I don't want to be funny.

I have thought of two different funny posts but I don't feel like being funny. I will be funny some time in the future, when the stars are right. In the past days the stars are right only for biting off people's heads. Judging by their behavior, they don't need them anyway. They are just empty spaces, well aired and with plenty of light inside, due to their ears and eyes.

It is amazing. I work at the kiosk. Some guy in his sixties comes whenever he walks his dog and tells me he is the son of god, this is why he will be elected Prime Minister. It is valid the other way round too, from what he says. He will become Prime Minister and this proves he is the son of god. He gets very insulted if I don't agree, so I agree. He also tells me he will make sure I start working in the TV. Okay.

Another thing that defies my common sense. I sell chocolates at the kiosk. The weather has the tendency to change from one day to the next, from cool to rather hot or even stifling. So I had not stored the chocolates in the fridge yet. A lady comes, buys a chocolate and after one minute returns it and tells me "this chocolate is soft". Yes madam, chocolate has the tendency to be soft when the weather is hot, dunno why your brain cannot inform you this is the case. Unless it is not chocolate and it is cement or soap neatly wrapped in a chocolate wrapper, CHOCOLATE WILL BE SOFT WHEN IT IS ALMOST THIRTY FUCKING CELSIUS DEGREES OUT THERE! Does it take more than half a fuckhead's brain to realise this? Unless you expect YOUR chocolate in particular to be an exception to this universal rule. Don't know how this is achieved. Perhaps with a negative gravity field installed in each separate chocolate, with tachyons running around to keep YOUR chocolate cool and dandy. If you find out how the hell this is done, I am interested. I want to install one such system exactly between my legs, to keep my pussy cool and well-aired. There are days in the summer that if I remove my underwear and wring it, I can fill a bucket with the sweat. So it would be perfect. I can already visualise the effect. The gentle breeze making all those cobwebs down there fly like white sheets, washed and placed on the line. All we need is Monica Belucci placing those sheets on the line and we have an Italian drama for the next century. But this is just a humble kiosk and not NASA, so I would appreciate it if you did not expect chocolates to behave like insistent hard-ons when the heat is abnormal even for Amazon Indians. Is this too much to grasp?

I hate summertime. I hate the heat. The sun is kicking my retinas as if it's trying to score for the World Cup. Everything stinks. The garbage bins stink, my dogs stink, people stink. They are too manly for deodorant in this country. You walk into the bus and there is an array of exposed armpits waiting to get you, due to their owners happily holding the roof handles. It's like walking into the Prom of Ninja Academy. Silent and deadly, all of them, gathered to make you pay. Attacking you relentlessly, mercilessly. You can even smell their lunch in the armpit odor. Garlic. Salami. Onion. A true joyride. WHY? Why spend the summer in Greece to have every idiot kung fu my nostrils because he had an argument with his bathtub? And when I finally go home and lie exhausted on the warm sheets, my nine kilo (twenty pounds) fluffy orange tom cat comes and sits on my face. NO. Absolutely NOT. I am not Hugh Hefner and you aren't the 2009 Playmate, mate. Go sit somewhere else. Like the other end of the room in the exact opposite part of the house. You are adorable but too hot.

BETRAYAL! This is, after all, a funny post.

I need to get laid. I need to get laid. I need to get laid. You wouldn't have been able to tell, would you now?

Farewell

I wish I had more actual things to refer to rather than dreams and happenings in other planes of existence. It's not that I disregard those. I am fully aware of the importance of dreams and how they are as valid as "real" life, if not more. It is myself I have a problem with concerning dreams. I can't help but think of myself as a miserable idiot counting dreams instead of actual deeds. Which is funny, as I always go for the quote "as above, so below." I know that all changes happen to the inside first and then the environment, what we call reality, changes to adapt to ourselves. Dreams are as important as real life, they are a second life, much more attuned to the divine spark inside than daily existence. And yet, when it comes to my dreams, my experiences, I always question my motives. "Question my motives". Yeah, in the manner of a officer of SS interrogating a saboteur.

