Not funny.

The DVD in which I saved all my data before my laptop died cannot be read by any PC. I still have some of those things in other CDs, but unless I manage to somehow retrieve the data from the DVD, a lot of things are lost forever. Perhaps I should leave my past behind. A pity.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Music: System of a Down: Toxicity.

If I was my character, Dorian, I would have gone out hunting. The night is deliciously cold and crisp and it smells like winter. The air has a razor quality that cuts through clothes and freezes the face, but in a pleasant way. And the sky is such a dark blue that puts any fabric to shame.

If I were Dorian I would be walking out nearly invisible, looking for the one to kill, the one to quench my thirst. Not for blood. For sky. Killing is one more way of deifying one's self. However Dorian is a vampire, and that's a handy excuse for killing. A vampire is no longer human. It does not obey to the same laws a human does. A wolf is only expected to kill, after all. And we have lost the archetype of the hunter long ago. Or perhaps upon returning to the collective and diving back inside, it emerged as the vampire this time. The urban figure of the dangerous, alluring stranger. But I am straying from my original thought. And my original thought is related to killing.

My dark side is having a party. It is okay. I invited all my demons out to get to know them better. They talk to me, and the things they say are more than just tempting... They are delicious. That's probably the reason I will never understand vegans. Killing is a sacred act. Killing is not alien to our nature. I suspect that people would have a much better relationship with death and loss if we still had to catch and kill our own food. And as for all those people freaking out at the mere thought of taking advantage of someone innocent, there is nothing more tempting than the destruction of innocence. That's natural to us too, and only cowards would deny its pull.

I need to voice out my darkest callings. I need to let them roam free inside my head, or else I will burst. If thoughts were a crime, we would all be behind bars or in padded cells. Yes, I would love to kill, or scare someone witless. Yes, I would love to take something beautiful and destroy it utterly. And I would certainly pick the most beautiful and charismatic I could find from the human crowds, and also find them at an age I would be able to work on them as if they were clay. No, I would not kill them. I would turn their world view upside down and make them like me. I would make them worship their egos as the only god that exists in this sad age. I would create little viruses like myself and I would unleash them. And through the opposition I would only serve my part of the plan. Sad, isn't it? In all our glory and creativity, and though possessing the strongest weapon that exists -the human mind- we can only serve one of the two basic urges: love and death. Sex and power. We cannot escape our glands and genitals. We cannot think of something beyond that, and even if we can, human language cannot pinpoint it or describe it. Lovecraft tried to second guess alien gods. Arthur Miller and Arthur Machen tried to hint of Iago, to describe pure evil. The anti-saint. And all the average human can think of is money and pleasure. Sad.

At nights like this one I am happy. Content with the taste of winter on my lips and the sense of wild joy in my heart. As if I am the one leading the hunt, and there is a strong horse between my thighs and miles of snow-covered forest ahead of me, with no sign of humans anywhere, with no human city to be encountered ahead of me. Because they don't exist yet. I am happy to look at the night sky and watch my breath crystallise. I am fulfilled.

Olivier Theyskens.

Scraping the bottom of the barrel. That's what it feels like anyway. But the barrel is situated in the middle of hell, godsdammit. And it just gets worse with every passing day. I need to blow off some steam, but whenever I try to think of a suitable way, suddenly the possibility of jumping off the rooftop seems to fit the description perfectly. NOT the best way, I try to convince myself. Who's going to amaze the rest of the world with vampire soap operas if you jump off now? C'mon, you didn't do it when things were at the worst, you won't do it now, will you? Please my girl, don't think about it.

Yeah, right.

Myself: Magic words: Olivier Theyskens, Olivier Theyskens, Olivier Theyskens. Think of Olivier Theyskens. Think of sweet Olivier, feminine Olivier, talented, sensitive, intelligent, probably gay as pink hell Olivier.

Me: Yeah,OK. I am thinking of him. If I were a guy I would have an erection the size of Eiffel Tower. What now?

Myself: Are your nipples hard?

Me: Yes, they... HEY! What the hell is your fucking problem? What is it to you?

Myself: See? you are not REALLY suicidal. Otherwise you would not get wet, would you now?

