Been re-reading old letters I wrote. Nice to see not much
has changed. Irreverent, angry, anally obsessed and funny.
"Yesterday I had some large beans cooked with tomato
in the oven for supper plus five eggs for dinner. The result is that today my
ass levitates at some centimeters distance over the chair due to continuous and
continual gas production. I look like a levitating Indian fakir. It’s ominous.
I have farting spells that last for several seconds and change tone, tune and
temperature at my nether region. Their result is usually clinging around the
proximity of my ass as a cloud of fluff and instant death. I am forced to
change my surroundings every time I am struck by this nasty muse’s endearments.
In fact every time I release one of those I start running and never look back,
propelled by the gas as much as by my legs. Seriously, if we ever find
ourselves in the same house I’ll let you know in such a case, so that you don’t
switch on the lights. If you do, they’ll find both our corpses next day in the
ruins, blackened and burned beyond recognition. :P The joys of single life,
farting as much as you please."
"I want to go to heavens and butt-rape every single
meddling deity that was ever born in the collective unconscious with gigantic,
whale-size dildos with spikes, then take a shit and smear it on their faces. I
want to organise a party with the heads of those deities stuck on poles
greeting my guests, blue tongues lolling and eyeballs dangling. I want to
commit acts of violence on their hides that no intelligent race across all
galaxies has ever conceived. And I’ll be laughing constantly while reminding
them every bad thing that has happened to me and the ones I care about.
There are days, or rather, moments in a day I am content.
Not happy, but content. I can even glimpse a shred of meaning in breathing in
and out. But most days are disheartening and infuriating and exhausting. Still,
I refuse to give up. I’ll stay till the last credits to see what this fucking
idiocy of a movie called my life was about. But whoever is responsible should
beware, because I am getting my spiked whale dildos lubed up and ready even as
we speak. I’ll kick their asses so hard they’ll spend the rest or eternity
exchanging postcards with their missing behinds which will have landed in the
farthest end of the other side of the bloody universe. I mean it and probably
can do it."
Ah, the arrogance of some deities... ;) And some butts. (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
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
Twice in the last week I've had to deal with the matter of forgiveness. I thought I was dealing with it. In reality it seems I had just pushed the anger and hurt away, at the back of my mind.
The first person I have to forgive is my father. I am working on it. It's next to impossible because forgiveness is a very special animal. It's easy to forgive when the damage inflicted to you by a person is minimal, or you have found a solution and it does not affect you anymore. But when the damage done has shaped your life to what it is now, and the past choices of that person still echo in your present situation ten years after his death, then... then you want to take the ossuary with his bones, fill it with kerosene and light it up. You are sure it will make an excellent fire, and that's the only kind of gesture that reflects your true feelings for him.
There are those who say that once a person is dead, we should forgive them and move on. I consider that a grave oversimplification. So because they're dead, that means they didn't screw you over royally when they were alive? Hitler is dead too. Should everyone just forgive him because he's dead? That's the weird trip you get into with forgiveness. You can't forgive them when they've wronged you, when their decisions destroyed parts of your evolution and potential. They can't be absolved just because they are gone. The consequences of their actions are still part of your life, so forgive them how? And that's the paradox, because that is the exact case that forgiveness is needed, not in the sense of forgetting, but of moving on and not giving them power over you anymore.
If the person you need to forgive hasn't wronged you or hurt you, then you don't need to forgive them. You simply need to get over your ego. Forgiveness is needed when that person has left scars so deep that shaped your whole life. It's required when the damage done to you can't be undone, when their decisions have affected you deeply and profoundly and stolen from you your most valuable possessions; time and compassion. The one is the currency of life, the other is the currency of humanity.
