Dystopia

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die. "

Quote borrowed from the movie Bladerunner, musical inspiration by Virve.

You had to go and do it again, didn't you?

These  two bits pretty much express my feelings yesterday...

The big stage production called life

Dear Elizabeth,

you are the genuine article of strangeness. Sometimes, I cannot understand you at all.

Your feelings live a separate existence from you, pretty much like your personality does. You observe what is happening but very often you don't really identify it as your own. I doubt there is a single thing you identify as your life or you. Most of the time, you are trying to scrape an existence by mimicking behaviours considered acceptable. Like a person who has never learned acting does when they suddenly find themselves on stage. You keep glancing at what the other actors say and do and try to understand what is expected from you. You are too intelligent for your own sake and have managed to blend in so well that no-one has a clue that you are not an actor, or part of the show. They even find your moments of awkwardness or puzzlement endearing. You are doing such a good job you have almost believed it yourself. And day after day you go to the same place and do what is expected from you, but deep in your heart you hide the same panic of that first time you found yourself on stage. That sooner or later, someone will look at you and understand you're a stranger, an imposter that has no right to be there. You're not an actor. You're not part of all that. How come you're playing this role, you'll never understand. You're no part of it and you'll never be.

You form friendships and manage to make yourself irreplaceable. You know what to say and when. You manage to worm your way into their deepest secrets and the inner chambers of their hearts, and when you find yourself there, you don't know what you're supposed to do. You say to yourself that you care, and perhaps you do care after a fashion. But at the same time you know it's going to last as much as it is going to last and then game over. Nothing is forever, nothing is really important. Life is about change and endings and new beginnings, all of them as important and as trivial as the ones before them. You know it's all dust in the end. And you're not even certain you care about it.

You fall in love and the chemicals of your brain have a party with your glands and the rest of you. You desire, you crave, you want the other person's attention, you want to be one with them. You say to yourself that you want them, but lately I have the strong suspicion that you merely want to use them as anchors to this nonsensical reality. You know they're not really important, just what you need right now to advance in your learning, and afterwards... afterwards you'll get over them. The fast way or the slow painful way, you'll get over them. They are anchors, they're things to be used or to use you for as long as necessary. Necessary for what? Probably to feel that you're no different than the rest of the people you see around you. You have a life, friends, a love interest. Therefore, you belong somewhere. You are safe, and other such bullshit you don't really believe for one moment. You just need it for your disguise as a human.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you see your face and body change and really wonder who that person is. Yes, you feel familiar with your body in the same way someone would have felt familiar with a T-shirt they wear every day, but at the same time you often stare at it in bewilderment, in wonder, and with genuine restlessness. You wonder when you'll be allowed to finally shed it because it's faulty and uncomfortable and it cannot do half of the things you were used to. You don't hate it, just wear it in the same way an actor has to wear a really uncomfortable article of clothing for as long as the show lasts. And you wonder when the day will come that someone will come and smile and caress your hair and say to you, "it's over now. You don't have to do this anymore. We can go home." And you'll cry in their arms, and those will be the first genuine tears in your entire life.

You know Elizabeth, you truly make very little sense. But still love you so much that I'd kill anyone who dared look at you the wrong way...

Be brave, my little actress, and smile.

Smile as much as you can.

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Come on, hop in the washing machine.

A lot of contradictory feelings have bubbled up.

One of the reasons is something I was reminded of.

I was devastated. Haha. :-) Past lives. Fun, fun, fun.

But it was very important. It was necessary.

Another reason is a failed love interest.

I’ll live. I always do.

And I’ll kill the “what ifs” with my sharpest sword of reason.

What I cannot kill is dreams, but they’ll die a quiet death of their own.

A third reason is someone I love dearly.

Not sure what to do about that either.

But I love him so much that my heart hurts, for all the things he is and does.

All that is more than enough to make everything inside me enter a noisy emotional washing machine.

