Tuesday, 24 March 2009

Modern Life !


Insanely intense conversations
Mind-blowing stares and glimpses
Soul-ripping confessions of betrayal
Self-loathing nights of solitude

Our decaying senses
Lost to Tube Villain
Sparkling scabs
Glittered lies

Twisting truths of past
Written in bold signs
Comforting self-help guides
Queues to webcam melodramas

Modern Life?

Do I Write to Live or Live to Write?



Should I write to live or live to write? If I write to live I’ve failed in achieving the true goal of an ideal writer, yet I have achieved a place in our material world. If I live to write it’s vice versa! So where do I stand?

I have been alive for twenty two years now. I have learned things, and I have succeeded in some tings, and failed in others. I have been loved, and loved in return. I have learnt of loyalty, and I have seen deceit. I was na├»ve, and I have matured. I was lost, but then found things that made me feel complete. I have cried and I have laughed. I had doubted, and I have blindly trusted. I know hunger, and I know satisfaction as well as poverty and wealth. I am healthy, and I am able to walk to the seashore and see the water hitting hard against the rocks, or carefully and smoothly stay as still as oil in a plate. I have clear eye sight, and I can see. I have good hearing, and I can hear things. I have a body that can feel physical pain, and I have a mouth which can taste things sweet and bitter. But what about those that do not have what I do. Paralyzed at birth, losing eyesight, the ability to hear or the sense of touch! Can they experience what I can? Can the blind see the sea? Or the distant views of mountains? Can they live in far away places of our galaxies, or in the magical worlds of faeries and elves? Words! And the power they hold! If one was to read a simple sentence such as: He knelt on one knee, at the early hours at the airport, and opened his arms, allowing his only son, whom he hasn’t seen in 4 years, run into them. What is it that happens to one after such a simple and seemingly marginalized and of little importance sentence? Can the person see in his mind the picture of joy? Feel the tender feeling of parental love, and taste the tears of joy that slowly make their way down the father’s cheeks as he embraces his son? This is the power of writing! It can take you anywhere! It has the power to show you, make you feel and taste things that are not in your possession. There are as many different writers and books as there are people on our planet. Some write to live and others live to write. What about me? Which path will I walk down? There are temptations on both sides? So how does one choose?

In order to choose, one should at first hand, thoroughly and with a clear mind look at the two options before him. I will talk of my options as the left, and the right path, one may follow. Now, off course the right will be the path of an ideal writer, a writer that lives to write and the left of the writer who writes to live. As with any options we face in our life there are virtues and vices in each one of these options, and I may say here that it all comes back to the essence, and the character of the person standing on this fork road, and his beliefs and ideals are the forces that will take the final decision. It is clear that very few out of many writers who chose the right path, have enjoyed a life of acceptance, material wealth, and worldly admiration. Is it not the case of the left path writers who find themselves and their works to be the bestsellers and the social icons of their age and time? I personally believe it to be true. A writer that lives to write, does he care for fame and wealth? Does he care to appear on the covers of magazines holding his published work with pride, smiling for the commercial ads that will add to his already growing sales? Is not his reason to write, simply in order to enlighten and share his views with those few in the world who still believe that a book, on the essence of truth and the mysteries of life to be of higher value than one depicting the adventures of a made up character? A character, which shoots his way through dark alleys filled with enemies, in order to rescue the love of his life and at the end save the world. I believe it to be so. On the other hand, the left path writers, after gaining a fairly good reputation will publish as many as two or three books per month, when in fact it takes longer then that in order to write them! It is the case with many known left path writers, that it is in fact not them who write their own books, but a whole team of people working for them who develop their idea trying to stick to the same style as the one book that shot their name to the very top!

