Precious secrets

He's got secrets too. He's also part of several more secrets. Some of them are mine, some are his, and some connect us in a highly unlikely manner. He has given me a very precious child. I may pay the favour back, or at least, let him know about it one day. Or I may just decide to keep it mum. ;)

I have many secrets. They get more with the passing of time. I wish they also got a lot more interesting.

For example, this entire blog is a secret as I have not included it in my CV. I don't want the wrong person reading my musings, especially if that person is the key holder to a possible job. Then there are other secrets, which I don't write about even in this blog; only in my diary. And there are those secrets no-one knows about, and I will never write down.

Most of the time even those people who read my musings and have a relative background have no idea what I am talking about. I choose to write in a way that it is open to interpretation, in order to say what I want and avoid detection. I am pretty sure that the reason this blog exists is to read it and feel comforted by my own words and my own point of view. From this aspect, all humans are the same. We love that which is familiar.

Okay, let's share some of these secrets. See if I can shock some of my readers into stop reading me, thinking I have finally lost it.

My favourite author who also happens to belong to the First Ten (or maybe Eight or Twelve) is married to a woman who despises him, and she is a siren. Not metaphorically speaking. Literally siren, which means, winged woman who eats people kind of creature. Every time she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite a chunk of flesh off someone. Of course, he has no clue, and when she is around he smiles, a man in love. She always grimaces as if he disgusts her. Then again, she always grimaces as if she is either disgusted by the entirety of existence or she's about to lunge at some poor human and eat their face.

Another author I love has a son who aspires to be as successful an author as his father. The son hates his father and is very jealous of him, because deep down he knows he's not as good as his dad. The son has gone and made a deal with an entity for fame, and his books leave an aftertaste like licking the floors of a slaughterhouse. I am serious. It's an essence of rotting blood, fluids from entrails and shit combined. Of course, no-one seems to know it. Instead they pile awards on him, making me wonder about their taste and doubt my own sanity.

A few weeks ago my house was under magickal/ demonic attack. In the course of just few days, I had two dead cats, one possessed cat and a very sick dog. I had to actually exorcise the cat.

The crazy lady next door was under possession of a thought-form or entity. I could see that being looking at me from within her eyes. A similar entity resided inside my father before he died. I can tell apart those possessed by thought-forms or entities. They all have the same glassy, unfocused eyes. I wonder why other people don't see it when it's so clear and unsettling. Then once more I wonder if I am crazy.

Two of the people I hold closest to my heart see visions and spirits and other such. I sometimes wish those visions came with names of people, phone numbers and dates.

I have written a thank you speech in case I ever receive any kind of literary award. I even checked how long it is by keeping time. I hope I'll get to use it one day.

Now guess which one of these is a lie. Then guess again, because maybe I am pulling your leg, and they're all true, or all lies, or what I perceive to be real. And that is obviously debatable.

I am off to finish a book no-one knows about under a pseudonym no-one suspects. Ha ha.

Twiddling my thumbs and shitting in my pants.

Down went the desktop due to the recent thunderstorms, effectively crippling me. Oh, I do have an ancient laptop with missing keys and a busted battery, and that's what I am using now. It's just that I want to do other, more urgent things instead of writing at my blog, and the data I need is in the desktop. I'll settle for what I can, I guess.

About an hour ago we had two earthquakes, one after the other. I decided that the best way to handle it was fill a bowl with Coco Pops and milk, place it on my altar to be consecrated and eat it. Actually the basic reason I placed it there was that there was no space anywhere else. My bed is full of cats and stuff. I shouldn't have eaten Coco Pops, because I had flossed and brushed my teeth before. But what the hell, we don't get earthquakes every day.

So what happened in my desktop-free days?

My mother is sick with a cold. I told her that if she gives it to me, I will kill her. It will probably be the first cold I am aware of that ended up in death. ;)

I finished two books, both very pleasant.

I visited a friend.

Watched three episodes of the new series Constantine and the movie Dracula Untold. The second one was very nice.

I buried two deep frozen cats and one kitten.

