Waking the DogWitch

  When I was a child, my parents surgically removed my vocal cords, so they could never hear me cry.
They loved me too much, and they wanted me to be always happy. They couldn't bare the though of my shedding a tear or crying out for help or despair. So they removed my cords and replaced my voice with sights. And other feels.
  I grew up into my vast bedroom. It had countless closets and hideouts. It had books and pictures. It had barred windows and smooth curtain. It had doors that were always kept locked. I knew these doors led to other houses, similar to my family house, like twin houses. Exactly like mine, but utterly deserted.
I never cared for these doors, though. I had other things to care about. Like, I knew from an early age that I was evil. I knew that, because when I got angry or sad, I had no voice to express it. But I could move things instead with my emotion alone.
When I was happy, the smooth lilac curtains would dance to my pace, flowers would bow their heads, books would open into familiar stories. When I was sad, closets would open up to show me clothes of past glory, worn out and dusty, books would fly up in the air and freeze there, like moments in time, pictures on the wall would turn around to face it. When I was angry, all my possessions would swirl into a hurricane, books would tear themselves up, vases would smash against the walls, curtains would cut themselves in pieces, and the things I loved the less, would explode, creating a superficial mist of unwanted feelings.
  When I grew up and became a lady of my own, I was well provided for. I moved into a penthouse, up high, as if to touch the cloudy sky. I had two watchdog companions, taking good care of the needs I couldn't have with thought alone. They kept good company, chatting in front of the fire place on those lonely winter nights, wagging their tales on my presence, watching over me like faithful guardian angels.
  Everything was well planned by my ancestors, until the day I met her.
She climbed into my verandah one fine afternoon. She wasn't alone, she had her mate with her. Both mongrels but with a generally decent disposition. Untamed but good hearted. And good mannered, for all that matters. She was pregnant. Few days later she gave birth to two mongrel puppies.
  They were a happy family for few months. She was a nice bitch, cared for her puppies as she would, but not too much. I guess it was in her nature, not to care too much for someone you are bound to send off when they grow up. Sort of preparing her lovely puppies for the vast unfriendly stray world out there. She was a decent bitch, indeed. And her pair of hazel eyes, the most honest gateway to the soul I ever saw.
  One day I injured one of the puppies by accident in the head. I was devastated and tried to take care of it. The mother licked its wound. I gave it medicine. But the puppy was weak. And I was petrified. I was sad and angry and made things constantly fling into the air. My watchdogs were worried. The bitch and her dog were not  that much concerned, though. They had other, more important things in mind. It was end of summer. They had a pleasant time in my yard, but had to prepare for winter.
  I didn't know their plans, then, so one day I returned home to find her ready for departure.
The dog had already climbed down, into the city of reality. The bitch was about to follow, with both puppies in her mouth, a faithful servant to the next generation. I was saddened by their departure. The watchdogs were also numb.
  My heart broke. It was the first time I wished I had a voice to call her back. To beg her stay.
Everyone and everything shed a big tear that afternoon. All my possessions, including the walls and windows, the books and pictures, the clothes and ornaments, began to cry. It was the darkest afternoon of my existence.
But, there, as blackness sat like a cloud over my eyes, I saw her return. She climbed up in my yard, with the still weak injured puppy in her mouth, and she gently placed it on my feet. She said that a stray life for this little one would be certain death. And since its weakness was my doing, it is also my responsibility to heal it or let it die.
  The puppy looked at me and smiled. Either to heal or die, I knew the chances were equal. But was not sad any more, nor evil. And lost my power to move things around.
  Since that day, I grew a heart, and neither words, nor desperate actions could substitute that glorious change in me. The puppy lived.

while risking being a bit too technical...

