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”

New fb label (very informative!!!) *titter*

There is, in a sense, a tradition to this blog. And as my beloved Dorian (a serial killer and vampire in my stories) would say, “Keeping the etiquette is inevitably a good thing.” So the tradition for this blog is one funny text followed by one or two sad. People undoubtedly are caught a bit unawares by this habit of mine. How funny can it be to read something expecting to laugh and find the gaping maw of manic depression nibbling your toes? Or, for those naturally inclined towards melancholy, how disappointing it must be to one week read something familiar and next week to come across one of my surreal, graphic, humorous pieces? It’s like seeing this fella advancing towards you holding a pillow, only you are not certain whether the pillow contains feathers or stones. But anyway. As one of my new labels (that I use in friendship books) says:

Five facts about me.

• I am not here to be pleasant or agreeable. If this happens, it is purely coincidental. 
• Most “open-minded” people I know just parrot opinions they got second-hand with no personal experience involved. As for the “normal” ones, they bore me to sobs, goddammit.
• My Gods are funnier than your GOD
• Male/ male pairs make me wet.
• My inner pendulum swings between two “poles”: the Twins Eros and Thanatos (=death) and Chaos/Art. Which barcode do you worship?

Amuse me, impress me, make laugh, think, write my ass off. But please do not disturb: already disturbed.

I think that should be enough to actually scare “normals” and discourage a generous portion of the “open-minded” ones. Open-minded my arse.

To proceed with what I wanted to refer to, I am steadily losing the last connections I had with the human race. Or to quote myself from a letter I wrote today, “I used to care deeply about the human race. I still do. I just don’t like them anymore.” There is no connection save for the semblance on the outside. I used to feel pity for those who were in a difficult situation. Now I don’t, because they either brought this upon themselves, so I won’t spare any sympathy for that, or there is a useful lesson hiding somewhere in their trouble. Why should I feel troubled by other people’s life lessons? I have a lot of my own to feel pity for if I am in that mood. Moping about reality. How stupid can one get? What a fucking waste of time…

I am not in any specific mood for the past few months. I am slowly trying to find a new direction to push myself to, because I got rid of the old compass. This is how actual change happens. Fist one starts to feel that there is something wrong with things. Then one day s/he wakes up and the inner shift has taken place, and s/he is no longer capable of returning to the old patterns. This happens with no emotional fireworks involved. It just happens. The fireworks explode waaay before the actual realization of things being wrong. Finally, the person takes a new road, but just after the crossroads, there is a light confusion as to what s/he has to do while on this new road. I am exactly there now. Have to wait to see what has to be done. There is, however, one thing I know for certain: the majority of humanity can no longer surprise me, in a pleasant way, that is.

Hyacinths

(Image by Yang Fan, http://jiuge.deviantart.com)

The smell of hyacinths brings death to my mind.

There is something about the smell itself, its oily sweetness that reminds me of a rotting substance. And something about the flowers themselves when they start to wither and lose their suppleness. Then the finger touches them and feels no resistance. They give way under one’s touch in a rather unsettling manner. Like a dead body after a few days. I love hyacinths, but just like human beings, I want to see them for small periods of time. Beyond that, I start to feel put off by them.

Everything has to have a special meaning. Everything has to be dissected and analysed. Magic needs to be trapped and explained using test tubes. Happiness measured by machines and explained in wavelengths. Each and every one of us so certain he or she is right. Each and every one of us eternally craving, eternally thirsty for something we can’t put our finger on. The water given for free and yet it never quenches our thirst, meat and bread set out for each of us on the dinner table and yet we trace patterns in the dust and ash instead of eating. That is the nature of humans, judging where they should simply accept and finding fault in all people but ourselves.

I am tired. I am exhausted and feel like I have been nothing but pushed around by howling winds. And the worst is yet to come. There is no time to rest. In order to break free, the butterfly must tear the cocoon. The bird must break the egg. The being we call human must tear apart his or her reality. All the things we take for granted are just the first layer. Layers over layers.

Oh how I miss the sweet taste of blood of the freshly killed pray, and the times killing was the most honest and justified thing in the world. We got civilization and added more layers, we mummified reality under false laws and false values, while once there was a time of innocence. If you did not like someone, he was the first to know, by face-to-fist contact. And if you craved someone he was also the first to know because you asked for pleasure. Children had no fathers, or rather, a host of fathers but only one mother and the main concern was remaining alive. Now we got laws and lifestyle and nobody eats his dead relatives, but rather digs the grave of the living by lies and hatred and half truths. And we are all civilized. Proper. Caring. Open-minded. Alternative and mainstream. We talk to those we don’t like and never say “I love you” to all those we really care about. We smile to our customers and cry ourselves to sleep. We live (?) in our little cement and metal boxes, gather stuff we can’t take with us and argue about the meaning of life. And one day we go away, one day we lie silent and still and those left behind try to understand why.

