Dilemma

 

I think the basic question should be- 

"Do you want more power, or do you want peace?"

Most people try to find inner peace by seeking power.

Power over others, power by being in control, and more rarely, by becoming tyrants of themselves.

Power does not grant you peace.

If you want to find peace, you need to let go of power.

Of course that is easier said than done.

You will be crushed, time after time, until you think you'll never be whole again.

You'll sit with yourself, trying to hold your own hand, while everything is falling apart.

You'll frantically struggle to be in control while there is no control over anything. Control will always be slipping through your fingers like water.

You'll doubt and second-guess yourself until your brain aches.

And that's not even a full list of what happens when you seek the path of peace.

I'm sad tonight. Whatever woke up by the full moon is having a party inside my head.

I'm also dead-tired. Tired to my bones, to my very core. 

I need to find a job that does not make me hate my life.

I know I need to let go of power and control, and instead exercise self-discipline over my thoughts and feelings.

No guarantee this will work, of course. 

It's ironic to need a guarantee to let go of control. Similar to removing your life jacket, but not before you have been handed a life ring.

Life, by definition, always hands you jack shit before kicking you right in at the deep end.

I do know one thing. If self-discipline doesn't bring results, at least I'll suffer less. 

And that's about as good as it gets.

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Fleeting or fleeing

Tonight I miss you again. This song reminded me of you, and how you once grabbed a shotgun to save lives, including your own.

Grief is a strange animal. It resembles an old injury. You think you have healed and then the weather changes, or you make a sudden move, and your body reminds you of the exact places it had been broken. It's the same deal with grief. You think the worst part has passed, and then you see or hear something and sadness pours out with such fierce intensity that startles you.

The funny thing is that lately I am content. I am tired, sure, and vulnerable, and everything is far from perfect. It doesn't stop me from being content. This contentment is not apathy. It embodies a quiet sense of being in the present moment. It has sadness and curiosity and hope and my sense of humour and a generous amount of disbelief for the stupidity of mankind. You can be content and hopeful and sad and dog-tired at the same time. It's not the same as being joyful, or happy. 

I recently noticed that the blog is a breath away from 100.000 pageviews. Well, as blogs go, it's old. It turned 14 years old in October. I don't write here as often as I'd like, and have no idea who reads it. To be honest, I don't know why anyone would read it as it is so personal, and sometimes repetitive. I get no income from it and I don't get contacted by my readers. I never have comments. In a way, it reminds me of a person posting letters to themselves. I write here because I have to, just like I grieve and laugh and eat and sleep because I have to. And it seems to me that is reason enough. 

Take good care of yourself tonight and every night.

Don't be someone's reason for grief if you can help it. 

Good night my dears.

Good night my darling.  
I miss you very much.

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Indigo jester

Take a person made by their very nature to hope and merge, and teach them
by tribulation after tribulation,
by one death after the other,
by killing their hope,
by crushing their dreams.
Teach them by branding them day by day
with the red hot iron of disappointment
that understanding is an illusion,
that there is no peace, except for the one they grant themselves,
and that there's no escape, nor any destination.
Keep doing that for four decades.
Do you know what you get?
The worst kind of holy warrior someone could have unleashed upon your sorry ass,
the kind of witch priestess who will spit her soul out before she yields, 
a jack of all trades killing with tales, her eyes dripping poison and tears in equal parts.
Me and my army of cats, dead and alive,
are still debating the wisdom of your tactics.

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I do it better than Daenerys

 

I have been dragging my feet, feeling sorry for myself.

Working in a job I hate does not help.

The tide floods me inside, red as my anger, pure wrath.

It withdraws and I am drowning in the mire of depression.

Anger, depression, anger, depression. A constant cycle.

It's completely useless and I know it. 

The only thing that helps is music.

Elizabeth shitborn of the house of psychotic ass-clowns, 

the last of her line, the loquacious, the unkempt,  

Queen of lost earrings and dead ends,

breaker of mugs, mother of cats,

rescuer of paper clips and rubber bands, 

redistributor of clothes and goods,

devourer of cake,

destroyer of mosquitoes, 

collector of cathairs and fountain pens. 

I'm off to go fuck myself. 

It should be fun.

