I am back. Although I haven't the slightest why. :-)
English not first language leads to all kind of interesting and hilarious mistakes when writing stories.
"He wanted to get to know every crook and nanny of her body."
NEWS FLASH: the present incarnation has trouble accepting her place in the world and this reality.
Okay, let's discuss this. Where would you rather be?
Let's not. I'll be too graphic and I don't wanna. There's people watching us. But Dir en Grey have a new and very pretty song out.
How can anyone call a Dir en Grey song pretty?
I can and even shooting me cannot make me change my phrasing. You need to lure me with Asian Skinny Buttocks to change it.
What the hell is Skinny Buttocks? A snack bar for those on a diet?
Nope, a snack for those who haven't had any in the longest time.
Haven't had what? Skinny buttocks? Your buttocks are far from skinny. They look like a, hmmm, peach?
Yeah. Do you see any hands on the aforesaid peach?
Gods forbid! What are you, an alien?
No, you idiot, not GROWING OUT OF MY BUTTOCKS, fondling them, groping them, something along these lines.
Mmm. No.
See what I mean?
Not really but I am getting confused here. Would you like to explain that bit about where you'd like to be instead? There is no progress concerning the buttocks thingy.
Hmmmmm. Right you are. Good question. Let's listen to some Gazette because they have two TRULY fantastic songs in their latest album. Let's embed one as well. Hmmm. Make that two. Can I choose any place and time I want?
I suppose so. I mean, we are just talking, no harm in asking for anything you please.
Yeah. And I have always been of the opinion that if you are going to sin, sin boldly. So yes. I would like to be back where I was. Before the fall. Before everything started being such a pain in the ass. Back "home".
Um. That's not really an option, you know.
Oh yes, trust me, I know. Even if I kill myself, I cannot go back there. And besides, I have never been the quitting type.
I'll second that. Any other options?
I'll pick the pretty boy with the wavy black hair. The one that looks like you know who.
Yes. So what about him?
He's a dashing creature, isn't he? I swear I could lick sexiness out of his skin, emitted together with his smell.
So what would you like to do with him?
Can I choose any time I please? Hmmm? Can I? Can I?
Yep, go on.
Then I choose the time before we get to know each other, that we are still landscapes waiting to be discovered. The time he'll be keeping his mouth shut for fear he'll insult me and make me go away. When he'll be genuinely hungry for me and each touch will be as honest and full of longing as breath itself.
Nice choice. But why that?
Just because. Because I know it doesn't last. It is replaced by habit, familiarity and contempt.
But there is also tenderness and understanding and kindness there, when time passes. There is genuine knowledge of the other person instead of loving a fantasy or a projection.
Hahaha. You are hilarious sometimes, aren't you? There is never actual knowledge of any person. We just touch something with our hands, keeping our eyes shut, and we describe what we think it is.
Do we?
Of course we do. And since he'll only see what he wants to see anyway, I might as well do the same. And believe it. That's the trick to happiness in falling in love. Believing.
So do you want to fall in love? Is this what you are saying?
No. I don't think this will ever happen to me again. Not anymore. But even if it does, I have no say on the matter. It just will. *shrugs*
Don't you feel lonely?
What does this have to do with anything?
I get the feeling you are lonely.
I am lonely alright. But what's worst is my homicidal mania. All I can think about yesterday and today is about killing two particular people. It won't solve anything. Hell, even killing about two fifths of the earth's population won't change much. Since the creator decided they should exist in the first place, who am I to know better?
Indeedy. So what are you going to do?
What, now? Go home, of course. What else can I do? Go home and discuss it with Her. She is ballistic, thirsting for blood, and it does me no good to be like that.
Unless I am mistaken I don't think there is any room for discussion in such a case.
There is always room for discussion, especially in such a case. Trust me. And I have grown weary of the things I don't do because "it wouldn't be right", "my karma would go to hell in a hand basket", "I don't deserve to become like them" and so on. I see so many people hiding behind their finger every single day, thinking I don't know what they think about me and how they feel about me. Pretending they care about me. And they have it oh so easy because I don't want to be like them. I don't want to destroy, I want to create and preserve. Life will destroy anyway, why should I do it? Why should I be the one to dig their graves when they do it themselves? Living -and doing it well- is the best vengeance of all. And you know what? What really keeps me is the knowledge that even when wallowing in the darkest pits of despair I have never once given in and followed the easy path. That's my only treasure. I have nothing save for that and nobody, fucking nobody can take it from me, while they chose the easy path every single time. Every time they had to choose between their ego's petty games and between being human in the true sense of the word, they chose to be scum. And there will be a time scum will be separated from humans, and they will go where scum goes. To the dirt.
