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.

Black and gold and full of scales

[Wonderful art by Royo]

Today I am wondering again if you are happy.

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

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

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

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

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

Will I be able to get rid of the past?

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

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

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

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

Radical radish

And then comes the day that you decide you just want everything gone from your email. And the best buttons in the world are: Ctrl+A+Delete. You don’t stop to see what’s useful and what’s not useful. You don’t save anything. You don’t care about anything. Everything has to go, and it does. Bye bye now. Off with their heads, said the mad queen. So I erased all my emails before I could change my mind. And I feel ecstatic about it. Yay!

In the future we'll be able to erase all our emails using bombs. Meh. Kind of a way to check your mail and release tension at the same time.

Then I went into Facebook, and for some reason all the advertisements on the right appear in Japanese. The fuck?!? Not certain why this is happening. Not even certain IF it's happening. Perhaps I'm having a bad dream about it. After watching three really bad horror movies by various Asian directors called "Three Extremes" I am sure I am seeing Kanji and entrails everywhere. It's the vlad, I tell you. The vlaaaad. (blooood.) That, and the awful directors. Very postmodern bullshit with psychoanalysis elements my two smelly feet. With the exception of the third movie in the lot, which was fantastic: dreamy, unusual, beautiful. Lovely images, really scary sounds.

The fuck. Now I think my customers speak to me in Japanese. Let me try cleaning my ears a little. Aaah, still I'm hearing Japanese. It could be worse. I could be hearing little children singing. Not ghost children. Off tone children. Those are worse.

Why on earth am I still hearing Japanese?

Fingers on the keyboard, fire under my pants

I see my fingers on the keyboard… And it looks both comforting and promising.

Q: How do you know a past life in regard to Japan is resurfacing?

A: I try to read a simple text in Japanese and get a motherfucker of a headache. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame is playing drums on my skull with many ample-sized elaborate hammers, or someone has strapped a length of leather around my temples and is squeezing slowly to check my cranium collapsing point. Nice! I also get restless, fidgety, depressive and distracted. It’s the perfect conditions for studying hard.

(Right now the only hard thing I want to bother myself with, in the sense of scrutinizing and studying, is hard candy. Or that other, occasionally hard, interesting thing. End of period, beginning of ovulation. Armies of nekkid elves and imprisoned J-rockers inside my head will be taken care of before the end of the week).

I wonder why I see such complicated dreams lately. I take no drugs save for the occasional over-indulgence in chocolate. But my dreams, oh my fucking gods. Last night I surpassed myself again. I do remember pushing a bathtub with wheels and two women inside, holding oars, towards the sea… I also remember stealing some heavy silver and gold rings from the queen of vampires, and having to carry them… And I am not sure if I really want to remember much more. It seems I am having too much fun with True Blood. And as always, I am partly aware of the reason why my dreams are so complicated. As for sharing with the rest of the world, uh-uh.

There are things that can be shared and those that cannot be shared.

I have just acquainted myself with some new pen pals I cannot write to. What the heck can I tell them? That the energy of the one of them is totally incompatible to mine? They will probably think I am nuts. I get a headache just by reading her letter; how the hell am I supposed to answer and keep regular contact? The other has just moved out of one oppressive relationship to the next one. I am supposed to keep my mouth shut. What in the blue blazes? I know I must not say a thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t itch with desire to tell her to stop picking the wrong kind of person to get involved with. Yet I cannot do that, because if I do, I’ll get into the wrong kind of conversation with her. Which means, telling people what they need to do “for their own good”. But what people do, even if it is a poor choice and for me it’s self explanatory why, it’s still their business. Why?

*Because I was not asked for my opinion.

*Because I would be seriously enraged if someone told me what to (not) do.

*Because each has to discover the truth for themselves. Even if I tell them what they should do and why, experience cannot be communicated. Perhaps they would do what they were told, but would still be as clueless as they were before I told them. One has to experience in order to understand and some of us experience and still don’t understand.

*Because telling others “the right thing to do” is one hell of an ego trip. It makes one feel important and all knowing and useful but offers nothing to both the giver and the receiver of advice. The one that gives advice tries solving other people’s problems instead of their own, retaining the delusion that their opinion is the only “right” one. The one who receives the advice has no initiative, no responsibility (“it wasn’t my idea, they told me to do so”) and feels very comfortable doing nothing, since someone else does the thinking for them.

*Because, at the end of the day, I cannot keep a neutral perspective and not get emotionally involved in a situation that is not my problem or responsibility. And since I get involved in the wrong way it is best not to get involved at all, until I learn to keep a neutral attitude and believe, truly believe that everyone is safe no matter how poor their choices are. Even if their choices lead them to death, they are still safe. Energy is never lost, merely transmuted. They’ll be back, much like the Terminator, to try their luck again. That’s the game of life and I should bother with my cards instead of telling others how to play theirs.

