For your information...

Added a new profile which I like a whole lot better. Apologies to all the people who have asked me to visit their blogs or sites and leave comments. I don't have the time to, am really really sorry. Maybe at some future point I will manage to work 12+ hours daily AND do more than eat, sleep and be miserable. Or be madly creative in the wee hours of the night due to being hyper and desperate...

Funny in retrospect

It's the first of January, 2007. I am sick with one of those virus infections that last for about a day. I have violent vomiting and terrible diarrhea. On top of that, I have my period too. (I really did hit the jackpot that day.) So I am sat on the toilet in a half-conscious state with my pants around my ankles and feel like there is a horde of Tasmanian devils inside my tummy, struggling and pushing and groaning, desperate to find the exit. (Insert characteristic sound effects here.) My mother is watching me from the door, really worried and quite eager to help, but unable. Suddenly, just as I feel that I'm done, vomiting kicks in. Unable to do anything else, I turn around, pants still around my ankles, fall on my knees, embrace the porcelain goddess to which I have been paying homage for that day, and start spewing my guts out. Conversation:

Mom: "Do you want me to hold your head?"

Me: *Bluaaargh* No!

Mom: "Do you want me to wipe your ass?"

Me: *Bluaaaargh* "No! GO AWAY!"

Needless to say, I was trying to save the last remains of my dignity, unsuccessfully of course. For two or three days afterwards my tummy made funny noises. To quote my best friend J., "It's like the turkey that escaped the Christmas predicament hid in your tummy and is calling out loud to the other turkeys who might have escaped." Thanks, mate. I really needed to hear that.

Old things

I am so mad at you. I feel that no matter what I do, in how many ways I try to prove you my good intentions, what I get (and what I'll always get) is nothing more than a second hand opinion on who I am and why I do things. You don't see me. You will never see me. Then why the fuck bother? Why try to please? Why even converse with a person that uses me as a blank screen to project his obsessions onto? When everything I have ever done for you is disregarded because I would not play snitch, and brushed aside because what matters is my relation to your obsession, then why try? Did you see me, the person, even for a single moment in this long sad story? I doubt it.

All I have to do is close this chapter too. You are only meant to do me harm, whether it is a conscious choice or not. So I will just leave you behind. And this will confirm your suspicions, but no matter what I do, it will confirm the wrong suspicions. I will therefore exit the scene, and hopefully I will do it with some grace.

Elizabeth is a nag-bag

Music: Lisa Gerrard: The mirror pool.

I'll nag like an old woman. I miss the wondrous. I miss that which gives my life meaning. Save for the daily routine which keeps me busy, and the thingies which keep me pleasantly occupied. My heart needs to flutter. My eyes have to see something bewitching, or they feel empty.

I am that which people abhor. I scare them. I make them feel uncomfortable. And all I do is be myself. All I do is make jokes. Forget to keep my mouth shut in front of strangers. They smell I am different and react accordingly. They smell the thing inside me and become hostile. For mine is a dragon, a glorious beast of terrifying beauty, or a curled, sleek feline, and theirs a mole, or a pig. And they squeal as such. They run or bare their teeth as such. And the dragon inside me or the big cat turns its back and leaves, too haughty to even snarl.

The people in the store. The waiter in the bar. The customers at the kiosk. They seem to somehow smell it, and just how fast they do nowadays. They needed longer in the past. Now they feel it immediately. I can bend them all to my will and crash them like little men of clay, but why even bother? This is not my way. I can't even bear them around me for too long. I just want to retreat somewhere far away, and write, and read, and only converse with those worthy of my voice and time. I know this sounds wrong and I don't care. I don't need to explain anything to anybody. I need only listen. See what needs to be killed. Inside me. Bring forth the cleansing fire and the blade, and cut clean. I'll take it.

After the Torture (Garden)

“Shall we be elevated/ or pushed into the fire? I don’t know.

Sometimes, sometimes, I loved someone/ sometimes,

sometimes, someone loved me/ that’s all I know.”

Deine Lakaien: "Sometimes"

There’s one thing beyond the norm that I ought to comment on. Save for the usual chores that such a night entailed, and we all know but don’t expect happening to us and thus don’t avoid. Such as the gaffe of dragging too many people alongside me and thus arriving late enough to miss the first show with Lucifire. (*visible fangs on my face*) Or the depressing air of desperation the whole Gagarin stank of (“I wanna get laid tonight”). Or the fact there were people in there that had made the usual mistake committed in such cases: they had spent a lot of money to buy and wear what they believed looked good in, seeing it on a model. However, they were a minimum of forty pounds overweight than the model in question and their flesh so flabby that hang like that of a pig a fortnight after rigor mortis, and they had diligently “dressed” it (squeezed it, and it was overflowing and frantically escaping from all openings) in lace and silk. Hm. No darling, nobody is hungry for flesh to the point of finding a potbelly or a half-naked ass the size of my refrigerator enticing. Yes, I know you have boobs. You and the other half population of the planet, and some much better than yours. Going around in your bra does not make a statement; I am sorry to break your bubble.

