Personal favourites

Experts from the book “Oranges are not the only fruit” by Jeanette Winterson.

…“In those days, magic was very important, and territory, to start with, just an extension of the chalk circle you drew around yourself to protect yourself from elementals and the like. It’s gone out of fashion now, which is a shame, because sitting in a chalk circle when you feel threatened is a lot better than sitting in a gas oven. Of course people will laugh at you, but people laugh at a great many things, so there’s no need to take it personally. Why will it work? It works because the principle of personal space is always the same, whether you’re fending off an elemental or someone’s bad mood. It’s a force field around yourself, and as long as our imagining powers are weak, it’s useful to have something physical to remind us.

The training of wizards is a very difficult thing. Wizards have to spend years sitting in a chalk circle until they can manage without it. They push out their power bit by bit, first within their hearts, then within their bodies, then within their immediate circle. It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something which you do not understand is the true nature of evil.”

…

“‘Don’t you ever think of going back?’

Silly question. There are threads that help you find your way back, and there are threads that intent to bring you back. Mind turns to the pull, it’s hard to pull away. I’m always thinking of going back. When Lot’s wife looked over her shoulder, she turned into a pillar of salt. Pillars hold things up, and salt keeps things clean, but it’s a poor exchange for losing your self. People do go back, but they don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities. There is much pain here. Some people think you can have your cake and eat it. The cake goes mouldy and they choke on what’s left. Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to see you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.”

…

“If the demons lie within, they travel with you.”

…

“Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.”

…

“Mommy, it hurts! I need a band-aid! Big enough to cover the entire me!”

You ungrateful self-centered little shit. All you care about is your own self, your deluxe little black box of misery where you want to lock yourself for the rest of eternity.

 

FINE. You do that. I’ll come and empty a fucking lorry full of cement on it to make sure you will never come out of it again even if you change your mind.

 

You fucking moron, little deluded idiot. You are the only one who hurts, aren’t you? In this world of absolute happiness and perfection only you suffer. Your little frozen heart, your anguished cries, oh you poor thing that feels like garbage and was never given any love. And you want to live in squalor because this is what befits you. Strange words coming out of the pen of a man who has his own brand of clothes and god/dess knows how much money he makes in an average year doing what he loves most. Masturbating over his failures. 

 

You miserable stadium-sized egotist. A whining leech, a male drama queen asking to be patted on the back. A hypocrite through and through, deceiving first and foremost yourself. Never thought the emo movement would make it all the way to your country, but it did. And you were the father of it before it even existed. Congratulations, another candle lit on the altar of stupidity. 

 

What the fuck is it that you are trying to show to the rest of us? That human pain has your name in the copyrights section? That you can spell the alphabet of hurt, a knowledge gained by the countless times you’ve mutilated yourself? Every single time you’ve done this there is only one person you are thinking about and that person is your own self. Every time your hands hurt your body, every time your choices hurt you, THE ONLY FUCKING PERSON YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT IS YOURSELF. How to prolong your pain because you enjoy it so much. How to keep getting your fix, because you are addicted to your own misery. YOU ARE A JUNKIE. You are not deep, tormented, traumatized or misunderstood. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A JUNKIE ADDICTED TO THE CHEMICALS YOUR BRAIN PRODUCES WHEN YOU LOATHE YOURSELF. You’ll do anything on a daily basis to get your fix, you’ll care about nothing, appreciate nothing and stop nowhere in order to get your drug. People like you will ignore, destroy and sabotage everything good in their lives in order to keep their familiar narration of living in hell. And there is only one thing I want to do to your kind; spit you in the face. But I wouldn’t do that, no, because you’d get your fix then, you’d get your pleasure. And people like you deserve to get back only what they give out. NOTHING. Zip. Nada. So please stop masturbating over your issues and crawl back to the hole you came out of. No-one here will pay attention to your antics or pity you. No-one will bother with you any longer or care. 

 

I RENOUNCE YOU. In the name of the one I love the most, my other half, I renounce you. In my own name that I hold sacred I renounce you. In the name of humanity and hope I renounce you. All bonds between us, past and present, are severed. Go in peace or go to hell; it makes no difference to me anyway. I’ve had enough of self-centered whining leeches. Enough of meaningless BULLSHIT. To hell with it.

Fingers on the keyboard, fire under my pants

I see my fingers on the keyboard… And it looks both comforting and promising.