If my father had been less of an asshole, my life would have been very different. He, too, would probably still be alive. I wouldn't have lost 14 years of my life trapped in a job I hated, without getting any stamps. I wouldn't have been forced to return from UK; I would have been able to get an MA and would have been working for the past 15 years in a job that would have paid me and given me social security. I would not have to deal with his sister taking me to court because she wants to appropriate more of his possessions. Perhaps I'd even have a companion. When your life has stability and security job-wise, it's not a giant leap to find someone. Right now I am where I am, doing what I am doing, and know that this man is more than 50% responsible for these things. I have a mother who's alone and slowly getting older and can't deal with everyday life, no job, no MA, no relationship, no previous job experience... The list goes on. I got social security for the first time this year. I am 39. And he has the nerve to ask for forgiveness when he has destroyed me, he has the nerve to think he can be forgiven when he ruined my life. Just because he died. So a bonfire with his bones seems like an excellent idea. Right?
The problem with forgiveness is that it takes a leap of faith, a gigantic motherfucker of a leap of faith. You need to forgive someone exactly because they did those things to you. You need to say, "I will deal with this mess and I will do it on my own terms". Because this is how you take the power back in your hands. As soon as you decide there is something you can do instead of being angry and accusing the other person of how they destroyed your life, you stop being a victim of that person or situation. From a "waaah waaah oh poor me" mess, you become the "come any closer and you'll see if this bitch has any fighting left in her" kind of person. Because truth is, that bitch (me) has a lot of fighting left in her. But she should do something better with that fighting spirit than bash the head of a person who's dead.
I am trying very hard. Trying to let go while what I want to do is somehow get hold of him and yell at him, stomp him to the ground. Trying to move on when I see children with fathers who are there for them, who care, who help, who try to understand. I stare at those fathers, with their failings and mistakes and good intentions and wonder what planet was my father from. I wonder for the umpteenth time why, as I wrote in my previous poem, "I was raised by wolves". Why there wasn't a single safe adult in the family I grew up. And what the fuck it is that I'm doing here.
And now I have to forgive him. How the fuck am I supposed to do that?
I am just so tired. But I need to keep going. There is no time to lose. There just isn't any time for self-pity. I need to stop being a victim. And the only way one can stop being a victim is, curiously, by faith, and by letting go.
The lyrics of the very beautiful song are here:
Chelsea Wolfe- Sick
This suffering brings me closer to you
and time is broken and moves slow
your pure heart, your white light
I should be put to death for ever being cruel to you
you washed me clean like no one ever could
come closer now and step right into
the wide mouth, the sharp teeth of the one you love
I'm not the kind of sick that you can fix
don't you worry about me baby
I've got no enemies and I've got no time
the song, we carry on
even though you pushed us down
we carry on
when you try to blind my eyes I can see tenfold
It's nothing that my heart can't take, 'cause your hate
has made me strong
Can I complain about something? I know some people will think I'm mad. I don't particularly care. Also, I am going to be graphic, disgusting, and fixated on the Freudian anal stage. Be warned.
Have you ever had a friend who offered to get you on a date with someone they know? Naturally, you're reluctant, so they show you a photo of that person, and he or she is drop-dead gorgeous. And hey, from what your friend says, you have similar interests! So you give your consent and your friend arranges a date. The suspense is killing you, you count the days backwards, you are happy. Finally the day of your dream date comes, they arrive at the restaurant and they look just like their photo. You can't believe how lucky you are. You sit down, giddy with anticipation, and timidly engage in conversation. For the first few minutes it goes remarkably well. Then as you open the menu to order and glance at your dream date, you notice with pure horror that they are digging inside their nose. You stare because you can't believe you are seeing that. You are still staring while they pull out a ginormous booger, give it a perfunctory once-over and eat it.
I've just described my relationship with American Gods.
I read the book years ago. It's not my favourite from Gaiman's arsenal, but Gaiman is my favourite writer, so naturally I was very excited American Gods would become a TV series. I had also watched and loved two seasons of Hannibal, so Fuller seemed a good choice. Alas.
Before AG started, I made an attempt to watch the 3rd season of Hannibal. I managed to watch two episodes. They were painfully slow, boring, and pointlessly gross. Bodies forming out of blood, becoming blood, Will wandering around aimlessly while being up to his eyeballs on hard drugs, blah de blah. I may try to finish the season... or not.
