I feel like doing something stupid tonight.

But I have no idea what this could be.

Sometimes I wish I had superpowers just so that I could jump from one rooftop to the next when I am THAT much bored. Or land next to some irritating fuckhead in the middle of the night to make them pee in their pants. Yet if we keep in mind that I am about as fit as your average sloth, I would end up beaten up as well as used to wipe the floor clean. What a super-heroine...

If it was early I would probably dress up and walk the streets. Or go buy some ice-cream. It does not matter that I am alone. I can always take a book with me and eat my ice-cream dressed like a medieval lady... But it is not that early to begin with and I am too bored.

The sense I miss more than anything else when I wake up is flying. And what pisses me off more than anything else is my inability to bring specific items from over there to over here. No matter how hard I try to concentrate and how firmly I grab them in the dream world, I fail to bring them over here. I often open my eyes and start looking furiously on my pillow, under my bed, under the covers. No success as of yet. But I am stubborn. Or motivated, if you prefer.

I feel a bit inclined to blow the universe tonight. However I did blow it in the afternoon and I think once is enough. The energy blast must have rearranged reality on a global scale. Hey, don't you give me that look. When we change ourselves, that minute portion of reality that we have power over, we change the entire universe. So no sympathy looks for my mental condition, thank you very much. The only side effect of my type of reiki/magic/sex on reality is the number of times I visit the restroom afterwards. Small price to pay. No alien invasion, no going insane (at least more than what I already am), no R'lye rising from the watery abyss. Hell, not even the electricity bill paid by magic. This is some shitty magic that I practice. Literally.

At least I re-read something that made me smile. Neil Gaiman has written some very small short stories to describe fifteen cards from a vampire tarot. Those texts are published as introduction to 'The art of Vampire the Masquerade' by White Wolf. My favourite is the one he wrote for the Tower.

The Tower

The tower's built of spit and spite,

Without a sound, without a sight.

The biter bit, the bitter bite.

(It's better to be out at night.)

I know it does not necessarily ring any bells for you, but it does for me. Who knows why certain things affect us the way they do? Yet the more I look at it the more it makes me smile. A perfect short story. Ideas waiting to be used. The word and sound play of the third line. Ah... Just perfect.

I have not role played for five years now. Time is there to remind us to be on our toes.

Maybe I should try to type a short story I wrote last December. I know at least one person who would love to read it. Perhaps she is crazy, but she says she wants to read it. So why not.

I am confused.

I invoked the demon of bad humor to possess me about five minutes ago. But I do not feel that evil tingling in my stomach and spine that tells me the demon is here yet. Perhaps s/he is busy helping lawyers worldwide. Therefore I will busy myself too and burn some more incense and frilly underwear later.

I am stranded at the net cafe right now, and though I want to go home and take a nice hot relaxing shower, lie face down on my bed with my fat cat purring next to me and a book placed on my pillow, I can't. My mother is at home. It is amazing; she can turn me from a disjointed, if harmless human being, to a curse-spitting sonar-screech emitting flailing berserker in milliseconds. So the net cafe it is. I don't go home before one in the morning that she's gone. I suffer from continual sleep deprivation thanks to her and my own stupidity. Because when I finally go home, instead of dropping dead on my bed, I do such things as shower, enjoy long luxurious craps with my nose stuck in multicoloured magazines stashed in the sink for this exact purpose, squeeze pimples, try to understand why there is an empty box of pizza under a manga under some CDs under my underwear under some other books on the bed with my cat sleeping on them, etc. I have developed amazing juggling skills. I can retrieve items from the pile I just described without disturbing the pile or the cat. I can even locate things after the appropriate ass scratching and pondering and sacrifices to the appropriate demigod. Usually this involves me ritualistically upturning heaps of items and throwing them at all directions while using colourful language and special gestures, such as pulling at my hair, banging my head on walls and closets -accidentally or otherwise-, pretending I have three legs in order to walk on the sea of items I have created without the tell-tale crunching sounds informing me I have just stepped on a limited edition CD, balancing on tiptoe of one leg while using both hands to hold onto place a avalanche of CDs intend on surfing on my head AND holding some books with the other leg, etc. So after all the struggling usually it is very late and I sleep at 03:30 am instead of 01:00. Needless to say, the next day I have all the intellectual capacity of something that's been dead for four days and the fluidity and graceful movement of a pregnant elephant. I am sure that one of these days my mother will come home early in the morning and will find me sat on the toilet, dead asleep, with my head resting on the sink, slowly drooling on the pages of the magazine I will still be holding, and with my cat sleeping on my back.

Not in the mood for jokes.

I am in a weird state of mind.

Not exactly happy.

Not exactly sad.