So let us first discuss the right path, or the path of the writer who lives to write. I believe that in order for a writer to live to writer, it first takes patience, and talent! One cannot afford to dedicate his life to writing, simply to write when one knows that what they write is a worthless composition of words and sentences. In order for a person to write, with no intention of gaining fame and fortune, one must truly and wholly love writing. One must believe in the moral and ideal aspects of writing. A writer who can spend, up to a decade, if not his entire life in order to write one book is in my opinion a writer who truly and honestly writes simply in order to write. And off course it is the case with the majority of such writers, that their fame and glory, is always spawned after the writer has withered in his or her grave, with no knowledge of the glory their work has reached. How many great writers, who lived to write, were published only after they have long ago died? I believe there is something enormously fascinating how great art is only accepted and critically applauded after the death of its creator! Another important belief in my mind of the right path writers is that they do not look for fame or glory, the only sign they see at the end of the mountaintop, is getting their thoughts, beliefs and views on a concrete piece of paper that will outlast them and maybe one day find the proper glory it deserves. There is little wealth in the right hand writers’ world. Since they are not published as easily, or as often as they might want to be, they often have other jobs to pay their rent, provide food on the table, and afford the medicine they need to survive, hopingly long enough to view the rays of glory of their offspring. They spend hours on a sentence, choosing just the right words to get their feelings and emotions onto the paper! They at times feel the evil temptations to end it all and sell out; make a quick buck by writing some novel on any popular theme of their time, and get on the escalator instead of climbing the ladder they are on. But somehow they manage to stick to their beliefs; they stay true to themselves and all they believe in. They suffer! Yes! They hurt and ache! But since when has our world been known to be kind to the weak? Yes, weak! Isn’t that what the left path writers call the right ones? I can picture a twenty-four-year-old-bestseller novelist driving his Ferrari, and talking to his publishing house, mocking his teacher at the university who has been working there all his life, and taught him all he knows, (without taking into consideration how much he actually learnt), for spending the last twenty years, writing a book of a certain philosophical height that has been re-written with minor variations more than ten times, and is still not accepted by any major publishing house, (except the publishing house of the university), thinking that it is a risk, knowing that a thriller, a silly romance or a science fiction novel with nothing new to offer, will sell much more, (obviously this is due to a much larger consumer number who rather purchase a book that needs no pondering but is simply an easy exciting read).

This is in my opinion the harsh yet very true reality of the right path writer? Do I want that? Do I want to spend my years trying to publish something I have put so much effort into, knowing that it is a very long shot? I think I should first discuss the left path writers and their side, before taking a decision.


The left path writers are numerous. They publish a romance, million of heart broken girls relate to the novel, which offers absolutely nothing new, and the numbers rise up. The publishing house is happy. Write another one they say. You have two weeks! The book must hit the stands before the Christmas holidays! Your pay check is triple of what it was the last time. You manage to outnumber your last selling novel, and we sign with you a contract that will allow you to publish these series on monthly basis! Now with such high demand and the authors’ name known by millions, it is obvious his or hers life is comfort guaranteed. After all, the money the publishing house pays the author is marginal to the profit it makes! So the author sits and writes, but his aim is not to write, but to simple finish a novel before the deadline, cash his check, and get the new car and that house in the Hampton area. After all, how hard can it be to write a novel of a teen love, where the plot has been known for ages? A rich boy meets a lower class girl, cheats on her, lives her pregnant! She goes through pain and suffering only to raise the child all by herself, making a career for her and ending up to meet her first love miserable due to drugs or something like that! It’s true that these novels give hope to many, and many relate to them. But seriously, all that differs from one of these novels to the others is the Cover of the book and the minimal changes of the plot! These novels have been around for centuries, and are no longer shocking! They have been digested by simple minds for centuries! But can we blame the left path writers? They write, they publish, get paid, get a reputation and are able to provide for themselves and their families the best of the material things in our world. They are globally recognized, they are the pop icons of their age and time! Hundreds of even more famous people praise them to those sitting on the other side of the television screen, or to those reading about it in their morning papers. Making them believe that if they miss out on this new book of this best selling author, they are missing out on everything the entire society will be talking about until the next book will be published! But doesn’t the life of the left path writer sounds so much more easy and fun, providing and successful (in the most typical material sense of success) and off course so much more glamorous and enticing! It does! Who wants fame and glory that will only come after death! Doesn’t a person want to enjoy the fruits of his labor while he is alive? Doesn’t one want to be able to provide for his or her family and loved ones the best of the material things? They do! And I do too!

