Stardust and immortality

There is so much you don’t understand even now.

There is nothing left of us. Nothing.

We’re stardust and we return to being stardust.

Do you want something left of you?

Teach other people what you know. It may be a simple trick to make better coffee. Or you may be able to teach them something more ambitious. Every single thing that enriches their life, every bit of knowledge you share, is your bet on immortality. It will be left behind when you’re gone.

Don’t judge. They’re doing the best they can. Make sure you do the same. It’s very tough.

Don’t compare. There isn’t another person like you, not one. Comparing is useless, it’s poison for the mind. Ask yourself what you want to do, make sure you do it for the right reasons, and try to make it happen. If it doesn’t work, try something else.

Don’t ask why. Understanding other people’s motivations or knowing why something is happening is like wanting to know why it is raining while you’re caught in the middle of a downpour. It is raining. Either open an umbrella, find cover, or start dancing and enjoying yourself. The reason it is raining won’t make your enjoyment bigger, or offer you cover. Sometimes things are that simple. Don’t waste your time speculating while you should be using it to see what you’re going to do about it.

Move on, be strong, and make sure you do something new every day. Try a new recipe. Pick up a bit of litter and throw it in the bin. Smile to that grumpy neighbor of yours. Plant a single seed in a bare patch of land and see what comes out of it. Open a dictionary and read what an elusive word means. Pet someone’s dog. Take a different route to your work. Put your cell phone aside while you drive or when you meet a friend. Don’t worry, they’ll find you. You cannot escape so easily. If only it was that easy. 

Make sure you are here before you go back to being stardust. Make sure you live.

I love you.

Jesus and the rest of them.

 (Shinya, drummer of Dir en grey, sweetness impersonate)

Today I saw two people I had not seen in a long time. One of them just got out of a stifling, dysfunctional marriage and looks better than ever. She lost weight and found herself.

The second is an old friend I had first met in UK when I was a university student. She has an almost two-year old daughter that truly is a bundle of joy. She runs around in the house and smiles. She loves hugs, asks for hugs and is such a trusting, easy going child.

I have no experience with children, but her attitude shows an unafraid, happy child. And she made me happy too. It made me happy to see what a child is like when they feel safe and loved. It also reminded me we need to have patience and kindness in our conduct with others and this actually is the most important part of our communication.

Here I will insert just a note for those people who, for some reason of their own, have a bone to pick with Jesus. It just seems utterly silly to me, for a variety of reasons. But let me begin by making some things clear.

One: I am not Christian. I grew up as Christian Orthodox, but right now I am happily irreligious. Not atheist, but irreligious, which means, I don't believe in any religion. My 'religion', if I can call it that way, is a mixture of elements, with plenty of my own unique flavour. I am perfectly and happily chaotic. I don't need ritual, but I may use ritual if I feel like it. I usually pray a lot to a multitude of entities from many different pantheons and religions. Praying often includes swearwords and threats. I like to light candles and incense because they help me concentrate and smell good, plus they cleanse the space. But I don't believe I need any kind of middle man, special place or formula to speak to the divine, like a church or an altar. If I need a church, I touch a tree. And if I need an altar, I use my heart.

Two, I don't believe in a Father, Son and Holy spirit. I believe in a Creator/ Creatrix that encompasses both male and female, to whom I refer as God/dess for more ease. I believe in the sanctity of all being, including the nasty bits. I believe in serendipity, synchronicity and providence. I also believe that we're our own worst nightmares and we can easily put demons out of business. And I don't believe that Christ was the son of God any more or less that I and all of you are.

Is it clear?

Can we proceed?

What is the matter with you people? What is your problem with Jesus?

I see those that say, "oh, the cursed Nazarene, teaching masochism and pain and being a victim as a way of existing."

Okay. Let's try to put things in some semblance of order.

You haven't got a clue what Jesus said. Why? Because you weren't there. That's why. The only way to know what someone has said was to be present when it was said, and even then, there is plenty of room for misunderstanding. Now, you want to take the words of the apostles literally, be my guest. Just keep in mind you are reading a second hand opinion that has passed through countless translations and changes to support and uphold a whole system, something very rotten called organised religion.

