Officially beat and writing fan-fiction.

 Australian flying foxes (species of bats) . All together now: AAAAAAAWWWWWWW!

Running around like mad today. I am glad I managed to get things done. But, presently I feel that awkward combination of tiredness, being hyper and restless and craving something I can't get my finger on.

Oh, I actually can get my finger on it just fine, I just can't have what I want, thank you very much.

I do wish I had the same unshakable resolve when it came to eating sweets. I wouldn't look the way I do.

This is a combination of all the wrong things creating a nice potent combination of melancholy, arousal, useless passion and low self-esteem. I do like myself, very much in fact. Enough to dislike most people I come across because their moral code is not as strict as mine. I do not judge them. I just do not like them and know I can expect very little from them. At the same time I am perfectly aware of my own faults and the cracks in my own mask of so-called perfection. I am an unlikely combination of a misanthrope joined at the hip with an altruist. Most of the time I want to rebuild this world, and then there are times I just want to destroy it all, crush it under my heel and let nature, gods or chance sort the mess out. I see right through most humans I come across, and I am bored, and sick of them, sick of life, bored of death, simultaneously uncaring and desperate, perpetually thirsty and locked up and unavailable like the goddamn frost maiden, sick of myself and clinging onto myself like a baby at its dead mother's tit.

I am just tired, and nothing will change unless I get off my ass and change it.

The trouble is that I am scared out of my wits, absolutely terrified of what will happen if I even try.

I do try. Baby steps, tiny little baby steps, little by little. Better than no steps at all.

I get discouraged every two to three steps. I think I will never make it, never go anywhere, never reach any safe place. Just remain stuck here.

I write fan fiction to quench my thirst for the unattainable. I have no other solution. I write my own version of marriages made in hell and my insolent fingers play the chords of the wrong characters like they are harps. I toy with them from a safe distance and pretty much write like there are demons on my heels. Twelve thousand words in just three days and I am not done yet. You see, there are indeed demons on my heels. They are called CV, job finding, and the rest of that unhappy lot. Give me villains, serial killers, the cream of lunatics. None of them terrifies me as much as the word 'resume'. Give me man-eating men and monsters, give me sadists, pedophiles, the lowest of the low. Anything you want. I will write it for you and make it rock your world, or even better, write it and rock my world till my titties are salsa-dancing. Just keep the job search and the CV editing away from me. I am absolutely terrified. 

I head back to my fan-fiction. I am writing this for myself, I say, and yet I can't help not share with my best friend. She is the only one who will not call me weak and stupid, will ignore my improvisations and not judge me.

Even monsters need a friend. Even gods of death need a home. Everyone needs to belong somewhere, to a person, place, or the memory of one.

By the way, I have not forgotten you. I still expect a letter from you. Then I remember you are gone. And the God of Death comes and gives to that knife stuck in my gut that charming extra twist.

I have so very, very few friends. The tiniest portion of humans manage to pass the threshold into my heart and every single one of them is not treated as a friend, but as a small miracle.

In your case, someone decided to take the miracle back.

I am patient. I will dig that little bastard out and sooner or later I'll be the one holding the knife.

The pen is mightier than the sword indeed. 

This one is for you.

An 800 year old Icelandic hymn sung in a German train station. Ancient married to modern. Circumstance married to providence. An amalgam of contradictions like you were.

I hope you can hear it through me.

Taken from here.

http://whatever.scalzi.com/

Empty skins

I have become an outsider. I don’t know any of your friends and feel cut off for good. I loved you so much and now I am an outsider because you, the link that united us all, are not here, and I don’t know if I like any of those people. I knew you, I loved you, I cared about you, and all I have left from you are letters, emails, messages and a circle of total strangers, some of them famous, who knew you personally and I have no place among them.

At night I listen to music and you come to my mind, and the pain just blooms and withers, blooms and withers, like blood escaping from an open wound. Each heartbeat makes it expand and vanish, expand and vanish in flowers of scarlet. I feel so awkward, so isolated in my mourning because I can’t share it with anyone who knew you. I was just the random person who happened to land in your circle because you opened your arms and took me into your embrace and now you’re gone.

How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that?