My tom-cat sleeps with his front leg wrapped around my right arm and purrs in his half-sleep. And he is happy because I am home from work and I fed him and rubbed his tummy. And I am happy because he is happy to see me.

Death is what makes everything so precious. Don’t you see?

It has come full circle. Goodnight…

Old things

I am so mad at you. I feel that no matter what I do, in how many ways I try to prove you my good intentions, what I get (and what I'll always get) is nothing more than a second hand opinion on who I am and why I do things. You don't see me. You will never see me. Then why the fuck bother? Why try to please? Why even converse with a person that uses me as a blank screen to project his obsessions onto? When everything I have ever done for you is disregarded because I would not play snitch, and brushed aside because what matters is my relation to your obsession, then why try? Did you see me, the person, even for a single moment in this long sad story? I doubt it.

All I have to do is close this chapter too. You are only meant to do me harm, whether it is a conscious choice or not. So I will just leave you behind. And this will confirm your suspicions, but no matter what I do, it will confirm the wrong suspicions. I will therefore exit the scene, and hopefully I will do it with some grace.

After the Torture (Garden)

“Shall we be elevated/ or pushed into the fire? I don’t know.

Sometimes, sometimes, I loved someone/ sometimes,

sometimes, someone loved me/ that’s all I know.”

Deine Lakaien: "Sometimes"

There’s one thing beyond the norm that I ought to comment on. Save for the usual chores that such a night entailed, and we all know but don’t expect happening to us and thus don’t avoid. Such as the gaffe of dragging too many people alongside me and thus arriving late enough to miss the first show with Lucifire. (*visible fangs on my face*) Or the depressing air of desperation the whole Gagarin stank of (“I wanna get laid tonight”). Or the fact there were people in there that had made the usual mistake committed in such cases: they had spent a lot of money to buy and wear what they believed looked good in, seeing it on a model. However, they were a minimum of forty pounds overweight than the model in question and their flesh so flabby that hang like that of a pig a fortnight after rigor mortis, and they had diligently “dressed” it (squeezed it, and it was overflowing and frantically escaping from all openings) in lace and silk. Hm. No darling, nobody is hungry for flesh to the point of finding a potbelly or a half-naked ass the size of my refrigerator enticing. Yes, I know you have boobs. You and the other half population of the planet, and some much better than yours. Going around in your bra does not make a statement; I am sorry to break your bubble.

The thing I must refer to is Jonny Dragon and his show with fires. He was a full scale compensation, or should I say, a full scale attack? He had the kind of face I would call exquisite, full of wonderful angles at all the right places, and when he smiled devilishly during the act (which he often did) he was plainly ravishable. Why? Cause he was smug as fuck. He was full of that wonderful self-confidence of a person very aware of the fact that every single pair of eyes is watching him, and well, they should be. He was damn good at what he did and obviously had the time of his life being the centre of all that attention. Some people are born for the stage. He belonged to that category. Fiery talented and deliciously self-involved, in a manner I consider characteristic of a true artist, he made me goose-bumpy all over. I do admire performers who use their body anyway, and make no mistake, he was a sight to behold. Dressed in leather, shaved, slim, not very tall, long legs and wonderful lean muscles everywhere, a male dancer. The show just stole my heart; to see him encircled by endless rings of flame on a darkened scene, never stopping, never miscalculating, and moving with such grace that put most women to shame, ah, that was just... perfect. He often knelt in front of the photographers while juggling with the rod or the chains, inviting them into the fire, mocking them and bewitching them at the same time, and I doubt there was a single male in the audience that would not give anything to be him, even for a moment, and a single female that would not give anything to feel his full attention on her, and vice versa. (Save maybe for those turned on only by the sight of Porsche and a stack of credit cards, whose opinion does not concern me anyway; they can stuff both up their nether regions or down their throats and I’ll gladly provide the lubrication.) So thank you, Jonny. Just for you being there it was a beautiful night indeed. To see one such as you, a deviant of society, making a living out of sheer talent and determination gives me the courage and will to go on.

