According to my calculations, it's been about two weeks since i've last posted. Time flies etc. etc. It felt like a century, though. I guess this is how prisoners feel. Time drtips by and suddenly a whole year has passed.
My gang went to the beach today but i didn't follow. Too much sun, noise, the sand, Lady Gaga blaring on at the beach bars...EWH!Instead, stayed in da city, where mys sister freaked out and bought some clothes which she threw away half an hour later because she didn't like them (she has a thing called OCD) and then we put on our first laundry and now we're drinking beers and listening to Nine Inch Nails.
Well. Whatever. I hate to put up a show for the girls as my mates do. I can't stand how cocky the boys are and how plain hoes the girls are. And, to know we've exchanged saliva with him, M., only a few nights ago makes him such a big hypocrit when he's rubbing on some girl.
Anyway. School's out. I want to spend it -the summer- in front of my pc screen jerking off to hardcore porn. Is that okay with everyone? Sometimes all i want to do is just fuck it up.
But, to be honest, I can't have sex with a dude cause, I'm sorry, i've nothing against gay people and stuff, but i always had to hide my disputable tastes in literature and genrally art, because they were too "homo" and people tend to criticize this, I don't i mean, but if i were a homosexual my mother would just die.
Sometimes i just ask her half-jokingly what would she do if I were gay and she has answered repeatedly "i'd throw you out of the house" or "don't even joke about such things" which i find insulting and extremely sad and narrowminded, but then, here i am, fretting that i might actually want to get deep down and dirty with another guy.
I just think it's easier with men, and with no strings attached. Plus, girls are weird. Plus, I know nothing concerning their anatomy. Gay sex may be smelly and dirty and whatever, but i think it must be purer, it makes no demands, and it's just body on body, friction, right, plus you know better how to handle a body that's like yours, you know better how to please such a body, and guys have bigger mouths and more accomodating throats and are less sqeamish.
RIGHT?
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
the one about True Blood and Domestic Bliss
Yes, the tv series.
From what I reckon, Sookie's problem was not that she could hear people's thoughts. This was not what made her a freak. Ra-a-aght? Raaaght. Her problem was that she was a virgin who could hear people's thoughts. So, once Vampire Bill pops her cherry, she ain't no freak no more, you see? Even though she now acts more like a crazy bitch, she don't give a fudge about what people think. Now that she has Vampire Bill to get laid with every naght, she actually speaks her mand, so people now know that since she fucked, she no weird or a freak no moah, no sir. She a powered-up, well-fucked-and-bloodsucked gal now, full of confidence and happiness and let's not forget sexual satisfaction.
I used to think Vampire Bill was a true gent, and then he kinda popped out of the mud where he was hiding in the cemetery and fucked Sookie's little brains out, all muddy and primitive and brutal, and then he cleaned up and played house with Sookie while babysitting for a friend's kids. So, Sookie, by the mere force of that thang between her legs,manages to turn this mysterious, dark, brooding vampire into a complete pussey, I mean what's this modern tendency? One one hand we have serial killers who get married and breed for God's sake and live in the house with the white picket fence, and on the other hand we got them vampires going all domestic bliss. Don't even get me started on the Cullens. UGH! Where is this world going to, if even serial killers and freaks of nature want to Adjust, Adapt and Be Part of the Mass.
From what I reckon, Sookie's problem was not that she could hear people's thoughts. This was not what made her a freak. Ra-a-aght? Raaaght. Her problem was that she was a virgin who could hear people's thoughts. So, once Vampire Bill pops her cherry, she ain't no freak no more, you see? Even though she now acts more like a crazy bitch, she don't give a fudge about what people think. Now that she has Vampire Bill to get laid with every naght, she actually speaks her mand, so people now know that since she fucked, she no weird or a freak no moah, no sir. She a powered-up, well-fucked-and-bloodsucked gal now, full of confidence and happiness and let's not forget sexual satisfaction.
I used to think Vampire Bill was a true gent, and then he kinda popped out of the mud where he was hiding in the cemetery and fucked Sookie's little brains out, all muddy and primitive and brutal, and then he cleaned up and played house with Sookie while babysitting for a friend's kids. So, Sookie, by the mere force of that thang between her legs,manages to turn this mysterious, dark, brooding vampire into a complete pussey, I mean what's this modern tendency? One one hand we have serial killers who get married and breed for God's sake and live in the house with the white picket fence, and on the other hand we got them vampires going all domestic bliss. Don't even get me started on the Cullens. UGH! Where is this world going to, if even serial killers and freaks of nature want to Adjust, Adapt and Be Part of the Mass.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
sixteen
I started watching TRue Blood yesterday. I liked it. I'm ashamed to admit. Saw 3 episodes in the row. I don't usually like Anna Paquin but Sukie (sookie?) is a sorta of likeable character, for a female character. And God knows i hate female charcters. Cause i'm a pig, okay? Liked the genral fuckedupness. But it *is* Alan Ball, after all.
Lazarus, dig yourself, ah, poor Larry!(listening to Nick Cave, obviously)
Is Alan Ball pretentious, or exaggerating, or what?
I was very sad to hear about Dennis Hopper's passing. Rest in peace, and all that. I wonder how Viggo Mortensen received the news. It's sad.
But Larry grew increasingly neurotic and obscene
I mean he, he never asked to be raised from the tomb
I mean no one ever actually asked him to forsake his dreams
Anyway to cut a long story short, fate finally found him
Mirrors became his torturers, cameras snapped him at every chance
The women all went back to their homes and their husbands with secret smiles in the corner of their mouthes
He ended up like so many of them do, back on the streets of New York City
In a soup queue, a dope fiend, a slave, then prison, then the madhouse, then the grave
Ah poor Larry.
But what do we really know of the dead And who actually cares?
Lazarus, dig yourself, ah, poor Larry!(listening to Nick Cave, obviously)
Is Alan Ball pretentious, or exaggerating, or what?
I was very sad to hear about Dennis Hopper's passing. Rest in peace, and all that. I wonder how Viggo Mortensen received the news. It's sad.
But Larry grew increasingly neurotic and obscene
I mean he, he never asked to be raised from the tomb
I mean no one ever actually asked him to forsake his dreams
Anyway to cut a long story short, fate finally found him
Mirrors became his torturers, cameras snapped him at every chance
The women all went back to their homes and their husbands with secret smiles in the corner of their mouthes
He ended up like so many of them do, back on the streets of New York City
In a soup queue, a dope fiend, a slave, then prison, then the madhouse, then the grave
Ah poor Larry.
But what do we really know of the dead And who actually cares?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
mental notes: part one
10.22.35: i'm sleepy
10.22.38: took me 3 secs to write that
10.22.58: i'm bored too
10.23.22: looking out the window
10.23.28: bird
10.23.32: birds.plural.
10.23.40: faraway whistle
10.23.42: sky. blue.
10.23.48: um...typical blue?
10.23.50: can't describe
10.23.56: am i dizzy or is the sky moving
10.23.58: no, it's the clouds moving that make the sky look like it's moving
10.24.34: illusion? delusion?
10.24.59: writing his name in my arm
10.25.06: next to where he bit me last nite
10.25.16: i'm sooo gonna blog about last nite
10.25.39: rather confused
10.25.42: o o shit she saw me
10.26 to approx. 10.28 (?)
Her: can i see this piece of paper?
Me: what paper?
her: the page ur writing on.
me: i'm not writing nothing
her: give it to me, mr. taylor
me: no
her: i said -
me: no.
me: (weakly) please don't.
Knock on door. 10.30. Mr. Stewart enters classroom.
Mr Stewart: can i borrow mr Taylor for a few minutes?
her:(eyeballing me) of corse
me: (tearing page off notebook, scrunch it into ball, shove it down pocket) (eyeballing her back) (subtle grin)
Glance at watch. 10.33 approx. Follow mr. stewart down stairs. behind closed door. Abandoned storage room. Smells of mould. being pushed gainst wall. it's wet.
Mr Stewart kneels in front of me. Wrenches at zipper, jeans, underwear. Around my thighs, bundle of fabric cutting in skin. Get instantly hard in his mouth. Can't see the time. deepthroats me. hear him gag. sound of hunger. is this love? he slurps away. fuck his mouth. slobber down dick, balls, thighs. Cum very silently. Throat palpitating, i guess. Gluck-gluck-slurp. I chickle. Beard grazing thighs. can tell now.
Mr stewart's face withdrawing. Shiny with saliva and cum. Comes up. Feeds me my cum. Mouths dirty words in ear. Can't see the time.
I'm being tucked in. Stain of saliva on denim. Hope it's drool. This is crazy.
10.45: because r-r-r-ring.
10.45.13: come up stairs
10.45.23:need to find Julian
10.45.25: get high
10.47.57: this is crazy
10.47.59: this is so crazy
11.05.46: i think i'll skip rest of day
10.22.38: took me 3 secs to write that
10.22.58: i'm bored too
10.23.22: looking out the window
10.23.28: bird
10.23.32: birds.plural.
10.23.40: faraway whistle
10.23.42: sky. blue.
10.23.48: um...typical blue?
10.23.50: can't describe
10.23.56: am i dizzy or is the sky moving
10.23.58: no, it's the clouds moving that make the sky look like it's moving
10.24.34: illusion? delusion?
