A universe in my head

Lately I am trying to walk as much as possible. It keeps my murdering impulses in check. It also keeps my tummy in check. I exercise for an hour, then return home and stuff my face with food and chocolate. It feels great.

While walking round and round a small football stadium I have in my neighbourhood, my mind races. The rest of me refuses to run. (If anyone asks me why not, I tell them with a deadpan expression my religion prohibits it and secretly laugh at their confusion.) So while my body does its thing, more often than not my characters and heroes are doing their thing too. I watch them converse, or re-play scenes in my mind's eye and discover details I wasn't aware of. I host entire worlds in my head, complete with people, places, history. I know details so intimate and personal about my heroes no-one else knows. And the moment I'm gone, they'll be gone too. I am their access point to this world. Unless I discover the secret of immortality, that access point will inevitably be revoked. 

I recently watched the 2nd season of Sense8. It was a fantastic experience. There are moments one of the protagonists is in danger and the entire cluster gathers behind them to help and support them. That's what happens with me too every time I'm distressed. I run to my heroes. They are always there for me, there will always be there for me. It's a bond no-one can understand. 

Sometimes I talk to people about incidents I am writing and describe what happens. It really surprises others that I treat my heroes as if they are real. To me they are very real. I just happen to be the focal point of their existence, the place they exist inside. I could be a nebula instead of a human being. It wouldn't have made a difference to the people I host. And that's not because I can't tell reality from fantasy. I can distinguish it just fine, thank you very much. Reality is the boring one.

A friend told me it would be amazing if fantasy heroes were the ones to choose a possible author to host them and not the other way around. If you think about it, it makes sense. I would have chosen a person with similar idiosyncrasies to host me if I was a fantastic being. For all I know, I may be hosted by one such, and right now they are busy writing about my life. There's no way I would be able to tell. I would be sure I am real. I mean, I AM sure I am real. Aren't you?

So I walk around and an army follows me wherever I go. I love them more than anything. They are the transcendence of my mind and flesh. I will age and die, they won't. They are the best parts of my being, my agony and pain turned into gold, the distillation of countless lives into the best of all possible worlds: pure ideas. The poetry and transcendence of our very existence. 

I wonder if the universe provides extra protection for writers, when so much more than just a single life is at stake if something happens to them. It probably does. (See? Chocolate always makes me optimistic. 😁 😝)
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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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Life

She is closing the shop. The sun has set. She looks at the pinkish-blue sky. There are five chemtrails from airplanes. No wonder, she thinks. Unless they keep spraying us, sooner or later they will have a full rebellion in their hands.

She is sweating, her heartbeat fast. She moves her hips to the rhythm of the popular song, alone in the night, happy. Her t-shirt clings on her, her smile wide, exuberant, unpretentious.

She is watching the second season of Daredevil. There’s a scene with Frank Castle in jail attacking other inmates who are trying to kill him. He is a sight to behold, a well-oiled, merciless, unstoppable killing machine. Every breath he draws and lets out is accompanied by a shower of blood, broken bones, maimed flesh, screams and gurgles. She watches mesmerised as he carves a glorious path of death amongst human scum. He’s a berserker unleashed to rid this world of filth, unshakable in his resolve. She wishes she could be like him.

Her cats have fleas. There are two solutions for fleas: spraying your cats (and learning to kung fu a frenzied cat that somersaults, hisses, scratches and does a kind of superspeed static run clawing with all four legs simultaneously) or buying Stronghold spot-on treatment. The second is too expensive, so kung fu it is.

She is muttering under her breath as she slips her fingers between her legs. She draws a symbol with blood on her forehead, heart and over her womb. She whispers the holy names and welcomes the familiar sensation of energy.

A customer at work apologises for something. She wonders why polite people tend to be overly apologetic while overbearing, rude ones feel so entitled.

She approaches a dog on the street. The dog is tethered outside a shop, its owner inside. She talks to it. The dog growls in response and starts barking at her. She turns her back and leaves. A part of her wants to kick it, to give it an actual reason for growling at her. Another part advises her not to take it personally. Most living beings are a direct result of their conditioning, herself included. I will break this conditioning, she thinks. I will make myself an exception.

She is taking a shower. There is very little shower gel left. She considers buying some more, but then she remembers the bank took all their money for this month because her mother owes taxes. With a sigh, she picks up the shampoo and uses that instead.

There is a mosquito buzzing around her as she types a sentence on Facebook. She shakes her head with disgust at the amount of human stupidity in social media. Moments later a meme makes her laugh so hard that she scares her cat. The cat hides under the bed. She shares a petition she signed and gets up to get a drink of water.

