After spending a whole month struggling with two chapters, I wrote two more in the last week/ ten days.
The very last one is death and despair. Which is good. It reminds me of what writing should be about. A good kick in the behind. Reading can be pleasant, informative, a way to kill time and all that. But sometimes, just sometimes, reading should be about as pleasant as a hand gripping your heart and squeezing it, then throwing the remaining meat to the crows. To hell with pleasant reading and my pleasant ass. There are vampires in there, not smurfs or care bears. And there is death, madness, despair, and the knowledge that no matter how long you may live, some things will not leave you, or be forgotten. They'll stay.
"If you ask me why bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, I'll tell you I don't know. I never figured that one out. Perhaps there is no why. Am I sorry about everything I did to you? Of course I am. But if I met you tomorrow, I'd do the same all over again. I can't help it. I just can't."
I can also refer to the fact there are two new erotica pieces in my arsenal. One finished two days ago, one finished about half a month ago. Both male/ male. I don't know what I am supposed to do with them except read them and feel horny, which is why they were written in the first place. But other than that... The gay couple I know can't read my English to give those pieces to them. :( I think they'd enjoy them. I think after everything is said and done, gay people will give me a medal of honour. Or something. But nothing is said or done yet.
Well, there is always my homophobic friend who's really eager to read the next chapters of my story, and he has a surprise in store for him in chapters 24 and 25. That should teach him to make strange comments whenever I upload feminine men in my facebook photos.
For me, there is nothing more beautiful than the human body and its movement.
I love to watch it. It's exhilarating. Male or female, it's the same to me. I see sheer beauty in its fluidity, in the lines, in the curves of the muscles, the ripples of movement under the skin of a dancer or an acrobat.
The moments those people fly in the air and mock gravity.
The moments those people mock death himself.
So many hours, days, months, years into perfecting your movement, into making your body the statement.
Into letting your body speak, sing and scream its defiance to any and all boundaries.
So many refusals in order to make your body a living work of art. So much pain.
And although they know death waits for them at the end of the road like it waits for each of us, they choose the path of pain and perfection. Even though they know that their body will eventually fail them.
And yet, when those people fly in the air and forget to land on the ground,
when those people move their body in ways that remind to the rest of us too that
the impossible is nothing but a leap of faith and miracles demand only a lifetime of dedication.
I think the least we all owe them is those moments of stupefied wonder and gratitude for allowing us again a glimpse in paradise.
I have always had this random thought, that our idea of beauty is absurd. We find something attractive or pleasing to the eyes because we are what we are. Our human body gives us a specific idea of what is beautiful. For example we're bipedal and therefore look at other people's legs and specific shapes seem attractive to us. If as a race we had no legs, or a fishtail, or something entirely different, then the two legs we now admire and feel aroused by would seem as erotic to us as the gills of a fish, or the tail of a horse.
Then again, our eyes instinctively recognise harmony. The closer someone's facial and bodily analogies are to the golden ratio Φ, the more attractive they are to the rest of us. Symmetry is a sign of healthy genes and it is knowledge on a deeper level, even if someone has never heard of that ratio in their lives.
With that in mind please explain to me why I bumped my nose against the screen in a vain attempt to get closer to this:
Normally I put the products of my crafting adventures to my other blog, but this one turned so pretty that I'll put it here, too. Anyone who wants to see more details of it (like the decorated inside and back) please visit my other blog (see below the photo). Thanks!
I would not possibly be still alive if it wasn't for my imagination. Whenever I have been depressed, angry or overwhelmed by reality I run in its arms the same way a scared child runs back to their mother's embrace. In a sense, my imagination has been my mother in a lot more ways than my mother ever has.
However, every gift comes with a an equal price: my imagination runs wild. It's natural for me. I never had younger siblings, so I spent long hours on my own. I tend to project my inner world to the outside just like people do. I literally live in there and consequently get very annoyed that I have to drag around my humble mortal body as well. However my inner world overwhelms, overruns and exceeds other people's worlds the way an ocean outweighs a spoonful. Things are so much more interesting, grotesque, humorous, violent, wonderful and versatile in my own world.
One downside of this is I often imagine what people are like and fill in the gaps with my inner
palette of feelings, colours, ideas. I give them my characteristics and
my intentions. I create them anew in my head, dressing them with characteristics they don't possess or imagining that they can't be that bad.
They can.
And now we come to you.
We don't really know each other.
I have never heard you laugh. Never seen you cry. I have not held you in my arms. Never kissed you or sniffed you (as I am so intent on doing whenever we visit each other in dreams.)