So, what's the thing you want tonight?
I told you. The essence of dreams. The time we both won't know a thing. It's that, or a very sharp knife. And that's that.
“You know it’s best not to get attached to things.”
“But isn’t that the point of it all?”
Grant Morrison, WE3
Sometimes I am pretty certain I am weird. Other times, I know I am weird.
Right now, for example, I have no idea what it is that I want to do. I’m restless, but haven’t a clue why. I want to do something meaningful but meaningful is a word with many different interpretations. I don’t want to write a letter, I don’t feel like studying, reading or filling in fbs. I hunger for something and I am under the impression that this ‘something’ is human touch.
I think of people as islands or landscapes. This is why I loved drawing portraits when I did draw (back then in antiquity, when I was fifteen). And this is probably the reason I never describe the environment when I write stories. I don’t care about the setting unless it somehow affects the plot. People, however, are fascinating. The way they look, what they are made of, their faces, their hair, bodies, clothes they choose, reactions, the aura or sensations they create when entering a space. That’s what catches my interest.
Presently I would love to write something but I have nothing to write about. I stopped writing longer stories years ago and even short ones are a very rare occurrence nowadays. Poetry comes and goes according to the whims of the Muse and the Muse has a headache. What I have in mind is snapshots. Nothing to write a story about. Snapshots that don’t even show a full face. Black hair, a tiny leer, a pink nipple, a ring on a finger, the lines of expression next to the mouth. A bowl with two goldfish. A part of a tattoo on a person’s chest, depicting a kitsune, a fox spirit. The cuff of an expensive shirt died crimson with blood. I know what they are; stolen moments. Moments in the lives of the people/heroes inside my head. I am a peeping Tom in their lives and can’t even help it.
I ordered the new Dir en Grey DVD as I watched some videos in youtube and the boys are back on the Path of War and mean business. Not that they had ever left this path, to be honest, but it’s nice to know one of your most favourite bands is alive and yelling, isn’t it? And I am also ogling the new Gackt photo book, with a long-haired Gackt dressed beautifully, sword in hand. How original. I never. Waaay, waaaaaay too expensive to buy at this point, but I am sure I’ll locate it in a friendlier price later on. Or I won’t. I already have a ridiculous number of magazines and photo books with Gackt and not a single one can give me what I desire the most. Contact with a real person, or meaning.
There is no actual meaning. We devise meaning but there is no meaning. A strand of hair, a gust of wind, an old photo in a drawer. I have some photos that belonged to my father and they are at least forty years old. I have no idea whom they depict. Perhaps they were friends of my father's or relatives, but my father is dead and he can’t tell me. So to my eyes they are just random strangers. No matter how important (or not) they were to him at the time, they are strangers to me now.
For all of us comes the time when we are unknown people in photos that are accidentally wedged at the back of old drawers. Meaning is very relevant. It presupposes attachment, connection. Time eats away at attachment and connection. No-one remembers. No-one knows. And it’s not really important.
What is important? I keep wondering and wondering and have no answers. I remember times I was so in love that I thought my heart would burst. And I remember times I almost went mad with pain or anger. It’s gone now, like it happened to someone else. Those moments are gone. I am a random stranger typing furiously at a net café and writing, writing, writing what she can’t live. I am an old photo in a drawer. I am a ghost in the machine. And all the photo books in the world, all the DVDs in the world cannot give me the thing I crave the most. The smell of your hair.
[ Images from GACKT Nemurikyoshiro Buraihikae Official Photobook]
“For all that is worth the blood on my hands is the blood of divinities.” [Tiamat]
The path is getting stranger by the day. Stranger and harder.
Divinities.
I have killed many of the so called divinities of modern age. The killing is done inside, not outside. I have killed notions of family, friendship, love. I have killed my so-called parents and faith in blood relatives, I have killed romance, gods and archangels. I have come to comprehend myself as god/dess, and yet the dissatisfaction persists. The need for affection and the yearning persists. And as a result, the sadness is the one constant that never changes or stops. It never wanders afar. It is always at arm's reach. An inexhaustible fountain of ever-overflowing melancholy.
Where is the one for me?