Oh, I go on, don’t worry, I go on and write and breathe and brush my teeth and suffer fools gladly just like I did before you were gone. But sometimes during the day or late at night I extend my hand and touch a solid object and then once more realise you are no longer here. The indisputable reality of matter under my touch just makes your absence bigger, harder to swallow and completely irrational. I can’t, won’t wrap my head around the fact you’re no longer here. I know I could talk to you about everything and anything, I could tell you my troubles and you would understand, and even if you failed to understand you’d never judge, and then you’d say something funny or try to offer me advice or relate something from your own life. I speak of my troubles to so few people, and you were one of them, and now, you’re one of them no longer and I hit the keys on my computer and cry and nothing changes. No matter how long and how hard I cry, what I write or don’t say, what I do or don’t dare, there will never be another conversation with you, there will never be another letter from you, and no-one will understand me the way you did.

I just miss you so much my silly Finnigami.

I miss you so much it’s like time has stopped.

If I could get my hands on Time I’d strangle the living daylights out of him for the trick he pulled on us both.

Damn it.

Friends and 'friends'.

It’s been a fun week, and I guess it’s going to be even more fun as the days pass by. I have a sore back, presently on the mend. I found an abandoned kitten and I am trying to find a home for her. I have been called delusional and insane. I have also been accused of disloyalty by the same person who called me delusional and insane. Funny thing being, in the ten years that I know her, that person has never been loyal to me. I could try to explain to her, of course, or tell her my side of the story. However, in my 36 years of life here I’ve noticed that an alarming percentage of humans deny everything when you point out their own mistakes and also become enraged on top of that because they can't be anything less than perfect. Besides, maybe the notion of loyalty for me and for that person means different things. So as per usual I shrugged and let it pass. I wait and see what else will come to knock on my door.

My friend who passed over less than a month ago was very loyal to me. She genuinely cared.  In her case,  she understood loyalty the way I too understand it. She wasn’t antagonistic, didn’t ogle the ones I liked and wanted to see me happy. She did care. She didn’t care because I was doing her any favours. She never asked for favours to begin with. She understood and respected the concept of limited time and energy. My sensitive information was safe with her. She’d never use it to exploit me or gain leverage. And whenever I shared good news with her, it put a smile on her face.

I am writing, and that’s something in itself. It’s slow and a bit scary and it’s happening if I set my mind to it. For good or for ill, who knows. I draw breath too and I am not sure what, if something, comes out of it.

I need to get rid of more books as I have so many of them at the moment. I read two, I still have about 70 unread. Life goes on. Ha ha.

Why did you have to go? I know you loved me, and nowadays there are so few of those who do love me with no strings attached. Why did it have to be you? You really cared, and now that void can’t be filled and won’t be filled by anyone else. 

Why couldn’t I help you? I have helped so many others, and in some cases I didn’t care about them, at least no more than I care about everything that draws breath and has the capability to feel. I should have helped you more than anyone else. However, I couldn’t. And it bothers me.

I miss you so much and I know with the passing of time I am only going to miss you more. My pearl, my dear, my precious Finnigami. You had to go and leave me with all the eejits and the cunts. I miss you like I miss my moments of happiness. I miss your jokes, your moral code, your talents and more than anything, your kindness. People sometimes don’t understand that when I keep my mouth shut and don’t tell them what I really think, that too is a form of kindness.

It just isn’t fair to lose you from all people. It isn’t, or maybe fair means different things to different states of being. I don’t know. What I know is that it hurts.

You can't be serious.

 

You can't be gone. Not like that. We've never met. I've never held your hand. We never chatted. We never kissed. We never hugged. I haven't heard your voice.

You can't be gone. I know you will message me, email me, or write me a letter. You'll send me something, I'll send you something. I bought tea for you, I know you love that tea. You can't be gone. You never gave me an address to send you your tea.

You can't be gone. I love you so much. I need you here. I need you to stay. Your husband, your children need you to stay. You have so much more music to write, love to make, hugs to give to the ones you love. This must be a joke, and when I find out the one behind it, they will pay in blood.

You can't be gone.

You can't.

In was crying one entire day before the news of your departure arrived- how many more days, weeks, months, times will I be crying for you?

