Some people are clutching at straws to make sense of what's going on. I am clutching at pieces of paper. My entire life is nothing but piles of paper, heaps of paper, castles of fucking paper.
I think it's time to strike a match and say to hell with it.
I am just too tired for words and yet words are what I have left. Words and cathairs as well as cats, the avid producers of the aforesaid hairs. Enthusiastic producers they are for certain. I'll give them that.
Fifteen years old, with a lovely voice. Raped, killed and thrown down the cliff. The razor straight, almost vertical cliffs of beautiful Ireland, going down to the pounding sea.
Less than thirty. Slowly executed in a concentration camp, the kind of living death when every day you are stripped naked of everything that makes you human. It was a crime to be of gypsy blood. Seventy years later, it still is a crime.
Twenty three years old. Killed by her abusive, drunkard husband for having an affair. What's new?
The thoughts and stories and little lives circle me tonight, circle me resembling large goldfish, dragonfish, orange and green and golden, and they want a piece of me.
Have a piece. It's useless anyway. I am living a pretty much pointless life. It does not make much difference one way or the other. It's Zen, baby. Zen to the rotten core. That apple is zen. My life is zen. I am so fucking zen that the great masters of Zen stand ashamed in front of me. They slap their foreheads and wonder why they didn't think of it themselves; living a perfectly empty existence.
(The last strings were cut, cut free, cut clean, and even though I am floating the gravity of my own mind pulls me down, pulls me down viciously, and my soul feels like a lead balloon, and I don't want this kind of soul, I want a different one with lots of colours, not such an old, dirty and torn thing. I don't want this kind of soul with the weight of countless ages, the weight of so many deaths on my hands, on my conscience, no no no, please take it away, please take it away, I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE)
The art of living is such an easy thing. Breathe in, breathe out. The rest will follow.
I have never felt about any one thing that it could be such an exercise in futility as much as I feel it about my life. Never, ever have I considered something as useless as those thirty something years here. What the hell do I struggle for? Why do I fight, why do I insist? Why do I torture my mind over countless pieces of paper, why do I work like a slave and say no to so many things, and put up with so much bullshit, and discuss so many daft matters with such a variety of idiotic people? Why do I bother sticking to my code of honour and asking what would be the best path of conduct, and brush my teeth and wash my hair and all that shit? Why oh why do I bother with these, give me one valid reason why I bother, why I even try, why I spend so much time and put so much effort in this pitiful semblance of existence?
Poor Daisuke, poor little child of mine, birds of a feather always flock together, don't they? You just came into my head uninvited one day, just like we all come and leave one day, you came to stay and what I can say is that I am sorry, I am so sorry my little boy. I am sorry because I am not a story weaver. I am a teller of tales, which means a witness. I am merely a witness to what's happening anyway, behind closed doors, by people with no conscience. I know why you can't connect. Don't let it bother you anyway, it's the same here. I can't connect either. Some things are not meant to be, and I cannot be like them because I know, and they cannot be like me because they don't. And I don't blame them one bit if they don't want to know and understand. I chose knowledge and look where it got me anyway. To the madhouse, in a room with a view.
Don't let it bother you one bit. Just raise your gun and shoot me once. Aim true. Make it impeccable. Make it a mercy killing, make it a banquet. Make it look like I am sleeping. Make it look like I was torn apart by wolves. Make it look any way you like, it doesn't really bother me in the least. What truly bothers me is this so-called life.
I haven’t written here in quite some time. I haven’t had internet for weeks, and now that I have internet I am up to my neck in a variety of things I ought to have done ages ago/ came up unexpectedly/ aren’t really important but are certainly as time consuming and as meaningful as peeling lentils with box gloves on.
Hmmm. Reminds me of what someone who has supposedly quit drinking would come up with as soon as his wife caught him in the embrace of hard liquor again.
“Um, no, honey, it’s not a bottle of Scotch, I mean it is, but I swear, it has lemonade inside. I mean I went to the grocery store and I know you wouldn’t believe it, but they only had their own lemonade left and then the aliens came, I swear to God, and then (insert long winding story about aliens here) and then the Pope (insert story with Pope of Rome making guest star appearance) and then an opera singer was having her voice exercises just next to the grocery store and all the glasses and bottles broke in a ten mile radius and then (another long story here) and finally, I swear to god, I came home with the lemonade in this whiskey bottle.”
