Elizabeth is a nag-bag

Music: Lisa Gerrard: The mirror pool.

I'll nag like an old woman. I miss the wondrous. I miss that which gives my life meaning. Save for the daily routine which keeps me busy, and the thingies which keep me pleasantly occupied. My heart needs to flutter. My eyes have to see something bewitching, or they feel empty.

I am that which people abhor. I scare them. I make them feel uncomfortable. And all I do is be myself. All I do is make jokes. Forget to keep my mouth shut in front of strangers. They smell I am different and react accordingly. They smell the thing inside me and become hostile. For mine is a dragon, a glorious beast of terrifying beauty, or a curled, sleek feline, and theirs a mole, or a pig. And they squeal as such. They run or bare their teeth as such. And the dragon inside me or the big cat turns its back and leaves, too haughty to even snarl.

The people in the store. The waiter in the bar. The customers at the kiosk. They seem to somehow smell it, and just how fast they do nowadays. They needed longer in the past. Now they feel it immediately. I can bend them all to my will and crash them like little men of clay, but why even bother? This is not my way. I can't even bear them around me for too long. I just want to retreat somewhere far away, and write, and read, and only converse with those worthy of my voice and time. I know this sounds wrong and I don't care. I don't need to explain anything to anybody. I need only listen. See what needs to be killed. Inside me. Bring forth the cleansing fire and the blade, and cut clean. I'll take it.

Shitting bricks

Okay... Here's a little story for your amusement...

Last night around 3 am my best friend was me returning me home with his car after watching 'The Empire of Wolves'. We took a turn and both of us saw a bouquet of flowers lying exactly in the middle of the road and passed over it. J. commented, "Perhaps I should go and pick it up," meaning to leave it at one side of the road, and I considered it for a few seconds thinking, why not. Then my eyes fell on one of the trees on the side of the road and I observed the way its branches moved in the night breeze. My heart nearly stopped. Something inside me screamed "get the fuck out of there and don't touch that bloody thing." I told him that I didn't want him to get out of the car for any reason and he commented he would not, we were much past it by that time anyway and he did not intend to return for that. Then we had a little conversation and I explained to him that the particular bouquet looked like it had been placed there by someone or something to attract attention and make a passer-by pick it up. Like a... "...bait", he added, using exactly the word I intended to use. "That place has a very heavy, bad feeling," I added, and he agreed. It was then that I realised that it was the local cemetery, and the bouquet was just next to the gates of it. I cannot explain why or what made me feel like that, cause I am not afraid of cemeteries (told you I am a gothette, didn't I? *winks*) or the night in general. It just felt like there was something waiting there for someone to touch the flowers in order to attach itself and follow him or her home. A spirit or entity of some sort. In any case... These little feelings I have are unjustifiable but most of the time correct. Like the other time me and J. were on a night stroll and passing by a place I had the sensation someone had used a hat pin to pierce my skull... Upon asking J. I found out that a murder had taken place there and that they was also the suspicion some people had made rituals (lots of dead animals and paraphernalia found scattered around every now and then.) Oh well... All I have to do is stop thinking and listen closely, I suppose.

Epic battles the size of a brain

Music: Aesma Daeva: Here lies one whose name was written on water.

It's quite funny in a sense. I work in the kiosk while archetypes clash and heroes die and battles rage within the four walls of my foul brain. I don't know what's worse: the fact reality is lacking so much or that the customers won't leave me to my quiet to write about these things. :-(

My soul yearns for things I cannot put to words or explain. And I know that no matter how long and hard I try, how many years I strive, how many times I struggle with them, they'll never be captured and put down with enough success.

Have you ever hungered for something you cannot have, hungered for it to the point of madness and screamed till you felt your very soul was released from your body through your lungs? Have you been overwhelmed by blind desire for something you cannot reach or does not exist -from a point onward they are the one and same thing- and cried because of that, till you were empty from both tears and strength? Have you looked at your face in the mirror till there is absolutely no spark of recognition whatsoever, till you look at nothing more than an animated corpse? Do you know what it feels like to talk to statues and trees and dead pets and realise that most human beings never stop to listen, let alone try to understand?

In my dreams I can fly

In my dreams I can name the things that make me weep till I have no breath left

Notions turn into livings beings that can be captivated and tamed

An gathering of dead poets and writers is not very lively company, but I can tell it's heading that way. An multicoloured herd of cats, a rather big, empty house with countless libraries and a crazy old lady atop the roof every now and then, throwing her usual tantrums, reading Kavafis to the bats and moths of the neighborhood. An army of cats, dead lovers of literature and a house that seems even bigger than what it is cause it's so quiet. And no little boys chained in the basement, no playroom with weird torture instruments in the attic. Just mould and spiders.

Does it matter?

No. Creativity blooms in solitude and madness needs shade. Add a pinch of reality every now and then, stir and inspect. Remove dead dreams and outmoded notions every waning moon and add new books on waxing moon. The results can only be spectacular...