Q: How do you know a past life in regard to Japan is resurfacing?

A: I try to read a simple text in Japanese and get a motherfucker of a headache. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame is playing drums on my skull with many ample-sized elaborate hammers, or someone has strapped a length of leather around my temples and is squeezing slowly to check my cranium collapsing point. Nice! I also get restless, fidgety, depressive and distracted. It’s the perfect conditions for studying hard.

(Right now the only hard thing I want to bother myself with, in the sense of scrutinizing and studying, is hard candy. Or that other, occasionally hard, interesting thing. End of period, beginning of ovulation. Armies of nekkid elves and imprisoned J-rockers inside my head will be taken care of before the end of the week).

I wonder why I see such complicated dreams lately. I take no drugs save for the occasional over-indulgence in chocolate. But my dreams, oh my fucking gods. Last night I surpassed myself again. I do remember pushing a bathtub with wheels and two women inside, holding oars, towards the sea… I also remember stealing some heavy silver and gold rings from the queen of vampires, and having to carry them… And I am not sure if I really want to remember much more. It seems I am having too much fun with True Blood. And as always, I am partly aware of the reason why my dreams are so complicated. As for sharing with the rest of the world, uh-uh.

There are things that can be shared and those that cannot be shared.

I have just acquainted myself with some new pen pals I cannot write to. What the heck can I tell them? That the energy of the one of them is totally incompatible to mine? They will probably think I am nuts. I get a headache just by reading her letter; how the hell am I supposed to answer and keep regular contact? The other has just moved out of one oppressive relationship to the next one. I am supposed to keep my mouth shut. What in the blue blazes? I know I must not say a thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t itch with desire to tell her to stop picking the wrong kind of person to get involved with. Yet I cannot do that, because if I do, I’ll get into the wrong kind of conversation with her. Which means, telling people what they need to do “for their own good”. But what people do, even if it is a poor choice and for me it’s self explanatory why, it’s still their business. Why?

*Because I was not asked for my opinion.

*Because I would be seriously enraged if someone told me what to (not) do.

*Because each has to discover the truth for themselves. Even if I tell them what they should do and why, experience cannot be communicated. Perhaps they would do what they were told, but would still be as clueless as they were before I told them. One has to experience in order to understand and some of us experience and still don’t understand.

*Because telling others “the right thing to do” is one hell of an ego trip. It makes one feel important and all knowing and useful but offers nothing to both the giver and the receiver of advice. The one that gives advice tries solving other people’s problems instead of their own, retaining the delusion that their opinion is the only “right” one. The one who receives the advice has no initiative, no responsibility (“it wasn’t my idea, they told me to do so”) and feels very comfortable doing nothing, since someone else does the thinking for them.

*Because, at the end of the day, I cannot keep a neutral perspective and not get emotionally involved in a situation that is not my problem or responsibility. And since I get involved in the wrong way it is best not to get involved at all, until I learn to keep a neutral attitude and believe, truly believe that everyone is safe no matter how poor their choices are. Even if their choices lead them to death, they are still safe. Energy is never lost, merely transmuted. They’ll be back, much like the Terminator, to try their luck again. That’s the game of life and I should bother with my cards instead of telling others how to play theirs.

Nice thoughts. But I wonder if I’ll be able to practice what I preach… :-(

How to kidnap rock stars

The battle rages on… And I try to win by writing poetry. And listening to Dir en Grey, of course. What else.

I have not written here in ages. It has been a busy time. Most of the time, not in a good way. But as I said before, the battle rages on. I don’t give a flying fuck. I will win. I will win because I am on the right side. The one that has butter, that is.

I am trying to be positive. I already am A positive as a blood type. It counts for something, I guess. I also am watching the True Blood series. It has a positive impact on me. I think. Vampires and rednecks. Why the hell not. Thank you, K. for giving the series to me. I have always hated that part of US and now, watching vampires trampling rednecks underfoot I swear I would have gotten an erection if that was anatomically possible.