Nice thoughts. But I wonder if I’ll be able to practice what I preach… :-(

Cats, butts and radioactivity.

Experts from a letter to my penpal B. in Canada.

I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.

See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…

[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?

A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]

So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.

I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.

I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.

Praying time

[video here used to be "Lotus" by Dir en Grey...]

Such a sweet, sweet song. It breaks my heart even more to listen to it now.

ANY OF YOU WHO CAN, PLEASE SEND DONATIONS TO JAPAN.

Any of you who cannot, pray.

For those of a more violent disposition, threaten whatever deities you worship. It works, I have tried it.

Usually the best way to beg favours from gods is by cuddling your cats. Seriously. Or by waving big fucking axes, claymores and two handed motherfucking ridiculously huge swords in front of the aforesaid deity's nose. Sooner or later they get the message.

Pray today and repent tomorrow when the bill arrives.

'Nuff said.

Link for donations to Japan:

http://members.canpan.info/kikin/products/detail.php?product_id=1080

(Please copy and paste onto your browser)

Fun lessons

Trying to learn Japanese.

Reading a relative book.

Yeah, right.

Japanese has a curse as a language. One may learn both alphabets and be able to read the letters when seen on paper. Or almost able. Then one tries to write a word down and suddenly both alphabets scurry out of one's head as fast as a swarm of millipedes on a stampede. You're like, fuck, I know this letter, I know what "ne" looks like. But is this "ne" or is it "ke"?

The minutes tick away and no matter how much you squeeze your brain cells you cannot remember. You try to recite the letters in your head and much to your horror, you realise you have forgotten even more letters. And you try again and again. Exhausted by the effort, your mind connects with a Chinese laundromat somewhere and you hear happy sounds all the while, birds chirping, wheels spinning, the washing machines of the laundromat on the rinse cycle, someone whistling an interesting tune while putting the g-strings in the dryer. Empires collapse, women lose their virginity, the warden of the Imperial Prison loses his entire batch of keys and you still cannot remember if that letter is ke or ne. Slowly the season changes, the eon is gone, the entire human race is wiped out including all the Greeks regardless if they came from Sirius or Yuggoth, and the Japanese fly away back to the planet Zerg where they originally came from, riding a super-space flying sandal. Or something.

Do I need to say you still cannot remember what that letter looks like?

Blood tidings

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

And yet that night she spoke to you.

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

In a dream she came to you.

Be careful, my love, she whispered.

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

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

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

Stay with me, you whispered. Please.

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

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

I am sorry, Mr Takeshi.

Don't let me go to Japan!

I am serious. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what it will take, but ban me from that country. And while you're at it, ban me from eBay as well.

Just imagine me there. Or rather don't. A sex-starved, androgynous beauty devotee western girl unleashed on the streets of Japan. Like Krakatoa, a Mongolian riding excursion and a banquet sponsored by Viagra and Dionysus rolled in one and interrupted by deafening farting sounds. I get excited just by thinking about it. I'm sure I will somehow spot Gackt. Or Uruha. I will sniff them. I will use my bionic super senses, trained to locate all hairless males with arms slimmer than mine and promising lips in a hundred mile radius. I bet they smell like cotton candy, hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla and cat fur. I will locate them and the entire police force of Japan won't be able to open my jaws, firmly secured around Gackt's underwear (with Gackt still wearing it and struggling in vain, of course). They will lose so much manpower trying to get close and being repelled by a mysterious poisonous gas that makes even gas masks melt that they'll decide to let me have him and that will be the end of it (and him). I will drag him unconscious to my lair and lick him till he has no bodily hair left, not even eyebrows. Mmm, sweet-smelling flesh, stupidity and obligation free. He can wail and scream as much as he wants, I don't speak his language. I will then raid every shop that sells those fantabulous clothes I can't buy from here, unless I sell my entire mother and one of my kidneys to the organ market. And finally, I will leave Japan with three hundred suitcases, at least fifty of  which will be delivered to FedSex (see post: advertisement) because they'll contain nekkid Japanese boy-toys (although Gackt is over thirty five). I will declare those at customs as "bedroom decoration articles/other".

Seriously. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what I'm capable of, but I'm sure I will find out on the spot. Someone must declare Japanese visual kei artists as endangered species and post my photo as the natural predator of the species before it's too late! Act now to prevent disaster from happening! You have been forewarned...

So fuckin' original.

[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. :-)

[ And Gackt.]