Are you sure you know me?
You see, I often think I know others but it turns out I know my fantasy of them. Not the real people. And then I get hurt. And the one thing I do not want to do is hurt you in any way.
I know things about you.
I feel things about you.
Yet the picture of you I have in my head is my creation.
Let me tell you what I think I know.
You're giving. Giving to a fault sometimes if someone gets past your defenses. You're also giving because you're not interested in material things. You're not stupid or gullible, just indifferent to the concept of possession. You like items for what they give you, not for the item per se.
You're loyal for life. Unless something changes in the relationship, you'll be the last person to leave the boat. Even if it sinks and there are sharks around it, you'll stay. You're in for the long haul.
You're extremely intelligent, both emotionally and mentally. Your mind is restless and always quick to jump from one thing to the next. If you get bored of something or someone, you'll get rid of them, even if you change your mind afterwards. But the way you have grown up has left you very little space for long-lasting regrets.
You're headstrong and volatile. If something annoys you, you won't suffer it for a second longer than you have to. And it takes you a lot of time to admit to yourself that you need to make or embrace changes, because that same characteristic that makes you headstrong is what has kept you alive and sane. Your adamant core refuses to break and also makes you respond more slowly to change. However, once you are certain that it is for good, you're one of the people that will let go immediately and jump to the next phase. From that aspect, you're one of the most kamikaze and rush forward individuals I know. You don't rush because you're foolhardy but because you're certain.
You are one of the most talented people I have come across. You have a unique sense of colour and texture and know how to combine elements in a way that is ingenious, balanced, elegant and beautiful. Your hands make music out of anything they touch, whether it's paper, colour, cloth or a musical instrument. Your 'melodies' are at the same time deep like ancient waters and delicate like lace. And I have seen you creating music with so many different items that most people view as surfaces.
You make reality sing songs of haunting beauty and feelings so intense the majority can't even suspect they exist.
You make others laugh. Your friends me tell how playful you are and I believe them. You're like a little teasing bee. I can see you sometimes, always restless, busy with something or other. You need to drop dead with exhaustion to stop.
You're beautiful. I do not refer to your good looks only. You're beautiful as a bird or an animal is beautiful. Natural and not self apologetic.
Your kindness springs from the well of pain. It is not sugar coated with ignorance but has a coppery taste instead. Like blood and water coming from the deepest core of the earth. Coming out to bless this world, reality, the whole of existence. You make flowers grow in people's hearts and gardens.
You hide under a million guises and half-spoken phrases. You hide behind cautious glances, you hide behind thoughts, silences, words, smoke screens, doubts, and the secret pleasure that it's a game played at your own time. And you're safe. If you choose the timing and the amount of information you'll disclose you're safe.
I wish, I wish, I wish I could have kept us both safe back then. I wish I could have opened a door and guided you the center of my heart, inside my secret garden. You and your brother and your two sisters. But I could not. I cannot. No matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try. Even if I knock my fists against the wall of reality till my knuckles are reduced to bloody shreds I can't. We only have today and tomorrow and the next day.
But we can build a garden together.
I promise you it will be safe. I promise that even the roses in there will have no thorns.
And I walk with my eyes shut, feeling the way. I write and pray, pray and write. I have no idea what's getting out of me anymore. I just write. I try to capture in words the essence of feelings and faith. The food of gods. Feelings and faith.
I don't know where this is going. I am guided by my sense of touch. I let my mind struggle with the riddle of plot non-stop, asking questions, trying to piece together scenes, information, characters, reactions. My other part does nothing of the sort. It opens the trapdoor in the attic, extends its arm in the Collective, grabs and brings down material. It pulls down whatever it can get its fingers on. It downloads feelings, colours, fleeting images, landscapes, sounds, sensations. It's like watching a chimera giving birth. I have no idea what that writhing bundle of colours that I pulled out is. I gently but firmly push my fingers in the ripples of colour, amongst feathers, fur, scales, and I push and pull, smooth out and unfold. The process is like an origami for a dragon tamer or a mythology hero. I have no idea what I am doing anymore, I just work with my fingers involving my rational thinking as little as possible. The rational part comes in later on, when I need to give the text a more accessible form.
When God made us to their image, we were made capable of creation. Male and female is merely another stupid restriction of this plane. Nothing more or less.
I really am. It started in 2005 and it has countless hours of work in it. It also has a large portion of my unusual ideas, mentality and emotional chaos. I am proud of it the same way I would be proud of my child, even if the neighbor had just appeared at my doorstep to tell me my child blackened the eye of their kid. I am sure most people don't like it. Then again, I don't like most people.
