In and out

Tired again.

Slept late both on Sunday and Saturday and now I am sleepy and just a little bit cranky. :( I am cranky because I want to do things and as per usual there are one thousand obstacles, as if I am trying to kill someone. I don’t think that there are obstacles because what I am trying to do is wrong, but rather, because what I am trying to do is right. :( 

I am more than 84 kilos, which is not good. I ought to eat something sweet to drown my sorrows. ;D Ha ha!

Somehow everything is useless, and somehow everything matters. I do so many things, try so hard, and see no change whatsoever, no improvement in my life, nothing better, nothing different, as if I don’t try at all. 

The temptation not to try at all becomes very strong sometimes. Why try? It’s not like something is going to change anyway, so why even bother? But if I do nothing, I’ll most definitely go mad. 

Last year around this time I was trying to help a kitten live, and he didn’t make it. Don’t pat me on the back and tell me that I tried, I know I did. And just as he had started purring while we were feeding him, he died. 

Now don’t you dare fucking tell me that I tried and that’s what matters. I am going to rip your fucking throat out because what really matters is that no matter how much I try, it’s to no avail. And that matters a lot more than any effort I make. Result carries a lot more weight than merely trying and trying, and the result was, once more, death. For all my efforts, once more, death. And I tried so much with him.

Sometimes I am certain that the reason I came to this world was to have my heart broken into a million pieces again, and again, and again. I am not sure if I can find the pieces anymore, let alone put them together. I am just here so that someone can be amused, and use me as a chew toy. Beth thinks she is Loki’s chew toy and this enrages me, but it turns out I am no better. Just a chew toy. And no matter how much I try, and try, and try, nothing will ever change, and I’ll never find the one responsible and kick their ass until it gets wrapped around their heads. Unless I go, and then what’s the point? If I am already dead, there is obviously no point.

“I still catch myself being sad over things that don’t matter anymore.”

If that makes me human, what the fuck is it that makes me happy and whole?

At least the ‘Umbersun’ is playing, and it soothes my heart with its darkness. Thank fuck for Elend. I would have written, “thank god”, but tonight god can go fuck himself as far as I am concerned.   

There is one thing that can calm my heart, going to the rooftop again. Looking at the stars somehow makes it all better, and then once more nothing makes sense. In the rest of my life absolutely nothing makes sense. It never did, yet in the past I wasn’t as tired and sick of everything as I am now. I know right from wrong, I know the value of each thing and at the same time nothing of what I know by heart and by instinct applies to the world I live in. It just makes no sense. My inner compass is so strong, so certain of what I must do and why I must do it. So I follow my inner guidance and what happens is that I am merely saved in the nick of time, or put on waiting forever, or I am thrashed around perpetually for good measure. Nothing comes to fruition, nothing grows, nothing happens, I just exist to be used as someone’s amusement.

Is this fucking war? And if it is, where are my reinforcements?

If any of you knew how tired I am. All those people who chat with me and laugh at my jokes and thank me for my swaps. I am so, fucking, tired, that I hold it together by the skin of my teeth and not even that, I am slipping, slipping, slipping, and losing it, I am losing it all, meaning, purpose, sanity. Hope was the first to go. I try to function on an everyday basis for the sake of my own safety and sanity, I try to function and try to be polite, and try to be nice, but there is no end to my despair, no end to my anger. I am hollow and blackened and dead inside, disillusioned, dead, so fucking dead, I feel 90 years old and used and wasted and stupid, the only person who didn’t get the joke in a room of laughing people. There is nothing funny here, nothing funny at all, just stupidity and shallow, scared people, putting on a show for the sake of society, putting on a show for the sake of faces, and they are the real monsters, they are the real hollow ones, and I want to kill each and every one of them, I want to strangle them with their expensive handbags and crush their bones using their expensive cars, I want to flay them and tear their eyes out, I want to do terrible things to them and I keep it together, keep it down, keep it secret and cool and keep smiling and nodding and walking and eating and going to work every day as if it changes something, and it changes nothing. It changes nothing. And they won't let me be. He comes to me, blind, blind as the rest, lazy, chasing his own tail, pretending to be alternative, in reality just another pitiful junkie of his own self- loathing, and asks me for my opinion, and I want to be so mean, I want to spit on him and kick him away, and it’s not my place to be mean or to be his therapist and so I shut my mouth. And she comes to me demanding that I take my dog away, because her grandchildren are coming and they are afraid of a 15- year-old fat dog with arthritis that can barely move. And she demands that I take the dog away NOW, and I want to grab her by the hair and knock her head on the opposite wall, because she has turned her grandchildren into crippled, useless individuals. She lives in a country that you can’t go anywhere without coming across stray dogs, and unless they get familiarised with dogs they won't be able to go outside their home without being scared; still she claims I am the weird one and don’t understand. So I once more shut my mouth. But one day I won’t be able to shut my mouth anymore, and unless something happens to convince me that there is indeed some kind of universal, higher justice than the one I hold in my hands, someone will die or end up in hospital. And I try not to let that happen if I can. But if it continues going likewise, then I won’t be able to keep it together for much longer. So if there are indeed reinforcements on the way, now it would be a good time for them to show up. Or even better yesterday. Know what I mean?

