Cat's cradle

 

Hello my conscious self,

Reality didn’t just slap me in the face yesterday. It slapped me with a door in the face. Just as I thought things were back on a good track, reality said, oh yeah? And used the steel door of a safe to slap me around a little. I feel a bit battered today, that's all. Just an elephant size bit. Oh well. It's not like I wasn't aware of the problem, but naive as I am, I was certain it was better. Never mind. One more relationship down the drain.  

Despicable bastard.

You're not helping me any.

My hormones are making this even worse.

I honestly wonder what the hell we need hormones for.

There is no answer to that.

There is no answer in general, and that forces me to come up with new interesting variations of an answer. And new fantasies I am too tired to do anything about. Just thinking, thinking, thinking, and consequently feeling horny, and eventually the day ends, and a new day comes, ad infinitum. The days succeed each other in the same meaningless manner. And I am about as aware of residing in flesh as the average ghost is aware of haunting a place. Hmph.

I was watching a friend of mine talk about martial arts and I envied him. Envied the ease with which he moves, envied his effortless posture. And thought of one of my characters, my beloved Takeshi. But there is no meaning there either, trying to live your life through other people's experiences. 

Where is the meaning? My inner voice demands. Tell me where the meaning is.

There is no meaning other than what we choose. 

I am so tired.

I did not lie when I said to my friend your energy is barbed. It has thorns and fangs and barbs and it's dark red, almost crimson black, solid and wet and sticky at the same time. Like the inside of an exotic flower that first attracts you with its smell and colour, then traps you and sucks you dry. But at the same time it gives, it gives fever dreams, nightmares and weak mornings. You are all devouring, all demanding. You leave love bites and secret poison as proof of your having been there, and finger marks on wrists and napes. You make women muffle their moans in between sheets and inside pillows, and next morning as you make your bed those moments fall on the ground like the beads of a broken necklace. I wonder, truly wonder how happy you are with what you have.

Are beings like us ever meant to be happy? And I don't mean be happy together. It will never happen. I am just wondering, that's all.

It's not like I am doing anything more noteworthy anyway.

 

Ample illumination

After the anger and the heartache last night, it is with great pleasure that I make the following announcement. I got the little bastard who was responsible for my fits of rage and now we're having a glorious time together. If you consider being fucked to death a great time, that is.

I am going to bed... just not yet.

My mind is running at many hundreds of miles per hour. I am busy inside. At the same time I am listening to the inner “motor” of the Earth warming up, the swirls of energy moving once more. The planet is preparing her engines and takes deep breaths, ready to pick up more speed. I think this will be a no bullshit zone/plane very fast. And I can’t fucking wait. I can’t, fucking, wait.

I am more attuned to what’s going on now. And the more I work on myself, the more I clear out the accumulated clutter inside me and make space for the messages and whatnots, the more I’ll receive. Back to the time of innocence, motherfucker. You did everything within your power to steal my innocence, turn me into a copy of yourself. But you have not. I think you have not. And trust me when I say that I’ll dance on your grave when the time comes. I may be heading to become the next Buddha, but I’ll take breaks in the meanwhile. I’ll be human whenever I get the chance, and quite low, and happy to see a worm like you where it belongs. Six feet under. You think you are so smart, and smart you are, but not wise, and certainly not kind. I’ll be the one to pour you more wine when you dine in hell.

Walking last night on my way to my Japanese lesson, I was listening to music and looking at the sky. I couldn’t help but once more realise how unique and kind you are, and you are not aware of it. Not in the slightest. I heard the tiniest sound of something breaking inside and I think it was my heart. I also think you’ll be the only one I’ll miss when I go, and you know where I’ll go to; we discussed it in my house. But I’ll find you again. I can wait, and time will be the one thing I’ll have in abundance. Besides, I was the one who made you, flesh of my flesh. I was the one who gave you form together with your father. I am not even sure who is the father and who is the mother anymore. I am not even sure if the strongest one descended or stayed up. Remember who is the biggest? Remember what I told you about your father’s dragon? Remember Magdalene, and how it appears that they captured the weakest of the two? The female in body and male in spirit appears to be just as strong as the male in body and female in spirit, if not more. It feels so wrong, so ridiculous to claim such power that does not belong to me and at the same time the mind makes connections I never asked for or understood. Who remained? Who descended? Who was the mother and who was the father? I was the mother, but Altamon is male and the most powerful. It’s a mess, isn’t it? And it probably makes no difference.