10.24.59: writing his name in my arm
10.25.06: next to where he bit me last nite
10.25.16: i'm sooo gonna blog about last nite
10.25.39: rather confused
10.25.42: o o shit she saw me
10.26 to approx. 10.28 (?)
Her: can i see this piece of paper?
Me: what paper?
her: the page ur writing on.
me: i'm not writing nothing
her: give it to me, mr. taylor
me: no
her: i said -
me: no.
me: (weakly) please don't.
Knock on door. 10.30. Mr. Stewart enters classroom.
Mr Stewart: can i borrow mr Taylor for a few minutes?
her:(eyeballing me) of corse
me: (tearing page off notebook, scrunch it into ball, shove it down pocket) (eyeballing her back) (subtle grin)
Glance at watch. 10.33 approx. Follow mr. stewart down stairs. behind closed door. Abandoned storage room. Smells of mould. being pushed gainst wall. it's wet.
Mr Stewart kneels in front of me. Wrenches at zipper, jeans, underwear. Around my thighs, bundle of fabric cutting in skin. Get instantly hard in his mouth. Can't see the time. deepthroats me. hear him gag. sound of hunger. is this love? he slurps away. fuck his mouth. slobber down dick, balls, thighs. Cum very silently. Throat palpitating, i guess. Gluck-gluck-slurp. I chickle. Beard grazing thighs. can tell now.
Mr stewart's face withdrawing. Shiny with saliva and cum. Comes up. Feeds me my cum. Mouths dirty words in ear. Can't see the time.
I'm being tucked in. Stain of saliva on denim. Hope it's drool. This is crazy.
10.45: because r-r-r-ring.
10.45.13: come up stairs
10.45.23:need to find Julian
10.45.25: get high
10.47.57: this is crazy
10.47.59: this is so crazy
11.05.46: i think i'll skip rest of day
fifteen
Depressed and hungover. Guess it could be worse. My belly growls like a beast, it wants food and grease thrown into its pit. It wants to consume and be full. Be full and be happy. Impossible things, it asks of.
The world depresses me. I'm like, from Mars. Or a galaxy far faaar away. Nobody gives a shit really. I do give too much of a shit, obviously. I'm standing there with tthat dumb fucking smile on my dumb face, watching in disbelief, wanting to cry out "pick me, pick me instead!" and thinking of ways to destroy my bumb self or find release in something that just won't work anymore.
Fuck post-modernism. It just made our lives more complicated, and we've lost touch with everything anyway. Is...that...cool?
It seems everything revolves around sex, but I'm not gonna have sex, not any time soon, until i become this pathetic, bespectacled, pot-bellied dude, mouth stitched close by invisible powers, maybe i'll pay for sex, maybe i'll rape for sex, right now just the thought of it. Well, it's absurd. An absurd thought. My body's made from white light and dark heat. It cannot be touched, caressed, stroked, kissed, felt, but it can be pushed through walls.
I am the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. My shyness cannot feel, caress, stroke, kiss, touch. it cannot be permeated, penetrated, perpetrated.
You will go to him because there's this chemistry between you. Or maybe it's physics, hahaha. it's something that gives me a hard time understanding. fathoming the extend. absurd. absurd! open your legs. be his woman. take it. take it like a bitch. take it like a man. be his woman. spread yourself wide open. let him slobber all over you. your naked body. your virgin body. eww, yuck, and all that stuff. can't picture it. if i do, and i do, i lose my sex drive. i'll be a monk and watch porn in my super secret notebook pc. sex can't be as good and as smell-less as in porn.
i have a problem connecting. bitches, dogs. men, women. sometimes i think i feel a distant fragile tentative connection and i dream up the rest. end up gasping in the middle of the night, with a knife stabbed between my shoulderblades. it hurts where my wings should be. fuck this. if i knew something, anything, it would make things better and endurable. now i'm speechless. mouthless. just a fucking stupid grin, where i need a snarl and teeth to cut through their fucking throats.
people suck. as a vague concept, people are nice. I can't relate to their personal shit, though. It's like, whoa! really? huh. i see. boring!
i don't want any of that conventional, virginal, tender sex stuff. the relationshipy sex. let's get to know each other first. how do u get to know someone who's constantly lying? all a fucking pretext, cut to the chase, man, you wanna fuck. you wanna spread the thighs and shove it right in. let's make babies. let's reproduce and reinvent ourselves. let's fuck and make the world a better place. we'll afterwards sit by the fire and sip tea and like, bond. that will make the grunting fucking sweating smelly shoving awkkward pushing grinding yelling moaning rolling OK. that will consecrate the animal urge, the act of desecration. we'll be together for three years and then get bored of each other and find someone else through whom to find ourselves. what a load of crap.
human nature, man. kill it. stab it. run into the wild. be a god, not somebody's bitch.what am i talking about? he teetered and he fell, blood gushing from his forehead, vomit gushing from his mouth into the stars. I want to be cleansed. in a dark room. never wash up ever again. lie ethere and stare at the ceiling which i cannot see. let the others have their stupid lives and dances and fucks and families and jobs. i will just stay here and wait. i'll feed myself with obscure incomprehensible art. i'll study Lynch. i'll become post-post-modern. i wil become nothing. people don't even look at me.
this is my secret diary. in reality, i may be someone else. someone you already know. this is where i heave my poison. my poison is fuuny, is ridiculous, is powerless. i'm litle twisting writhing maggot. i want to scream with insanity. i want to carve a hole in my face. i want the red water to come out. i want to break every finger. i want pain to erase me.
fuck it. it's over.
The world depresses me. I'm like, from Mars. Or a galaxy far faaar away. Nobody gives a shit really. I do give too much of a shit, obviously. I'm standing there with tthat dumb fucking smile on my dumb face, watching in disbelief, wanting to cry out "pick me, pick me instead!" and thinking of ways to destroy my bumb self or find release in something that just won't work anymore.
Fuck post-modernism. It just made our lives more complicated, and we've lost touch with everything anyway. Is...that...cool?
It seems everything revolves around sex, but I'm not gonna have sex, not any time soon, until i become this pathetic, bespectacled, pot-bellied dude, mouth stitched close by invisible powers, maybe i'll pay for sex, maybe i'll rape for sex, right now just the thought of it. Well, it's absurd. An absurd thought. My body's made from white light and dark heat. It cannot be touched, caressed, stroked, kissed, felt, but it can be pushed through walls.
I am the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. My shyness cannot feel, caress, stroke, kiss, touch. it cannot be permeated, penetrated, perpetrated.
You will go to him because there's this chemistry between you. Or maybe it's physics, hahaha. it's something that gives me a hard time understanding. fathoming the extend. absurd. absurd! open your legs. be his woman. take it. take it like a bitch. take it like a man. be his woman. spread yourself wide open. let him slobber all over you. your naked body. your virgin body. eww, yuck, and all that stuff. can't picture it. if i do, and i do, i lose my sex drive. i'll be a monk and watch porn in my super secret notebook pc. sex can't be as good and as smell-less as in porn.
i have a problem connecting. bitches, dogs. men, women. sometimes i think i feel a distant fragile tentative connection and i dream up the rest. end up gasping in the middle of the night, with a knife stabbed between my shoulderblades. it hurts where my wings should be. fuck this. if i knew something, anything, it would make things better and endurable. now i'm speechless. mouthless. just a fucking stupid grin, where i need a snarl and teeth to cut through their fucking throats.
people suck. as a vague concept, people are nice. I can't relate to their personal shit, though. It's like, whoa! really? huh. i see. boring!
i don't want any of that conventional, virginal, tender sex stuff. the relationshipy sex. let's get to know each other first. how do u get to know someone who's constantly lying? all a fucking pretext, cut to the chase, man, you wanna fuck. you wanna spread the thighs and shove it right in. let's make babies. let's reproduce and reinvent ourselves. let's fuck and make the world a better place. we'll afterwards sit by the fire and sip tea and like, bond. that will make the grunting fucking sweating smelly shoving awkkward pushing grinding yelling moaning rolling OK. that will consecrate the animal urge, the act of desecration. we'll be together for three years and then get bored of each other and find someone else through whom to find ourselves. what a load of crap.
human nature, man. kill it. stab it. run into the wild. be a god, not somebody's bitch.what am i talking about? he teetered and he fell, blood gushing from his forehead, vomit gushing from his mouth into the stars. I want to be cleansed. in a dark room. never wash up ever again. lie ethere and stare at the ceiling which i cannot see. let the others have their stupid lives and dances and fucks and families and jobs. i will just stay here and wait. i'll feed myself with obscure incomprehensible art. i'll study Lynch. i'll become post-post-modern. i wil become nothing. people don't even look at me.
this is my secret diary. in reality, i may be someone else. someone you already know. this is where i heave my poison. my poison is fuuny, is ridiculous, is powerless. i'm litle twisting writhing maggot. i want to scream with insanity. i want to carve a hole in my face. i want the red water to come out. i want to break every finger. i want pain to erase me.
fuck it. it's over.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
fourteen
wow, two entries in one day. i guess this is the way it's going to be, i don't know when "inspiration" may strike.