Cabbages and turnips

Elend: “Winds devouring men”. Like a funeral march, or the walk to the gallows.

And I open any page from my story and it’s all there, in full detail. All my feelings, my anguish, the number of little deaths throughout the day. The number of times I say your name in vain. Aconite and nightshade upon my lips. Every time I cried out god’s name in vain.

Saturn/Lucifer watches silently with suppressed interest. Hecate walks dressed in darkness and endless possibilities swirl around her. I walk my path alone, knowing that which makes the gods laugh: the degree of human stupidity and frailty. The fact that we consider ourselves immortal and safe from harm. If the gods are nothing but figments of our imagination, the death of human race will mean their death too, or rather the death of archetypes as a whole. Hmph. The divine masks fall to reveal the emptiness behind them. From that emptiness, “both pregnant and empty” like the blank rune, from chaos, unformed and shapeless, came creation. And as creation slowly slips into chaos, I can’t help but wonder if change will be satisfying when it comes. I am certain it will not be, for it is human nature to hate change. But nothing is more certain than change. The whole of human race has been installed wrong software, I am absolutely positive.

It is hard to put into words certainties that make my skin crawl. It is harder still to explain the way little omens appear to show me the way of doing things, or puzzle me sometimes. Chaos magick is the next chapter. I think the Lady is happy with my choice. So let’s see: Tiamat would be one goddess related, Sekhmet too, Hecate another, and funny as it seems, there is Loki. I am not happy about the last, but I bet he’s having a field day. (I mean Loki, especially if we keep in mind my dislike for him). Discordia or Eris… Gah, this is so fucked up and so wrong that it ends up being the right thing to do. Eh. I am sure I’ve missed a turn somewhere along the way.

“Forlorn, I sailed/ and once I saw winds devouring men. /And I became the great deceiver/ to see what fair eyes still cannot see: /a tear in every sea, /a fragment of light exhausted. /Vision is all that matters to a wayward sailor. /

Through centuries of burning/ -we have waited for so long/ clothed in the serpent’s skin/ from the portal I was calling/ you lay me in the dust of the dead./ A swan in agony.

Patience, patience, patience…/ night moths on her wings, /a staggering moon murmurs./

The land blessed the manifold faces of your love. / The Garden lies asleep, the grave unclouded, /and we dance about a fallen sun.” (Elend)

It is all getting clear in a way that makes absolutely no sense. If we are to look behind the masks of existence, behind the masks of gods themselves, then we must claw our way through all the veils and even use a bloody spoon to dig under the bedrock of reality. To realise what? If the masks have been empty from the start then who’s wearing them? “There is no spoon”, I know. It is all a masquerade. The “harlequinade”. The end of worlds. A new dawn with the sun put out. The forms and the sounds are confused with one another. Reality is unraveling like an old rug and we are fleas hiding in that rug. Maybe this is what it takes to remember.

I need to sleep. My madness progresses smoothly. All is well. As Lord Fanny said, “we have the best corn”. In our ears, most likely, this is why we are incapable of making sense of the obvious. The symbols are dancing like the wings of a hummingbird and I want to laugh or run away like hell. Reality is overestimated. That and the joys of sanity. There is no pattern. This is a pattern. We can play just fine without bothering with rules once. We can play and I have missed playing so much. It is all an exercise in absurdity. I will not be angry again. It gives them the benefit of attention. I will not pay any attention to them ever again. I will only pay attention to what is important: the weather, the colour of ribbons, the way some bumblebees look like fuzzy zeppelins and are propelled like rockets. Now that’s worth taking note of.

Okay, my divorce with reality has just begun. Do they give away doughnuts when this happens? I want one with a hole in the center and chocolate. The archetypal doughnut. When I eat it and the god behind the archetype dies, its divine ghost will do what it must: settle comfortably upon my tummy and augment it a wee bit more. I fear no god, I am the avatar of Beligadesh, the tummy goddess. You can kiss my divine bellybutton and eat crow, the lot of you.

God, a doughnut would be nice.

PS: Some of the above might make sense if someone is familiar with the series "the Invisibles" by Grant Morrison and Jung.

Improvement

Music: switching from VNV Nation to Diary of Dreams, "Nigredo".

If I am better tonight? I will be damned if I know. Not really. More steady, yes. Then again, Titanic was very steady too, until it ended up in the depths between the fishies. I will take all my heroes down with me; yet another similarity.

In short: I have not written anything save for one erotica piece, and it took me three months to pick up from where I had left and finish it. I am incapable of making any other progress with my story or anything of importance. There is poetry, of course. Yucky one, reserved for my self-torture. And in the case of the erotica piece I think that hormones, and not inspiration, are to blame. This inactivity is driving me up the wall. I do know what is going to happen in the next chapters of my story. I just can't bring myself to write it. I lack the motivation to do it.

