Sunday, May 06, 2012

Nothing like Facebook

A test for you:

On a night out clubbing you are approached by a handcuffed couple wearing odd garments consisting mainly of latex and lace that leave their private parts exposed. You feel:

A) Freaked out. What the hell? I thought this was a weirdo-free place!
B) Excited. You've always wanted to be part of a threesome, only you did not know how to start or where to look!
C) Interested. You love latex!
D) Indifferent. Your outfit is so much more interesting!

If your answer is A, you are in the wrong blog. If the answer is B, C, or D, then join us. We are really friendly freaks! :-)


Monday, April 30, 2012

Cute as a crocodile


I am restless. I can’t calm myself and I don’t even want to try. I partly know what’s wrong, but there is nothing I can do to make things better. Sometimes what is here bites me, sometimes what is not here cuts me. I am trapped in the exact middle of suffering. Suffering? Not really. I am trapped in the exact middle and refuse to feel anything. (See previous post). Save for my heart that yelps like an abandoned kitten and my brain that is filled to the brim and overflowing and my loins that have once more started their never-ending whining (end of period, beginning of ovulation) everything is fine. Everything is peachy. Everything is great.

I refuse. Refuse to make myself cheap, to mingle with people that drag their hearts (or what’s left of them) in the mud of every day exposure, of meaningless facebook chat, that throw their hearts in the mincing machine. I refuse to dress my heart as a whore, dress my body in a way that hints “available” and go out, to bars and cafes in order “to meet someone”. I am not “someone”, an interchangeable vague quantity. I refuse to shut up, to feign stupidity, to become “cute”. I am 5’10’’. I don’t do cute. I do tall with generous curves and vicious fists, I do tall with ritualistic tattoos, a stinging tongue and an acidic intellect. I also do vulnerable as fuck for animals and innocents. I don’t do spinster, agreeable, easy going, conventional or safe. It does not matter if my heart cries its loneliness at night because I know who I am and know what my heart needs. We’re priceless and we don’t sell out. There is no trial period, no reduced prices, no nothing. There is genuine feeling, or nothing. There is passion or silence. And even if I don’t find what I am looking for, I won’t regret it. I am not here to live a normal life. I am not here to be agreeable or charitable. I am not here to be an example for the social standards that raised all those robots that piss and shit on the planet, relationships, their children, themselves. If I wanted to be such an example I would have opened a fashion blog to advise airheads to buy $600 and $3000 shoes to be looked at as ascended deities from the Hell of credit cards. I would be “cute as a button”, “social” and married with two children, a car and a dog. I am none of these things. I hope I’ll never be.

I only wish I could feel that there is at least one person, except for my friends, that feels I am the most interesting, attractive and challenging individual he or she has seen in a long time. And that I would feel the exact same thing. But I am not here for that either. I am only here to live as best as I can with anything that this entails, relationships or lack of them, desires or lack of them, hope or lack of it. I am just here to live as best as I can, period, and if I am honest with myself the rest will follow.

In the mean time: whatever. I am looking at the wabbit and melt. Fuck off and leave me alone. I am too hard-boiled and tough to be swayed by any overdose of fluffy cuteness. That's the spirit.

*Starts making silly voices at the wabbit again because she thinks she is alone*

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

A meeting with Death



Ok, now I am seriously wondering.
What’s wrong with me? Have I become so skilled at suppressing my feelings I fully lost contact with them?
(And more importantly, who cares? A little voice adds here. It’s really convenient that most of the time I am numb to, well, everything.)

It’s really convenient that I care about no-one save for myself. But I don’t care even about myself that much as it seems. Well, I don’t care about anything. The feelings switch is stuck to 'off' with permanent glue and six inch nails to make it more secure. Instead of feeling, I go through the motions. Half-assed at best. I am expected to feel sadness and pretend I feel it, or happy about something and I pretend about that, too. In reality don’t feel anything. I expect nothing, hope nothing, fear so much.