I have been defiled. I have been twisted out of shape and I breathe anger in and out. I have been mercifully deprived of my full power, otherwise that anger would have given Earth a brand new facelift. There are days what I want is to kill, torture and hurt, and believe me when I say I am not doing that bad. It is my secret shame, my burden. Nobody has seen me in my darkest moments. Nobody? Those who suffer at my hands have seen me alright, and it shames me and saddens me and yet I cannot stop. Like a junkie that always promises this time will be the last, but there is no such thing as a last time when you are a junkie. And I am a junkie. I do what I accuse others of doing, and I am blind, just as blind as everyone else.

And there are nights I just want to die, knowing that I may do the same things to my children, I may yell at them and drag them around in the house by the hair the same way my mother did to me, I may relish every single moment that I’ve scared them shitless and terrorized them because they stepped out of line. Control, control, control, control, control. I do the same thing now to my dogs, I yell at them and kick them into obedience and then I just want to die.

There is only the illusion of control that vanishes as soon as the river of anger fills again with red. And the river is always ready to run wild, always ready to swallow and carry everything away with it. And I’m riding the red wave as if I was born to do that. Born only to do that. Maim and destroy, hurt and frighten to death. And perhaps I was shaped into that, but I need to somehow befriend this. Not control it. You cannot control a hurricane or lightning. Accept it and befriend it before I wring someone’s throat till their eyes pop out together with a blackened tongue. It's not my conscience that prevents me from such an act, but my basic self-control.

I’d kill so many people if only I could.

And at the same time, so much understanding, such an innate ability to comprehend pain and such a strong need to soothe it. How can anyone be so violent and so tender at the same time? How can I feel in my heart of hearts the gentle sigh of each blade of grass trampled underfoot and at the same time hunger so deeply for destruction? How can I cry for each tiny life that ends and at the same time feel the need to kill so many of the so-called sentient beings? How can the same person still cry for the kitten that had died in my hands years ago and for my little mocking bird, and be so sadistic and callous at the same time? It makes no sense. How can these two feelings share the same body? How can they both be so powerful and encompassing? My entire being hungers for death, bloodshed and destruction and at the same time the concept of pain, people hurting other people and animals makes me burst into sobs.

At times like these, I want to go hide in a cave for the rest of my life. I want to shoot me in the head. I want to sleep and never wake up again. Still I am here and can’t go anywhere without giving up. And I am not a quitter.

However, I am certain of two things. One, I am not relationship material. I’ll never be relationship material unless I undergo through some bizarre personality change that happens only in bad Hollywood movies. My own self, my questions and inner seeking will always have priority over everything and everyone else. And that’s not negotiable.

Two, I still like myself a lot and wish to improve as a person, and would not change a thing about me even if I could. The only thing I want to change is imposing my anger on others. And that’s it. I love my anger. It’s truthful and part of me. I just don’t want it to run the show, that’s all.

And I should just sleep.

Personal responsibility

"Bullets are the beauty of a blistering sky,

bullets are the beauty and I don't know why..."

There are moments in one's life that change the course of that life forever.

Done can't be undone.

Seen can't be unseen.

"You cannot unring a bell."

Do you realise that every single moment is one such moment? It may not feel like it, but it is...

New year is here...

...and all the old troubles are hanging from my butt like a bizarre tail. Or tale, if you'd rather.

I have a cold. I am coughing and donating mucus in hankies like there is a special challenge and the biggest donation gets an award. Judging by my production, the award will be a golden nose on a mini pedestral. This year from the summer onwards I have been sick three times already. This is not usual. The money situation is shit and I get stressed on a daily basis, trying to make ends meet. As a result, my immune system has all but given up the spirit. You'll tell me, don't get stressed, it's not helping you any. You think I don't know this?

I am trying to make my mood better by making pretty things with my hands and studying kanji as if there is no tomorrow. You should really be able to see me sticking ribbons and confetti and sparkly thingies in photos while listening to Amon Amarth, Lamb of God, Dir en Grey and Cavalera Conspiracy. It's appropriate. Half of the time, I also accidentally stick my hair on the photo or stick sequins on my hair, and when I am done crafting I look like a person mistaken for a Christmas tree. Other than that, I am watching about one movie every night. God/dess knows what got into me. I think I am trying to keep my sanity in place. I am not even sure if there is such a quality about my person anymore in order to keep it there but I try.

Then I watch youtube videos with inconspicuous Japanese singers shaking their hips and licking microphones. Bad, bad, very bad. Especially if the singers in question have this outstanding face with the super wicked eyebrows, killer cheekbones and really long, narrow, evil snake eyes. And they do all these... um... affectations to no-one in particular. Then it's not difficult to imagine they come to your bed late at night and they give you this long, sensual, detailed massage. And just as you have turned into a mass of goo they fuck you blind, deaf and in multiple other ways challenged. Oh yes. Someone please. And that someone in particular, certainly yes please.