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Same old, same old

Every fucking summer the same old. My blind tomboy died. I had found him last September, sick, blind, about a month old. I raised him, healed him, neutered him and turned him into a glorious five something kilo cat. He was striped, mostly black, silly, affectionate, smart, kind, and now he's gone. No reason, no explanation, just a few days of diarrhea that I tried (according to the vet's advice) to combat with very good quality, specialised food. One day he didn't wake up. And I'm fucking devastated, because I didn't expect it. My stomach feels as if I've swallowed a stone. I thought he'd grow old by my side and die when his time came. Not like that.

Everything tastes like ashes in my mouth, everything reminds me of him. I keep expecting him to show up and ask for treats. He had an excellent sense of smell, and whenever I was eating something tasty, he'd beg to be given a bit. I didn't find it in my heart to refuse him. I keep expecting to find him sprawled on my bed and wonder where he is, or see one of my two tortoise shells sleeping and for a moment I mistake them for him. Then I realise he's gone and my heart breaks. 

And I wonder if my poor, poor, blind boy will find his way to where he's supposed to go now. He didn't have eyes, my beautiful boy, and who will hug him now, and show him around? Who will guide him to where he's supposed to go? Is he perhaps still here, and wondering why I don't hug him and pet him anymore? Will his friend Louse be waiting for him, to take him safely Home?

Fuck summer. Fuck eclipses. Fuck everything. I've had enough of this shit. I don't even want to eat chocolate. Whatever fucking ever. Just leave me alone.

The unexpected visitor of Sadness

 

A few days ago, my kitten Louse got sick. It was a respiratory infection that goes around lately; causes fever, lack of appetite. Another of my cats also got sick with it and got over it. But poor Louse simply could not make it. I saved her life twice in the past, this time it was over in less than three days. 

I knew this cat would not live for long. She wanted to live and clung to life with a ferocity I've rarely seen. She was not growing up properly, she had a heart or lung condition and yet she ran around the house like no other kitten. She played constantly and pulled tricks on the other cats, driving them insane. She was the smartest cat I've come across, and she only lived for less than six months. I had come to accept the possibility of her passing away ever since the vet told us about her heart condition. So when she died, I did not cry. But today that I opened a folder in my PC and came across that photo of hers, I cried my eyes out. She looks healthy in that photo. Healthy, happy and inquiring as to what this stupid human (me) wanted from her.

I only wanted you to live for as long as you could, my sweet darling. And I am happy I offered you those six months. I wish I could have done more, but my hands were tied.

Please neuter and spay your cats. Louse was found on the street and I did the best I could for her. Most kittens born on the streets live in appalling conditions for as long as they live and die terrible deaths. There is too much misery in this world already. Don't add to it.

I hope you are happy wherever you are now, and run around, perfectly healthy and feisty and smart as a whip. Good bye, my darling; till we meet again.

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Last exit for the Lost

That last exit for me is music. Writing presupposes some kind of coherent thinking, music needs less thinking. Screaming, for that matter, needs no thinking whatsoever. But since it is next to impossible to start screaming in a flat without drawing the wrong kind of attention, music and writing it is.

2018 is here and thankfully I am here too. I have an impressive frostbite on my right index finger, good music in my possession, a wound inside my mouth, lungs full of mucus and a half-insane mother because one of our cats is probably not going to make it. I am resigned. She is not, and she is making me crazy too because she needs company. Oh well.

First blog entry of the year and I set off on the wrong foot. Someone once told me that this blog is always complaining about something. He made me feel I should apologise for feeling the way I did. Then I remembered my friend Virve, the one who died. In one of her very last messages, she told me to keep writing regardless of who loved my writing and who hated it. She said that neither category had anything to do with my writing per se, but the person themselves. The reason this blog was created in the first place was to be an online diary. I won't censor myself. I guess no matter what you write about, someone will be displeased. Then again, there is always the option of not reading what makes you upset.

So I was talking about sadness. Sadness is not acceptable by society. Mourning is not trendy or productive. Being constantly positive is the latest fashionable prerequisite. Everything happens for a reason. Everything is a valuable lesson. Whatever does not kill you makes you stronger. And so on and so forth. Right?

Not everything happens for a reason. Most bad events happen because we are the most pig-headed and close-minded race of sentient beings I have ever had the unfortunate 'privilege' of coming across. There are less than five people I can talk with and not need to explain or be wary of their intentions. I survive by keeping a low profile and feigning ignorance. I survive by listening to music, reading, writing, and minimising the time I spend socialising. Which reminds me...

