Phoenix

"Hi ho, nobody home, love nor hope nor honour have I none, yet I will be merry..."

The song of the dispossessed is buried with them, piles of rotting flesh in nameless graves. Then the crows, eaters of flesh, take it back to the Mother who's Unfathomable, Unnamed, Sacred, Absent from this hellhole of a world.

"You know, Lilith has had as much bad press as Lucifer, if not more. It's the same with Kali and Hecate. Kali kills the parts of the self that not only don't serve a purpose anymore, but turn into fully-fledged demons if left unchecked. Hecate was the goddess of witchcraft, but also of justice, eloquence, a protectress of pregnant women and children and the one who in her mercy gathered the souls of the mad and the suicides from the crossroads."

And Lilith?

Luminous shadow of Creation

the left hand of God/dess

Black Moon to Her Black Sun

The Ancient One who walked in the gardens of Babylon

The Second Born and first to give birth

Exalted, revered, sacred

The ones scared of Her power 

called Her mother of abominations

the One who gave birth to Death

As if life itself isn't the first step towards

the embrace of Death...

And you?

I weave. Silently, incessantly, I weave. I write and pray and light candles and kiss my cats and eat and walk and talk and weave. In my sleep I sing the song of the dispossessed and wake up with my cheeks wet with tears. In my waking hours I see the heart of the tiniest phoenix in the flaming center of a flower and go back to bed with my cheeks wet with tears. Cause no-one else sees it, and when I tell them about it, they give me that half-smile we give to children and mentally challenged people. 

If you have money, you are eccentric. If you don't, you're just weird.

I can live with it. 

Dead Can Dance

"Song Of The Dispossessed"

The river is deep and the road is long

Daylight comes and I want to go home

Awoke this morning

To find my people's tongues were tied

And in my dreams

They were given books to poison their minds

The river is deep and the mountain high

How long before the other side?

We are their mortar

Their building bricks and their clay

Their gold teeth mirror

Both our joys and our pain

The river is deep and the ocean wide

Who will show us how to read the signs?

The earth is our mother

She taught us to embrace the light

Now the lord is master

She suffers an eternal night

You blocked up my ears

You plucked out my eyes

You cut out my tongue

You fed me with lies

Oh lord

Oh lord

Oh lord

Oh lord

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Ta daaah!

I know who my enemies are. They are the Grey Black Reptilian Jewish Gay Freemasons, who also happen to be Communists, because their answer to everything I try is "NO". I knew it! I fucking knew it. I could tell by the way the postman is giving me the evil eye. The fact I sometimes order books that weigh half a tonne and he's developed multiple hernias the size of a witch's hut is irrelevant.

Because the stars are right and my lower back hurts (again) and there's been a string of incidents of unmitigated entropy, I declare war on seriousness. I demand to fondle boobs and butts on a daily basis times three, or else. Money would also be nice.

If my demands are not met promptly and in a satisfactory manner, I shall eat a barrel of beans and proceed to fart the sweet Bejeesus and Infernal Chorus in vapour, which will in turn kick the living daylights out of your detestable species homo cretinus. I shall continue until the entire country is lost in a bubbling green-brown cloud that is a hair away from developing self-awareness and buying an iPhone. DO YOU HEAR ME?!?

Other points of interest include: 

• my Schrödinger mustache, which both exists and doesn't depending on who's looking (I can see it just fine, yet others say it's my idea) 
• the fact one of my cats mews like a horse accidentally inhaled a canary and then a cat accidentally swallowed the horse and now all three are having a conversation
• mosquitoes in February buzzing over my head and sounding like a hoover is sucking air through a fan, but in slow playback
• bending time and space by living on money I have not received yet and won't receive until three months later
• there is. No chocolate. In the house. No chocolate. In the godsbumped. Whorefucked. Sunfried. Pimplejuiced. Asstapping. House. None. Whatsover. Arghh! L'eeeengh! Weghjanitor, bepantholldopel visavickslkanjig xkajax lgjwalrusswl! Yggdrasil!

I started speaking in tongues, it's a sign that heralds the oncoming beanapocalypse. You can still stop it. Send me money. Lots of money. I need it for the vet. And chocolate. Digsbums a la creme! Motherstacking infidels of borderfine generalities! Shub Niggurath wearing nipple clamps! Ai, ai, my lower back hurts! Fhtagn!

I don't know what I am doing wrong, but I suspect something is not done right. xD
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Last exit for the Lost

That last exit for me is music. Writing presupposes some kind of coherent thinking, music needs less thinking. Screaming, for that matter, needs no thinking whatsoever. But since it is next to impossible to start screaming in a flat without drawing the wrong kind of attention, music and writing it is.

2018 is here and thankfully I am here too. I have an impressive frostbite on my right index finger, good music in my possession, a wound inside my mouth, lungs full of mucus and a half-insane mother because one of our cats is probably not going to make it. I am resigned. She is not, and she is making me crazy too because she needs company. Oh well.