I'm thinking about my friends. I feel sad. I must say i have a very close circle of friends, and i keep pushing the few i have remained away. So, i might just stay with one friend alone. or two, best case scenario.
We used to be about seven or nine, and one by one, we fell into darkness, or whatever. that is, relationships, girls, studying. I became estranged. i had nothing in common with them. we were a loud bunch. people shushed us in the buses. how things change in so little time. i think back then i felt sort of privileged. I thought, no matter what i have my friends. how could i let myself be deceived like that, especially since i had been betrayed before and again and again.
Anyways. I wanted to talk about that one friend who is always by my side and she's a girl and she puts up with whatever shit i put her through. She has a boyfriend, too. they're taking it slowly, or that's what she says so i won't slit her throat. i'm a possessive kind of guy, hahahaaaa...
We used to be very close, and still are, and have a good time when we're together and have these great conversations which are really rare around other people. pLus, she's very supportive of everything i do and say, and she's the only one who knows about the freinds i made out with (that makes me sound like such a whore,i'm not, i swear, for starters i'm still a virgin and will remain so for the rest of my life, you hear me? it's a promise)
I also feel very comfortable around her. I can burb, fart, whatver. She's cool. She's like a guy in a way, and boy, i think this turns out to be quite the praise. Ok, she's great, you get it. I should be feeling grateful. Well, I am. We just hang out yesterday, watching Muse concerts and drinking beers, then we watxhed 6 episodes of Sald Fingers etc.etc. At some point, I went out inthe balcony for a smoke. The city looked deserted. The roads were empty. it was Champion's League night, and yes we watched some of that too, eating gyros. we could be the perfect couple, no?
That's not what i meant to say. what i meant to say was, that, even though everything was so relaxed, and always is, i keep having this strange hole feeling inside me. like there's sth missing. Like some part was ripped out when i was a kid and was never replaced, and now there's always this phantom pain, this ache,t his itch. I can't quite describe it. Is it longing for sth i don't have? Longing for sth i had and lost? is the desire to see everything, do everything, be someone? Is it ambition? is it the TV ads feeding me with pictures of perfect bliss on foggy mountains, and bonfires on white beaches, images of perfect friendship, perfect love, perfect family. Is it greed, after all? Not appreciating the things u have, the people u have. always wanting more. wanting this perfect company of friends sitting around the fire drinking Carib, or NesCafe, or, wild, in a car, dancing from party to party. Even croissant ads have become too much of selling a certain lifestyle. The more and more and more lifestyle.
So we can nver be happy at what there's already in our reach.
I'm thinking about my friends. I feel sad. I must say i have a very close circle of friends, and i keep pushing the few i have remained away. So, i might just stay with one friend alone. or two, best case scenario.
We used to be about seven or nine, and one by one, we fell into darkness, or whatever. that is, relationships, girls, studying. I became estranged. i had nothing in common with them. we were a loud bunch. people shushed us in the buses. how things change in so little time. i think back then i felt sort of privileged. I thought, no matter what i have my friends. how could i let myself be deceived like that, especially since i had been betrayed before and again and again.
Anyways. I wanted to talk about that one friend who is always by my side and she's a girl and she puts up with whatever shit i put her through. She has a boyfriend, too. they're taking it slowly, or that's what she says so i won't slit her throat. i'm a possessive kind of guy, hahahaaaa...
We used to be very close, and still are, and have a good time when we're together and have these great conversations which are really rare around other people. pLus, she's very supportive of everything i do and say, and she's the only one who knows about the freinds i made out with (that makes me sound like such a whore,i'm not, i swear, for starters i'm still a virgin and will remain so for the rest of my life, you hear me? it's a promise)
I also feel very comfortable around her. I can burb, fart, whatver. She's cool. She's like a guy in a way, and boy, i think this turns out to be quite the praise. Ok, she's great, you get it. I should be feeling grateful. Well, I am. We just hang out yesterday, watching Muse concerts and drinking beers, then we watxhed 6 episodes of Sald Fingers etc.etc. At some point, I went out inthe balcony for a smoke. The city looked deserted. The roads were empty. it was Champion's League night, and yes we watched some of that too, eating gyros. we could be the perfect couple, no?
That's not what i meant to say. what i meant to say was, that, even though everything was so relaxed, and always is, i keep having this strange hole feeling inside me. like there's sth missing. Like some part was ripped out when i was a kid and was never replaced, and now there's always this phantom pain, this ache,t his itch. I can't quite describe it. Is it longing for sth i don't have? Longing for sth i had and lost? is the desire to see everything, do everything, be someone? Is it ambition? is it the TV ads feeding me with pictures of perfect bliss on foggy mountains, and bonfires on white beaches, images of perfect friendship, perfect love, perfect family. Is it greed, after all? Not appreciating the things u have, the people u have. always wanting more. wanting this perfect company of friends sitting around the fire drinking Carib, or NesCafe, or, wild, in a car, dancing from party to party. Even croissant ads have become too much of selling a certain lifestyle. The more and more and more lifestyle.
So we can nver be happy at what there's already in our reach.
thirteen: where i get my first kiss
Things with one of my oldest best friends had gotten kind of weird.
I shall tell you how. But first, let me tell you i should be studying for my exams instead of doing this, reminiscing about old times and trying to transcribe facts here. There's no perfect transcription though, memory is the photoshop of reality. No matter how honest i want to be,it seems that past facts stay in your memory under a certain light, or impression that sometimes has nothing to do with the truth.
There is a big chance that me and this certain friend will have our paths separated. He is probably going to study in London and i stay here, i stay back,i fall back. there's only one summer remaining between us before we become perfect starngers.
or maybe we've laready become strangers that stupid night on my birthday a couple of years ago, when i pointlessly asked him if he had ever kissed a guy. It was pointless because he always tells me about his "sexual" escapades, even now, even more so now as if he's trying to protect something, aka his manhood?
K. is an open guy though, and was back then, we've always said how we wanted to taste every "exquisite passion" and that night was a perfect chance. We were both drunk as hell, and i was getting sick too. I pushed the sickness behind for the time i needed to come on to him, so to speak. So, i asked him that, and he said, "no", and i asked, "do you want to give it a shot?" and he said, i guess, "why not". Up until then, i haven't kissed anyone but the back of my hand, or my shoulder, or my pillow. K. is my first, and he happens to be a guy. I think it's not a matter of sexuality as it is a matter of intimacy. I feel more relaxed around my guy friends, and comfortable to be coming this close.
So we kissed on the couch of his house, and then the urgency to puke came back with a vengeance. So, we quit and i ran to the bathroom where i puked half of the vomit on my hand bracing the bowl, which was kind of funny. But i felt better. I proceeded to brush my teeth, gurgle, clean up the toilet, and we were back to it again.
i don't remember if it was that night or osme other night that he led me to his parents' bedroom(it was summer, they were away on the weekend or sth) and pushed me back down on the mattress and stradled me in the darkness. I was feeling kind of irritated because, let me tell you, i have aproblem with darkness, i need some light on, so i was kind of spooked, and snickering. that is, up until he straddled me and he said, "I want to try this thing with you which i have never tried on girls. Can i?" and I giggled like a schoolgirl allright, and said, "ok". I had my hands on his waist i think, and he was so thin and wiry beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. I wanted to touch him aggressively on every part of his body, i wanted, as they say, to maul him, i got these bouts of HUNGER, but being the decent guy i am i never dared to at first, becausei thought i'd do it wrong anyway.
It was nothing big, he just tongue-fucked my ear and just by writing this i get a hard-on. Funny thing is, it's not so much the sensation that turns/turned me on as it was the sound. this wet, squishy sound of a tongue licking skin, mingled with breath, or the sound of soft, slow, moist meeting and brushing of tongues, inside and outside of mouths. Sometimes we'd ditch our friends in a coffee shop or bar, hide in the loo where we'd french-kiss maniacally, and our friends thiought we were just smoking pot or sth. I felt the need to be devoured, so i'd stick my tongue out but he'd never suck or chew on it as i wanted him to do. i'd slobber all over him because of this angry need and he'd say, "don't open your mouth so much." i guess i wanted to eat him, or even better, him to get wild with me, bite me, suck me hard, and i didn't even think of my dick and what it wanted.
Last summer, he spends a night at my place. we take it a bit further, there's full nudity involved, he complaints about me not taking initiative with him ( i can explain why i never do, but maybe in a different post) si half-heartedly suck at his nipples and try to ease a finger into him, but it just doesn't happen. his skin tastes weird, it tastes stale and mouldy, and i start to get self-conscious about my body but not for long, because he takes over, at last. So i'm on my bed, groped over clothes, and we both help stripping me completely, and my t-shirt is used as imaginary shackles, and tied around my hands which are above my head. Of course the thing is very loose, i can just twist my wrists and it goes away but i realize i keep my arms pinned into the mattress as if by the roughest of ropes. I don't even want to think what this is saying about my sexual tendencies. (I think i'm a sadist who internalizes his hate and directs it unto himself, thus makinghimself a full-fledged masochist who can take as much pain as effortlessly possible)
He gazes up and down my complete naked body and, in surprise, i hear him mutter "beautiful". I think, later maybe, look how lust can distort situations. Look how we deceive ourselves, or rather how our need to be touched or to own or to be owned deceives us, blinds us.