I also discovered I am married to Silvia, one of my oldest (female) penpals after accepting a request she sent me in Facebook. Good. She's a really beautiful and talented young woman and being married to her is very flattering. Too bad she lives in Germany, otherwise I might have tried to take advantage of the situation. Heh. I can see me, coughing like a sick dog and with two tampons stuck up my nostrils to block the constant flow, trying to seduce her. It would be a smashing success. And then her boyfriend would enter the scene and things would quickly get out of hand. Things would also get out of their appointed places and quickly enter in other places, and I am not referring to the tampons. :-DDD

Other than that, here is the link for the BEAUTIFUL dresses and gothic/period clothes my friend Silvia makes. Her work is fantastic, she speaks English and can take orders as well. You ask for it, she makes it.

http://www.kostuemgeschichten.de

Have a great new year everyone!

The one who put "ass" in "Christmas".

Christmas makes me depressed. Me, and half of the world's population, I think.

Today I was going through some old stationery that I have. Korean stationery, in manga style. An old pen-pal had sent it to me back in 1997. The beauty of those pieces of paper is unbelievable. The colours, the compositions, the way both sexes are depicted. That's why I have kept them for so long while I have given away so many others. I have even lost contact with the girl who sent them. It once more made realise what I am looking for when buying Asian comics and art as well as music by Asian bands. The illusion of perfection. Pretty men dressed in loose lovely clothes together with beautiful women, enjoying the sunset or spending time relaxing. But this perfection I am looking for doesn't exist. People are more stressed than ever, they don't look like this and usually run from one job to the other while their parents babysit the kids. They also smell bad, fart, get sick with diarrhea, have wrinkles, terrible taste in clothes and girlfriends/ boyfriends, extra kilos, lisps, are cross-eyed, moronic, boring, stubborn and as for the idyllic places the stationery depicts, the entire earth is polluted beyond measure.

I am getting sick of the way the human mind works. Always wanting more, more, more. Never being happy with what we have. I suppose I can understand why we're made this way; we're supposed to be continually looking for ways to improve our situation, learn more things, apply the knowledge to gain even more experience.

Yeeeeeah, RIGHT. All I see is people who refuse to grasp the basics. And though they struggle with the basics their entire lives, they whine "more, more, more" like hysterical, spoiled children. Until the day they are dying, and they are dying complaining they did not get to live. As if someone else made the decisions for them and they weren't there when their life was happening. And I want to smack their stupid heads and bruise them "more, more, more". Hmph. My usual misanthropic mood; pay me no heed.

If I ever manage to go to Japan I'll make sure I turn my back into a fucking tapestry of tattoos. Oh, and here's the conversation I had with my mother on the matter of tattoos:

My mother: "Your tattoos are all... black."

Me: "Yeah, I know. The next ones will have more colour."

My mother on the verge of a breakdown: "What?! You are going to have MORE???"

Me: "Yeah, quite a few."

My mother: "Wait till you get married and then you have some more." (She is obviously afraid no man will marry me because I have tattoos. And unless I get married, I am not a 'proper' Greek woman. *facepalm*)

Me: "You are turning into such an idiotic example of a prim and proper moron of the middle class. Who gave you any kind of guarantee that my future husband will have no tattoos?"

My mother spends a few moments considering this devastating possibility. Finally, when she manages to speak again, she tells me:

"But I don't like men with tattoos."

Me: "Well then, if he proposes you, turn him down."

ARGH! Remind me again what we need parents for?

PS:

Actual order of things happening now:

Eating pralines, writing on my blog, and sharing my bed with my two cats while listening to Dir en Grey.

Preferred order of things:

Eating pralines, writing on my blog about my two cats while sharing my bed with Dir en Grey.

Very wrong order of things:

Eating Dir en Grey, writing to my pralines about my two cats, while sharing my bed with my blog.

Surreal order of things:

My pralines eating Dir en Grey on my bed while my blog writes to my cats recipes on how to cook Japanese rock stars. (Eat the motherfuckers raw, they taste better.)

Writing poetry, fumbling with the unknown...

I am writing a poem for someone who has been by my side ever since the day I was born. If it turns out to be a half decent one, I'll publish it here. Generally speaking, I avoid uploading poetry here because anyone can take it and say it's theirs and publish it. It is the same reason I have never posted any of my short stories here. But I don't think this poem is such a big success anyway. Contrary to the person it talks about.