Stop this nonsense.

Stop it right now.

You're breaking my heart.

3/8/1977-12/3/2014

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2011/11/all-those-born-with-wings.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/03/hide-and-seek-and-you-may-find.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/06/seen-things-you-people-wouldnt-believe.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/06/blog-post.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2012/12/friends-from-afar.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2013/03/birth-day.html

http://indigojester.blogspot.gr/2013/05/voodoo-and-stainless-steel-panties.html

Voodoo and stainless steel panties.

I was reading about Voodoo, Hoodoo, African indigenous religions and Santeria for two or three hours yesterday. It was research for the novel. It paid off, but if someone was to see the history of my computer they'd rub their eyes at first and pack their stuff immediately afterwards.

I realised that the super handsome guy with the long black hair who has been a regular at a penpal's  Facebook is one of the four members of Apocalyptica. In fact the one I consider the funniest and handsomest of all four. That's why he looked familiar. *facepalm* I had not realised, partly because my penpal/ friend never told me and partly because remembering long Finnish names is not my forte. Then again she never said anything about composing or contributing to a lot of their songs either. That calls for some serious ass whacking as soon as I get her ass in my hands.  Not for any other reason, but because I suspect this is merely the tip of the iceberg of what she has not told me. I know she is reading my blog, so buying herself a stainless steel pair of panties for our first meeting sounds like advice she should take. After I cuddle her to her near death, a spanking is in order. Of course, with her being in Japan and everything it seems highly unlikely I'll ever do meet her. Don't ask me what she's doing in Japan. I don't know. She hasn't told me. *sigh and aaarghhh*

I think I am about to finish the first book(?) of my trilogy (???). It came sooner than I expected, after using a tool called 'word count' (bwahaha :D) and the realisation it's actually a good point to stop. But even as I start tying loose ends, I can't help wondering. Wondering about a lot of things. Phoooey. My friend H. says he will read it although in his case the meter for homophobia would show a solid eleven in a climax of ten. In fact he said some very sweet things to me yesterday and helped me snap out of my depression. :) We may disagree on a lot but in his case there is one thing I can count on. He loves me, just as I love him. If he sees me happy, he'll be happy. And he's a person who has always had absolute faith in my writing. I cannot thank him enough for that.

I want ice cream. :P Served on the smooth skin of a teenage elven boy. :P :P :P

I'll say something that is perhaps self-explanatory, or has been said far too often.

Thank God/dess for music, for without music I wouldn't have those last negligible bits of sanity left in me.

Thank the entire Universe for art and the kindness of strangers.

I need to write a blog entry on Jesus Christ. Maybe next time.

Birth-day

Νίκος Γκάτσος:

Περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σ'αυτό το αρχαίο αγγείο αγαπιούνται τόσο όμορφα δύο σώματα

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σε τούτο το μοτέλ ένα ταξί δαγκώνει αυτό το φέρετρο σα να'ναι πούρο 

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί τα σκαλοπάτια ετούτα κατεβαίνουν μέσα στον καθρέφτη φτάνοντας εκεί που'ναι θαμμένο το προφίλ του φεγγαριού

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί στον κόσμο τούτο όλοι έχουνε το σπίτι τους κι εγώ είμαι ο ξένος που 'χει χάσει τη φυλή του και το δρόμο του

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί περιπλανιέμαι έξω από τη μήτρα σου κι έξω απ'τον τάφο μου

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου.

Nikos Gatsos:

My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

Why on this ancient vase two bodies make love to each other so gracefully

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

 Why at this motel a taxi bites this coffin as if it was a cigar

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why do these steps descend inside the mirror, reaching the place the profile of the moon is buried

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why in this world that everyone has a home, I am the stranger who has lost his people and his way

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why do I wander outside your womb and outside my grave

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. 

(The translation is mine, and a bit awkward. But it conveys the meaning.) 

Sometimes I know for certain something you perhaps don't know, or don't want to see.

I am more like your father than I am like you.

Friends from afar

I would not possibly be still alive if it wasn't for my imagination. Whenever I have been depressed, angry or overwhelmed by reality I run in its arms the same way a scared child runs back to their mother's embrace. In a sense, my imagination has been my mother in a lot more ways than my mother ever has.

