Butterfly sex

It happens that the past holds beautiful moments and its images will only fade if we let them. So in order to let the beauty ring we pronounce its name under the bridge or inside a cave.

Orwell reminded me of the nature of time. Time will always remain constant and it will always have control over us, a kind of influence that will kick our butts. The older we get the more in a hurry we are and the more anxious we become, and we pay less attention to things. It’s not until we are old bags – seniors! – that we will stop and look at things and learn to appreciate…fuck!
I think I am just pretending to be wise here then.
Well, at least this is how I imagine things to be, but truth is that I imagine a lot of things and I prefer them as part of my imagination because I don’t give them legs, thus… they will never kick me. I don’t like being kicked. I won’t give them arms, either, as I don’t like being elbowed. It’s that simple.

I went into the woods with a friend last weekend to do some exploring. Most of the trees are wounded, sick and bleak but still standing on their feet creating air for me to breathe. I had a little bit of an oxygen overdose, but I needed it. Some trees were ugly…bulimic to be exact. On the other hand there were fat trees as well. It’s strange that I see people in trees, as if I need them so much.

I saw butterfly sex; they didn’t like me watching and got too embarrassed making love in the air. Hmm, making love in the air…

Acorns were falling on my head. This is how you get my attention. This is how you hit on me.

After visiting the woods I slept quite well I must say…after 9hrs of hiking in the forest. Although I did have freaky dreams like little elephants with two trunks and wings swimming under water.
And there was a man eating a hot dog with thick blood on top, which I mistook for ketchup. It turned out I bit into it.
Other dreams you don’t want to hear, but I am sure at some point Dali’s “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” appeared briefly. I cannot refrain from letting a series of dirty thoughts enter my head when I look at the Dali piece (, which is my favorite of his). I mean, where the fuck are the fingers you’re talking about? All I see are a man fucking a woman from behind and she happens to have an egg-shaped head. No, no, she’s not stupid. You want to enter the center of her head and eat the yellow part of that egg, but you won’t ever get there. It’s not that she doesn’t want you to, but she wants to be the first to enter it herself, do you understand?
Weird that my other favorite Dali piece is “In Voluptas”, weird because I don’t see naked women, I see the face of the clown from Rob Zombie’s Devil’s Rejects.
I might not always see much in clouds, but I see a lot of things in paintings, like dirty things, which I don’t really understand. I think I am too disconnected during sex, you are supposed to let the brain go, which I do, but there’s something in me that I cannot connect with (yet).
And you see that’s Ellen’s problem, too, except that I know how she can be healed. As for me, I need to find another way.
Butterfly sex, who knows.
Neurosurgeon.
Elephant trunks.

You think about crazy stuff when numb. Like the other night I woke up and forgot for 2 seconds who I was and where I was. It was two seconds of thrill and some of it is still with me. I felt like I had the power to recreate.

Then I played some Beck music and realized that I was still high from the forest air. I saw two moths, however, not having sex.

No, currently I don’t need to get laid; I haven’t even been touching myself. I’m just hungry for progress and I am working hard on it. And it happens that my imagination conjures up pictures of pleasure, which in real life don’t feel the same as they look, although butterfly sex is a bit of a turn-on.

When moths have air sex they must look beautiful while exchanging colored scales.

Jelly

Maybe it’s a good thing if my body decides that excessive eye lubrication is of obsolete nature. I no longer need it. However, I cannot decide for sure if it’s a good thing or not. It’s either I’ve grown too strong or the level of indifference has surpassed the bucket of my former emotions. They’re all gone.

The jelly has finally grown hard.

During the course of writing (the novel), I was seeking more depth in a book called “The Pattern of Madness” by Symington in order to apply it to my protagonist. The center of our personality is a jelly with no particular form. So if a person says that s/he is a mess, we know we all are. On the inside we are a bunch of fragments with no order whatsoever on how to restore sanity.

You speak of control, but that’s not enough.

You need motivation.
A friend says that motivation is desire. Desire can be a lot of things: greed, attraction, envy, …
Can you prove to me that desire can be of selfless nature?
You seek motivation in order to move yourself forward.
Even Pip, who was motivated by his love for Estella, only went ahead to become a gentleman because he wanted reciprocation. He did it for her, but in the hope of benefitting from it.