A customer at work gives her life advice. She wonders why others feel entitled to share their wisdom without knowing anything about her, or her life, or her situation. She wonders if she too does the same without realising it and shudders. She should refrain from giving advice. Maybe she should stop voicing her opinion altogether and see what happens.

She is still trying to find a way to stop caring, or cause spontaneous combustion to some humans. She can’t quite decide. For the time being she is just hanging in there.
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Burning down the Heavens II

I had a very long conversation with my best friend today. He's psychic, a holistic therapist and a specialist on behavioural disorders. He's also a quiet person with the patience of a saint. We are lucky to have known each other for more than 23 years, and he's one of the reasons I am still alive and relatively sane. 

Now, my friend and I share a lot, although we're also different. But one of the nicest things we can do together is divination. Why? Because our minds work in a similar way, we use similar methods and more than anything, we share the same core of information. When we close our eyes and connect with something, we connect with the same source. We share the same myths of creation, the same understanding. One could say, we're cut from the same cloth. Countless times his dreams and divinations and poems have verified my dreams and divinations and writings. Maybe the reason we love each other so much is sharing the same madness, each verifying the other's delusions, each embracing the other's illogical point of view. Maybe we're both sad fools than need each other's comfort to feel life is worth living. But it goes a lot deeper than that, and it's so accurate that it would have been scary if it wasn't exhilarating.

In my dreams I find answers that solve knots in your waking life. With your constant questions I discover the joy of giving you the right answer. And when I miss a piece of the puzzle or need help, you reach deep and provide me with it, because you can. You can do so many things, and through your constant feedback I discovered I too can. I can do countless things because you've showed me how, and in some cases because you've reminded me that I can. I can understand and heal and forgive and give advice and grow a thick skin, and know when to keep my silence. I can give you pieces of myths before any myth was created, because you too can take sneak peeks at the time Creation was still timeless. I can connect with the Heart without batting an eyelid, in the same way you can download answers without any instrument of divination. I can evolve and become a different person and ignore all odds, because the only real superpower we possess is the power of change. I choose to become what I want and not what my past dictated; you chose to overcome the past and ignore all odds and be who you are. And look at us now.

As the path becomes clearer by the day, and the stress is replaced by quiet inside, I look at the night sky and smile. The stars are always above, watching us both, and you and I know so many things no-one else does. We know what exists in no book, internet site or newsflash. We're the lunatic chroniclers of a world drowning in pain, blood and greed, and we can still discover pieces of ancient magic in the smallest thing. We rekindle that magic with our breaths and our fingers, our poems and writings, our dumb jokes, our friendships, our four hour long phone-calls, our odd conversations. We fight the good battle, the best fucking battle; the lost battle of idealists in a world brimming with mental cancer, violence and injustice. People can die but ideas are hard motherfuckers, the stuff from which not legends, but myths of Creation were made. We carry the banners of ideals in the battlefield of everyday life, through rivers of sorrow and disappointment. We don't carry them only when it is convenient. We keep on carrying them even when our knees tremble and our backs bleed from being constantly stabbed and each breath is torture, when reality spits us in the face, when friends and lovers betray us for those very ideals, when death takes from us what little life has left us with. We carry them through madness and loneliness and we carry them through deserts and mountains. I only have one wish; that when my time comes, I'll be buried wrapped in those glorious banners. May the Heart make it so.

We know so much, you and I. And we'll burn down the Heavens. We'll bring down immortals and open holes in the fabric of this sad, rigged reality to let the Light shine through. There is nothing we can't do, nothing we can't face. We've proved it a thousand times and we'll do it a thousand more if we have to. There is nothing else to do, no other way. We'll pull through, move on, get it done.

I love you. Sleep tight. Tomorrow is another day, another struggle, but for now, sleep tight.
May the three Ladies watch over you. I'll make sure they will.
Goodnight.

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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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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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The rebels of my round merry arsehole

I catch myself running. I have to be smarter than the ones who chase me. It’s guerilla war. They never show their faces or true intentions. They hide behind the mask of acquaintances or friends.  They are the ‘oh poor me’ or the ‘I’ll criticize the most irrelevant things with a personal attack’ garden variety enemies. On their own they amount to shit, but they represent dogma, fear, self-righteousness. They are the vessels for the Powers That Be. I smile, nod, run. Don’t look back. Don’t answer.  Just flee, dodge, laugh, put on some fantastic music. Don’t even bother.