Funny how I am listening to Anathema now and the lyrics say:
“Today I introduced myself/ to my own feelings./ In silent agony, after all these years,/ they spoke to me…/ After all these years.”
I dread the day the feelings will speak to me again “after all these years”.
It will be similar to a handshake with a tornado. It will rip off my hand and then my head. And that’s probably what I deserve for denying my inner voice for so long.

But you see, I somehow have to preserve my sanity. I somehow have to keep functioning, keep working 75 hours a week only to watch the mountain of bills grow bigger with each passing month. To work from day to night in order to sink more and more in debt. To deal with the fact that if I want to do something creative or simply different than eating and dropping dead on my bed I need to sleep less. To somehow deal with the loneliness that always lunges and bites me at the jugular when I am least expecting it. To deal with everything. If I let my feelings run amok the way I used to in the past I’ll resort to breaking things, screaming at people, screaming at mirrors, hurting myself, hurting others. I have been there and I don’t want to revisit that place. It’s not constructive in any way to cry about where you are. In the long run it always makes me a lot more depressed and desperate. And I can’t afford desperate and depressed right now. I have to keep my wits about me somehow, in some way, and I’ll do anything it takes to do that. Anything needs be done. I have to stay focused, sharp and NUMB.

And then something slips by. Something slips through my guard. It may be a picture on the net, or a song, or an article in the newspaper. Feelings are represented by the element of water. And you cannot imprison water. Sooner or later, water will find a way, as a friend always says. It may be a single drop, but that drop falls on my heart and burns it like acid, like boiling oil, it runs through it like a barbed spear. The pain is so intense that it gives a whole new dimension to the entire concept. It’s brilliant. It’s magnificent. It’s almost beautiful in the way anything final or lethal is beautiful as much as devastating. It cannot be ignored, suppressed or escaped in any way. It’s similar to ending a life, taking the wrong turn in a way that cannot be undone and it will always and forever live with you from that point onward. That’s the pain I experience. It’s so deep the night seems transparent in comparison, the red of blood looks pale yellow beige standing by its side. And I want to stay away from it. I want to keep it at a safe distance. I am not sure if I should blame myself for it. It’s not a passing notion; it’s not a fleeting sensation. It’s nebulae and supernovas and the end of the world distilled in one single moment. The moment the pain switch breaks the glue, spits out the nails and clicks back to the 'on' indication. Then a multitude of other feelings stampede in, and they use me as a pogo stick, with my head down, before kicking seven shades of blue and red and purple out of me. It’s not fun. Desire is the first to rush in and wrap me in its arms, kiss me in the mouth with its breath smelling of chocolate and honey and summer and run its nimble fingers all over me, setting me on fire.

“Remember me?” Desire asks. “Now look at him. Isn’t he beautiful? Wouldn’t you want to smell his hair? Wouldn’t you want to touch the back of his palms, oh, look at how beautiful his hands are, wouldn’t you want to see him with fewer clothes on? Wouldn’t you want him to look at you and feel the same, wouldn’t you want him to inhale your scent as he bites you during lovemaking? Now, don’t lie to me, because I know you want to.” And I want to, I burn with the need to. But I manage to kick Desire's groin and wring the necks of those needs fast and effectively, as if I was dealing with poisonous snakes. And run, while muttering lists with things I need to do in order to distract myself from the urgent demands of sexuality.

Then Creativity steps in. “Hello", it says. "Remember me? Don’t you want more people to read what you write? Don’t you want to speak out loud? Don’t you want to sing when so many others screech and whisper and croak when they write, while you sing? Don’t you want to free every child you have made out there, and see how they fare away from your hands?” 
I smack Creativity in the face, take my whip and force it to put that down on paper instead of yelling it into my ear. And that’s the point I manage to escape that threat. Creativity writes furiously while muttering to itself, one eye blackened, its attention diverted from me. And I run like hell only to stumble upon Death, who gives me the look he has patented and copyrighted and trademarked.

