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I live a secret life.

Perhaps after a fashion everyone does.

I live two different lives.

One is what is expected. A boring succession of working hours followed by sleep, food and chores. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The second life is not separate or easily distinguished. It's a sudden flash of knowledge while I converse. A dream that is the last thing I remember from last night's (mis)adventures. Or a surge of energy leaving or entering my body without warning.

Suddenly words become landscapes and people are not what they seem at all.

I live two lives at once.

In one life I am nobody. In the second, I'm everything I never thought I'd be.

I sing and weave spells in between selling cigarettes and shutting my ears with both hands because the traffic is deafening.

I try and succeed in being invisible.

I am a supernova made flesh.

I speak but share no actual information.

I keep my mouth shut and let my body be cradled in the arms of the most unlikely lovers.

I hide in plain view though I speak my mind loud and clear.

The things I have experienced in the past two years are far from preposterous. They are insane and as valid as they can be.

Myth becomes reality, religion propaganda.

The fabric of reality is woven by delicate spiderweb.

Treat lightly, lest you are revealed, a little voice whispers.

But they cannot see what they do not believe in... Even if it's right there under their nose. Don't you just love this?

PS Digging up dirt as per usual. Another old story surfacing soon. More tears probably, but what the hell. Out of the way. Away with you. I have work to do and these past stories just won't let me. I get irritated!

PPS Hahaha, let's place a bet. Do you know how to make love? My money goes to the "you know how to fuck" option. Let's see what can be done about this, shall we? You have a lovely face anyway and the rest of you is just as beautiful. It won't exactly be a sacrifice on my behalf.

PPPS: Confused? You should be.

A part of a long talk...

 [Picture: Uruha, guitarist of the Gazette.]

"...because I honestly believe I will still remember, I will know to the full extent how wrong it will be. But what the heart knows and what the mind knows are very, very different things. And the heart and the mind can never reach an agreement between them. They take up swords and attack each other mercilessly. They hack and slash and they only stop when they are exhausted, when they are too weary to even raise a finger. Only then do they stop, and the heart goes somewhere quiet to cry itself to sleep, and so does the mind, it goes somewhere quiet to wallow in its pain. And the distance is never, ever, ever bridged between them. 

The names that we whisper in our sleep is something only the deepest wounds of the heart know and echo even when the mind has mercifully forgotten, and the heart cries till it has no tears left and it only whispers one thing, why, why, why didn't you try a little harder, you were almost there, like Orpheus when he turned the very last moment and looked and Eurydice just flew away from the tips his fingers. Why, why, all you had to do was change, and you were so close, and I will never again love someone as much as I have loved you, and all you had to do is take that single step and fall into my embrace. I would not let you. I would hold you! I would hold you. Just one single step. 

And the mind, hidden in his own little hell replies, he did not want to, and it is a matter of free will. There is nothing you can do. And the heart ululates and shudders and sobs and says, it was only one step, one more step, and I would have caught him. And the mind replies, it was one second. One more second. All it would take would be one more second. And the heart replies, I know, I know, and I will never again love someone as much as I loved him, doesn't he see this? Doesn't he see what he did? And the mind replies, still, you cannot go back now. The choices were made. 

And then the heart screams like an animal dropped in acid and flame, it screeches to the heavens and all the way down to hell, and it cries like a banshee gone mad because it knows it's true. The heart knows the truth even when the mind is deceived. And its maddened screams are loud enough to cover the mind's silent sobs as it cries in the corner of its own jail.

They both cry in their cells and their sobs are united but the distance between them is never, ever bridged."

Discovered!

With the help of my dear friend K., the table Nuare fucks (previous post) is finally discovered!

Happy new year everyone! :-D

Vampire Hunter D

I am presently reading the Vampire Hunter D series of books. I have five of them.

I am pissed off with the series.

When I read the first book I had been left speechless. The book combined hack and slash with a fantastic setting in the far off future. There are spaceships and laser cannons and at the same time people travel on horseback and fight with vampires and werewolves. There is a very interesting basic character, D, who sports outrageously good looks and is about as involved with other humans as the moon is involved with your average bus. He merely shines his grace on them. And that's about it. Now, having the kind of father I had and all the lovely traumas and confused childhood years I had, it was inevitable that I would be immediately smitten with D and would want to read about him. And the first book was very good. But then I read the second, and the third, and then the sixth and tenth. And in the tenth book the basic character is still as evolved as it was in the first. He never mingles with humans. Never uses the bathroom. Never masturbates or fucks or shows even a glimpse of interest in anything else than "flying like a mystical bird through the air" and slashing everything around him in bloody confetti.