The boss of this level

The boss is the villain you need to defeat to get to the next level in video games.

I don't really know if there's indeed a boss, levels, or I just have a very vivid imagination. The same kind of imagination that throws (seemingly) teenage boys on all fours and sexy vampire villains on top of them, and then havoc ensues. However, seeing parallels to video games and movies and books helps me make sense of reality.

Isn't that an awfully ambitious aspiration? Making sense of something presupposes that there is some kind of sense to be made. I have lots of doubts whether this reality can indeed make sense.

I have long, complex dreams. Oh, dreams I'm good at, I know how to unravel and interpret. Life, on the other hand, isn't that simple. It has no rules I am aware of.

I have two favourite hours in the day. One is very late at night, after three a.m., where everyone is asleep and I find myself looking at the sky, wishing I could make sense of my life, and the little pinpricks of light over the horizon seem to salute me or mock me, don't know which.

The other is when twilight falls and the entire palette of colours changes frequency and vibrates in altogether different notes. That is a time of endings, and for the past to be put to rest, and death.

I don't think there is one hour of the day I am not thinking about death. I am thinking about it more than I think about sex, which under normal circumstances should be alarming. It's not. Death is always there. Sometimes we hold hands and walk together. Time, on the other hand, isn't there to hold my hand, but to crush me under his heel.

So far I've been very, very resilient. Bits and pieces of me have broken and fallen off. The rest still stands.

Have I made my peace with the world?

Have I made my peace?

No.

I can't.

Stardust and immortality

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

There is nothing left of us. Nothing.

We’re stardust and we return to being stardust.

Do you want something left of you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you.

Dreams of heaven, dreams of hell.

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

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

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

Second time I am finishing a book.

Second time I am finishing a game.

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

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

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

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

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

I will work on that.

Promise.

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.

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).

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

Letters with no receivers

You like writing letters so much. Letters, lists, memos, diaries, digital letters, gods help you, you live immersed in the written word like it’s the air you breathe. And it is. It’s both what you breathe and what you choke on. Because that’s what you end up doing. Choking on papers and unspoken conversations with people who are absent, or dead, or not real.

You listen to love songs and murmur the song along with the singer. And you wonder, when the time comes for you to leave, what of that gift? Who will get the uniqueness of your voice save for the crows that don’t feast on the flesh of the dead anymore, and what will they do with this ill-begotten loot?

Perhaps sing love songs to themselves after midnight, sing love songs with a human voice when no-one is there to hear them. Scare the dead.

Your imagination tortures you like you share your mind with an evil twin. You are the crippled twin of the two, left to watch while the other mocks you for everything you (cannot) do. For every wall and barrier that shuts you off and surrounds you the other twin sees only sky, an open sky you are forever doomed to watch without the ability to soar. You look at rooftops and trees and you can almost see yourself there, perched lazily and looking at passers by with the audacity of a cat or a winged creature. You see yourself dancing on rooftops and dangling from windowsills and laughing wildly as you somersault from one impossible feat to the next and then gravity lands on your chest like a tombstone and reality slaps you. And the evil twin of your imagination laughs at you and gives you and them the finger. And with something akin to fever you wish you were shallow and boring and you could only think about your mundane job and what to cook for supper and to buy some milk on the way home. Not about dancing on rooftops and singing from trees, not about the open sky that laughs at your face every time you look up.

