Showing posts with label The dictatorship of gender. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The dictatorship of gender. Show all posts

Friday, January 09, 2009

The twilight of excuses

Ever had one of those times you wished you were someone else?

I saw the movie Twilight. It really made me wish I was someone else. I won't refer to the movie. It was simply the emotional boost I needed to reach my present state of mind. Which is, I wish I had someone to protect me for once.

I don't need a daddy at my age. I am not looking for a daddy. But I am tired of always being the strong one in my relationships. Tired of being the one to give advice, understand, insist, retreat, encourage, look for hints, read the fucking cards. I wish I was normal.

No, lie. I wish I was brain dead .

I wish I could find comfort in my female nature. I wish I had been accepted, protected and loved when I needed it most. I wish I had a normal family when I was small. I wish I had not been destroyed by the ones supposed to protect me and not turned into what I am- someone disgusted and terrified by human touch and appalled by intimacy.

I wish I had lived a normal life, that's all. It will pass.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Nearly forgot!

A few weeks ago fans of two different football/ basketball/ volleyball teams got into a huge ruckus and virtually kicked the living crap of each other. One person was stabbed to death and many seriously injured. So it is early morning, I am at the kiosk opening and arranging the newspapers, and shaking my head with disgust as I read these headlines. A friend of mine, Theodore, who's half American half Greek, is asking me what happened. I explain to him that this is the Nature's method of weeding out the stupid ones. At that point another person who hears this conversation butts in and tells me, "yes, and I can tell you exactly what happened." "I'm not interested", I tell him. "No, let me tell you", he insists. "I don't want to know," I tell him, "these people are idiots who get what they deserve anyway." "Yes, you are right," he insists, "but let me tell you what happened." 
This utterly stupid conversation goes on for another one or two minutes, with him insisting that I have to know and me asking him to leave me be. Finally he says, "you have to know because you are Greek." (!!!) Failing to see any connection between the two things, I turn around dumbfounded and ask him, "so what?" Please read the ensuing conversation.
Him: "What do you mean 'so what'? You are Greek, aren't you?"
Me: "Yes, so what? I don't give a toss about it."
Him: "You mean that if an Albanian comes and burns the Greek flag outside your kiosk, you won't care?"
Me: "He can use the flag to wipe his ass with it if he feels like it, I don't give a fuck."
This freaked him out enough to make him go and leave me alone at last.

I AM NOT GREEK, GODSDAMMIT. I am human. Do you have any idea of what human means? I am not Greek, female, orthodox Christian, or any of that social conditioning crap. I am just human. What does Greek mean, besides having Greek education? Greek ancestors? There is no such thing as a pure blood anything! There have been endless blood mixtures over the millennia and that's the way it should be, for healthy genes. Besides, modern-day Greeks can no more lay claim on the great philosophical and mathematical ideas of ancient Greece. At least, not any more than any educated person of any race can. That was two thousand five hundred years ago, people. Do you have anything recent to show me that proves a connection to those great minds? NO. Then shut up. Religion equals fear equals mental poison. And as for gender, it reveals nothing more about me than the fact I belong to the birth giving sex. SO FUCKING WHAT?!

I am only ONE thing, fellas, and get it right because I will not bother explaining it more. I am human. And God/dess knows, NOT PROUD OF IT. How could I? Take a look around and tell me. How could I?

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Scraps

Sometimes the stuck in-between period is just too much. Waiting waiting waiting... Waiting to receive e-mails, waiting for people to make up their mind and finally call me, waiting for the changes to take place, waiting for things to take shape... It seems that my whole life is one waiting period to the next. And then hopefully everything will happen at once, or not. Bah.

One of my stories was published (as I said months ago). My friend A. turned a little poem by me into a comic, that was published too. Now she wants to work on another short story. I am very honoured, but not excited. I am not really here. I am nowhere in particular. I feel like a ghost that exists in the in-between period between then and never and infinity, accidentally trespassing into now from time to time. I feel mostly fleshless. Everything begins from inside to and again returns to me, a cyclic river feeding itself, with no real source and no destination. I feel genderless, fleshless and purposeless. I will eventually feel better, I know. And it's strange because today J. told me some of the sweetest things I have ever heard about my writing style. He is sweetness impersonate sometimes, this being. Still the connection with me and this reality fails miserably. Ha. I don't know if I should laugh, cry or simply stare into nothingness with a thin, amused smile. The anchors are gone and I am floating like a balloon on the ceiling of my sanity. I will eventually find an open window and escape... 
I am just tired and perpetually sad and nothing can fill this emptiness. Too many people leaving the scene at once and me left behind to entertain an audience that grows more uneasy and angry by the minute. I still live on borrowed reality. But fear not; I have medicine. It is called a good crying (which I am afraid I cannot do anymore) and chocolate (which I am sick of). It seems that the situation is serious...

