Monday, December 26, 2011

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 all 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. *face palm*)
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.)

Friday, December 23, 2011

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.

Friday, December 16, 2011

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?

Friday, December 09, 2011

Frustration.



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?

Thursday, December 01, 2011

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?