Up the wall

I was listening to my mother talking with another woman. They were commenting on the fact an old Greek singer has a son who's gay, and the father got so mad about it that he stabbed his son when he caught him in the act. My mother was explaining to the other woman that this singer is a proper man and he cannot put up with such behaviour on his son's behalf.

I kept my mouth shut, because there was absolutely nothing I could have said that would offer something to the conversation. I wanted to spit on my mother's face at that moment. And what would that offer?

"None are as blind as those who will not see".

When I heard this quote for the first time, I could not understand to what it referred. Now I do. It refers to people in general. We all more or less have that infuriating quality, the ability to ignore what is in front of our eyes because it is not convenient. We do not want to see because we are afraid, or don't want the responsibility of our own actions, or it does not fit with our world view and does not agree with our plans. It's far easier to reject or fear that which we don't understand or like. In this case, it's being gay. "It's wrong. It's abnormal. It's against God". Utter crap people will pose as arguments against what they are afraid of, because it is different than what they themselves do.

I am sick of this planet in general. The best thing I can do is keep to myself because I am sick of having conversations that end up with me in a screaming fit. I am just too tired to listen to bullshit. I am not going to judge people because they want to sleep with people of the same sex. As long as they are both consenting adults, why the hell should I play traffic regulator in their beds? Who cares if they want be fucked with men, women, girl scouts, Arabic stallions or dwarf ladies with beards? Unless it's your ass their dick or fingers are preoccupied with, if you'll excuse my language, what the hell do you care?

Argh. No, I must not buy another deck of Tarot cards to blow off steam...

We are sick inside the heads. That's all I can think of. I am sick too, I just don't know it. I don't see my bias because they are my own. I am sick with a terrible disease called being human. That race of morons and degenerates that worships trinkets and ignores the truest treasures. People want bling blings. They do not want pearls of wisdom, they do not want the truth. The truth is never pleasant or amusing and yet it cuts to the heart of the matter like the sharpest scalpel, like the most refined diamond blade.

We are all very, very sick. And I feel sorry for all, including myself, and there are days I wish I was the blindest of all.

But my eyes will not go away, my spirit will not cease to thirst. My eyes will never go away, and they do not fail me, they no longer fool me. Not after all this time and the shit I have been through. I have become the opposite of innocent; I have become a suspicious curmudgeon that views people as a possible source of annoyance, their mouths true springs of stupidity, their hearts barren wastelands, devoid of anything of value. I am sick of it. And it does not end. It never does.

What I can do is rest temporarily; I sleep like a bird upon the fragile melody of a song I love. I rest my eyes upon the sheen of the raven black hair of a beautiful man I cannot have. I smell a rose and know that this flower knows everything there is to know. It doesn't hold back; it blooms in perfect glory for everyone to see and smell. And no-one sees it. No-one bothers to smell it; they pass by it walking in a hurry, hypnotised by their lists of "IMPORTANT things to do" "IMPORTANT people to talk to" "IMPORTANT phone-calls they cannot miss" no matter if they are driving, fucking or taking a crap. Their cell phones follow them even in the toilet. They behave like cocaine crazed gangsters closing in on a target. I on the other hand see the flowers blooming in the evening gloom and they are poems, they are explosions of colours that stupefy the mind and defy any attempt at a description. These colours are sometimes strong enough to feel that they leave an afterglow, a haze of colour in the space around them. I remember describing one of my heroes in a story, perhaps the most beautiful one I have, and his skin is at the same time translucent and blinding, like an angel or a white iris that immaterialises in front of one's eyes, the colour of his face a ghostly white like thick milk that slowly dilutes in water.

I live only for those moments nowadays. The unexpected rose waiting for me at the next corner. The humble jasmine that smells to the high heavens, not yelling but chiming its beauty in a tapestry of smell that sounds like a wild array of the tiniest silver bells you can imagine. I live for the next album by my favourite band and the smell of my cat's fur when he sleeps next to me in the morning and the Pre-Raphaelite paintings that make me lose my speech. I live for my next ice-cream, and the next kawaii order, so full of colours and designs, and the next book or manga I'll read and the next time I'll sleep and my life will be once more exciting. I no longer live for understanding; I no longer live for human fulfilment. I see myself screaming like a woman that's gone not just slightly crazy but completely homicidal bananas and I scare myself with how much sick I am. Sick just like them.

I just wish, wish, wish I could once more dream like I used to.

I try.

God knows I try, while looking frantically inside my heart for the spark to set everything ablaze.

Thankfully the newest album by Dir en Grey is out. "Dum spiro spero". As long as I breathe, I hope.

Please god/dess. Please.

I have no strength left anymore.

Thank you.

All the people I want to sleep with tonight are somewhere else...

It's a problem, isn't it?

I hope this will not turn out to be another night of insomnia.

Dir en Grey have a new album out! Yipee!

Eventually I will smother that cute screeching and wailing hobgoblin their singer is.

Keep that thought afloat my milk white dove.

Sanity, sanity, who needs that nuisance?

Amen to that.

Ought to be sleeping already

I have at least six decks of tarot cards and not one can give me what I am looking for: answers.