"Perhaps you WISH to be able to do what you think you are doing."

"Maybe you LOVE to live your little personal dramas and you are nothing more than a DRAMA QUEEN addicted to her own pain, real or imagined."

"Oh yeah, let's SUPPOSE you did that. I you were THAT powerful, don't you think your life would be different?"

"Of COURSE that happened. Who do you think you are, the next fucking MESSIAH? Wake up from your reverie little deluded girl, you are not Buddha with boobs."

No-one can be as merciless as I am. Nobody can hurt me the way I do. None can pull the carpet from under my two feet the way I do it. I am unforgiving to myself. I grew up learning to disregard anything that I could not prove, under continual suspicion of me being incapable of dealing with reality. I learned not to trust my instincts and thoughts, not to pay attention to gut feelings unless there was a practical usefulness to them. And there was none. I am still fighting tooth and claw to UNLEARN these things. The power of conditioning is just beyond description. There are times I have hurt myself physically, I have reduced myself to nothing, absolutely nothing, while the voice of the interrogator kept spitting accusations non-stop, hitting me under the belt in the manner only I myself am capable of. Nice, isn't it? Your own private tormentor installed within your head thanks to your family, married with you and living happily ever after inside your thoughts, chewing at your self-esteem until you go stark mad. Until you want to knock your head on the wall to fall unconscious and make that cold, precise, merciless voice SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP.

Today was hard. Very hard.

The only way you can regain control of your life is unlearn these patterns and conditionings. All manners of crazy things take place during that process, ranging from trivial to unbearable. Usually the installed 'program' starts behaving like a virus, attacking the host, making you feel like you have gone bananas. Outbursts of violence towards one's self are not unusual either. I have experienced very interesting side effects. However, I am a very stubborn person. No-one will have control over me to the degree this is possible. And certainly not my ego, not my patterns and other people's misconceptions installed inside me. Therefore, I cringe my teeth and onward I march, pressing it to the end. I will get rid of this shit from my head. I need to be free! I need to reclaim my being from three disturbed people that are my family. If I am to be disturbed, at least I will be serving my own vices and the voices of my own head, not theirs.

I feel like I am walking in a desert during a terrible sandstorm. I almost have no idea where the ground and where the sky is. I am continuously attacked by howling winds, I cannot see a fucking thing, the sand is inside my mouth, eyes and nostrils, my tongue is so dry that it feels like a piece of cotton wool, my lips are split from the heat and sand and I taste my blood every time I open them, I cannot swallow and the sun batters my head mercilessly in spite of the goddamn wind. I stumble on, having no idea whether I am on the right track or not and no proof this is the right decision. I mumble and curse on the inside, feeling a growing despair that since I have no way to verify my direction perhaps I am walking towards the center of this desert instead of the oasis. Needless to say, if this is true, I am as good as dead. And yet I have no choice, I need to press on. I cannot live with myself the way these people have distorted me.

This is the problem with the journey of self-discovery. There are no guarantees, there is no safety net, no assurances, no do-it-yourself little help book with directions. "Here be dragons" and I knew it. With that in mind, someone would have expected I would take any and every scrap of help I could summon. But this is my journey, my soul's journey. Other people cannot help. And today was particularly hard for me because I knew what had to be done. This beautiful creature that came to me some time ago, this water dragon that had encircled himself around me like a ring of protection, had to go. He came to help, and his intentions are pure, and he wanted to show his gratefulness for the therapies. And more than anything else, more than sanity itself, I NEEDED him to be here. I needed him to be close to me, not because I cannot protect myself, but because I am so lonely that it feels like actual physical pain. A pain like someone is tearing off bits of my soul. I needed his being here because he is the only one who has approached me to protect me and soothe me in any way he can, although he cannot soothe his own pain. And I needed his being here because I need a companion more than dear breath, this agony inside cannot be ignored anymore. I knew I could trust in him. And once more I took the hard way, once more I did what felt right. I asked him to go away because I have to go through this alone. He did not want to go away. He even thought I rejected his help, which god/dess knows it is not true. However, he needs to learn to love himself for what he is, not because he is useful to others. And I need to concentrate on here and now. He is not here now, he is not an actual person in my life. Perhaps one day he will be a real person, someone in arm's distance. Someone that can curl next to me in bed and will sleep with his breath caressing my arm and I can smooth his hair and watch over him, just like he did for me. But this is not now. The desert is now.