Jesus never wanted to begin a new religion. He spoke of love and forgiveness in an era of cruelty and turmoil. He spoke of kindness to strangers. He also attacked organised religion and its hypocrisy and the upholders of the system themselves, by words and actions. Or do you forget that because it does not add up to the profile of the masochist you have created? It was those words and actions plus the fact that he had gathered a huge following that finally got him killed. He was becoming dangerous. Potentially a new force. They did  not want that, so he was crucified. The rest is history.

I see the same people who curse the name of Jesus hug their pets, or have erotic relationships, companions, children. And I want to tell them: the love I see in your eyes, the kindness you show with your words and actions, is the very essence of Jesus energy.

And I see the same people who curse the name of Jesus scream against the rotten system of religion, the hypocrisy of priests and their fanatical followers, and I want to tell them: this, too, is Jesus energy, the very same energy you condemn. Love will not mingle with hypocrisy like water won't mingle with oil. Jesus never accepted hypocrisy. Every holy man and woman who ever walked this planet never embraced it. This is why most of them got murdered in a variety of ways, or exiled, and they never had a stitch of clothing extra than what they absolutely needed.

As for me, next time I trip and fall down like I usually do I would like someone with the essence of Jesus, Buddha or any of the great teachers in their being, to stop and help me up and ask me if I am OK. They do not have to be Christian or Buddhist; just understand in their heart that we are all connected to each other, and the next person that may trip and fall down may be themselves or someone they love. And they would like someone to stop and help them like they did it for me.

'Nuff said.

Godless

I never stop surprising myself.

It's amazing how someone can make me change my mind from one moment to the next. I am moody, it's true, but there are times I suddenly just get sick of a situation. And this takes place in the blink of an eye. And I feel the exact opposite of what I was feeling till then. Just like that.

I am just so tired. Tired, tired, tired. All these years have been nothing but battles. I feel I should just retire now. I should just go to a quiet place and rest my weary bones. I want nothing. I can feel connection to nothing save for art anyway. I don't know if I can connect to people and to what cost. More often than not the cost is so much more than the gain. I should find a quiet place, preferably next to a tiny waterfall and spend the rest of my life touching one of the rocks there and talking to it. I should be one with the rock until the day there will be nothing left of me, till my body vanishes and my voice echoes no longer. Till the land takes me in and holds me in its warm embrace. How many things can I observe as a humble rock? How many animals would come and nest or stay for a moment? And humans, would they come to sit on me and kiss? Would children use me as a fortress? Would someone spill blood on me? Would someone come to lie on me and curl and cry their troubles away?

Would someone come and talk to me?

Forever and ever caught in a circle of incarnations that cause us nothing but pain, and give us no reward we can use on this world, forever caught in a maelstrom of sadness, betrayal and disappointment. I want out. I want back home, I want to tread the empty halls of my true origin again. I want out. I want my wings back. I want back to the time being was delight, and I could sleep in the heart of newborn suns, and I could bring music into existence by smiling. I want out and away. I want back and I cannot. Even if I die, I cannot go back. 

What manner of existence is this? Why am I punished so? What did I do wrong to end up here in this sad place of being that most of the time feels like a cruel joke, like a half-finished attempt of a world in which nothing goes right? There is so much pain and not nearly enough truth and ecstasy to overcome it. There is so little to gain and so much to suffer for.  Innocence is a guarantee you'll get trampled underfoot and made to bleed. Only robots survive here. Only robots, liars and deceivers. People who's way of being is synonym to cruelty and indifference.

Why have you abandoned us so?

In a godless world, who can help me?

Why have you thrown me to the wolves?

Why?

When will this end?

When?

Fingers on the keyboard, fire under my pants

I see my fingers on the keyboard… And it looks both comforting and promising.

Q: How do you know a past life in regard to Japan is resurfacing?

