Everyday madness

Art taken from here.

You wake up, after bad and not enough sleep, because the latest addition to your cat population is a completely blind and very sick kitten. He cannot see or smell his food, so when he's hungry he meows and wakes you up to feed him. You already have serious trouble sleeping and staying asleep and the kitten does not help. It's not his fault, of course. So antibiotics, eye ointment though he has two red holes where his eyes should be, mountain tea compresses for the eyes and the mucus crusted nostrils, the works. Blah de blah. Or bleurgh de bleurgh, depending on how sick and tired you feel. He looks like a very ugly blind fly with black stripes, and you want to cry for how pitiful the poor thing is. At the same time he's so happy to be safe and constantly fed he plays like crazy and knocks his head against various surfaces. Usually he's trying to locate a kitty tit inside your mother's hair or somewhere in the vicinity of her ear while she watches TV with him on her shoulder like a bizarre black-striped blind parrot.

The tiredness and heavy head persists throughout the day, the weather is hot and humid, you alternatively vegetate and snap, give photosynthesis a go and wish you could drop a silence bomb to make everyone around you shut up. In a typical ADD style you jump from one task to the next feeling sick of everything. People in Facebook have written you personal messages and you can't be bothered to read them, let alone answer them, and you eat lots of food and sugar. A small mountain of sugar in the hope you'll keep your head out of the muddy sea of static electricity that's covering you up to your ears and makes your surroundings incoherent and moving in slow motion. You can't think, can't concentrate, and wonder what would be better, shooting someone full of giant holes or putting a single bullet to your head and enjoying some good solid rest. 

Your social life is a thing of wonder. You meet up with people once every blue moon and either absorb the wrong type of energy and therefore spend the rest of the night farting, or your meetings develop into impromptu therapies. You pull out a magnificent variety of bullshit from people's (etheric) bodies, from nails, pieces of metal, rotten lengths of cloth, ropes, chains, vortexes, caves, statues, immaterial technological constructions that float on the astral level and get attached to the gifted ones when their defenses are down, to entities, thought-forms, demons, you name it. More often than not, you know it's futile. For every one thing you remove, three more come to take its place when that person is vulnerable, and there is no end to the work you do on yourself, or the excuses humans use to fuck up. But what can you do? Give up and go home? And do what? Once more fail to sleep? Har har har. 

You remember the conversation you had concerning an abyssal female creature not unlike Tiamat, part whale, part dragon, part what we later on came to call a mermaid. She is not a maiden with a fish tail any more than a hell-hound is a fluffy chicken. She is the size of a building, terrifying like a storm, as majestic and wondrous as a bottomless ocean. You called Her the other day because She was the one best suited to help in a therapy. The friend who's undergoing the therapy asked how you managed to get in touch with Her, and you wanted to ask that friend, what do you mean how? You just thought of Her, and She responded. You don't need to make a mirror from a special alloy the hour of Saturn using candles from pigeon fat and the blood of the virgins. Gods, demons and other entities reside within as much as without. You just give them a shout and they pop up for a conversation. More often than not, they're happy to help. It doesn't even matter if they are figments of your imagination or real. If they cause results, then they are as real as they can get.

Now, if only you had some idea what to do with the matter of finding a new job, everything would be peachy. 
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Insomnia conspirators

Things that can and will keep me awake at night, usually occurring in a row, and just as I am about to fall asleep.

Outside factors:

• Crying baby
• Mosquito(es)
• Cat fight
• Dog barking
• Car alarm
• Passing drunks screaming their heads off/ singing
• Motorbikes screeching
• Loud noises due to wind
• A gig at the square close to my house
• My cats throwing down a mountain of metallic objects like pots and pans
•  Idiotic companies calling early in the morning/ SMSing in the middle of the night 
• Cat in the room scratching on the door to be let out
• Sheet wrinkle at exactly the wrong place (strategically placed for maximum discomfort)
• An exceptional book (but that kind of wakefulness is voluntary)

Factors related to me

• Coughing because of my dust allergy 
• Needing to pee (usually five times in a row)
• Foot twitching violently (for some reason I don't understand, my foot has dance aspirations, especially in the a.m.)
• Being horny
• Sudden stomachache
• Stress over having to wake up early/ run errands
• Just because 

Possible solutions that take care of all the factors, except for book reading: BOMB THE PLANET AND SLEEP FOREVER AND EVER IN PERFECT PEACE...
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Sleep is overrated

My insomnia symptoms have spiked again in the past few days. I can't sleep before ten in the morning. For the time being, it is fine, because I am on holiday. But soon I begin working again, and not getting any sleep at night is not going to help me.