Will you ever forgive me for sending you away?

The name of the game

[A note concerning the video. All the wounds on the singer's body are self-inflicted. Please DO NOT WATCH IT if you are put off by such a thing. And while you are at it, don't read the entry either. It will be of disturbing quality.]

There is sadness and sadness.

There is sadness that is a temporary wave, a fleeting, passing fragility, like a moth touching one's cheek on the way out of a room. And there is sadness that has those roots that reach down, down within, entwined and thick and tightly enclosing one's soul in a lover's embrace, in an odd unbreakable love knot. You learn to love this second kind of sadness because you cannot part with it. You cannot tear off those roots without tearing bits of yourself, whole chunks of your being, without denying what you, essentially, are. "What brought you here". What shaped you into your present form. God/dess forbid I would ever refer to the emo movement. No. I am talking about the sadness of poets, visionaries, artists, of those mad, broken and burned beyond repair. Those who have lost too many loved ones, those molested or regularly violated, those who see things. It is the inevitable sadness when the world you see with the eyes of your inside has absolutely nothing in common with what you see around you. The feeling that makes you kneel and moan because it essentially means your very being is forever branded with the mark of isolation.

I have always loved my sadness like the leper learns to love what cannot be changed. This does not mean I enjoy it. There are days I would give anything within my possession to be able NOT to share my life with this permanent visitor. Yet I try not to complain, for I see things and taste emotions on the overdrive exactly because of it. Happy or not happy, I always overflow with feelings. My joy is violent like a drug; my melancholy deep like red wine. Madness, when it strikes, is a tidal wave. It sweeps me off my feet and sends me sprawling on the floor. One such night I took the right turn by accident. That's what I want to refer to tonight.

Some months ago I was on the floor of my room, tearing at my hair. It was well in the a.m. and I was trying to mute my screaming in something that would not make the people of the second floor jump out of their beds in horror. The joy of flats- one is not even allowed to scream and yell their pain out. As a result I was down on the floor letting gurgling sounds, while breathlessly punching things and flailing. My crises are quite clockwork; the pain builds and builds and just has to be released somehow. This leads to me simply losing it. However, that night was different. Because I did something I have never done before. I started writing things on my arm using a razor. "I need you. I am in hell. Where are you? Please help me." Those words were aimed at someone out there whose name and face I do not know, but I do know he (or perhaps she) is looking for me, needing me in the same way I need them. What my lips would never speak out loud was written in blood, because I cannot escape forever my need for another being in my life. Still I will probably never say these words to another human being. I simply cannot, in the same way I cannot reach into that part of my heart and claw till I tear off that need. I would if I could; trust me. So I wrote what I will never say. Writing, after all, is my precious bane.

Much to my surprise there was a response. In a dream. My dreams are a huge map of the impossible and the improbable, trapping things from the ether and dragging them all the way down in this reality. What arrived was an answer to my distress signal but I only realised now, that more things have fallen into place. And it's still far from being real, but at least now I know what it is about. Or do I?

In that dream, a gigantic being landed on my rooftop, almost making the building collapse under its weight. A dragon. Light orange and light cypress green on a beast that looked like a crossover between a Chinese dragon and a koi, those sweet Japanese goldfish. Huge fins that almost resembled wings, floating around him like fabric. He levitated effortlessly in mid-air, like swimming in heavens instead of the sea. He was following me around throughout the dream and I thought that he wanted me to do something for him. I am used to that. People coming to me and asking for things, never giving anything back. With the exception of my very close friends, that's what happens. I only recently managed to shift my perception concerning that matter and comprehended for the first time that he had arrived to help me and not the other way around.