In conclusion, after writing the truth about the modern day literary world, and being honest to myself, I’m afraid I will disappoint you! I will not lie neither to myself nor to you and tell you that I’m different, and I would rather live to write than write to live! Because I simply don’t. I want to rise up in this socially material kaleidoscope of pretense lies and false ambitions and ideals! I want to be able to have what my parents were not able to give me! I want the fast sports car! I want the mansion with a pool! I want to have my name written on the guest list of every major event! I was born into a material world! And I am material at heart! Who knows, maybe after having achieved financial and social heights, I can then write a piece of moral ideals, and have it published after my death. I will surprise my readers, showing them that there was more to me than novels of minimal food for the mind! Show them, that I could have been the ideal writer of highly philosophical standards! But had I been that writer, I would have stayed anonymous to everyone! They would have never read about the characters that they have grown to love! Those characters, even though were nothing new, offered the people, my readers, an escape from the material world into a world that was in one way or another, safer, more fun, and exciting from the reality that they dealt with everyday!




Sunday, 8 March 2009

...Cruel Beauty...


Could it be true?
Was she the tormented one that stole the night?
Was she the evil of which we dare not speak?
The soul that cursed the men of yore
The little maiden with the heart of poison and no soul
The maiden whose beauty was unmatched
A marvelous creation of the god unknown
Blistering beneath the moon of vice

No man withstood her trial of survival
Meeting their doom after one glance into her eyes
Drowning in insanity, for her angelic posture was beyond comparison to anything of mortal race
A figure trapping the lads in their imagination
Their fascination and belief to make her of their own

But what cruelty was it that all had failed
And none have won her love
Her love that echoed agony and misfortune with it bound

I was not different from all the rest
Enchanted by her marble chest and velvet skin
Her flowing silken hair
That softly touched the crimson gown
And her mystifying emerald-green eyes
Filled me, with enchanting wonder

We met beneath that same old maiden we called moon
And blessed were by the spirits of the night
Embraced each other and left no place for reason
Drunk on emotions and desires to join our souls for ever more

We stood for what seemed an eternity or more
Bound by our senseless love
Guarded by wolves and creatures I never before seen
Covered by mother-nature with her quilt of snow

In me she found compassion, innocence and fear
In her I sought danger, power and the lust
Trading the missing pieces of life’s puzzle
We reached a sense divine and love prior unmatched

Now what’s this feeling in my heart?
Ripping sensation I have never sensed
And what’s that falling from her eyes?
Liquid diamonds sparkling in moonlight

We cannot be each others comfort
Our blood must never mix
Virtue and Vice a pair won’t be
Neither will death embrace the living

Her scent on me is present still
Scent of empowerment and lust
To hold in memory forever
As her presence still haunts all mankind

What form will she embody in the future?
A mild, and meek creature of the night?
Waving her beauty as a status of divinity
That will destroy her prey to dust

Her presence necessary always will be
Since light without shadows holds no sense
And all the good will lose its value
Without the battling evil that she casts

Mankind cannot live in harmony among each other
It needs a constant fiend to battle
And it is she who always will remain the target
Of mankind, present future and the past

Still screams haunt my sleep
But poisoned nectar within me stirs
So I may never again sing
For beauty is always cruel, unkind and unforgiving!