Sunday, September 10, 2006

"Friends"

You fucking cunt rug. You despicable twit. Thinking you've got everything right, everything fixed. With a few kind words. And I'll be happy again, like an imbecile, or a hurt puppy. As if my whole life depends on people's approval. When it was so simple: what you had to do was keep your word, and you didn't do it.

You idiotic bastard. You fucking, blithering asshole. Thinking you've got me wrapped around your finger just because you have a dick. When all you can do is stare at me, stare like a bemused moron. Till my inner light will blind you once and for all, till my face burns itself onto your memory. And I'll descend like a tower of fire, to touch the ground for a single breath before I take flight and disappear.

You will pay. Oh, how you'll all pay. I will make you all pay. Because you are not worthy of your title human, άνθρωπος -άνω θρώσκω, κοιτώ προς τα πάνω- turning the stare to the sky, unlike pigs that cannot do that. Because you sacrificed everything for the sake of your ego, or rather, your dick, because all you had to do was keep your mouth shut. Because that thing you've got between your legs, that fleshy protrusion is meant to be filling the gap between our legs in only one way. Like the sky would.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Brother piece of "friends".


Music: Porcupine Tree: Stupid Dream: A smart kid.

This world hurts me.
This reality, this plane of existence hurts me. People hurt me by being themselves. They make me crazy. They make me sad. I want to go away. Run. Hide. I want to stay hidden. Disappear. Vanish without a trace.

“The lady of the lake.”
Water, feelings. More than anything else, pain. Great pain.

I take pain too personally. I take pain as an enemy. I want to run away, to escape pain. I want to escape this world. And the only way I can do this is create. And I cannot create when I am so hurt. I cannot create. Creation is a cocoon to hide me in and make me feel protected. Safe. Nurtured. It helps me breathe cause I cannot breathe. Not in this world. I am not made to breathe air, I can only breathe underwater. And this world is dry and my gills feel brittle as if they are about to shatter. My chest aches as I breathe, my being hurts as I breathe. I cannot draw breath and I cannot create. I feel like a whale that was washed out and the sun is killing it.

It’s so hard to put into words what feels like a rain, a storm inside. So hard.

Friday, November 04, 2005

The road to success is paved with lipglossed saucers

I accidentally glance at the cover of a fashion magazine and see the x or y starlet with blond hair and blue eyes and ‘juicy’ lips (like she’d been stung by wasps, it seemed to me.) I take a look at another magazine, this time for men, and find the same type of beauty rubbed in my face, only she’s wearing her garters and high heels and nothing more. I take this discreet means of promotion more seriously and start looking at all the covers, one after the other. Tits, boobs, breasts, bosoms, udders, hips, loins, assmeats, asscheeks, asses, bums, buns, butts, bottoms, buttocks, nether regions, behinds, hindquarters, rumps and most certainly lips. Lips with ‘devious’ makeup so that they look fleshier, lips with silicone, lips with subtle latest fashion shades of neon fire brigade ‘sexy’ red or been dead for a week ‘mysterious’ white or brown. Monstrous lips which from a point onwards remind me of those natives who insert those saucer looking thingies in their lower lips cause they find it sexy. And it may well be for them, but this is Greece in year 2005, and women my age all try to look like Pamela Anderson. Yes, yes, we must stretch our faces, fill our lips and breasts and asses to the point of bursting and be hungry for sex 24/7 and always impeccable and perfectly dressed/ manicured/ depilated, but why? What about the brain department? Why struggle so much?

There is nothing wrong with taking care of one’s self, and I do not weigh four hundred pounds nor look like the protagonist of Nosferatu, but these things from a point onwards are empty. Like the years these sex bombs live when their star no longer shines. It’s a futile struggle against time; there will always be someone younger, prettier, easier. These women find themselves more desperate with each passing year, or early dead. And a corpse is a corpse: good looking or not, it only bothers those few fanatics of necrophilia. Is that what they are interested in?

At least both male and female life style magazines do agree on one thing: they are not looking for women, but inflatable knick-knacks.