The thing I must refer to is Jonny Dragon and his show with fires. He was a full scale compensation, or should I say, a full scale attack? He had the kind of face I would call exquisite, full of wonderful angles at all the right places, and when he smiled devilishly during the act (which he often did) he was plainly ravishable. Why? Cause he was smug as fuck. He was full of that wonderful self-confidence of a person very aware of the fact that every single pair of eyes is watching him, and well, they should be. He was damn good at what he did and obviously had the time of his life being the centre of all that attention. Some people are born for the stage. He belonged to that category. Fiery talented and deliciously self-involved, in a manner I consider characteristic of a true artist, he made me goose-bumpy all over. I do admire performers who use their body anyway, and make no mistake, he was a sight to behold. Dressed in leather, shaved, slim, not very tall, long legs and wonderful lean muscles everywhere, a male dancer. The show just stole my heart; to see him encircled by endless rings of flame on a darkened scene, never stopping, never miscalculating, and moving with such grace that put most women to shame, ah, that was just... perfect. He often knelt in front of the photographers while juggling with the rod or the chains, inviting them into the fire, mocking them and bewitching them at the same time, and I doubt there was a single male in the audience that would not give anything to be him, even for a moment, and a single female that would not give anything to feel his full attention on her, and vice versa. (Save maybe for those turned on only by the sight of Porsche and a stack of credit cards, whose opinion does not concern me anyway; they can stuff both up their nether regions or down their throats and I’ll gladly provide the lubrication.) So thank you, Jonny. Just for you being there it was a beautiful night indeed. To see one such as you, a deviant of society, making a living out of sheer talent and determination gives me the courage and will to go on.

The only ‘bad’ thing after such performances is that my loneliness kicks in at full effect and want someone to pamper me. Badly. Both want badly and to pamper me badly. Yet no-one has the guts or the qualifications for it and I don’t have enough patience for the average relationship. The first stupidity I hear and out the window goes flying the transgressor (with the sole of my boot engraved on his butt).

PS There was more Jonny afterwards but I missed it because we had to go. :-( Argggh…

Been here before...

And how can anybody not be predictable when by nature our energy follows specific patterns, our brains follow specific patterns which change only when we read poetry or respond to surreal art and... Godsdammit. What makes me what I am is my jail. How do I step out? Erase my personal history, I know...

A. is working on a short story of mine now. And she is doing such an amazing job I am almost afraid to tell her. Wow, girl. You certainly did it this time.

Uncalled for

By the way, I am totally in love with Olivier Theyskens, ex designer of Rochas. NOT the fashion bullshit surrounding him (though some of his creations are magnificent) but the man. He looks so feminine and sensitive and sweet. I want to smother him; he just inspires me to. Death and love always walk hand in hand; death reminds us of the need to reproduce... (Evil little cackle). I can be so fucking predictable.

Morbid fascination

A few hours ago I had to drag a disemboweled dog to the side, near the pavement, with his owners watching me transfixed and shaken to their core. Someone had just run him over and left. I knew this dog, it was a rather irritating little bastard, but he did not deserve this fate. Nobody does.

It's rather funny being what I am. Most women would never bear to be close to that dog, let alone touch it. I was so taken aback that I could not really think of anything else than what had to be done. And it was done. Two days ago I was on my knees on the ground at two a.m. digging out cyclamen bulbs, with my hair hiding my face (like Sadako in the Ring). Tonight I was trying to move the dog out of other people's view, taking generous eyefulls of what once was his insides and now was on the pavement, still steaming hot and twitching though he was dead. Having cured and cooked meat quite a number of times, I can tell you it was not very different, save for the twitching. Disgusted? You should not be. You are not -I am not- very different on the inside. What makes the difference is the way we choose to live our life before we are transformed into rotting bags of meat and entrails and bone. And maybe not even that. Maybe the universe does not hold human beings in higher regard that trees and insects. Humans suffer from this need to feel themselves the center of the universe, but they can't really offer any proof that this is the case. So choose wisely lads and lassies. Make sure that your actions make sense to you if not anybody else. At least it will help you sleep easier at night, but as for granting you a place in heaven or anywhere at all, I can't really say.

