Okay, so I haven't got much time recently for TV and all the hot new series, but I plan to compensate that ASAP. Everyone is raving about Heroes as much as they did about Prison Break last year, but I haven't seen either yet. I'm kinda leaning more towards Doctor Who and Supernatural, which I should start downloading these days. And I'm in dire need of a new series to go mad about.

Rome is cancelled (damn fucktards!), Battlestar Galactica is over until next year, and so is Dexter; Hollyoaks I follow only via YouTube, because finding a torrent that actually works is like trying to find a dragon's egg, and I've given up on Smallville after the third season with no intention of returning to it (especially after abundance of Clex-slash I've devoured in the meantime). Now, I watch Deadwood and though I'm enjoying it (more than I thought I would at the beginning), it's not really the thing I can become obsessive about. It's not as great as other HBO series, like Oz or Rome were, but hell, it's still very good and it's all I have at the moment.

Still, none of the aforementioned series can compare to the most perfect TV show ever--Six Feet Under. I miss Brenda and David and Keith and Claire and Ruth and Nate. They were just as fucked up as me. They were a lot like my family. Will there ever be another series with as much depth, power and substance? I can hope. But until then, I have my DVDs... and I can join the Fishers again and again, so they can remind me that even when I'm down, every day above ground is a good one.

In their honour, here are some appreciation collages I made a few months ago (now all of these screencaps are lost in the recent apocalypse my computer has gone through; only this memory remains):

David & Keith
Nate & Brenda
Six Feet Under Theme

I've decided to try unsolicited constructive criticism. People seem to want it, and maybe it'll be a great mutual learning experience, not an exercise in petty one-upmanship, as it has always struck me. Perhaps there's thought-provoking and smart constructive criticism out there that will now reach me, not the usual stupid bullshit I've seen in the past.

::pause while I suppress my not-so-latent hostility to this new step in consciousness expansion::

If that's what readers want, then dammit, that's what I'll give them, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me feel. I'll become the psychic Saint George and slay the debilitating maxims of my past, like "if you don't have anything nice to say..." That'll teach those pesky meta-dragons for blowing smoke at my inner prince, who will now happily whine about every #$!@ pea he finds in every @#$!@ story.

Damn! Snarkiness. I'll have to slay that, too, and become an icon of sincere goodwill. Saint Bry the Benign, whose gentle touch will cure all of their writerly wickedness. And when the priestly hand strikes me with the whip of fictive chastisement, lo, I will accept it, wallowing in its curative sting.

Amen.

(Damn snarkiness! It's a disease, I tell you.)

Funny that no matter how hard I try to analyze me, it seems I can never really figure out myself. I am so fucking contradictive, that no one can ever be sure what to expect from me. Even myself!

Like, I can cry like a baby because of the sad movie-scene or a heartbreaking song, and then I can be cold and cruel to the suffering of another. Sometimes I feel like I have two or three different people inside of me. Most of the time I’m so shy that when I’m in the bigger company I barely speak (I really find it more interesting to listen and observe); and then I go through some kind of metamorphosis and suddenly become a star of the evening, the center of attention who entertains everybody else. I’m a total dork, but can transform into a confident, even seductive man. I’m a loner, yet sometimes I crave for presence of other people. I fear love and closeness, but desire and yearn for it. I’m so fucking immature, and so ripe. So strong and still so weak.

Why do I have to be such a paradox? Couldn’t I be just a bit simpler? If only a little bit... My life would be... So. Much. Easier...

(But then again, who ever said life was easy...?)

Sometimes when I'm insecure, I read good stories. Not just masochism, although maybe that's part of it. Pain just kind of rocks, doesn't it, when you're a writer? If it doesn't hurt, then you're doing it wrong. So I take some of my favorite books, read them, then read my fic and feel bad. I did this today, when A. forgot about our meeting and I looked at the rock-puke-fetus otherwise known as my new story.