I got rid of massive amounts of unwanted items in the past few weeks. Humans amass such ridiculous quantities of useless things around them... And slowly those items become a part of the house, or library, or cupboard, and we don't even realise they are there. A friend brought me a large volume of her unwanted books, so I was 'forced' to once more go through MY books. Which was excellent initiative to see what else I can get rid of. Thankfully a lady I know does a bazaar around this time of the year for stray animals. She got a small mountain of unwanted books, most of which had been stored in another room than my own. She also got comic books in Greek. She sold them all and we're both happy.
As I went through my earthly possessions I realised I can't find two books I really love. The one is 'Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov. The second is 'The perfume' by Patrick Suskind. I have the very bad habit of lending books and other items which more often than not results in me losing them. So I added the books to my wishlist in amazon and slowly but steadily managed to gather another big pile of unwanted comics in Greek.Those will go to another friend. I re-read them and they are good, but not something I am interested in anymore.
The next thing I did was get on all fours. And stuck a cucumber... HaHAHAHAHAHHAAHAhaahahha you fell for it, didn't you? Nope, I stuck my head under the bed and pulled out a large cardboard box. In there I had my collection of (shriveled human heads. I wish.) stationery. I had started collecting it when I was around 12. I decided that after 23 years that I had all that paper in my possession it was time for it to go. I mean, I want to move abroad and stay there permanently. Having under my bed a box of papers that are more that 20 years old serves no logical purpose I can think of. Of course, I am still keeping my enormous kawaii stationery collection. There is no way I am giving that away!!! I am not bored of it yet.
Going through my old collection (full of flowery, dreamy landscapes, beautiful women, romantic themes and so on) I got a glimpse of what I was feeling back then. More than anything else, that state of mind was achieved by my sense of smell as those stationery sets are all aromatic, and smells are an express connection to the past. I had so many dreams back then. I still do and they are not realised. I never really expected my life to become like this. I don't think anyone ever does.
Yesterday as I was separating some papers to send them to a swapper I thought about vampires and wondered if they, too, hold onto objects. However, when you're made to outlive everything and anything that surrounds you, whether living or inanimate, it must be hard to be sentimental about objects. You cannot afford to be sentimental about people anymore, let alone objects. Besides, modern objects are not build to last. Clothes, gadgets, even jewellery in some cases last only for a season or two if they are expensive. In the old times, clothes lasted for twenty or thirty years and I have an ancient stereo thing that plays large rolls of tape. It belonged to my father and it's probably still working. I don't even know the name for that item. Not even in Greek, I mean. But it's working after the 40 odd years that we have it. Buy a sound system nowadays and see if it lasts longer that five. And it's not only the objects that are made to be cheap. The mentality is also different. I have had the same cellphone for the past three years. It's still working, so I see no reason to change it. If it breaks, I will. Until then, I am perfectly happy with it. It does not have a touch screen, internet or android. You press buttons and call people, or accept calls, or send messages. That's what a cellphone is supposed to do. It even has bluetooth connectivity and can get funny ringtones by my friends' mobiles. All my needs are covered. Most people nowadays stampede to get the latest iphone, ipad, imyass although they have the exact previous model. I could get in a long winding argument about how this mentality has screwed us and the planet over by making us buy with money we don't have (credit cards) gadgets we don't need at an outrageous price. Gadgets that cost 10-20 dollars to be made are sold 500 or 700 or more, and they are made in terrible factories that treat human beings like automatons. But no-one will listen because they are too busy playing with their new gadgets. So I won't say anything more.
Sometimes I hope the Earth will get Her Christmas wish granted and an extra terrestrial civilisation will come and spray the population with something that kills eejits only. And the rest of us will inherit the earth and their ipads too.
The speakers of my home PC have started making gurgling sounds instead of playing music. I think I need to replace them. Also, the graphics card supports Hulk for president. Perhaps Hulk kissed it. Every time I try to enlarge a picture to full screen, the screen blacks out and the computer shuts down. When it comes back to its senses everything is tinted green.
My mouth is full of tiny wounds for the past three or four days. Every time I eat something sweet or salty, it hurts. Which means it hurts from dusk to dawn and vice versa.
My mother's best friend will be kicked out of her house in two weeks because she cannot pay the rent. She can't pay because she can't find a job. My mother has sold most of her jewellery to cover our daily expenses. Things don't look good at all although we don't pay rent for our house, but we do pay rent for our job.