Twice this week I could not sleep. Twice I chose to get out of bed and run some errands, hoping I would fall asleep once I was back home. It usually works.

It's interesting walking the streets very early in the morning. There are just a few people out. The sky is blue and the temperature isn't unbearable yet. Passers-by think I woke up early, while I haven't slept at all and feel like an imposter among the early birds. I'm usually giddy with self-sarcastic, surreal humour, mocking myself and the situation and having conversations with myself out loud. What can I do? I can't sleep. It has to do with who I am, how I react to energy and what I've been through. I'm usually the first to know when something is awry energy-wise. I didn't ask to be made this way and I can't undo the way I am. I'll never be 'normal'. I don't think normal really exists. So I try to squeeze some laughs in it. Nagging is useless. It will pass.

All is well in the kingdom of Nomasland. 

Over and out.
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On the warpath

Gosh, all this occult warfare is giving me a headache.

I am reading books like crazy. When I'm not reading, I write. When I have nothing to say, I edit. When I can't edit, I watch TV series. When I am sick of TV series, I go to the rooftop. When I can't do that, I go back to reading.

I sometimes call people, or send them messages. They reply, or don't reply. I shrug and go back to my reading/ writing/ editing/ watching/ stargazing routine. I hurry through the daily chores to go back to what's important. Important is not what society considers important. It's my flavour of it.

I know what it means not to be able to sleep at night or not have a normal life. It's okay. I get tired, but truth is, I wouldn't have exchanged this life for any convenient, perfectly arranged existence. It contains small slivers of pure delight, delight of such magnitude that I laugh and the firmament trembles.

Know this. The complete nobody, the deluded little idiot that no-one thought much of, amused you for a given amount of time. Now she is back on the warpath. Hell hath no fury like I do presently. I know who you are. You think you are so smart, so good at what you do. So bloody important. Watch then. Your arrogance has granted you seats at the front row for what is to follow. Watch as the quiet tall woman with the crazy look in her eyes will tear your extravagant coven apart with nothing more than a thesaurus, tea lights and an army of dead cats. Watch this reality become folded and rearranged under my fingers. I've done it before, I'll do it again. I have had no teachers and no training, no attunements, signed contracts or spirit allies. I command no demons save for my own, and that look in my eyes is not patience. It's despair with a generous pinch of madness.

Why won't you mind your fucking business? Why won't you all mind your fucking business for a change? Why won't you let the rest of us live, and enjoy whatever portion of happiness our personality has allotted us? No, you have to go and ruin everything, you have to stick your nose where it doesn't belong for the sheer joy of manipulation. You want to play god. You have to go and re-arrange and nip budding chances and toy with human lives the same way children toy with their dolls. The dolls don't have much to say on the matter, but this doll here, oh this doll you've been amusing yourself with has so many means and ways that you will only know how wrong you were when you find it tearing at your jugular. Last summer I was on the warpath again, because some people thought they were the dog's bollocks and kept screwing with my life. The same old song; arrogance married to pride. This winter will be your undoing, and come spring, you'll find me peeing on your graves.

This is my dowry, the inheritance, that which needs to be concluded and has been tormenting me for months. Okie dokie. Now watch those fireworks erupt. Pretty, aren't they? None would have thought it could go so wrong, so quickly, but life's nothing without the unexpected. 

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Letters to the dead

This was part of an email I sent to my late friend on the day she died. I didn't know she was so seriously ill. She never read it and now she is not here anymore. Or maybe she is everywhere and everything, her atoms travelling the entire universe. So it's time to share that email with the world. We never talked again, but at least now I know what I have to do. I have to make sure I don't give up, like she never did, although large parts of her life were living hell.

"...I can’t for the life of me understand what I am supposed to be doing here on this planet. I am 36 and still don’t have any idea what my role should be, how to respond to any role, what it is that the world needs me for, why I am here in the first place. I do know that if I go, this world will be poorer, and I am not saying this due to any inflated sense of self-importance. From that aspect, my creations are far more important than I am. I brought them here from the dreamland, from the collective unconscious, and I filtered them through my experiences and my unique point of view. No-one else will manage to bring the same things here and express them like I do because no-one else is me. I don’t know if I am a good writer or not, but I love my ‘children’ like any parent should love theirs. Such a pity our parents were such complete failures. Maybe if I had a different childhood I wouldn’t be looking for meaning, because meaning would have been self-explanatory. A psychologist once said to my friend A. that only children from dysfunctional families look for meaning and a sense of belonging, because they never had this offered to them. A happy child feels they belong here, they have no doubts or fears or questions of that kind. I am not unhappy with my share, I do count my blessings, and I can’t change the past. It doesn’t really matter now, and I would miss the weird, quirky individual I’ve grown to be due to my fucked up childhood. But the feeling of not belonging drives me batty and gets me so very depressed. I guess we all have our demons and the better we get to know them, the better company they keep us during those long sleepless nights.