A: I try to read a simple text in Japanese and get a motherfucker of a headache. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame is playing drums on my skull with many ample-sized elaborate hammers, or someone has strapped a length of leather around my temples and is squeezing slowly to check my cranium collapsing point. Nice! I also get restless, fidgety, depressive and distracted. It’s the perfect conditions for studying hard.

(Right now the only hard thing I want to bother myself with, in the sense of scrutinizing and studying, is hard candy. Or that other, occasionally hard, interesting thing. End of period, beginning of ovulation. Armies of nekkid elves and imprisoned J-rockers inside my head will be taken care of before the end of the week).

I wonder why I see such complicated dreams lately. I take no drugs save for the occasional over-indulgence in chocolate. But my dreams, oh my fucking gods. Last night I surpassed myself again. I do remember pushing a bathtub with wheels and two women inside, holding oars, towards the sea… I also remember stealing some heavy silver and gold rings from the queen of vampires, and having to carry them… And I am not sure if I really want to remember much more. It seems I am having too much fun with True Blood. And as always, I am partly aware of the reason why my dreams are so complicated. As for sharing with the rest of the world, uh-uh.

There are things that can be shared and those that cannot be shared.

I have just acquainted myself with some new pen pals I cannot write to. What the heck can I tell them? That the energy of the one of them is totally incompatible to mine? They will probably think I am nuts. I get a headache just by reading her letter; how the hell am I supposed to answer and keep regular contact? The other has just moved out of one oppressive relationship to the next one. I am supposed to keep my mouth shut. What in the blue blazes? I know I must not say a thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t itch with desire to tell her to stop picking the wrong kind of person to get involved with. Yet I cannot do that, because if I do, I’ll get into the wrong kind of conversation with her. Which means, telling people what they need to do “for their own good”. But what people do, even if it is a poor choice and for me it’s self explanatory why, it’s still their business. Why?

*Because I was not asked for my opinion.

*Because I would be seriously enraged if someone told me what to (not) do.

*Because each has to discover the truth for themselves. Even if I tell them what they should do and why, experience cannot be communicated. Perhaps they would do what they were told, but would still be as clueless as they were before I told them. One has to experience in order to understand and some of us experience and still don’t understand.

*Because telling others “the right thing to do” is one hell of an ego trip. It makes one feel important and all knowing and useful but offers nothing to both the giver and the receiver of advice. The one that gives advice tries solving other people’s problems instead of their own, retaining the delusion that their opinion is the only “right” one. The one who receives the advice has no initiative, no responsibility (“it wasn’t my idea, they told me to do so”) and feels very comfortable doing nothing, since someone else does the thinking for them.

*Because, at the end of the day, I cannot keep a neutral perspective and not get emotionally involved in a situation that is not my problem or responsibility. And since I get involved in the wrong way it is best not to get involved at all, until I learn to keep a neutral attitude and believe, truly believe that everyone is safe no matter how poor their choices are. Even if their choices lead them to death, they are still safe. Energy is never lost, merely transmuted. They’ll be back, much like the Terminator, to try their luck again. That’s the game of life and I should bother with my cards instead of telling others how to play theirs.

Nice thoughts. But I wonder if I’ll be able to practice what I preach… :-(

The complexity of being

Most of what we think is never known to others.

Passing feelings, notions and ideas are never known to others.

I share myself as much as I am capable of.

Yet there are things that cannot be shared.

Moments when the sunlight has a specific way of illuminating things.

The feeling of being content when I hug my favourite animals.

[Perhaps it is the "here and now" these beings encompass fully that reminds us so well what being content in the present tense is. Not expecting happiness and fulfillment. Not thinking of times past. But BEING here and now.]

There are things I cannot share, perhaps because of our human deficiency, perhaps because I safeguard the inner core of my being in such a manner.

There are those things that cannot be shared and sometimes are driving me insane.

The feeling of sexual hunger for a curve or a smooth line on someone's body.

The hunger for eternity while I immerse myself in the hue of blue on a pre-Raphaelite painting.

The hunger for life itself while watching an astounding performance.

