You say that you miss my wisdom, but my wisdom (if I can call it such) is telling me one thing. I am scared. Very scared and very sad. I no longer know which direction to take so I sit and stare at nothing.
Any better options out there?
And I still pick at scabs
and my mind won't let me rest
and I cannot take one deep clear breath.
My only wish is not death. In the past it would have been death, but it is not anymore.
Now I pray for rain.
It will come like a gift from the heavens and wash away every moment, good and bad.
It will free me.
I will melt like sugar, become smudged like a watercolour picture and hide in the reflections of the wet pavement. Slip away like a dream. Not exist anymore.
That would be so nice.
Everything would take care of itself afterwards.
Why am I here if there is no place for me?
Why am I here if this reality disagrees with me?
For just how longer will I be able to carve a breathing space in the rock with my nails?
So many things I could say. But what is the point? What would that achieve?
I am gorged by art and unsatisfied desire.
I was reading a piece I wrote four or five years ago. It was a good piece. It will never be published.
It’s funny how we always seem to go in circles around ourselves. Round and round we go, like a shark that circles its prey, and always preoccupy ourselves and our minds with the same thoughts. Our poems and prose follow familiar patterns, our habitual interests a safe ground we can rest and enjoy the sights we already know. Our obsessions dress our minds like a comfortable old leather jacket, like an old faithful pair of boots. Comfortable enough to ignore even the fact they are threadbare and full of holes, and the only actual warmth they give us is imaginary.
What will become of all those stories that will never make it beyond the shores of my own eyes, never be read by any other person than me and perhaps two more friends?
Let the wind take them. Let the wind and water take these boats not fit for travel, and undo them. Let the waves take them for if you try to sail on them you will sink with them. And more than anything else, let time serve you in building that boat which will be stronger, and take you to the other side. The other side of yourself and reality, where you have nothing to lose or gain, and the stranger with the knowing smile that will greet you on the coast will embrace you and ask no questions.
My cat knows. In all his fat ginger fluffiness he knows there is no time for a single moment to be spared, and yet there is no such thing as time. He does not expect tomorrow to curl around my arm late at night and purr his content. He knows the greatest secret of all. There is no tomorrow. There is only here and now. Seize it as best as you can.
I cried for your inability to say you are sorry. I cried for that hurt little boy in the room with the mirror and I cried for the grown man, all tangled up in his own stories and hurt ego. You want the sacred words circled around your body; you want the ode for feelings tattooed on you. And yet how far from understanding your own feelings you are. I touched your face, accepting you just the way you are, loving you just the same, but I cried for you just the same too, and for me, and for the petty ego tricks we fall victim to when we should shine from the inside. I cried because we think we are going to be forever, that there will always be a time to set things right, to reconsider or change our minds. Somehow we are certain we need not apologize or look back. We behave as if we are larger than life and invincible when we are but mere candles, flickering in the garden of Eternity and you, having seen death as often as you have, should know this better than anyone else. I cried a little bit for both, but more than anything else, I think I cried for what I already know too well: no matter how much I care, I cannot save you, or anyone else. I’m not even sure I can save myself.
I am not exactly sad. Merely reflecting on my choices and next steps. Disengage, my dear Takeshi-san would say quietly. Do not worry. Do not anger. Let time serve you while you pay servitude to yourself. And unsurprisingly, happiness, when it knocked on that little man’s door, was to him as sweet and unexpected as warm summer rain. It did not last for long. But Takeshi-san knew how to make it last. He knew how to drink sips from that elusive rainwater as he fed his goldfish, as he took care of his precious bonsai, as he brushed his teeth. He was there every single moment. His mind did not wander. His full attention was on every single thing he did like that task was the most important thing in the world, like that moment was the greatest moment of achievement in his life. But I am not Takeshi-san. I am merely Elizabeth. And I worry, and I anger, and I am not focused on every moment that passes. And time slips from my fingers like grains of sand, and the more I try to hold the sand into my grasp the more it flows freely.
Takeshi-san, forgive me for being such a poor student to your wisdom. Forgive me for being too cocksure when I should be humble and keep an open mind, and forgive me when my mind wanders on the paths of anger, and worry, and cheap desire. Forgive me for being impatient and lacking faith, for fighting when I should give up and giving up the times I should have fought. Forgive me for all the times I have wished I was never born, and have been disgusted by the entire human race including myself, and have given up hope or resolved to violence. Forgive me for being human when I should shine, and for being rigid when I should have bent with the wind.