I disassembled and thoroughly cleaned my calligraphy pens. It involved lots of water and ink and my fingers turning black, brown and blue. But now my pens are working like a charm again. Yay.

I wonder what magic ability of the mind helps us struggle on when, for all we know, next week could bring about the earthquake that will bury us all under a ton of rubble.

I really need to get the desktop going and finish with my current work.

I also need to continue this in my diary, because the rest of my banter is not fit for public consumption. It involves deep thoughts and people in various stages of undress rubbing against quasi-naked people. Or aliens for what I know. I have some very intriguing alien species in my mind. And no, they don't have tentacles.

I am off. Before I go, just a note.

From time to time, light a candle for the lost ones you have.

It doesn't have to be in a church.

Believe me, it helps.

Well into the a.m.

 (The pictures have an educating purpose. Do not disregard them. It's Khan from Star Trek- Into Darkness  dressed as a French maid in the first, and about to have sex with someone in the second. Read the text below for more information. Source: http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/91128959618 and http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/99052818858 )

Naturally, the best time to visit my blog is well into the a.m., while my mother is asleep and the house is absolutely quiet. One of my cats is sleeping in a basket close to me, I have music on, and two candles are burning on an altar across me.

It's funny. I started spellweaving again after ten or more years. I have an altar again. I haven't had one since I came home from U.K., and now I have an altar in my room and I do spellwork, demanding nightly spellwork I never thought I'd have the patience or the guts to do again. Go figure.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, thought there is nothing that resembles desperation in my current state of mind. Desperation isn’t only a bad advisor, but also not an inappropriate reason to do spellwork. You're most likely going to fuck up spectacularly. No, in my case, it is ‘lex talionis’, lawful retaliation. To put it simply, I am sick and tired of being every idiot’s asswipe for 36 years now. They want to screw me over using magick, fine, free will and all that. How about they get that ‘nice’ energy handed back to them on a silver platter, by a universal force/ porn star wearing a leather French maid costume and brandishing a huge erection? No? Why not? I mean, you had no qualms about sending this energy to me in the first place. It’s not like your conscience bothered you so much you couldn’t sleep at night. But if you don’t like the discovery that the one you have been throwing knives at can actually catch them in mid air, and oh shit, she’s throwing them right back at you, well tough shit, sweetcakes. Oh, it hurts? Oh, you didn’t expect it? Oh, it sucks having shit energy shoveled in your life? You poor, poor thing, maybe you should have thought twice before shoveling it in mine in the first place. Dang and fudge and ginger-pie, someone I loved had to die. 

Most of the time I am perfectly happy because I have cats, a steady supply of correspondence, a roof over my head, good music, good health, food to eat and people I call friends. I don’t go out of my way to hurt others, I steal no-one’s money or boyfriend, and I keep my mouth shut when I don’t know who I am dealing with. I treat so fucking lightly I doubt there is a single person who knows I who I am except for my circle of close friends, which is the staggering number of five people. And I treat lightly because I hate being disturbed. In the same manner, I don’t want to disturb.

You’ll be surprised to discover how many people see that not only as a weakness, but also as a reason to attack you. Why? Because you and they are so fundamentally different that a person with your mentality rubs them the wrong way. They see your lack of involvement and think you consider yourself too good to bother with them. They see you being humble, because you fucking know how easy it is to die and also because you take nothing for granted, and they perceive it as haughtiness and arrogance. They will project their sick inner landscape on you and then proceed to eliminate the threat by attacking you.

There are two ways to deal with these people. Disengage and go away, or kick the living daylights out of them. So far disengaging has not been working, so we’ll go for the killing them dead option. Not literally. Metaphorically. Let’s not forget that magick is the art of changing consciousness at will, so metaphor, symbolism and all that noisy and colourful lot are your tools and most trusted servants. Kind of the most evasive, obscure and drag-queen elements of human sciences being your homeboys. Great fun.

If you ask me, I’d choose the universal porn star with the leather French maid costume and the brandishing erection any time as my preferred pastime, but if needs must, they will eat my dust. 

:D XD :P

I miss you.

It appears that this is the year I lost two of my most beloved beings; Virve and my fluffy ginger cloud of a cat. 