 

I've done a lot of socialising for my standards since October. Turns out the maximum amount of exposure to a large crowd (30+ people) I can handle is once every two weeks. I refuse to repeat it in a smaller amount of time. I simply get sick. Sore throat, cold, you name it. The funniest thing is that everyone who mets me regards me as super social and friendly. Low profile, remember? And to be honest, I do care about people. I am not friendly and kind towards them because I want to manipulate them.

Music is what makes our souls soar above the mud of existence. Man-made vibrations that express a multitude of feelings. Love is what makes our souls merge with something bigger, leaving behind us every smidgen of pretense and appropriateness. And to quote one of my most beloved heroes, "You don't choose the ones you love. What you do choose is the way you'll treat them".  

If I extend my hands left and right in this small room, crammed with books and CDs and personal items, and with a cat sleeping on my bed, I am alone. Right?

No. Because they open the door of my heart and out they come, one after the other, the ones I love, my characters and creations. The ones I brought here and gave them flesh and blood and other people who love them and hate them and want to see them dead. And together with them my books and my comics and my CDs and my old drawings secretly open too, and countless stories pour out, colourful strings of every conceivable hue. Everyone I've ever loved and hated is here with me, and what I need to do is close my eyes and will them out. Every story humanity has ever come up with, or at least one variation of it is here with me, together with every note and colour and tear ever shed. How can I be alone? I am not. I am never alone. Even in the most desolate, tiniest cell of the whole world I would not be alone. There is a richness inside beyond anything. It merges with me and makes me ecstatic, makes my eyes so full of beauty and wonder that this world will forever pale in comparison. And that is why I am sad. Because my eyes and mind and heart perceive the fullest potential in a world that has gone to the dogs. And the gatekeepers of this world hate my guts for it.

Should I really apologise for that? I don't think so.

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1984 dreams

Today I came across something I had forgotten I have in my possession. Some childhood Barbie and Ken dolls of mine. I thought I had given them away. One of my dogs had chewed them and they are mangled at places. Probably that's the reason I kept them. I had forgotten them, yet as soon as I opened the bag and saw the splendid dresses, I remembered them.

Right now I don't know what to do with them. They are not in good shape to give them away, and I don't want to throw them away. It's so strange. I feel I am holding dead people in my hands. It hurts and I don't even know why. No, not dead people. Dead dreams.

I went online and found them in pristine condition. It's pointless to buy them again, even if I had the money, and I obviously can't undo the ravages of 30+ years of time. It's the nature of reality. But at least I can remember what they looked like when I was holding them in my hands and life had not crushed me in a hundred different ways and I was full of dreams bigger than life itself.

And I still hope. I don't dream as big as I dreamed back then, I don't hope in the same way, yet I hope. They didn't take that away from me. Not completely. And I know how hard they tried.

I don't expect others to understand why I upload these photos. But I need to do it. It's a form of apocatastasis. 

From Wikipedia: Apocatastasis (/æpoʊkəˈtæstəsɪs/, from Greek: ἀποκατάστασις, apokatástasis) is reconstitution, restitution,^[1] or restoration to the original or primordial condition.^[2]

Barbie Dream Glow 1984

Barbie Jewel Secrets 1985

 

Ken Jewel Secrets 1985

And perhaps the last Barbie doll I had ever bought. 1988 feeling fun Barbie. In 1988 I was ten years old.

Who would have thought one day they'd knock me flat on my ass...
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Life hacks

I have no idea what to tell you. I can tell you what I know from personal experience, which I'm afraid doesn't count as a universal rule. But let me compile a list anyway.

• I don't think this level of existence is fair. I mean, how can anyone talk about fairness when there are kids with cancer, or leukemia? How is that in any way fair?

• I don't know if there is any kind of higher order or justice. Judging by the fact politicians who destroy the lives of millions live just fine and thrive, there is no justice, human or otherwise.

• Good deeds are not rewarded and bad deeds aren't punished. Just look around you.

• Nothing happens for a purpose, or if it does, don't delude yourself that you know what that purpose is.

• People are greedy, lazy and hate responsibility. Although they can do the greatest good, more often than not they'll choose to crawl in the mud and fling shit at each other. It's easier.

• Love can't save you, because it isn't love unless you know yourself first. Knowing yourself is a life-long pursuit and not for the faint of heart.

• Understanding doesn't exist. You can't understand others when every person grew up in a different way, trapped in their bodies and their senses, with so many different traumas, prejudices and cultural and religious norms clouding their judgement. Compassion, on the other hand, does exist.