Answers can take many forms.

If every choice is valid, then it is almost self-explanatory that we should strive to avoid pain and experience happiness.

Now, almost everyone makes the kind of choices that in the long run will make them unhappy. If asked, the answer is almost always the same.

"I didn't know."

Didn't you?

It seems absurd to me that we spend such a big part of our lives getting to "know better" and then, once we do know better, we are too old to choose between wisdom and passion. There is only wisdom as a choice, because passion has departed forever. We are too old to be passionate without being ridiculous. We are too old, period. We are way past our prime, way past the age we inspired others to be naughty, daring, to seek moments of passion within our arms, in our company.

It's just absurd.

I see the first light of dawn seeping through the balcony door and I wonder: is it too early? Or too late?

Does it matter?

I have to choose wisely.

I always have to choose.

There is not enough time.

Time is an illusion of the mammal brain.

Time makes me most unhappy.

Time heals all wounds to replace them with new ones.

Time is a tyrant.

There is no escape.

There must be another way to do things.

There must be something.

I will just sleep now.

Sleep lies outside the clutches of time.

Ah.

The complexity of being

Most of what we think is never known to others.

Passing feelings, notions and ideas are never known to others.

I share myself as much as I am capable of.

Yet there are things that cannot be shared.

Moments when the sunlight has a specific way of illuminating things.

The feeling of being content when I hug my favourite animals.

[Perhaps it is the "here and now" these beings encompass fully that reminds us so well what being content in the present tense is. Not expecting happiness and fulfillment. Not thinking of times past. But BEING here and now.]

There are things I cannot share, perhaps because of our human deficiency, perhaps because I safeguard the inner core of my being in such a manner.

There are those things that cannot be shared and sometimes are driving me insane.

The feeling of sexual hunger for a curve or a smooth line on someone's body.

The hunger for eternity while I immerse myself in the hue of blue on a pre-Raphaelite painting.

The hunger for life itself while watching an astounding performance.

The need for vanity as I caress a smooth fabric.

The yearning to leave as I look at the line of the horizon.

The arbitrary hunger to fly while a splendid sunset blooms like a wound in front of my eyes.

The feeling of power in my guts while my favourite music shakes me to the core.

Those things, and so many more, only remind me of one thing.

Live well.

Love deep.

Forgive.

One day you will close the door behind you and leave it all here.

Make sure you leave no loose ends.

Blessed be.

Cats, butts and radioactivity.

Experts from a letter to my penpal B. in Canada.

I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.

See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…

[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?

A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]

So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.

I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.

I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.

And the shitty mood persists.

I have no illusions. It all vanishes in a blink.

It disappears faster than snowflakes entrusted in the care of sun.

Life as a collection of misconceptions on the way to the end.

Moments of ecstasy, moments of terror all mixed up like photos thrown out carelessly on the street after someone emptied a house.

Moments. What entire lifetimes consist of.

Precious, meaningless, countless, finite moments.

The sword of my speech is dulled by age and disappointment.

It can no longer reflect my face.

Perhaps the face it reflects is not my own.

Perhaps I do not recognise my own face.

Perhaps I am nothing I can recognise or associate to anymore.

The sword of my soul is dulled by grief and inconsistency.

The sword of my soul is dulled by battles I cannot win and I myself have chosen.

There is no sword, and no soul, and no battles.

Look deeper.

Open your eyes.

And see.

"Some are born in endless night."

It's the dark night of the soul.

Only dawn can follow.

I have seen the face of my enemy.

I have to be careful. If I slip now, it has all been for nothing.

She said he can change or postpone some things but not everything.

She said there are things he cannot postpone or change.

And that's true.

As for what those things are -if they ever happen- it's something that will once more end in tears, grief and heart break.

He wouldn't want to change or postpone that, would he now?

Going around in circles as a small-hours-of-the-night-specialty for the writer.

I wish, oh how I wish I had a smidgen of my past understanding.

A moment of time at your side.

But I cannot stop now.

I cannot rest.

And I am so unbelievably tired that my soul itself feels replaced by ashes.

Life, of course, goes on, and I am still consumed by meaningless chores and meaningless conversations.

I wish I could still my heart.

I wish I could put my heart to rest.

But the hunt is on, and the great beast beats his wings once and soars high.

He cannot be stopped.

Run, hide, do what you want.

In this lifetime it ends, even if I have to go down with you.

It will be worth it.

DEATH XIII

Yet no man is an island...

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.

To hell with it all.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)

Dyslexia as a bomber's cocktail.

https://www.deviantart.com/miss-mosh/art/Cinched-151658238

It’s late. I should be asleep already.

Breaking news, isn’t it?

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!"

Oh screw this.

Goodnight.

Praying time

[video here used to be "Lotus" by Dir en Grey...]

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.

'Nuff said.

Link for donations to Japan:

http://members.canpan.info/kikin/products/detail.php?product_id=1080

(Please copy and paste onto your browser)

Sing us all a merry song

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.

Okay then. Sleep tight...

Even I don't know what my problem is.

[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.

I have an itch I cannot scratch!

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.

I think this is the right train after all. :-)))

We are all strangers in a strange land

“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]