Life advice

Mr. Gaiman is a very sweet, wise and funny human being. Please watch this video. He does have a few things to say.

Trouble is an old friend of mine

Beautiful drawing by http://egosun.deviantart.com

I am looking for trouble in all the right places. And trouble finds me, kisses me on the cheek and shrugs. And I shrug too.

-Well met, Trouble.

-Well met, Elizabeth. How are you?

-“I am so screwed over” is the right answer. But you know that. I mean, we have just met. You’re supposed to be Trouble, not my aunt Helen. Don’t ask me things that are self-explanatory.

-Trying to be polite, Trouble replies. Never knew it went out of fashion. So, we cut to the chase then.

-Oh yes, we do.

-How do you want the chase to be this time? Trouble asks.

-Anything that does not involve chasing my own tail is fine, love.

Trouble hears that and doubles over with laughter.

-Are you plainly fucking delirious? He asks. We are talking about a male fairy here. Don’t tell me you don’t know what they are like. From all the things under the face of the good-ol' sun, you collided with one of the most whimsical, hedonistic, lying, obsessing, overindulging, sex-addicted races. And you don’t need me to tell you how murder is also their cup of tea, at least for some of them.

-Naga are the exact same thing, only they have scales and the ones I know don’t like to lie or kill, I interrupt Trouble playing smart ass. He snorts.

-Same difference to me. Are we talking about the fairy here or your collection of Naga acquaintances?

I shrug.

-So tell me about fairies.

-Come on, Trouble protests. You know everything about fairies. You have written half a book about one. You had picked the murderous type for the book, but other than that, there is nothing I can say you don’t know already.

-What do I do then?

-I don’t know, Trouble says. Run? Hide? Begin a stamp collection? It’s all the same to me. If I need to find you, I know where to look. My address book is always up to date.

I curse lowly. Trouble never lies.

-Do you think that I have some hope to get out unscathed?

-Ha, Trouble sniggers. I am the wrong one to ask concerning that. My job is to flay your skin, not give you advice. And he smiles a smile full of dagger-like teeth. 
I nod.

-You’re right. I am sorry. So, we begin?

-It has already begun, Trouble says and looks outside, then at his watch. He kisses me on the cheek again and I can swear this being smells like the tastiest thing ever draped over a rotting carcass.

-I am sure I’ll dodge you this time, I say seriously. I am certain the danger has passed. 
Trouble smiles his sweet dagger-collection smile and lights a cigarette.

-We’ll see about that, he murmurs.

-Goodnight Trouble.

-Goodnight Elizabeth.

Messy business

I am not sure why I keep bothering when there is nothing there to see.

There is so little time.

Humans keep wasting it in ways that defy not just common sense but stupidity itself.

There is nothing there.

Nothing.

Time flies.

The beautiful men and women I see in photos will be reduced to sacks of failing meat in a matter of years.

I will be reduced to a sack of failing meat in a matter of years.

And when this happens people think the youth we claim to have possessed was only in our minds.

Don't you realise?

And once more I look inside.

Every time I interact with others I get so exasperated I am always forced to do the same, look inside.

And no-one can compare to what is inside.

Nothing on the outside can begin to compare with it.

And I get mad.

And it's pointless.

And I grow anxious.

And it's useless.

And I see the same faces waving at me once more.

In the same order.

Desire, Creativity and Death.

Fucking hell.

Not again.

And then I get depressed.

But I am too proud to let depression get the better of me.

Okay then. Let's play.

Give it your best shot.

Let me pretend I am amused.

Let me pretend I am impressed.

Let me pretend I give a fuck about reality and everything it entails.

Dress up. Be smart. Be pretty. Be arrogant. Be haughty. Be even yourself.

See if I give a fuck.

So what will it be?

And why should I care?

I've forgotten how to care.

Smoke and mirrors.

Dust and old photos.

Nothing.

First picture: Bartek Borowiec, second picture: Andrej Pejic.

Video for the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1EzU9sLQ6I

Our Mother

Our mother of sorrows

our mother of the thousand faces

multifaceted jewel adorning the universe

breath of our breath

heart of our hearts

the soil we walk upon

the breast that feeds us

the embrace that receives us

when everything is said and done for.

A million thanks to her

written in blood everyday

in the blood of her children

slaughtered without thought or feeling.

Mother, please forgive us

for we know not.

