Has it been a year already?

A year without you? No, it can't be.
I am always thinking that you are somewhere and you're very busy and this is why I haven't heard from you. But you're okay. That's what I always think. That you are just busy. And late at night, when the knowledge of you being gone becomes an itch I can't scratch, or a burden that chokes me, I cry quietly. I've given up trying to make sense. I can't.
I miss you. I always miss you. I miss you quietly, or I miss you desperately, or I pretend I don't. But I do.
You knew me well enough to be able to second-guess me. You cared deeply and wholeheartedly and with no strings attached.
The next book is going to be dedicated to you and no-one else.
You were a blessing that keeps illuminating me even now.
I love ballet, and deviants, and loved this one.
I wish I could show it to you.

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.

Busy with mundane tasks

I have been busy throwing away stuff, like I do every summer. Mind you, I would be doing this regularly, but as I have said perhaps two million times before in this blog, when I work so much, I just can’t. I let stuff gather and then when I manage to find some time I throw away as much as I can. Tastes change, needs change and stuff has to move on, be recycled or given away accordingly. Books, comics and manga fly to all directions through bookmooch.com. Old letters from people I no longer write with are recycled. Trinkets and useless clothes are given away. Clippings from magazines are finally read and then either stored away or recycled. Books are re-arranged, items used up, energies move. Good stuff happening.

Then I busied myself with my PC, erasing stuff I don’t need. And I made new labels, a ton of them, and I moved on some swapping items. Exciting stuff, I know. You can’t contain yourselves from the sheer adrenaline. My library is filled to the brim and I still have no proper space for all my cds. I have also been fighting with my mother. I don’t let those facts bother me anymore than I let the continual presence of cathairs in my life bother me. That’s the way it just is. I don’t think it will ever change.

I am listening to the latest Dir en Grey cd, which is so very odd that I have no words to describe it. It’s just so weird! It’s quite exceptional but so very unusual, so full of different and often contradicting sounds and influences that I need some time to digest it. The singer has gone quite nuts and has been trying new stuff throughout the album, as well as the rest of the band. I can hear melodies and rhythms I have never before encountered in their music. Have they advanced? Certainly, it’s just that they are more chaotic than ever, and sometimes I find myself lost half way through a song. I already know and love Lotus, Vanitas, Diabolos and Hageshisa to kono. They were released as singles and I had the chance to listen to them many times and fall in love with them. The rest of the album needs listening to and I am glad it does. We live in a fast food era; some things need to stand out from the rubble and demand our full attention. I wouldn’t be happy with a fast-food album from this particular band. They are not Placebo or Tokio Hotel. Don’t get this wrong; I love Placebo and Tokio Hotel for very different reasons. But let’s not put shovels and swords in the same place, they don’t belong together.

Vanitas means emptiness… It’s a sweet song, easy to listen to, and the singer doesn’t scream at all, making it a safe choice to use in compilations I make for other people. Of course, I would love to see those people’s faces if they ever decide to look up Dir en grey in youtube after listening to a song like Vanitas. It’s like inviting to your place that pretty, mostly silent girl you met at that party, and seeing her arrive armed with a sword, a gun, an iron maiden on wheels, many meters of barbed wire and two kilos of TNT. It really makes one wonder what she has in mind. It also makes one wonder what the person who introduced you at the party was thinking. Hahaha!!!

(The picture was something I have had for ages in my pc... Very beautiful.)

Ought to be sleeping already

I have at least six decks of tarot cards and not one can give me what I am looking for: answers.

Answers can take many forms.

If every choice is valid, then it is almost self-explanatory that we should strive to avoid pain and experience happiness.

Now, almost everyone makes the kind of choices that in the long run will make them unhappy. If asked, the answer is almost always the same.

"I didn't know."

Didn't you?

It seems absurd to me that we spend such a big part of our lives getting to "know better" and then, once we do know better, we are too old to choose between wisdom and passion. There is only wisdom as a choice, because passion has departed forever. We are too old to be passionate without being ridiculous. We are too old, period. We are way past our prime, way past the age we inspired others to be naughty, daring, to seek moments of passion within our arms, in our company.

It's just absurd.

I see the first light of dawn seeping through the balcony door and I wonder: is it too early? Or too late?

Does it matter?

I have to choose wisely.

I always have to choose.

There is not enough time.

Time is an illusion of the mammal brain.

Time makes me most unhappy.

Time heals all wounds to replace them with new ones.

Time is a tyrant.

There is no escape.

There must be another way to do things.

There must be something.

I will just sleep now.

Sleep lies outside the clutches of time.

Ah.

We are all strangers in a strange land

“You know it’s best not to get attached to things.”