Yeah, right. There is one thing I hate more than lame excuses and this is long sorry-assed stories. Point being, I have been busy. But I have internet at my disposal. And when I get get home, after a minimum of 12 to 14 hours of work I usually spend at least one hour trying to unwind. This doesn't leave me with too much energy to do anything more deep than ogle Asian gay porn, write a few emails, eat, take a shit and so on. When I get bored of looking at pretty Asian bums being rubbed by pretty Asian hands and interesting Asian penises, it's usually so late that my brain and eyelids are making squeaking sounds of disorganisation in Unison. (Unison with a capital U is the mental institution I work for as a silent assassin of the night, aka the enthusiastic bean-eater as opposed to another thing with gardeners.) So yes, what was I saying? Something with beans, dicks and gardeners anyway, watering my sayonara with soy sauce. (Sayonara in Greek means flip flop shoe.) So. Um. Yeah. Asleep already. My flip flops are full of eels. Now, fuck off. Oh sorry, I have to disconnect.
I think what I have must be called Sympathetic Dyslexia. It catches with me when in the company of dyslexic people. Naturally, almost all my friends are dyslexic and those who aren't, look up to me as their incarnated avatar of instant dyslexia-waiting-to-happen, just add sugar and shake well before use.
*fart* Now out of my way, lamentable *fart* creatures of the *fart* capitalistic society. *FART*FART*FART* *FAAAAAAAAAAAAAART* *RIIIIIIP* (Sound of underwear spontaneously combusting) Ffffffff...FUUUUUUCK!
"Look mommy, that lady is flying! And look how funny she is, trying to dance while her bum is on fire!"
Such a sweet, sweet song. It breaks my heart even more to listen to it now.
ANY OF YOU WHO CAN, PLEASE SEND DONATIONS TO JAPAN.
Any of you who cannot, pray.
For those of a more violent disposition, threaten whatever deities you worship. It works, I have tried it.
Usually the best way to beg favours from gods is by cuddling your cats. Seriously. Or by waving big fucking axes, claymores and two handed motherfucking ridiculously huge swords in front of the aforesaid deity's nose. Sooner or later they get the message.
Pray today and repent tomorrow when the bill arrives.
I am back. Although I haven't the slightest why. :-)
English not first language leads to all kind of interesting and hilarious mistakes when writing stories.
"He wanted to get to know every crook and nanny of her body."
NEWS FLASH: the present incarnation has trouble accepting her place in the world and this reality.
Okay, let's discuss this. Where would you rather be?
Let's not. I'll be too graphic and I don't wanna. There's people watching us. But Dir en Grey have a new and very pretty song out.
How can anyone call a Dir en Grey song pretty?
I can and even shooting me cannot make me change my phrasing. You need to lure me with Asian Skinny Buttocks to change it.
What the hell is Skinny Buttocks? A snack bar for those on a diet?
Nope, a snack for those who haven't had any in the longest time.
Haven't had what? Skinny buttocks? Your buttocks are far from skinny. They look like a, hmmm, peach?
Yeah. Do you see any hands on the aforesaid peach?
Gods forbid! What are you, an alien?
No, you idiot, not GROWING OUT OF MY BUTTOCKS, fondling them, groping them, something along these lines.
Mmm. No.
See what I mean?
Not really but I am getting confused here. Would you like to explain that bit about where you'd like to be instead? There is no progress concerning the buttocks thingy.
Hmmmmm. Right you are. Good question. Let's listen to some Gazette because they have two TRULY fantastic songs in their latest album. Let's embed one as well. Hmmm. Make that two. Can I choose any place and time I want?
I suppose so. I mean, we are just talking, no harm in asking for anything you please.
Yeah. And I have always been of the opinion that if you are going to sin, sin boldly. So yes. I would like to be back where I was. Before the fall. Before everything started being such a pain in the ass. Back "home".
Um. That's not really an option, you know.
Oh yes, trust me, I know. Even if I kill myself, I cannot go back there. And besides, I have never been the quitting type.
I'll second that. Any other options?
I'll pick the pretty boy with the wavy black hair. The one that looks like you know who.
Yes. So what about him?
He's a dashing creature, isn't he? I swear I could lick sexiness out of his skin, emitted together with his smell.
So what would you like to do with him?
Can I choose any time I please? Hmmm? Can I? Can I?
Yep, go on.
Then I choose the time before we get to know each other, that we are still landscapes waiting to be discovered. The time he'll be keeping his mouth shut for fear he'll insult me and make me go away. When he'll be genuinely hungry for me and each touch will be as honest and full of longing as breath itself.
Nice choice. But why that?
