My new career as a fan

See the expression, "when the shit hits the fan." My father who used to live in Corfu alone (Corfu is a lovely Greek island both my parents come from) with a nurse who took care of him is now in the house with my mother and me. The one who was taking care of him left and he can't really stay alone or take care of himself, so here he is. Take my non-existent free time and make it shrink even more.

I have a new cat added to the swarm of cats that we have in my house: she is a white Persian I found on the stairs of my building, obviously abandoned. I am still struggling with her ear and eye infection, she is months old (and not spayed), and small in size. I have the strong suspicion she is an albino. She, on the other hand, is convinced she is my tail, and therefore follows me everywhere, even to the bathroom, and "talks" to me all the time. She has the type of flat face an animal would acquire after a collision with a wall at a hundred miles per hour: looks like a crossbreed between a goldfish and master Yoda. Not pretty, but certainly ugly enough to be lovable. She also ignores my mother and everyone else in the house. Bloody Persians. Never had one before. Such attitude!

I am going crazy as I practically have no time to myself. My mother is not doing too well either. The second day my father was in the house, he was running a fever and also had a few seizures (he is epileptic.) So my mother come to the kiosk in a rather flipped out mode and I ask her if everything is OK. Her answer?

"Oh, everything is fine. Your father is lying on bed, pissing himself from the seizures, I have a house full of pissed underwear and sheets, the cats are meowing because they are hungry as I had no time to feed them, the dogs are barking cause they want to get out but I can't take them out because during the power cut the fat lady from the other floor was stuck inside the elevator and now the elevator is out of order, and I ask your father if he wants to eat and he tells 'not now, I am fixing the car.' So I ask him, 'what car?' and he says, 'the Renault. My hands are very dirty, I have to wash them first.' " 

 

The polite reader can hopefully understand the situation and forgive my long absence. Or, as an old guy with Alzheimer's put it, "since we don't smoke anyway, what do we need the fridge for?"

 

Needless to say, all these are happening while Greece is in the middle of the worst heat wave (of the month June) of the last 150 years... We get such temperatures as 43C (110 F) daily. Straitjacket, anyone?

Moonlight...

Last night I went to rooftop. The moon is nearly full, but not yet. I could hear the birds of night, uttering their monotonous songs with what sounded like reverence; I could feel the wind carrying all those news and bits of information. Life being created and life ending. Ghosts resting gently upon mossy rocks. Teenagers dancing. The city mysteriously alive, pulsing, breathing. The moon illuminating everything with a secret smile. My heart felt like it was ready to burst with longings I could not put to words. I wanted out. I wanted to float like a balloon and follow the silver brilliance to its source, vanish. Be gone. Disappear. I wanted so many things, too many to count. My entire being is made up of longings...

Hands free

Image taken from "the Unspeakable Vault of Doom", see my link "Cthulhu humour."

It's irritating. All those fools walking the streets speaking out loud to nobody. All those people, wired and cabled, like they're parts of some huge experiment in human gullibility. They are giving us, original lunatics, a bad name. We walked the streets talking to ourselves and our entourage of invisible friends for thousands of years before they came to be. And what are they worried about anyway? Brain cancer? Do remind me if peas can get cancer. I don't think so. :)

Tearing up things again.

Music: Agalloch: Ashes against the grain.

Song: Fire Above, Ice below.

"The woeful silence and wind's reflection/

Of your body's pale ode, an icy fortress of blood and ages/

Sky fire above, ice below the hearth/

Fall away from me to that citadel at the end of time/

Where death sleeps and dreams of your buried pain/

There has never been a silence like this before/

There will never be an ode like this again."

It has happened twice in the last three months. Been tearing up all those things I have been keeping as mementos. Old letters, letters and photos of boyfriends, terrible poetry I had written when I was ten or eleven, diary pieces complaining about boyfriends I never had, clipouts from magazines, copies of letters I had sent to people... I have been keeping those things believing they were in a way describing me and what I am. Problem being, I'm not that person anymore. I do not care about those people, don't communicate with those pen pals anymore and generally these are just old skins I have shed on my way to now. Like an idiot I have been holding onto skins while the original is here in flesh and blood. Who needs those things? Certainly not I. So I tore and tore and tore until I had a trolley full of past and then I went and emptied it into the recycle bin. I felt relief.

It's amazing how much papercrap one manages to accumulate in any given amount of time. For me, at least, it's papercrap. Other people with different inclinations collect other types of crap. Notice the keyword: crap. These things are just material objects. They are not us. Western civilisation has given to death the status of the absolute end, while it is nothing more than the transmutation of energy. So people collect things in order to keep death at bay, they hide under tons and mountains of bullshit. One day death comes and finds them and those left behind throw everything away, or suffocate under their crap, harbouring the illusion of those things being the person that is gone. We have promoted material objects to people. Congrats.