These ‘lovely’ chaps are dangerous in only one way. If you don’t see them for what they are and you let them in your life and secrets, you are in trouble. Their beady rat eyes observe everything and evaluate everything. Because thinking is hard, they judge*, and everything that does not fit their idea of acceptable is immediately a reason to tell you their opinion. They are not jealous, but envious. They began their lives as rebels, but lacking the guts to back their convictions, they gave up. They occupy a couch, shoot opinions on everything (especially matters related to your life and choices) and shake their heads on how you can possibly be so gullible and immature. Or they have always been underdogs. Woe is me. Please pity me, oh poor me. Pity pity pity. Hard titty said the kitty. Eat my panties.

I sometimes wish I could tell them my opinion without any censorship. However, this is what they do, and come on now, I’d never do that. Besides I am not here to tell anyone my opinion on anything. If they can’t see they are being assholes, who am I to enlighten them? My job here is to fantasise about my glorious hero Nuare spending hours pleasing my gorgeous hero Nemeryl. Or the Archduke of Vantir, Aristius, paying homage with his lips to the flesh of his stunning L’etilian slave and-king-to- be, Liland. My job is to watch good series, movies, read engrossing books. I live to serve myself and my own pleasure on all levels, and be kind to those who love me, and not behead those lacking the good taste to do so. My cats worship me. If cats worship me all humans should stand in awe of my personal achievement. Bwa ha ha!

Other than that, I have editing to do. So long, and thanks for all the pageviews. :P

*Carl Jung said that.

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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Precious secrets

He's got secrets too. He's also part of several more secrets. Some of them are mine, some are his, and some connect us in a highly unlikely manner. He has given me a very precious child. I may pay the favour back, or at least, let him know about it one day. Or I may just decide to keep it mum. ;)

I have many secrets. They get more with the passing of time. I wish they also got a lot more interesting.

For example, this entire blog is a secret as I have not included it in my CV. I don't want the wrong person reading my musings, especially if that person is the key holder to a possible job. Then there are other secrets, which I don't write about even in this blog; only in my diary. And there are those secrets no-one knows about, and I will never write down.

Most of the time even those people who read my musings and have a relative background have no idea what I am talking about. I choose to write in a way that it is open to interpretation, in order to say what I want and avoid detection. I am pretty sure that the reason this blog exists is to read it and feel comforted by my own words and my own point of view. From this aspect, all humans are the same. We love that which is familiar.

Okay, let's share some of these secrets. See if I can shock some of my readers into stop reading me, thinking I have finally lost it.

My favourite author who also happens to belong to the First Ten (or maybe Eight or Twelve) is married to a woman who despises him, and she is a siren. Not metaphorically speaking. Literally siren, which means, winged woman who eats people kind of creature. Every time she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite a chunk of flesh off someone. Of course, he has no clue, and when she is around he smiles, a man in love. She always grimaces as if he disgusts her. Then again, she always grimaces as if she is either disgusted by the entirety of existence or she's about to lunge at some poor human and eat their face.

Another author I love has a son who aspires to be as successful an author as his father. The son hates his father and is very jealous of him, because deep down he knows he's not as good as his dad. The son has gone and made a deal with an entity for fame, and his books leave an aftertaste like licking the floors of a slaughterhouse. I am serious. It's an essence of rotting blood, fluids from entrails and shit combined. Of course, no-one seems to know it. Instead they pile awards on him, making me wonder about their taste and doubt my own sanity.

A few weeks ago my house was under magickal/ demonic attack. In the course of just few days, I had two dead cats, one possessed cat and a very sick dog. I had to actually exorcise the cat.

The crazy lady next door was under possession of a thought-form or entity. I could see that being looking at me from within her eyes. A similar entity resided inside my father before he died. I can tell apart those possessed by thought-forms or entities. They all have the same glassy, unfocused eyes. I wonder why other people don't see it when it's so clear and unsettling. Then once more I wonder if I am crazy.

Two of the people I hold closest to my heart see visions and spirits and other such. I sometimes wish those visions came with names of people, phone numbers and dates.

I have written a thank you speech in case I ever receive any kind of literary award. I even checked how long it is by keeping time. I hope I'll get to use it one day.

Now guess which one of these is a lie. Then guess again, because maybe I am pulling your leg, and they're all true, or all lies, or what I perceive to be real. And that is obviously debatable.

I am off to finish a book no-one knows about under a pseudonym no-one suspects. Ha ha.