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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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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Remembering my dead pets tonight. I wonder what kind of masochism urges us to adopt, when it only means we're going to have our heart broken repeatedly. I miss my little darlings and feel indebted for the way they enriched my life, even if it wasn't for long.
I am writing again. There are more than a few hiccups along the way, and I am not always certain if anything can be achieved, but my stories are important to me. I am not sure what can be achieved by writing here either and yet I am. I don't even know who's reading this or if anyone is reading this and what they think about it. It doesn't really matter.
I am walking with one foot here, one foot there. One foot in the world of reason and results, one foot in the world of the unconscious and inner understanding. Every now and then I stop and measure my progress. The progress I make becomes evident only through the increased feeling of well-being inside; it does not change my conditions much. Even that is good. I am in a better place than I used to be, and hopefully it will improve further.
I am learning to ask for things I want.
I am also learning to voice my displeasure.
There is someone I like. I am rather terrified by the fact. I am also pretty certain it will not take me to a better place; just disappoint and hurt me. It already looks that way. In the past I would have run away at maximum speed; right now I am trying to not kill it before it even starts. You see, I am exceptional at it killing them before they draw their first breath, before they hurt me. In the end, I don't know what's worse; a life of comfortable numbness or being consumed by your own feelings. So I am trying to break my patterns before they turn into my life, and will take it one step at a time.
The blog is undergoing maintenance right now. This means my sorry butt is currently erasing excessive labels, adding labels to really old posts (2005, 2006, 2007... etc) in order to make them more accessible, re-adding videos into entries because the videos have been removed from youtube (or I didn't know how to add videos at that time...), adding/ changing pictures, correcting typos etc. It will take a while to be done with it. The blog will be better afterwards. It will still be massive (hey, it contains 13 years of writing!), yet more organised. Needless to say, I am not changing the content in any way. Please be patient if things are a little all over the place. It will look and function better when I am done. :)
For those of you who don't know what I am talking about, scroll down and go to the section named 'Labels', under 'Popular posts', right hand side of the blog. If you click on a label, it will show you all entries I have ever written with the particular subject. I am not done yet; it will probably take a week or so. The amount of work needed is insane, so please give it a few days and check again. And as per usual, if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do, so that there is more and better content! 😉 Thank you.
I began this blog in 2005. There is a massive amount of work in it, and I always thought it should not be done for any other reason than to speak my (weird) mind. Consequently the idea of generating income from it never crossed my thoughts. Besides, when it began, it had zero hits. With the passing of time, this changed. Right now I have hundreds of pageviews for every new entry I upload. Still this translates to absolutely zero income.
I know what you are thinking. Well, if it is art, it should come from the heart. Money has no place there.
Yeah. Except for the fact this heart resides inside a body, and the body in question needs food, clothes, electricity for the laptop, an internet provider and so on and so forth. After these needs have been covered, then the brain of the body in question can come up with some sort of content for this blog. Never mind what that content is. Since you are here reading this, I guess you are familiar with the fact my entries jump from one bonkers subject to the next like a frog on acid. Unless you are a newcomer, in which case I should warn you: you might not like the content of this blog. If you are racist, homophobic, sexist, narrow-minded etc., then you most certainly won't like it. You may even not be any of these things and still not like it, and that's fine. Just be warned this is one of the weird places on the internet, OK?
With that in mind, let's take a look on the matter of paid writing as expressed by the excellent writer K.J. Charles, with whom I wholeheartedly agree:
I am not lazy; I could have re-written the same things in a slightly different way, but I see no need to alter her crystal clear and very funny argumentation. I will only quote two small portions of her article:
"You know what’s a real challenge for many people? Paying their rent;
feeding their families; keeping afloat. You know what makes that harder?
Not being paid."
"Paying authors lets them write. It doesn’t make them less genuine, or
less hungry (except in the actual literal sense, obviously), or less
heartfelt, or less busy. It just makes them able to live and thus do
their job, ie writing."
I am still unemployed. I have stopped sending CVs to random jobs, because I might get hired only to discover they won't pay me, or won't pay for my social security, or expect me to work overtime for free, or any combination of the three/ all three. This is the reality in Greece nowadays, as described also here and here. If, and this is a BIG if, you get hired, then you might not get paid. Which brings you to the next interesting dilemma. Keep working for free in the hope of getting some of the money they owe you, or stop working and losing the money they owe you for certain? We're also probably the country with the most heavy direct and indirect taxes in whole Europe in relation to our income. We're in the top ten of countries with heavy taxes, and yes, French people might have a higher percentage of tax, but they don't get paid a 500 euro wage per month. They also don't get taxed if their annual income is 8000 euro. Please don't get me started, because this will become a screaming fit in block capitals in a manner of nanoseconds. It won't be pretty.
So, as I said, I've stopped looking randomly for a job and I am only looking into those jobs that I know from a reliable source will do the three important things: pay you, won't work you to death, and pay for social security. Problem being, I run out of unemployment benefits this month, and next month is going to be, ahem, interesting.
If you read this blog, and especially if you enjoy this blog (cause I know there are some people silently practicing what we call hate-reading for their own bizarre reasons) please consider helping me. There is a donation button at the upper right corner. If you like my content, please consider even for a moment the possibility of buying me a coffee. If this blog is a friendly place for you, if it has helped you, kept you company, or amused you in any way, then give it a thought. It's not compulsory. But the content you have at your disposal is the best I could come up with that given moment, and as honest as it gets. It's a gigantic portion of my time and craft. I don't want to make this blog restricted to members only or add stupid advertisements. I want it to remain public and viewable by everyone. If I get even the smallest income from it, it would be tremendous help. I've never gotten anything from it, except for two coffees bought by two close friends. If I get a bit of income, I'll be motivated to write more and more in depth. If I don't, it will continue being the random thing that it is now, writing when I feel like it because I want to, and also because I have a bit of time to spare after my work. If you want this to change, you can help me towards it. Unfortunately, I can't do it alone.
To change subject, here is a very interesting music video I came across recently. It's slow, dark and haunting. I hope you'll enjoy it. You can find their music here: https://cisfinitum.bandcamp.com/
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.
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. 😁 😝) (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
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. (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
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. (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
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. (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
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."
"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.