Just because. Because I know it doesn't last. It is replaced by habit, familiarity and contempt.
But there is also tenderness and understanding and kindness there, when time passes. There is genuine knowledge of the other person instead of loving a fantasy or a projection.
Hahaha. You are hilarious sometimes, aren't you? There is never actual knowledge of any person. We just touch something with our hands, keeping our eyes shut, and we describe what we think it is.
Do we?
Of course we do. And since he'll only see what he wants to see anyway, I might as well do the same. And believe it. That's the trick to happiness in falling in love. Believing.
So do you want to fall in love? Is this what you are saying?
No. I don't think this will ever happen to me again. Not anymore. But even if it does, I have no say on the matter. It just will. *shrugs*
Don't you feel lonely?
What does this have to do with anything?
I get the feeling you are lonely.
I am lonely alright. But what's worst is my homicidal mania. All I can think about yesterday and today is about killing two particular people. It won't solve anything. Hell, even killing about two fifths of the earth's population won't change much. Since the creator decided they should exist in the first place, who am I to know better?
Indeedy. So what are you going to do?
What, now? Go home, of course. What else can I do? Go home and discuss it with Her. She is ballistic, thirsting for blood, and it does me no good to be like that.
Unless I am mistaken I don't think there is any room for discussion in such a case.
There is always room for discussion, especially in such a case. Trust me. And I have grown weary of the things I don't do because "it wouldn't be right", "my karma would go to hell in a hand basket", "I don't deserve to become like them" and so on. I see so many people hiding behind their finger every single day, thinking I don't know what they think about me and how they feel about me. Pretending they care about me. And they have it oh so easy because I don't want to be like them. I don't want to destroy, I want to create and preserve. Life will destroy anyway, why should I do it? Why should I be the one to dig their graves when they do it themselves? Living -and doing it well- is the best vengeance of all. And you know what? What really keeps me is the knowledge that even when wallowing in the darkest pits of despair I have never once given in and followed the easy path. That's my only treasure. I have nothing save for that and nobody, fucking nobody can take it from me, while they chose the easy path every single time. Every time they had to choose between their ego's petty games and between being human in the true sense of the word, they chose to be scum. And there will be a time scum will be separated from humans, and they will go where scum goes. To the dirt.
So, what's the thing you want tonight?
I told you. The essence of dreams. The time we both won't know a thing. It's that, or a very sharp knife. And that's that.
[Both upper photos: Toshiya, the bassist of Dir en Grey.]
It's past surrealism and right into the realm of Nonsense.
It's past eleven and close to midnight.
Ahem, ahem.
Ladies and gentlemen. Κυρίες και κύριοι.
I have officially lost it.
It's always the photos that do this.
I am not annoying anyone and those goddamn photos come and disturb me.
Can someone tell to Gackt, this bloody idiot here, just above the text, that he's Japanese, so he's not supposed to look like this body-wise? Thank you.
I think I soaked my knickers.
And can another person tall to that idiot bassist of Dir en Grey that he's not supposed to look BOTH like a truly enchanting woman and like a drop dead gorgeous guy just by changing clothes and adding make up? Again thank you.
I am going home to lament for the fact Toshiya looks like this (picture just below) and he's living in Japan. I have had enough of this!!! I think I am truly going for a sex change this time. Long live my mustache. Do not try to find me.
And a cat I cannot pick up anymore! Or my kidneys will go "flop" and fall off and just roll on the floor before coming to a stop.
I have also missed the most important thing! Connection with the funny train I wanted to ride in order to be writing here! I caught a connection to an ordinary train and now all I can see around me is boring people and old ladies with hairs coming out of their chins. Which reminds of the fact I have a mustache I ought to be doing something about. I think I am the only person who sees this mustache. However, it is not an imaginary mustache, I swear, and it has all the appropriate conditions for taking over the world. Or the rest of my upper lip. An uncaring owner and lots of space, as well as the hormones of a body that's past thirty and not getting any younger.
Goddammit, I am sure I will wake up one day and it will have developed into a fully blooming gentleman's goatee during my beauty sleep. Perhaps it will go even further, it will cover me whole and I will transform into a female yeti! Yikes!!!
Perhaps I should add fertilizer to it then. I am not getting laid anyway, whether I am male, female or genderless. Perhaps I am hiding something interesting in my pants and don't even know it myself. I am not looking much down there, to be honest. Not much to see. Darkness, spiders, mold. It sounds like a cellar. Not a lady's lower region.