My protagonist lives her life based on a lie, and yet motivated by her flaws she is curious whether she could ever come to terms with the past.

This proves that unrequited love can be used as a tool, the excitement lies behind the notion of not knowing – there is only hope. But people will never understand what I mean by that – the art of not knowing but urged by the desire to find out.
You don’t understand.

Anyway, back to the jelly: If you cannot speak for yourself, it means your jelly is gelatinous and vulnerable. Therefore in your life you will work upon hardening and shaping it. There is nothing more to personality.
Let’s take greed as an example. Once you’re driven by greed, you will notice how it rouses you into action. The jelly inside starts to take form and that makes you a person with personality, but not so quick, this is just a part of the whole thing, as we are all preys of the narcissistic condition. The jelly needs a particular desire and if you take greed, you will see that we always “want”.
It’s not a bad thing, unless what we are…who we are is a bad thing.

In fact, I am not too sure about her jelly in the end.

It’s time to check.

Norwegian Smile

And tears wouldn’t even come after Stand By Me; not even during the teariest scenes where Gordie and Chris are crying in each other’s arms. I probably need a higher dose and move on to Dead Poets Society – which always works, but it’s not autumn yet.

It’s interesting to experience my pride wounded, interesting because you would expect heartbreak of some sort in a girl. But at present I can’t even stimulate eye lubrication anymore, it’s simply not coming through, as if there is nothing left to feel emotional about. Though, I shouldn’t complain, should I? I remember I used to feel an imaginary itch back then, once scratched, everything was ok and the tears would just flow from the mountains and wash away the unclear.

That’s now gone. The river’s gone dry.

Deletion time. I’ve been quite brave for emptying my phone inbox, email inbox, etc. What are disappointments from 2011 still good for? For remembrance?

Never has indifference leveled up that high inside me. I’m even prone to telling lies recently as it saves time and explanation.

Having failed to blend in in the last couple of days, I’ve caused a lot of suspicion, I suppose, particularly today, all because I could not ignore my pained pride, which is another aspect of not being good enough to people. Feels familiar.

If only I could dig out Ernest and punch him hard in the face. I play that scene in my head sometimes. He and I have a tea party and I would condemn him for publishing “Men without Women”. At the same time we would be listening to Chris Cornell (a living version of Ernest…) and he would simply watch me go mental.

In the name of the God of Harvest, the leader of the Titans and ruler of Saturn…this numbness is unbearable. Enter me now and give me strength. If on Sunday I am a wimp again, I will ask for more needle and no more numbing cream this time – no, not for the purpose of punishment, but endurance. I can take some more, like Buk and still stand straight. I will prove it to you.

People ask me why I invested money in a scythe. I said for harvest.

Today I looked the Norwegian in the face and sensed nothing, except that I imitated his grin – a very unsettling moment at first…

If empathy or even antipathy, I don’t really care, but I figured, there was a short moment of a mutual sentiment.

No, not evil.

Just indifference.

Nothing else.

Four more months. And I hope the smile will become bright again. On my face. A smile that they can understand.

Right now I feel sad and alone, because the current smile is not understood by anyone.

This is the main reason why I want to be somewhere else now, for nothing is holding me back here.

However, the hole is growing deep. There’s not much time left.

I shall be leaving.

Follow that smile, so far away.

Against the Sun God

I do enjoy sitting naked at my desk while listening to KoRn. Despite continuous perspiration, trouble breathing and this banging headache I am surviving this day well.

Though having come back from the night sky, I guess I haven’t quite gotten used to being on earth again.

The heat fucks up my circulation and blurs my thought process. The hot water has washed away the scab, which is good (stops me from picking), but the heat has penetrated my body like a virus…

I shall keep control and distract myself…

In the night sky I saw a little bit of Cronos who is still far away from me. From October onwards he shall be closer. I wonder how often he thinks about me, how he likes my art, and how much he will harvest this year.

Until then I’ll have to teach myself to be alone again.