Sanity-wise, I am not doing good or bad. I just am my usual self. Tired. Burned out. Hyperactive the one moment, catatonic the next. Plagued by my usual visions of my heroes, so real in mannerism and appearance that I am sure, if I reach out my hand I will touch warm skin and the promise of deliverance. But there is nothing to touch. There is just me and my room around me in its usual neatly bombed state. The bomb contained CDs, books, clothes and cats. My brain, on the other hand, contains little boys. Caged, chained, tied up, gagged and wearing nothing but ribbons for decoration, and maybe stockings, garters, high heels and naughty smirks if I feel like being creative. Other than that, it is empty. I can offer the space to be rented on request. I am not sure if anybody would want to live there but all are welcome to try. Just keep away from the cages, don't feed them. I like them skinny, their nipples a tiny fleshy addition to a flat, smooth chest. And never open the cage door, for they will bonk you silly in milliseconds. Seriously. Ravenous little sex beasts that they are, they will have it their way with you, and I will not be held responsible for that. You have been forewarned.

Waiting drives me nuts. Then again, I can't possibly get nuttier than this, for gods' sake, can I? Ritualistic murder is the next stage and I just don't have the appropriate daggers for that.

Redefining

Sometimes I peek into an illustrated book, or read a couple of lines here and there. A series of tiny explosions takes place within my head, related to possibilities about my life and other stories.

"What has to be done, has to be done. Regardless of how hard it is."

Sergios Alexandriotis, The way of things

I was having this conversation with a friend of mine yesterday. And I told her, “I am paranoid enough to stop seeing people if I fear that my meeting will hurt them, (talking about an ex there) or that I may have some ulterior motive even I am not aware of. I am crazy and enough of a control freak to strangle such notions within me before they even start to exist.”

“The way to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Anonymous

How weak must one feel to exert control at such a degree, it only remains to be seen. This isn’t a moral code; it is the sword of Damocles. It is scary. The Emperor reversed in female. It is probably the influence of the moon in my birth chart, Moon in Capricorn, a born bitch mellowed by a saintly streak half a mile wide. Hmph.

“If the demons lie within, they travel with you.”

Jeanette Winterson, Oranges are not the only fruit

And I told my friend that the best way is to be. Not exert control over others, cause it is both futile and wrong. Not try to control one’s life at an absolute degree either, cause “if you want to make the Gods laugh, tell me your plans for the future.” Not even try to control one’s self, thus becoming the hated tyrant over one’s own being, a reflection of cold unforgiving law in the inner mirror. No, not even that. This is as wrong as trying to control others, or one’s environment by adopting obsessive/compulsive habits. No.

“In the end, I have only one true teaching for you, Dane. One simple word: disobedience.”

Mad Tom to Dane, Grand Morrison, The Invisibles.

Just be. Like flowers are. Like grass is. Accept things with grace. Do not bow your head accepting fate blindly, do not remain silent out of weakness but out of wisdom that comes from knowing one’s position. A speck of dust in the universe. An assortment of flesh and blood and dust from stars in the other end of the galaxy. And so many dreams and desires and cravings it pains me to think about. Humility is about that. Being humble is that. And it is so much different than serene, patronising smiles.

How much contradiction can a human host?

You have me, a misanthrope working for the good of community, a neutral good person with a serious authority problem (who’s simultaneously one hell of a control freak) supporting others’ freedom of choice fanatically. I am not lawful because I have absolutely no respect for human laws and conventions, but at the same time I am a disciplinarian obeying to my own law on pain of death and blind faith. At the same time, I am biased enough to hate fanatics and crazy enough to accept the possibility of all points of view being equally valid, cause they are very real for their bearer. However, I also believe that each point of view is nothing but one facet in a multi-faceted gem and therefore each of them if viewed alone and on an absolute basis can only be wrong. There are (and will always be) more things that we don’t know than what we know. How can people be so bloody certain of what they think or believe? How can they be so blind and ludicrous? Then again, who said human beings are not ludicrous? They make me mad and sad all the time. And yet, with what eagerness I seek their company. It must be because like it or not, I am one such myself. No god and no beast.

All I know, all I’ll ever know is that there are moments my very soul stands still, tiptoeing on an invisible thread of music, a hue of colour, a form. And it trembles and vibrates like a violin in love. For the merest of glimpses. For something others don’t even notice. If this makes me silly or moonstruck, I welcome the characterisation. Yet there are nights I can feel invisible gates opening or shutting somewhere in the ether, there is a quality in the cold air that speaks of North and sights much loved and long forgotten, and of how the girl with the sad eyes buried her heart deep in the snow where nobody would ever find it and hurt it. Now she walks in unusual places far away, a stranger among strangers, juggling with her thoughts and feelings and dressed in darkest blue, and she smiles because she knows her heart is buried- and safe. And she also knows that in due time she’ll make them all pay by pulling the carpet called reality from under their feet. But for now, the Beast is asleep under the snow and everybody is safe.

And still what I want to say remains untold.