The need for vanity as I caress a smooth fabric.

The yearning to leave as I look at the line of the horizon.

The arbitrary hunger to fly while a splendid sunset blooms like a wound in front of my eyes.

The feeling of power in my guts while my favourite music shakes me to the core.

Those things, and so many more, only remind me of one thing.

Live well.

Love deep.

Forgive.

One day you will close the door behind you and leave it all here.

Make sure you leave no loose ends.

Blessed be.

Yet no man is an island...

Some people are clutching at straws to make sense of what's going on. I am clutching at pieces of paper. My entire life is nothing but piles of paper, heaps of paper, castles of fucking paper.

I think it's time to strike a match and say to hell with it.

I am just too tired for words and yet words are what I have left. Words and cathairs as well as cats, the avid producers of the aforesaid hairs. Enthusiastic producers they are for certain. I'll give them that.

Fifteen years old, with a lovely voice. Raped, killed and thrown down the cliff. The razor straight, almost vertical cliffs of beautiful Ireland, going down to the pounding sea.

Less than thirty. Slowly executed in a concentration camp, the kind of living death when every day you are stripped naked of everything that makes you human. It was a crime to be of gypsy blood. Seventy years later, it still is a crime.

Twenty three years old. Killed by her abusive, drunkard husband for having an affair. What's new?

The thoughts and stories and little lives circle me tonight, circle me resembling large goldfish, dragonfish, orange and green and golden, and they want a piece of me.

Have a piece. It's useless anyway. I am living a pretty much pointless life. It does not make much difference one way or the other. It's Zen, baby. Zen to the rotten core. That apple is zen. My life is zen. I am so fucking zen that the great masters of Zen stand ashamed in front of me. They slap their foreheads and wonder why they didn't think of it themselves; living a perfectly empty existence.

(The last strings were cut, cut free, cut clean, and even though I am floating the gravity of my own mind pulls me down, pulls me down viciously, and my soul feels like a lead balloon, and I don't want this kind of soul, I want a different one with lots of colours, not such an old, dirty and torn thing. I don't want this kind of soul with the weight of countless ages, the weight of so many deaths on my hands, on my conscience, no no no, please take it away, please take it away, I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE)

The art of living is such an easy thing. Breathe in, breathe out. The rest will follow.

I have never felt about any one thing that it could be such an exercise in futility as much as I feel it about my life. Never, ever  have I considered something as useless as those thirty something years here. What the hell do I struggle for? Why do I fight, why do I insist? Why do I torture my mind over countless pieces of paper, why do I work like a slave and say no to so many things, and put up with so much bullshit, and discuss so many daft matters with such a variety of idiotic people? Why do I bother sticking to my code of honour and asking what would be the best path of conduct, and brush my teeth and wash my hair and all that shit? Why oh why do I bother with these, give me one valid reason why I bother, why I even try, why I spend so much time and put so much effort in this pitiful semblance of existence?

Poor Daisuke, poor little child of mine, birds of a feather always flock together, don't they? You just came into my head uninvited one day, just like we all come and leave one day, you came to stay and what I can say is that I am sorry, I am so sorry my little boy. I am sorry because I am not a story weaver. I am a teller of tales, which means a witness. I am merely a witness to what's happening anyway, behind closed doors, by people with no conscience. I know why you can't connect. Don't let it bother you anyway, it's the same here. I can't connect either. Some things are not meant to be, and I cannot be like them because I know, and they cannot be like me because they don't. And I don't blame them one bit if they don't want to know and understand. I chose knowledge and look where it got me anyway. To the madhouse, in a room with a view.

Don't let it bother you one bit. Just raise your gun and shoot me once. Aim true. Make it impeccable. Make it a mercy killing, make it a banquet. Make it look like I am sleeping. Make it look like I was torn apart by wolves. Make it look any way you like, it doesn't really bother me in the least. What truly bothers me is this so-called life.

To hell with it all.