Life is becoming stranger and stranger. In the past I used to read my cards. Lately I am having talks with supernatural entities while being wide awake and under no influence of anything (except for a Greek milk chocolate bar with almonds). They tell me things, things I am not sure I want to know or do something about. Then I go home and read my tarot cards to see if I have gone nuts or not, and the cards verify the "conversation" I had had earlier on. Aaaaaaarggghhhh... *miserable moan* I am not sure I want to know all that. Hell, I am not sure if I want to be reading books as a pasttime and know that the writer made a deal with a supernatural entity to become famous. How do I know this? Oh, it's just the energy feedback I get. I feel like I am eating entrails of still living infants stuffed with cockroaches, that's all. And the fact I am yawning like I haven't slept for ten days, or there is a yawning contest. I am not sure I want to look at people and know so many details, know that they have hidden motivations and entities attached to them, know what their souls are like, know why they do the things they do. Ignorance is bliss indeed. But I can't help but wonder, what. The. Fuck. Don't other people feel it? Don't they realise there is something WRONG, fundamentally wrong with the book they are reading or the person they are talking with? Am I too sensitive? Too weird? Too picky? Is it all in my head? What is wrong with me? Is it wrong with me or with them?

Questions multiply by water, answers are scarcer than unicorn shit, as a friend says.

Stations of Life

I've just finished re-reading 1602, a graphic novel by Neil Gaiman.

Yesterday I re-read the first Books of Magic graphic novel.

Three days ago I saw one of the First in my sleep. His back was turned and he was walking away. "Talk to me" I pleaded. "I'm busy now" he replied and left.

A week ago I found out about a health problem I have. Not very serious. Not simple either.

Two weeks ago I finished another short story.

Three months ago in my sleep I talked to the one who tries to destroy me in any and every way possible. I hugged and told her, "You can still stop it. You can ask for forgiveness". She pushed me away, furious. "I won't!" she said.

Six months ago I started talking with someone who will probably be important for my future in a foreign country. She is important to me already.

Two and a half years ago I found out who you are. Are you?

Three years ago I accidentally linked with a photo and discovered that someone, an eighteen year old someone had been murdered and his parents still expect him to return home. I cried so much that night I though I would die.

Three and a half years ago I tried to help the one who had killed me in the past. I accidentally connected to the Source. Have not been able to disconnect ever since.

Almost four years ago my father died.

Six and a half years ago I broke up with the last relationship I had.

Eleven years ago I was in love.

Eleven and a half years ago I came back to Greece from United Kingdom.

Thirteen and a half years ago I left for United Kingdom for my studies.

Fifteen years ago I was still drawing. Not anymore.

Sixteen years ago my father left home.

Sixteen and a half years ago I fell in love for the first time in my life.

Nineteen years ago my mother was still hitting me.

Thirty years ago I was victimized.

Thirty three and a half years ago I was born.

How come I feel one hundred and fifty years tired?

Is it over yet?

Frustration.

[Beautiful art by http://gunnmgally.deviantart.com]

Something happened today which made me think about my future.

The body is a frail thing.

I miss my original form.

I miss the freedom of the wondrous.

I miss, miss, miss my freedom.

I sometimes think about choice and always come to the conclusion there are no true choices.

Only the illusion of choices.

In theory I can help anyone; such a pity I did not help myself more.

But I did not know more.

I did everything I could according to what I knew and understood.

Everything I did went exactly as it should.

It all went the way it would.

Would, should, could, my pink hairy asshole.

And now what?

Toshiya

I feel tired and frustrated today.

Perhaps it is related to what I did last night on another level.

If the information I got is correct, what’s happening is beyond my scope and understanding. And I have the feeling my information is correct. It’s karma of some thousands of years old. It’s hardcore stuff. Then again, I am the hardcore girl. I am not the kind of person who ever has it easy. I sometimes enjoy the challenge. More often than not, however, especially in the last years, I wish I had it easy.

I spent a considerable amount of time downloading photos of Toshiya, my personal favourite from Dir en Grey. He’s a surprisingly sexy Japanese male who looks gorgeous in drag and very attractive in ordinary clothes with his bass and badass rock star attire. Lately he has taken a shine to cross-dressing again, even though the rest of the band members prefer jeans, t-shirts and shirts. Their cross-dressing days are far in the past and yet pretty Toshiya once more wears skirts and dresses, minus the make-up. Now, if you ask me, I think he looks gorgeous in dresses and skirts and he should keep on doing it. I have never been the traditional kind of woman who likes her men masculine, hairy and uncompromised. Then again, beautiful Toshiya is probably doing it because the female fans love it so much. I enjoy the visual result since the actual person is about as far beyond my reach as the moon; something everyone can see and admire, but cannot touch or possess on a personal level. I often wonder how gullible I must be in order to think that a member of a world famous band could possibly do things because they want to, and not because it’s a management order or a technique to acquire more fans. Then I tell myself not to be harsh on myself and not bother with particulars that don’t matter and just enjoy. The self-inflicted head bashing must stop.