It's interesting to have undiscovered areas on one's own body, isn't? I am falling apart anyway, soon I will have detachable arms and legs on top of everything else. And as I was telling to my best friend, a detachable vagina would also be handy. I would leave it at inconspicuous places, then walk away indifferently as to avoid suspicion.
Someone might even find it and fuck it. Imagine that.
Freedom to vaginas everywhere. Donate them to people who will be nice to them. Put them up for adoption if you cannot fulfill their purpose and fill them. Perhaps someone else will do a better job than I. It's the head's problem, you see. No matter what my vagina dictates, my head refuses. So the poor thing just sings indecent songs to itself during the wee hours of the night. I think it calls out to penises in the vain hope at least one will appear. Whenever one appears, the owner is a dick too, so I just shoo them away and then the vagina complains to me like a child that has been promised ice-cream and I have not delivered.
One of these days it will rebel against me, I know. I will be trying to wash it with nice lukewarm water and gentle liquid soap and it will bite off my fingers, then jump off and run away together with my kidneys. And I won't say a word, I swear. The poor thing will have every right. I have earned it.
“You know it’s best not to get attached to things.”
“But isn’t that the point of it all?”
Grant Morrison, WE3
Sometimes I am pretty certain I am weird. Other times, I know I am weird.
Right now, for example, I have no idea what it is that I want to do. I’m restless, but haven’t a clue why. I want to do something meaningful but meaningful is a word with many different interpretations. I don’t want to write a letter, I don’t feel like studying, reading or filling in fbs. I hunger for something and I am under the impression that this ‘something’ is human touch.
I think of people as islands or landscapes. This is why I loved drawing portraits when I did draw (back then in antiquity, when I was fifteen). And this is probably the reason I never describe the environment when I write stories. I don’t care about the setting unless it somehow affects the plot. People, however, are fascinating. The way they look, what they are made of, their faces, their hair, bodies, clothes they choose, reactions, the aura or sensations they create when entering a space. That’s what catches my interest.
Presently I would love to write something but I have nothing to write about. I stopped writing longer stories years ago and even short ones are a very rare occurrence nowadays. Poetry comes and goes according to the whims of the Muse and the Muse has a headache. What I have in mind is snapshots. Nothing to write a story about. Snapshots that don’t even show a full face. Black hair, a tiny leer, a pink nipple, a ring on a finger, the lines of expression next to the mouth. A bowl with two goldfish. A part of a tattoo on a person’s chest, depicting a kitsune, a fox spirit. The cuff of an expensive shirt died crimson with blood. I know what they are; stolen moments. Moments in the lives of the people/heroes inside my head. I am a peeping Tom in their lives and can’t even help it.
I ordered the new Dir en Grey DVD as I watched some videos in youtube and the boys are back on the Path of War and mean business. Not that they had ever left this path, to be honest, but it’s nice to know one of your most favourite bands is alive and yelling, isn’t it? And I am also ogling the new Gackt photo book, with a long-haired Gackt dressed beautifully, sword in hand. How original. I never. Waaay, waaaaaay too expensive to buy at this point, but I am sure I’ll locate it in a friendlier price later on. Or I won’t. I already have a ridiculous number of magazines and photo books with Gackt and not a single one can give me what I desire the most. Contact with a real person, or meaning.
There is no actual meaning. We devise meaning but there is no meaning. A strand of hair, a gust of wind, an old photo in a drawer. I have some photos that belonged to my father and they are at least forty years old. I have no idea whom they depict. Perhaps they were friends of my father's or relatives, but my father is dead and he can’t tell me. So to my eyes they are just random strangers. No matter how important (or not) they were to him at the time, they are strangers to me now.
For all of us comes the time when we are unknown people in photos that are accidentally wedged at the back of old drawers. Meaning is very relevant. It presupposes attachment, connection. Time eats away at attachment and connection. No-one remembers. No-one knows. And it’s not really important.
What is important? I keep wondering and wondering and have no answers. I remember times I was so in love that I thought my heart would burst. And I remember times I almost went mad with pain or anger. It’s gone now, like it happened to someone else. Those moments are gone. I am a random stranger typing furiously at a net café and writing, writing, writing what she can’t live. I am an old photo in a drawer. I am a ghost in the machine. And all the photo books in the world, all the DVDs in the world cannot give me the thing I crave the most. The smell of your hair.
[ Images from GACKT Nemurikyoshiro Buraihikae Official Photobook]
"...People, men and women, have told her that she is beautiful, and she has no idea what they mean. When she looks in the mirror she does not see beauty looking back at her. Only her face."