“But isn’t that the point of it all?”

Grant Morrison, WE3

Sometimes I am pretty certain I am weird. Other times, I know I am weird.

Right now, for example, I have no idea what it is that I want to do. I’m restless, but haven’t a clue why. I want to do something meaningful but meaningful is a word with many different interpretations. I don’t want to write a letter, I don’t feel like studying, reading or filling in fbs. I hunger for something and I am under the impression that this ‘something’ is human touch.

I think of people as islands or landscapes. This is why I loved drawing portraits when I did draw (back then in antiquity, when I was fifteen). And this is probably the reason I never describe the environment when I write stories. I don’t care about the setting unless it somehow affects the plot. People, however, are fascinating. The way they look, what they are made of, their faces, their hair, bodies, clothes they choose, reactions, the aura or sensations they create when entering a space. That’s what catches my interest.

Presently I would love to write something but I have nothing to write about. I stopped writing longer stories years ago and even short ones are a very rare occurrence nowadays. Poetry comes and goes according to the whims of the Muse and the Muse has a headache. What I have in mind is snapshots. Nothing to write a story about. Snapshots that don’t even show a full face. Black hair, a tiny leer, a pink nipple, a ring on a finger, the lines of expression next to the mouth. A bowl with two goldfish. A part of a tattoo on a person’s chest, depicting a kitsune, a fox spirit. The cuff of an expensive shirt died crimson with blood. I know what they are; stolen moments. Moments in the lives of the people/heroes inside my head. I am a peeping Tom in their lives and can’t even help it.

I ordered the new Dir en Grey DVD as I watched some videos in youtube and the boys are back on the Path of War and mean business. Not that they had ever left this path, to be honest, but it’s nice to know one of your most favourite bands is alive and yelling, isn’t it? And I am also ogling the new Gackt photo book, with a long-haired Gackt dressed beautifully, sword in hand. How original. I never. Waaay, waaaaaay too expensive to buy at this point, but I am sure I’ll locate it in a friendlier price later on. Or I won’t. I already have a ridiculous number of magazines and photo books with Gackt and not a single one can give me what I desire the most. Contact with a real person, or meaning.

There is no actual meaning. We devise meaning but there is no meaning. A strand of hair, a gust of wind, an old photo in a drawer. I have some photos that belonged to my father and they are at least forty years old. I have no idea whom they depict. Perhaps they were friends of my father's or relatives, but my father is dead and he can’t tell me. So to my eyes they are just random strangers. No matter how important (or not) they were to him at the time, they are strangers to me now.

For all of us comes the time when we are unknown people in photos that are accidentally wedged at the back of old drawers. Meaning is very relevant. It presupposes attachment, connection. Time eats away at attachment and connection. No-one remembers. No-one knows. And it’s not really important.

What is important? I keep wondering and wondering and have no answers. I remember times I was so in love that I thought my heart would burst. And I remember times I almost went mad with pain or anger. It’s gone now, like it happened to someone else. Those moments are gone. I am a random stranger typing furiously at a net café and writing, writing, writing what she can’t live. I am an old photo in a drawer. I am a ghost in the machine. And all the photo books in the world, all the DVDs in the world cannot give me the thing I crave the most. The smell of your hair.

[ Images from GACKT Nemurikyoshiro Buraihikae Official Photobook]

It is raining again.

So many things I could say. But what is the point? What would that achieve?

I am gorged by art and unsatisfied desire.

I was reading a piece I wrote four or five years ago. It was a good piece. It will never be published.

It’s funny how we always seem to go in circles around ourselves. Round and round we go, like a shark that circles its prey, and always preoccupy ourselves and our minds with the same thoughts. Our poems and prose follow familiar patterns, our habitual interests a safe ground we can rest and enjoy the sights we already know. Our obsessions dress our minds like a comfortable old leather jacket, like an old faithful pair of boots. Comfortable enough to ignore even the fact they are threadbare and full of holes, and the only actual warmth they give us is imaginary.

What will become of all those stories that will never make it beyond the shores of my own eyes, never be read by any other person than me and perhaps two more friends?

Let the wind take them. Let the wind and water take these boats not fit for travel, and undo them. Let the waves take them for if you try to sail on them you will sink with them. And more than anything else, let time serve you in building that boat which will be stronger, and take you to the other side. The other side of yourself and reality, where you have nothing to lose or gain, and the stranger with the knowing smile that will greet you on the coast will embrace you and ask no questions.

My cat knows. In all his fat ginger fluffiness he knows there is no time for a single moment to be spared, and yet there is no such thing as time. He does not expect tomorrow to curl around my arm late at night and purr his content. He knows the greatest secret of all. There is no tomorrow. There is only here and now. Seize it as best as you can.