The night is so beautiful, a velvet curtain of negative light. Pull the curtain aside and you’ll find a hidden door of endless possibilities. Life and death kiss each other and laugh, laugh, laugh.

The earth is so beautiful, a living jewel sparkling and breathing. You are so afraid that She’s breathing Her last that you want to scream.

You miss flying so much.

You miss killing so much.

You’ve done neither in this lifetime but you remember them so vividly that your heart breaks.

Words, words, words are so cheap. They are a penny a bucketful. Aren’t you bored?

Shut up and get out.

The night is so beautiful.

Like killing. Like flying.

Out.

[Bartek Borowiec the male model in both beautiful photos]

A meeting with Death

Ok, now I am seriously wondering.

What’s wrong with me? Have I become so skilled at suppressing my feelings I fully lost contact with them?

(And more importantly, who cares? A little voice adds here. It’s really convenient that most of the time I am numb to, well, everything.)

It’s really convenient that I care about no-one save for myself. But I don’t care even about myself that much as it seems. Well, I don’t care about anything. The feelings switch is stuck to 'off' with permanent glue and six inch nails to make it more secure. Instead of feeling, I go through the motions. Half-assed at best. I am expected to feel sadness and pretend I feel it, or happy about something and I pretend about that, too. In reality don’t feel anything. I expect nothing, hope nothing, fear so much.

Funny how I am listening to Anathema now and the lyrics say:

“Today I introduced myself/ to my own feelings./ In silent agony, after all these years,/ they spoke to me…/ After all these years.”

I dread the day the feelings will speak to me again “after all these years”.

It will be similar to a handshake with a tornado. It will rip off my hand and then my head. And that’s probably what I deserve for denying my inner voice for so long.

But you see, I somehow have to preserve my sanity. I somehow have to keep functioning, keep working 75 hours a week only to watch the mountain of bills grow bigger with each passing month. To work from day to night in order to sink more and more in debt. To deal with the fact that if I want to do something creative or simply different than eating and dropping dead on my bed I need to sleep less. To somehow deal with the loneliness that always lunges and bites me at the jugular when I am least expecting it. To deal with everything. If I let my feelings run amok the way I used to in the past I’ll resort to breaking things, screaming at people, screaming at mirrors, hurting myself, hurting others. I have been there and I don’t want to revisit that place. It’s not constructive in any way to cry about where you are. In the long run it always makes me a lot more depressed and desperate. And I can’t afford desperate and depressed right now. I have to keep my wits about me somehow, in some way, and I’ll do anything it takes to do that. Anything needs be done. I have to stay focused, sharp and NUMB.

And then something slips by. Something slips through my guard. It may be a picture on the net, or a song, or an article in the newspaper. Feelings are represented by the element of water. And you cannot imprison water. Sooner or later, water will find a way, as a friend always says. It may be a single drop, but that drop falls on my heart and burns it like acid, like boiling oil, it runs through it like a barbed spear. The pain is so intense that it gives a whole new dimension to the entire concept. It’s brilliant. It’s magnificent. It’s almost beautiful in the way anything final or lethal is beautiful as much as devastating. It cannot be ignored, suppressed or escaped in any way. It’s similar to ending a life, taking the wrong turn in a way that cannot be undone and it will always and forever live with you from that point onward. That’s the pain I experience. It’s so deep the night seems transparent in comparison, the red of blood looks pale yellow beige standing by its side. And I want to stay away from it. I want to keep it at a safe distance. I am not sure if I should blame myself for it. It’s not a passing notion; it’s not a fleeting sensation. It’s nebulae and supernovas and the end of the world distilled in one single moment. The moment the pain switch breaks the glue, spits out the nails and clicks back to the 'on' indication. Then a multitude of other feelings stampede in, and they use me as a pogo stick, with my head down, before kicking seven shades of blue and red and purple out of me. It’s not fun. Desire is the first to rush in and wrap me in its arms, kiss me in the mouth with its breath smelling of chocolate and honey and summer and run its nimble fingers all over me, setting me on fire.