I am so

sorry.

Letters with no receivers

You like writing letters so much. Letters, lists, memos, diaries, digital letters, gods help you, you live immersed in the written word like it’s the air you breathe. And it is. It’s both what you breathe and what you choke on. Because that’s what you end up doing. Choking on papers and unspoken conversations with people who are absent, or dead, or not real.

You listen to love songs and murmur the song along with the singer. And you wonder, when the time comes for you to leave, what of that gift? Who will get the uniqueness of your voice save for the crows that don’t feast on the flesh of the dead anymore, and what will they do with this ill-begotten loot?

Perhaps sing love songs to themselves after midnight, sing love songs with a human voice when no-one is there to hear them. Scare the dead.

Your imagination tortures you like you share your mind with an evil twin. You are the crippled twin of the two, left to watch while the other mocks you for everything you (cannot) do. For every wall and barrier that shuts you off and surrounds you the other twin sees only sky, an open sky you are forever doomed to watch without the ability to soar. You look at rooftops and trees and you can almost see yourself there, perched lazily and looking at passers by with the audacity of a cat or a winged creature. You see yourself dancing on rooftops and dangling from windowsills and laughing wildly as you somersault from one impossible feat to the next and then gravity lands on your chest like a tombstone and reality slaps you. And the evil twin of your imagination laughs at you and gives you and them the finger. And with something akin to fever you wish you were shallow and boring and you could only think about your mundane job and what to cook for supper and to buy some milk on the way home. Not about dancing on rooftops and singing from trees, not about the open sky that laughs at your face every time you look up.

The night is so beautiful, a velvet curtain of negative light. Pull the curtain aside and you’ll find a hidden door of endless possibilities. Life and death kiss each other and laugh, laugh, laugh.

The earth is so beautiful, a living jewel sparkling and breathing. You are so afraid that She’s breathing Her last that you want to scream.

You miss flying so much.

You miss killing so much.

You’ve done neither in this lifetime but you remember them so vividly that your heart breaks.

Words, words, words are so cheap. They are a penny a bucketful. Aren’t you bored?

Shut up and get out.

The night is so beautiful.

Like killing. Like flying.

Out.

[Bartek Borowiec the male model in both beautiful photos]

Dervish Wisdom

So what is desire?

Hormones?

Smells?

How about desiring someone you have not met?

Is that really desire?

Yes, he has done a considerably good job at turning your brain into a bitch in heat. He snaps your fingers, you jump. But you also bite if you need to.

Go with the flow.

The flow is slow.

The river is full of greenery that rots.

The waters are lazy and filthy under the sun. Your head is buzzing like so many flies.

You suddenly feel the need to kill.

You see your beloved Dorian in your mind’s eye snapping someone’s neck with his bare hands. It is a gratifying sight. It offers you comfort.

You’re aware of the absurdity of everything.

The Heart of the Ages sings from In the Woods.

A small black kitten is running and playing on your bed and biting your fingers.

Last night you were crying for that kitten and how small it is, and how there are so many things out there that can harm it.

Last night you were crying because innocents must suffer.

He’s waiting.

Perhaps to hurt you.

Perhaps to hurt himself.

There will be ample time to discover.

And perhaps make amends.

The black kitten wants to sleep.

The other kitten wants to play.

You want nothing.

The perfect equilibrium of no desire.

But what is desire?

Nothing like Facebook

A test for you:

On a night out clubbing you are approached by a handcuffed couple wearing odd garments consisting mainly of latex and lace that leave their private parts exposed. You feel:

A) Freaked out. What the hell? I thought this was a weirdo-free place!

B) Excited. You've always wanted to be part of a threesome, only you did not know how to start or where to look!

C) Interested. You love latex!

D) Indifferent. Your outfit is so much more interesting!

If your answer is A, you are in the wrong blog. If the answer is B, C, or D, then join us. We are really friendly freaks! :-)

http://thealterium.com/

Cute as a crocodile

I am restless. I can’t calm myself and I don’t even want to try. I partly know what’s wrong, but there is nothing I can do to make things better. Sometimes what is here bites me, sometimes what is not here cuts me. I am trapped in the exact middle of suffering. Suffering? Not really. I am trapped in the exact middle and refuse to feel anything. (See previous post). Save for my heart that yelps like an abandoned kitten and my brain that is filled to the brim and overflowing and my loins that have once more started their never-ending whining (end of period, beginning of ovulation) everything is fine. Everything is peachy. Everything is great.