Takeshi hears that without commenting or interrupting and gives me the slightest of nods when I am done. I know what he thinks: “I have been cocksure, and proud, and close-minded. I have been impatient and have lacked faith, I have fought when I should have given up and run away when I should have stayed and fought. I have wished I had never been born, and have been sick with the entire human race and myself. I have given up hope and have resolved to violence. I thought I had to prove myself, first to others, then to myself. Did I prove something? I don’t know. I do not think so. But I have two goldfish to feed, and they need food daily, and three bonsai to take care of, and they cannot wait. They will take the food and the care I offer and will not ask me if I am worthy. And if they consider my care adequate to live and flourish, that is all the proof I need.” But instead of saying these things he keeps his silence, his dark eyes focused outside. It is raining again.
It’s strange how I realize that I want to write here. Usually there is a mild cacophony inside my head, different voices talking about different matters.
One voice was commenting on how funny is the way Japanese men speak. No matter how sweetly they sing, when the average Japanese male talks while trying to sound manly or important, their utterance is a very curt and guttural sound. Another voice added that we have no actual idea how ancient Greek sounded, and that certain letters and symbols perhaps meant that the vowel was longer or doubled, giving words a very different sound. These two voices engaged into heated conversation, and I let them to it.
A third voice commented on the unusual brilliance of the moon and how odd it was, because we were still days away from full moon. The entire sky was pearly gray and radiating in a very powerful and odd frequency. Someone replied to that comment and congratulated me on once more walking the dogs a few squares before going back home. It observed how, out there in the quiet of the night, the impossible seemed merely improbable. It mused that mystery has the tendency to shy away from the voices of the crowd and the sound of mobiles and to enjoy meeting me in empty alleys and quiet courtyards.
At that point, mystery itself stepped forward, caressed my cheek with fingers like smoke and promised me something I didn’t quite catch. That’s the problem with mystery. You can’t quite make out what it says, but by the sound of it you know it’s damn delicious. I was busy with that sensation, trying to extract some extra information, literally pry it loose from those elusive, smoke tendrils, when a little bit of information popped up in my mind from the place it had been tucked away and almost forgotten. It would appear that when the new airport was built, something was forced out of its nest. It appears to be a harpy, which means, something with the body of a bird and the face of a woman. During the construction of the airport, the working teams discovered items that show the place was populated during antiquity. Right now, there are quite a few reports from the locals who have repeatedly heard or seen her; they say she is ululating, and that her screeches are truly unsettling. They cut down a lot of trees from that area; no wonder she is upset. I would have attributed these rumors to overactive imaginations, but now I know better…
Fat chance of that. I can barely organize my thoughts lately. I read everything wrong. I am either arbitrary relating it to sex or my misreading gives everything a new, more interesting meaning.
Jewelery makers become undertakers.
Travel agencies suddenly specialize in crepes.
Bet newspapers turn to sex marathon reports. And so on.
It could be funny. It is funny. But my energy has become lopsided, my grounding ability has gone to hell, I drop things, feel tipsy all the time and still have to think, work, walk... My attempts at walking are often misunderstood as tango between a drunken person and an invisible three legged bull on high heels. Fun, fun, fun. All my cds seem to be playing gibberish, like I've had my entire music collection stolen and replaced by the Martian top 40. And I am eating non-stop. My jaws are working overtime, gobbling down prodigious amounts of chocolaty, delicious, sugary, non healthy CRAP. Arghhhh...
I want to fondle tits, or have mine fondled. I want to be an Emperor, or run a ninja organization. I want a massage. I want to kiss the delicate fingers of Shinya, the drummer of Dir en Grey, and smack the Pope of Rome for his comment on gay people. I want all my farts to be silent and non smelly and my legs and magic carpet always waxed. I want to my tom cat to turn into a 1,90m tall black were-panther, who's well hung, polite and loves to lick me. I demand vacation, evacuation and non-smelly perspiration. Free chocolate and ice cream delivered to me till my last days by handsome ninjas in leopard thongs. Massage by the pretty Asian boys I ogle, all of them dressed exclusively in badass leather or period dresses for ladies, both versions with full make-up. Someone to take care of an indecent winged fellow that refuses to die in spite of my best efforts, and I am not referring to a mosquito. I want pillows stuffed with hamsters that smell like an almond tree in full bloom, a Japanese tattoo on my entire back, Sephiroth as my lover and Vampire Hunter D as my husband. And to cheat on them both with Totchi, the bassist of Dir en Grey dressed as a goth slut (see picture). And to give my period to someone else when I have it. And not get any zits or colds ever. And always have enough money regardless of anything else. And very very long hair.
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.
"...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."
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.
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...)
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.
[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.