“Remember me?” Desire asks. “Now look at him. Isn’t he beautiful? Wouldn’t you want to smell his hair? Wouldn’t you want to touch the back of his palms, oh, look at how beautiful his hands are, wouldn’t you want to see him with fewer clothes on? Wouldn’t you want him to look at you and feel the same, wouldn’t you want him to inhale your scent as he bites you during lovemaking? Now, don’t lie to me, because I know you want to.” And I want to, I burn with the need to. But I manage to kick Desire's groin and wring the necks of those needs fast and effectively, as if I was dealing with poisonous snakes. And run, while muttering lists with things I need to do in order to distract myself from the urgent demands of sexuality.

Then Creativity steps in. “Hello", it says. "Remember me? Don’t you want more people to read what you write? Don’t you want to speak out loud? Don’t you want to sing when so many others screech and whisper and croak when they write, while you sing? Don’t you want to free every child you have made out there, and see how they fare away from your hands?” 
I smack Creativity in the face, take my whip and force it to put that down on paper instead of yelling it into my ear. And that’s the point I manage to escape that threat. Creativity writes furiously while muttering to itself, one eye blackened, its attention diverted from me. And I run like hell only to stumble upon Death, who gives me the look he has patented and copyrighted and trademarked.

“Hello Elizabeth” Death says. “Remember me? We used to be friends.”

“That was in the past. When I thought I had plenty of time. Now I am running out of time,” I mutter nervously.

“Well, you can always pick reproduction as a means to gain immortality,” Death says with a shrug. “You know, pass on your genes et cetera.”

“What the hell?!? What are my genes to pass them on, a second hand T-shirt?” I yell at Death. “I am not falling for that!”

“And what do you think time is?” Death asks. “You cannot run out of time. There is time enough for your needs. Time is not coffee, or the Herald Tribune in order to run out of it,” he observes. He seems amused, but I am not.

“It’s a trick. Sexuality is a trick to force us reproduce because we fear you!” I shout at him while pointing with my finger. 
Death shrugs.

“First of all, I’d like you to stop pointing. It’s not polite, and you would not want me pointing at you.” I gulp and immediately stop pointing. “Now, you sound like a Cosmopolitan article gone existential Freud. I did not even know such a thing existed before now.” He makes a face as if someone added curry instead of cinnamon and salt instead of sugar to his cappuccino. “I believe you need to sleep and you need to get laid. Not simultaneously, it will be a failure from both aspects. And I cannot bother about any of those, they are your responsibility. And I suggest you sleep now, since getting laid requires company that you presently lack.”

What a perfectly wise idea. Let’s be practical and realistic. Off to bed. NOW.

PS: Damn you. You are good looking, interesting, funny, have similar political views to mine and live a few thousand miles away. This is not very helpful, you know. Or practical.

Black and gold and full of scales

[Wonderful art by Royo]

Today I am wondering again if you are happy.

Of course, it makes no difference what I think or believe. It cannot alter your state of mind. I can only change myself. Yet sometimes thoughts pass through my head, similar to erratic flocks of birds. The mind as the most ancient drive-thru in existence.

Sometimes I wonder if I want to know. I know I am merely cheating. I cannot live anything exciting now and try to find something more interesting to bother my head with. But my head is bothered and fucked up and disturbed already, it’s a reverse Cathedral of wishes, dark games and obsessions. I should not add to it.

But are you happy? My mind once more asks. And what had happened between us back then?

Who cares? With my luck in these matters, you probably had murdered me. Much like another person we both know. Or have heard about. 

I don’t really want to know, to be honest. I want the naughty stuff without the painful details. Hahaha. What a bloody idiot. Wants a consequences-free sin. Like eating those disgusting 0% sweets. If you’re gonna sin, sin boldly. Sin like you mean it!

Will I be able to get rid of the past?

