Because f*ck you.

Source: http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/124153458911/socialpsychopathblr-photographer-rina

Let me tell you one of my  personality traits. One thing I don't enjoy is routine. Repetitive tasks kill my enthusiasm like nothing else. Regular spellweaving very easily becomes a chore, unless I do something different every time. The problem with magick is the same you face with exercise. If you want to see results, you need to be methodical, hard-working and mostly REGULAR at what you do. Especially if there is a small army opposing your efforts, who wants to see you in the shit, and they work constantly. You see, those who hate you don't forget you. You may be living in green la-la land, merrily watching your favourite series and reading books and so on, but they aren't as happy-go-lucky or hare-brained as you are. (Talking about myself here). I remember the anecdote about the pilgrim who asked a holy man, "if I loved God with all my heart and being, how many lifetimes would I need to become enlightened?" and the holy man replied, "five." "And how many would I need if I hated and despised Him?" the pilgrim asked. "Three," the holy man replied. "I don't understand," the pilgrim said. "If you hated Him, you would be thinking of nothing else all day long," the holy man observed. And he was right. 

So spellweaving it is. Focused and regular, otherwise the waves of negativity sweep you off course and don't allow you to resurface and take a breath. They aren't sporadic. They keep coming when you least expect it. Energy is sentient and follows the path of least resistance. As soon as you lower your guard, it slips in from the smallest crack in your defenses. As a result, last night found me on the stairs to the rooftop, considering my options. I had to do something about the new moon. I was bored as hell and didn't want to. The drill sergeant in my head told me to quit my bellyaching and get on with it, and reminded me of what happens when I don't spellwork regularly.

I opened the door, cursing under my breath. Pleasant surprise number one awaited. The sky was covered by clouds, and clouds have the fantastic ability to illuminate the night. There was a pinkish(?) light everywhere, strong enough to see clearly in spite of the dark. Second pleasant surprise: the air was damp and cool on my face, although my room had been stifling. I could see the clouds descending from the mountain like cotton candy and sense the moisture in the air. Irregular raindrops landed on my face and the cicadas were deafening. It was beautiful.

I put the MP3 headphones in my ears and took a deep breath. This is what happens every time I decide to step out of my self-imposed imprisonment in my room and go to the rooftop. On the way there I am bored and nag about leaving my familiar routine. But once out there, I feel relieved and silly for my grumbling. It is a different world, with other rules, and you can leave all your problems behind for a while. 

It wasn't long before I found myself dancing to this   https://youtu.be/WJUZHiYX0XE and also this https://youtu.be/X7gSphrz-I0?list=PL7zVxNbF_jC3ZWDGaLbixJ5FXvGfYYaq9. Both taken from this amazing youtube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_dPXkUPztbPrRF_O4BqAvA. The beauty of it is the irrationality of it. I am  a woman nearing her 40s (it still seems impossible!) and last night at 04:00 am I was dancing on my rooftop to the sounds of an Irish jig, smiling as if I was on drugs. Why? Because fuck you. Because I could, and also because the best spells are spontaneous ones that overflow with feeling. And because I was having fun, so much fun it should be illegal. Who knows, maybe if they find out they will make that illegal, too. 

We need more happiness in this world. We have too many robots as it is. We need more lunatics dancing on rooftops at 4 in the night, in the embrace of clouds and solitude. We could benefit from less up-tightness. Of course, one can argue that I am trying to present my oddity as something normal, but you know what? Fuck you. I've lived my entire life as an outcast because I speak my mind. I've spent years suffering. And I am not going to let anyone lecture me about what is right. I know. Oh hell yes, I know. Nothing is real, everything is permitted. So long as your choices don't restrict anyone's future freedom of choice (yours included) then do what thou wilt.

I am off to eat some home-made marmalade. Be naughty and happy. 

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Moments of happiness

Sunrise sunset moeraki boulders new zealand

They are fleeting, like a flutter or a passing breeze.