And I got really annoyed and bored with the series.

In my stories I have Nuare. Nuare is similar to D in some ways. But he fucks. In fact he would have fucked just about anything that caught his fancy. Even a wooden table with three legs and a vase with flowers on it. I swear. He cannot fuck anything he wants but when he does fuck there is enough detail in there to make the reader sidestep to avoid a flying ribbon of spank that is coming through the page and seems to be aiming at their eye. (I swear this is accidental, by the way.) It just happens that any realistic character will have some sort of sexual life at some point if it is a humanoid being. Right? And if not sexual life he will have friends. Some kind of emotional involvement with SOMEONE, for the sake of fuck.

But no. D "flies like a mystical bird through the air". Of course. How stupid of me. That should be enough.

Give me five years. That's all I am asking for. And they will all eat my dust. That, or I'll find a way to slip half a dozen viagra in D's goblet of wine and make him show me his other bird. Not the mystical. The one hidden inside his trousers.

"And there was much rejoice".

Monty Python

We are the raven-haired and live grave-deep.

 

Music: Amber Asylum: The natural philosophy of love.

It happens with pictures.

You see a picture of something or someone you desire. It reminds you where you are and in an indirect manner, points out the fact you are nowhere near home or where you wanted to be anyway.

It is always funny considering the contrast: where you would like to be and where you actually are. Where you are is where the universe figures you’re supposed to be. Not an arbitrary guess; after all, we are the ones who give feedback to the universe concerning our understanding of the situation and where we stand. Our thoughts and actions are a moment to moment report of our progress. Nobody can fake this report or brag about achievements they haven’t made. You can lie to other people, not to the night sky. Not to matter itself. Matter sings; atoms, quarks, every little bit of what we understand as reality around us SINGS. It vibrates and dances and sings and repeats the most beautiful phrase ever:

Live and learn.

I seem to never learn. Because even though I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be, I still wish I was somewhere else.

It all passes so quickly.

[There is no such thing as time.]

It all hurts so much.

[There is no such thing as actual gain and actual loss.]

I so wish I was somewhere else.

[Yes, but demons, if found within, they travel with you.]

I can outsmart myself quite easily.

Yet feelings pour out like an ocean; unchecked, roaring, wild.

Rationalize what? Desire? Sorrow? Anger? Tears? Why even bother?

Why do we shed tears when nothing has entered our eyes? What do we try to wash out with the salty essence of experience? Perhaps our fear of death?

But Lilith.

They desecrated your garden, oh Wild one.

They desecrated your holy vagina.

They trapped you in human flesh.

They gave you a human name and a human destiny.

They took your orgasms away, oh Holy one.

They took your memories, your children and your lovers.

They gave you time in exchange for all those.

They birthed and condemned you into darkness eternal.

They seek to put your light out forever oh Wise one.

What will you do?

Nothing. It’s what I chose. I’ll ride the wave, see where it takes me, said the Wise one.

But is it what you wanted?

In the garden of No choices I’ll carve my name with blood and flame and screams, said the Wild one. Till the walls are torn down and tyrants are brought to heel.

And if this fails?

Well, I’ll just find another way. Because, after all, we are only as big as our dreams and aspirations, said the Holy one.

In the garden of earthly delights let me accept my burden, in the garden of my womb let there be Time, born again through me.

There is no such thing as time.

Live and learn.

Live and love and learn.

Nothing can stop me.

(Special thanks to Moonspell, Neil Gaiman and T. for inspiration and quotes...)

Raindrops

If I could make you understand. Just for one moment.

What it means to love.

So banal.

Taken for granted.

So much ink and saliva spent on what seems a chameleon of a subject.

If only.

If I could make you understand for the fraction of a second what it means to dread losing the one you love.

If I could make you for the fraction of a second vibrate like a chord touched by human fingers.

Resonate like a whale's song.

If you could open up and see.

No colours.

No names.

No countries.

The eyes of a child.

They all cry the same.

They all need the same things.

If I had the power to offer you a glimpse of what my heart ungrudgingly holds secret and rocks to sleep to keep me sane.

Now I know what my soul knew from the start. We'll never meet.

In your endless mercy you have provided. Caring for me, you tried to find a replacement.

In your endless sadness you dive inside the Heart.

The Heart holds you.

Like a child.