  Too many references lately on how writers write, how does the idea incubator develop into a story and so on. Risking being too technical does honestly satisfy the reader? Just wondering. I mean, the written thing is there to be read. It is already there, ready to expose you. Why bother on technicalities?
  I think I have the answer, it came to me this very morning. It's not the reader, man, it is the writer him/herself! As if writing about themselves is not enough, they always think a little extra is needed. How did you start writing and all that. And I do understand the challenge, mind you. I know how writers need the world to evolve around them, since they bother creating worlds in the first place. No no no, it's not mere vanity. It has to do with communication. You see, they think they write for themselves, but they know they write to have that conversation that was never allowed to them, some sort of ''welcome to my world'', my world, which needs at least listeners, but most preferably, needs inhabitants, to exist.
  When my writing touches you, I am happy. I am happy to have shared this vast inexplicable but nonetheless, expressed, world with you. In plain English, I feel terribly alone in here, and although it is a fun place to be, without you, I am nothing.
  Modern psychologists could call it codependence, if it weren't so self expressive and free as an act. That is, if it weren't inviting you in, on your free will, instead of making you feel sorry or guilty or whatever mechanism codependents use to drag you in to their worlds. Because you can choose not to read that book, move on into the next, in a book store.
  But, secretly, they do want you to waste time on technicalities. How did you ever decide to write? What was the first book that simply made you choose to express yourself in words? Are your created worlds real, or are they fictional? Are your heroes existing people, or are they fragments of your imagination? Or, more to the point, are they sides of you? And the list gets better and better... How do you write? In the morning? Late at night, when everything is dead and silent? Do you keep notes of dreams to use into your stories? Do you start on images you imagined, or on solid ideas? How does the story structures itself? Do you start in the beginning and finish in the end, or do you write as you feel and then unify the parts?
  They questions are endless, some very distinguished writers do actually still mention the ''how I write'' thing into their prefaces or most extraordinarily,  in separate books (!?), which forces me to ask a very stupid ''why?''. Why bother? The book is there! You do not trust your own readers to decipher it? (Same goes for critics - but that could take tons of MBs to analyse.)
  Dear writer, you do not trust your loving audience? Or is your ego so very inflated that you do not think they can understand? If they cannot understand, that means you did not explain well, spare us your 600 pages and start all over. And in the end of the day, your stories is what matters the most. Not your ''how I managed to write this masterpiece'' attitude.
  And if it is a masterpiece, it will need nothing more than its own words to persuade us, and most importantly, to speak directly into our souls!    

   

Image of you

  I had a pretty strong visual, this morning, of teenagers in suburban fish bowls, masturbating in chat rooms, smoking dope, dreaming violent dreams, reading too much Burroughs and Huxley and Crowley, determining themselves through the purity of the wasted.
  It's a familiar image of the past, of course, but its appearance, this very morning, a bit of a mystery to me.
  Why now? This is the very question I had been asking myself.
  For a very special reason. You are nowhere to be found, you have disappeared from the face of my middle earth, or, my common earth, rather, for I was as dark as you, a thousand years ago, but darkness was not my natural habitat. I was a very common person, darkened by childhood. Darkness was never a natural residence.
  But, there in the dark, we met one fine winter afternoon, the familiarity of the oppressed and the regressed, like fireworks in the night that surrounded us. Us? Me, I mean.
  Lately I tend to use this very hopeful term 'us', while forgetting that some stories are meant to stay undone and rot in the solitude of forever, undone and wasted, undone and abandoned. But, hey! 'Not yet ', I say.
  And everybody knows I 've done it all. Addiction, obsession, breakdown, desolation, terror, denial. I 've done it all, so the story will not be abandoned. As if my life, as if my heart and soul depended on it.
  Never to abandon what never was and will never be - some form of a reminder of my failure. More than a simple reminder, rather the Manifestation of my Failure. Framed, hanging in my bedroom wall, refusing oblivion, worshipped every night until the early morning hours.
  Failure is cosy. It is safe. It tells you, girl, you don't even need to try - it's hopeless. Stay where you are, windows shut, books, music, art, these uncomfortable silences do not need to be repeated, they broke you in two, they smothered you, you don't need to go back there, you don't need to feel, you don't need to expose your feelings, you don't need to relive the unfortunate conduct of your inactivity, of your inability to tell and take what your heart desires. Close your eyes, and the desire will pass, you will wake up into the world of futility again, just shut your eyes for a moment, and everything will be OK.
  Failure is lazy. The risk-less world. Worse than 'disappearing here!', you can live forever.
  Strange, uneven thoughts, this morning. The image of you. Or the image of me, for all that matters. I sometimes, really wonder, if you ever existed, but in the landscapes of my imagination. I can't say the trip was not worthwhile. It was a great great ride. Its hopelessness made it so -how to say this - obligatory.
  Since I was not allowed to actions of love, I indulged in actions of destruction. Destroying the self is far more risky than loving it - but I wasn't aware of that truth. I was young, I knew shit. I had the image of you, I had a mirror in my eye holes. I had the mirror of a thousand failures and a thousand abuses instead of a clear sight.
  I even wrote a book about you, a book that will soon be over, the book of the undone. The book of a story that was never written - or something as futile as this. When I was younger, I believed that when the writing will be over, your image will fade and disappear, your memory will fade and leave room in my head for less intense thoughts.
  Now, the book is almost done, and I do know, that you will never fade away. You are my past, you are my memories, and as painful, as wasted, as undone as they present themselves, they are my memories.
  The image of you is the image of me. Letting go was never an option. There was love there, there was too much love to be contained into a frail body, into a terrified heart, into an unconnected soul. There was so much love, that formed me into who I am.
  And that can never be abandoned!  

high rise

We used to talk, lying in our beds, wired, gazing at the breaking dawn, for hours that lasted a few fragments of the heartbeat.