Not very angry either. Once more I have managed to balance between the constant need to inflict violence and the overwhelming desire to be gentle in the way my family and close ones never were to me.

Time is pressing me. There is no such thing as time, time is an illusion of the mammalian brain, and yet I am pressed for time. Isn't this ironic? One of the nicest things I read on a tea tag recently was "we are spiritual beings having a human experience." When my time comes, I will miss having a body, though I am not too certain what to do with it presently.

Watching the above video with gorgeous Gackt I can't help but wish I lived somewhere else. Somewhere or perhaps sometime I could pull a sword and hear the gut-warming sound a perfectly balanced, razor-sharp blade makes while unsheathed swiftly. The slashing and hissing of a good sword through air is a song I have missed, and something my soul still murmurs at nights between red dreams and vague memories.

I don't think I will ever forgive myself for choosing a female body this lifetime. I can understand the reasons, they are more than justifiable, but this doesn't make me hate it any less. I don't have a problem with my body per se, but I certainly have a very serious problem with the fact my sex needs to be penetrated in order to mate. I hate the man who sees me naked no matter who he is, I resent the hands that touch me for they defile me. I don't want to be entered. I do not want to have a vagina. I do not enjoy being the receiving part. It fills me with terror and rage to belong to the sex that has been systematically abused, forced, victimized and tortured for the fact we are designed to receive. I feel irate for the way this world treats my sex. Yet there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can stay away from relationships for the rest of my life; I have already been almost five years without one, but from a point onward this is cowardice. And I am anything but a coward. I would rather be accused of being a serial killer than a coward.

I hate myself for desiring that which makes me sick. I hate myself for choosing to be incarnated and live the life I did. I'd rather be somewhere else. Give me a horse and a sword and a woman to love me and I would be nice to her in ways beyond imagination. Or give me just a sword and nothing else. Just let me be. I don't want to be female anymore. Or if I am to be female please take me somewhere else. I can't stand those creatures who call themselves men anymore. They turn my guts.

[Funny to consider the fact my best friend is male and he's one of the four most respectful people I know. It is not men I have a problem with. It is not men that are twisted out of shape and suffer for it, but society as a whole.]

eYE cANdy

Today I feel artistic.

Truly artistic!

Chaos...

There is nothing wrong with chaos. Chaos is a natural state of things. Much more natural than the fake, strict order we strive to enforce. If we just left chaos alone to do its job, perhaps we would comprehend how open it is to new realities/actualities and how perfect in its apparent lack of order. But people fear that which they cannot control or understand.

I am pretty much a chaotic disciplinarian, if that makes sense. I fight tooth and claw to let go of control, often with comic results. Control what? Myself, my environment, others? What for? To feel safe? The only certainty is change. The only certainty is death, the transmutation of energy in its purest form, the thing you can bet your ass will happen. All the rest are possibilities, actualities waiting to be shaped. Why not ride the wave of reality and let it take you? If you let it, you might discover it unerringly takes you where your soul needed to be all along.

So many people bother with the occult because they want to satisfy their silly little mind games and power games. They gather knowledge for the sake of knowledge and learn by heart the three million names of god and the correspondences of all the planets with all the whatever, the secret names of stringless beans of another dimension. They throw in physics, math, ritualistic sacrifices, their bed sheets as garments, their period and various chemicals of dubious nature. They fuck, or they don't fuck, or yell their guts out to make their chakra vibrate. They invoke spirits, dissect frogs, bleed their eyes out over birth charts, eat nothing or their own shit or someone else's shit, imported directly from the Himalayas. OK, if that does it for you, I suppose my opinion is irrelevant, but can I ask you one persistent question? Just one? Why? Why do you go through all this trouble since you haven't done any actual work on your relationship with yourself? How can you possibly be sailing to discover the miracles of faraway lands and kill their monsters when you have your own house dirty, undiscovered and in ruins? When monsters lurk under your bed at night and you have no fucking dignity to admit to yourself you are going through all this trouble to feel powerful- and therefore safe? You can be master of the fucking universe for all I care, but PLEASE, for the love of whatever you hold sacred, admit to yourself you are as afraid now as you were when you started out on your journey. Don't admit it to me. Don't even say it out loud. Grow a fucking will and leave the spirit manipulation for later on. Learn not to take everything personally, learn to trust in yourself, stay out of other people's way and then bother with love spells. Try to grow some personality and break your idiotic patterns and then learn to grow homunculi, or inflict curses. First be human and we'll see about superhuman...

I am not saying I have accomplished these things myself. I have not. But at least I am not feigning ignorance; I know what my problem is and don't attribute it to outside forces, curses and opponents. The only target I have and the only thing I'm working on is myself. The outside will inevitably follow.