Will I be able to dance through the minefield of you all without ending up as minced meat? Burned, broken and destroyed? Because fully avoiding you doesn’t seem an option. I don’t know how stubborn you are as a person. The other one is extremely stubborn. And he’s about as attractive as that insistent, sweet toothache when one is teething. It hurts but kinda nice. One can't help but rub their tongue onto it.

And there are days I know that none of you has any actual power over me. I can simply slip from between your fingers like a memory and leave you behind, because that is what you deserve. I can simply get up and let you fall in the floor, in the manner of a woman who sheds clothes she does not need anymore.

Well, I am still wondering if you’re happy. And whether adultery is your cup of tea.

I promise I’ll add honey and spices to it.

Personal responsibility

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

Blood tidings

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

And yet that night she spoke to you.

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

In a dream she came to you.

Be careful, my love, she whispered.

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

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

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

Stay with me, you whispered. Please.

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

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

I am sorry, Mr Takeshi.

Possible answers to stupid questions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Not certain anymore

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

Any better options out there?

And I still pick at scabs

and my mind won't let me rest

and I cannot take one deep clear breath.

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

Now I pray for rain.

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

It will free me.

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

That would be so nice.

Everything would take care of itself afterwards.

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

Why am I here if this reality disagrees with me?

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

Why should life be about this?

I have no answers.

I have nothing.

I am, in reality, nothing.

A dream that strayed.

Please let me leave.

Treasure chest

[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 story line 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 the old characters, the undeveloped stories, all those "what ifs" that will never take place in any world and return them all to the Heart, the Creator/Creatrix. Let Him/Her 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.

Reminiscence

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 my 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 everything will be gone with me, like the funerals of ancient times or the gypsies of today: burying the dead with 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 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.

D'ah!

[Photo by http://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 with 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

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.

The moon is cruel...

I cannot change anything, and I try too fucking much to no avail.

Nothing is real.

Everything is real.

I think I have gone officially crazy. Rejoice, oh crowds. Where is my scepter and my crown? And what kind of army do I have under my command? To conquer which land of fancy do I march? To the death, to the death. Fantastic beasts curl at the legs of my bed at morning, watching over me while I sleep, exhausted from last night's pursuits. And my army has no men. Only willowy ladies who play the harp and dine with youth and beauty, leaving behind them senile men and wasted landscapes. Yes... It seems that my army run amok in this reality, hence its condition. Dry and humorless.

I went walking again last night. It is funny how my body from the waist down seems to belong to a different person. My legs guide me. I have no idea where. I just walk aimlessly. I pass trees and have this urge to punch them to make sure they are real.

I look at the moon and wonder how sick it must be from watching all this bullshit happening down here.

I look at the moon and see one of the female aspects of the divine. I call it 'mother'. Ha bloody ha.

I look at the moon and see dreams passing by from her face, like smoke in front of a window.

I look at the moon and see the earth's satellite, cold, lifeless and distant.

I look at the moon and shiver and sigh like a person in the grip of opium or malaria.

Nothing is real. Everything is real. You choose your dream, your interpretation, your reality. You choose your drug, your booze, your fix, your jail, your aspirations. You choose. Or that's what I think anyway. But choosing needs brain, some sort of mental activity going on between one's ears. *giggle*

Only death is real, expressed through absence. It is funny to consider how something as absolute as death is expressed through the negative of existence. Absence. It never fails to amuse me. Life in general, and myself, never cease to amuse me. I am a funny gal, it seems.

I feel like my very soul has left me. Went away silently, flying on transparent, velvety wings.

And A. is leaving for U.K. Go, my girl. Go. Leave this land of lunatics and idiots. Godspeed. There is nothing more for you to do here.

I dine with ink, pieces of paper and impossible wishes in the ruins.

I pray I will be granted the chance to follow.

The moon is cruel tonight...

Writing poetry

I write poetry all the time. This alone shows my state of mind. I feel like shit. And the more I search, the more I unearth stories from the past that have no happy endings, only blood, violence and death.

Goody. :-/

I suppose I should give it a rest. I feel very lonely though. The kind of lonely that makes me suffocate. The scary kind of lonely that seizes me by the neck late at night. That kind of lonely.

Goody...