...and then, only, consciousness would loosen its grip on me, softly let me fall out of its clutches, tumbling down into a darkness feathered, thickened, by the useful vertigo of onsetting sleep... luxurious velvet cushions, pureness, relief.

Accompanied by scores of black-clad, mute strangers you advance inside an inumbrated upward tunnel. You are on a juddering escalator, inside the jittering light given off by upright, pillar-like lamps which illuminate the scene only insufficiently, uncannily. Silently, stoically, these lamps stand there, at equal distances to each other, like the sinister soldiers in your gauntlet run.
For the nonce, the ascent seems never-ending. But finally, mercifully, you will be released, spat out, into the embrace of daylight.

What is it? A metaphor for life? A metaphor for life and death? For purgatory? For hell itself?

No, it's rush hour in Tbilisi.

I dream of the purity of speed
the irremediability of now
I want a freedom, raw and fierce


I want to purge the blood that crawls in my veins
of the sands of time weighing it down
I want no fear, no clasping fist
around my heart that holds me down,
down in the cage of consciousness
the burden of each other day

Trickles, streams, waterfalls
tides and tides of blood
bray my bones to dust and ash
wash out the slush
of my so-called soul
to cleanse the mire of my being

EXULT - There will be no pain
Just impact, shock, elation
as lightness will embrace me, swell, wrap me up entirely,
let the universe penetrate

I dream of tall buildings

IN A FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD I'LL BE FREE

"maybe not today, maybe not this way, maybe not..."




(I'm sorry for the teenage poetry, but I'm off of medication and am constantly beleaguered by dry fits of wanting to cry and paralysing bursts of deep apathy which make me want to drown out in a sea of blood and cartilage. There is only Fenozepam again. Sets me back a decade.)

Someone can spend their entire life shutting up about a very painful part of their past, or they can, when someone they barely know asks them a rude question, give a truthful answer and be regarded as arrogant and boastful.

But thanks for calling me enigmatic by the way. Maybe you should check  your dictionary for the meaning of certain items of vocabulary before you think they make for good slander.  

And I might also suggest you take an anger management class rather than sending me daily requests to eff off btw.

I know there must be some deep significance to the fact that I find myself chasing shadows in my dreams.

Shadows of Spiders. Spiders the size of large pumpkin skins who fold their legs and disappear in the thin lighted stripes under doors when I get near them.

And Snowflakes. Beautiful massive snowflakes the size of millstones, whose glitter escapes me as I am chasing their shadows.

Привет Лена,

  у меня такие новости: В прошлом месяце я работала во Франции на корабле, но потом у меня было большое нервное расстройство, после чего врач прописала мне большое количество анти-депрессантов. Они были очень дорогие; перед тем, как я смогла их купить, я попрошайничала целых 2 дня. Мне с ними намного лучше, но не могу пить алкоголь, и так жизнь конечно тоже горькая, очень горькая :((((

Чтобы поехать в Германию, я ехала тысячу километров бесплатно в туалетах во французских поездах, меня не поймали.
От границы мне надо было ехать 20 км в немецких поездах - и меня сразу поймали!

С тех пор я дописала книгу про курдистан. Точно в то время, когда я возобновила контакт с друзьями оттуда, у меня снова закрылись электронные почтовые ящики. У меня наверно просто всеохватывающая паранойя, но я думаю, что это курдские спецслужбы - я знаю, у них много времени, ...

и что нового в москве?

It is only in the last hour before dawn that the cold starts to really dig its teeth into your skin. Usually it awakes me, and I lift my heavy eyelids and peek through them as if through window shutters that are parted slightly with a lifted finger. I wonder if the blue light of dawn will seep in like acid and hurt my eyes, or whether day lies still coiled up beyond the horizon, waiting to invade, and the glow impressing itself on my eyelids is just the false dawn of the neon lamps over the emergency exit where I am sleeping.