Not those sad imitations of people who walk around hypnotised. Not another candidate for baby sitting, not another candidate for busting my balls. I am sick of it.
When you sleep late at night, do you too feel that something is missing?
Exhausted by yet another day, do you see how futile everything is?
Is it worth fighting for?
Is there any meaning in this endless recycled trouble?
When my soul flies away in the arms of Morpheus, do any of these worries matter?
Where is the one who will remind me that flesh is something more than just a jail, something more refined than future food for worms? Where is the one who will make less sick of my desires, less sick of the whole parody of reproduction?
Why can’t I escape my desire for affection? Why can’t I escape the animal side of flesh?
Where is the one who will make me give up control by not trying to subdue me?
In dreams late at night
you come
whispering
just before wakefulness claims me
and oh how fast reality manages to pull out the knife and stab me in the back.
But it’s my fault.
I am the one who's doing something wrong and I think I know what it is.
I have connected what's natural with the lewd people I experienced it with. I have equated it with them. But the Universe can also provide me with an different experience in order to judge better.
Okay then. Let's concentrate on making this happen...
Desire is the cruelest god/dess that exists. By far the cruelest entity. And the one I wish I could hunt down and draw not letters, but whole stories on him or her using blunt knives. Desire always drags me by the hair no matter how hard I try to resist, no matter how much I kick and yell. No matter how good I am at suppressing countless things for unfathomable amounts of time, desire always has the last word. And for some reason, he/she appears to be the Siamese twin of sadness.
Goddammit.
I am angry, no, I am ballistic with that fucking asshole, that excuse of a man who had the nerve to suppose I am the kind of idiot girl or snake girl he is accustomed to mingle with on regular basis. I wanted to chop his head off, cook it and serve it to his oh- so- important parents. But as per usual, he will never know a thing. My nuclear explosions are the size of my own brain. No-one gets hurt save for the usual suspect, me. And sometimes reality.
Desire desire desire. That demon of flesh, the only thing that gives us meaning.
I am depressed and at the same time unstable and giddy which results to the hilarious effect of talking out loud to myself and engaging in surreal conversations with mother Teresa Elizabeth / psychotic Elizabeth who wants to kill/create, maim/sooth, do spells that will unravel reality, fuck everyone in view/ nobody ever again, kill people of her immediate environment/ move to another planet or plane of existence.
Desire, desire, desire. No excuse at all for your trespasses, is there? No need to apologise or explain. You just exist. Just like heroin and rainbows. You just exist. Nothing about it. Nothing at all.
Save for inarticulate screams just behind my lips, at the tip of my tongue. Never making it out save for late at night, late, late, late. Too fucking late. Too late to explain, apologise, count your blessings, change your mind, sing us all a merry song, go have a flying fuck around the moon, die, die, die.
Cockroaches. Fucking cockroaches, a fucking shame on the face of the universe. That's what we are. A waste of flesh, breath and resources. A waste of divine inspiration.
Perhaps if I curl very very tightly around myself I will create my own little Moebius strip and vanish in it.
Perhaps desire will leave me alone to leave the remaining of my life quietly and without any meaning.
"...because I honestly believe I will still remember, I will know to the full extent how wrong it will be. But what the heart knows and what the mind knows are very, very different things. And the heart and the mind can never reach an agreement between them. They take up swords and attack each other mercilessly. They hack and slash and they only stop when they are exhausted, when they are too weary to even raise a finger. Only then do they stop, and the heart goes somewhere quiet to cry itself to sleep, and so does the mind, it goes somewhere quiet to wallow in its pain. And the distance is never, ever, ever bridged between them.
The names that we whisper in our sleep is something only the deepest wounds of the heart know and echo even when the mind has mercifully forgotten, and the heart cries till it has no tears left and it only whispers one thing, why, why, why didn't you try a little harder, you were almost there, like Orpheus when he turned the very last moment and looked and Eurydice just flew away from the tips his fingers. Why, why, all you had to do was change, and you were so close, and I will never again love someone as much as I have loved you, and all you had to do is take that single step and fall into my embrace. I would not let you. I would hold you! I would hold you. Just one single step.
And the mind, hidden in his own little hell replies, he did not want to, and it is a matter of free will. There is nothing you can do. And the heart ululates and shudders and sobs and says, it was only one step, one more step, and I would have caught him. And the mind replies, it was one second. One more second. All it would take would be one more second. And the heart replies, I know, I know, and I will never again love someone as much as I loved him, doesn't he see this? Doesn't he see what he did? And the mind replies, still, you cannot go back now. The choices were made.
