Four of Swords: Forced Rest

And so I'm reading. I'm re-reading bits of my saga, which I wrote in 1999 and 2000. Yellowed pages that smell good, and have water stains on them. The ink I used to write has been smeared and erased in places, and my writing style, twenty years and thousands of pages later, seems too descriptive and overly emotional. But there are parts of me in them that shine effortlessly even now. It makes me happy and sad in equal parts. When I'm looking for a comforting place to hide in and recuperate I hide in there. In the world I brought here in bits and pieces that have never been connected in one, larger body.

I'm tired. Nothing new. Trying to push on, trying to keep walking. I'm terrified of stopping. In this world we live in, where dog eats dog, humans fight over nothing and find nothing to unite them, I am terrified of stopping. I'm chased by a battalion of anger and sadness, people, circumstances, unfinished jobs, unattainable dreams, frustration and tiredness. I need to find a safe place to rest, to put down my burden and sleep. I'm starting to think I'll sleep when I die. I've been chased by Gods, demons and mortals for almost forty three years now. I get bitten a lot, and before the wounds are healed I get new ones. I'm a goddamn geological formation of scabs. I don't even stop to think about it; anyone who gets too close on the other level gets incinerated. The only problem is you can't kill real, actual people without going to jail. Ha ha ha.

I'm tired. I need to rest. I need to hide and live the rest of my life invisible. It's impossible, of course. No matter where I go, they'll find me. I stink. My being is inhabited by my soul, and my soul stinks to them. That small pulse inside called soul colours my entire existence, skin and bone and blood, and it smells of the Other Side. It smells like understanding and forgiveness, taking care of every life from the smaller to the biggest, protecting the weak ones and the different ones and using resources to promote well-being, health and literacy, justice and medical care. It smells like safety and individuality and different families and fucking utopia. I stink of it. I stand out like a flower in an abattoir. And I can't help it. I am what I am, I can't change. I can't stop caring and wanting to protect the ones who can't protect themselves. I can't stop hating injustice, pettiness, vanity, racism, stupid mind-games, cruelty and hypocrisy. It's who I am. I know right from wrong. Loving, evolving, moving on is right. That's what I want for me and everyone else. And those who don't want it, well, I just wish to stay away from them. I don't want to change them, or educate them, or make them change their minds. I can't change them anyway, it's futile. Just want to keep my distance.

This world hates my guts, and I suffocate in it. It will pass. I'll push on. Time is always on my heels, biting me like a hyena, trotting behind me to tire me until I collapse. It circles above me, a carrion bird. And I give him the finger. And I walk on.

I recently came across this poem that pretty much says it all. Enjoy. And if you'd like to support me, please buy me a coffee.

Pursuit, by Stephen Dobyns

Each thing I do I rush through so I can do

something else. In such a way do the days pass--

a blend of stock cars racing and the never

ending building of a gothic cathedral.

Through the windows of my speeding car, I see

all that I love falling away: books unread,

jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?

What treasure do I expect in my future?

Rather it is the confusion of childhood

loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,

the failure chipping away at each success.

Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape

and so move forward, as someone in the woods

at night might hear the sound of approaching feet

and stop to listen; then, instead of silence

he hears some creature trying to be silent.

What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly

down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;

the other ever closer, yet not really

hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.

From “Cemetery Nights” by Stephen Dobyns (Penguin Books: 100 pp., $14.95) Copyright 1997 Reprinted by permission.

Taken from here.

Storming paradise

"From this flesh my spirit longs to break away. 
Did you ever feel this cosmic circumstance was never enough? 
Wake me slowly if ever at all. 
Wake me slowly or watch me fall."

I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
I still need to find the one who won't force me to choose.
I have to keep on fighting though I can barely stand.
It's OK though. I'm used to watching my world burn.
I am slowly regaining my hope, not because the situation is improving. Because it was mine and you took it away.
The rest will take care of itself, fuck you very much.
Desire will pass. It always passes.
Hey, even life will pass, let alone desire. 
I wish I could take a single drop of my longing and put it in a glass.
Then watch the unlucky person who drank it go mad.
You obviously knew what you did when you gave that much yearning to me.
You knew I could host it. 
Not sure who else can take it even by association, and not go insane.
Long ago, there was someone who could take it, and he used it to create worlds with me.
He is not here now, but watches over me.
And late at night I find myself imploring him.
"Show me the one who can take it.
Show me the one who'll manage not to be consumed and pushed into madness
but will use my love as a key to unlock paradise.
We'll take paradise by force, true Sons and Daughters of Lucifer
and our love will burn so brightly that angels will cover their eyes."
I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
Until the night I won't have to choose.