Stepping out of my house I feel the light wind touching my face. The smell of jasmine caresses my nostrils and there is a near full moon in the sky. It resembles a giant precious stone that bleeds pearly light in uneven waves and patterns around it. The branches of the nearest pine tree move slowly. And for a moment there is no tomorrow, today, or yesterday. My heart fills to the brim, and I am happy. I'm not stressed with job hunting, I don't care about the fate of humanity, I don't worry about anything. I am fully there. My senses are full, and there is nothing I need and nothing I miss. I am whole.

I have only experienced this deep happiness while being outdoors and alone.

Music of excellent quality also creates landscapes I can temporarily reside in and find quiet, or excitement. That is why I collect good music in the manner other humans collect precious stones. Each favourite song is for me a sanctuary I can hide in until the 'storm' I am facing runs its course. Favourite albums are safe houses, places I can revisit. I make sure not to visit them too often because they lose their magic.

I don't need luxury. I don't need expensive gifts. I enjoy a good, soft bed, good food, nice conversation. I like beautiful landscapes. I like my aloneness. A single tree can make me happy. A sunset. The night sky. A good book. Cake. A massage. I don't need expensive shoes, bags, mobiles. I don't need much to be content.

Bearing that in mind, it's nothing less than strange how happiness eludes me...

I need to find a job and move away from my family. I really do. Alone is the key.

Catch 22

I love writing. I swear I do. But there are times I stare at the screen and want to break it. I feel beyond tired, beyond exhausted, beyond empty. 

What gives value to our efforts is time. The more time you spend on an activity, the more important it becomes for you. The reason you hate giving up on a person or activity you've spent years on is exactly that; time. Time is what validates everything, and it cannot be replaced, influenced, bought or brought back. It's the coin we give in exchange for meaning, the one parameter that cannot be omitted in the equation of understanding. It's the funniest thing; every passing moment brings more meaning to our life while making it smaller by that same amount of time. 

Time passes, inevitably, inexorably, mercilessly. The same eyes that stared at me in the mirror years ago stare back at me now, and yet I am not the same person. The only thing that authenticates our existence, makes us mature, that may even make us happy, is the thing that kills us. So I suppose what we should do is use it wisely. Choose what to do with the time we have at our disposal.

There is enough time for everything.

Everything happens in the right time.

So billions of people before me thought, and so billions of people after me will think. 

That they have time.

Oh, I know, I know, I am becoming obsessive; I am losing sight of the bigger picture. There is happiness out there too. Love, friendship, hobbies, art, so many sources of joy, so many distractions. Right now I could be out, seeking love, or friendship, or cheap thrills of any kind. Most of the time this translates as discussing existential questions with people who don't understand what it means to exist. It's so much fun. I see through all. I see their despair, their need to be loved, and the wrong ways they try to achieve it. I see through humans. I see through them and they are dirty, they are desperate, they are petty and disgusting. Then I feel pity for them, and for the human race as a whole, and I include myself in it. I see the very foundations of their misconceptions, the roots of their deprivation, and I still manage to feel pity because I know what they crave is love. They crave what they never had, or what they had a twisted ghost of. And so they make the same mistakes again and again and marvel at the fact the result is the same, they marvel at the fact they get hurt again and again. And one day, there is no more time to make the same mistakes. As Buddha said, the problem is, you think you have time. You don't. You fucking don't.

I am a hermit by choice, voicing out my deepest thoughts and needs to those few ones I know won't hurt me. They won't judge me for how weak or silly I may be, the same way I won't pass judgement on the rest of humanity for how silly and petty and desperate they are. I am spending my days and nights in front of a screen, working on a book, making it better, trimming it, polishing it, making it as good as I can. I could be out, talking to others, listening to the same questions and the same answers for the umpteenth time. I choose not to. I choose to walk the streets alone at dusk, talking to flowers and trees instead of humans, listening to music or the breeze or the chatter of birds instead of my own kind. Because I know my own kind cannot give me answers. The only answer is found in the silent toil in front of a screen, rewriting, erasing, perfecting what I have created. 