I would love to meet this man. Really love to. If he is as sexy as in the photos, I wouldn’t want to just tumble him, but eat his flesh for breakfast, dinner and supper. But photos are often deceiving, and there are a million other things that get in the way, so I just waste my time looking at photos. It’s undoubtedly a pleasant way of killing time, but I nonetheless feel I’m wasting my time.

How much time can you fit in the palm of your hand?

Radical radish

And then comes the day that you decide you just want everything gone from your email. And the best buttons in the world are: Ctrl+A+Delete. You don’t stop to see what’s useful and what’s not useful. You don’t save anything. You don’t care about anything. Everything has to go, and it does. Bye bye now. Off with their heads, said the mad queen. So I erased all my emails before I could change my mind. And I feel ecstatic about it. Yay!

In the future we'll be able to erase all our emails using bombs. Meh. Kind of a way to check your mail and release tension at the same time.

Then I went into Facebook, and for some reason all the advertisements on the right appear in Japanese. The fuck?!? Not certain why this is happening. Not even certain IF it's happening. Perhaps I'm having a bad dream about it. After watching three really bad horror movies by various Asian directors called "Three Extremes" I am sure I am seeing Kanji and entrails everywhere. It's the vlad, I tell you. The vlaaaad. (blooood.) That, and the awful directors. Very postmodern bullshit with psychoanalysis elements my two smelly feet. With the exception of the third movie in the lot, which was fantastic: dreamy, unusual, beautiful. Lovely images, really scary sounds.

The fuck. Now I think my customers speak to me in Japanese. Let me try cleaning my ears a little. Aaah, still I'm hearing Japanese. It could be worse. I could be hearing little children singing. Not ghost children. Off tone children. Those are worse.

Why on earth am I still hearing Japanese?

“All those born with wings.”

It is time. Tonight.

That the wind blows like a gale, like a curse, like a threnody.

It is time.

For me to spread my wings. Ebony black, darker than the heart of darkness.

To take flight.

To roam the skies between the blind screams of the elements.

I shall land on those rooftops that despair has proclaimed her own, and her ragged flag, invisible to all eyes but my own, is dancing to each hellish gust.

I shall enter from locked windows and darkened mirrors, unseen and unheard. I shall answer your prayers. Tonight.

Feed on you.

Feed on your hearts.

Feed on the reek of your sins.

Feed.

Tonight.

Till all that is left will be something so mutilated, so torn, that won’t pass for human remains.

Till your true nature is revealed. Rotting sacks of meat. Nothing that could be called a soul residing in you.

There.

Do you see me on the floor, wiping my mouth?

Between the dark blood, and entrails, and the broken bones sticking out from torn limbs?

Do you see my knowing smile?

Do you know my name?

No?

It is time.

To enter in places where there is no hope.

To touch the brows of those dying alone.

To kiss the cheeks of children crying even in their sleep.

I’ll wipe the blood from my lips before kissing them goodnight. I shall leave no trace.

And if I cannot save them anymore I‘ll steal them from you.

I’ll whisper in their ear.

Suicide. What a tragedy.

Surely not as bad as the so-called life they had.

And my sister, the shepherd of the lost, will pick their souls from the crossroads, and embrace them like you never did.

I’ll mix poisons in boiling cauldrons and feed them to you secretly.

I’ll feed you when you think yourselves invincible. The purest milk from my breasts.

The source of feelings becoming the source of death.

Vagina transformed into a grave.

You will pay.

By the blood from your veins you will pay.

For the blood of your children that you shed with such ease you will pay.

No-one can stop me.

No-one can make me spare you.

Tonight that the wind knows no rest, I come on wings as black as the negative of matter.

Bare like the moon.

Black like my Sun.

Because you called me back.

You raised me from the river of Lethe and named me.

You gave me my wings.

You armed my hand.

You sharpened my sword with your outrageous crimes.

No land will hide you.

No god will save you.

You are mine.

“And her name was like a blackbird, like a night bird crying out in the most desolate of all deserts; the human heart.”

Beautifully mad.

It's pretty much useless.

He is not Nuare and I don't have thigh high boots yet, to trample him underfoot.

Still the thought persists.

It's them again, pestering me. Damn Japanese. Always pestering me. I swear I was only making labels. Not looking for trouble.

*Sigh*

And he is beautifully mad too. Isn't it a shame he is so far away?

[Both photos: Kamijo, singer of Japanese rock group Versailles.]