Judgement Day

And then comes one day that you want to turn Angel Safari into a national pastime. Hunt the fuckers. Raid the Elysian fields or aetheric levels or whatever place they live in, sleep and tan their gorgeous bodies while gracefully sipping mojitos or whatever shit they drink. Pluck their feathers out with pliers. Take a plane and fly over them while they snore peacefully and throw them anvils and safes to flatten them in their sleep. Paint them with black nail polish. Chase them with a flame thrower. Throw them big cactuses with the entire clay pot attached while they merrily chase each other in the ever green fields of the paradise. Next time I am introduced to one of those lazy motherfuckers, I will kung fu their brains out of their skulls. Yeah right, why EVEN TRY to bother with the earthly shit? Oh noooooo, THEY are TOO IMPORTANT to bother. It doesn't matter that this plane of existence has turned into a demo version of hell. Oh nooo, it is not their fault, you see there is this thing called FREE WILL, and since that thing exists, well, THEY CAN'T do anything, it is not their RESPONSIBILITY. You see, there are RULES.

I will rule your ass out of existence you shitstained pieces of feathered ego, you Pharisees of heavens! You bloody scum! Handing over your powers to the exactly wrong kind of humans without caring as long as you will not bother with us lowly mortals, with those oh-so-unimportant mortal affairs. You see we're flesh and blood, too disgusting for your divine hands and standards. When you fucked mortal women they were good enough. Now there is no fucking involved so you can't really bother with the rest of us, can you? Oh no. Too much work and a very dirty job. Too much trouble. A whole fucking planet turned into purgatory and billiors of souls screaming in misery and despair every single day of their lives and you can't move a finger to help. No no no. You are safe where you are. Why bother?

You miserable, arrogant, pretentious pieces of crap. You fucking hypocrites. YOU LOWLY, COWARDLY SCUM. If you cared, really cared, if you indeed served the Creator you claim you serve you'd be too ashamed to show your fucking faces. The brave ones of you have taken the dive in flesh and live amongst the mortals, suffering just like any other human. Being oppressed, victimised, raped, scorned and used like asswipes by mortals and immortals alike. Behold the wonder of existence and what it has turned into. I hope you are proud of yourselves. This is your responsibility as much as anyone else's. When you see a crime committed and you do nothing to stop it, you are as much a criminal as the one commiting it. Hail to the entire angelic race! As above so below; as below, so above. Go fuck yourselves and see if you multiply. Douchebags!

PS I swear, the next forty something American lady/healer with the serene, all knowing smile and the catchy New Age vocabulary I come across in the net, "channelling messages" from this or that or the other Archangel or Teacher or entity, I'll track her down and fuck her up the ass until she recites the entire Greek alphabet backwards.

Treasure chest

[picture: Shinya in action, the fantastic drummer of Dir en Grey]

I went through my usual summer cleaning binge. I threw away stuff, recycled old magazines, gave books and items to friends or charity, recycled old letters from people I no longer am in contact with. Suddenly, while being amidst a mountain of torn paper I stopped fully, because I found a small pile of letters. They were the letters my fictional characters had written to the characters of another lady. We intended to write stories together but this never happened as she was ill and we eventually lost contact fully. But the letters were there; I had kept copies. First letter I came across was the one gentle Sergios had written to one of her vampire characters. I paused and re-read it.

It is hard for another person to understand why a writer may feel the way they do about a particular character. After all they are not real, right? But Sergios is or rather was me. All my characters are pieces of my personality, facades of what I am, was or could be. And as such I love them more than I love my own two hands. My hands will wither and rot one day, but my characters are immortal; they are the closest thing I have to a soul.

I stood for a while. Remembered all the things I know about my dear Sergios. Felt very depressed because he belongs to a different story line and the copyrights for that world belong to a company, so I can never have anything published. I wallowed in my misery for a little while and eventually scolded myself because I once more remembered what any serious magic practitioner of magic (and anyone familiar with the fundamentals of physics) must not forget: energy is NEVER lost. It changes form but never vanishes. The solution had been there all along: I slapped my forehead and concentrated, then called upon the Liberating One and handed them all to Him. There you go, these are my creations, the closest thing I have to a legacy. Take the old characters, the undeveloped stories, all those "what ifs" that will never take place in any world and return them all to the Heart, the Creator/Creatrix. Let Him/Her have it all back. They were once born in dreams, I now return them all to the Womb of dreams to be transmuted and reborn and returned to me to a new form. He naturally was only too happy to do this, and I was not happy at all (because I am such a insecure, sentimental sucker) but felt released. I bet that if a child was looking at the sky that night they would see this flock of multicoloured pegasi passing by and vanishing in the black horizon...