What is it about death that scares us so much? Probably the dissolving of ego, the loss of personality. Why? Ha. I wish most people HAD some personality, in order to be justifiably scared of losing it. I am being mean again, I know, but believe me, you have no idea what being mean is about and I'd rather leave it at that. I however promise that at a later entry I might decide to analyse what good and evil means for me. You don't have to agree, of course. You don't even have to read it, so...

Night walk

Sometimes, late at night, the urge strikes me to go for a walk. I take my MP3 and off I go, letting my feet guide me. The place I live is close to a mount and a forest of sorts, but I walk the streets. They are a maze.

I walk quietly, or I might go dancing and singing if the song is inspiring and the mood is right. Most of the time I am what I strive to be in real life too: an observer. I walk by and steal glimpses of the lives of other people. I see their gardens. I stop and smell their flowers, or touch their trees. When a room has the light on, I stop and observe the house. I see what kind of feedback I get. Would I like to live there? I often wonder what I would be like if I had grown in that house and had been in the company of different people. Would I be different? Then I count the lighted windows, estimating how many people are not sleeping, much like I am not. Are they expecting something? Are they insomniacs? Perhaps they are guardians, even without knowing. Perhaps they are suffering, or making love, or staying up till late watching this or the other film. Or maybe they are tormented by others, or tormenting themselves or others. Are they happy? Are they sad? Do they realise time flies? Do they strive for the best they can, or they hold back, afraid of fate, others, themselves? Do they live at all?

I don’t envy the lives of others. I know I will never get to live their lives and don’t want that to begin with. It’s me I am always talking to/with. Through my eyes and personality I interpret reality and am content being myself. Yet there are times I wonder, how many of these people will come to be meaningful to me, how many will be indifferent or even enemies, how many of them will be my lovers, which one (if any) will be the one to kill me, though ill intent or otherwise. Does it matter? No, it doesn’t. Those are just questions to pass time. What does matter is that time passes.

Do you ever see me passing by? Do you realise I am talking to your flowers or myself? Do you think me crazy? Do you crane your neck trying to catch a glimpse of the glorious night sky which envelopes the whole planet? Do you realise how tiny you, me, we all are, how easily a tragedy can take place, stripping you bare from everything you consider familiar, from your security and preconceived notions of life? Do you tell to those people that matter to you how you feel about them? Do you spend a few minutes every day with the one you love, be it a parent, companion, child, pet, or craft? Do you let them know you are there? Or do you just let time pass, thinking about bills and wages and pussy and dick? Do you really care? Do you see? Not just look, but see? 

Open your eyes

The night sky is clear tonight and the stars are a sight to behold

The night is sweet, and mostly quiet, and smells of flowers and spring

The earth awakens

Every moment, with every breath you take you change, you become a different person, a different version of yourself

Every moment, with every breath you take, millions of cells in your body die and new are created and your consciousness is begging you to make that one step that separates thought from action

Open your eyes. Wake up from your coma.

This is your life, right here, right now. This is your life, so you might as well live it.

Open your eyes.

You might just see me passing by.

Goodnight.

Who did this?

Someone found my wish list in Amazon.co.uk and sent me every single thing that he or she found there. Thank you ever so much, but who did it? The parcels had no sender's name.

Renewed my links section too. Enjoy!

No, I will not moan today. Not in the mood.

Nearly forgot!

A few weeks ago fans of two different football/ basketball/ volleyball teams got into a huge ruckus and virtually kicked the living crap of each other. One person was stabbed to death and many seriously injured. So it is early morning, I am at the kiosk opening and arranging the newspapers, and shaking my head with disgust as I read these headlines. A friend of mine, Theodore, who's half American half Greek, is asking me what happened. I explain to him that this is the Nature's method of weeding out the stupid ones. At that point another person who hears this conversation butts in and tells me, "yes, and I can tell you exactly what happened." "I'm not interested", I tell him. "No, let me tell you", he insists. "I don't want to know," I tell him, "these people are idiots who get what they deserve anyway." "Yes, you are right," he insists, "but let me tell you what happened." 
This utterly stupid conversation goes on for another one or two minutes, with him insisting that I have to know and me asking him to leave me be. Finally he says, "you have to know because you are Greek." (!!!) Failing to see any connection between the two things, I turn around dumbfounded and ask him, "so what?" Please read the ensuing conversation.

Him: "What do you mean 'so what'? You are Greek, aren't you?"

Me: "Yes, so what? I don't give a toss about it."

Him: "You mean that if an Albanian comes and burns the Greek flag outside your kiosk, you won't care?"

Me: "He can use the flag to wipe his ass with it if he feels like it, I don't give a fuck."