Damn it.

Chemicals

 

Art taken from here

I am sad tonight.

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

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

Those three things make me sad more than anything else.

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

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

Drink it down to the last drop.

I have no protection against art.

People I have protection against.

Art, I don't.

Solstice.

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

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

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

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

Let's hope it does.

[Sherlock]

Discussions and black butterflies.

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

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

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

Life is funny with those things as part of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a tiny life lost too soon.

I am so sorry.

I tried to keep you alive.

I know that kittens so small rarely make it.

I am aware that there was perhaps a 10% possibility of you surviving.

Yet the distance between knowledge and experience can be whole worlds.

You stayed with me for four days. From Thursday night, till Tuesday morning.

I feel like I have been crying for four years.

Goodbye.

The indisputable law of cuteness

I have always had this random thought, that our idea of beauty is absurd. We find something attractive or pleasing to the eyes because we are what we are. Our human body gives us a specific idea of what is beautiful. For example we're bipedal and therefore look at other people's legs and specific shapes seem attractive to us. If as a race we had no legs, or a fishtail, or something entirely different, then the two legs we now admire and feel aroused by would seem as erotic to us as the gills of a fish, or the tail of a horse.

Then again, our eyes instinctively recognise harmony. The closer someone's facial and bodily analogies are to the golden ratio Φ, the more attractive they are to the rest of us. Symmetry is a sign of healthy genes and it is knowledge on a deeper level, even if someone has never heard of that ratio in their lives.

With that in mind please explain to me why I bumped my nose against the screen in a vain attempt to get closer to this:

:) Ran :) dom :)

• When my hair was longer, whenever I took a shower, I afterwards had to remove long hairs from between my ass-cheeks. Now that my hair is barely at shoulder length, nothing has changed.

• I like to sing self-made songs with ridiculous lyrics whenever I am angry, bored or just because. One of them is an ode to my cat, another is a repetition of the words "zucchini  with oregano, zucchini over the piano."

• My newest cat loves to play fetch. She likes to play that with hair bands and me. She throws me to the other end of the room and then the hair bands pick me up and take me back to her, usually with a mild concussion. Hair bands like in early metal years, only from rubber.

• A good mosquito is a dead mosquito.

• A good Nazi is a brainwashed, hippy fucking, reduced to drooling moron and willing to admit the error of his ways, dead ashamed Nazi, who works as a volunteer at the third world countries.

• I have an authority problem. They cannot break my cat communicating code and wish they could eat the amounts of chocolate I eat and live to tell the tale. I, on the other hand, cannot talk because my mouth is stuffed.

• Sometimes I want to chase after people and when I catch them, beat seven shades of black and blue out of them. Sometimes it happens to me several times in the same day. And sometimes I love everybody, including my boogers. If it happened often my boogers would have reached 8.9 points in the Buddha scale, so I try to avoid it.

• Birds usually excite me as much as they excite my cats, especially small birds. I want to put them in my mouth whole. Robins are so cute and tiny. Worst of all are hummingbirds. I want to eat them in handfuls. I guess they are lucky not to live in Greece save for the island of Crete? The smaller the bird, the bigger my excitement. Small fluffy things that try to escape me. Nom nom nom. All mine. Same goes for baby rabbits and hamsters and generally small cute fluffy thingies that try to escape me.

• When I touch items that have been put aside for a long time and have gathered stale energies I start farting. Sometimes it smells so bad that I have to run to the other room while making outraged gurgling noises. In reality I'm secretly proud of their potency. I also like to smell my own dirty socks and underwear and yell 'ew!' before throwing them at the laundry basket. Oh, and I always want to look at my production after number two, to appraise the possible value and be sure no-one stole my poop from inside the toilet or something.

• Morbid and grotesque appeals to me as much as cute does. The combination is my specialty in my daily communication.

• Boobies are God/dess's gift to the boobless.

• Humongous boobies make the best pillows but not for the one owning them. 

• If we are not animals, why there is blood coming out from my vagina once a month? And why do men have trouble avoiding walls when they unexpectedly see boobies?