And then the heart screams like an animal dropped in acid and flame, it screeches to the heavens and all the way down to hell, and it cries like a banshee gone mad because it knows it's true. The heart knows the truth even when the mind is deceived. And its maddened screams are loud enough to cover the mind's silent sobs as it cries in the corner of its own jail.
They both cry in their cells and their sobs are united but the distance between them is never, ever bridged."
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.
Okay. Here we go. Just a bit, to keep both me and you happy. Or perhaps hungry.
Thought that has been pestering me for the past two days and need to get it out: to make a specific someone close his eyes and start breathing lightly on the soft skin over his eyelids. Then touch him with my lips. Not kiss him. Caress him with my mouth, let him feel the breath, the source of heat inside the mouth, a bit of the wetness inside. Open my mouth and use the lower lip to leave just a hint of that wetness on the light curve of the eyelid. You know how when we close our eyes all our senses are augmented; so just imagine lying on bed with your eyes shut and feeling this. Another human being on top of you, breathing lightly over your eyes. You can hear their breath, the light rustle of their body as they move on bed, limbs and cloth on the covers, the shifting of weight. Their smell close to you- clean clothes and clean body. The heat of another body close to yours. The way your entire body craves more touch, but all you can feel is the ghost of touch over your eyes. No fingers. No body. Nothing testifying that there is another someone close to you save for a breath. It could have been a hallucination. Right?
When the clothes are off, so many people lose most of their charm.
I think you'd shine from the inside.
There is a core in you that shines like the rarest diamond, dulled only by the fire of egotism.
But angels have always been egotistical creatures, presuming their way is the only way, presuming they know everything. Why should you be any different?
You belong to the order of death and messages.
I am a wildcard as you yourself discovered recently. One of the first. Crazy lot, those ones.
I don't think we can get along. Or rather we can. The ocean will swallow you whole just like you fear and let you on the coast once more, half drowned and weak like a newborn kitten.
You've done this once already. The second time might just kill you.
Not very angry either. Once more I have managed to balance between the constant need to inflict violence and the overwhelming desire to be gentle in the way my family and close ones never were to me.
Time is pressing me. There is no such thing as time, time is an illusion of the mammalian brain, and yet I am pressed for time. Isn't this ironic? One of the nicest things I read on a tea tag recently was "we are spiritual beings having a human experience." When my time comes, I will miss having a body, though I am not too certain what to do with it presently.
Watching the above video with gorgeous Gackt I can't help but wish I lived somewhere else. Somewhere or perhaps sometime I could pull a sword and hear the gut-warming sound a perfectly balanced, razor-sharp blade makes while unsheathed swiftly. The slashing and hissing of a good sword through air is a song I have missed, and something my soul still murmurs at nights between red dreams and vague memories.
I don't think I will ever forgive myself for choosing a female body this lifetime. I can understand the reasons, they are more than justifiable, but this doesn't make me hate it any less. I don't have a problem with my body per se, but I certainly have a very serious problem with the fact my sex needs to be penetrated in order to mate. I hate the man who sees me naked no matter who he is, I resent the hands that touch me for they defile me. I don't want to be entered. I do not want to have a vagina. I do not enjoy being the receiving part. It fills me with terror and rage to belong to the sex that has been systematically abused, forced, victimized and tortured for the fact we are designed to receive. I feel irate for the way this world treats my sex. Yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can stay away from relationships for the rest of my life; I have already been almost five years without one, but from a point onward this is cowardice. And I am anything but a coward. I would rather be accused of being a serial killer than a coward.
I hate myself for desiring that which makes me sick. I hate myself for choosing to be incarnated and live the life I did. I'd rather be somewhere else. Give me a horse and a sword and a woman to love me and I would be nice to her in ways beyond imagination. Or give me just a sword and nothing else. Just let me be. I don't want to be female anymore. Or if I am to be female please take me somewhere else. I can't stand those creatures who call themselves men anymore. They turn my guts.
[Funny to consider the fact my best friend is male and he's one of the four most respectful people I know. It is not men I have a problem with. It is not men that are twisted out of shape and suffer for it, but society as a whole.]
Ever had one of those times you wished you were someone else?
I saw the movie Twilight. It really made me wish I was someone else. I won't refer to the movie. It was simply the emotional boost I needed to reach my present state of mind. Which is, I wish I had someone to protect me for once.