Ahhh, what the hell. Some things are never meant to be. Back to my boring life of blowing up reality, snuggling with Archangels, scratching Yahweh's face because he kept bugging me and showing me his hurt nail, slapping the asses of Japanese rock superstars silly because they won't let me be, fondling the Babylon whore and lending her money and getting into the pants of my female email pals in dragon form during my sleep. Now, if only I could figure out a way to win half a million euro, it would simplify my life a lot but spare me none of the drama.

Reminiscence

Photo: Die, the excellent guitarist of Dir en Grey.

I am once more working like crazy, finding myself home around eleven at night the earliest. Consequently there is not much I can do concerning my emails or my blog. Hopefully beginning next week I will start working less hours again. Which could be good. Should be good. But unless I leave my present job, less hours is pretty much like using aspirin to treat a cancer patient. :-)

My life course twists and turns unexpectedly, my comprehension of reality constantly changes, my battles never seem to end and more than anything else, what makes me sad is that experiences cannot be communicated. All my knowledge and experiences, no matter how much I wish to use them to help other people, cannot be used. Others can perhaps understand but not comprehend and benefit from it. Experience is not a "one size fits all" achievement. And one day that I'll be gone everything will be gone with me, like the funerals of ancient times or the gypsies of today: burying the dead with their jewellery. That alone should make each of us try to live to the fullest, in order to be buried like kings and queens; take with us the treasures of a full life. Memories, colours, sounds, tastes.

When the singers we love die, they take their treasures with them. Their voice. And modern day equipment has allowed us to listen to the same songs again and again; in older times, if you were lucky enough to listen to an exceptional voice it was an one time occurrence, a rare treasure only you had in your possession.

Technology has made us forget to treasure the moment.

Photographs and videos and CDs cannot be treasured. They are but ghosts of what took place. They serve to remind us, but a slothful mind and a shallow heart cannot be urged to remember if they have lost interest to begin with.

Please try to understand how important and valuable every day of your life is.

Please try to live it to the fullest.

Please try to realise how important you are to yourself and others.

A true treasure collector.

Facebook

Home sleeping. This is what I should be doing right now. But I am not. What comfort can sleep offer to a restless mind? Rhetorical question.

Many people are bugging me to get in Facebook in order to be in contact and chat with them. But I don't want to be in contact 24/7. Even if I had the time, I don't want people to see my photos. I can't bother to take photos of myself in swimming suit and full makeup to acquire more "friends". I don't want all my ex boyfriends to know who, and if I am fucking someone presently. I have no desire to meet new people or meet friends from the old. If they were meant to be my friends still, then they would be my friends, here and now. I don't want to meet my friends from school. I had none most of the time. I still at this age see nightmares about being in school and wake up gasping for breath. I was 15 and reading Lovecraft, listening to metal music and loved vampires. No-one considered me normal or trendy enough to be friends with me. Why would I want to meet again all those who made fun of what they could not understand? To be asked if I am working in a highly paid job, have two kids and a husband? Do I owe them, or anyone else an answer? What I do is my personal business. Even if I work as a prostitute, sniff coke and pluck my toenails out with pliers, I owe no-one explanations.

God/dess dammit, I still read Lovecraft and listen to metal music and love vampires.

I don't want to be part of any team of people. I am a very private person. I don't want to have to deal with the politics, cliques and whatnots of any group of people. Yes, I feel lonely. But my loneliness has to do with mortality, with the fact I am one separate entity cursed and blessed with the isolation and confines of one single mind. I have no delusions about "being understood" by others. We all filter reality through the personality we have developed, which is mostly a result of our experiences. Even identical twins who have grown together have different personalities, though they see their own reflection every time they look at the other twin. Even identical twins at the end of the day are alone.

No, I don't think that Facebook can make my loneliness go away. I don't think that watching photos of abs and nearly exposed breasts has any insight to add to my understanding of reality. I don't want to talk with "like-minded others" (read between the lines: they listen to the same music or read the same books, but what about the way they treat actual people?) and I don't think what I am in need of is more friends. Perhaps I am unfair towards those people who use Facebook and enjoy themselves and indeed find what they're looking for. But obviously I am not looking for the same things.

Here and there.