I didn't get a blow-job, btw. There was some poking around my ass in search of the sacred bull's eye (why a Bull's eye, really?), mostly i think because i think thgat's what he does with girls, he fingers them so it was only reasonable to go look for familiar ground. i wasn't hard and he wasn't hard because we were insanely drunk and couldn't keep it up for long, so it was a generally anticlimactic situation. I don't know if i wanted him to fuck me, but if he had tried to, i would've allowed him. we used some old lube (a present from him actually) for a handjob that got us nowhere. Then we slept.
in the morning, my sister asks me:"is that a hickey?" or more like, "is that TEETH?"
and i scratch my neck, glaring at K., saying "no, mosquito bite". I still don't know what she thought of it. in the evening, we meet gaian for a cigarette at apark, and kind of promise that we shouldn't do this ever again.
Anyways, i'm probably sharing a room with him on our vacations this summer, our last summer together, and we've never touched ever since. I'm just being the good friend, listening about his latest successes with girls, which i admit makes me feel very alone and abandoned. and fucking exposed. and gay. and a pervert. butwe don't talk about it and it's like it has never happened. As isaid it has more to do with intimacy, but i still haven't even touched a girl.
But there were other attempts with other boys. I'm trying not to feel very frustrated and i know this makes my cousin who is a fag-hag very proud and happy.
I shall tell you how. But first, let me tell you i should be studying for my exams instead of doing this, reminiscing about old times and trying to transcribe facts here. There's no perfect transcription though, memory is the photoshop of reality. No matter how honest i want to be,it seems that past facts stay in your memory under a certain light, or impression that sometimes has nothing to do with the truth.
There is a big chance that me and this certain friend will have our paths separated. He is probably going to study in London and i stay here, i stay back,i fall back. there's only one summer remaining between us before we become perfect starngers.
or maybe we've laready become strangers that stupid night on my birthday a couple of years ago, when i pointlessly asked him if he had ever kissed a guy. It was pointless because he always tells me about his "sexual" escapades, even now, even more so now as if he's trying to protect something, aka his manhood?
K. is an open guy though, and was back then, we've always said how we wanted to taste every "exquisite passion" and that night was a perfect chance. We were both drunk as hell, and i was getting sick too. I pushed the sickness behind for the time i needed to come on to him, so to speak. So, i asked him that, and he said, "no", and i asked, "do you want to give it a shot?" and he said, i guess, "why not". Up until then, i haven't kissed anyone but the back of my hand, or my shoulder, or my pillow. K. is my first, and he happens to be a guy. I think it's not a matter of sexuality as it is a matter of intimacy. I feel more relaxed around my guy friends, and comfortable to be coming this close.
So we kissed on the couch of his house, and then the urgency to puke came back with a vengeance. So, we quit and i ran to the bathroom where i puked half of the vomit on my hand bracing the bowl, which was kind of funny. But i felt better. I proceeded to brush my teeth, gurgle, clean up the toilet, and we were back to it again.
i don't remember if it was that night or osme other night that he led me to his parents' bedroom(it was summer, they were away on the weekend or sth) and pushed me back down on the mattress and stradled me in the darkness. I was feeling kind of irritated because, let me tell you, i have aproblem with darkness, i need some light on, so i was kind of spooked, and snickering. that is, up until he straddled me and he said, "I want to try this thing with you which i have never tried on girls. Can i?" and I giggled like a schoolgirl allright, and said, "ok". I had my hands on his waist i think, and he was so thin and wiry beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. I wanted to touch him aggressively on every part of his body, i wanted, as they say, to maul him, i got these bouts of HUNGER, but being the decent guy i am i never dared to at first, becausei thought i'd do it wrong anyway.
It was nothing big, he just tongue-fucked my ear and just by writing this i get a hard-on. Funny thing is, it's not so much the sensation that turns/turned me on as it was the sound. this wet, squishy sound of a tongue licking skin, mingled with breath, or the sound of soft, slow, moist meeting and brushing of tongues, inside and outside of mouths. Sometimes we'd ditch our friends in a coffee shop or bar, hide in the loo where we'd french-kiss maniacally, and our friends thiought we were just smoking pot or sth. I felt the need to be devoured, so i'd stick my tongue out but he'd never suck or chew on it as i wanted him to do. i'd slobber all over him because of this angry need and he'd say, "don't open your mouth so much." i guess i wanted to eat him, or even better, him to get wild with me, bite me, suck me hard, and i didn't even think of my dick and what it wanted.
Last summer, he spends a night at my place. we take it a bit further, there's full nudity involved, he complaints about me not taking initiative with him ( i can explain why i never do, but maybe in a different post) si half-heartedly suck at his nipples and try to ease a finger into him, but it just doesn't happen. his skin tastes weird, it tastes stale and mouldy, and i start to get self-conscious about my body but not for long, because he takes over, at last. So i'm on my bed, groped over clothes, and we both help stripping me completely, and my t-shirt is used as imaginary shackles, and tied around my hands which are above my head. Of course the thing is very loose, i can just twist my wrists and it goes away but i realize i keep my arms pinned into the mattress as if by the roughest of ropes. I don't even want to think what this is saying about my sexual tendencies. (I think i'm a sadist who internalizes his hate and directs it unto himself, thus makinghimself a full-fledged masochist who can take as much pain as effortlessly possible)
He gazes up and down my complete naked body and, in surprise, i hear him mutter "beautiful". I think, later maybe, look how lust can distort situations. Look how we deceive ourselves, or rather how our need to be touched or to own or to be owned deceives us, blinds us.
I didn't get a blow-job, btw. There was some poking around my ass in search of the sacred bull's eye (why a Bull's eye, really?), mostly i think because i think thgat's what he does with girls, he fingers them so it was only reasonable to go look for familiar ground. i wasn't hard and he wasn't hard because we were insanely drunk and couldn't keep it up for long, so it was a generally anticlimactic situation. I don't know if i wanted him to fuck me, but if he had tried to, i would've allowed him. we used some old lube (a present from him actually) for a handjob that got us nowhere. Then we slept.
in the morning, my sister asks me:"is that a hickey?" or more like, "is that TEETH?"
and i scratch my neck, glaring at K., saying "no, mosquito bite". I still don't know what she thought of it. in the evening, we meet gaian for a cigarette at apark, and kind of promise that we shouldn't do this ever again.
Anyways, i'm probably sharing a room with him on our vacations this summer, our last summer together, and we've never touched ever since. I'm just being the good friend, listening about his latest successes with girls, which i admit makes me feel very alone and abandoned. and fucking exposed. and gay. and a pervert. butwe don't talk about it and it's like it has never happened. As isaid it has more to do with intimacy, but i still haven't even touched a girl.
But there were other attempts with other boys. I'm trying not to feel very frustrated and i know this makes my cousin who is a fag-hag very proud and happy.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
twelve: two green plastic bags and the fourth death
I was at school, got the phone call, and I don’t know if I feel, what I feel or should be feeling. It’s those words you hear on the phone. They’re too simple and too final. A simple gesture. A simple announcement. The finality of the fact. This is it, folks. The end.
The absolute end amidst the absolute, perpetual, mundane, pointless period of time we call “life”. No matter how long you’re expecting it, it sneaks up on you. You know it will happen but when it does it takes you by surprise. It’s, in other words, shocking. The realization. But deep down all you want is people feeling sorry for you. Oh, the shit death has done to you! Can you see me and see ‘it’?
Far removed, deep inside the numbness. The gruesome details will come later. The plastic bags. I was laughing crying angry while I walked away. For the time being, the issue is this, and those of you of faith will not get it: once upon a time there was a man, and he was someone; he was someone up until a few hours ago when he became no-one. I mean nothing.
Want to stomp the foot down, make some noise, scream, make the universe stare, or just the old folks go ’tsk tsk tsk’. but. But nature today, oh, it’s so calm, so serene, and see the poppies amidst the lilies fair and wild weeds, all a chorus moving to the hidden sound of death’s sorrow. Life. Close the eyes, immerse.
There is guilt, there are memories. Most of all, there’s reality and reality is like a dream or like a bad scene out of a bad tv show. There were no last words. Except, as I later find out: “I’m thirsty. I’m cold.” have I missed the point of this death? Have I lost all that once made me human, and in consequence have lost what people would call ’the grandson’?
It’s a vicious, absurd cycle. You end giving in to it, cause, well, there’s not much else to do there, is there? What is acknowledged as: numbness, insensitivity, indifference, inability to emote, it’s all surrender to this.
Still don’t know what it means not to see this person again. He’s lost completely now. And some people, they leave no traces behind. Not to me, anyway. Because they were part of a hierarchy of love where you’re supposed to love those people that come before you, that have, in a way, spawned you, like family people, it’s a matter of respect. You love them because you’re expected to.
It’s death, death every time and I have to keep writing. Sorry I didn’t come to see you but you were a menacing spectacle, plus you weren’t able to recognize me. I sat like a ghost at the edge of your blurred vision’s periphery. You threatened my capability of confronting things, so I ignored them. What a shame, I know. Even the realization, the fact, are vague, are abstract.