First blog entry of the year and I set off on the wrong foot. Someone once told me that this blog is always complaining about something. He made me feel I should apologise for feeling the way I did. Then I remembered my friend Virve, the one who died. In one of her very last messages, she told me to keep writing regardless of who loved my writing and who hated it. She said that neither category had anything to do with my writing per se, but the person themselves. The reason this blog was created in the first place was to be an online diary. I won't censor myself. I guess no matter what you write about, someone will be displeased. Then again, there is always the option of not reading what makes you upset.

So I was talking about sadness. Sadness is not acceptable by society. Mourning is not trendy or productive. Being constantly positive is the latest fashionable prerequisite. Everything happens for a reason. Everything is a valuable lesson. Whatever does not kill you makes you stronger. And so on and so forth. Right?

Not everything happens for a reason. Most bad events happen because we are the most pig-headed and close-minded race of sentient beings I have ever had the unfortunate 'privilege' of coming across. There are less than five people I can talk with and not need to explain or be wary of their intentions. I survive by keeping a low profile and feigning ignorance. I survive by listening to music, reading, writing, and minimising the time I spend socialising. Which reminds me...

 

I've done a lot of socialising for my standards since October. Turns out the maximum amount of exposure to a large crowd (30+ people) I can handle is once every two weeks. I refuse to repeat it in a smaller amount of time. I simply get sick. Sore throat, cold, you name it. The funniest thing is that everyone who mets me regards me as super social and friendly. Low profile, remember? And to be honest, I do care about people. I am not friendly and kind towards them because I want to manipulate them.

Music is what makes our souls soar above the mud of existence. Man-made vibrations that express a multitude of feelings. Love is what makes our souls merge with something bigger, leaving behind us every smidgen of pretense and appropriateness. And to quote one of my most beloved heroes, "You don't choose the ones you love. What you do choose is the way you'll treat them".  

If I extend my hands left and right in this small room, crammed with books and CDs and personal items, and with a cat sleeping on my bed, I am alone. Right?

No. Because they open the door of my heart and out they come, one after the other, the ones I love, my characters and creations. The ones I brought here and gave them flesh and blood and other people who love them and hate them and want to see them dead. And together with them my books and my comics and my CDs and my old drawings secretly open too, and countless stories pour out, colourful strings of every conceivable hue. Everyone I've ever loved and hated is here with me, and what I need to do is close my eyes and will them out. Every story humanity has ever come up with, or at least one variation of it is here with me, together with every note and colour and tear ever shed. How can I be alone? I am not. I am never alone. Even in the most desolate, tiniest cell of the whole world I would not be alone. There is a richness inside beyond anything. It merges with me and makes me ecstatic, makes my eyes so full of beauty and wonder that this world will forever pale in comparison. And that is why I am sad. Because my eyes and mind and heart perceive the fullest potential in a world that has gone to the dogs. And the gatekeepers of this world hate my guts for it.

Should I really apologise for that? I don't think so.

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1984 dreams

Today I came across something I had forgotten I have in my possession. Some childhood Barbie and Ken dolls of mine. I thought I had given them away. One of my dogs had chewed them and they are mangled at places. Probably that's the reason I kept them. I had forgotten them, yet as soon as I opened the bag and saw the splendid dresses, I remembered them.

Right now I don't know what to do with them. They are not in good shape to give them away, and I don't want to throw them away. It's so strange. I feel I am holding dead people in my hands. It hurts and I don't even know why. No, not dead people. Dead dreams.

I went online and found them in pristine condition. It's pointless to buy them again, even if I had the money, and I obviously can't undo the ravages of 30+ years of time. It's the nature of reality. But at least I can remember what they looked like when I was holding them in my hands and life had not crushed me in a hundred different ways and I was full of dreams bigger than life itself.

And I still hope. I don't dream as big as I dreamed back then, I don't hope in the same way, yet I hope. They didn't take that away from me. Not completely. And I know how hard they tried.

I don't expect others to understand why I upload these photos. But I need to do it. It's a form of apocatastasis. 

From Wikipedia: Apocatastasis (/æpoʊkəˈtæstəsɪs/, from Greek: ἀποκατάστασις, apokatástasis) is reconstitution, restitution,^[1] or restoration to the original or primordial condition.^[2]

Barbie Dream Glow 1984

Barbie Jewel Secrets 1985

 

Ken Jewel Secrets 1985

And perhaps the last Barbie doll I had ever bought. 1988 feeling fun Barbie. In 1988 I was ten years old.

Who would have thought one day they'd knock me flat on my ass...
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Tarot reading

This wonder of wonders is Louse. She is small, cute, stubborn and the Queen of mucus. This is why she is presently on my bed, on a small heating mat and on antibiotics. She was in the garden of my building, but she is too small to be able to survive winter outdoors. She got sick on top of that. Meh. Need I explain more? I think I don't. Wish me luck. I hope to find a home for her.

This was supposed to be a funny entry on tarot reading. I am not sure I can be funny at the moment. I can try.

As you may or may not know, I read tarot cards. I do readings for myself, my mother and some close friends. This isn't an entry for advice on reading. There are countless books and online sources on how to do it. I'm sure I don't have something new to add. I can tell you how I do it for the laughs though.