“Hello Elizabeth” Death says. “Remember me? We used to be friends.”
“That was in the past. When I thought I had plenty of time. Now I am running out of time,” I mutter nervously.
“Well, you can always pick reproduction as a means to gain immortality,” Death says with a shrug. “You know, pass on your genes et cetera.”
“What the hell?!? What are my genes to pass them on, a second hand T-shirt?” I yell at Death. “I am not falling for that!”
“And what do you think time is?” Death asks. “You cannot run out of time. There is time enough for your needs. Time is not coffee, or the Herald Tribune in order to run out of it,” he observes. He seems amused, but I am not.
“It’s a trick. Sexuality is a trick to force us reproduce because we fear you!” I shout at him while pointing with my finger. 
Death shrugs.
“First of all, I’d like you to stop pointing. It’s not polite, and you would not want me pointing at you.” I gulp and immediately stop pointing. “Now, you sound like a Cosmopolitan article gone existential Freud. I did not even know such a thing existed before now.” He makes a face as if someone added curry instead of cinnamon and salt instead of sugar to his cappuccino. “I believe you need to sleep and you need to get laid. Not simultaneously, it will be a failure from both aspects. And I cannot bother about any of those, they are your responsibility. And I suggest you sleep now, since getting laid requires company that you presently lack.”

What a perfectly wise idea. Let’s be practical and realistic. Off to bed. NOW.

PS: Damn you. You are good looking, interesting, funny, have similar political views to mine and live a few thousand miles away. This is not very helpful, you know. Or practical.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Not a circle but a spiral...


Is the circle I am about to re-open appropriate?
Is this circle right?
It appears so.
November 2003 to November 2005. Two full years, eleven notebooks. An entire book. Still in my hands and I am incapable of using it due to copyright matters. Should I revisit that story/time? Would that be wise?
There is never any way of knowing, any guarantee that our actions are correct. What I do know is that I love those characters more than I love my breath, more than I love my blood. They are my breath and blood. I have kept them in my heart all these years the same way I have kept a dead pet and cried over it. Time heals, and yet their absence still hurts me like it was yesterday I lost them. I need to go back. I need to reclaim that world, to revisit and reshape it according to my desires. It will be mine now, fully mine, and no-one will be able to stop me.
I owe that much to them. That I can tell.
I owe that much to me.

Friday, March 30, 2012

No escaping gravity


It's funny how I see the bars of my cage everywhere. 
I see them in what makes other people comfortable. In relationships, family, steady work. In friendships. In finding someone or something desirable. Even in having this blog. In all the strings that come attached with anything we do. I see them even inside my head, drawing lines. Enclosing and creating meaning and at the same time imprisoning me.

It could be almost funny how what we perceive as reality is fictional. More and more I realise that there is no such thing as reality. There is only a haphazard splashing of meaning on a canvas made from nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have seen people going crazy. I know the next irrational act one can do is but a hair away from the semblance of "reality", from that fever dream we live on a daily basis. People grabbing a shotgun and creating yet another bloodbath. People snapping and killing someone they love. It doesn't take long, or much for someone to be unhinged. I have seen the sly beasts hiding behind the eyes of parents, I have seen the hand that caresses killing with the same ease.

Right now I live a normal life.
The more I look inside the more I comprehend I am none of the things I like or do.
There is nothing I cannot do, or cannot become.
I do have a personality, but personality is mostly a creation of habit. Habits can change and that small creature of habit called personality can die a silent and effective death.
Do I want to do it? Now that's a question.
Do I want to become everything?
Oh hell yes.

I have seen behind the veil and there is nothing there.



[Beautiful art by heise.deviantart.com]

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

The second blog I promised you...

My second blog is slowly growing. Only a few posts yet, but I am getting there...


Or the first link in my list of links.

You are more than welcome to visit.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Dreams of no importance


Why do I bother myself with what your problem may be when you are out there to get what you can?