Eclipses, how I love you...

There is something I want to say...

 

... but I am groping about inside my skull and have had no success in capturing it as of yet. Eventually, if I keep writing, my fingers will get a hold of it. I hope. Or I'll bore myself to tears and scrap this entry. And perhaps use it to wipe my ass, or turn it into a tablecloth to celebrate a meal for one. Heh. And so I try and try, I push my hand inside the currents of my mind and try to capture one of the many writhing beasts in there. I am not sure if they are fish, dragons, nameless monsters or corpses of drowned teenagers. Perfect in their moment of death, preserved in the most glorious period of their lives. But dead nonetheless.

I have a new kitten in the house. She is totally black, sleek and tiny. She loves to be kissed on the tummy. Strange for a cat. Smells like a cat should, her tummy hairs soft and clean and deliciously cat-like in their scent and feel under my nose. (All cats smell differently, did you know that? My orange one smells like cotton candy, she smells like chocolaty cat fluff, my Persian has a stronger smell, a little tangy.) I see her playing about and she is adorable. Many years from now, she'll probably be a fat sick smelly animal on the way out, as I have seen so many of my pets becoming after countless years of being a pet owner. And it mysteriously never ceases to hurt me. It never stops me from wondering how the hell did I miss the in-between years and how come I don't want to touch that sick smelly thing that used to be my cat but don't recognise anymore. I never manage to avoid feeling guilty about it either.

Impermanence. The source of all our sorrows. Is it really? Why should anything last forever? Why should we? We are faulty in our making, so why make this last?

Am I the only one who's so conscious of the passing of time?

Am I paranoid? Obsessive?

I don't want to leave but don't want to stay to watch myself become a fat smelly thing on the way out. If I shy away from touching my own cat, who will want to touch me?

So where does this leave me?

Nowhere.

"Make good art" Mr. Gaiman says. "No matter what's happening, make good art."

Can I do that?

Sometimes when I walk in a gallery and see a heart-stopping painting I know the person that painted it managed to capture one of the things that writhed inside their heads. And suddenly I know what that thing was. No dragon, no fish, no corpse, but a devious, sly monster very few brave people have managed to capture.

It was a moment in time...

[Both gorgeous paintings by John William Waterhouse.]

Life theories: Synchronization.

I have a life theory I want to share with you.

The theory is the following.

Many times, life is a matter of synchronization. In most cases, synchronization that doesn’t happen. Take my friend for example. She spoke to her boyfriend about seeing their relationship a bit more seriously than just the odd fuck in the weekends. She did not mean marriage, just a more decent behaviour, for example going to the movies together or for a drink, and so on. He did like her a lot and cared about her. Just not enough to make the extra effort to have a relationship instead of someone to use as a fuck toy. She gave him a lot of chances, again, and again. In vain. Today, three years after they split up because of his behaviour, he still sometimes sends her messages to ask her if she is ok. In reality to ask her if she is available and they can get together again. This seems absurd to me. I mean, he had her and made no effort to keep her. What does he want from her now?  The answer is simple. They couldn’t for the life of them find common ground at the time. He didn’t want to try or he was not ready, or he couldn't deal with it. Perhaps he never will. Bottom line being, my friend shrugged and moved on. Well, it certainly wasn’t that simple.This is the short version. She cried, she yelled, she thought about going back. But reality is very crude in its simplicity. No-one can wait for someone else. Life does not wait for you. You can spend your time waiting for someone else, someone else who may NEVER be ready to follow, or move on. My friend decided to move on, he stayed back. Sad? Certainly. Two people who genuinely cared about each other are now total strangers, not even speaking  anymore. It boils down to choices.

Even as write this I can see my choice and don't like it, but it's the only one I am left with. 

It boils down to choices and priorities. And self-respect.

So- goodbye.

It was nice knowing you.

I hope you live and learn.

I hope I live and learn.

Thank you for teaching me.

It's time to move on.

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*