The floor of my room has absorbed moisture and the door was pushed off the hinges. When I want to close the door, I place it ON the door frame and place something heavy behind. None of the balcony doors are opening or closing because they need to be repaired. They are stuck. I have no boiler for hot water for the past two years. I wash by warming water in pots. I can't flush the toilet, most of the wall sockets are not working and there is mildew in the cupboards. We have no money to fix any of those things.
I am 82 kilos. I have never before in my life been 82 kilos. I feel I am the child of an elephant married to a whale waiting to happen. I can't get in most of my clothes and it's impossible to exercise when I go home around 23.30 at night, every night. And that without referring to the fact most of my body hurts due to lack of exercise and working endless hours.
I have not paid the electrical bills for many months now. I can't. I have no money to pay them. If they discontinue the electricity I won't be surprised. I won't be happy either. My mother has not paid for her taxes or social security in three or four years now. We can't afford it. I have no social security at the 'young' age of thirty five.
There is more, but I don't want this entry to turn into a litany of misfortune.
What you don't understand is that the only thing that saves us from madness and despair is humour and human affection. And what you cannot understand is that time flies, and every time you deprive yourself of those two things is a chance lost. There will be more later on, you say or think, but it's not true. The river of time moves inexorably forward, and for almost everyone is linear. Which means, if there is someone, anyone at all you have a good time with, seek them out. Seek them out because the river later on may fork, and each of you may follow a different path. And then you'll never see them again. Due to life, or death, you will never see those people again. And you won't be able to turn time back and see them, make up for all the chances that you had and never used.
Think of time as a conveyor belt that rolls and rolls in front of you, and you can eat all that comes your way. One day may be full of shit, another day it may carry treats, yet another day may be a mixture. Most of the time it's full of shit. Some sweets are a one-time offer, other for a limited period, others always. But you don't know which is which. So when you catch a glimpse of a sweet, go for it. Most of us think that the belt will keep running forever. It won't and the number of treats is not infinite. Neither are your days. Eat what you can when you can. Squeeze joy and sweetness out of life at any chance. No-one knows when the belt will stop. No-one knows if the chance you now have will be appear again.
Live. Don't breathe out of habit. My life sucks and I honestly try to make the best of it every day. My house is falling apart, soon I'll have no job and still I try to read books and see my friends and make things with my hands and write, because even if I get suicidally depressed NOTHING will improve. I'll just feel like shit on top of everything else. And falling into depression will make me give up.
Live. Live because everything is fleeting, fragile and important. Live and try to see the humour even when nothing is funny. Try to laugh even when you want to knock your head against the wall to stop thinking, and gouge your eyes out to stop seeing, and stuff your ears with instant glue to hear no more. I know how it feels. I am there EVERY fucking day. I know. But try to see the humour and it will keep your head out of the water and hold you afloat for a while longer.
If only I could make you see this.
If only I could see it myself.
Oh well. Our destiny lies in the stars, and I know just the way to go there.
Malakas= asshole. But in this instance, it means idiot, someone who's been taken for a ride.
If you really want to know about Greece, please take a few moments of your time to watch it. On the other hand, it might seem that Greece is very far away and it's not something you should bother with. Well, it's not. Anything and everything that happens on this planet will sooner or later come and knock on your door, too. No matter how far you may live, or how safe you think you are.
Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Great Story
Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading
characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader
may see what they are made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as
possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete
understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish
the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
Trying to log in Paypal or your mail with Caps Lock on. Great success.
Struggling to log in Paypal without Caps Lock on but with the keyboard turned to Greek. Another great success.
Cursing like a constipated sailor with syphilis while attempting to log in Paypal without Caps Lock on and with the keyboard turned to English, on the day ebay decided that there is no reason why it shouldn't misbehave and refuse you entry. You can't win, can you?
Writing a whole paragraph with Caps Lock on without realising it, because you can't really type and you keep looking at the keyboard. Or just because you're busy and distracted and don't realise.
Same as before, but writing an English text with the keyboard turned to Greek. The statement I just wrote would look like this: Σαμε ασ βεφορε, βθτ ςριτινγ αν Ενγλιση τεχτ ςιτη τηε κευβοαρδ τθρνεδ το Γρεεκ.
Writing a whole paragraph of English text with the keyboard turned to Greek and through the random combinations of letters accidentally invoking Cthulhu that appears in all his glory and chomps you down. Then burps in non-Euclidean frequencies and the world collapses and is replaced by a shining gold turd. I dare say it would be an improvement.
Other variations have to do with internet searches with the keywords in Greek and busting your head why you can't find the (English) site. Until you look at what you have typed and looks like a chemical composition for a new psychotropic drug. Well, that's why you can't find the site, genius.