So, a water dragon came to stay. He was the only one taking my therapy and offering something back, pressing me to accept his help. He is also the only one whose intentions are pure. He made me wake up crying just one night ago for he is even more unused to accepting love than I am. Like a tree that prefers not to drink water or a fish that tries to swim on the pavement. I was crying over the roots of that tree, begging it to drink the water I was offering it, shifting the soil at its roots which was bone-dry like sawdust. Mingling tears with the water I was pouring, knelt on the soil and sobbing from the deepest core of my soul. "Please drink. You will die. Please drink, I am begging you. Drink. You will die if you don't. I am begging you." Woke up with my chest into a knot, but the soil was moist. Perhaps he will drink. Perhaps he will not. I cannot help him understand. I can only love with no strings attached like I always do for all people and hope for the best for each of us, whether I will ever meet him in flesh or not.

The night after the therapy to him, I went to the rooftop for a while. The night sky was clear and beautiful. Only two clouds were visible- two oddly shaped clouds that looked like two fabulous beasts chasing each other.

"And to the winding vines

the pretty boys dive

And thru the pinhole stars

into the shadow mind

Will you lose him then

on some gentle dawn

This boy is here

and gone."

Smashing Pumpkins

Small steps

Tattoo number two is at place. Now both forearms are decorated on the inside, in a rather unusual way for a girl. Then again, I am a rather unusual girl from what I gather.

I am sick and tired of those who come to me with problems they have absolutely no intention of solving and then get mad when I tell them so. It happened today. Then again, I have no patience and I owe no-one explanations. They can just take their leave from my life. I am not expecting anyone to solve their problems. But I surely expect them to keep them for themselves since they love them so much that they can't part with them. I have enough of my own. The fact I tend to keep them for myself or talk about them only to people I trust does not mean I have no problems. So let's try not to screw my nerves and turn them to shreds, eh? I'd appreciate it.

I've hit rock bottom concerning things I want to do. I mostly let things happen to me. And things do happen. Short stories and poems, fights because I am forced to reclaim my space and kick intruders out, little creatures coming out to greet me and me shitting myself (hehe, some occult practitioner that I am xD), total strangers considering me a blessing while friends are turning to strangers, or are rediscovered as the weeds that they are. Life goes on with me following suit. And there is nothing I want to do anymore. Perhaps this is trust; perhaps I am dead and rotting while still conveniently walking around. However I am calmer than what I have been in years. I suppose this is as good a compass as any.

Now all I have to do is find a way to lose my tummy so that I can once more fit in tighter pants. Maybe I can forget it in a bar and someone else will accidentally pick it up? :-D

Baffled and bewildered

That fucking thing called pure intentions. Oh that goddamn elusive chimera, so important for those needing to sleep peacefully at night. How can anyone be certain of good intentions when our mind pulls the blindfold over our eyes while whispering seductively in our ear, sweet talking us into yet another little game with our familiar toys? Mind games and other people, power games, games of possession, obsession, victimization. The promise that if we play the game the pain will stop or be forgotten. And the sweet shiver down our spine, the tingling inside our loins. He or she fell for me. He or she mistreated me. I am powerful/ I am a victim of circumstance. I am the one in control. I control my possessions/ I control my misfortunes. I choose my toys/ I choose who's gonna turn me into a toy. I will make myself crazy/ other people will make me crazy.

Good intentions. Not pure intentions. The way to hell is paved with good intentions. Literally. Good intentions can be a one way ticket to hell for both doer and receiver of the action. I know all these things. Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is what makes good intentions nearly lethal and so immaculate in the eyes of the doer/decider. I know those things. And yet there is one thing I cannot see in a situation, one blind spot that makes all the difference, and I'll be damned if i can see it. I know I will. Ask and you shall receive. And I asked. But damn all the mainstream monotheistic guilt-ridden religions of the multiverse, I cannot see it YET. It drives me nuts. Hell and damnation! Being evil is certainly less trouble! At least I would be able to indulge in power games (which I sooooo love) without my conscience throwing fits and tantrums that there is something I cannot see. I would be able to violate lots of underage Asian boys as well, to the point of them always screaming my name when they have an exceptional orgasm. Always and forever. Till their last fucking days. Arghhhhhh!