We used to talk nonsense, just to maintain illusions that we were breaking the mundane for the old dramatic self-images we were faking.

We used to talk to kill the silence, the solitude, the mileage that separated us.

We used to talk all stoned and drugged, and every time we talked, we were screaming out for help.

We were there, in the high rise, the wind blew softly in our insomniac faces, all weary, all broken down, all disillusioned, all too eager not to wake up, all to eager to be swollen by the night.

We were there in the high rise, carefully looking down at the impossibilities of the suicidal act, under an ever cloudy London sky, we were dry and restless and so utterly wasted.

We were desperately trying to cling onto one another, the cell phone wires, the endless chemical reactions in the brain, the soft voices of despair, the constant dawning that brought no relief.

We were made that way, we chose to live that way, we chose to grow that way, panic attacks, heart failures, fear, loneliness, mind landscapes that extended into futility.

It was a well planned trip, it was a heart blowing disease, it was sacrifice, it was unity.

We were never one, but we were two of a kind.

I never met you, you never met me, but we were there, wonderfully obsessed, blinded and hysterical and degenerate, we were there in the high rise, that lonely winter afternoon, the cold wind blowing through our dark hair, scattering our dark thoughts away, into the London sky.

We never jumped.
We never dared go.

We had to stay and live with the consequences of our choice, we had to live with the context of our brains, with the lonely breaking hearts.
Fucked up, but still alive.

Maybe so that one day, one fine, cloudy day, we would sit down in that cosy Soho caff and watch again the people walking by, looking down, looking tired and preoccupied, while we would light up a fag and proudly, and with that weary smile of knowledge, say to each other: I was there, too.

I bloody was!

(...)

On Elitism

What an elite (supposedly) is?

Wiki says: ''a select group of people with intellect, wealth, specialized training or experience, or other distinctive attributes (...) whose views and / or actions are most likely to be constructive to society as a whole, or whose extraordinary skills, abilities or wisdom render them especially fit to govern.''

So far, so good. Trained, educated, clever and even charismatic people. We all could use some. Sounds just fine. As long as their wits and skills are constructive to society as a whole.

The problem with elites is that they tend to be elitist. 

Being educated in a private institution (sounds like a madhouse, but a school is what I mean), I reckon I know a few things about this strange behavioural pattern. I know it from both sides, that is. Either belonging to a social group or being excluded from one. And this either / or, is equally interesting. Mainly, it is translated into, either inclusion, or exclusion. 

People may argue that, OK, it's rather uncomfortable to be excluded from a social group (the why is even worse, because it contains lack of something and hits directly the core of insecurity, something you do not want at a tender school age, when personalities are formed -or disformed).

But, OK with exclusion, why is it so bad to be included in a social group?

The answer, in my opinion, is, because it leads to elitism.

I will explain. 

Elitism is something like a cult, a belief, and furthermore, an attitude of inclusion. It doesn't have to do with forbidding people to enter the circle, as much, as retaining the formation ''within our own kind''. It has to do with superiority. Intellectual superiority, resourcefulness, specialization, and so on - and even wealth- are fine attributes. Everyone would agree with the necessity of a skilled leader, a resourceful manager or an intelligent mentor. As long as their wits and skills are constructive to society as a whole.

But, if elitism is about inclusion, then...

What happens when all this educated, wealthy and resourceful lot gathers together?

They are the best at what they do, and they are keeping what they do within themselves...this sounds like power.

Their power allows them to assist each other, whether by means or information...this sounds like special privileges.

Their special privileges will have to be sustained, not among themselves (since they all want similar privileges), but at the expense of others, i.e. people outside their ''circle''...this sounds like discrimination, or even abuse.

Inclusion works in the sense of protecting your own kind. When your own kind is powerful, privileged, discriminative and abusive, the outcome is a nasty combination.

I realise I am not saying anything new here. This process occurs since the dawn of mankind and organized society. It's just that I recently directed the mirror to myself, and elitism covered a great part of the reflection. Intellectual superiority, arrogance, discrimination, haughtiness, and so on. Nasty things, indeed, when one realises that their whole life has been a constructed attitude to include one's kind, to protect oneself within their own kind and consequently, to shut oneself inside. Feels like fear to me.