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Not certain anymore

You say that you miss my wisdom, but my wisdom (if I can call it such) is telling me one thing. I am scared. Very scared and very sad. I no longer know which direction to take so I sit and stare at nothing.

Any better options out there?

And I still pick at scabs

and my mind won't let me rest

and I cannot take one deep clear breath.

My only wish is not death. In the past it would have been death, but it is not anymore.

Now I pray for rain.

It will come like a gift from the heavens and wash away every moment, good and bad.

It will free me.

I will melt like sugar, become smudged like a watercolour picture and hide in the reflections of the wet pavement. Slip away like a dream. Not exist anymore.

That would be so nice.

Everything would take care of itself afterwards.

Why am I here if there is no place for me?

Why am I here if this reality disagrees with me?

For just how longer will I be able to carve a breathing space in the rock with my nails?

Why should life be about this?

I have no answers.

I have nothing.

I am, in reality, nothing.

A dream that strayed.

Please let me leave.

It is raining again.

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

I am gorged by art and unsatisfied desire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoopsie

An overly active blog in my case means two things:

1. that I have time to kill and absolutely no intention of returning home.

2. that I can moan my little gothic black heart out.

3. that I strongly advice you AGAINST reading it for these two reasons.

This said, I need to refer to the fact this is not how I imagined my life will be at 31.

This also said, I honestly hope I'll manage to somehow put my finger on that which needs be done.

Not for any other reason, but because from my present point of view I can clearly see the fair green fields of banana-land and they are alarmingly close.

Hmm hmm, the little blue boy hummed to himself. Your toes don't look like toes anymore.

They look like something trapped inside the washing machine for too long.

You betcha, I admitted. And you really don't want to know what other parts of me look like.

I tried to sleep on the earth, but the drizzle did not let me.

The skies are perpetually gray these days.

Yes, the little blue boy said. The skies are wearing their winter clothes at this time of the year.

I'd go for transvestite, I replied. Something like the northern lights over Acropolis. Just for a change.

I'll tell them, he said. But it is hard. Perhaps you can dream about it if it will make you happy. Would you like that?

I am not sad. Not when I am alone.

Living with my mother makes me sad.

You also make her sad, he observed. You shout at each other all the time. Your faces turn ugly when you do that. It's like you are both drowning, only there is no water in the room.

Yes. It's a neat trick, isn't? I feigned ignorance. Mothers learn their daughters this trick when they are very very little. They in turn learn it from their own mothers.

My mother did not teach me this trick, the little blue boy said hesitantly. Is it something only girls learn?

Yes. It comes together with wombs and expectations.

I do not understand this, the little blue boy complained, but are you sure you like it?

Do you remember when someone gave you that purple hat with the the bumblebees inside? I asked. And you were stuck with it because the bumblebees wanted it for their home and you wanted it for a hat?

Yes, he nodded.

It is the same. I am stuck with this. Someone has to give way.

I gave up the hat, the boy reminded me. I will find another hat. That one had been the home of the bumblebees for so long that it would buzz even when empty.

Well, imagine what it would be like if the hat with the bumblebees was stuck on your head and you could not get it off, I suggested. It is something like this, only my mother wants the hat to remain there and I want to get it off.

Do you want me to find another hat for your mom? the little blue boy offered. I think I can find one, only it won't be purple. If she doesn't mind this, I can find one pretty hat for her. Blue and orange, with long ribbons. A princess had it once.

My mom is not a princess, I protested. Perhaps the princess will need it.

My mom told me that all girls are princesses, the little blue boy said. And my mom does not lie. Would you like the hat of the princess for your mom? Would that make her happy? Because that princess left one day and never came back for her pretty hat. It just sits there and there is dust on it. It's no trouble. I can get it for her. Would that make you stop doing the drowning trick?

I bit my lips to stop myself from crying. The little blue boy saw it.

Oh no, you're sad again, he piped miserably. Did I say something wrong? Do you want me to look for a hat for you too? Is that it? Perhaps there is a second one in the garden. I think I...

It is okay, I whispered. I'll keep the one with the bumblebees for now. One is enough.