The only ‘bad’ thing after such performances is that my loneliness kicks in at full effect and want someone to pamper me. Badly. Both want badly and to pamper me badly. Yet no-one has the guts or the qualifications for it and I don’t have enough patience for the average relationship. The first stupidity I hear and out the window goes flying the transgressor (with the sole of my boot engraved on his butt).

PS There was more Jonny afterwards but I missed it because we had to go. :-( Argggh…

"Friends"

You fucking cunt rug. You despicable twit. Thinking you've got everything right, everything fixed. With a few kind words. And I'll be happy again, like an imbecile, or a hurt puppy. As if my whole life depends on people's approval. When it was so simple: what you had to do was keep your word, and you didn't do it.

You idiotic bastard. You fucking, blithering asshole. Thinking you've got me wrapped around your finger just because you have a dick. When all you can do is stare at me, stare like a bemused moron. Till my inner light will blind you once and for all, till my face burns itself onto your memory. And I'll descend like a tower of fire, to touch the ground for a single breath before I take flight and disappear.

You will pay. Oh, how you'll all pay. I will make you all pay. Because you are not worthy of your title human, άνθρωπος -άνω θρώσκω, κοιτώ προς τα πάνω- turning the stare to the sky, unlike pigs that cannot do that. Because you sacrificed everything for the sake of your ego, or rather, your dick, because all you had to do was keep your mouth shut. Because that thing you've got between your legs, that fleshy protrusion is meant to be filling the gap between our legs in only one way. Like the sky would.

Rage

Qana, 30th of July, 2006

The child that died by your bombs is real. It was alive and breathing just a moment ago. It was probably laughing too, before the war began. Till you took it all away.

The child that died by your bombs could be your child. All that separates your safe reality from the ultimate terror is a twist of luck. And luck doesn’t last forever.

The child that died by your bombs is your child, the one you never had. Because you were not ready for it. Because you could not afford to. Because you chose to live your life without the burden of responsibility for now. That child will not get to live one.

The child that died was killed by all of us. By you. By me. By thinking it’s none of our business. By believing we are not affected. By equating distance with safety and disengagement. By turning our heads away. By choosing to watch something more pleasant on our TV sets.

That child was our child. It was our hope for the future. It could be the one to save humanity from cancer, or a great artist whose genius would have changed our lives forever. It could be the one to make your son or daughter happy. It could be the one to make your day. Now it never will.

The child that died today was you. It was me. It was the image of a tiny me, full of potential, never expecting the sun today would caress my face for the very last time.

Enjoy your glory. Enjoy your victory. Revel in your self-righteousness. And then return home to be loving fathers and mothers to your children, feeling safe. To caress them with those very hands that pushed the buttons which made the other parents mourn. Cause you are doing the right thing. You are making the world a better place. For your beloved children. Until someone kills them.

We all live under the same sky

We breathe the same air

We watch the same stars

Anything that happens under this sky is our business

Every man, woman and child that cries in pain and terror is my lost brother and sister. Is the friend I haven’t met. Is MY fucking problem. Till nobody cries from hunger, terror or violence anymore. Till we all have an equal chance to life and happiness.I may not live to see this but I’ll struggle and shout for it as long as there is light within my soul.

Closing, I would like to dedicate this to a friend of mine, who only recently gave birth to a little boy. This is for her child, for all children. I will therefore use her favorite quote to close: “Be careful, cause you are turning the world into what you see it.”

Discordianism as a pastime

I am not sure where I am and why. Let'’s try this in Julius Caesar style, talking third person about myself:

"She was not certain about anything anymore. It all seemed futile. Some said that it was lack of free time in combination with pressure and stress that brought the change about. Others insinuated that she had always been a bit unhinged and in disagreement with this reality and bumping her head on various surfaces which she mistook for the door opening next to them did not help any. In any case, several screws were dislocated, some wires and cables disconnected while on sleepy morning rows and struggles with the neck of her blouse and the rest of her clothes and the happy avatar of Beligadesh (the Tummy Goddess) was no longer. The psycho troll with the round tummy and the unshaven (for a whole geological period) legs took control of Elizabeth's body. The change was violent and profound and scared everybody that knew her. First of all, before the change she used to snap at idiots. After the change, nobody approaching to earshot was safe from her verbal darts of abuse. Among other things, one could hear her curse and mutter about world economy, her mother and father, the bum of every God and Goddess that had ever been part of the collective consciousness, what exactly she intended to shove up the aforesaid orifice (a stick of dynamite for each, no cheating now, owww, you greedy thing, you) and several other obscenities. The only thing that probably saved her own ass was the fact that most of the gods were ROTFLTAO (rolling on the floor laughing their asses off) so she could not attempt the intended sacrilege with their asses dislocated from their original position. The rest of them were seriously considering improving their aim by using a few comets and a very particular planet as a target, but those latter were reminded of the paperwork this would demand in case of a success and said fuck it, let's go for a few pints and let her rant and rave and blow off some steam. Besides, she is only the avatar of an insignificant little deity. But the avatar had plans and walls have ears (and windows) and eyes have eyebrows, in her case left unplucked till they grew into gigantic fluffy caterpillars. And so she decided to mow her fanny in order to relocate it. After an epic battle with a pair of scissors that made the floor of her room look like a hedgehog with hair loss had tickled itself to death there, she found her fanny again. And there was much rejoice."