I'm reading lots of English grammar lately. Perhaps this is to blame for my condition???

The symptoms

"Hello. I'm French."

"Hello. I'm sleepy."

(My reply to the guy who was trying to get my attention on a recent night out.)

The symptoms are easily recognised. I get a feeling of desire without a specific target, combined to uneasiness and restlessness. Then I want to listen to mushy songs in youtube and don't really want to reply to my emails, but still I want to write. What does this mean? It means another blog entry is in the making. Rejoice, oh crowds. I am back. And damn, I wanted to keep my silence a little longer. Make you miss me.

The Dir en Grey cds arrived. They sodomized and vandalized my ears. They violated my sense of appropriateness and dragged my aesthetic criteria into mud, shit and vomit. They even made me write dark poetry, full of gore and corpses. Now I have one more purpose in life. I've got to see them live! And donate my nice boobs to the holy purpose of shoving short, ugly Japanese singers on them, to comfort, soothe and pet the aforesaid singers. There, there sweetheart. It can't be that bad. Here's a pair of exceptionally nice boobs for you to rest your face on. See how good that feels? Now stop screaming your little black velvet heart out, stop scratching yourself till you bleed. Rest for a while. Sleep too if you want. I don't mind.

[Damn. Having said this, Kyo (the singer of Dir en Grey) is SO short that I have the impression that I will need to first put him on a stool and then shove him on my boobs.You gotta love this possessed little pixie.]

I recently had a interesting conversation with Mr Osram. Mr Osram is a very sweet supernatural entity, whom my best friend has nicknamed thus. He (she?) is a fellow lunatic member of the ones that decided to land flat on their ass down here on this miserable planet. So here is a part of the "conversation" (me nagging and him/her listening without complaining).

"...I mean, this sucks. I am not cut for this. I don't get along with flesh. Flesh and I are just not compatible. I feel like a goldfish on a fucking bicycle. What am I supposed to do here? I am offered all these gifts in this recent incarnation and still I can do shit. Look at me. I have an exceptional voice, my writing ability surpasses by far what many of the so-called professional writers out there can manage, I can practice reiki on perfect strangers living in fucking Australia, even my doodles are better than what some deviantart members upload, and what do I do? I am working in a kiosk and putting up with morons and eejits on a daily basis, only to return home to have terrible rows with my mother. I don't have a sexual or social life. I use nothing of what I have. I live every day of my life trying to give the best I have and at the end of the day, nothing changes. What a fucking waste of flesh, breath and resources. I want to die, Mr Osram. I really want to die. Don't get me wrong, you know I don't mean commit suicide or hurt myself, but somehow find myself in spirit again. Not in flesh. Fly again like I used to. I am sick and tired of this shit. I am not cut for this, I swear I am not. I feel pity for everyone and compassion for the entire human race, even for so and so (referring to two people who have done some really nasty things to me). But I am tired, Mr Osram. This is not what life should be like! This pitiful existence is NOT life. When I was a kid I imagined that life at this age would be full of beautiful moments with my friends, with something new and wondrous every day. Not necessarily buying something, but you know, something silly, like trying a new flavor of ice-cream, watching a new movie, talking about a new experience or book, seeing a new flower blooming in my garden. And this... thing, this life that I am living is just killing me, I can't take it. *starts sobbing* I want to die, Mr Osram. I don't want to die literally, but even if I died I would not mind, I have made my peace. I just can't take more of this ...life. I want to move on. Please help me. Show me what I need to do to change my life situation. I can't continue. I have started inspecting buildings when I walk the dogs, trying to locate those with the many stories and wondering if the door to their rooftops will be locked, in order for me to jump from there. This is not me. Please help me."

The worst thing is that I know what needs be done. I need to continue doing what I do, which is, live this kind of life. Typical contradiction of reality. In order to change things, you have to continue doing what you already do without any visible change. All changes are happening inside, that wonderland of despair and Japanese singers sleeping peacefully on my boobs (probably holding them and drooling on them, while the rest of the band around the bed play soft melodies.)