• Death isn't the answer the same way life isn't the answer.

• I don't think anything we do makes the slightest difference on a greater scale. I mean, we count for less than an amoeba's fart on the grand scheme of things, and I doubt there's a grand scheme of things to begin with.

• Art matters only if viewed from within the human experience. For another species, our art probably means nothing.

• Life is probably completely meaningless. What you do, or don't do, changes nothing on a large scale. I don't know if it's always been like this or something sealed this world in a bubble outside the reach of what I understand as divine. But that's how it is.

Okay then. If you take all these things out of the equation, what are we left with?

We're left with each other. And we are left with ourselves. 

My opinion? There is absolutely nothing I can do except keep on trying, because effort is what makes you build character. By 'character' I mean what the Victorians meant. Honesty, self-discipline, commitment, and conviction. Character is in turn what makes one accept whatever life throws at them with a modicum of grace and dignity. And that's about the only power I have in my possession. That, and the ability to make the lives of the ones I love a little better by being in it.

That's my take on it, and it helps me sleep better at night. Take it or leave it. I can only talk about myself anyway. I am trapped in me. I'm sure you understand.

"The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts: therefore, guard accordingly." Marcus Aurelius

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The pink stars are falling in lines

Had my heart broken twice in two days. I'll live, of course. I always live. 

The title I used is a line from Under the Dome, an excellent novel by Stephen King. I dove into it and finished it in three days. King knows his craft, and keeps the reader spellbound. It's quite sad to think I needed three days to finish what took him two years to write, especially since King is known to be a prodigiously fast writer. But that's part of the human experience. What matters takes time to be completed; months, in some cases years.

In the book King speaks about the arrogance and stupidity of  human race. He's excellent at describing how easy it is for people to turn into a mob and how they can be manipulated when they are scared. What I've more or less been thinking my entire life. But who cares what I think? Facts are facts. It's the reason I have the words Non Serviam tattooed on my right arm, to constantly remind myself that this world is run by fear. Fear of lack, fear for the future, fear of not belonging, fear of old age, financial insecurity, loneliness. I will not serve this world's madness, I will not submit to fear and paranoia. I will be human. Not a cockroach, not a sheep, not a rodent.

I'm not going to refer to my first reason for sadness. My friends know what happened. But I will refer to the second one.

As you know, I feed stray cats. I try to catch and spay them, but some are feral and it is not an easy job without a cat trap. Three days ago, a female gave birth to four kittens in some bushes. One by one, I found them dead. I'm not sure what happened. Maybe the cat didn't know how to take care of them. It was the first time she gave birth and kittens are very fragile when they are just a few days old. Maybe something attacked them. I did find one of them dead with its front legs missing and bloody, and I don't know if it happened while it was still alive. I hope it didn't. 

Tonight that I went there to feed them, only one was left, and it was barely alive. The mother didn't seem to care, so I took it home. I knew it wouldn't live. Still I put it inside a small heating pad I have, cleansed its mouth from the dust and soil and gave it a bit of milk formula. It died after a couple of hours, but at least it died somewhere warm, with its belly full, and safe. My heart broke just the same, of course. Even when you do know, your heart breaks to see something so small struggling to draw breath.

Which takes me to the next subject. We believe we have our lives under control, yet in reality we're not very different from that kitten. People are cruel to each other even though they have no reason. Life is fragile and unpredictable, and they behave with abysmal arrogance. Why? I don't know. I honestly, really don't know. It's one of the reasons I want to bomb the entire dimension. Thankfully I lack the means to do so. 

Please do me a favour. Think before you act and speak. Don't let fear guide your actions. You can choose. Every moment of your life, you can change. You constantly choose and change in small ways. Be conscious of it. Be someone better than you were. This planet desperately needs it.

And do read Under the Dome if you enjoy horror that has both feet firmly on the ground and uses everyday life to show you just how disgusting and wonderful and unbelievable we are as a race. The series isn't good, but the book rocks. 
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Hope

Spider Jerusalem. My kind of hero.

I'm fed up with Facebook. I follow people who regularly upload posts on animals that need help, need to be adopted or have been abused, and seriously, I am sick to my heart. I can't. I simply can't. I too feed stray animals and it is disastrous for my economical situation. But to see how sick and disgusting human beings are and what they are capable of, it makes me want to go nuclear on the whole planet. We drug our feet in the ashes of a post apocalyptic era, our noses stuck in our expensive gadgets, our brains too busy with the next purchase to notice the pain of this world. We're insatiable attention gluttons gobbling down misinformation and advertisement, dead in our hearts and a plague to the world. We're despicable. I want to watch the entire planet burn, I want all humans dead.