I don't need a daddy at my age. I am not looking for a daddy. But I am tired of always being the strong one in my relationships. Tired of being the one to give advice, understand, insist, retreat, encourage, look for hints, read the fucking cards. I wish I was normal.
No, lie. I wish I was brain dead .
I wish I could find comfort in my female nature. I wish I had been accepted, protected and loved when I needed it most. I wish I had a normal family when I was small. I wish I had not been destroyed by the ones supposed to protect me and not turned into what I am- someone disgusted and terrified by human touch and appalled by intimacy.
I wish I had lived a normal life, that's all. It will pass.
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.
I need. Constantly I need. Mental provocation, beautiful pictures, interesting conversations, something to busy my hyperactive brain with. I need something to keep me occupied. Boredom is not an option with so many different interests and yet I am tired of being the only one to keep myself busy all the time. Someone else should do that too. Someone other than me, a third party.
Sometimes I see all those people in fancy clothes and wish I could go out. The thought makes me very excited. Yet, whenever I do go out, the excitement soon dies as there is no-one gutsy enough to approach me. And even if they do come, they are just normal people, full of phobias, insecurities, stuff they try to hide. They are pitifully plain inside, even if outside they hold some promise. Yes, beauty is a form of genius and desire the only god I'll ever allow to drag me around chained. Yes, I am arrogant and conceited. I am pride and wrath from the seven deadly sins. I will not judge people for being plain or boring, but at the same time won't touch them with a six foot pole. No-one gave me my knowledge for free, no-one made me mature by magic. I have won every single bit of knowledge and maturity that I possess with effort, disappointment and pain, so forgive me for being demanding as to whom I spend time with. I am not average. But there is a cost to all this. I am alone. I have friends, but when I lie in bed at night, there is no-one in those dark hours. No friend and no lover can kill this beast late at night. My loneliness feeds me and kills me at the same time.
I know it is all part of the maturing process. I know I have to be patient and not worry. I know all those things. It does not make it any easier. Knowledge not accompanied by facts offers little or no comfort. I feel that I cannot connect to people on any level anymore. I don't know why. Time passes and I get lost deeper into the world of archetypes. Problems my friends have move me little or not at all and I have to do what is expected from me while wondering inside why I feel indifferent if not impatient with them. I go half hardheartedly through the motions with them while I may burst to tears while reading an article or a book. Is it me holding back? Have I become incapable of befriending and feeling for others? I really don't know.
My beautiful dragon, do you sleep curled, like I do, licking your wounds and shame? Would you share your shame? Since love is out of the question, then perhaps we can lick each other's wounds.
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.
[Mana from Malice Mizer, J-rock band, now has a band name Moi Dix Mois...]
Whenever I spend more than just a bit of time with my mother, we are at each other's throats like maddened dogs. Nothing strange about it. We have grown too close for comfort and familiarity breeds contempt. I wish I could give an end to this uncomfortable, meddlesome affair. But just like it happens with everything else in my life, I have to wait.
If I nuke this planet you will know I just got bored of waiting.
[Klaha, ex singer of Malice Mizer, after Gackt left...]
On a happier note, I have been downloading endless pictures of J-rock artists with Malice Mizer and Gackt being the center of my affections. *sigh* It never ceases to surprise me that such men exist. I never cease to look at them dumbfounded, their make-up, their clothes, their style... Their hairless bodies, smooth faces, almond shaped eyes... Why do Greek men look like apes? Ugly, no necks, just a head stuck onto their shoulders, fingers like sausages, manners like Ostrogoths on a raiding spree, and the permanent fear of being called gay... Why do their interests begin and stop at football and television? There are exceptions, of course. Like my best friend. But I am tired of this whole bullshit trade. I am generally tired of everything and everyone, this why I once more focus on that which I cannot have. To escape somewhere better than here and now. And then I have to return and it hurts non-stop.
Nuking the planet still seems like the only valid option. :-)
In the old times, women used to kiss the lips of statues in the twilight, praying to the heartless god of love. Nothing has changed, save for the fact we kiss old photos and computers have replaced the glorious, lush gardens of the past.
You come quietly at night to claim me, dressed in moth wings. Wearing a long cape of blood and memories. My velvet prince.
I miss you. So much that sometimes the screams I never utter cut my insides. Like a mouthful of broken glass.
You whisper my name in your sleep. You seek my face. My caress.
I call out your name in my waking hours. I need you to be here.