The first time. I wept when I realized (11 years old) that something so bad and terrible can happen to me and my family. Or , more like it, I wept because I couldn’t believe something like this was actually happening. Those were tears of denial. No fucking way. I locked myself into the bathroom and spent hours of doing what may pass for praying. You left me your journals that mom threw away and i never got to read, and your love for obscure fiction, and your records of Pink Floyd. Also, people say, you left me your weird, discontented, self-destructive disposition to life. People say I smoke because you did.
The second time I wept because it was a fast, grotesque death, and the first time I said my goodbyes to a corpse. That I kissed the cold forehead, the hollow shell of something that wore the dead mask of someone I used to know. Now she was no-one. Yet, I wished her “bon voyage and say hi”, and cried. It was my first funeral but I always forget the specifics, the technical details. I cried a lot during the burial I think, because my dad’s death, my first death, was too vague, I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral and I still can only imagine things or recreate scenes and feelings out of what other people say, things made to satisfy my sinister imagination.
The third death makes me want to cry even more, because it was my fault and it ended up in a horrific, macabre environment. I had lots of memories and an almost somatic pain of loss. Death became solid, concrete. For those who stay alive, there are a lot of responsibilities, even after death. My family, we forsake them all.
And now, the fourth death. Have i counted them correctly? Still coming home on the bus, still don’t know what to feel. It’s too early, it’s just an announcement. There was my broken voice. The agitation. The bewilderment. The abruptness, the simple worlds spoken, their cruelty, their silliness. Their simplicity. The simplicity of the fact. There aren’t many memories for me. Right now, there’s only noise, static noise.
I know what I will encounter - again. A body too smallish in comparison to what I remembered. Stuck in a coffin smaller than expected. As if death shrinks us all. And there’s also the other aspect of death. The magnificent triumphant egoism of life. Relationships resume. Recollections and reminders. The horrifically comforting sensation of your being.
We, the alive ones, we honour the dead, gather around them as if still alive, and maybe they’re still alive as long as they’re above the ground. We comfort each other with empty words about god and god knows what. We share memories. I wish I had some memories to share. We hug, we drink to forget or drink to remember. And I don’t know, I don’t know the point of it all, or the use of it. Someone doesn’t exist anymore, and what happened to what he was. Where did he go? The earth that covers him is like a howl in the dark because you know that some day, the same earth will cover you too and all you’ve loved.
It’s the other face of death. Do we cry for them, the dead ones, or for the heap of dust and bones we will become in a little while, or for what they once were? You always hope that death will reveal something to you. Maybe it will make you a better man. And then you realize; nothing.
Just a short note: the family tomb was opened, and after the coffin was deposited in the dirt, two green plastic bags were thrown atop. A friend of mine said she saw bones in them. One of these green bags was my dad. I left the site shaking my head and tryint to suppress wild laughter behind my palm.
The absolute end amidst the absolute, perpetual, mundane, pointless period of time we call “life”. No matter how long you’re expecting it, it sneaks up on you. You know it will happen but when it does it takes you by surprise. It’s, in other words, shocking. The realization. But deep down all you want is people feeling sorry for you. Oh, the shit death has done to you! Can you see me and see ‘it’?
Far removed, deep inside the numbness. The gruesome details will come later. The plastic bags. I was laughing crying angry while I walked away. For the time being, the issue is this, and those of you of faith will not get it: once upon a time there was a man, and he was someone; he was someone up until a few hours ago when he became no-one. I mean nothing.
Want to stomp the foot down, make some noise, scream, make the universe stare, or just the old folks go ’tsk tsk tsk’. but. But nature today, oh, it’s so calm, so serene, and see the poppies amidst the lilies fair and wild weeds, all a chorus moving to the hidden sound of death’s sorrow. Life. Close the eyes, immerse.
There is guilt, there are memories. Most of all, there’s reality and reality is like a dream or like a bad scene out of a bad tv show. There were no last words. Except, as I later find out: “I’m thirsty. I’m cold.” have I missed the point of this death? Have I lost all that once made me human, and in consequence have lost what people would call ’the grandson’?
It’s a vicious, absurd cycle. You end giving in to it, cause, well, there’s not much else to do there, is there? What is acknowledged as: numbness, insensitivity, indifference, inability to emote, it’s all surrender to this.
Still don’t know what it means not to see this person again. He’s lost completely now. And some people, they leave no traces behind. Not to me, anyway. Because they were part of a hierarchy of love where you’re supposed to love those people that come before you, that have, in a way, spawned you, like family people, it’s a matter of respect. You love them because you’re expected to.
It’s death, death every time and I have to keep writing. Sorry I didn’t come to see you but you were a menacing spectacle, plus you weren’t able to recognize me. I sat like a ghost at the edge of your blurred vision’s periphery. You threatened my capability of confronting things, so I ignored them. What a shame, I know. Even the realization, the fact, are vague, are abstract.
The first time. I wept when I realized (11 years old) that something so bad and terrible can happen to me and my family. Or , more like it, I wept because I couldn’t believe something like this was actually happening. Those were tears of denial. No fucking way. I locked myself into the bathroom and spent hours of doing what may pass for praying. You left me your journals that mom threw away and i never got to read, and your love for obscure fiction, and your records of Pink Floyd. Also, people say, you left me your weird, discontented, self-destructive disposition to life. People say I smoke because you did.
The second time I wept because it was a fast, grotesque death, and the first time I said my goodbyes to a corpse. That I kissed the cold forehead, the hollow shell of something that wore the dead mask of someone I used to know. Now she was no-one. Yet, I wished her “bon voyage and say hi”, and cried. It was my first funeral but I always forget the specifics, the technical details. I cried a lot during the burial I think, because my dad’s death, my first death, was too vague, I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral and I still can only imagine things or recreate scenes and feelings out of what other people say, things made to satisfy my sinister imagination.
The third death makes me want to cry even more, because it was my fault and it ended up in a horrific, macabre environment. I had lots of memories and an almost somatic pain of loss. Death became solid, concrete. For those who stay alive, there are a lot of responsibilities, even after death. My family, we forsake them all.
And now, the fourth death. Have i counted them correctly? Still coming home on the bus, still don’t know what to feel. It’s too early, it’s just an announcement. There was my broken voice. The agitation. The bewilderment. The abruptness, the simple worlds spoken, their cruelty, their silliness. Their simplicity. The simplicity of the fact. There aren’t many memories for me. Right now, there’s only noise, static noise.
I know what I will encounter - again. A body too smallish in comparison to what I remembered. Stuck in a coffin smaller than expected. As if death shrinks us all. And there’s also the other aspect of death. The magnificent triumphant egoism of life. Relationships resume. Recollections and reminders. The horrifically comforting sensation of your being.
We, the alive ones, we honour the dead, gather around them as if still alive, and maybe they’re still alive as long as they’re above the ground. We comfort each other with empty words about god and god knows what. We share memories. I wish I had some memories to share. We hug, we drink to forget or drink to remember. And I don’t know, I don’t know the point of it all, or the use of it. Someone doesn’t exist anymore, and what happened to what he was. Where did he go? The earth that covers him is like a howl in the dark because you know that some day, the same earth will cover you too and all you’ve loved.
It’s the other face of death. Do we cry for them, the dead ones, or for the heap of dust and bones we will become in a little while, or for what they once were? You always hope that death will reveal something to you. Maybe it will make you a better man. And then you realize; nothing.
Just a short note: the family tomb was opened, and after the coffin was deposited in the dirt, two green plastic bags were thrown atop. A friend of mine said she saw bones in them. One of these green bags was my dad. I left the site shaking my head and tryint to suppress wild laughter behind my palm.
Monday, May 17, 2010
eleven
I'm listening to a very short tribute to Joy Division on the radio, and i'm thinking,
this is it
this is what i want
this is what i've felt my entire life but couldn't put into words, not so aptly as it was put in the music aand lyrics of this band, and the ghostly, sepulchral voice
and i wonder is this it?
you can tie a cord around your neck and hang, let it be over
it makes sense, right now, it makes perfect sense
because there's nothing
unless suicide is only reserved for geniuses
in which case i'm screwed
and my gesture would be totally lost on everyone
and become an ugly joke
I'm not really thinking about suicide, only about death.
Though, i'm in a point in my life where nothing can break through this, whatever, veil or wall i've shrouded myself with, embalm the rusty, rotting being with injections of other people's poetry, solitude, alcohol, pills, defeat, anger. I can only sleep when in physical pain because it takes away the doubts, the thoughts, the longing.
everything is falling apart.
everything is decomposing.
destruction is subtle.
it's a tender collapse.
every physical being, from the moment of its birth, carries the seed of its disintegration, every organ a hot oven where life slowly rots, every chemical composure and connection slowly breaking down to the simpler substances of air, water. death ferments in every belly. every minute strips flesh of one's bones. it starts with dead cells that cover the bed and floor and furniture like very fine dust, but it's only the thin veneer of your dead self, floating particles of deadness, what the body won't use any more. it starts with broken fingernails, falling hair, separation of intimate organic fluids. le mort petit means you've died a little because your physical body has just given up a vital amount of what was inwardly yours, safe in its glands, it has released part of your life into another being's cavity or whatver, the amount of semen, dead or alive, is lost and never coming back. they're emptying you out, little by ittle, drop by drop. a tender process. the thrill, electricity, rapture ur supposed to feel when you cum, it's not the wonder of life, it's the caress of death, like when you lie in bed or on the floor limp and helpless after the discharge, it's death that rears its ugly skull and laughs at you.