• For those of you who will read the above and claim I did not breastfed enough, I have breaking news to announce. I am still at the Freudian anal stage as well. I can hear my sense of humour cackling like a witch with rheumatism from the bottom of a toilet. Live with it.Or piss off.

• The perfect man is a combination of Jung and Oscar Wilde, with the past of Nero and Casanova and the bright future of Gandhi on the rare days he was possessed by the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer. I won't mind less than perfect abs. But he has to have manners and killing lines, and be kinky in bed. And I would like him to be attractive. At least to me. I swear I'll be spoon feeding him ice cream, naked and dressed in whatever ridiculous outfit he wants me to wear. Even a bee suit. 

• I cannot live without eggs. People who do not eat eggs are infidels. They must all die. Except for those allergic to eggs. I'll let those live and feed them eggs three times a day.

•  God is a metaphor. God is prone to boob hypnotism. God is on vacation and forgot to return. God is particularly pissed off at me, but he can eat my pussy after I have shaved it sparkling bald and smooth and kiss my well developed ass. God/dess, on the other hand, is another story. One with a happier ending.

I dare say I am done. At least for now.

A harsh dose of reality...

A Letter from a Shelter Manager - anonymous in North Carolina

I think our society needs a huge "Wake-up" call. As a shelter manager, I am going to share a little insight with you all...a view from the inside if you will.

First off, all of you breeders/sellers should be made to work in the "back" of an animal shelter for just one day. Maybe if you saw the life drain from a few sad, lost, confused eyes, you would change your mind about breeding and selling to people you don't even know.

That puppy you just sold will most likely end up in my shelter when it's not a cute little puppy anymore. So how would you feel if you knew that there's about a 90% chance that dog will never walk out of the shelter it is going to be dumped at? Purebred or not! About 50% of all of the dogs that are "owner surrenders" or "strays", that come into my shelter are purebred dogs.

The most common excuses I hear are; "We are moving and we can't take our dog (or cat)." Really? Where are you moving to that doesn't allow pets? Or they say "The dog got bigger than we thought it would". How big did you think a German Shepherd would get? "We don't have time for her". Really? I work a 10-12 hour day and still have time for my 6 dogs! "She's tearing up our yard". How about making her a part of your family? They always tell me "We just don't want to have to stress about finding a place for her we know she'll get adopted, she's a good dog".

Odds are your pet won't get adopted; how stressful do you think being in a shelter is? Well, let me tell you, your pet has 72 hours to find a new family from the moment you drop it off. Sometimes a little longer if the shelter isn't full and your dog manages to stay completely healthy. If it sniffles, it dies. Your pet will be confined to a small run/kennel in a room with about 25 other barking or crying animals. It will have to relieve itself where it eats and sleeps. It will be depressed and it will cry constantly for the family that abandoned it. If your pet is lucky, I will have enough volunteers in that day to take him/her for a walk. If I don't, your pet won't get any attention besides having a bowl of food slid under the kennel door and the waste sprayed out of its pen with a high-powered hose. If your dog is big, black or any of the "Bully" breeds (pit bull, rottie, mastiff, etc) it was pretty much dead when you walked it through the front door.

Those dogs just don't get adopted. It doesn't matter how 'sweet' or 'well behaved' they are.

If your dog doesn't get adopted within its 72 hours and the shelter is full, it will be destroyed. If the shelter isn't full and your dog is good enough, and of a desirable enough breed it may get a stay of execution, but not for long . Most dogs get very kennel protective after about a week and are destroyed for showing aggression. Even the sweetest dogs will turn in this environment. If your pet makes it over all of those hurdles chances are it will get kennel cough or an upper respiratory infection and will be destroyed because shelters just don't have the funds to pay for even a $100 treatment.

Here's a little euthanasia 101 for those of you that have never witnessed a perfectly healthy, scared animal being "put-down".