This freaked him out enough to make him go and leave me alone at last.

I AM NOT GREEK, GODSDAMMIT. I am human. Do you have any idea of what human means? I am not Greek, female, orthodox Christian, or any of that social conditioning crap. I am just human. What does Greek mean, besides having Greek education? Greek ancestors? There is no such thing as a pure blood anything! There have been endless blood mixtures over the millennia and that's the way it should be, for healthy genes. Besides, modern-day Greeks can no more lay claim on the great philosophical and mathematical ideas of ancient Greece. At least, not any more than any educated person of any race can. That was two thousand five hundred years ago, people. Do you have anything recent to show me that proves a connection to those great minds? NO. Then shut up. Religion equals fear equals mental poison. And as for gender, it reveals nothing more about me than the fact I belong to the birth giving sex. SO FUCKING WHAT?!

I am only ONE thing, fellas, and get it right because I will not bother explaining it more. I am human. And God/dess knows, NOT PROUD OF IT. How could I? Take a look around and tell me. How could I?

Wearing pink today.

Got myself an account in deviantart with the same user name (indigojester). If you click at the first link on my links list, it will take you there. Advice: stick your hair with glue on your head before reading it, so that the damage does not show afterwards. He. Been racking my brains as to what to publish there. Then the fairy-kissed part of my brain got up and in all seriousness said: poetry. Surreal poetry of which I have a surplus and actual poetry. No stories or story ideas. Poetry doesn't sell, unless we are talking about Kavafis or Robert Frost, so the possibility of someone stealing my precious mental children is very small.

Perhaps photos of me in underwear would help. Perhaps photos of my feet, tits and ass would help even more. But for the time being I'll stick to poetry, I think.

Brainfuck

I watched the movie "What the blip do we know" a couple of days ago. I have not been the same since. Make sure to somehow see it: steal it, rent it, download it... I don't care. Just watch the bloody thing, to realise why you do the things you do, and what really stops you from being happy. Still here? Go grab it!

Androgynous men...

Photo by http://blueblack.deviantart.com

A little irrelevant comment.

I wonder what is it that makes me so crazy about feminine men, men with make-up, androgynous creatures, men who are in reality women (have two of them in my stories and I mean it literary, not cross-dressing) and gay men in general. Perhaps it is my gender confusion. Heheheh, in a recent test I took I got 36 points in how male my brain is, while the average for women is 24 and for men 30. Hahaha! Anyway, tests don’t prove anything at all, so back to my point. I am crazy about such creatures, (especially of the gothic type) though I fully know I will never have one such myself. Perhaps it is the crush I had on Darryl, that beautiful Scottish goth eons ago, when I was in UK studying? It was never really fulfilled, but it seems that it was just a symptom, not the source of trouble itself. Perhaps my androgynous soul instinctively looks for men who are aware of their feminine side and not afraid to embrace it? (even though it seems that the only thing the men in question embrace is fashion and their countless insecurities…) Perhaps I am a victim/slave to beauty and this will never change? Funny thing being, I am fully aware of how empty these boys/ men are in reality, how incapable of holding a decent conversation, how childish, high school-type-of-mentality this reflects about me, but cannot get rid of it. I don’t think I ever in my life will. I mean, look at me, I am past twenty-nine and on the way to thirty, and still dream of androgynous angels and goths. How sad is this? I do not mean that I should at this age dream of doctors and lawyers (God/dess forbid that I ever fall for such mainstream, slave-to-the-system “ideal husbands”), but since I fucking KNOW what the deal is with goths, why not get over it? I’ll be damned if I know. You tell me. At least I now am wise enough to realise that the outside is just a beautiful wrapping with no content. If there was something inside, they would not be goths to begin with. 

You got confused? Lemme help. Someone who dresses as a goth, or metal fan, or anything, shows nothing but the need to belong somewhere in order to be safe. I belong absolutely nowhere and am very happy about that. I revel in my lack of definition style-wise, religion-wise, mentality-wise. Anybody who tries to classify me is in for endless trouble. I do cheap, mushy, kitsch, pink/fluffy, classical, solemn, gothic, macabre, high aesthetic, surreal, even hippy, goddammit. I do anything and everything. “I am a chameleon of sorts”. I do a mix and match of things. I am. I am NOT a goth, an 80s fan, a lady of the castle, a girl in a kiosk, a mad erotica author, an absolute failure according to the standards of society, the next step in human evolution, a misanthrope, a communication expert, a heretical prankless Erisian, a perfect atheist, a reader of soppy romance or a fantasy geek. I am all of them together. It is a matter of dosage. I do lawyers and doctors too. I just don’t fall for them, if you know what I mean. And it’s okay if you don’t.

System of a Down: “Hypnotize”