I refuse. Refuse to make myself cheap, to mingle with people that drag their hearts (or what’s left of them) in the mud of every day exposure, of meaningless facebook chat, that throw their hearts in the mincing machine. I refuse to dress my heart as a whore, dress my body in a way that hints “available” and go out, to bars and cafes in order “to meet someone”. I am not “someone”, an interchangeable vague quantity. I refuse to shut up, to feign stupidity, to become “cute”. I am 5’10’’. I don’t do cute. I do tall with generous curves and vicious fists, I do tall with ritualistic tattoos, a stinging tongue and an acidic intellect. I also do vulnerable as fuck for animals and innocents. I don’t do spinster, agreeable, easy going, conventional or safe. It does not matter if my heart cries its loneliness at night because I know who I am and know what my heart needs. We’re priceless and we don’t sell out. There is no trial period, no reduced prices, no nothing. There is genuine feeling, or nothing. There is passion or silence. And even if I don’t find what I am looking for, I won’t regret it. I am not here to live a normal life. I am not here to be agreeable or charitable. I am not here to be an example for the social standards that raised all those robots that piss and shit on the planet, relationships, their children, themselves. If I wanted to be such an example I would have opened a fashion blog to advise airheads to buy $600 and $3000 shoes to be looked at as ascended deities from the Hell of credit cards. I would be “cute as a button”, “social” and married with two children, a car and a dog. I am none of these things. I hope I’ll never be.

I only wish I could feel that there is at least one person, except for my friends, that feels I am the most interesting, attractive and challenging individual he or she has seen in a long time. And that I would feel the exact same thing. But I am not here for that either. I am only here to live as best as I can with anything that this entails, relationships or lack of them, desires or lack of them, hope or lack of it. I am just here to live as best as I can, period, and if I am honest with myself the rest will follow.

In the mean time: whatever. I am looking at the wabbit and melt. Fuck off and leave me alone. I am too hard-boiled and tough to be swayed by any overdose of fluffy cuteness. That's the spirit.

*Starts making silly voices at the wabbit again because she thinks she is alone*

A meeting with Death

Ok, now I am seriously wondering.

What’s wrong with me? Have I become so skilled at suppressing my feelings I fully lost contact with them?

(And more importantly, who cares? A little voice adds here. It’s really convenient that most of the time I am numb to, well, everything.)

It’s really convenient that I care about no-one save for myself. But I don’t care even about myself that much as it seems. Well, I don’t care about anything. The feelings switch is stuck to 'off' with permanent glue and six inch nails to make it more secure. Instead of feeling, I go through the motions. Half-assed at best. I am expected to feel sadness and pretend I feel it, or happy about something and I pretend about that, too. In reality don’t feel anything. I expect nothing, hope nothing, fear so much.

Funny how I am listening to Anathema now and the lyrics say:

“Today I introduced myself/ to my own feelings./ In silent agony, after all these years,/ they spoke to me…/ After all these years.”

I dread the day the feelings will speak to me again “after all these years”.

It will be similar to a handshake with a tornado. It will rip off my hand and then my head. And that’s probably what I deserve for denying my inner voice for so long.

But you see, I somehow have to preserve my sanity. I somehow have to keep functioning, keep working 75 hours a week only to watch the mountain of bills grow bigger with each passing month. To work from day to night in order to sink more and more in debt. To deal with the fact that if I want to do something creative or simply different than eating and dropping dead on my bed I need to sleep less. To somehow deal with the loneliness that always lunges and bites me at the jugular when I am least expecting it. To deal with everything. If I let my feelings run amok the way I used to in the past I’ll resort to breaking things, screaming at people, screaming at mirrors, hurting myself, hurting others. I have been there and I don’t want to revisit that place. It’s not constructive in any way to cry about where you are. In the long run it always makes me a lot more depressed and desperate. And I can’t afford desperate and depressed right now. I have to keep my wits about me somehow, in some way, and I’ll do anything it takes to do that. Anything needs be done. I have to stay focused, sharp and NUMB.