Neil Gaiman, Rattlesnake
The door does not open by force.
The door does not open by guile, or by fear; it refuses to yield under pressure.
The door only opens by time and effort.
Time does not exist and effort is nothing but the tiger inside, refusing to follow.
I will make you follow, I will make you fucking dance.
Because I can.
Nothing can stop me if I am determined.
Nothing can stand in my way if I am doing that which I was meant to do.
Nobody can withstand the flow of karmic river.
No matter who you think you are, no matter what you think you can do. No matter if people worship you, no matter if you have fucking wings on your back, no matter if reality itself obeys to your every nonsensical and vile whim. You will be crushed under the flow and removed from my way.
When mortal, make sure to fight with a bloody good backup, I always say.
When I cannot put feelings in words there are three things to do.
One, be silly. As silly as possible. I am good at this.
Two, cry my eyes out. I am good at this too.
Three, walk. I am not very good at this but hey, I try.
Right now my lower back is killing me. The weather turned cold and humid and once more it started acting up. I hurt my lower back when my father was living with us before he died. I was taking care of him and picking him up. That was three years ago. Another unpleasant thing I owe to him, except for the lousy taste in boyfriends and the general mess he left concerning the inheritance. Thanks, daddy. Nice one. Remind me to give you a piece of my mind when we meet up there or down there. Together with a lit stick of dynamite or a homemade chocolate that contains milk, hazelnuts and TNT.
And I read silly novels about death and choice and no easy answers. Mmm, tell me about it. And I also read Mr. Gaiman’s blog entry about his terrible shortage in cats and of how he will miss Princess, his terribly evil white fluffy cat when she’s gone and of how he cannot explain to anyone why he’ll miss that cat. A kind one, yes, but Princess is not such a case. Having a similar case of an evil Persian I think I know what he’s talking about. You see, I have this orange fluffy log of a cat that lives for is eating, purring and running around the house at maximum speed for reasons unknown. He does that in a cute bouncy way that more often than not ends up knocking my mother’s legs out of his way with all ten cute kilos of him. Needless to say, he makes me happy beyond words to have him purring on my bed. And then I also have this white Persian that’s a case of Spite and Malice and very sharp claws all-rolled-in-one. I have accepted my fate; I was the one who picked her from the streets so I belong to her. And yet when she’ll be gone I know I’ll be bawling like a baby, for in spite of her nasty demeanor she follows me around the house and is always happy to be close to me. Never mind the vicious bites and scratches she gives me when she is irritated by the way I pet her, for example. That’s another thing. Try to imagine Hannibal Lecter following you around and trying to be sweet to you and you’ll probably know why I’ll cry when she’s gone.
And then I had my cards read for me. It’s always so much fun when this happens; when I discover people's true sentiments it makes me want to take up new interesting hobbies. Such as knitting (and giving away as gift) explosive pieces of underwear, or installing electrical eels in plumping systems of the aforesaid people, or reversing hinges in doors so that instead of entering a room, have the door land on their heads or toes or chop off their nose. Does this make me mean? You haven’t heard about the glass-shard enhanced pillows yet, so don’t jump into conclusions, ok?
I think I’m going to go and get some sleep before I start telling you about the homemade make-up removing lotion with sulfuric acid. And before my Persian indeed manages to sniff the lit candle as she’s been trying to do for the past one minute. Bye now.
No matter where one chooses to lose themselves, it's all valid.
Time goes at normal speed only when we are deeply shocked and brought back to our senses. Then each moment is rich with gravity.
The wine of understanding is the blood of stones themselves.
There are no mistakes.
There are no meaningless days.
Don't let yourself be lost between someone's thighs because you have nothing better to do.
Don't let yourself be fooled; most things you buy and most things you do count for shit.
Yet every little helps.
Time is just another tool in God's toolbox.
So much pain, so many times repeating the same things over and over again, so many lives of going through the same things for what?
The red eyed bunny has no answers as it is crushed between the wolf's jaws, no more than a human has answers when shot to death in a dirty street for reasons they do not know.
Life is cheap.
Life is priceless.
Each death, written in a bland book, is no more than statistics.
Each death experienced on a personal level is nothing but a full fledged tragedy.
Can't you see?
There is no actual line. No distinction.
Each person you meet is yourself.
Greet them with a smile.
Take some time to listen.
There are no mistakes and no meaningless days.
Discover the meaning for yourself.
Be brave and shine, shine from your deepest core to the outside.