I always light a candle before reading cards. Fire and salt are the most ancient ways of purification. If you have some incense to burn, do that too. Fire keeps evil at bay, incense binds itself with the positive ions of the air and takes them out of the room if you have a window open. So don't be lazy, burn incense if you have it. It does what it says on the label.

Next thing on the menu. Interpretation. I have this special relationship with my cards. I talk to them. Sometimes it works.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Piss off! Don't act like you don't know!"

"Oh, that's reeeeaaally helpful now, reeeaaally clear, thanks for nothing."

"That's it. One of us here is pulling the other's leg, and you haven't got any."

"Are you on fucking drugs? I mean, seriously, are you?"

(Initially in a sweet voice) "Do you know what you need? Purification by fire. Unless you tell me, I'll use you for kindling, you useless piece of symbolic fluff."

"Oh yes, why don't you give me more people cards, I mean I need advice and I get every person in the tarot plus their close relatives and best friends. I thought this was a reading, but you seem to think it's a blasted wedding! Well let me tell you something, it's not a wedding, it's a funeral. Yours."

"Do you see these scissors? Huh? See them? Wanna take a closer look?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, you have one job."

"Are you giving me the lip now? Is that it? Feeling adventurous today, are we?"

"That's it. I am buying a new deck, and you are going into the spare box, together with the dust bunnies and your useless lazy sisters. Okay, half sisters. That's not the point."

Kidding aside, I've been using tarot cards since 1997. I have a lot of decks, yet this is my standard. It works spectacularly. Sometimes readings just don't work. The cards aren't to blame though.

(Having said that, once I got so mad with a set of clay runes that I pounded them to dust one by one, using a stone. Whoopsie).

The lousy Louse.

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Doubt

Ramsey Dukes rocks my socks. Open your ears and enjoy. He's amazing, and his sense of humour does not diminish the validity of his message. I wish I could be as clear, articulate, and at the same time as funny as he is.

Sorry for my absence. I have had cats run over, cats dying, cats run over but not dying, and the deluge on a daily basis here in Greece. I'm doing OK, thanks for asking. I have had interesting dreams too. Working on it. Kicking some ass, waging war, the usual.

Should anyone wish to help me with expenses during what proves to be a very challenging time, here is my Ebay page. See if anything catches your fancy. I'll add more items soon. Thanks in advance for looking! You're also more than welcome to donate using the ko-fi button on the top right corner. I feed more than 40 cats on a daily basis and I am still unemployed. Every little helps very very much. :) 1 euro= two cans of cat food. See how easy that was?
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Nyarlathotep

Two nights ago I had  a very interesting dream. I was in the bedroom of a young woman I've known since childhood. She was in bed with me and we were naked. In the beginning of the dream I thought it was her, but then she attacked me and I knew it was a shape-shifting demon.

I started struggling with the demon. It was strong and trying to overpower me. I was stronger. I was fighting to hold it still and screaming sacred names of entities at the same time. I remember using Michael's name, and I also shouted "divine providence". Every time I yelled one of the holy names, the demon reduced in size until what was left of it was a handful of blonde hairs. So I got off bed and started burning those hairs using a candle, and even the hairs of that thing were struggling.

Just as I was done burning the hairs, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and stood behind it completely naked. I was feeling at ease. Outside stood a tall, slim young man, whose features were Caucasian, but he had the skin colour of either an Arab or a person of one black and one white parent. His eyes were green and transparent. He was actually quite sexy and had a pleasant demeanor. He asked me if my friend was inside, and I replied she wasn't.

"Oh, that's a pity," he said. "It has such nice weather. I was thinking of taking her to the sea."

"I am sorry. She's not here," I said and closed the door.

I woke up feeling tired and cranky by my struggle with the demon. Two pieces of information came to me as I made the transition to wakefulness. 

One, that pleasant dark-skinned man was a demon too, and he had come to take what had been promised to him. You see, that young woman I have known since childhood had a mother who was involved in magic. Unfortunately she was the worst kind of witch someone can be; sloppy and with superficial knowledge. I wouldn't be surprised if she promised her daughter to some entity, or something tricked her. 

Two, that man wasn't just any demon. He was the Black Man of the witches, also known as Nyarlathotep. He appears as a man of Arab ancestry sometimes, but is also seen with Caucasian features. Great.

So... exterminating shape-shifting demons by vibration (yelling) and fire, check. Flirting with Nyarlathotep, check. Shutting the door on his face while he came to collect a debt, check. Seeing that dream on the night of the full moon, check. Not that I am counting or anything. Just saying.

I really, really need to win the lottery. Life is so much simpler when all you have to worry about is what colour nail varnish to use. Not that it'd change anything in my case. I'd still spend my days choosing stickers and my nights grappling with demons. And trying to type a blog entry with a cat sleeping on my lap. Both my legs have gone to sleep presently, and I suspect that's what I ought to do too. I hope Nyarlathotep won't pay me another visit any time soon; I sorely need my beauty sleep. 😝
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