Saturday, 7 March 2009

A Game We Play


Try to see what is it that I’m feeling?
Try to find out what lies deep beneath
Beneath the pretty complexion of this make-up world
Beneath the pretense and the mind games that we play
Will you choose to display the truth for all to see?
Or join me in this game of hide, disguise and lies?
Perhaps it’s better to live in the abstract thoughts of others
Or maybe create a world all of our own
A little piece of heaven here on earth
You’ll be the Eve and Adam I
Surprise me with the apple
And tear us down from the clouds onto the floor
And as we fall with no regret
Laughing out of pride and out of boredom
We had the chance
We didn’t last
So what will follow us in time to come?
Will we build another paradise for just us two?
Or get the tickets to the one around the corner?
It’s always easier to blame others for the failure that we’ll face
It’s always much more appealing and amusing
To have a scapegoat in our sight
A little being to throw up for the sacrifice
And buy ourselves the time we’ll need to find another
Another image of a perfect life
Until the day that someone breaks in with the torchlight
And sheds the light unto the shadows that dwell there in the corners
Revealing to our eyes what is already buried in our mind

V.O.I.D.




In my eyes a sight divine
An angel with wings on fire
A tiny fairy high on love
A troll asphyxiating
An elf with open wrists
My own forest of beliefs
A little place inside my aching head

An evil witch with rotten teeth
A princess locked away for life
A king with swollen lungs
A queen with a plastic heart
And a prince who fancies boys

My own creation
My own labyrinth of myths
My salvation
My desire

A dog that eats no meat
And a cat who shaves her tail
A bird that cannot fly
And a dragon who has puffed himself to death

A place where my imagination runs wild
A place where everything can happen
A kingdom I called VOID
Where I drug myself to point of no return
Where I can see the future clear
Where is spent much of my precious time
From where I come back broken yet relieved
A place where you can join me
And be whatever you desire
Only to wake up next to me in bed
With bruises, cuts and a feeling of disgust

Wednesday, 4 March 2009

The Sweet Stench that Dripped from the Eye...Georges Bataille and the Parasites in Me


I am now puzzled! Why is it that when our thoughts are in one way or another materialized, be it in the form of Words, Pictures, or Movies, that we find them to be much more shocking? I am currently reading Georges Bataille’s “Story of the Eye”, and I must say that I’m finding it to be utmost fascinating. It’s not the pornographic language and images, it’s not the fetishes of the characters and not even the scenery in which all the debauchery takes place that struck me. It’s the idea of finding myself shocked by my own reaction. I personally never felt or viewed sexuality (in its broad meaning) as something immoral, an object to fear or keep locked away from the eyes and ears of those around me! To me the restraint from it seems much crueler than giving into it. As humans, we all think of it! We all fantasize, dream and experience it! So why is it that when our thoughts are right there in front of us that we find ourselves shocked. G.Bataille has a way of daring his reader to see her/himself reflected in his characters! I certainly saw myself, and yet it frightened me! A man almost a century ago, knew me! He knew my friends, my deepest and most bizarre fantasies! If he knew, and he is an ordinary man that separated himself from the rest via being able to say out loud what the others thought, does that mean that others know as well. If we all know those things about each other! Why are we all quiet? Society and morals you may say, I’ll give you that…We all need to survive in our society with the morals that it places on us…But we all go crazy…Why am I reading how eggs can be used in the most bizarre way imaginable to bring forth such high states of pleasure…and feel that it is wrong for me to admit to myself that secretly (well no longer since this is for all to see) I want to be inside the novel and experience all the debauchery and filth…the lust and disgust…the fear and tension…the automatic and raw sex drive….This brings me to think of J. Hiller Millers and the idea of parasites and Hosts…


I am a parasite devouring myself, since the society has labeled me as the host!


Since I know I have the ideas that Bataille depicts inside of my head, these ideas are my parasites feeding on my outward appearance which the society puts together forming a presentable and approvable host! But the parasites are there….At the same time…My parasite body is devouring the host which is my brain for bringing out the parasitical thoughts….The parasites are killing the parasites inside the host, which makes the parasite infected host nothing more but a parasite in disguise….


I will continue my idea as soon as I finish the book….