 

I don’t expect fame, or money, or even understanding. There is a story that needs to be told, it demands to be released out there. I struggle with so many demons to make that happen. I struggle with boredom, CVs, tiredness, headache, a language that’s not my mother tongue, distractions, and you wouldn’t have guessed it; time. I struggle with all those demons inside and outside and word by word I carve my way, sweating with the effort, cursing, despairing, straining like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I write and erase and re-read and re-write and ache, literally ache with how long it takes, and how that time will never be returned to me, and it will be what makes this book important. It’s the one parameter that gives it meaning. It’s the payment I have to make to make it work. A part of my life, countless hours, days, months spent on it, and looking back I don’t regret a single moment. I just wonder what kind of life this is, and what it offers.

I don’t write to be loved or get laid. I write because there is no other way I’d rather spend that time. There is nothing else I love more in order to devote that time to that person or activity. I know that once the book is out some will love me for it, and some will hate me for it. It makes no difference. They do not know how many nightfalls found me struggling over a keyboard, how many dawns found me re-reading the same text with aching eyes. They cannot comprehend the happiness I experienced while I watched it take form bit by bit. They can’t understand the frustration I had to overcome, the resolve I had to show, the pain of not finding the right word or the next occurrence. They can’t guess how many days and nights I spent walking empty streets and listening to music in order to untangle a part of the plot. They can’t possibly know I chose that over going out and meeting with friends, or seeking love. And all these facts are also the reasons they can’t take it from me. They can’t make me regret, or change my mind, or doubt whether I spent my time wisely. No-one can make me hate it or disregard it. I know what I did. I know why I did it; because nothing else would have made me happier. That’s why. And the reason I wrote it like I did is because I, and not someone else, wrote it.

Next time you read a book, remember you are bearing witness to how a part of someone’s life was spent. I wish you to be lucky enough to come across those books that were written because the writer loved them so much they wouldn’t have spend that time in a different way. I wish you to find those books that they’re not the voice of the writer, but all those voices of dusks walked in silence, and dawns that arrived without any sleep. I wish you to find those books the writer had no choice but to complete, or go crazy with the voices inside their head. 

I hope my book will be one of them. I hope my book will be as deep and as quenching for your thirst as it was for mine.

Time, time, time.

Will I ever find the one who will make me forget about writing for a while?

Where are you?

Maybe you’ll show up in due time.

Time. Ha ha ha.

God/dess, I am so tired. But there is writing to be done.

Goodnight.

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Fairy walk

https://itoshii-sanagi.tumblr.com/post/675472969388179456/requiem-on-water-by-khalilofearth

 

https://www.instagram.com/pnwonderland/ 

Screaming in my sleep, keeping my thoughts to myself when I wake up.

Out of touch with my core, so I took a fairy walk today.

There is so much beauty and so much ugliness in the world.

I can see both.

I walked in a green place with spring flowers; red poppies and pink anemones and yellow daisies and little purple wild flowers. I spoke to trees, caressed their twigs and leaves. Thunder rumbled in the distance and from time to time, drops of rain fell on my face like tears from the heavens.

I can see everything as a moment frozen in time. As a snapshot of beauty. I see the vibrant colours, the different shapes, the orgiastic multitude in form. Not two leaves on a tree are alike. Not even human twins are identical, though their DNA is.

If I shift my perception, I spot decay in the same effortless manner I perceive beauty; the yellowed leaf, the dead insect, the dry branch. They are as real as their living brothers and sisters.

I see whole worlds in people's eyes. I see their inner beauty shining. And at the same time, at the wrinkles of their very smiles I read the finality of their deaths, the finite amount of time they have at their disposal.