First, your pet will be taken from its kennel on a leash. They always look like they think they are going for a walk happy, wagging their tails. Until they get to "The Room", every one of them freaks out and puts on the brakes when we get to the door. It must smell like death or they can feel the sad souls that are left in there, it's strange, but it happens with every one of them. Your dog or cat will be restrained, held down by 1 or 2 vet techs depending on the size and how freaked out they are. Then a euthanasia tech or a vet will start the process. They will find a vein in the front leg and inject a lethal dose of the "pink stuff". Hopefully your pet doesn't panic from being restrained and jerk. I've seen the needles tear out of a leg and been covered with the resulting blood and been deafened by the yelps and screams. They all don't just "go to sleep", sometimes they spasm for a while, gasp for air and defecate on themselves.

When it all ends, your pets corpse will be stacked like firewood in a large freezer in the back with all of the other animals that were killed waiting to be picked up like garbage. What happens next? Cremated? Taken to the dump? Rendered into pet food? You'll never know and it probably won't even cross your mind. It was just an animal and you can always buy another one, right?

I hope that those of you that have read this are bawling your eyes out and can't get the pictures out of your head I deal with everyday on the way home from work.

I hate my job, I hate that it exists & I hate that it will always be there unless you people make some changes and realize that the lives you are affecting go much farther than the pets you dump at a shelter.

Between 9 and 11 MILLION animals die every year in shelters and only you can stop it. I do my best to save every life I can but rescues are always full, and there are more animals coming in everyday than there are homes.

My point to all of this DON'T BREED OR BUY WHILE SHELTER PETS DIE!

Hate me if you want to. The truth hurts and reality is what it is. I just hope I maybe changed one persons mind about breeding their dog, taking their loving pet to a shelter, or buying a dog. I hope that someone will walk into my shelter and say "I saw this and it made me want to adopt". THAT WOULD MAKE IT WORTH IT.

Run, little fishie, run.

You were certain it was dead.

You were on the way to put some money in the atm of the bank to be able to buy something on Monday. It was Sunday. The weather was great for October, and walking to the bank seemed like a pleasant thing to do. Till you saw it.

There is an abandoned house with a garden near the bank. It used to host a pizza chain, then changed to another food-related franchise, till it went out of business. Now the garden is unkempt and full of garbage. Your eyes stopped on a black and white tuxedo cat sitting on the grass, its face turned to the other direction, looking towards the empty building. Looking. Not really looking. You walked there and pushed its head with your foot, absolutely positive it was dead. Flies and wasps were buzzing around it and you were sure it was a matter of time before the smell of decomposition hit you at full blast.

It never happened.

It was still alive, face hidden in its front paws, green fluids running from a nose covered in crusted mucus. Its eyes were sunken in its skull, it was bony, dirty, and it smelled like something that ought to be dead already.

You got away from it, cursing your luck. You did not want to see this. You did not want another responsibility.

You walked away still cursing and went to the bank. Tried to put the money in, but there was no envelope to use. You decided to walk to the other bank and think over what to do with the cat. You did not want to take it home. It would die anyway and you have too many cats and too little time already. So walked all the way to the other bank you did, only to discover there was no envelope there either. How typically Greek is that?

Outside the church on the way back, you stopped and picked up a black satin bow from the ground. It had probably fallen off some shoe or article of clothing of a churchgoer. You unwrapped it, pleasantly surprised that there was no glue on it, and decided to play a simple game. You would wrap the length of satin around your index finger. If the number of times it went fully around was odd, you would take the cat home. If it was even, you would leave it there. So you wrapped the satin ribbon and it went around your finger three and a half times. Odd number.

Cursing your luck you went back to the empty building. You still did not want to take it home. But then you remembered that on Monday you had picked up a half dead Death's head Hawkmoth from the ground because you did not want anyone to accidentally step on it, and kept it in a little box until it died peacefully. Wouldn't you pick up a cat when you claim you love them so much, especially one that had flies and wasps crawling on it though it was still not dead?

You took off your long sleeved t-shirt and put the cat in. It was a he. When you got home and unwrapped the bundle, you had one more 'pleasant' surprise. He was full of flies' eggs. You had to wash him three times to get rid of all of them, and neither of you was happy with the procedure. Then you dried him with towels and the hair dryer and wrapped him to be warm and put him in a cardboard box to be safe and alone. You tried to give him food, or water, but he wanted neither. He was going to die and you both knew it.