I'm too close to it right now, and see all the warts and zits, like it's some slimy olive-colored toad with glassy eyes and fly-stinking breath. Only if I rub it, the creepy little thing won't turn into some hot young prince-stud; instead, it'll just spit venom on my hand (at least I think that's venom...).

I need to go and find some books by Nabokov. Sometimes it helps to push myself to the crumbling edge of authorial desperation, feel so inadequate that it physically hurts, and then get all panicky. That panic makes me write harder, better, which cures me.

Until the next time. *g*

"The results of more than a century of anthropological research on households, kinship relationships, and families, across cultures and through time, provide no support whatsoever for the view that either civilization or viable social orders depend upon marriage as an exclusively heterosexual institution. Rather, anthropological research supports the conclusion that a vast array of family types, including families built upon same-sex partnerships, can contribute to stable and humane societies."

Source: Wikipedia.

And still most people don't see the truth of it. Sad. I get so frustrated when I think that there are still some parts of this world where homosexuality is not only illegal, but punishable by death! Fucking imbeciles. Can someone please point me to the train for 22nd century? This time is too primitive for me. Even the ancient civilizations knew more about tolerance than the peoples of today.

Blah. I'll get depressed if I keep brooding on this.

Sometimes I wish that some kind of debate about gay marriage could be orchestrated on a world-wide level that will resolve the matter once and for all. Say, putting on one side a spokesman chosen by those who are defending equality, and on the other their rival chosen by those who are opposing it. The side that wins the debate with logic will be granted the rights they are advocating, and the loser will have to comply.

I also wish that I could be chosen to represent the side of freedom. Because no matter how intelligent, educated and articulate my opponent may be, I am absolutely certain that I would DESTROY them with the sword of my mouth.

Why can't I ever find the clothes that I really, really like? And how come I always spend all my money nevertheless? But never mind the meaningless and superficial rhetorical questions; they were only a prelude to the philosophically-contemplative part of this entry. (Run! Run to the hills!)

So, today I was hanging out with some friends, we were talking, drinking and, like, having fun. One of them then mentioned how he'd read somewhere that more than 40% of adult Americans believe in creationism.

I'm not an American, but still, my hair immediately curled up. How can this be? I never understood why people need a god so much. Aren't we supposed to be evolving beyond such crappy superstitions? It's 21st century for crissake! Don't pull us back into the dark ages (no matter how much I like all things medieval).

Now, although I'm an atheist and have a taste for saucy blasphemy, I don't have anything against the concept of faith, personally. (Notice that I'm deliberately using the word faith and not religion, for there is a significant difference between the two; the former is a personal belief, one's private connection to the spiritual, while the latter is a dogmatic organization full of contradictory rules whose sole purpose is to condition one's thoughts and subordinate them to its own agendas.)

But I think faith should be a personal choice, not something that's forced upon you while you're still too young to think for yourself. People should be gradually introduced to it, but first and foremost they should be well equiped with scientific knowledge of the universe. Then they can decide if what they know is enough, or there is something more beyond the material fabric of our existence.

Poli-Bry. Be afraid.

I'm cruxed, fatigued, burned-out, spent and wearied, oodles of formerly functional brain cells running down my cheeks. Not tears, for I don't have enough liquid in my body to produce them. Nothing pretty and pearly, just slimy pinkish goo.

Yes, that would be me after another day in the tropical inferno.

I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like reading, either. It's too damn hot for anything. I just want to curl up in bed and lie there unconsciously until the autumn.

Or maybe I should just go relax and socialize with my left hand some more?

If this were biblical times, roosters would crow (I'd call them 'cocks,' but that would really undermine the brooding tone I've got going here).

I read Richard Russo's Straight Man, which I adored: any book that can have me laughing out loud at 6am must have its merits, as my sense of humor is usually hibernating then. It also had me empathetically sobbing at 8am, a more rational time, and generally rewarded me with more entertainment and pathos than I get from this hunk of plastic.