It will all be gone, I want to scream. It will be gone. Stop fighting with each other, stop sweating the small stuff. Stop killing the planet and bombing innocents and make your loved ones hate you. It’s more fragile than you think, and it’s completely unique. It will all be gone. It will not be forever. You are not forever, so be here. Don't live on borrowed time, on plans for a future that may never come. Don't live inside your head and play stupid head games. Be here with us. Be kind to each other. There is so much pain already, so much death and fear. Don't add to it. Please don't. 
 

Heaven and hell are here and now.

Choose one.

The god you choose is the god you deserve.

But even if I do scream, who will listen?

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It's my birthday~!

And belly dancing makes me happy, so here is a very nice video. :)

Enjoy!

Moff and Flickerlee

This is so cute it should be illegal and so sad it should be posted with a warning. It made me cry. Or maybe I am too sentimental and fragile right now, I don't know.

Taken from here: http://stressedjenny.deviantart.com/gallery/41817441/Moff-and-Flickerlee

Twiddling my thumbs and shitting in my pants.

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

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

So what happened in my desktop-free days?

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

I finished two books, both very pleasant.

I visited a friend.

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

I buried two deep frozen cats and one kitten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn't have to be in a church.

Believe me, it helps.

Not all who wander are lost

Today once more I missed two people who used to be my friends. I missed them because I remembered how funny they are. Whenever we discussed, they made me keel over with laughter. It's so rare to come across that and I miss it fiercely. But together with the jokes and wit came the rest of their personality, and I didn't get along with that bit. So our ways parted, they went one way and I went another, finita la musica, passata la fiesta. Do I miss them? Hell yes. Life is a very short affair and laughter one of the most important parts of it, at least for me. Will I try to contact them? No. It's pointless. I tried again and again. It didn't work. Do I wish there was another way? Like crazy. Does it change anything? Not really.

We spend our days chasing those made unavailable by choice and being chased by the ones we don't care about. It's funny if you think about it, but not the kind of funny that makes you laugh.

Well into the a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:D XD :P

Turning point

When I had gone to bed at 03.00 am the heat was stifling. Then I woke up at four, because a window was banging from the air. I sat up, groggy and disoriented, and tried to understand where the sound was coming from. I deducted that it was from the rooftop and decided to get up and close it. I was in my knickers, and in spite of my sleepiness thought it would be a good idea to put on something, like a t-shirt. I doubted anyone would see this bare-breasted woman on top of a building at four in the morning, but you know what they say... Better safe than sorry. Barefoot and sleepy I went up the single flight of marble stairs that leads to the rooftop, opened the metallic door with the misspelled sticker advertisement and stepped out.

The cement under my bare heels was still pleasantly warm from the scorching heat of the day. The wind was blowing on my face, rather warm but very strong, and my hair was flying everywhere at once. I walked to the window of the elevator shaft and closed it, then looked around. It was late and except for the wind, everything was quiet. Almost all windows were dark. The cypress trees in the garden were bending with the currents of air, the branches of the large pine trees shaking and moving in disquiet. I looked at the distant stars, glittering their eternal, monotonous song, and felt utterly alone. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. It was like I was the only living soul on another world that night; maybe on the surface of the moon, or in an alien vista, on my own, scantily dressed, not a worry in the world. I was feeling alone, yes, but in a safe and exhilarating way. Those are the moments I am at perfect peace and I don't need someone to share them in order to validate them. My feet registered the uneven cement and the pieces of glass and small stones under them, the gale was ruffling my t-shirt and hair and caressing my entire body, and it felt like it carried something with it, like something had arrived together with the change in weather, riding the very currents of air that kissed me.

I stood there for a while, absorbing everything I could. My only regret was that my wings are not capable of carrying me into the night. Only in my fantasy and dreams. I would have given anything to be able to ride with the spirits that night, putting all thoughts of sleep and normality behind me. But I couldn't, and eventually I closed the door behind me and marched back into my room, where I landed in bed and slept again.

Maybe in my dreams I did ride with you.