When I feel very depressed, I always dig up my older writing and read it again. Older heroes, some of them created when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, most of the story plots not valid anymore, because as I grew up I added elements and made it more and more complex and less teenage fiction… Still they are mine, they are my first creations, written in Greek on paper that by now has yellowed and creased and has been read hundreds of times. Inevitably, trying to acquire a sense of belonging, I fall back to my creations, I go back to familiar space, just like you would resort to your music. They are my safe space, the place I built in this world for me because this world didn’t have one reserved for me, or wasn’t willing to host my being. I belong there, to my stories, not here, and maybe that’s the problem. Children who grew up feeling unloved and unwanted open their hearts and look for alternative worlds in which they are important, cherished and protected. They grow up to be gifted individuals because to escape the outside, from a very early age they turn inside. Most of them, through the inside, they discover and open the door to the Other, they pierce the Veil and go to the Other side. These children are always with one foot here and one foot there, changelings that one side doesn’t want them and the other side can’t have them. They also bring gifts here, gifts from the Other side in the form of art and innate understanding. Outsiders, lost children, weirdoes, outcasts and social failures, forever struggling to fit in and make sense of this world. I am so tired of this world, tired of my legacy, tired trying to fit in. I read my old stories like a child would run to the cupboard and embrace the dress of its dead mother, trying to get a whiff of her scent, trying to feel her close, trying to feel loved and safe. That scent is getting less and less each year, until the child isn’t sure if they can indeed smell something or it’s a ghost, a comforting memory cause they have nothing else to hold on to. I feel like that child. I have no mother or father, no siblings, no-one. We’re all isolated in our bodies and our minds and we live separate existences, and then our paths cross with people we come to care about and then we’re alone again. We’re always and forever alone and that loneliness sometimes kills me. It’s like the cat you love so much and caress and keep close and sometimes that same animal turns and claws at your face for no reason. 

Don’t worry about me, I’ll keep going and keep trying. I miss you, I miss you so much though we haven’t met. I need you to be here. Please be here. Don’t go away and leave me, it would just make life even more unbearable. I care about you so much and I don’t even know how that happened. I really don’t, you sly, subtle Finnigami.

We’ll talk again soon, I’ll write you a normal letter.

I am sending you a chapter of my story. As I’ve said before, I don’t write something for someone, but I do write things because of someone or something. Can you guess who that piece refers to?"

Some thoughts on this blog.

1. In a few months from now (October), it will be 10 years since I created it. Imagine that. Ten whole years of me banging the keyboard like a manic orangutan.
2. I changed the font size of the entire blog, including past posts, to make it easier to read. I hope this is indeed the case.
3. I love this blog. It is surreal and profane and sad, just like its creator. It is also honest, and not mundane to the degree I could help it. I am responsible for it and it has grown into something important.
4. I don't advertise it and yet it seems that it has its own bizarre readership, at least judging from the number of page views and flags. Which is great, I am not complaining. But weird. I wonder who those people are and what they are trying to achieve by reading my inane musings and my rants. Oh well, pointless to wonder. Thank you for reading it anyway.
5. I am thinking about organising a small 'thank you' giveaway of some kind on the anniversary of its creation. Then again, I may by that time be in Australia, or dead. Or both.

It's very late. I should be sleeping, especially considering how late I slept yesterday. I just 'love' my insomnia bouts; nothing better than lying in bed jumping out of your skin at every single noise. Presently I am eating strawberries and seriously considering writing an article for a newspaper. I have no idea if they will accept it or not, but if this happens, I will let you know.

Grumpy

[Art by tobiee.deviantart.com]

I am in a grumpy mood. It was not a good night. I spent two hours, from 04:00 am to 06:00 am tossing and turning on the sweat drenched sheets. Then another hour, from 06:00 to 07:00 staring at the ceiling. I finally fell asleep after 07:00 and woke up around 09:30 to 10:00. Unsurprisingly, I was in a bad mood although by now the particular routine is all too familiar to me. There are nights I cannot sleep until the sun has risen, and that's that. I miss my youth, when I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow... Haha.