And then...

And then I come across a work of art, or a piece of music, or a performance that makes my heart stop. And I decide that since we're capable of such beauty, then perhaps we should live a little longer. Maybe we should be spared. I'm not so sure, but I don't have the means of ending the planet anyway. For which I am grateful. The temptation might have proved too much to bear.

I was talking to a friend a few days ago and she said to me I make a huge difference in the lives of many, including her own. Do I make a difference? I have no fucking idea. Still, it was sweet of her to feel this way and tell me. She makes a whole lot of difference to me, because of her integrity and kindness. 

I think this world can't handle integrity and kindness. This entire dimension has been dumbed down to the point of the 'achievements' of our species competing on what is going to kill us first; pure incompetence, overwhelming pollution or planned Armageddon. Everyone strives to be more ego-centered than everyone else, with politicians and corporations leading the parade of parasites and the entire human population following suit like the fucking rats in the fairy tale of the Pied Piper. Lemmings with iPhones and Instagram accounts that live for the next follower and the next like and the next petty drama. I feel I'm an alien life form stranded on Ga-Ga Idiot planet and condemned to put up with the natives for the rest of my life, with no hope of escaping. 

And then...

And then I re-read my favourite books and comics and once more listen to the music I love. And tell myself, "Don't give up. There is hope."

Please keep that hope alive by keeping those you love safe and happy. I don't care if the one you love is a person, pet, potted plant or just yourself. Keep them safe and happy. It makes all the difference in the world, or so I am told.
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Triggers

I recently read that grief isn't a process, but rather a new way of seeing things. It was one of the best ways I have seen grief described. I'm still mourning for my friend Virve and it has altered my entire perception. I will include the quote at the end of this paragraph. Some might find it helpful. I did find it helpful.

How do triggers work? They work due to the mind's ability to make associations and connections. You see something that for another person means nothing, or something positive. For you, however, it has a very different meaning and causes vastly different feelings. For example today I saw a bottle of soda water on my desk. I wanted to give you that bottle because you love soda. Then I remembered we're no longer together. That's a perfect example of a trigger. A soda bottle made me feel sadness and a sense of futility.

Don't get me wrong. I don't regret a thing I did for you, and I don't consider it futile because you didn't appreciate it. I am who I am. Nothing can change me. Only death can take my personality away. When my time comes, death will step in lightly and transmute my being into something bigger and brighter and literally larger than life. Death is the one place, the one condition that wipes the slate clean of everything. And guess what, the first thing to go are our lies. All the lies we told ourselves and other people are gone like morning mist under the blazing sun. For death is yet another sun; it shines black and negative and peaceful in its anti-existence. The doorway opens and you step through it naked as a baby. Everything you have been holding onto for comfort is gone.

When your comforting lies and possessions are gone, I hope each of you will hold onto the one thing no-one can take from you, not even death. Your dignity.

Good night. 

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On love

Source: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=348914941857380&set=pb.100002166317517.-2207520000.1480292734.&type=3&theater

The following dialogue is taken from the movie "Interstellar". Highly recommended.

COOPER

"You’re a scientist, Brand -"

BRAND

"I am. So listen to me when I tell you that love isn’t something we invented - it’s observable, powerful. Why shouldn’t it mean something?"

COOPER

"It means social utility - child rearing, social bonding -"

BRAND

"We love people who’ve died ... where’s the social utility in that? Maybe it means more - something we can’t understand, yet. Maybe it’s some evidence, some artifact of higher dimensions that we can’t consciously perceive. I’m drawn across the universe to someone I haven’t seen for a decade, who I know is probably dead. Love is the one thing we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space. Maybe we should trust that, even if we can’t yet understand it."

Yes, but love takes effort. And it takes effort because like light, love is made of myriads of tiny particles; kindness, generosity, understanding, selflessness, care... This is the secret that allows it to transcend space and time. Every one of these characteristics is about overcoming, transcending, breaking through the barriers of everyday life, normality, expectation. Beyond gaining, beyond life itself in some cases. 

"Do not go gentle into that good night; Old age should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

The sky is roaring tonight. So am I.

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