Then American Gods started. And in the first minutes of the first episode I saw a chopped arm flying in the air. And I shuddered, because this is not Gaiman's style, and hoped I was wrong.
But I was right.
To do the series justice, there are some brilliant scenes, and the actors are doing their best. But the rest of it is that dream date of yours eating boogers while you watch in fascinated horror.
"Artistic" slow mo with flies and candles, lots of sex, pointless mostly, bodies forming out of some liquid dark material and being re-absorbed... Wait, am I watching the 3rd season of Hannibal again? -No you dummy, that's American Gods. -Oh, silly me. But why is it so slow? -They use slow mo to make every episode last for three hours, so that you think you got more time for the same money. It's a marketing trick. You wouldn't understand. -You are right. I don't understand.
-Oh, these two guys are having sex... That's sweet. But why are they suddenly depicted in the desert and they change colour, as if they are the negatives of a photo? -It's esthetics. You wouldn't understand. -But... -Stop asking questions. It's a Fuller/Gaiman show. That alone should have made you fall on your knees and pray. Why aren't you impressed? -Because it doesn't make sense. It's like Galadriel turning black in LOTR... But she had the One Ring. -Shut up and let me watch the show. -Okay.
Let's talk about women... All the
attractive female characters we've come across so far are unavailable
virgins, neurotic wrecks, or man-devouring insane bitches who use everyone around them on a
whim and destroy their lives. Poor, poor Laura Moon. In the book you are not the despicable, ego-centered bipolar bimbo of the series. It takes effort to make a female character so loathsome, but they spared no effort. And they succeeded spectacularly. If she was on fire, I'd douche her with gasoline to put her out. Of her misery, I mean.
The
esthetics of the book are fucked six ways to Sunday. The book may be
slow at parts, but it captures perfectly the atmosphere of a growing
storm. It lets the reader steal momentary glimpses of those dangerous beings and
situations looming at the edge of one's perception, at the edge of normal and every-day. Those glimpses come to slowly replace the normal until they are Shadow's every day. But it is subtle, smart, delicate. And then you have the series, which replaces
the melancholy and restlessness with grunge, gore, dirt, filth, kitsch
and blood. It sounds good... if we're talking about The Walking Dead. Or
maybe the streets of a large medieval city where sheep, cows and beggars with leprosy are happily stepping on their own shit next to a marriage taking place. Everyone is fondling everyone else's tit and other parts of interest with fingers covered in sour wine and grease, someone is vomiting in their plate, and the rest are hailing the groom and the bride. But is this the book I read, even remotely? No fucking way.
The music of AG can be divided in two categories. The songs are incredibly bland. The creators of the show seemed to have picked the top 40 of pointless songs which cause mild irritation while they are being played, and get immediately erased from one's memory as soon as they stop. The rest of the soundtrack is a dream sonnet written by a renown proctologist. Every time something creepy/otherworldly happens, the music is literally from another world. Imagine three or four people with various wind instruments inserted in their anus. One has a saxophone, another a trumpet, one has a flute, and so on. Imagine whatever you like. These poor people are tied up and gagged and some psychos are torturing them. One of the psycho torturers repeatedly inserts a needle in the flesh of the guy with the saxophone in his butt. He can't scream, can't move or fight, hence those bleating, desperate little noises coming out of his other end. Something's gotta give. On the other side of the room, another psycho torturer is stepping on the gout of the person who has the trumpet in his butt, steadily increasing pressure. And so you get that deep, insistent, ominous wail that shudders, ululates and changes in tone. It really is a thing of beauty, if you have a poster with Tomás de Torquemada on your bedroom wall. And you masturbate to it morning and night. Honestly, I know I am going to be part of the minority who hates the show, and I can understand why someone may be impressed by it. But I don't care. This show sucks. It sucks so much that it could easily have been the vacuum cleaner the Almighty used on the Sixth Day, to clean the mess before He rested. If you ask me, He's still asleep, and the creators of American Gods stole the bleeding thing and turned it into a TV show. That's how much it sucks.
Rant over. Watch the Handmaid's Tale. It's amazing. Off to bed.