It’s not the same without him.

Sky tonight

There is no room to accommodate tiredness and sometimes you can escape it by merely keeping yourself busy with whatever interests you.
I’m currently charging well. Plug in the music, connect it with my soul and life is back.
The words are back.

I get scared of my own smiles sometimes, especially when it happens in public and I forget the reason of the smile. That’s an awkward moment as the muscles in the face go stiff and funny as though embarrassed.

I can smell autumn, that’s the only reason why I seem happy to you recently. Other than that you don’t know the slightest thing about this face.

The year has gone by rather quickly, it feels like it’s tomorrow that I have to hand in my thesis. And when thinking about it, I get nervous.
Ellen has been waiting. She wants to re-experience the fucks just to make sure I didn’t miss anything internal.
I didn’t miss anything.
There’s just something else that I have to work on. And I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know how.

And whenever I feel like asking her for forgiveness, I feel odd. Who am I to ask? She chose that path herself. Or maybe I’m just attempting to shrug off the guilty conscience, for I have given her life.

My fingers and nails smell funny; somewhat like disinfectant and body lotion, which is a very unpleasant mix and it kind of defamiliarises me from this place. Why my hands are in the constant need of cleansing, I don’t know. I don’t do anything bad, not that I know of anyway. And yet I can’t dodge this presentiment that I will commit something nasty.

A sentiment that keeps one up at night.

Tiredness has gone for a long walk this time.

For the sky tonight is beautiful.

Implementation and Haribo

Haribo at nighttime seems a bit wrong, but the way the sweet taste melts on my tongue is quite soothing.

I’m running out of bepanthen and my back is peeling badly, but at least it’s no longer painful. I was such a wimp as well, because he had to add numbing cream on my back. However, he said I was a brave girl for choosing that motif. What’s so brave about it when I have a reason, when it has a meaning? So I unite menace with beauty and Greek mythology with nature and astronomy – what’s the big deal here, I don’t know.
What’s it to do with you?
What’s it to do with me?
A hell of a lot.


The end of a chapter.

Soon it’ll be harvest time – time to collect and prepare.

These people cannot decide whether it’s warm or cold, but the truth is, it’s just right. The temperature has never been any better. You might think its instability corresponds with a mind’s insanity and you might be right, haha.
It almost smells like autumn; the smell that gives people colds, which they deserve.

While they sniff I will prepare.

For a new chapter.

A better chapter.

The most exciting thing is knowing that I will be the one to write it and to make it happen.

My only reason to rise from the bed and get out.

I love this part.

Implementation.

Another sweet before bed.

Attachment and meaninglessness

I bled on my bed sheet last night.

I’ve lent my Vanish soap to someone and I’m not sure when I’ll get it back. Funny that whenever you get something dirty all you can think about is how to get it clean again. But would your first thought ever be to replace it? Probably, if you can’t be bothered or it depends on how much you care about the object.
Despite my tendency to throw everything away, I would try cleaning it before I consider a replacement. Not always, though. It’s a matter of attachment.
How about you? Do you form attachment to objects and give it meaning?
I am fascinated by how certain objects play a decisive role in shaping a person; you become a slave of the object by obsessing over it. In my current case, it’s the bed sheet and a post-it-note from 2007.

Good to know that our heads instinctually create meaning for everything…and within the meaning arises a warm familiarity that equals security.

Without intending to impose existentialism on you, I think if it hadn’t been Sisyphus and his love-hate-relationship with the boulder, I wouldn’t even be where I am now. The boulder has probably turned into an internalized image of Sisyphus and all he sees in the boulder is the purpose of his life.

I see the same thing when I stare at the white sea.

It might all be meaningless, but when I see the white sea I want to strip myself naked and jump right in, have the sea suck mind, blood and all my entire heart until there’s nothing left. I give the sea all I have, because I have a lot to give away, especially for cleansing. The result is exposure through words that I put together; it’s a game that turns me on so much. However, many times the sea would spit it all back at me and I’m again a prisoner of the heat that I myself create. I don’t want it. That’s when the game turns into a war.

No time for truce.

Just more stripping.

And, I need my soap back.