However, every gift comes with a an equal price: my imagination runs wild. It's natural for me. I never had younger siblings, so I spent long hours on my own. I tend to project my inner world to the outside just like people do. I literally live in there and consequently get very annoyed that I have to drag around my humble mortal body as well. However my inner world overwhelms, overruns and exceeds other people's worlds the way an ocean outweighs a spoonful. Things are so much more interesting, grotesque, humorous, violent, wonderful and versatile in my own world. 

One downside of this is I often imagine what people are like and fill in the gaps with my inner palette of feelings, colours, ideas. I give them my characteristics and my intentions. I create them anew in my head, dressing them with characteristics they don't possess or imagining that they can't be that bad.

They can.

And now we come to you.

We don't really know each other.

I have never heard you laugh. Never seen you cry. I have not held you in my arms. Never kissed you or sniffed you (as I am so intent on doing whenever we visit each other in dreams.)

Are you sure you know me?

You see, I often think I know others but it turns out I know my fantasy of them. Not the real people. And then I get hurt. And the one thing I do not want to do is hurt you in any way.

I know things about you.

I feel things about you.

Yet the picture of you I have in my head  is my creation.

Let me tell you what I think I know.

You're giving. Giving to a fault sometimes if someone gets past your defenses. You're also giving because you're not interested in material things. You're not stupid or gullible, just indifferent to the concept of possession. You like items for what they give you, not for the item per se.

You're loyal for life. Unless something changes in the relationship, you'll be the last person to leave the boat. Even if it sinks and there are sharks around it, you'll stay. You're in for the long haul.

You're extremely intelligent, both emotionally and mentally. Your mind is restless and always quick to jump from one thing to the next. If you get bored of something or someone, you'll get rid of them, even if you change your mind afterwards. But the way you have grown up has left you very little space for long-lasting regrets.

You're headstrong and volatile. If something annoys you, you won't suffer it for a second longer than you have to. And it takes you a lot of time to admit to yourself that you need to make or embrace changes, because that same characteristic that makes you headstrong is what has kept you alive and sane. Your adamant core refuses to break and also makes you respond more slowly to change. However, once you are certain that it is for good, you're one of the people that will let go immediately and jump to the next phase. From that aspect, you're one of the most kamikaze and rush forward individuals I know. You don't rush because you're foolhardy but because you're certain.

You are one of the most talented people I have come across. You have a unique sense of colour and texture and know how to combine elements in a way that is ingenious, balanced, elegant and beautiful. Your hands make music out of anything they touch, whether it's paper, colour, cloth or a musical instrument. Your 'melodies' are at the same time deep like ancient waters and delicate like lace. And I have seen you creating music with so many different items that most people view as surfaces.

You make reality sing songs of haunting beauty and feelings so intense the majority can't even suspect they exist.

You make others laugh. Your friends me tell how playful you are and I believe them. You're like a little teasing bee. I can see you sometimes, always restless, busy with something or other. You need to drop dead with exhaustion to stop.

You're beautiful. I do not refer to your good looks only. You're beautiful as a bird or an animal is beautiful. Natural and not self apologetic.

Your kindness springs from the well of pain. It is not sugar coated with ignorance but has a coppery taste instead. Like blood and water coming from the deepest core of the earth. Coming out to bless this world, reality, the whole of existence. You make flowers grow in people's hearts and gardens.

You hide under a million guises and half-spoken phrases. You hide behind cautious glances, you hide behind thoughts, silences, words, smoke screens, doubts, and the secret pleasure that it's a game played at your own time. And you're safe. If you choose the timing and the amount of information you'll disclose you're safe.

I wish, I wish, I wish I could have kept us both safe back then. I wish I could have opened a door and guided you the center of my heart, inside my secret garden. You and your brother and your two sisters. But I could not. I cannot. No matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try. Even if I knock my fists against the wall of reality till my knuckles are reduced to bloody shreds I can't. We only have today and tomorrow and the next day.

But we can build a garden together.

I promise you it will be safe. I promise that even the roses in there will have no thorns.