Me: I have the terrible suspicion that the real reason I like him so much is that he looks like a bearded woman. And me, in particular. He looks like a bearded me. Unsettling.

Myself: NO, the really unsettling thing is that your actual problem is that you are not a guy so that you can have hot gay sex. With teenage elves. And that you secretly desire black panthers and imagine yourself in a perfect world where men would be humanoid felines. And you would have a harem of them, one of each feline species. Or that's the idea anyway.

Me: We all have our vices. Mmm... Olivier... I think I see what you are talking about. Yes. Tied up. And gagged. Certainly. I won't be able to maintain my state of mind if he starts calling me names in French. I will giggle non-stop. There goes my formidable dominatrix attitude. And my appetite.

Myself: And if he likes men?

Me: Not a problem. I will hire some help. As long as I can watch.

Myself: You need help.

Me: Yes, I know. I am crap at organising kidnappings. Anyone knows how to do that?

My sweet tooth

Once there was a wisdom tooth that like most teeth resided inside a mouth. That mouth happened to be a dirty mouth accompanying a mind just as dirty; my own. Then the poor tooth died and the good dentist plucked it out. Now there is a hole at the back of the dirty mouth, and I am irritated as fuck. This has not stopped me from taking my regular amount of chocolate; about two per day. I need to sniff one of my cats sooon. It helps.

Partying my nights away.

A recent party at Bios. Cosplay (or costume-play, for those not really accustomed with the term) is the ideal chance to wear outrageous articles of clothing without having to apologise. I was dressed at the party. For more people and pictures, check http://easysubjugation.blogspot.gr/2007/11/cosplay-pictures-round-2.html. I tried my own version of madame Batolli from the manga Under The Glass Moon. A widow and a witch, heheheh...

The aftermath

What bugs me lately is that in order to decipher, unravel, make sense of something one must be a dispassionate observer. BUT. That's exactly my problem as of late. I feel too much of an observer. I feel totally disengaged with life. Things are happening and I don't give a damn. People die, animals die, and I am blissfully detached. On the contrary, I read about a character in a comic book suffering and I cry. It's fucking tragic, crying for paper people and not crying about my father who died. It's tragic cause he turned himself into a total stranger, and I had to build a fortress to keep him out and never let him hurt me again, and I don't have a single happy memory from him. Even now, in his last days, I stood by his side and let him feel loved and safe, but I never opened the door of my heart to him again. The door does not open anymore, a wall has sealed it off, and I can't pull the wall down for anyone, anymore. It's tragic cause I am turning into a total wacko and feel pity for those people and things inside my head (and other people's heads) and not those around me. It truly makes me worry. Perhaps I should not worry, but I feel I am turning into a walking statue. I feel I am losing my connection to real life. And what is real life, exactly? That sanitised, joyless version of working like a slave and your every surprise being predetermined, your every choice and encounter controlled? Is it any wonder that I sympathise more with heroes from books and comics?

I want to give a few kicks to a few asses, but haven't discovered the people these asses belong to. YET.

In la-la land.

My father is alive, though far from ok. So are we. Alive, but far from ok. La-la-la...

Bad news

My father has a generous bout of pneumonia. I don't think he'll live.

Wee-ha!

Surrealism still rules.

My father is in a very weird condition. He tries to prove to us that he is still fine and perfectly capable of going around without any problems, so keeps getting up (and falling down). We tried everything, from sweet talking to reasoning and even treats. He just won’t listen. Every now and then I can hear him getting up, then after a few moments the tell tale sound of him falling down. He is covered in bruises and abrasions, but won’t listen to reason. So I let him get up and then fall down again, since my lower back is killing me and the only alternative I have is tying him up to bed somehow. I am nearly thirty, a bit late now to start BDSM/ incest sessions with my father. However, there are moments I want to throttle him, I swear. In such a case I leave the room fuming, or God/dess knows what I’ll do. 