Fear again, then!

What could elitist behaviour be afraid of? What are these misguided elites afraid of? They possess the ''weapons''. They are well organized within their comfort zones. What could they possibly be afraid of, then?

Is it the fear of admitting that they will have to abandon their special privileges, if they allow (or force) themselves to be constructive to society as a whole?

Is it the fear of admitting their failure of belonging into the real world?

Is it the fear of admitting that they are part of the real world, i.e. that they are common people themselves?

Or is it simply the desire to maintain greed and their atomistic behaviour, i.e. possess negative, and rather common human characteristics?

Or simply, is elitism nothing but a fearful reaction against the painful realisation of the ordinary? 

The Truth behind the Lies

Honesty is partial.
We are the people that love to tell the truth, we are the people that love to hear the truth.
Up to a point, of course. The point of insult or the point of pain.
We live in a structured society that has behavioural limits. But, most importantly, we live our everyday lives within our own limits.


Society's limits are common sense and politeness. Our interior limits, though, too often, and sadly enough, are driven by fear.
Fear, again, then!

A simple example.
Our rather fat friend comes up with a new dress. ''How do you like it?'' she asks. ''Love, you look splendid'' we answer, in politeness, although we do add in our mind ''if you cared to lose those hundreds of extra kilos''. Or, we think ''the dress is astonishing, but you in it, rather ruins it''.
What we actually say is half truth, something of an innocent white lie, because we certainly do not want to hurt our chubby friends feelings. Because if we do, we may anger or disturb her and risk loosing her.
There! Fear!

Another example, more to do with love (our spicy topic).
Our boyfriend. We love him enough to go to bed with him.
In the beginning of the relationship, we were fascinated and neglected few uncomfortable things about him. Bedroom things, that is. And he is a nice man, on the whole, why talk about his coming too fast (and not giving a shit whether you actually came too, or if you 're insecure enough and faked few times, how the hell is he supposed to know anyway), or coming too slow (come on, it's been five hours already, come please!), wanting to have sex whenever he wants to have sex, and that is not too often, or wanting to have sex all the time, again, man?, we just did it!
And when we want to have sex more often, we are horny bitches and inconsiderate of his work, the football match, the weather or the stock market. Or when we do not really feel like fornicating chimpanzees, we are too cool, too inconsiderate that a man's got to do what he 's got to do, and if we don't give it, he will find plenty of interested birds out there.
What happens when these issues arise, then? Either we fake it, and play happy girlfriend, or we argue and argue and argue and pull long faces and get depressions and generally feel incomplete and nag about it all the time until from a few good friends that we cared to have, then...there were none.
The point is, we do not tell the truth to the person that needs to hear it. We tell everyone else. We send messages but we keep our mouths shut. Why? The fear of losing him, again.

But, recently I discovered, that the greatest fear is not losing a friend or a lover.
It is the fear of admitting to ourselves that we are afraid of negotiating our place in the world out of mere assumptions. We are afraid of losing whatever we secretly admit that is a convention.
That is, if our friend doesn't like our opinion about her weight and gets angry or even mean, that is her problem of negotiating with the truth. If our boyfriend does not like the truth about his not quite satisfying us, that is his problem, also.

Key word here is negotiating. Social life is based on negotiations. What can we both do (since we do love each other) to move a step closer? We might have to let go of some things that bother us. We might have to change some behaviour, or rethink about it.

But, of course, to be able to negotiate, we have to start telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To the person involved.
And to the other person involved. Ourselves.  

We were the world, we were the children of awareness

We were born in less turbulent times than our parents.
We were born in democracy.
We were lucky to be born in a big city.
We were born into a, seemingly, era of prosperity.








'We', refers to us, children born in mid seventies, not earlier than the Energy Crisis, not later than the King's death.
'We' were middle class city kids with the privilege of decent education, i.e. private, and moreover international.
'We' were citizens of a small country with a huge history.
'We' were part of the European family.
'We' were born and grew up with a European conciousness.

We were forced into awareness at an early age.

We were informed of the Ethiopia famine.
We grew up with the delusions of Live Aid.
We were educated on the A- Bomb.
We watched with awe 'The Day After'.
We learned about the discovery of the ozone layer hole.
We were informed on Olof Palme's assassination.
We experienced the Chernobyl fear.
We witnessed the Challenger explosion.
We thought we could see Haley's Comet from our rooftops.
We grew up on MTV, CNN and TV5.
We had to learn to save water though National Water Company ads.
We learned about the new disease, AIDS.
We were deeply saddened when Freddy Mercury died.
We witnessed the Fall of the Berlin Wall.
We watched the Gulf War second by second on CNN live.
We supported Unicef.
We subscribed to Greenpeace.
We read Le Monde Diplomatique.