PS: If anyone, absolutely anyone, dares say that the reason I don't like the series is that I can't take it, I'd like to inform them that horror is my favourite genre. Also, if they think I dislike it because I am a prude, I'll make them a part of that anal quartet I described above, and have demons gang-rape their mouths while I record the musical achievements of their butt for the next season of the show. I may even become rich, who knows? So don't even think about it. (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
I am officially jobless. Which is fine, as I needed a bit of rest, and I'll be on unemployment benefits for a while. Hopefully I'll find something else. Of course the unemployment benefits are not much, but I can't complain. It's more than the money I'd get for working part-time.
Other than that, my very good friend Lizbeth Gabriel has her published book, the Theater of Dusk, on offer until the end of the month! She excels at describing some pretty dark relationships and situations, like murder, betrayal, death, suicide, but there is also humour. If you need some paranormal romance, vampires, demons, angels of Death and so on, you can have them for 99c. If you prefer a physical book, you can buy one on Amazon. Here is a video review of her book:
As the reviewer says, her stories have a strong emotional impact that stays with the reader for long, so please give her a go. You will not be disappointed, promise.
Other than that, I am selling more of my stamp albums on Ebay. You can find all the items I have for sale on Ebay here. Please take a look and help me increase my funds. The stray cats I feed need food nightly, and I can't explain to them I no longer have a job. Thanks for looking! :) (If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)
Chris and Seth, founding members of Septicflesh (and their cute as a button daemon-familiar).
I've been trying to tie loose ends for the past two weeks. There are countless little chores I've been avoiding like the devil avoids incense (as the Greek saying goes), but they need to be done. So lately I've been tackling them. They aren't important, but completing them offers me a strange sense of accomplishment. They are boring and unpleasant and necessary, so every single one that gets out of the way is one boring task less. I'm mightily impressed with myself.
On the good news' side, I plan to do an interview with the extreme metal band Septicflesh. They are Greek, they are awesome, and I've been a fan for many years. If you aren't familiar with them and you love symphonic death metal, check them out. They are excellent and constantly evolving. I hope they'll agree to an interview. My blog isn't music-related; it exists to document my obsessions so that my psychiatrist can have a better clinical picture er... so that I can write about my interests. Yes, of course. I have already started sacrificing pizzas and ice-creams to darker entities (it's plenty dark inside my stomach, believe me) to make sure I land that interview. If I don't, I'll just increase the number of sacrifices, fart despondently and wallow in disappointment.
Psst. Let me tell you a secret. I hate all those metal bands. Well, 'hate' might be too strong a word. Almost without exception, members of those bands have longer hair than mine and about 2.345 more tattoos than I do. I am jealous AF. That without referring to the fact men with long hair and tattoos accidentally press a special button inside my brain. I start secreting ginormous amounts of saliva while staring at them, one eye rapidly blinking, drool running down my chin, moonstruck smile splitting my face in two. I'm usually fantasizing that I have then in my bed in full metalhead gear and I comb their hair. Oooh what pretty hair you have. Oooh let me comb it for you. Show me your tattoos. Oooh you bad boy you, all dressed in black and leather. And so on. Of course, any sane person that sees me during that phase is certain I am having a stroke combined with a psychotic episode, and slowly tiptoes out of my field of vision. I don't even realise, too busy combing imaginary hair. *Sigh* My chances of capturing one of those specimens to enact that bedroom scene are slim to none, especially bearing in mind two facts: 1) the unreasonable number of cats on my bed 2) my super audacious chubby tummy, blowing raspberry to possible suitors from under my (carefully selected) loose t-shirts. But one can dream, right?
Quiz: cats on my bed. How many can you count? Plus foot porn.
In other news, I am broke as FCUK. Therefore I have started selling things I don't need. Right now I have three stamp albums listed on Ebay, official products, sold out years ago and completely impossible to find under normal circumstances. If you want, please take a look. They are very reasonably priced and I'd love to re-home them and use the money to buy more urgent things.
I'll keep you updated on the interview. Now go out and be as naughty and impudent as my round tummy. (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.)