Yet we don't meet.
Sleep claims me like a coma. Life claims what's left of me. Onwards I stumble, determined to take it to the end.
We never meet.
Sometimes I try to imagine what you may be doing. If you are happy or sad, busy or bored.
It's useless.
It all matters. It's all futile.
I throw away old love letters and recently acquired phone numbers. Again.
You keep yourself perpetually busy.
I am tired all the time.
We both know what's going on. Yet I am talking to your photo and you are talking in your sleep.
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.
Last night I went to rooftop. The moon is nearly full, but not yet. I could hear the birds of night, uttering their monotonous songs with what sounded like reverence; I could feel the wind carrying all those news and bits of information. Life being created and life ending. Ghosts resting gently upon mossy rocks. Teenagers dancing. The city mysteriously alive, pulsing, breathing. The moon illuminating everything with a secret smile. My heart felt like it was ready to burst with longings I could not put to words. I wanted out. I wanted to float like a balloon and follow the silver brilliance to its source, vanish. Be gone. Disappear. I wanted so many things, too many to count. My entire being is made up of longings...
“Shall we be elevated/ or pushed into the fire? I don’t know.
Sometimes, sometimes, I loved someone/ sometimes,
sometimes, someone loved me/ that’s all I know.”
Deine Lakaien: "Sometimes"
There’s one thing beyond the norm that I ought to comment on. Save for the usual chores that such a night entailed, and we all know but don’t expect happening to us and thus don’t avoid. Such as the gaffe of dragging too many people alongside me and thus arriving late enough to miss the first show with Lucifire. (*visible fangs on my face*) Or the depressing air of desperation the whole Gagarin stank of (“I wanna get laid tonight”). Or the fact there were people in there that had made the usual mistake committed in such cases: they had spent a lot of money to buy and wear what they believed looked good in, seeing it on a model. However, they were a minimum of forty pounds overweight than the model in question and their flesh so flabby that hang like that of a pig a fortnight after rigor mortis, and they had diligently “dressed” it (squeezed it, and it was overflowing and frantically escaping from all openings) in lace and silk. Hm. No darling, nobody is hungry for flesh to the point of finding a potbelly or a half-naked ass the size of my refrigerator enticing. Yes, I know you have boobs. You and the other half population of the planet, and some much better than yours. Going around in your bra does not make a statement; I am sorry to break your bubble.
The thing I must refer to is Jonny Dragon and his show with fires. He was a full scale compensation, or should I say, a full scale attack? He had the kind of face I would call exquisite, full of wonderful angles at all the right places, and when he smiled devilishly during the act (which he often did) he was plainly ravishable. Why? Cause he was smug as fuck. He was full of that wonderful self-confidence of a person very aware of the fact that every single pair of eyes is watching him, and well, they should be. He was damn good at what he did and obviously had the time of his life being the centre of all that attention. Some people are born for the stage. He belonged to that category. Fiery talented and deliciously self-involved, in a manner I consider characteristic of a true artist, he made me goose-bumpy all over. I do admire performers who use their body anyway, and make no mistake, he was a sight to behold. Dressed in leather, shaved, slim, not very tall, long legs and wonderful lean muscles everywhere, a male dancer. The show just stole my heart; to see him encircled by endless rings of flame on a darkened scene, never stopping, never miscalculating, and moving with such grace that put most women to shame, ah, that was just... perfect. He often knelt in front of the photographers while juggling with the rod or the chains, inviting them into the fire, mocking them and bewitching them at the same time, and I doubt there was a single male in the audience that would not give anything to be him, even for a moment, and a single female that would not give anything to feel his full attention on her, and vice versa. (Save maybe for those turned on only by the sight of Porsche and a stack of credit cards, whose opinion does not concern me anyway; they can stuff both up their nether regions or down their throats and I’ll gladly provide the lubrication.) So thank you, Jonny. Just for you being there it was a beautiful night indeed. To see one such as you, a deviant of society, making a living out of sheer talent and determination gives me the courage and will to go on.
The only ‘bad’ thing after such performances is that my loneliness kicks in at full effect and want someone to pamper me. Badly. Both want badly and to pamper me badly. Yet no-one has the guts or the qualifications for it and I don’t have enough patience for the average relationship. The first stupidity I hear and out the window goes flying the transgressor (with the sole of my boot engraved on his butt).
PS There was more Jonny afterwards but I missed it because we had to go. :-( Argggh…