I saw you in my sleep. You embraced me fondly as soon as you saw me and we chatted. It matters not. I don't care what happens in my dreams when my waking time is so different. It just adds to my bad mood when I finally wake up. I could have emailed you and told you about the other things I saw in the dream concerning you but what difference would it make? Would you listen? No, you'd probably freak out and run away even faster. Bah, I cannot be bothered anymore. I really can't. Run, knock your head on the usual walls you do, drink yourself stupid as you do anyway, take drugs, fuck around, try to escape your own self in every single kind of meaningless instant gratification you use. See what changes, what gives, what stays. And in the morning ask the stranger in the mirror what he wants from his life to receive the same shrug as a response. 

I should not be ironic, I know. I am not doing much better with my life; I would not know what meaning was even if it bit me in the arse one sunny morning. The only difference between you and I is that my body is still intact, because I respect it far too much to abuse it. Or because I am too much of a coward to dabble in the area of permanent alteration, save, of course, for my beloved tattoos. But meaning? Bah. Meaning is a lie. The only things keeping me here are untold stories and new songs I am waiting to discover and paintings to fall in love with. So decipher your life as best as you can and I'll struggle with mine. You might even be happier than I am; happiness, as I had written in my latest short story, is often found in the strangest places. So forgive me if I sounded like I was judging you. It's my disappointment speaking. I could and should do better than this.

A dear friend of mine is back from the "dead". I thought I had lost him for good but no, he's made a comeback I never expected. I am still too shocked for words, but happy. Life gives you lemons in abundance but from time to time also treats you to a big chocolate cake. I hope he stays. I have known him for so long and our qualities are so similar that he's a landmark in my existence.

I miss my heroes. I miss their qualities in my daily interactions with humans.

Next time I see Dorian I'll ask him to kill someone for me and I'll watch.

But Dorian is not part of this reality.

I am no part of this reality either.

So we're even.

I need to have more tattoos. This will solve pretty much everything. I am certain it will.

All the people I want to sleep with tonight are somewhere else...

It's a problem, isn't it?

I hope this will not turn out to be another night of insomnia.

Dir en Grey have a new album out! Yipee!

Eventually I will smother that cute screeching and wailing hobgoblin their singer is.

Keep that thought afloat my milk white dove.

Sanity, sanity, who needs that nuisance?

Amen to that.

The Fool

I have spent the entire past hour editing parts of past posts. Youtube has deleted lots of videos due to copyright claims and I had them embedded on my blog. :-( And since I always choose the music/ pictures accompanying my texts with the utmost care in order to enhance the effect of my writing, it is nothing less than frustrating.

Oh well.

Last night found me wandering the streets again. Night? Five in the morning. I could not sleep. I was angry, and wanted to save the culprit (my mother) from a nasty if silent death by pillow smothering. So I was walking like a person on drugs in the wee hours of the night, hands in pockets, disheveled, dirty hair half hiding my face and a thin t-shirt on. When I went out, I was not thinking. It did not take me long to verify it, as soon I was shivering from the morning cold. But then walking made me warm. Made me feel a little better.

I cannot find the edge of this fucking stage comedy that we call reality. I am sure, you see, that if I find the edge and give it a hearty pull, this entire parody of life will just peel off like an old poster and reveal what's behind, and then someone will give me some explanations. They should better. But no matter how frantically I try to find the edge of the reality poster with my fingertips there is nothing to pull on, no edge, not even a hint! Gods damn all the lemon sorbet ice creams on the planet, there is no lead to pull at. And this leaves me walking at five in the sodding morning, only to return home and discover I'm still angry and cannot sleep even though it is daybreak and I have to get up in less than two hours.

Hell and damnation, there is not even discolouring or a tell-tale little unevenness around the edges. Not a hint. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because I know I can pull the damn thing down if only I could find that little edge. Those bastard reality architects really did their homework well this time. They know me too well, you see. They know I'm crazy enough to actually pull.

Hmph.

Strange stars are brewing in the skies lately, foretelling of your death, oh mighty one. Your time is almost done. Do you feel it?

Play with me.

You run after me but I am faster.

I am not a rabbit.

You think yourself a wolf, a mastermind. And you certainly are.

Yet every dog has its day and your day is long past.

I let you give chase and whenever you think you have me cornered I bite.

Chunks of angel flesh between dragon teeth.

Feathers on the ground.

And the day comes.

It will be my turn to give chase and much to your horror you'll realise I actually mean business.

So who's been playing with whom all along?

So many questions and no answers. Dark windows in the darkest hour before morning, empty streets echoing the footsteps of the lonely, the stark mad, the unwanted.

Hear my footsteps, then. And run, little wolf. Run for dear life.

Your kingdom is forfeit.

"You did not dream of us, you miserable creature. We dreamt of you. We gave birth to you in dreams, before reality existed, and this is how you repay us."

[Arachne to a liar writer- then again, all writers are liars...]