Ahh… There is so much I would like to write about. This time I’ll refer to a fantasy I have, if only to please my black velvet heart. I have a friend of mine who looks like a crossover between Vin Diesel and the guy from Machette, only with less scars and more ways to kill. Let’s call him P.G.R. (Initials stand for Petite Grim Reaper.) As expected, he has more male friends like him who are of equal dimensions and skills, if only to be able to play with the boys without any repercussions. Read between the lines: exchange friendly slaps and pats on each others’ backs and be casual about it. To help you understand, slaps and pats that would have knocked professional wrestlers unconscious and would have caused the average person to suffer multiple spinal fractures. So I have this fantasy of my friend P.G.R. and two of his friends knocking on the door of a specific rock star saying “packet for you sir, signed delivery please”. As soon as the rock star answers his door he’s silenced with a friendly concussion-causing knock on his head, grabbed and ushered inside a large wooden box. Next scene is taking place in a sunny green field, where I am sat on a director’s chair sipping chocolate milk from a large mug and watching those three friends playing rugby using the aforesaid rock star as a ball. There is also this curious brick wall serving no obvious purpose, built in the middle of the field. Idyllic, isn’t it? Just think about it. Think of how many times he’ll slip off their grasp and land on the ground, preferably head or face first. The number of times they’ll miss and send him though the brick wall, onto tree trunks, into the small picturesque piranha-infested stream nearby. And if he doesn’t slip we can always undress him save for a loincloth and cover him in Vaseline first, then continue. Oooooh, naughty! I think I am getting wet. I go do other things now.

PS: I had a friendly conversation with P.G.R. a few days ago. I was complaining to him about the need to practice my speaking skills in a foreign language and once more he offered to kidnap and bring me the same rock star to help me. Then he added, “of course, I’ll break his pelvis first, in case you get any funny ideas.” When I complained to him that the rock star speaks too fast and I won’t be able to follow, he offered to rip off his jaw, too, if only to assist him in speaking more slowly.

Busy with mundane tasks

I have been busy throwing away stuff, like I do every summer. Mind you, I would be doing this regularly, but as I have said perhaps two million times before in this blog, when I work so much, I just can’t. I let stuff gather and then when I manage to find some time I throw away as much as I can. Tastes change, needs change and stuff has to move on, be recycled or given away accordingly. Books, comics and manga fly to all directions through bookmooch.com. Old letters from people I no longer write with are recycled. Trinkets and useless clothes are given away. Clippings from magazines are finally read and then either stored away or recycled. Books are re-arranged, items used up, energies move. Good stuff happening.

Then I busied myself with my PC, erasing stuff I don’t need. And I made new labels, a ton of them, and I moved on some swapping items. Exciting stuff, I know. You can’t contain yourselves from the sheer adrenaline. My library is filled to the brim and I still have no proper space for all my cds. I have also been fighting with my mother. I don’t let those facts bother me anymore than I let the continual presence of cathairs in my life bother me. That’s the way it just is. I don’t think it will ever change.

I am listening to the latest Dir en Grey cd, which is so very odd that I have no words to describe it. It’s just so weird! It’s quite exceptional but so very unusual, so full of different and often contradicting sounds and influences that I need some time to digest it. The singer has gone quite nuts and has been trying new stuff throughout the album, as well as the rest of the band. I can hear melodies and rhythms I have never before encountered in their music. Have they advanced? Certainly, it’s just that they are more chaotic than ever, and sometimes I find myself lost half way through a song. I already know and love Lotus, Vanitas, Diabolos and Hageshisa to kono. They were released as singles and I had the chance to listen to them many times and fall in love with them. The rest of the album needs listening to and I am glad it does. We live in a fast food era; some things need to stand out from the rubble and demand our full attention. I wouldn’t be happy with a fast-food album from this particular band. They are not Placebo or Tokio Hotel. Don’t get this wrong; I love Placebo and Tokio Hotel for very different reasons. But let’s not put shovels and swords in the same place, they don’t belong together.

Vanitas means emptiness… It’s a sweet song, easy to listen to, and the singer doesn’t scream at all, making it a safe choice to use in compilations I make for other people. Of course, I would love to see those people’s faces if they ever decide to look up Dir en grey in youtube after listening to a song like Vanitas. It’s like inviting to your place that pretty, mostly silent girl you met at that party, and seeing her arrive armed with a sword, a gun, an iron maiden on wheels, many meters of barbed wire and two kilos of TNT. It really makes one wonder what she has in mind. It also makes one wonder what the person who introduced you at the party was thinking. Hahaha!!!

(The picture was something I have had for ages in my pc... Very beautiful.)

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.

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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.