He died later that night, while you were watching True Blood and eating your dinner. He started making weak, pained sounds, that startled you and made you go to the box to see what was going on. Though he was a cat you did not know and had never petted, you prayed for whatever entity cares about them to make it quick. You even shed a few tears for him and petted him and once more you wished you had not picked him up. But the decision is rarely ours to make. There are always two roads ahead, each with a different cost for our soul. Neither road has hell at its end. Hell is an indisputable reality within our heads.

Next morning, before you went to the bank for one more time, you threw the box and him away.

There is no moral in this story. Or if there is one, you still don't know it.

(I am Pisces, hence the title).

It is official.

It is indeed. I understand nothing.

I have an authority problem.

I have issues.

I also have many cats.

I want to go and hide somewhere so that I don't have to talk to people anymore.

I want to shave my head and wear on it a pot with flowers.

I want to fuck half a million people.

I don't want to fuck anyone ever again. Safe, my head screams. You're safe. You must be crazy to want to get in trouble again. Think of what can go wrong. Pregnancy, disease, falling in love and losing control, getting hurt. You're safe in this place of non- action. And all this danger, all this risk, for what? Getting sex that you don't even enjoy? You must be mad.

Indeed. But I may change my mind in a month or ten minutes from now. And I probably will.

All this thinking gets me tired and depressed and gets nothing done.

If you ask me what I want to do, the answer is never again get involved with anyone on any level.

If pigs had wings they would fly. Naturally.

It's almost hilarious.

I am running away again. At maximum speed.

I wish I was more consistent in the way I feel.

I wish I was uncaring.

I must discover a different way of being and feeling.

I am a member in thealterium.com, an alternative social network. Like Facebook but with no censorship. Nudity is allowed, in fact encouraged. They are pretty much nice guys and girls there. But the roles I can play are limited. Yes, yes, yes, I can put pictures of my ass and get many flattering comments. But I am not an ass, or a pair of boobs, or my vagina. I am a human being. There is so much more to a human being than just body parts.

The game is played with flawed rules.

I refuse to play the game with such rules.

And then I wonder why I feel I lack something and what am I doing wrong, as the game can only be played with the aforesaid rules.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. And so tired I feel someone turned me upside down and emptied my very soul out of my body.

It's your fault.

I can think of three people I can accuse for my present state of being. But accusing others for where you stand is just silly. If you don't like it go somewhere else.

I need to get more tattoos done on me. They won't help me resolve my confusion, but they may prevent me from getting laid, or even help me get laid. I am not sure what would be worse at this point.

[All the above can be concentrated in ONE word: scared.]

Please consider adopting an older animal... and rescuing its life today.

  

Aw...we see this happen a lot when families are looking to adopt. While kittens are super cute, playful and big attention grabbers, adult cats are truly awesome. When looking for your next kitty family member, please take a look at our amazing adults too. Remember, kittens grow into adults quicker than you can say....kitten! 

"On behalf of us older felines here in the cat adoption room, I want to tell you why you should adopt us instead of a rambunctious kitten. First, we've all had homes before, and we know how to behave. Using the litter box, not scratching up furniture--it's all second nature now. Also, we won't badger you to entertain us as soon as the sun comes up. Hey, we like sleeping in too, and when we want to play but you don't, we'll bat our toys around on our own. But the biggest reason not to overlook us seniors is because we are so super affectionate. We know how to read your moods and decide when to rub up against you for a petting session, and when you'd prefer if we just sat with you on the couch for company. My own personal motto is, as long as you're happy, I'm happy. Well, I hope I've made my case. My pals and I are waiting to meet you and go home with you today."

View all of our adoptable baby and adult pets, in the following link:

http://www.friscohumanesociety.com/Adoption%20Applications/Available

PLEASE also check this- URGENT!

Pets on Death Row” was created to help advocate for NYC's Death Row Cats and Dogs. A group of volunteers desperate to save lives has turned into a massive community of caring individuals all over the nation – and world. Together, we are fighting to reform the NYC shelter system and save the thousands of adoptable animals from being destroyed there each year. The war is long and we lose many battles on a nightly basis – but we will not give up.. not until there are no more in need of rescue.