And then something slips by. Something slips through my guard. It may be a picture on the net, or a song, or an article in the newspaper. Feelings are represented by the element of water. And you cannot imprison water. Sooner or later, water will find a way, as a friend always says. It may be a single drop, but that drop falls on my heart and burns it like acid, like boiling oil, it runs through it like a barbed spear. The pain is so intense that it gives a whole new dimension to the entire concept. It’s brilliant. It’s magnificent. It’s almost beautiful in the way anything final or lethal is beautiful as much as devastating. It cannot be ignored, suppressed or escaped in any way. It’s similar to ending a life, taking the wrong turn in a way that cannot be undone and it will always and forever live with you from that point onward. That’s the pain I experience. It’s so deep the night seems transparent in comparison, the red of blood looks pale yellow beige standing by its side. And I want to stay away from it. I want to keep it at a safe distance. I am not sure if I should blame myself for it. It’s not a passing notion; it’s not a fleeting sensation. It’s nebulae and supernovas and the end of the world distilled in one single moment. The moment the pain switch breaks the glue, spits out the nails and clicks back to the 'on' indication. Then a multitude of other feelings stampede in, and they use me as a pogo stick, with my head down, before kicking seven shades of blue and red and purple out of me. It’s not fun. Desire is the first to rush in and wrap me in its arms, kiss me in the mouth with its breath smelling of chocolate and honey and summer and run its nimble fingers all over me, setting me on fire.

“Remember me?” Desire asks. “Now look at him. Isn’t he beautiful? Wouldn’t you want to smell his hair? Wouldn’t you want to touch the back of his palms, oh, look at how beautiful his hands are, wouldn’t you want to see him with fewer clothes on? Wouldn’t you want him to look at you and feel the same, wouldn’t you want him to inhale your scent as he bites you during lovemaking? Now, don’t lie to me, because I know you want to.” And I want to, I burn with the need to. But I manage to kick Desire's groin and wring the necks of those needs fast and effectively, as if I was dealing with poisonous snakes. And run, while muttering lists with things I need to do in order to distract myself from the urgent demands of sexuality.

Then Creativity steps in. “Hello", it says. "Remember me? Don’t you want more people to read what you write? Don’t you want to speak out loud? Don’t you want to sing when so many others screech and whisper and croak when they write, while you sing? Don’t you want to free every child you have made out there, and see how they fare away from your hands?” 
I smack Creativity in the face, take my whip and force it to put that down on paper instead of yelling it into my ear. And that’s the point I manage to escape that threat. Creativity writes furiously while muttering to itself, one eye blackened, its attention diverted from me. And I run like hell only to stumble upon Death, who gives me the look he has patented and copyrighted and trademarked.

“Hello Elizabeth” Death says. “Remember me? We used to be friends.”

“That was in the past. When I thought I had plenty of time. Now I am running out of time,” I mutter nervously.

“Well, you can always pick reproduction as a means to gain immortality,” Death says with a shrug. “You know, pass on your genes et cetera.”

“What the hell?!? What are my genes to pass them on, a second hand T-shirt?” I yell at Death. “I am not falling for that!”

“And what do you think time is?” Death asks. “You cannot run out of time. There is time enough for your needs. Time is not coffee, or the Herald Tribune in order to run out of it,” he observes. He seems amused, but I am not.

“It’s a trick. Sexuality is a trick to force us reproduce because we fear you!” I shout at him while pointing with my finger. 
Death shrugs.

“First of all, I’d like you to stop pointing. It’s not polite, and you would not want me pointing at you.” I gulp and immediately stop pointing. “Now, you sound like a Cosmopolitan article gone existential Freud. I did not even know such a thing existed before now.” He makes a face as if someone added curry instead of cinnamon and salt instead of sugar to his cappuccino. “I believe you need to sleep and you need to get laid. Not simultaneously, it will be a failure from both aspects. And I cannot bother about any of those, they are your responsibility. And I suggest you sleep now, since getting laid requires company that you presently lack.”

What a perfectly wise idea. Let’s be practical and realistic. Off to bed. NOW.

PS: Damn you. You are good looking, interesting, funny, have similar political views to mine and live a few thousand miles away. This is not very helpful, you know. Or practical.

Not a circle but a spiral...

Is the circle I am about to re-open appropriate?

Is this circle right?

It appears so.

November 2003 to November 2005. Two full years, eleven notebooks. An entire book. Still in my hands and I am incapable of using it due to copyright matters. Should I revisit that story/time? Would that be wise?