I am absentminded and easily distracted, more or less like the majority of people that live inside their heads. This should explain why on more than one cases I have shaken my chocolate milk after I have unscrewed it, splattering milk all over me. Or why I sometimes try to drink from bottles although I have not removed the protective foil from their opening. Or why in most cases that I squat ON the toilet of a restaurant or a place I don't trust to sit on, more often than not, I manage to pee on my right shoe.
I don't even have to refer to those cases that after I seal an envelope I realise the address I need to write is on an item INSIDE the envelope. Or I spend a quarter of an hour looking for something I had just next to me and it has vanished. In one case I even went to the kitchen and the bathroom of my house thinking I may have accidentally taken it with me to another room. Then I looked at my huge ginger cat, sleeping peacefully on my bed, and I picked him up. And there it was.
At some point I will think of more and write a second entry. :)
The following extracts are from Kenneth Grant, from the book 'Nightside of Eden'.
..."The
number of Kia, 31, is also that of AL, the key of The book of the Law,
and in this sense Kia may be said to be the eye of Nuit, the Ain, which
is the 'other' or 'secret' eye, (i.e. the vulva), typified by the anus
of Set."
Which 'AL' are we talking about? Weird Al
Yankovic? Remind me again why am I reading about the anus of Set at this
time of the night and I will be grateful. Also, while you're at it
bring me an ice-cream because all this Tree of Life talk always gives me
the munchies.
"The 23rd kala is under the dominion of Malkunofat who lies in the depth of the watery abyss."
I
mean no surprises there, it's been raining on and off for a week,
watery abyss is but a mere understatement of the situation. Plus fat
creatures generally fare better in water. Like whales and my aunt
Eustacia. Besides, if I don't find a place to pee soon, the watery abyss
will be augmented. Seriously. But to be honest with you, I pity the
23rd koala. What happens if Malkunofat accidentally trips and squashes the
poor fucker?
"He may be aroused by a shrill stridulation of his name in the key of 'G' sharp (upper register)."
Now,
why would I want to do that? I mean we have just started getting to
know each other and all. Plus that stridulation thingie sounds suspiciously like
strangulation, only applied to strings. I wonder what it means. Sounds
very interesting. No honey, no stridulation tonight, I have a headache.
Don't get aroused on my behalf.
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/stridulation
v.strid·u·lat·ed, strid·u·lat·ing, strid·u·lates
v.intr.
To produce a shrill grating, chirping, or hissing sound by rubbing body parts together, as certain insects do.
v.tr.
To produce by rubbing body parts together: "The crickets stridulated their everlasting monotonous meaningful note"(John Updike).
See? Rubbing together body parts. I was certain he was referring to sex somehow.
Here
is an example of a writer that beats my brain black and blue through
his writing but at least I understand what he wanted to say:
"When you move into the level of dream
consciousness, all the laws of logic change. There, although you think
you are seeing something that is not you, it is actually you that you
are seeing, because the dream is simply a manifestation of your own will
and energy – you created the dream and yet you are surprised by it. So
the duality there is illusory. There, subject and object, though
apparently separate, are the same."
"The realms of the Gods and Demons – heaven, purgatory, hell – are of
the substance of dream. Myth, in this view, is the dream of the world.
If we accept gods as objective realities, then they are the counterpart
of your dream – this is a very important point – dream and myth are of
the same logic … and since the subject and the object seem to be
separate but are not separate in the dream, so the god that seems to be
outside you in myth (or religion, if you prefer) is not different from
you. You and your god are one … All the heavens and gods are within you
and are identical with aspects of your own consciousness on the dream
level." Joseph Campbell, Myths of Light, p.70
Here is a more demanding extract by the same author:
"[T]he idea of survival after death is about
conterminous with the human species; so also that of the sacred area
(sanctuary), that of the efficacy of ritual, of ceremonial decorations,
sacrifice, and of magic, that of supernal agencies, that of a
transcendental yet ubiquitously immanent sacred power (mana, wakonda,
sakti, etc.), that of a relationship between dream and the mythological
realm, that of initiation, that of the
initiate (shaman, priest, seer, etc.), and so on, for pages. No amount
of learned hair-splitting about the differences between Egyptian, Aztec,
Hottentot, and Cherokee monster-killers can obscure the fact that the
primary problem here is not historical or ethnological but psychological
– even biological; that is to say, antecedent to the phenomenology of
the culture styles ..."
- Joseph Campbell, The Flight of the Wild Gander, p. 50