It could be funny. Mindlessness is an art I excel at lately. I spend money to avoid thinking. I buy myself magazines with Japanese rock stars, CDs, cute stationery; what most men would call cute pink crap. I look at pink frilly little designs. The child inside me, cornered, frustrated, sad beyond words, for a moment sighs with relief. A small pink breath for her and I wish, I wish I could connect with her again and tell her it's going to be fine. I don't dare connect because then I will cry non- stop for everything, for all the things that life has turned me into, for all the things I wished I would be and never came to be, for all those moments I fail to face the world with an open heart and my eyes filled with innocence and thirst. Like she would.

I am so sorry sweetheart. I am so sorry for the things that have happened to you and for the pain you had to go through. I am also sorry for the times you will be disappointed in the future, because, you know, that's human nature.

But that's not how it was supposed to be.

It's not.

I wish I could tell her it's all going to be fine and believe it myself.

I wish I did not have to cry in the middle of the fucking net cafe like a goddamn idiot.

She doesn't want kawaii stationery. She wants to be loved.

She is lonely and scared and wants someone to hold her.

I am so very sorry sweetheart.

So very sorry.

Odds and ends

"Where is our fortunate future? When does our fortunate future come?"

*I love the night. I love to take long walks during the small hours. However, were I to live in darkness for the rest of my life, unless my eyesight became nocturnal too, I would miss the colours of nature very much...

*I find it hard to sleep on my back. Then again, tiredness works miracles.

*My sense of hearing and smell have become more acute lately. It does not work to my advantage.

*Most of the time I am certain I am invisible. When I receive compliments by men, I feel immediately alarmed. I am sure they have something bad in mind.

*When I start conversing, actually conversing with people, they either irritate me, disgust me, or both.

"For all that is worth/ the blood on my hands/ is the blood of divinities."

*In my happiest moments I have always been alone. I don't think this will change no matter what happens. The purest contentment is always found inside one's own self. I have recently come to the conclusion that happiness while being with others presupposes a rather naive mind. I've recently also come to the conclusion I am very damaged.

*Beautiful images attack all my senses to the point of actual physical pain.

*I use music the same way others use class A drugs.

*I don't like being touched, hugged, fondled or petted for more than ten seconds at a time, any time.

"I will scream as much as I want and if my voice dies, then let my voice die."

*I can't sleep unless I have a pillow between my legs. Failing to find that extra pillow, I place both hands, a jacket, or anything else I can find.

*I think humans go contrary to nature in a million different ways. The concept of females beautifying themselves is alien to nature; in all cases, the male has to be beautiful and make highly ritualistic approaches for the female to choose him.

* In the blowing of the wind I hear the trees chatter away and share secrets. I wish I could understand what they say.

*I'll always regret not becoming chaos in its most refined, unstoppable form. I'll always regret not leaving behind me a trail of corpses. I'll never, never stop hungering for destruction. All behind the perfect mask.

"Your scars, my love, show me your scars... What a delicate pattern they must dance across your heart..."

*I sometimes marvel at the ease with which people trust. The human body is so fragile, and yet with how much eagerness they entrust it to perfect strangers. Look at me. An utterly inconspicuous nobody. So simple to take someone home. So easy to get on top of a brain dead, excited male. The wall next to bed. My hand on his head. One sudden, decisive push. I am strong. The blunt item in my hand as he is shocked and dizzy. End of game. Only trouble, getting rid of the body. Could I live with myself afterwards? How many times a day do I step on an insect and don't even realise it? What is the difference between the average human and a cockroach? The fact they plead once they realise what's going on? Perhaps cockroaches plead too, if we could hear them. And girls... Girls look so pretty when they're scared out of their wits. Big eyes. Tender big eyes and lovely soft parts on their bodies. I could be the woman you ogle at a bar. I could be someone you have known for the past five years and have never ever given you reason to doubt or suspect me. I am the woman some of you have known for years and you don't doubt or suspect me. How can you know the kind of strange flowers that take root and bloom in my garden? You can't.

"In the dark morning I hear you whisper goodbye. Love me. Abandon hope."

*There are days I see those women in their sixties or seventies, with dead eyes and dead souls. They have nothing to look forward to and nothing good to recall. Becoming one of them is my greatest nightmare.

*Sometimes, the greatest act of heroism is to keep on living.

Wandering

...aimlessly. From one stupid site to the next.

Checking mails. No. Nothing of value in my mailbox.

Ebay. I don't want to buy anything, thank you.

It all looks tempting, but empty.

Blog. What the hell am I doing here anyway?

What is it that I'm supposed to find and I can't?

Where is the link I am looking for?

Perhaps I ought to be asleep already.

My dreams are much more interesting.

If only I could remember them.