There is never any way of knowing, any guarantee that our actions are correct. What I do know is that I love those characters more than I love my breath, more than I love my blood. They are my breath and blood. I have kept them in my heart all these years the same way I have kept a dead pet and cried over it. Time heals, and yet their absence still hurts me like it was yesterday I lost them. I need to go back. I need to reclaim that world, to revisit and reshape it according to my desires. It will be mine now, fully mine, and no-one will be able to stop me.

I owe that much to them. That I can tell.

I owe that much to me.

No escaping gravity

It's funny how I see the bars of my cage everywhere. 

I see them in what makes other people comfortable. In relationships, family, steady work. In friendships. In finding someone or something desirable. Even in having this blog. In all the strings that come attached with anything we do. I see them even inside my head, drawing lines. Enclosing and creating meaning and at the same time imprisoning me.

It could be almost funny how what we perceive as reality is fictional. More and more I realise that there is no such thing as reality. There is only a haphazard splashing of meaning on a canvas made from nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have seen people going crazy. I know the next irrational act one can do is but a hair away from the semblance of "reality", from that fever dream we live on a daily basis. People grabbing a shotgun and creating yet another bloodbath. People snapping and killing someone they love. It doesn't take long, or much for someone to be unhinged. I have seen the sly beasts hiding behind the eyes of parents, I have seen the hand that caresses killing with the same ease.

Right now I live a normal life.

The more I look inside the more I comprehend I am none of the things I like or do.

There is nothing I cannot do, or cannot become.

I do have a personality, but personality is mostly a creation of habit. Habits can change and that small creature of habit called personality can die a silent and effective death.

Do I want to do it? Now that's a question.

Do I want to become everything?

Oh hell yes.

I have seen behind the veil and there is nothing there.

[Beautiful art by heise.deviantart.com]

The second blog I promised you...

My second blog is slowly growing. Only a few posts yet, but I am getting there...

https://mostlyamused.blogspot.com/

Or the first link in my list of links.

You are more than welcome to visit.

Dreams of no importance

Why do I bother myself with what your problem may be when you are out there to get what you can?

Then again, dreams have no emotional censorship. What I felt was a very powerful blast. You were trying to reach me, to get close to me, and I grabbed you by the face and pushed you away in the same manner a bored prince would push away a concubine that has tired him with her affections. You had three or four other men around you and you were truly desperate to get close. I was indifferent, treating you as an annoyance. In the same dream I could see your house and it was spotless, but there was no kitchen in there. You were only eating cold meals based on very simple and poor ingredients. You don’t feed yourself on any level. You deprive yourself of emotional nourishment because you are an idiot of the worst kind, wanting to control everything. Control again, that old friend of mine. Controlling. What an excellent way to keep yourself busy in order to avoid thinking. I do it myself…

I pushed you away and you grabbed my hand, literally begging. “Please” you said. “Send me away, but at least caress my face.”

Now in the dream I felt pity for you and was more than a little shocked; you are not the begging type. Why, I would have thought you’d rather have your nails torn out than beg, much less beg a woman, any woman. And even less me. Then again, in the dream you were writhing in the arms of those men, and even as I pushed you away you still tried to get close. You were actually tearful. That’s what shocked me the most. You were begging me with your face contorted by agony and tears in your eyes.

Can you fake it so much? My sensible, caring side asks. Can you fake so much feeling? 

You probably can. You can probably do a lot more to gain attention and steal energy.

At the same time, my dark side is having a party thinking of the delicious possibilities of me hurting you, making you beg on your knees. Something you’ll never, ever, ever do in the waking world. You’d never stoop so low as to beg a woman and me in particular. Never. That belongs to the world of dreams, of my soul visiting places of ‘what may be.’ And I’d never try to make it happen either. I don’t think I can anyway; I feel very alienated to myself to believe anyone could feel something so strong for me. It’s not even low self-esteem as much as actual alienation. I can’t identify with the person I see in the mirror and see her as a woman, much less a desirable woman. But I digress. The only real reason I do not wish to go down that path is that I am not sure I’ll be able to keep my sadistic impulses in check. And if I don’t, heh. Then god/dess help us all and me more than anyone else.

Then morning came, full of distressing news. And right now I can’t focus.

I have seen similar dreams before.

Thankfully they fade away during the day.

Thankfully you have no access to me on any level.

I am safe, both from you and my dark side.

At least for now. Later on I may be a different person and not care.

I truly hope I will.