Or maybe it's just depression.
smash the mirrors.
smash the glass.
smash someone's face.
smash yourself.
just listen to the sound of breaking.
this is it
this is what i want
this is what i've felt my entire life but couldn't put into words, not so aptly as it was put in the music aand lyrics of this band, and the ghostly, sepulchral voice
and i wonder is this it?
you can tie a cord around your neck and hang, let it be over
it makes sense, right now, it makes perfect sense
because there's nothing
unless suicide is only reserved for geniuses
in which case i'm screwed
and my gesture would be totally lost on everyone
and become an ugly joke
I'm not really thinking about suicide, only about death.
Though, i'm in a point in my life where nothing can break through this, whatever, veil or wall i've shrouded myself with, embalm the rusty, rotting being with injections of other people's poetry, solitude, alcohol, pills, defeat, anger. I can only sleep when in physical pain because it takes away the doubts, the thoughts, the longing.
everything is falling apart.
everything is decomposing.
destruction is subtle.
it's a tender collapse.
every physical being, from the moment of its birth, carries the seed of its disintegration, every organ a hot oven where life slowly rots, every chemical composure and connection slowly breaking down to the simpler substances of air, water. death ferments in every belly. every minute strips flesh of one's bones. it starts with dead cells that cover the bed and floor and furniture like very fine dust, but it's only the thin veneer of your dead self, floating particles of deadness, what the body won't use any more. it starts with broken fingernails, falling hair, separation of intimate organic fluids. le mort petit means you've died a little because your physical body has just given up a vital amount of what was inwardly yours, safe in its glands, it has released part of your life into another being's cavity or whatver, the amount of semen, dead or alive, is lost and never coming back. they're emptying you out, little by ittle, drop by drop. a tender process. the thrill, electricity, rapture ur supposed to feel when you cum, it's not the wonder of life, it's the caress of death, like when you lie in bed or on the floor limp and helpless after the discharge, it's death that rears its ugly skull and laughs at you.
Or maybe it's just depression.
smash the mirrors.
smash the glass.
smash someone's face.
smash yourself.
just listen to the sound of breaking.
Friday, May 14, 2010
the one about innocence and benzine
I'm not an innocent. I'm not.
But i have innocence.
When we was little kids we wanted to see the world differently, like a magic ride or something. So what we did was stretch our arms out and start spinning around ourselves, spin and spin, faster and fatser until the world was a blur and it felt like we were taking off. Finally, we'd crash against each other or into walls or on beds, but the world would just keep spinning for quite a while anyway, and we were sweaty and out of breath and the magic rise was over but we were innocent and happy.
Later, we discovered benzine, and spent endless noons and afternoons and days in general, when we didn't have school) trying to recreate the sense of wonder. We'd fall into time loops and saw strange things we later didn't recall. Getting stuck, we called it. Because we stuck in space, our bodies there, our minds somewhere else. One day i stood for who knows how many minutes in the middle of my friend's room while he slapped the shit out of me, but i wouldn't get unstuck. Only when he pushed me and i landed on his bed did i "wake" and was in great confucion that I found myslef on the bed.
On another incident, I "woke" and announced my friends "I'm the rooster", rooster spells kokkoras in Greek, the stress on the first syllable please, so I woke up and said "eimai o kokkoras" and then started to call myslef that and this remained my nickname for quite a few months, until i got bored of having my nose and upper lip peel off and burn and sting from the inhalation of benzine through a hankerchief we doused benzine with. The funny thing is we used to do benzine outside as well, as in parks, abandoned places etc. and sometimes people would come up and talk to us and even though we were "stuck" we actually managed to speak. God knows what we were saying to them. I particularly remember a man with a dog. And I remember feeling sad.
Once, I got high alone on benzine and someone over the radio said there was a flu going around, and i thought he meant it was transmitted throigh the radio waves or sth, and felt panic because i thought i had just caught it. Parts of songs looped in my head. Especially from The Doors, our favorite music to get stuck to. I wanted to try LSD or sth, but couldn't find any. Still can't. I wonder if the effects are similar. And what about meth, or crack, I wonder if they make you see things.
Benzine made me think that i was always on the verge of discovering something awesome, something groundbreaking, that i'd discover the mysteries of the universe. Only I "woke up" right on the very instant where i was about to make the discovery. So benzine was research. I owed it to myself to go back and solve the mystery. i still have a bottle of it somewhere, if it hasn't evaporated.
Innocence lost: I stand in the middle of my room. I stretch out my arms. I want to disappear. I start turning. Spin spin spinning. Faster and faster. I feel lighter. the ground gives way. The world starts blurring.
Blurier.
Blurier.
Still. Blurier.
I don't exist anymore. The thoughts in my head are colourful echoes, Pollock brush strokes. Or something. I want the world to erase me. I want to blend into the magic blur and fly off.
I brake. I collapse. I wish there was someone there to catch me. anD that someone will hold me and be my pillow. He will steady me and laugh and he will envelope into his arms.
Gotcha, he'll say.
Instead: i hit the floor hard, the floor still oscillating, i hit my forehead against the corner of the bed, i bleed. that's it. the end of love. no one there but my bleeding forehead against the floor. I stare at the splinters, the fibres of the carpet, speckles of dust. And once more i feel like i got unstuck. I feel loss.
But i have innocence.
When we was little kids we wanted to see the world differently, like a magic ride or something. So what we did was stretch our arms out and start spinning around ourselves, spin and spin, faster and fatser until the world was a blur and it felt like we were taking off. Finally, we'd crash against each other or into walls or on beds, but the world would just keep spinning for quite a while anyway, and we were sweaty and out of breath and the magic rise was over but we were innocent and happy.
Later, we discovered benzine, and spent endless noons and afternoons and days in general, when we didn't have school) trying to recreate the sense of wonder. We'd fall into time loops and saw strange things we later didn't recall. Getting stuck, we called it. Because we stuck in space, our bodies there, our minds somewhere else. One day i stood for who knows how many minutes in the middle of my friend's room while he slapped the shit out of me, but i wouldn't get unstuck. Only when he pushed me and i landed on his bed did i "wake" and was in great confucion that I found myslef on the bed.
On another incident, I "woke" and announced my friends "I'm the rooster", rooster spells kokkoras in Greek, the stress on the first syllable please, so I woke up and said "eimai o kokkoras" and then started to call myslef that and this remained my nickname for quite a few months, until i got bored of having my nose and upper lip peel off and burn and sting from the inhalation of benzine through a hankerchief we doused benzine with. The funny thing is we used to do benzine outside as well, as in parks, abandoned places etc. and sometimes people would come up and talk to us and even though we were "stuck" we actually managed to speak. God knows what we were saying to them. I particularly remember a man with a dog. And I remember feeling sad.
Once, I got high alone on benzine and someone over the radio said there was a flu going around, and i thought he meant it was transmitted throigh the radio waves or sth, and felt panic because i thought i had just caught it. Parts of songs looped in my head. Especially from The Doors, our favorite music to get stuck to. I wanted to try LSD or sth, but couldn't find any. Still can't. I wonder if the effects are similar. And what about meth, or crack, I wonder if they make you see things.
Benzine made me think that i was always on the verge of discovering something awesome, something groundbreaking, that i'd discover the mysteries of the universe. Only I "woke up" right on the very instant where i was about to make the discovery. So benzine was research. I owed it to myself to go back and solve the mystery. i still have a bottle of it somewhere, if it hasn't evaporated.
Innocence lost: I stand in the middle of my room. I stretch out my arms. I want to disappear. I start turning. Spin spin spinning. Faster and faster. I feel lighter. the ground gives way. The world starts blurring.
Blurier.
Blurier.
Still. Blurier.
I don't exist anymore. The thoughts in my head are colourful echoes, Pollock brush strokes. Or something. I want the world to erase me. I want to blend into the magic blur and fly off.
I brake. I collapse. I wish there was someone there to catch me. anD that someone will hold me and be my pillow. He will steady me and laugh and he will envelope into his arms.
Gotcha, he'll say.
Instead: i hit the floor hard, the floor still oscillating, i hit my forehead against the corner of the bed, i bleed. that's it. the end of love. no one there but my bleeding forehead against the floor. I stare at the splinters, the fibres of the carpet, speckles of dust. And once more i feel like i got unstuck. I feel loss.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
the one about cigarettes and chores
Wake up. The radio is a constant mumble,or maybe drone somewhere in the backdrop.
I have to send an SMS to a friend to tell you her she can't come by today. I'm becoming excessively, increasingly antisocial.
"Mate, goodmorning. I have a lot of chores today so i won't be home. If anything's arranged for tonite i'll let u know."
Which is not completely a lie. I have to go to the P.O. and the supermarket and and and. I get bored alone but i get more bored when i'm around my friends, lately. People are always talking on the radio, so i turn it to a station where there's only static.
Under the static, though, a half-transmission of sth that sounds like Amy Winehouse. Changing again. Lounge summerish music.
I really have to go. And then I want to come back and melt away in front of the computer screen.
I began writing a story yesterday, but read it today while drinking coffee and having a smoke and i wanted to throw myself off the balcony.