I cried for your inability to say you are sorry. I cried for that hurt little boy in the room with the mirror and I cried for the grown man, all tangled up in his own stories and hurt ego. You want the sacred words circled around your body; you want the ode for feelings tattooed on you. And yet how far from understanding your own feelings you are. I touched your face, accepting you just the way you are, loving you just the same, but I cried for you just the same too, and for me, and for the petty ego tricks we fall victim to when we should shine from the inside. I cried because we think we are going to be forever, that there will always be a time to set things right, to reconsider or change our minds. Somehow we are certain we need not apologize or look back. We behave as if we are larger than life and invincible when we are but mere candles, flickering in the garden of Eternity and you, having seen death as often as you have, should know this better than anyone else. I cried a little bit for both, but more than anything else, I think I cried for what I already know too well: no matter how much I care, I cannot save you, or anyone else. I’m not even sure I can save myself.

I am not exactly sad. Merely reflecting on my choices and next steps. Disengage, my dear Takeshi-san would say quietly. Do not worry. Do not anger. Let time serve you while you pay servitude to yourself. And unsurprisingly, happiness, when it knocked on that little man’s door, was to him as sweet and unexpected as warm summer rain. It did not last for long. But Takeshi-san knew how to make it last. He knew how to drink sips from that elusive rainwater as he fed his goldfish, as he took care of his precious bonsai, as he brushed his teeth. He was there every single moment. His mind did not wander. His full attention was on every single thing he did like that task was the most important thing in the world, like that moment was the greatest moment of achievement in his life. But I am not Takeshi-san. I am merely Elizabeth. And I worry, and I anger, and I am not focused on every moment that passes. And time slips from my fingers like grains of sand, and the more I try to hold the sand into my grasp the more it flows freely.

Takeshi-san, forgive me for being such a poor student to your wisdom. Forgive me for being too cocksure when I should be humble and keep an open mind, and forgive me when my mind wanders on the paths of anger, and worry, and cheap desire. Forgive me for being impatient and lacking faith, for fighting when I should give up and giving up the times I should have fought. Forgive me for all the times I have wished I was never born, and have been disgusted by the entire human race including myself, and have given up hope or resolved to violence. Forgive me for being human when I should shine, and for being rigid when I should have bent with the wind.

Takeshi hears that without commenting or interrupting and gives me the slightest of nods when I am done. I know what he thinks: “I have been cocksure, and proud, and close-minded. I have been impatient and have lacked faith, I have fought when I should have given up and run away when I should have stayed and fought. I have wished I had never been born, and have been sick with the entire human race and myself. I have given up hope and have resolved to violence. I thought I had to prove myself, first to others, then to myself. Did I prove something? I don’t know. I do not think so. But I have two goldfish to feed, and they need food daily, and three bonsai to take care of, and they cannot wait. They will take the food and the care I offer and will not ask me if I am worthy. And if they consider my care adequate to live and flourish, that is all the proof I need.” But instead of saying these things he keeps his silence, his dark eyes focused outside. It is raining again.

Reminiscence

Photo: Die, the excellent guitarist of Dir en Grey.

I am once more working like crazy, finding myself home around eleven at night the earliest. Consequently there is not much I can do concerning my emails or my blog. Hopefully beginning next week I will start working less hours again. Which could be good. Should be good. But unless I leave my present job, less hours is pretty much like using aspirin to treat a cancer patient. :-)

My life course twists and turns unexpectedly, my comprehension of reality constantly changes, my battles never seem to end and more than anything else, what makes me sad is that experiences cannot be communicated. All my knowledge and experiences, no matter how much I wish to use them to help other people, cannot be used. Others can perhaps understand but not comprehend and benefit from it. Experience is not a "one size fits all" achievement. And one day that I'll be gone everything will be gone with me, like the funerals of ancient times or the gypsies of today: burying the dead with their jewellery. That alone should make each of us try to live to the fullest, in order to be buried like kings and queens; take with us the treasures of a full life. Memories, colours, sounds, tastes.

When the singers we love die, they take their treasures with them. Their voice. And modern day equipment has allowed us to listen to the same songs again and again; in older times, if you were lucky enough to listen to an exceptional voice it was an one time occurrence, a rare treasure only you had in your possession.

Technology has made us forget to treasure the moment.

Photographs and videos and CDs cannot be treasured. They are but ghosts of what took place. They serve to remind us, but a slothful mind and a shallow heart cannot be urged to remember if they have lost interest to begin with.

Please try to understand how important and valuable every day of your life is.

Please try to live it to the fullest.

Please try to realise how important you are to yourself and others.

A true treasure collector.