This page is dedicated to giving a voice to those without. Every day large numbers of adoptable animals are killed for reasons for reasons we believe unjustified. In most cases, these animals are loving, sensitive, and playful pets who simply lack a home. This page is their voice. Save a life. Don't shop. Adopt.

TO ALL WANTING TO HELP SAVE A NYC ANIMAL: Below is the link to the approved rescue groups that can pull from the NYC shelters.

Alliance Participating Organizations (APOs) Listed A-to-Z - Mayor's Alliance for NYC's Animals, Inc. (RESCUE LIST!):

http://www.animalalliancenyc.org/about/apos/borough.htm 

 Facebook page:

 http://www.facebook.com/PetsOnDeathRow/info

There is something I want to say...

 

... but I am groping about inside my skull and have had no success in capturing it as of yet. Eventually, if I keep writing, my fingers will get a hold of it. I hope. Or I'll bore myself to tears and scrap this entry. And perhaps use it to wipe my ass, or turn it into a tablecloth to celebrate a meal for one. Heh. And so I try and try, I push my hand inside the currents of my mind and try to capture one of the many writhing beasts in there. I am not sure if they are fish, dragons, nameless monsters or corpses of drowned teenagers. Perfect in their moment of death, preserved in the most glorious period of their lives. But dead nonetheless.

I have a new kitten in the house. She is totally black, sleek and tiny. She loves to be kissed on the tummy. Strange for a cat. Smells like a cat should, her tummy hairs soft and clean and deliciously cat-like in their scent and feel under my nose. (All cats smell differently, did you know that? My orange one smells like cotton candy, she smells like chocolaty cat fluff, my Persian has a stronger smell, a little tangy.) I see her playing about and she is adorable. Many years from now, she'll probably be a fat sick smelly animal on the way out, as I have seen so many of my pets becoming after countless years of being a pet owner. And it mysteriously never ceases to hurt me. It never stops me from wondering how the hell did I miss the in-between years and how come I don't want to touch that sick smelly thing that used to be my cat but don't recognise anymore. I never manage to avoid feeling guilty about it either.

Impermanence. The source of all our sorrows. Is it really? Why should anything last forever? Why should we? We are faulty in our making, so why make this last?

Am I the only one who's so conscious of the passing of time?

Am I paranoid? Obsessive?

I don't want to leave but don't want to stay to watch myself become a fat smelly thing on the way out. If I shy away from touching my own cat, who will want to touch me?

So where does this leave me?

Nowhere.

"Make good art" Mr. Gaiman says. "No matter what's happening, make good art."

Can I do that?

Sometimes when I walk in a gallery and see a heart-stopping painting I know the person that painted it managed to capture one of the things that writhed inside their heads. And suddenly I know what that thing was. No dragon, no fish, no corpse, but a devious, sly monster very few brave people have managed to capture.

It was a moment in time...

[Both gorgeous paintings by John William Waterhouse.]

Dervish Wisdom

So what is desire?

Hormones?

Smells?

How about desiring someone you have not met?

Is that really desire?

Yes, he has done a considerably good job at turning your brain into a bitch in heat. He snaps your fingers, you jump. But you also bite if you need to.

Go with the flow.

The flow is slow.

The river is full of greenery that rots.

The waters are lazy and filthy under the sun. Your head is buzzing like so many flies.

You suddenly feel the need to kill.

You see your beloved Dorian in your mind’s eye snapping someone’s neck with his bare hands. It is a gratifying sight. It offers you comfort.

You’re aware of the absurdity of everything.

The Heart of the Ages sings from In the Woods.

A small black kitten is running and playing on your bed and biting your fingers.

Last night you were crying for that kitten and how small it is, and how there are so many things out there that can harm it.

Last night you were crying because innocents must suffer.

He’s waiting.

Perhaps to hurt you.

Perhaps to hurt himself.

There will be ample time to discover.

And perhaps make amends.

The black kitten wants to sleep.

The other kitten wants to play.

You want nothing.

The perfect equilibrium of no desire.

But what is desire?

The complexity of being

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. 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 the 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.