In two days time i'm having an appointment with a therapist. That was one of my greatest aspirations in life. Now that is actually happening I don't know what to tell her exactly.
I mean, what it really wrong with me? But if she's good she'll be able to find out onher own.
I'm hungry. Haven't eaten since yesterday's lunch.
I'm out of ciggies. While I'm out, should i go buy some? I want to cut down.
I have to send an SMS to a friend to tell you her she can't come by today. I'm becoming excessively, increasingly antisocial.
"Mate, goodmorning. I have a lot of chores today so i won't be home. If anything's arranged for tonite i'll let u know."
Which is not completely a lie. I have to go to the P.O. and the supermarket and and and. I get bored alone but i get more bored when i'm around my friends, lately. People are always talking on the radio, so i turn it to a station where there's only static.
Under the static, though, a half-transmission of sth that sounds like Amy Winehouse. Changing again. Lounge summerish music.
I really have to go. And then I want to come back and melt away in front of the computer screen.
I began writing a story yesterday, but read it today while drinking coffee and having a smoke and i wanted to throw myself off the balcony.
In two days time i'm having an appointment with a therapist. That was one of my greatest aspirations in life. Now that is actually happening I don't know what to tell her exactly.
I mean, what it really wrong with me? But if she's good she'll be able to find out onher own.
I'm hungry. Haven't eaten since yesterday's lunch.
I'm out of ciggies. While I'm out, should i go buy some? I want to cut down.
Monday, May 3, 2010
a scattered dream that's like a far off memory
I'm sorry. I'm really sorry if this is considered cheating or plagiarism. It's not plagiarism if i mention my sources, right? I read this post and its start threw me, because of course i misinterpreted because of the use of the words "blindfolded" and "bat".
All credits to x!
But this is a different spin.
I think i might be getting too...something by that film.
The boy is blindfolded and handed a bat.
Guided forward and given strict directions.
Then the boy is assisted, given the mild push that will begin the game.
The boy is span around, with of course, the guiding hand of the only adult in the room, aka master aka lover.
Adukt hoots.
Boy laughs.
Adult goads.
Boy feels dizzy and lost.
Adult screams, do it!
Boy hits and misses.
adult cheers on.
boy tries again.
adult getting impatient.
boy senses this.
adult boos.
boy swings and doesn't miss.
adult whoops as if the boy has hit homerun or sth.
The horse is killed, bleeding out all the candy.
Only it's not really a horse and it doesn't really bleed candy.
The boy is soaked.
I don't know what kind of family snapshot this would make.
All credits to x!
But this is a different spin.
I think i might be getting too...something by that film.
The boy is blindfolded and handed a bat.
Guided forward and given strict directions.
Then the boy is assisted, given the mild push that will begin the game.
The boy is span around, with of course, the guiding hand of the only adult in the room, aka master aka lover.
Adukt hoots.
Boy laughs.
Adult goads.
Boy feels dizzy and lost.
Adult screams, do it!
Boy hits and misses.
adult cheers on.
boy tries again.
adult getting impatient.
boy senses this.
adult boos.
boy swings and doesn't miss.
adult whoops as if the boy has hit homerun or sth.
The horse is killed, bleeding out all the candy.
Only it's not really a horse and it doesn't really bleed candy.
The boy is soaked.
I don't know what kind of family snapshot this would make.
the one about murdering and raping little children
I want to order the Red Riding Quartet by David Peace. it was made into a trilogy. I saw most of it during the last two weeks. Hmmm. A Swan and a Wolf are making little girls vanish. Obviously, we're told later on, it's not just girls. There were also boys, probably. One of the, BJ, the boy who lived.
I thought how much more stimulating (well, for me anyways) it would be if the disappearances/murders were boys only. Probably an easthetic choice. Definitely not one of morality because when said boy, BJ, goes to find the Wolf and kill him, and we all figure out what was going on ( The Wolf was taking little boys and girls to a basement where the little boys and girls were obviously offering pleasure to prominent figures of the Yorkshire society, cops, rich people, the clergy, u name it) i was kind of shocked. Not exactly shocked, i mean i rea dthat stuff for bedtime stories but appalled. Because the fantasy is good, it's okay, but imagine there are true people out there doing such things to real kids out there, and there's no question of fucking aesthetics here, yeah? I'm not talking about morality, either. It;s just sad and makes you feel helpless. How fucked-up the world can be. because kids are the only and last true innocence left, and if we fuck em up(which is obviously tempting, and even a challenge) it's just sad and sick. But that;s the way the world is. A nice red juicy shiny apple which is rotten inside. Man, i don't k now, everyone wants to take a bite at innocence. I know i do, even if it's just reveries.
this made me look up different serial killers, and then specialize to homosexual-targeted serial killers, and there are a few, and it makes you wonder. it causes the slack-jawed effect. you read and feel shivers down your spine because it's so fucking inexplicable, and these people were like you before they started doing what they did. I can undesrtand the thrill, the ecstacy of having that power over someone; a helpless boy let's say, crawling at your feet, bleeding out of nose, ears, mouth, eyes, hole. i can understand the appeal of ravaging innocence. That look in their dazed eyes. The confusion, the terror, the doubt (is this really happening? to me? now? ). The sweetness. The soft lips that pleadingly, obligingly give way to a thumb, or sth bigger and harsher. If you do this, you will make this child your own, you will smash its innocence and brand it with your existence. You will fuck it up, for ever and for good.
But what then? What then? And what about the poor souls, the survivors? and what about the survivors of the non-survivors? family. friends. always wondering.
Phew.
I'm confused. I just wanted to write about this boy from school who's name is Gregory and he's a goth/emo/industrial kind of guy, always wears a hood over the huge fringe that hides half his face and has a new piercing every week. Well, i was watching him today and saw how nice and skiny he is and i wondered if it has ever passed through his mind, to fool around with another guy. plus, i was thiking how tiny his waist is (i hadn't noticed before) and how i'd like to take pictures of him with just his hood and boxers on. Would he think i'm totally gay? Would he agree? hat if i promised i'd make him famous? Maybe he'd just do it to revenge his mom who's in the army.
I don't know how it got to murdering boys. I wonder if i could do it. Probably. i can do the weirdest shit if i'm convinced they're not really happening. but i'm pro peace. Anyway, violence and blood are so boring and fake-looking when they're happening.
Once i tried to cut the finger of a friend who fainted when he saw blood. i wa strying to help. the friend offered anway. the knife was so blunt i had to saw through the flesh, like go over and over agin. and then we had to go to school. good old days. we were always trying to bleed or die, or so we thought.
I thought how much more stimulating (well, for me anyways) it would be if the disappearances/murders were boys only. Probably an easthetic choice. Definitely not one of morality because when said boy, BJ, goes to find the Wolf and kill him, and we all figure out what was going on ( The Wolf was taking little boys and girls to a basement where the little boys and girls were obviously offering pleasure to prominent figures of the Yorkshire society, cops, rich people, the clergy, u name it) i was kind of shocked. Not exactly shocked, i mean i rea dthat stuff for bedtime stories but appalled. Because the fantasy is good, it's okay, but imagine there are true people out there doing such things to real kids out there, and there's no question of fucking aesthetics here, yeah? I'm not talking about morality, either. It;s just sad and makes you feel helpless. How fucked-up the world can be. because kids are the only and last true innocence left, and if we fuck em up(which is obviously tempting, and even a challenge) it's just sad and sick. But that;s the way the world is. A nice red juicy shiny apple which is rotten inside. Man, i don't k now, everyone wants to take a bite at innocence. I know i do, even if it's just reveries.
this made me look up different serial killers, and then specialize to homosexual-targeted serial killers, and there are a few, and it makes you wonder. it causes the slack-jawed effect. you read and feel shivers down your spine because it's so fucking inexplicable, and these people were like you before they started doing what they did. I can undesrtand the thrill, the ecstacy of having that power over someone; a helpless boy let's say, crawling at your feet, bleeding out of nose, ears, mouth, eyes, hole. i can understand the appeal of ravaging innocence. That look in their dazed eyes. The confusion, the terror, the doubt (is this really happening? to me? now? ). The sweetness. The soft lips that pleadingly, obligingly give way to a thumb, or sth bigger and harsher. If you do this, you will make this child your own, you will smash its innocence and brand it with your existence. You will fuck it up, for ever and for good.
But what then? What then? And what about the poor souls, the survivors? and what about the survivors of the non-survivors? family. friends. always wondering.
Phew.
I'm confused. I just wanted to write about this boy from school who's name is Gregory and he's a goth/emo/industrial kind of guy, always wears a hood over the huge fringe that hides half his face and has a new piercing every week. Well, i was watching him today and saw how nice and skiny he is and i wondered if it has ever passed through his mind, to fool around with another guy. plus, i was thiking how tiny his waist is (i hadn't noticed before) and how i'd like to take pictures of him with just his hood and boxers on. Would he think i'm totally gay? Would he agree? hat if i promised i'd make him famous? Maybe he'd just do it to revenge his mom who's in the army.
I don't know how it got to murdering boys. I wonder if i could do it. Probably. i can do the weirdest shit if i'm convinced they're not really happening. but i'm pro peace. Anyway, violence and blood are so boring and fake-looking when they're happening.