Then again, dreams have no emotional censorship. What I felt was a very powerful blast. You were trying to reach me, to get close to me, and I grabbed you by the face and pushed you away in the same manner a bored prince would push away a concubine that has tired him with her affections. You had three or four other men around you and you were truly desperate to get close. I was indifferent, treating you as an annoyance. In the same dream I could see your house and it was spotless, but there was no kitchen in there. You were only eating cold meals based on very simple and poor ingredients. You don’t feed yourself on any level. You deprive yourself of emotional nourishment because you are an idiot of the worst kind, wanting to control everything. Control again, that old friend of mine. Controlling. What an excellent way to keep yourself busy in order to avoid thinking. I do it myself…

I pushed you away and you grabbed my hand, literally begging. “Please” you said. “Send me away, but at least caress my face.”

Now in the dream I felt pity for you and was more than a little shocked; you are not the begging type. Why, I would have thought you’d rather have your nails torn out than beg, much less beg a woman, any woman. And even less me. Then again, in the dream you were writhing in the arms of those men, and even as I pushed you away you still tried to get close. You were actually tearful. That’s what shocked me the most. You were begging me with your face contorted by agony and tears in your eyes.

Can you fake it so much? My sensible, caring side asks. Can you fake so much feeling? 
You probably can. You can probably do a lot more to gain attention and steal energy.

At the same time, my dark side is having a party thinking of the delicious possibilities of me hurting you, making you beg on your knees. Something you’ll never, ever, ever do in the waking world. You’d never stoop so low as to beg a woman and me in particular. Never. That belongs to the world of dreams, of my soul visiting places of ‘what may be.’ And I’d never try to make it happen either. I don’t think I can anyway; I feel very alienated to myself to believe anyone could feel something so strong for me. It’s not even low self-esteem as much as actual alienation. I can’t identify with the person I see in the mirror and see her as a woman, much less a desirable woman. But I digress. The only real reason I do not wish to go down that path is that I am not sure I’ll be able to keep my sadistic impulses in check. And if I don’t, heh. Then god/dess help us all and me more than anyone else.

Then morning came, full of distressing news. And right now I can’t focus.
I have seen similar dreams before.
Thankfully they fade away during the day.
Thankfully you have no access to me on any level.
I am safe, both from you and my dark side.
At least for now. Later on I may be a different person and not care.
I truly hope I will.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

[Insert random sounds of distress here]

Some people have a gift they should be shot for. Or deified. And yet they're humble...

I just finished watching the Mist, based on a novel by Stephen King.
The part that really spoke to my heart was an old "friend" of mine.
Let me introduce you...

Her voice resembles a raging hurricane, the Ocean before Time giving birth to existence. The end of the world and the beginning of Worlds.
Enjoy (?)


Saturday, March 10, 2012

Black and gold and full of scales

[Wonderful art by Royo]

Today I am wondering again if you are happy.
Of course, it makes no difference what I think or believe. It cannot alter your state of mind. I can only change myself. Yet sometimes thoughts pass through my head, similar to erratic flocks of birds. The mind as the most ancient drive-thru in existence.

Sometimes I wonder if I want to know. I know I am merely cheating. I cannot live anything exciting now and try to find something more interesting to bother my head with. But my head is bothered and fucked up and disturbed already, it’s a reverse Cathedral of wishes, dark games and obsessions. I should not add to it.

But are you happy? My mind once more asks. And what had happened between us back then?
Who cares? With my luck in these matters, you probably had murdered me. Much like another person we both know. Or have heard about. 
I don’t really want to know, to be honest. I want the naughty stuff without the painful details. Hahaha. What a bloody idiot. Wants a consequences-free sin. Like eating those disgusting 0% sweets. If you’re gonna sin, sin boldly. Sin like you mean it!