For as long as you want to stay.

You'll be safe.

:-(

Beautiful cosplay picture by http://nanjokoji.deviantart.com/

I wish I was less vulnerable sometimes.

And I wish I did not understand energies. This was quite a blast.

And I wish I did not create people in my head and interact with my idea of them instead of interacting with the actual people.

It's easy to think someone is special and safe but they are only people after all.

And people always hurt me.

Always.

Maybe because I handle them in the wrong way. I expect too much.

Always.

Run back home little Elizabeth.

It's a safe place to cry there.

This too shall pass.

:-(

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Dystopia

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die. "

Quote borrowed from the movie Bladerunner, musical inspiration by Virve.

You had to go and do it again, didn't you?

These  two bits pretty much express my feelings yesterday...

Hide and seek and you may find

 

Sometimes days pass in a hurry, like the fluttering wings of a bird.

Sometimes the hands of the clock get stuck and go nowhere and the day drags on like punishment.

And sometimes feeling and understanding are bridged in a single moment. The experience itself illuminates with nothing more needed. Feeling is understanding and time does not exist. Everything is one.

Books, volumes cannot express that magic speck of time. Philosophy is inane prattle compared to the alchemical moment when something -and everything- makes perfect sense.

How many such moments have you had in your life?

And why do these moments illuminate those who have lived in darkness for years, with their hearts as their only source of light?

How can music make me cry so much when so many things don’t touch me anymore?

For a moment you danced in front of my eyes, and you were just like the snowflakes you so much love. Flawless. Perfect. Celestial. Beautiful enough to make someone’s heart break.

Still waters run deep. Ancient water married to ancient fire.

How do you hide so well?

How do you hide so well? Answer me. How do you manage to hide under all those shadows and poisonous thorns when you are so white a single glimpse of you can illuminate my entire sky? The pearl hidden in the abyss. The proverbial pearl.

I am lucky I can read between the lines.

I am lucky you have illuminated my sky.

Thank you for making me cry tonight.

Thank you.

“All those born with wings.”

It is time. Tonight.

That the wind blows like a gale, like a curse, like a threnody.

It is time.

For me to spread my wings. Ebony black, darker than the heart of darkness.

To take flight.

To roam the skies between the blind screams of the elements.

I shall land on those rooftops that despair has proclaimed her own, and her ragged flag, invisible to all eyes but my own, is dancing to each hellish gust.

I shall enter from locked windows and darkened mirrors, unseen and unheard. I shall answer your prayers. Tonight.

Feed on you.

Feed on your hearts.

Feed on the reek of your sins.

Feed.

Tonight.

Till all that is left will be something so mutilated, so torn, that won’t pass for human remains.

Till your true nature is revealed. Rotting sacks of meat. Nothing that could be called a soul residing in you.

There.

Do you see me on the floor, wiping my mouth?

Between the dark blood, and entrails, and the broken bones sticking out from torn limbs?

Do you see my knowing smile?

Do you know my name?

No?

It is time.

To enter in places where there is no hope.

To touch the brows of those dying alone.

To kiss the cheeks of children crying even in their sleep.

I’ll wipe the blood from my lips before kissing them goodnight. I shall leave no trace.

And if I cannot save them anymore I‘ll steal them from you.

I’ll whisper in their ear.

Suicide. What a tragedy.

Surely not as bad as the so-called life they had.

And my sister, the shepherd of the lost, will pick their souls from the crossroads, and embrace them like you never did.

I’ll mix poisons in boiling cauldrons and feed them to you secretly.

I’ll feed you when you think yourselves invincible. The purest milk from my breasts.

The source of feelings becoming the source of death.

Vagina transformed into a grave.

You will pay.

By the blood from your veins you will pay.

For the blood of your children that you shed with such ease you will pay.

No-one can stop me.

No-one can make me spare you.

Tonight that the wind knows no rest, I come on wings as black as the negative of matter.

Bare like the moon.

Black like my Sun.

Because you called me back.

You raised me from the river of Lethe and named me.

You gave me my wings.

You armed my hand.

You sharpened my sword with your outrageous crimes.

No land will hide you.

No god will save you.

You are mine.

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