We were aware. We were the educated middle class.

Thirty five years later, we are still aware.
But we woke up into a different awareness.
And this one, is still yet to be defined.

The Mutation of Fear

Fear can be described as an emotional state induced by a perceived threat or the response to a threatening situation. Fear is a basic mechanism for survival. Responding to fear is using the ability to be aware of danger and either run or confront it, also known as the Fight or Flight response. 
Lately I realised that passivity and anger are also hidden fear. But, they are sometimes so subtle, that it takes effort and even self-analysis to realise it. 
Passivity and anger are two sides of the same coin. But they do not really look like fear, or how fear feels. 
Fear feels like an adrenaline take off, when one is threatened usually responds with either escaping the threat or facing it. It is a strong, energetic emotion that leads to action.
Obviously, when fear leads to passivity in the form of depression and introversion, or anger in the form of rage, something is not working properly. Fear induces action, not enclosure. 
What is wrong, then? Or, what has changed, or even mutated, the response to such a primary emotion?


To me, it is passivity in general. Blame it on colour TV, or on contemporary comfort, or on reasonable detachment from the ''real'' world via, everything, really, whether the net or beauty magazines. 
Passivity of the receptor, I would call it. Of course, we are highly opinionated. But, in the same time, the world revolves around itself, and so do we. We are well informed, we are well aware, but we don't really know what to do with knowledge and awareness, everything flashes before our eyes and vanishes.
Living our lives inside the passivity of the receptor is nice and cosy, when all is well. But when it comes to real threat, our unused  mechanism for survival does not know how to react, does not remember the flight or fight response. The mechanism is numbed and fear cannot express itself. It is there, but lurking in the back of the head, causing everything but action. 
I noticed it can leave you in inertia for days or weeks, lying on the sofa, watching the telly and eating amazing amounts of greasy food. I also noticed, when the ''depression period'' is over, it can wake you up into a state of rage, usually a self-directed rage, the utter annoyance for wasting so much time and energy into depression.
This mutated response to fear can do even worse, depression and rage are only two mild examples. It can play tricks to the mind, causing acute obsessions and phobias. It can also reveal itself through illness.
Fear is easy to induce. Everyone is afraid of something. It is a powerful tool. It is also an excuse to not take action, to not lose the comfort. I can not blame governments, ads and media alone, for fear is the feeling of the receptor, not the effector. We are afraid because we are afraid, mainly. Because we choose to be afraid instead of acting against it. 
This is a love blog, so some of you could be wondering, what the fuck is fear doing here.
The first thing I learned on therapy was that hate is not the opposite of love. Fear is. It's the way our neurons are built. Fear is a learning process for protection. Love is the reward of safety. Fear is instant, love is a way of living. We can't have them both in the same time. 
But, we can choose the way we want to live. 