От непреодолимой тоски по России я позавчера первый раз после очень долгого перерыва пила водку (обычно мы здесь пьем вино, виски, а водку не так часто). Она стоила около 3 рублей в супермаркете, и мы подумали, что нам надо извлечь пользу из такого благоприятного случая. Но, конечно, она была такая плохая, что "била кулаком в желудок" и после каждого глотка металлический вкус во рту оставался минут на 20. Всё это было как самое настоящее похмелье, которое началось еще перед питьём. Короче, пить ее оказалось невозможно (но чтобы обеспечить себе хотя бы наслаждение крепким похмельем на следующий день, мы засели в баре и и пробухали бабло...)

 I cried and cried until the point of needing to vomit.

My heart feels empty and painful, as if scratched out.

"The forming of the poetical personality happens at the expense of the artists civil personality. If it prospers to the point as Kafka's, you have to explain the artist's life through his oeuvre. But the oeuvre can renounce being elucidated by the artist's life.", Martin Walser

I agree. 

I build my life around my art. 

I am trying to cut down on my caffeine consume. In the past week I have daily downed a few litres of off-putting central european filter coffee and three-bags-a-cup tea and nowI just cannot get any of that stuff down because the smell alone puts me off. Bugger is every twenty minutes I sort of nod off, go into zombie mode, stare into the blank and no matter how hard I try I cannot get my brain to work. 

So what I and other people do is try to just make do as we can, as wonky and unwieldy as we may be. But we have to learn to move about life without pricking others in the sides too much. Hurting them.

The further I move, the more alone I feel. Fate is as cruel as ever, pushes me back to my path - one of austere individualism.  

The further I move, the shorter the distance to the moon is growing. There is some beauty in its light, but mostly doom. 

The harder I try the more I lose. 

I won't have peace, but I must try truce. 

So that the echo of my wounds... 

You don't know what you've got till it's gone, ay? Since I ran out of Mo's pills I am taken ridiculous amounts of other pills just to cause a stalemate of thoughts and snatch a couple of hours of sleep from my consciousness here and there.
I do wonder what I did in my past life to deserve this drug addict's life without any of the hedonistic benefits. I mean, for fuck's sake, I would love to be a real junkie.  The only thing I get in return for this is this disease of mind that has only ever punished me in my whole life.

Thing is when I get up, even when I feel awake, I get up for nothing else other than to battle. I just feel so profoundly empty.

It strikes me as strange how we pass through each others lives and then we become nothing more than stories in the others wake.

I had a thought the other night that as an artist, you probably never reach quite that which you have set out to do. I’m not even talking about “perfection” –although what is perfection if not something in the mind? In any case, you just keep working with a goal in mind that is nothing but a receding fata morgana on the horizon, forever out of reach. You just keep making do until something somehow crystalises and the pieces dovetail, even though your product always seems to develop a separate life of what you thought it would be. Your creation -a big patch-work mobilé that moves with colours of its own. It even extends to your life as a whole. I mean take Kinga. She had a lot more plans of what she was going to do in life. And still with the time she had, she constructed something quite extraordinary out of it.

The pills are strong. My mind is awake under a carapace of all the outwards symptoms of sleep. I lie comatose  -deep breath flows in and out. Lifeless I am. Little fists clutch the blanket.

A few hours later I still cannot sever sleep from me. A cruel, numbing ghost that holds me captive from the inside.
My forces ground to dust and ash.

I lie in long slow painful non-sleep. A tickling weakness seeps in my arms and legs, but my head is clasped by punishing consciousness. I am reeling with a grand canyon of tiredness that has broken open within me like a great dark wound that won't close.

I am rocking with a nausea of sleeping pills, wine, and STILL BEING AWAKE -after another 18 hours. I got severely addicted to the pills Mo gave me and now nothing else will work.

When I decide it's time to get up I brew some zavarka (to be spooned down pure with honey like the bitterest of medicines) and uncork the bottle of wine to soothe the pain of  wakefulness that stabs at me raw and jagged at my very centre. And sleep never comes.