Will I be able to get rid of the past?
Will I be able to dance through the minefield of you all without ending up as minced meat? Burned, broken and destroyed? Because fully avoiding you doesn’t seem an option. I don’t know how stubborn you are as a person. The other one is extremely stubborn. And he’s about as attractive as that insistent, sweet toothache when one is teething. It hurts but kinda nice. One can't help but rub their tongue onto it.

And there are days I know that none of you has any actual power over me. I can simply slip from between your fingers like a memory and leave you behind, because that is what you deserve. I can simply get up and let you fall in the floor, in the manner of a woman who sheds clothes she does not need anymore.

Well, I am still wondering if you’re happy. And whether adultery is your cup of tea.
I promise I’ll add honey and spices to it.

Friday, March 09, 2012

Erotica



Been writing erotica for three days in a row. Perhaps my head will explode and LET ME BE at last. And I am not even ovulating.
Mah.

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

Hide and seek and you may find

 

Sometimes days pass in a hurry, like the fluttering wings of a bird.
Sometimes the hands of the clock get stuck and go nowhere and the day drags on like punishment.
And sometimes feeling and understanding are bridged in a single moment. The experience itself illuminates with nothing more needed. Feeling is understanding and time does not exist. Everything is one.
Books, volumes cannot express that magic speck of time. Philosophy is inane prattle compared to the alchemical moment when something -and everything- makes perfect sense.
How many such moments have you had in your life?
And why do these moments illuminate those who have lived in darkness for years, with their hearts as their only source of light?
How can music make me cry so much when so many things don’t touch me anymore?
For a moment you danced in front of my eyes, and you were just like the snowflakes you so much love. Flawless. Perfect. Celestial. Beautiful enough to make someone’s heart break.
Still waters run deep. Ancient water married to ancient fire.
How do you hide so well?
How do you hide so well? Answer me. How do you manage to hide under all those shadows and poisonous thorns when you are so white a single glimpse of you can illuminate my entire sky? The pearl hidden in the abyss. The proverbial pearl.
I am lucky I can read between the lines.
I am lucky you have illuminated my sky.
Thank you for making me cry tonight.
Thank you.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

I am expanding!

Literally. Last time I weighed myself I almost got a heart attack. But never mind this. Let's hope my next boyfriend will be muscular enough to deal with it, because I sure as hell won't do anything about it. No, what I meant was that I'll open a second blog that I plan to keep as vanilla as possible and only write about my hobbies there. I don't want to refer to this blog here as interview material, for reasons we can all understand, and I certainly won't censor what I write here in order to make it less "challenging" for a possible employer. On the other hand, a site with my writing is a good thing, and I want to have one handy. There will be a link to that blog from here, but there won't be a link to this blog from there because I want to keep them separate (again for reasons we can all understand). As soon as it is ready, I'll add the link. Feel free to visit, although I need to explain beforehand that it will be a blog related ONLY to my interests. Which means, letter writing, crafting, music, movies, books, comics, manga and the occasional reference to role playing games and other bits and pieces. No deep philosophical questions, no overdose of pondering and no profanity, to the degree this is possible.
Let's see how this goes. And THANK YOU for reading this blog, even if you don't want to comment or make yourselves visible. I take this as a compliment of this blog being a secret vice of some sorts (don't I wish!).

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Gorgeous red hair



You do realise...



...that there should be a law AGAINST men who naturally have this colour of hair, don't you?


Not for any other reason than sheer petty jealousy...


Goddamn all the redheads in existence and their bloody freckles...


Why should a melanin glitch make my heart lose a heartbeat? Or half a dozen of them, for that matter???


Ahhh....


Ermmm...




I think I am going to go fuck myself. Suddenly everything has a new meaning.


Yes, the phrase "go fuck myself" fits the description perfectly. If you'll excuse me for a moment...


Goodnight you all...


I said good night!!!



[Photos: Bartek Borowiec, a very ugly specimen of flaming red hair and milk white skin. Excuse me while I wolf whistle!!!)


Give it a fucking rest already!!!