Once i tried to cut the finger of a friend who fainted when he saw blood. i wa strying to help. the friend offered anway. the knife was so blunt i had to saw through the flesh, like go over and over agin. and then we had to go to school. good old days. we were always trying to bleed or die, or so we thought.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
the one about (furtive) masturbation
Do you know what it means having to share a room with your sister?
So, when ur watching porn on your laptop and stuff, she's right there, maybe reading? Or snoring? And you have to be the qyietest u can, or as still as you can? Try to fucking come without making a sound or a move. No, i dare you.
Maybe i'm already exposed. Do you know what it is trying to get off, and suddenly your mother bursts into the room and sticks a slice of apple in your face? You have to be quick enough to make sure you change the page, or else she'll see u were watching sth called Breeding Season by Treasure Island Media. BTW, hawt.
Just because i like gay porn doesn't mean anything except, i like gay porn, u know?
So, when ur watching porn on your laptop and stuff, she's right there, maybe reading? Or snoring? And you have to be the qyietest u can, or as still as you can? Try to fucking come without making a sound or a move. No, i dare you.
Maybe i'm already exposed. Do you know what it is trying to get off, and suddenly your mother bursts into the room and sticks a slice of apple in your face? You have to be quick enough to make sure you change the page, or else she'll see u were watching sth called Breeding Season by Treasure Island Media. BTW, hawt.
Just because i like gay porn doesn't mean anything except, i like gay porn, u know?
the one about Sunday mornings and panic attacks and lousy coffee
I'm drinking a lousy coffee. Too much sugar. I made it myself. Yuck.
I'm severely pissed off.
I'm currently reading: Rules of Attraction and Wrong. Oh, and Mrs Dalloway. Diversify. Yeah, right.
I had a panic attack last night, I woke up, panting, trembling, without the usual cold sweat, I think. I don't know if it's exactly a mental condition, or if it's just sudden realization to which the expected reaction is to panic. Mortality. Ah! They say there are some triggers for panic attacks, and mine may be this painful realization. And coffee. Mostly it happens on weekends. Maybe I'm having crappy weekends lately. Can't remember the last time I really had fun with my friends. Can't remember the last time i felt like i had any friends. I used to think friendship is the most precious thing in the entire world, but it turned out i was/am the only one who believes this crap. Most people do until something happens, and friendship isn't as important any more, not as important as, let's say, sex. Or, whatever, affection. I don't know what people want to get out of relationships. Sex, obviously. But what else? It's awkward. What? Holding hands in public? Making out in the back row at the cinema? I WANT to watch the film, that's why I go to the cinema. If someone tried to do anything to me while i was watching a film, I'd want to kick their faces in. Which i probably wouldn't cause...oh, for many different reasons. Mostly, because compliant is a big part of who I am. So i know i'd totally be a captive into a relationship. I don't know if sex makes up for such injusticies.
Have you noticed how the radio always plays crap on Sunday mornings when good music is most needed? And I don't know what to put on the cd player. What do i need to listen to on this really sunny, summerish Sunday morning that would suit my envious, slightly irritable, basically indescribable mood?
Yesterday it was,you know, the first day of May, oh, the first real day of spring, so everyone here got into their cars and vanished to the country. I stayed in, there was no transportation so i just went out to the balcony and watched the road where nothing much was happening because everyone was in the country.
My BFF (ugh) called me in the evening, said her BF was coming from wherever he's working but she'd probably stay in because she had diarrhea which was possibly a subtle way to tell me she didn't want me out with them. Guess what. I don't know why but i don't like that guy so i'd really hate it to be the third wheel, anyway. How nice of you, anyway. I'm telling you, straight relationships are weird and overbearing. They make people behave like self-satisfied assholes. Thye kind of sanction you as a person and functional being of society. What follows is, the big house with the fireplace, the white picket fence, the fancy car and, of course, the kids.
Maybe my...aspirations are childish and naive and pipedreams, since i can see there's no way for them to actually come true (you need at least a modicum of talent) but it's better to realize that it's all one big illusion made to keep you alive than, you know, deluding yourself. Even if i never become a writer at least i'm going to do the wrong thing. Fuck playing house.
I'm severely pissed off.
I'm currently reading: Rules of Attraction and Wrong. Oh, and Mrs Dalloway. Diversify. Yeah, right.
I had a panic attack last night, I woke up, panting, trembling, without the usual cold sweat, I think. I don't know if it's exactly a mental condition, or if it's just sudden realization to which the expected reaction is to panic. Mortality. Ah! They say there are some triggers for panic attacks, and mine may be this painful realization. And coffee. Mostly it happens on weekends. Maybe I'm having crappy weekends lately. Can't remember the last time I really had fun with my friends. Can't remember the last time i felt like i had any friends. I used to think friendship is the most precious thing in the entire world, but it turned out i was/am the only one who believes this crap. Most people do until something happens, and friendship isn't as important any more, not as important as, let's say, sex. Or, whatever, affection. I don't know what people want to get out of relationships. Sex, obviously. But what else? It's awkward. What? Holding hands in public? Making out in the back row at the cinema? I WANT to watch the film, that's why I go to the cinema. If someone tried to do anything to me while i was watching a film, I'd want to kick their faces in. Which i probably wouldn't cause...oh, for many different reasons. Mostly, because compliant is a big part of who I am. So i know i'd totally be a captive into a relationship. I don't know if sex makes up for such injusticies.
Have you noticed how the radio always plays crap on Sunday mornings when good music is most needed? And I don't know what to put on the cd player. What do i need to listen to on this really sunny, summerish Sunday morning that would suit my envious, slightly irritable, basically indescribable mood?
Yesterday it was,you know, the first day of May, oh, the first real day of spring, so everyone here got into their cars and vanished to the country. I stayed in, there was no transportation so i just went out to the balcony and watched the road where nothing much was happening because everyone was in the country.
My BFF (ugh) called me in the evening, said her BF was coming from wherever he's working but she'd probably stay in because she had diarrhea which was possibly a subtle way to tell me she didn't want me out with them. Guess what. I don't know why but i don't like that guy so i'd really hate it to be the third wheel, anyway. How nice of you, anyway. I'm telling you, straight relationships are weird and overbearing. They make people behave like self-satisfied assholes. Thye kind of sanction you as a person and functional being of society. What follows is, the big house with the fireplace, the white picket fence, the fancy car and, of course, the kids.
Maybe my...aspirations are childish and naive and pipedreams, since i can see there's no way for them to actually come true (you need at least a modicum of talent) but it's better to realize that it's all one big illusion made to keep you alive than, you know, deluding yourself. Even if i never become a writer at least i'm going to do the wrong thing. Fuck playing house.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
the one about me introducing me
Pacman. Stressful. I end up sending myself straight in the lion's mouth. Because I don't want to extend my misery.
That's not really what I wanted to say. I guess, I wanted to start by saying hello, to whom I don't know, since this *is* a blank page. Anyway, if you ever follow this blog, hello and welcome. Sit, and get cozy.
I really don't know what this blog is going to be about. Mostly, I'm trying to figure out myself. Or find other people out there like me. I don't know if I'm asexual. I just haven't had proper sex yet. It stresses me out, to be honest. Because i think sex is mostly gross. I don't know why I think this. As an idea, I don't like it. It freaks me out, the possibility of having to touch another body, to have your body penetrated. Penetrating must be even harder.
No, wait, as an idea, I like sex. I meant, as a reality, I don't. I like reading about sex, watching sex (you perv), writing about sex, fantasizing about sex but. I just can't picture myself *there*, you know?
No, you probably don't.
I'm just trying to understand it, okay? I've been lurking around, reading some amazing (not always sex-related) posts, and I'm in awe of things and people out there. My sexuality puzzles me, but some people accept theirs willingly, eagerly, proudly.
I would like that. But by not having sex is like I still hold the reigns to myself. I feel in me a rather alarming urge to submit, to give myself up entirely to someone who will use me, manipulate, abuse me, and I don't like this prospect. It scares me.
That's not really what I wanted to say. I guess, I wanted to start by saying hello, to whom I don't know, since this *is* a blank page. Anyway, if you ever follow this blog, hello and welcome. Sit, and get cozy.
I really don't know what this blog is going to be about. Mostly, I'm trying to figure out myself. Or find other people out there like me. I don't know if I'm asexual. I just haven't had proper sex yet. It stresses me out, to be honest. Because i think sex is mostly gross. I don't know why I think this. As an idea, I don't like it. It freaks me out, the possibility of having to touch another body, to have your body penetrated. Penetrating must be even harder.
No, wait, as an idea, I like sex. I meant, as a reality, I don't. I like reading about sex, watching sex (you perv), writing about sex, fantasizing about sex but. I just can't picture myself *there*, you know?
No, you probably don't.
I'm just trying to understand it, okay? I've been lurking around, reading some amazing (not always sex-related) posts, and I'm in awe of things and people out there. My sexuality puzzles me, but some people accept theirs willingly, eagerly, proudly.
I would like that. But by not having sex is like I still hold the reigns to myself. I feel in me a rather alarming urge to submit, to give myself up entirely to someone who will use me, manipulate, abuse me, and I don't like this prospect. It scares me.
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