Love in the time of Econ Crisis

  I met you in a crowded room. The room was crowded with egos. The real people were few.
It was one of these posh bars where people drift after a hectic days work. It was definitely a good bar, politically correct cocktails, a bit dry and deprived of any risk, apart from the calculated ones. Men-in-suits kind of place. Loose ties, loose minds. Nobody dared bother you, even if they worked next door during office hours. That is, unless you wanted to.
  You were sitting on a bar stool. Quite alone, although half the people in there were or used to be your employees, as I realised later on. For, I had seen you around, but could not place you yet, as I leaned on the almost deserted bar to order a Bombay tonic.
  I was alone and not lonely, I was not living or working in that part of town, I usually disliked posh bars, and had no idea what I was doing there. Ah, waiting for an acquaintance that would eventually not show up - that's how great love stories usually begin.  
  I sat a couple of stools away from you, sipping my comfortable drink. You were playing with your blackberry or something like that. Occasionally, you exchanged few words with the bar tender. You voice was sweet and generally pleasant and caught my mind and body into a swirl. You talked nonsense with the poor working class person, you had that friendly yet arrogant tone, you knew your stuff when it came to financial matters, everyone seemed to be talking about the Econ Crisis these days, even single minded middle and low class people.
  At least, that's how I perceived your deliberately elitistic and highly elaborate yet purely neoliberal scrap of information, that the bar tender tried to digest. After all, you talked numbers, but to the poor soul, it was translated into poverty. That bar tender was a clever swine after all. He refilled your glass of what seemed like some rare malt, and quietly withdrew in the background. He definitely seemed intimidated. 
  Your sweet yet ruthless voice died down, and that's when I had to turn my head to take a better look at you. You don't sit next to an econocrat every day, at least not in my pluralist and humanitarian circle of friends and colleagues. It was a unique opportunity to actually observe another kind of human, the sub-species of men in power. It was intriguing to solemnly observe, I din't actually care to meet you, for your previous speech was dried of empathy and consideration for the oppressed masses, which is the rest of us, common people.
  I was half way through my drink when I turned my head to take a look. You caught my eye and smiled. I have to admit that your sweet voice matched your nice smile, so had to smile back, and say hello. You realised I recognised you, and waited few seconds in silence, probably to give me time to realise I recognised you and hopefully ask, just like the bar tender did, for some valuable financial data, but I did not. I did not know what to say and could not care less for advice, but have to admit, I wanted to hear you talk. We could talk about the weather, but that could be my field of catastrophe, because to us, environmentalists, weather translates to climate change.
  So I kept quiet. We are getting poorer, sicker and depressed every day, it would seem unfair to spoil the relaxed happy hour on repeating the evening news. I know this was a selfish thought, since you were directly involved in the evening news paranoia, but I was trained, after years of psychotherapy, to concentrate on positive thoughts. I had to deprive you of your field of connaissance. Or simply try and see what lies behind that spineless dry elitistic mind of yours, for it would be highly unfair for a man of high knowledge and education and the sweetest of voices and smiles, to be exactly what they look like.
  Your voice sounded again. You wanted to know whether I came there often. You had not seeing me around. Was I in the news industry? I smiled, for I enjoyed the tone of your voice, but no, I was not one of yours. I was a mere nobody. Not corrupted or sold out in the least. Of course, you ceased smiling, but you did not look offended. And most importantly, you did not try to convince me otherwise. I appreciated the honesty and apologised for my harsh comments. You said it's OK, everyone hates media people as well as bank managers. And you were a bit of both. I added that I used to agree with your neoliberal position, but now everything is real and not theory, it is somehow affecting our lives, so we have to be careful when we express super right wing opinions, for numbers and casualties are people, after all. You smiled again, but did not try to intimidate me, or shower me with facts and figures. You recognised me, for I was brought up on elitism as well, a sad legacy that I carry around like a birthmark.
  My stomach (where the third chakra resides) was sending faded signals to the mind, that this arrogant middle aged man was not the right man, and that the heart was not equally involved in the game. I sighed. What the fuck. Another game of the mind, then. I took a deep breath, and said, I had to be going, for my acquaintance was nowhere to be seen. You looked somehow disappointed, but did not try to persuade me to stay.
  I paid for my drink. My third chakra congratulated me on my quick reflexes. And then, you stood up and offered me a ride home. I lived down town. You lived in the suburbs. It was the least you could do, you said, since your presence was not sufficient to make me want another drink.
  I lingered for a couple of seconds. The chakra was numb and silent. What now? What were you saying now? Oh that voice...if you could shut up for a moment, to let me think! But it was going on and on about that drink and the pleasure of my company and all that unnecessary bullshit that men say to get laid, but you were not just any man, you were a man with a voice that had the ability to turn a woman on and you would not shut up!
  We were both standing by the bar, pretty close to each other, so I leaned over and kissed you. That shut you up momentarily.
  I sat right beside you and agreed to have another drink.

a t o m i c

This is a love post on dark days like these.


The nuclear and humanitarian disaster in Japan inhibits every persons mind, and what it really does, apart from rising our concern for living beings suffering and pollution spreading, is that it makes us think. 
and I am thinking a lot these days...
I have been a late cold war child, grew up with the ''balance of terror'' in the back of my head.
It's a terror that never leaves you, really, for it is subtle and deliberate. 
But it was war times, and it was, at least, a negotiable terror, unjustified, like every other war, but partly understandable. It never gave way to disaster, anyway (apart from a vast number of nuclear tests).
The terror was enough to sustain the balance and prohibit the use on civilians.




But this time, like in every nuclear accident, it is a time of peace. 
Peace and Progress for the comfort of modern man. 


I think hard these days, I am no expert, and realise that nuclear power is cheap and nasty. And helps us to achieve the level of comfort. Our comfortable lives are based on energy supplies. And as much as we protest on clean and renewable energy, we know that our comfort will be disrupted if we shift entirely on green. 