My beast is beautiful, my beast is gorgeous. And it loves me to its last breath...

Rest

[To see the light failing inside someone's eyes, to feel their breath faltering on your fingers, to hear their very last heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.]

There's a monster on the loose inside me and it cannot be comforted, no matter what. No blood can sate its hunger. No entrails can fill its gut. No fingers can caress its claws and no kiss can put it to sleep. It wanders all alone inside my head, crying out its anger and loneliness, its hurt, its frustration, its disgust. And it only wishes for the pain to go away though it is made from that very substance. It is on the loose again, dining with empty words, feeding on lies, living off anger and fear. Pregnant with possibilities.

Come and embrace me. Your claws will hurt me. Your fangs will draw blood from my shoulder. Your breath will make me sick. It is okay. Come and embrace me, rest in my arms. There is one place you can call home now and forever more. I love you. I love me. Now sleep.

[The entire winter sky is dying inside your eyes as your soul departs.]

I am angry.

I am angry because one of the people in my building is throwing away the courier notifications and two packets that I have ordered have arrived ten days now already and no-one told me. I am pissed off because I went against my personal code that more or less tells me to mind my own business and not interfere with other people's blogs and comments. In the aftermath, I feel I lost valuable time- and time is the only thing that cannot be replaced, bought or brought back. I am also pissed off because of a million other things- because of the person that calls herself my mother and she doesn't know how lucky she is I have not used a pillow to kill her in her sleep. I am raging mad at the fact people have a very sick idea of what human relationships should be like and consider this normal. I am hopping mad at the fact I have to deal with this really twisted way of viewing reality on a daily basis with everyone, save for four whom I consider actual friends. I am disappointed because I want to have more tattoos done and need to wait. I am disgusted by the fact some people consider a torrent of swearwords and flame the standard way of communication in internet, because they don't show their ugly mugs and don't use their real names, so it is safe to be insulting towards everyone else. I am even more mad at the ones who call themselves open-minded but the only humor they considered approved is their own. I am generally, totally officially and awfully ANGRY and know just the way to deal with it. I will listen to the two GazettE cds that arrived today a few more times and enjoy those pretty Japanese boys in action.

In other news, I am happy I have not yet succumbed to the sirens singing in my head to send a few people directly to their next incarnation. Because I am sure that if I want to, I can. Who will stop me? And it is not like they are offering something by being here, quite the contrary. But then again, the worst thing these people do to someone is turning them into a version of themselves. And I will serve no-one, not even my wrath. I will not change myself for their sake. I will not change myself for the sake of anyone but myself. I can see your faces, thinking, owww, the poor thing probably broke a nail and she wants to kill the manicurist. Hahaha- I wish. I wish my problems were of this kind. I wish I was one of those unthinking blobs of meat out there. I wish the pain would stop. But the pain never stops. I wish I could at least befriend it but it keeps biting me, the damn thing.

Interesting.

I think I have discovered a haunted place. I am not sure if this is the case but I don't really think there is any other way I can describe the feeling I got.

I went out for one of my usual night walks. I am always unafraid- perhaps I do not realise the possible danger I am in, walking the streets all alone after midnight. But the night winks at me and I wink back. I have never felt afraid that something might happen to me, on a physical level or otherwise. Yet as soon as I entered a particular street I felt afraid. I actually felt the beginning of disquiet before entering the street and this feeling of something not being right insisted throughout my walk in that street. I felt threatened. I kept looking around me, kept looking back, but there was no-one there. I first attributed my feeling of discomfort to the fact there are not many streetlights in that particular place. The darkness is insistent. Some of the lights are not working and there are not enough to begin with. Not many buildings either. Some older houses, some neglected spaces. But that was not the reason for my discomfort. I am used to the darkness. It is no more than a passing thought usually while I am busy with my walking and soul searching at the same time. I am only careful not to knock my head against the lampposts because I'm so damn absentminded that I could be walking through every wall in my area without understanding why the buildings collapse after my passing. Anyway, have you ever felt that someone is eyeing you in the absolutely wrong way? The kind of intense attention that it is the prelude of violence? That was the feeling I got that night. That someone was staring at me and waiting for the right moment to jump at me and... well. Not give me flowers.

The sense of danger kept bugging me even after leaving that street. I did my tricks, called upon my hidden aces and yet whatever had spotted me seemed to be following me for a while. Then it left me alone. Of course I could not see or hear anything, but knew I had ruffled the feathers of the wrong something in there. Now I seriously consider returning there to look for more details, but I'm so organised, insisted and interested-NOT. Besides I have enough material in my life to already win the title of a surreal circus of supernatural without adding a single pinch of anything.

Don't let me go to Japan!