Thank god/dess for my sense of sarcasm, because there is an awful lot of tall buildings in my area.

D'ah!

[Photo by http://lesta.deviantart.com]

God/dess give me strength!!!

This will be a rant. Be prepared. Both feet firmly on the ground and off Elizabeth goes like a rocket screaming GAAAARHHH! Picture the incredible Hulk with brown hair and olive skin, blogging and cursing like a sailor who got shat on by a flying cow.

I need to express something or I'll burst. Can someone please explain to me why some people have a prison inside their heads instead of brains? I suppose there is no answer to this question. But still. My rant will be sex and gender related. Any of you gay "sensitive", meaning homoerotic material offends you? Then buzz off, for this will insult you and neither of us needs that. Plenty of other blogs to read! Shoo!

HOW can someone use the characterization "disgusting" in relation to sex practices concerning two conseding adults? How can ANYONE pass judgment on what other people do and enjoy? How can someone JUDGE other people because of this? I understand someone saying- well, that's not my cup of tea, or, boy, that's something that really must hurt, I'd never try it. Or even something stronger than this. But how can you call another human being sick because he likes the same sex as themselves, for example? Why is this thing sick? In what sense? How can you disregard and badmouth another person just because you are different? Why so much fear and hatred for something that is not enforced or practiced on you and at the end of the day it's none of your goddamn business? I will never understand this.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love...

*sigh* It's useless. But I'll try to put it to words anyway.

When I finally go to bed with someone I love, reality is shut off. I lock it out of the room with a kick on its butt. There is NO reality save for the reality of two bodies. No time, no space. Reality begins and ends on the other's flesh. I do not see gender there. I do not see genitals. I see only soul and desire, I see need and heat. I touch the other person the way I would touch a statue I wish to bring to life. I kiss and caress them from head to toes, I love them and accept them and thank god/dess for the chance I was granted to merge with another soul, for as long as this is meant to be. I see their skin responding to touch, their heartbeat racing, their bodies blooming like flowers, opening like wings, unfolding like miracles. I see them lost in the sensation, for body is meant to be pleased regardless of sex, size and shape. I feel them entering another realm, in which there is no mind, no thoughts, only submission to mortality. "With you inside me comes the knowledge of my death." I live to make them scream and cry from pleasure, I live to hold and embrace them and make them forget death, make them forget tomorrow, make them short-circuit and drown in desire so much that they transcend flesh. I am the universal Mother that gave birth to them and held them like their mother perhaps never did; I am Death, letting them know through orgasm what it means to lose control of one's body. This is what my gender is originally meant to do, impersonate compassion, mystery and death. Be as the great Ocean, suck them in, cover them fully, claim them whole and eventually guide them back out, safely on the shore. Blow their fucking brains out, send them sky high and catch them on the way down. Finally let them sink into sleep, smoothing their hair with kisses, letting them know they are safe between the sheets.

How can anyone call this disgusting?

The wheel

The wheel turns on and on.

We have met before. Why should this surprise me?

We have craved each other again. Why does it have to hurt so much?

We were to be husband and wife.

Both killed on our wedding day.

Never touched each other.

And now I am here and you are there.

Unable to touch each other.

I thought I am crazy, deluding myself. Just a miserable thirty year old woman who, incapable of having a real life, weaves dramatic tales to satisfy her ego. But my best friend met us both in dream time yesterday. Two Chinese teenagers on their wedding day. Painfully young. Soon to be husband and wife. We talked with him in dream time. Today that he told me about the dream without knowing what it was I thought my heart would stop. This isn't my wishful thinking.

Why do past stories have to hurt that much?

"Future's out to get you all."

Why do we have to go through fire and sword? What comes out of so much pain and unjustified cruelty? Why do we have to find each other just to be snuffed out like candles before we even touch?

The wheel turns on and on.

Perhaps in this lifetime the cycle will close and old scores settled.

Please. I beg you. If we meet again, don't break my heart.