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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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Winter nights

Some winter nights are tranquil. Masses of clouds travel fast in the sky and the cold is not unbearable. I stare at the moon and distant stars and try to decipher the meaning of their shapes, the hidden stories in the shadows.

Some nights I am happy. Other nights, the pain spills out and covers my skin with goosebumps. I listen to music and remember dead friends and dead pets. I try to wrap myself in the comfort of music and imagine the notes as an ethereal embrace, the ghost arms of those who once loved me.

I'm tired. Two nights ago I re-watched a short film I had made with a friend. He needed to make a short film as a dissertation, and I found myself starring in it. I thought the DVD was lost. Recently I found it again.

Watching my much younger self in the film I experienced an overwhelming wave of sadness. She had no idea what life had in store for her and I wished I could hide her in my embrace and tell her to be strong, because she is someone I love, appreciate and admire more with each passing year. But we can only travel forward one second at a time, and so I watched her and shook my head. If she knew what her life would be like for the next fifteen years, maybe I wouldn't be here now, writing this blog entry. Maybe she would have thrown in the towel and stepped off that building eleven or twelve years ago like she planned. I don't know what kept her going. Hope? Stubbornness? Anger? Whatever it was, I am glad it served to keep her here. I've seen what suicide does to those on its ground zero. It's not pretty.

I'm trying to develop a strong inner core so that the outside doesn't rule my inside. It's very hard.

I wonder what you saw in me all those years ago, my dear Virve, and decided to make me part of your family. We never did meet, but the fact you considered me trustworthy enough to confide in me is the greatest praise I can think of.

I am tired, love. Tired of this life that it seems to run in two modes. One is the crippling routine mode, the second is the kick in the teeth mode. I keep pushing my hand inside, and like a blind person, I fumble about inside my inner darkness until I pull out wonders. I sink my hand inside the river of Lethe to pull out the salmon of Wisdom. I push my fingers into my wounds to study the nature of my despair, the taste of my blood, the root of fear inside me. Then I share my discoveries here. I know most won't understand, and that's okay. The soul's journey cannot be shared. But even if one person understands, that's enough. And you did understand.

I miss you tonight. You, and all my dead pets, and the father I never had, and the innocence I cannot regain.

I miss you. But maybe the music I listen to is the embrace you never gave me in flesh and blood. Now your ashes travel the world, and I'm here, writing and remembering.

Thank you for believing in me when I didn't. I still draw strength from it. I appreciate everything you ever did. I wish you were here so I could say it to you, but maybe you know. 

When I kiss the stars good-night, I kiss you too.

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The reason this blog exists

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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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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Old loves coming to visit us again

Kahlil Gibran

THE GREATER SEA

(from 'The Madman', 1918)

My soul and I went to the great sea to bathe. And when we reached the shore, we went about looking for a hidden and lonely place.

But as we walked, we saw a man sitting on a grey rock taking pinches of salt from a bag and throwing them into the sea.

“This is the pessimist,” said my soul, “Let us leave this place. We cannot bathe here.”

We walked on until we reached an inlet. There we saw, standing on a white rock, a man holding a bejewelled box, from which he took sugar and threw it into the sea.

“And this is the optimist,” said my soul, “And he too must not see our naked bodies.”

Further on we walked. And on a beach we saw a man picking up dead fish and tenderly putting them back into the water.

“And we cannot bathe before him,” said my soul. “He is the humane philanthropist.”

And we passed on.

Then we came where we saw a man tracing his shadow on the sand. Great waves came and erased it. But he went on tracing it again and again.

“He is the mystic,” said my soul, “Let us leave him.”

And we walked on, till in a quiet cover we saw a man scooping up the foam and putting it into an alabaster bowl.

“He is the idealist,” said my soul, “Surely he must not see our nudity.”

And on we walked. Suddenly we heard a voice crying, “This is the sea. This is the deep sea. This is the vast and mighty sea.” And when we reached the voice it was a man whose back was turned to the sea, and at his ear he held a shell, listening to its murmur.

And my soul said, “Let us pass on. He is the realist, who turns his back on the whole he cannot grasp, and busies himself with a fragment.”

So we passed on. And in a weedy place among the rocks was a man with his head buried in the sand. And I said to my soul, “We can bath here, for he cannot see us.”

“Nay,” said my soul, “For he is the most deadly of them all. He is the puritan.”

Then a great sadness came over the face of my soul, and into her voice.