On a happier note, I am not working for these past days, and I have been constantly filling envelopes with things and posting them. The pile keeps getting smaller. Earlier on my father was asking me for his scales, and he meant his cane. Another day he wanted something else, I think the TV remote and he kept pestering me to give him the electric heater. It takes a lot of patience not to smack him unconscious sometimes… He is honestly THE most stubborn person I know, and needless to say, he still pisses himself, and the washing machine is working night and day. My mother is a heroine, but I don’t want heroic status. I want my quiet. Unless there is some sort of payback soon, I’ll kill him and spend the rest of my time behind bars. Now he is asking me to buy him a bicycle.

Sick and tired.

It seems that every person who has contacted me lately seems intent on one single very particular thing: busting my balls. It's also interesting to see how they do it. Whenever they talk to me, all their insecurities go in full tilt and they just have to let me know how wrong I am. They begin by projecting all their personal behavioral patterns onto my entity. If they are mind numbingly stuck onto specific notions, they accuse me of small mindedness. If they are the type to lose their patience if someone does not immediately fulfill their wishes, I am the one who's unreliable and hypocritical. If they are scared of me because I am too much, I immediately "become" too picky and fascistic in my approach to things. None of these people know me. None makes an effort to get to know me; they just assume. No questions, no discussion. I am the poison of their status quo, the worm inside their golden apples of perfection. Therefore, I have to be squashed. They proceed to attack this entity that they see in my place in order to purge themselves of all the crap they carry within, they demonise me because they don't have the guts to see that I only mirror what is happening inside their own minds. I am the outside manifestation of their inner issues. And they try, oh how hard they try to insult and belittle me and make me sorry. Well. Human nature, I suppose. Sing on, my dear ones, sing on. I don't give a fuck about what you believe. You were the ones who approached me to begin with, I did not. Heee he he, and once they realise I am not another Spice-Girls-In-Reverse brainless scared little gothette/fashion victim, that can be easily manipulated and impressed, they rear like panicked cockroaches. I am not the one who needs attention or asks for contact. I write "Sorry no new pen pals" for a reason. To avoid the likes of you, dear open minded people. To avoid sixty pages of gossip or people who are pleasant only if someone pats their backs. So come to me all guns blazing, come to me full of insults and spit your poison. I care not. I know what I am. People attack if they feel threatened or cornered. If my being myself makes you so scared, if you can't take the heat, then STEP OUT OF THE FUCKING KITCHEN. I have a job to do and you only annoy me.

Krista, Beth, Carrie and the rest, thank you for embracing me wholly and without judging me. At least there are some people out there who have the guts to embrace difference, perhaps because it feels familiar...

Strange dreams

About dawn break. The ship approaching. Soon.

I am nettled by the feeling there are things just beyond my reach. Human beings, me included, are predictable and boring. We squabble about petty things: power, cosmic affluence, money, sex. There must surely be darker desires than this, there must surely be other pleasures, other ways to spend time. There must be something different than what the average human dreams about.

I am bored of myself. I need to rediscover myself. I feel mind-numbingly predictable. But I don't know how, I don't know what to do. I suppose I'll find out.

Heartache

Image: Yoshitaka Amano

 

This is a moment of happiness. Coffin: The art of Vampire Hunter D by Yoshitaka Amano is in my hands, a huge volume gathering all the fantastic works that Amano ever made on this hero. Words can't describe the feedback one gets through his creations, the longing to be somewhere else, to be someone else. For if our parents, religion, sexual preferences, place of origin, colour of skin and even sex mean nothing, what's left of us is our legacy. Or is it? Amano was hoping this art book to be part of his legacy. What is going to be mine? Friendship books? Old letters? Do actions matter at all? What people see, what people say about one, does it matter? When my ashes will be travelling the planet, will other people's opinion matter in the least?

We all exist to nourish God/dess

What kind of nourishment do I offer to Him/her?

True art makes me weak, and don't get me started on what true art is. Just remember those times you ceased to breathe in front of a work of art. There, that's true art for you.

Biological warfare…

Second heat wave in Athens. My house looks like a bomb fell in, but the type of bomb that kills only cats. No matter where one looks, there are cats lying flat on their backs, sprawled like butter onto the floor, four legs stuck in the air and slowly turning into pools of hairy goo. It is a disaster of biblical proportions: so many tummies to rub, so little time.