and just exists to be gorgeous in front of the camera and I will be sooooooooooo sad if he indeed leaves the band. I ogle the guitarist who wanders around in lives without his shirt on to make little girls squeal. Finally, I love the fact they try so hard to look like a j-rock visual kei band and miss their target by miles, thus accidentally creating a whole new genre: gay glam rock. I adore their style, pose and music because they are so fake and artificial and exaggerated that it is a crime of irrational proportions against any 'serious' music.

To shed some light on this mystery, I also adore Oscar Wilde. He once said, "to regain my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early or become respectable." Cinema Bizarre are somehow all the ridiculous and nonsensical and artistically incorrect things combined together in one band. And this makes them perfect. It makes them ideal to wear on a t-shirt, especially if the person wearing it is of the over thirty variety like I am. Guaranteed to scare away any suitors looking for a good wife and mother of their children. Also guaranteed to scare away all those humorless types that appreciate strictly high culture and only manage to take a shit once a month. (There are rumors Alexander the Great and Adolf Hitler were also chronic cases of constipation, you know. I mean, if you can't possibly take a good honest crap like other people, you are bound to make someone pay for it.) Also guaranteed to make you appreciate irony, rapidly lose face and self respect and finally the last of your worries concerning how cultured you are. Like admitting in front of a full auditorium that you like to sniff your socks and underwear when you take them off. Or that you actively support extreme right wing politics. Something as bad anyway, guaranteed to stigmatize you for the rest of your life...

Okay, here is a video by Cinema Bizarre. You have been forewarned. After watching it, you'll be seeing little shiny thingies dancing in your peripheral vision for days to come. Those are glitterons and glamerons, particles emitted by such bands. If you are a boy, the glamerons will affect you in an irreversible and possibly fatal way, changing your brain wave length and forcing you to wear nothing but tiny tank tops and skirts with sequins and feathers for the rest of your life. If you are a girl, then glitterons will enter your body and will make you a faithful sexual slave to Cinema Bizarre till your last days. The only catch is that you won't be able to ever do something about it because they are all probably mostly gay. (No offense intended, I was affected by glitterons too so I feel your pain.)

Hey! Did I actually refer to the fact their music is very enjoyable?

Love letter

I have been watching pictures of you for the past half hour. The only question that makes some sense is, ‘how can you be so beautiful?’ How can anyone, for that matter, be so beautiful?

I have no answer to this question. Lately I seem to be collecting this type of questions in particular. It is a new bizarre hobby of mine. 

Someone may ask me who you are. It is irrelevant. I am not going to give any details because details don’t really matter. I want to focus on how you make me feel. I am sure all people with some light in their souls have at some point seen someone that made them shiver with awe, that near-terror feeling, so name, sex and occupation of the target of their desire is of no importance. I am referring to the feeling itself and how it touches me in a way I can barely grasp or describe in an understandable manner. 

You are so close to perfection that it is scary. The lines of your face almost form perfection. The smooth folds over those tight almonds of your eyes. The way those lips seem like little puffy pillows, soft and juicy at the same time, inviting me. Their light cherry colour signifies something edible. You make me want to extend my hand and press them lightly, test to see if they are real. If you exist. 

Kissing is a forgotten art and for me an advanced part of the foreplay; first I eat the other person with my eyes and try to capture their smell without them realising I do so. I often steal the smell of passers by, follow their trail as they walk fast, not knowing someone is following them. It is very erotic. Then, after I have had a first taste through eyes and smell, I start to chart someone with my fingers. Long after I have satisfied my eyes and nostrils and hands and also my ears through their little sounds, their shivers and whispers, it is inevitable that taste will follow. My mouth would open to taste you, not necessarily your lips, but the soft flesh on your neck and cheek and jaw. People have forgotten how to touch others, how they can use more parts of themselves than just the fingers. I can touch you using my face, my hips and hipbones, my breasts. I can touch you with every part of me save for fingers if needs must. And for such an exquisite being I certainly must.

What makes us desire? Is it just our glands and hormones, screaming for reproduction? I do have a body, I am trapped in flesh. I desire. But I do not desire flesh. I desire form. I desire the little wrinkles you make when you smile, next to your delicious lips. I need to eat you, not fuck you. I want to capture the essence of your beauty, the alchemical equivalent of your smell, the sum of lines, forms and matter that creates you as a result. I want to devour that which makes me want you. I want to capture the little wisps of air that brush against your face when you raise your eyebrows or momentarily blink. I hunger for your soul, not your reproductive organs. I lick my lips at the possibilities of what your life might have been like, of what moments had been like before we met. Were they longer, shorter, more or less interesting? Do you toss in your sleep? Do you just stare out of the window when bored? Do you, perhaps, make little sounds of confusion when you drop something? Those are the questions that keep me busy when I stare at such a face as yours. That, and the gut wrenching realisation that I will probably never find out.

Rapture

Sometimes I doubt my own sanity.

My friends urge me further down that path by supporting my visions and crazy ideas.

Don't know if I should thank them for that or curse myself for my weakness. I suppose I am lucky to have them anyway.

Beauty feeds me. Like the sweetest nectar down my throat.

It is also addictive like the worst drug. I continually need more and more and more. It never really ends. Perhaps it will end when I draw my last breath. I will finally be free from the craving.

You are so beautiful that you seem otherwordly. Like a legendary creature, or a dream no man can touch. Your beauty is indescribable. Your eyes, the lines of your face, the way you focus. The way you move. Like a dream, a fantasy, a forbidden treasure. Like one of those creatures in literature, or manga, drawn directly from the collective consciousness of humanity. A fabrication of an artist. Not someone real. And in a sense you are not real. If real is what my hands can touch, then you are not real.