“Let us go hence,” she said, “For there is no lonely, hidden place where we can bathe. I would not have this wind lift my golden hair, or bare my white bosom in this air, or let the light disclose my sacred nakedness.”

Then we left that sea to seek the Greater Sea.

You can find the book here.
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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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At the borders of dreamland

Art by Natalie Shau. That's what my (beloved) demons probably look like.

Just a note before I close my eyes and drift off to dreamland.
Isn't it funny how you can spend your entire day busy and when the time for sleep comes, still feel that you've achieved nothing?
In spite of my tiredness, I presently resent going to bed. It means the day is gone and it is not coming back.
Time is slipping from my fingers again. 
The only cure I know for this ailment? Writing.
When I am writing, time ceases to exist.
What is your cure?
Good-night.
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The nature of daylight

 

I extend my hand in the twilight. The wind is blowing, the sky a mixture of blue and grey. The clouds travel fast, they rush out of view to other, faraway skies. The pine tree in my garden seems to shine; the lighter green ends of its branches are pale, diffused, in their own way luminescent. Further from the tender end, the foliage is darkening into cypress green and black. The tree slowly bleeds green into the approaching night while black engulfs it more and more, the nests of shadows in it growing, extending, darkening. It's a sight to behold.

The characters inside my head are chatting with each other. Each has a past, a present and a future. How can they not be real, if they have a past and decisions they regret, and mistakes, and people they've loved, and others that have persecuted them? Why are their lives any less important or real than mine and your life? What makes this overrated reality more important than countless others? I guess the answer would be, that's the reality you have at your disposal. But is it?

Can you tell reality apart from dreams? Some dreams I have are so real, so lifelike, that this reality pales in comparison. I've dreamt of the moment I came into being, not this lifetime, not this body. I was floating in a calm, shallow, warm sea. I was tranquil and fully conscious. Everything was black. There were no stars in the sky, no lights in the sea, because it was not now. There were no lights because there was no universe yet. No suns, nebulae, nothing. I was there and behind me was my mother. Paradoxically enough, or maybe not at all, there was no father. My mother was holding my head in her hands as she was pulling me out of the primordial sea and bringing me into being. Making me, not birthing me. Whole and conscious. Not a baby.

Shamans claim this reality is the dream, while dreams are far more real.

The first sign of shamanic talent in a person is that they start to go mad.

I'm not a shaman. 

This is not real. This reality, this state of being is not real. The pain you experience, the decisions you make, the things you consider important, none of it is real. But this does not make it any less important.

I remember watching my world die. The stars were falling from the sky like rain, moving erratically, burning, and my mother was behind me. I wanted to run, to hide, but where can you hide when the world ends?

Energy is never destroyed, only transmuted into something different. It perpetually changes forms like a little child wearing Halloween costumes, and believing, really believing in their role. Omnia mutantur, nihil interit. Everything changes, but nothing is truly lost.

The only thing we have is Love.

There is no time, no place but now.
Love.

What an astonishing multitude of boundless worlds you encompass in your infinite wisdom, in your devastating, magnificent totality.

May the Heart, Mother of everything, watch over them tonight.

"The angel Duma's tear, crystalline and clear, filled the vision of each of the onlookers. Reflected in it, they saw mercy, and miracles, and the knowledge that everything that is, has a purpose, and that purpose, somehow, included every one of them... on a deep and personal level."

Neil Gaiman, The Sandman 

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Ants in my pants

It's one of those frustrating nights. I'm frantically looking for something, but it eludes me in the same frantic manner. I jump from one site to the next, looking, searching, desperately trying to get a glimpse, a faint idea of what I'm missing. And of course failing, because I don't have a clue what I'm looking for. I'm just restless and unfulfilled, and internet can't help me with that. No-one can help me with that.

I found this song that is a reward in itself. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Until then, enjoy.

Lyrics

Run from the light
Your eyes black like an animal
Deep in the water

I care for no one but the offspring of your mind
Run from the one who comes to find you
Wait for the night that comes to hide

Your eyes black like an animal
Black like an animal
Crossing the water
Lead them to die

We press for the water, press for the river, press for the rain
We press for the water, press for the river, press for the pain

We press for the water... 

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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Christmas classics

"All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."

"REALLY?" said Death. "AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE."

"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"

"YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES."

"So we can believe the big ones?"

"YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING."

"They're not the same at all!"

"YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET"—Death waved a hand. "AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME... SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED."

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"

"MY POINT EXACTLY."

-Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

Merry Christmas/ Yule/ whatever celebration you celebrate to everyone! I hope you are all safe and in the company of the ones you love.