There we go again.

Once more I find myself accidentally linked with someone and giving them a reiki therapy without ever intending to do so. This is the third time this is happening to me with this person. I think he should place an aetheric block around himself from now on, to avoid me spamming him with therapies. Ha-ha. They are worse than uninvited farts, these therapies. Always coming out of the blue and manifesting in a very inconvenient manner. You just get them whether you want them or not.

On a more realistic note, I am trying to discover if it is me attracting all this shitty mood and the feeling of imprisonment to myself, in order to first understand WHY and then stop it.

On a humorous tone, I think Buddha should be watching his back from now on because I am dangerously close to enlightenment. Can you possibly beat the flaky Greek oh Buddha? Do you have what it takes?

Sure, Buddha said. My tummy is bigger than yours and I laugh all the time. Beat this! Ha! Eat my dust!

Damn. You win! But heed my words: perhaps I need to dye myself blue and walk around in a loincloth, but this shall not pass!

I will soon be the proud owner of the entire Dir en Grey discography. If any of you have seen the videos I have embedded on my blog, you probably think they are a rather mild and melodic band. I thought so too, until I saw those videos in you tube that, ahem. You do know how disgusting and wrong Marilyn Manson can get, right? Well take the grotesque factor of MM and multiply it by three, then add plenty of disgust points because they are Japanese (and we all know how disgusting and wrong they can be, I suppose?). It is a full scale visual attack accompanied by blood curling screeches by the singer who does his best to look like a grotesque pixie covered in self inflicted scratches. What's worse, those screams are interchanged with vocals of breathtaking sweetness and feeling, while a teenager kills his father with a golf club, fiddles with the fingers and other body parts of his dead mother slumped on the dinner table, and cockroaches walk around. In the second video the singer vomits with his face half covered by torn black stockings, band members play between hanged corpses, geisha demon women with black teeth covered in a sticky substance vomit blood and please each other, one guitarist pulls his heart out and starts chewing on it and other such visual treats or horrors, depending on someone's point of view, take place.

Damn! They are cooler than Yeti, Buddha said. You have to dig this shit.

That's exactly my sentiments oh Enlightened one. Hence buying their discography.

Anyone who wants to watch those two videos should use these links:

http://youtu.be/nQcA_T9VbN8

http://youtu.be/EUvpMhw5ALw

Just don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Much to tell, nothing I can write about here...

[photo by http://lesta.deviantart.com]

Okay. Here we go. Just a bit, to keep both me and you happy. Or perhaps hungry.

Thought that has been pestering me for the past two days and need to get it out: to make a specific someone close his eyes and start breathing lightly on the soft skin over his eyelids. Then touch him with my lips. Not kiss him. Caress him with my mouth, let him feel the breath, the source of heat inside the mouth, a bit of the wetness inside. Open my mouth and use the lower lip to leave just a hint of that wetness on the light curve of the eyelid. You know how when we close our eyes all our senses are augmented; so just imagine lying on bed with your eyes shut and feeling this. Another human being on top of you, breathing lightly over your eyes. You can hear their breath, the light rustle of their body as they move on bed, limbs and cloth on the covers, the shifting of weight. Their smell close to you- clean clothes and clean body. The heat of another body close to yours. The way your entire body craves more touch, but all you can feel is the ghost of touch over your eyes. No fingers. No body. Nothing testifying that there is another someone close to you save for a breath. It could have been a hallucination. Right?

When the clothes are off, so many people lose most of their charm.

I think you'd shine from the inside.

There is a core in you that shines like the rarest diamond, dulled only by the fire of egotism.

But angels have always been egotistical creatures, presuming their way is the only way, presuming they know everything. Why should you be any different?

You belong to the order of death and messages.

I am a wildcard as you yourself discovered recently. One of the first. Crazy lot, those ones.

I don't think we can get along. Or rather we can. The ocean will swallow you whole just like you fear and let you on the coast once more, half drowned and weak like a newborn kitten.

You've done this once already. The second time might just kill you.

Perhaps you should step back this time.

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.]