I still have not found a boyfriend or girlfriend (as if I'm looking!) and the mere thought of a person minding my business instead of his/hers fills me with cannibalistic glee and a very toothy grin. I am very excited for the chaos magick decision; it was based on rune and tarot readings that urged me on. I think it will help me understand myself better.

I haven't been out (not even to the movies!) since December that I went to the Torture Garden party in a club downtown. Originally from London, the Torture Garden artists vary and make tours around the globe. Essentially fetish/extreme artists, we had all kinds of niceties on stage: from a fashion show with fetish/vinyl clothes and bums and titties out for all to see, to a beautiful woman piercing her eyelids and lips onstage or another taking blood from her arm and drinking it after placing it in a chalice with water. It was funny, cause male members of the audience were quite freaked out! Generally it was rather enjoyable and very unusual for Greek standards. Pity there were no male members in the team with minimum clothing and maximum attitude. The original TG in London is much more extreme from what a friend (who has seen it) told me. I was busy chitchatting with three gay boys and it was a pity I did not take their phone number to hang out with them. One of them, a skinny thing with a skirt was using my boa to rub his cheeks and showed me his bra. Grrrr... Homework with whips and ropes. Shut up Elizabeth. Nobody wants to know.

It is obvious that things are well under way. I have no idea where they are headed to and neither care. I am merely making an observation of no consequence. I'm starting to develop a knack for this, observing the irrelevant. Plus my attempt to write what would be a rather demented and morbid SHORT story gave birth to yet another blah de bleurghh humongous and weird thingie. I am a puzzled bunny. Suppose I have to re-write it. I'm starting to feel like Cavafis: too old and too preoccupied with social rules to celebrate my madness by indulging into the pleasures of young flesh, so instead of doing things I write about them.

All hail to the goddess Eris. The change is almost complete. If you can't dazzle them with dexterity baffle them with bullshit, and all that.

New neighbour

I am conveniently close to hysteria. So close that I think if I stretch out my hand I can touch her shoulder. Too close for comfort, as they say.

I keep having minor health issues. I do not really know how minor they are unless I have them checked, of course. And how can I have them checked when I have no insurance, no money and no time to go see a doctor, even if I magically find a way to pay him? (maybe in kind? Make him sick too, for example?) Such laughs, oh the laughs of my life. It is impossible to explain how hard the situation is to a another person without getting into an endless conversation about Greece, fees, my life and Karmic debts, so I won't get into this long and sorry conversation. I do not like long and sorry conversations. I do not like other's sympathy most of the time; it seems alien to me. Then of course I have not explained that I am Superman, have I? (Rolls eyes). Supercrap zombie-girl in new adventures. The one thing I hate more than asking for help is getting unwanted advice from those who know better. I can chew off people's balls and ears for unwanted advice. Some have found out the hard way. A lot of others are waiting for their turn in a queue, worry not.

So, half hysterical and with a serious chronic case of cat squeezing and cat pampering gradually getting out of hand, I feel the need to squash people's heads with mauls and tear their jugulars free with my bare two hands, then jump up and down on their half flattened heads. I can put up with just about anything. But no health issues, you bastards. Not that. Let me be healthy so that I can put up or struggle with the rest. My health is an under the belt punch, you fucking bastards. Let me be, leave me the fuck alone; I reek of death and despair already. I do not need more...

At times like that, I understand Dorian (a serial killer from my stories) more than ever. But I am not Dorian, I am just me, Elizabeth, mad at virtually the whole universe. And since the universe is rather busy now, I'll go make some soup and get a good night's sleep. Maybe tomorrow I will be better.