I think that the basic reason I feel so out of my depth by the feedback I get is that I will be very sorry if it is not true. And I do not think it is true. And I do not want to let myself believe. Because reality will charge in and crush me like a bug under its heel. And I will hate myself then. So I do not dare believe. But Desire, ah desire knows no rules, no limits, it can consume someone and eat them from the inside, make them bang their heads against the wall till blood comes out, make them scream into the night till they can no longer breathe, desire is poison that kills slowly. And desire enters my system with every eyeful of your beauty that I drink. Every time I lay my eyes on you, I feed. Every time I feed, I become more and more poisoned by desire. It is in a sense a disaster. A sweet torture. But I have promised myself I will not fall for someone I cannot have. No more dramas. No more tragedies. A straight line. Logical expectations. No gods and no fantasies. And I do not want to go back there again. Eight years ago I almost went mad because of desire. Not again. Never again. I promised myself, never again. Didn't I?

And yet, your face; what rapture. The nectar of gods.

If not for rapture, why live? Why?

I have no answers. Only the wisdom of pain.

Let this drama begin.

Bookcrossing

Photo taken from here.

Then one day I realised that I have books for bookcrossing everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I am not kidding. And I have been keeping them for something a bit less than forever. (For those of you who do not know, bookcrossing is about reading a book, then tagging it with a unique number at bookcrossing.com, writing your comments and leaving the book to be found by someone, or giving it to a friend to read it and pass it on. The next person can also leave comments in the bookcrossing site, even anonymously, and also pass the book on. Right now there are roughly 640,000 bookcrossers and about 4,500,000 books globetrotting happily.) So being mighty and cunning and diabolical, I took out my pendulum and started asking. Should I read this book? yes. That one? no. And so on. The ones that I got a "no" for, will be leaving within the next days. I already have released 15. And there are more on the way.

 

That guy on top is added because he looks absolutely adorable. Or at least my kind of adorable guy. A self sarcastic goth. Excellent stuff. More excellent gothic and fetish photos of this type can be found here.  Thank you, Lina, for the lovely CD with deviantart pics. That site is a disaster; I can spend days downloading images. And I don't have days to spend. In fact, I have the feeling I will leave for abroad very soon. So I am trying to tie loose ends. And it feels there are more loose ends in my life than what there are in a carpet factory in Persia. Or something.

 

Nope, I am not going to get deep in this post. I need my fix. Images from deviantart.com. So piss off. I am busy.

Androgynous men...

Photo by http://blueblack.deviantart.com

A little irrelevant comment.

I wonder what is it that makes me so crazy about feminine men, men with make-up, androgynous creatures, men who are in reality women (have two of them in my stories and I mean it literary, not cross-dressing) and gay men in general. Perhaps it is my gender confusion. Heheheh, in a recent test I took I got 36 points in how male my brain is, while the average for women is 24 and for men 30. Hahaha! Anyway, tests don’t prove anything at all, so back to my point. I am crazy about such creatures, (especially of the gothic type) though I fully know I will never have one such myself. Perhaps it is the crush I had on Darryl, that beautiful Scottish goth eons ago, when I was in UK studying? It was never really fulfilled, but it seems that it was just a symptom, not the source of trouble itself. Perhaps my androgynous soul instinctively looks for men who are aware of their feminine side and not afraid to embrace it? (even though it seems that the only thing the men in question embrace is fashion and their countless insecurities…) Perhaps I am a victim/slave to beauty and this will never change? Funny thing being, I am fully aware of how empty these boys/ men are in reality, how incapable of holding a decent conversation, how childish, high school-type-of-mentality this reflects about me, but cannot get rid of it. I don’t think I ever in my life will. I mean, look at me, I am past twenty-nine and on the way to thirty, and still dream of androgynous angels and goths. How sad is this? I do not mean that I should at this age dream of doctors and lawyers (God/dess forbid that I ever fall for such mainstream, slave-to-the-system “ideal husbands”), but since I fucking KNOW what the deal is with goths, why not get over it? I’ll be damned if I know. You tell me. At least I now am wise enough to realise that the outside is just a beautiful wrapping with no content. If there was something inside, they would not be goths to begin with. 

You got confused? Lemme help. Someone who dresses as a goth, or metal fan, or anything, shows nothing but the need to belong somewhere in order to be safe. I belong absolutely nowhere and am very happy about that. I revel in my lack of definition style-wise, religion-wise, mentality-wise. Anybody who tries to classify me is in for endless trouble. I do cheap, mushy, kitsch, pink/fluffy, classical, solemn, gothic, macabre, high aesthetic, surreal, even hippy, goddammit. I do anything and everything. “I am a chameleon of sorts”. I do a mix and match of things. I am. I am NOT a goth, an 80s fan, a lady of the castle, a girl in a kiosk, a mad erotica author, an absolute failure according to the standards of society, the next step in human evolution, a misanthrope, a communication expert, a heretical prankless Erisian, a perfect atheist, a reader of soppy romance or a fantasy geek. I am all of them together. It is a matter of dosage. I do lawyers and doctors too. I just don’t fall for them, if you know what I mean. And it’s okay if you don’t.

System of a Down: “Hypnotize”

Uncalled for

By the way, I am totally in love with Olivier Theyskens, ex designer of Rochas. NOT the fashion bullshit surrounding him (though some of his creations are magnificent) but the man. He looks so feminine and sensitive and sweet. I want to smother him; he just inspires me to. Death and love always walk hand in hand; death reminds us of the need to reproduce... (Evil little cackle). I can be so fucking predictable.