But still, we need, as a community, as a bunch of common people, really, to decide what world do we want to live in. Energy supply is based on demand. If we use less, we need less. It's common sense, really. 
We cannot go on living on such a high risk of nuclear contamination because we want to live in comfort. 
This world is not created for us alone, and in the end of the day, it doesn't give a shit. 
One quake, and we 're done. 
But what we do, is, not face thousands of natural disaster victims and economic recession alone. 
What we do is contaminate the land we live in, deprive it of its own life. 
We create living cemeteries.


Found the atomic definition on the Merriam-Webster: 
1. a: of, relating to, or concerned with atoms
    b: nuclear
2. a: marked by acceptance of the theory of atomism
    b: atomistic


Atomistic: composed of many simple elements; also : characterized by or resulting from division into unconnected or antagonistic fragments <an atomistic society>


....and that explains a lot. 

portrait of an emotional vampire

I don't know whether an emotional vampire is born into this interesting condition or whether he/she is made through traumas and abuse during childhood years.
As far as I remember, as a child, I lacked one vital thing. Empathy. Feelings for human beings. I had plenty of feelings for the earth, the greenhouse effect, the abolishing of nuclear energy, animal rights and respect for life in general. But when it came to humans, I could not feel at all. But I wanted to feel, so I indulged in over reactive bursts of possession, of magical connections, infatuations, and other over exaggerated manifestations that, to my untrained eye and heart, resembled emotions. They were, of course, hunger, craving, not real feelings. And they made people feel uncomfortably. Friends reacted, and reacted badly. At the tender years of puberty, they reacted with abandonment. To me, it was a shock. It was the proof that I was somehow flawed, that I possessed some vicious gene of madness. So I reformed. I learned my manners. I learned not to cross boundaries and to respect limits. Out of fear of harming them, and out of fear of them abandoning me once more, I learned to control the hunger.
And I went on, seemingly happily, into adulthood. And learned to feed my hunger on alternative means that could not hurt anyone - but me. I built a wall between the hunger and myself, to protect those around me, I built a reversed mirror inside the wall to protect me from my flawed self - the mirror looked always at the world, never inside. It was fear, of course. The fear of abandonment, the King of Fears. Especially developed to people with narcissistic personalities. Such as me.
But, despite the protection, the hunger would not go away. It needed to be fed, and was aroused by love. Romantic love, a thing I could never manage to control. When it occurred, it left me hopeless, in the mercy of the hunger. Lack of control activated fear of abandonment. Everything crashed down, each and every time I allowed myself to fall in love. My wall and mirror, my tools for survival, did not know when to let go and allow love and affection. The were programmed to doubly protect. And, most importantly, I was unaware of their existence.
So, hopeless in love supplies, the hunger still had to be satisfied. It started eating up the self. A series of phobias, obsessions and compulsions occurred - I had turned into an emotional vampire of myself , feasting upon my soul. That was enough to awake me from my dream of deceit into reality. And I saw the wall. And I tore it down. And I saw the reversed mirror. And I turned it to my self. And I saw the source. The fear. The black hole in my heart, the absence of emotions, the generator of the hunger.
Emotional vampires are nothing but immature hearts, their emotions being at an infant stage of development. Emotional immaturity, resembling a spoilt child, while underneath lies the terrible fear of unworthiness. They don't trust the world, they don't trust themselves. They hide beneath their ideal self image, but that's only a false reflection. A mere distortion carefully constructed because they think they lack something.
I have been always terrified at looking at mirrors. Especially when I was off guard, mostly when I woke up and was not fully concious and in control of myself. I have always had the intense idea that instead of my own reflection, I will face a monster in the mirror. Now that I am aware, I know I was afraid much more than a monster. I was afraid that I will look, and there will be no reflection at all.  
 

something changed

the rules of attraction are never simple, unless the mind simplifies things and realises not only what is right but what is definitely wrong for the body.
I was an unattractive girl once, attracted to handsome men with cold hearts, attracted to the beauty of the day and the cruelty of the night. a pain and pleasure kind of swirl, the deep well of unconformity, the place of no belonging. the place of no love. the place of freedom, really.
then, I developed into an attractive woman, attracted to safe men with low expectations, attracted to admirers, to the long and certain path to boredom and affection. it was cosy, but it gave no pleasure. no pain, really. too ordinary, to be honest.
the rules of attraction shifted each time I wanted different. I never wanted more. it was the less ordinary that was exiting, fantasizing  fantasies that were already fulfilled, done that, being there, and it was so good that I wanted different. a collector of twisted dreams.
I disobeyed the rules of attraction every single time, and was attracted always to the most inadequate, the less available, or the simply dull.
and it was fun!
a vast collection of failed relationships to prove I was never going to meet love or connection.
but recently my fantasies are following a strange unknown path....
it's not the hardcore or the unfitting any more, it's not the nice and easy, it's not the collection of experiences, it's not the thirst for failure and the longing for physical and emotional pain. it's different. it's not even a power struggle - a turn on, or a mind game - another turn on.
it feels like....dunno. I am not admiring or admired any more.
it's something that has to do with pure pleasure.
whatever that is.  