Scraps

Sometimes the stuck in-between period is just too much. Waiting waiting waiting... Waiting to receive e-mails, waiting for people to make up their mind and finally call me, waiting for the changes to take place, waiting for things to take shape... It seems that my whole life is one waiting period to the next. And then hopefully everything will happen at once, or not. Bah.

One of my stories was published (as I said months ago). My friend A. turned a little poem by me into a comic, that was published too. Now she wants to work on another short story. I am very honoured, but not excited. I am not really here. I am nowhere in particular. I feel like a ghost that exists in the in-between period between then and never and infinity, accidentally trespassing into now from time to time. I feel mostly fleshless. Everything begins from inside to and again returns to me, a cyclic river feeding itself, with no real source and no destination. I feel genderless, fleshless and purposeless. I will eventually feel better, I know. And it's strange because today J. told me some of the sweetest things I have ever heard about my writing style. He is sweetness impersonate sometimes, this being. Still the connection with me and this reality fails miserably. Ha. I don't know if I should laugh, cry or simply stare into nothingness with a thin, amused smile. The anchors are gone and I am floating like a balloon on the ceiling of my sanity. I will eventually find an open window and escape... 

I am just tired and perpetually sad and nothing can fill this emptiness. Too many people leaving the scene at once and me left behind to entertain an audience that grows more uneasy and angry by the minute. I still live on borrowed reality. But fear not; I have medicine. It is called a good crying (which I am afraid I cannot do anymore) and chocolate (which I am sick of). It seems that the situation is serious...

Torture Garden Party

The Torture Garden Party is coming again to Athens!!! YAY! Another chance to flirt with gay boys dressed in mini-skirts and not feel bad about it. I wonder how naked should I be? Quite.

Shitting bricks

Okay... Here's a little story for your amusement...

Last night around 3 am my best friend was me returning me home with his car after watching 'The Empire of Wolves'. We took a turn and both of us saw a bouquet of flowers lying exactly in the middle of the road and passed over it. J. commented, "Perhaps I should go and pick it up," meaning to leave it at one side of the road, and I considered it for a few seconds thinking, why not. Then my eyes fell on one of the trees on the side of the road and I observed the way its branches moved in the night breeze. My heart nearly stopped. Something inside me screamed "get the fuck out of there and don't touch that bloody thing." I told him that I didn't want him to get out of the car for any reason and he commented he would not, we were much past it by that time anyway and he did not intend to return for that. Then we had a little conversation and I explained to him that the particular bouquet looked like it had been placed there by someone or something to attract attention and make a passer-by pick it up. Like a... "...bait", he added, using exactly the word I intended to use. "That place has a very heavy, bad feeling," I added, and he agreed. It was then that I realised that it was the local cemetery, and the bouquet was just next to the gates of it. I cannot explain why or what made me feel like that, cause I am not afraid of cemeteries (told you I am a gothette, didn't I? *winks*) or the night in general. It just felt like there was something waiting there for someone to touch the flowers in order to attach itself and follow him or her home. A spirit or entity of some sort. In any case... These little feelings I have are unjustifiable but most of the time correct. Like the other time me and J. were on a night stroll and passing by a place I had the sensation someone had used a hat pin to pierce my skull... Upon asking J. I found out that a murder had taken place there and that they was also the suspicion some people had made rituals (lots of dead animals and paraphernalia found scattered around every now and then.) Oh well... All I have to do is stop thinking and listen closely, I suppose.

The aftermath

My friend A. tells me that she is not afraid of commitment but she just needs time and space on her own. I, on the other hand, know she is just like me: not exactly afraid of commitment, but more than anything else, afraid of what commitment ensues.

"Friends"

You fucking cunt rug. You despicable twit. Thinking you've got everything right, everything fixed. With a few kind words. And I'll be happy again, like an imbecile, or a hurt puppy. As if my whole life depends on people's approval. When it was so simple: what you had to do was keep your word, and you didn't do it.

You idiotic bastard. You fucking, blithering asshole. Thinking you've got me wrapped around your finger just because you have a dick. When all you can do is stare at me, stare like a bemused moron. Till my inner light will blind you once and for all, till my face burns itself onto your memory. And I'll descend like a tower of fire, to touch the ground for a single breath before I take flight and disappear.

You will pay. Oh, how you'll all pay. I will make you all pay. Because you are not worthy of your title human, άνθρωπος -άνω θρώσκω, κοιτώ προς τα πάνω- turning the stare to the sky, unlike pigs that cannot do that. Because you sacrificed everything for the sake of your ego, or rather, your dick, because all you had to do was keep your mouth shut. Because that thing you've got between your legs, that fleshy protrusion is meant to be filling the gap between our legs in only one way. Like the sky would.