I am serious. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what it will take, but ban me from that country. And while you're at it, ban me from eBay as well.

Just imagine me there. Or rather don't. A sex-starved, androgynous beauty devotee western girl unleashed on the streets of Japan. Like Krakatoa, a Mongolian riding excursion and a banquet sponsored by Viagra and Dionysus rolled in one and interrupted by deafening farting sounds. I get excited just by thinking about it. I'm sure I will somehow spot Gackt. Or Uruha. I will sniff them. I will use my bionic super senses, trained to locate all hairless males with arms slimmer than mine and promising lips in a hundred mile radius. I bet they smell like cotton candy, hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla and cat fur. I will locate them and the entire police force of Japan won't be able to open my jaws, firmly secured around Gackt's underwear (with Gackt still wearing it and struggling in vain, of course). They will lose so much manpower trying to get close and being repelled by a mysterious poisonous gas that makes even gas masks melt that they'll decide to let me have him and that will be the end of it (and him). I will drag him unconscious to my lair and lick him till he has no bodily hair left, not even eyebrows. Mmm, sweet-smelling flesh, stupidity and obligation free. He can wail and scream as much as he wants, I don't speak his language. I will then raid every shop that sells those fantabulous clothes I can't buy from here, unless I sell my entire mother and one of my kidneys to the organ market. And finally, I will leave Japan with three hundred suitcases, at least fifty of  which will be delivered to FedSex (see post: advertisement) because they'll contain nekkid Japanese boy-toys (although Gackt is over thirty five). I will declare those at customs as "bedroom decoration articles/other".

Seriously. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what I'm capable of, but I'm sure I will find out on the spot. Someone must declare Japanese visual kei artists as endangered species and post my photo as the natural predator of the species before it's too late! Act now to prevent disaster from happening! You have been forewarned...

Like beating a cat with a bagpipe.

Talking about bagpipes... I don't know what kind of wrong food combination I've made today, but the results are spectacular, to say the least. Watching people's faces around you blistering, melting and falling off because of a single fart can only be described as spectacular, right? Then again, girls are not supposed to be capable of farting. Yeah, right. I bet that when I meet the man of my dreams he won't believe that someone as sweet and endearing as I am is capable of producing such nasty results by the simple procedure of processing food. Well guess again- this woman is an exception. She hides a nuclear waste unit inside her ass to match the brothel inside her head. Even worse, if he has the romantic idea to sleep by my side at nighttime, he's as good as dead. I mean, save for the fact I toss and kick like I'm struggling against the armies of Darth Vader, what about my food byproducts? I do have an idea what I'm capable of when I'm awake and have some control over what's going on (or should I say, what comes out?). I'm sure that when I finally fall asleep and let go of control fully, I am transformed into a one (wo)man orchestra, with my ass performing all kinds of sounds, from strings to percussion. I'm serious. Imagine that in the morning, the first thing I do when I wake up after a particularly productive night is pick up my cat that sleeps next to me and shake him, to make sure he's still alive. If I do the same to that future boyfriend, his head will probably come off, together with the arms from their sockets.

[This one is for Danie- she knows how to make me smile.]

Fun with our friends the Japanese.

Okay, by now I have a LOT of magazines and books on Gackt, an eerily beautiful and feminine Japanese singer, style somewhere between pop and rock. I also have quite a number of magazines on The GazettE, a band featuring the gorgeous guitarist Uruha, the rest of the band vary from attractive to very attractive. I had never bothered listening to any of their songs; I had been too busy burning my brains with Gackt's songs. And since pop music is not my forte, I could not really listen to it for long without my toes involuntarily curling and my liquidised brain cells dripping from my nose. Then I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to investigate The GazettE in more depth. Like an idiot I typed the name in youtube and waited to listen to something mellow, rock-pop, you know. They are all girly gorgeous and wear clothes that look like a crossover between dresses and glam rock suits with silk, velvet and studs, long lace gloves and garters an added bonus. How hard do you expect the band to be with this image? So I heard the normal intro of the song and relaxed, and suddenly my poor ears were attacked by an all guns blazing succession of growls from the singer and metal riff outbursts like machine guns from both guitarists. I paused and stared at the screen, with a stupid expression on my face. *blink blink* WTF?!? I looked at my bottle of chocolate milk with the same moronic expression, wondering what the fuck was wrong with my ears or perhaps if someone had slipped something in my drink. But The GazettE went on with all their members merrily headbanging their napes away and I actually liked what I was listening to, since the basic genre I love IS metal. So yes, the next thing that came to mind was Slayer members dressed like The GazettE and that was the end of my sanity. xD

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[Rachael, half credit goes to you- I hope you will find this funny!]

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.