the infinite well

some thoughts on desperate love...
once born with a small, almost invisible hole in the heart, you are bound to see it enlarge during the living years.
unless you manage and figure out the nature and disposition of the small hole, one day you will wake up with a hole in the shape of a well, and the depth of forever.
the well feels shallow if untouched. if you don't notice it's presence, it only resembles a tiny gap in space.
but if somehow its presence is uncomfortable and annoying, you might choose to fill it up. it's in the heart, so it will require emotion. any kind of emotion will do. love, preferably, but greed will do just fine, for unless you are trained to distinguishing feelings, at first, they might appear the same.
but once the well is filled up, it never truly fills.once a little hole, now becomes a slightly larger hole that requires more love, for the one you just poured in, vanished at its bottomless end. more love, more affection, more sex, more affirmation. more clinging to the loved ones, more suffocation, more demands. you end up fearing you cannot even be left alone, without someone in the room. without someone in your life. the well is too demanding to be faced. so you reach out for more love, even more affection, more sex, more affirmation. but the well is still hungry, the black hole in your heart makes everything disappear, after devouring all possible feeling, it is still dissatisfied.

friends and lovers become distant, as the well makes new demands, and since love and affection can no longer be at hand, other feelings must be fed to it, for it cannot stop devouring, and when left unfed it screams and howls at night. you can't give it love any more, but you discover that it does devour resentment and spite just as well as previous emotion. you then try to feed it hatred and aversion, and it responds, but needs more, it can never be satisfied.
tired and sleepless, you try your last shot, and pour fear in the well. then everything turns to motion. fear fills the well, seems like it found its bottom finally, but once you reached fear as a self-fulfilling emotion, you cannot stop pouring it down the well, until it overflows and floods the entire existence.
once you had a little hole in the heart that simply was your connection to the universe, sort of a plug to ground universal energy. but you believed it to be a flaw in the system, and thought it should be filled up, for you despised flaws as well as systems.
once you were a flawed being... now, what have you really become...
 

I know how Voldy felt

some thoughts on obsession....
when one decides to split their soul, to accommodate or hide a fear or a desire, this second fragment of the soul, that uncomfortable forbidden feeling, what can it possibly contain? and how powerful or needy can it become?
the second fragment hides into the great castle of fear, in limbo, silently waiting, starving because it's disconnected from the source, cut off from the self and the conscious, lurks in the dark. and waits. it waits for some blood to run into its cold vessel. it waits and longs for love.
when the split soul individual will fall in love,  love will fill up the entire soul.
when love will cease, the first, conscious part will grieve, and move on. the second fragment though, can not let love get away. for once, it was so happy to contain such a strange, such an overwhelming sensation, it was too happily absorbed into the warm feeling of finally being connected to the source, that it cannot let go. it will not let go. it will resist losing what is already gone, it will survive in denial.
when the loved one becomes another face in the crowd for the conscious part, when oblivion wipes out the touch and the caress and the affection and the pain, the second fragment will transform into the image of the loved one. the split second part will live again with a new face, with a new name inside the soul, will recall and replay the life,dreams and aspirations of the generator of love. it will become the voice of the loved one inside the head, it will blossom and expand and slowly affect the conscious part and the entire self with the image of a living dream, of a life that is no longer alive, of a feeling of the incomplete, of eternal starvation, and repetition and deceit. the split soul will live a parallel life of the real individual and of a faded photograph. 
and furthermore, when the photograph gets completely worn out, and the sweet face of the loved one appears terribly disfigured, the second fragment will wake up, all drained up and confused and starving. it will wake up into deceit, it will wonder what the f*ck has been really going on all these years...eventually it will turn into the conscious self, and depending on its disposition, it will either demand explanations, or devour the entire soul.
splitting the soul is creating an imaginary space within actual space. a fascinating space, really. but when that space is used to accommodate the trash of human condition, it can become highly dangerous, especially if it becomes the vacuum of a love that the conscious self  does not have the guts to experience.

soundcheck

sunday night, decided to finally expose thoughts and fads. 
let me see how this little thing works first....
ciao