Fed Express just popped by. Got a 'my baby's a loser' care package from my dad. Among other things, he sent me a blanket like the one I used to have when I was a child. It's lovely: a crocheted afghan. I can pretend now that someone loves me.

ETA: Apparently the whining helped, for the rain is pouring like it is middle of November... and "pain is nothing that a downpour won't erase..."

This has been a thoroughly unproductive day! ::sighs:: Did I mention my incurable case of invisibility? I'm like the mythical Echo, with a side order of Cassandra.

I just read in sutton_fans that Guy Burnet (Craig Dean) is leaving Hollyoaks in July. Fuck. Why now, when things for him and John-Paul are finally starting to clear out? Is it possible that the actor is dissatisfied because his character turned out gay? Whatever the reason, I'm pretty disappointed. My darling JP will lose his love, and a best friend too. (Not to mention that I will lose the source of my masturbatory fantasies.)

Well, I guess all good things have to end sometime. And if I get really cynical, I could say that everything ends. Sooner or later, everyone leaves and everyting dies, and-- Oh, look, this is funny:

Your Brain's Pattern

You have a dreamy mind, full of fancy and fantasy. You have the ability to stay forever entertained with your thoughts. People may say you're hard to read, but that's because you're so internally focused. But when you do share what you're thinking, people are impressed with your imagination.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

Look at me, updating my LJ regularly like an old blogger... :) I feared it would take over my life, that's why I was uncertain whether I should create an account or not for the last two years (yeah, that's how slow I am). But seriously, I didn't know it'll be this much fun. It's cheaper than a shrink, and as liberating!

Okay, so... the weather's improved a bit, along with my mood, and I have only a few more hours of being 25. Tomorrow I'll officially be closer to 30 than to 20. And I don't wanna grow up. I always want to stay this big brat I am now. How can people celebrate getting older? Every year brings you closer to death, and I'm supposed to be happy about it? Fuck happy birthdays--I wanna run and hide in a place where Chronos won't be able to touch me.

If I believed in Devil, I'd gladly go all Dorian Gray on him and sell my soul for eternal youth. Fear of Hell? Why should I? I'd be the Devil's most sensual lover, his greatest companion, second in command of all those legions of doomed... We'd rule over the underworld together and all would fall to their knees to worship our imperial magnificence; we'd shower our minions with temptation, passion and sin, eternally young and virile, satisfying our every whim and desire...

There is the most beautiful sunset outside, the part of the sky I can see through my window is all purple and orange. I gotta go on the balcony to watch it. So, I'll finish with a quiz:

What Fantasy Archetype Are You?

You are the Unlikely Hero! Others like you are Frodo (Lord of The Rings), Young Arthur (Arthurian Legend), Luke Skywalker (Star Wars), Peter/Susan/Edmund/Lucy (Narnia), Richard Mayhew (Neverwhere), Harry Potter (Harry Potter) and Richard Cypher (Wizard's first Rule). You were happy to just live out your life as a peaceful schoolboy/farmer/wood's guide. But alas, greatness was thrust upon you. Don't let the hordes of The Totally Wicked Villain get you down, you have your Seasoned Veteran Friend to protect you and you almost always end up with the Pillar-of-Strength Love interest. Heed you Mentor well and keep your chin up, hero! You are simple, humble and kind but possess great potential for truly inspirational heroism, bravery and strength in dark times.

Isn't that lovely.

My sister and I speak with the same rhythm, a sororial pentameter with a twisted last syllable. We're sarcastic about everything, know all the lyrics to The Sisters of Mercy songs, and think Eduardo Noriega would fuck really hard and fast.

We look at pretty boys, will never have children, and use more hair-care products than Pamela Anderson and other blond bimbos combined.

We have both transported porn across international borders, choose spicy Dijon mustard as our condiment of choice, and have tried to overcome the hiccups by thinking of Marilyn Manson doing George W. Bush up the ass.

Together we have seen more movies than anyone ever, except maybe Roger Ebert; are nostalgic for the summers of the past; and love Coelho's Veronica Decides to Die.

We're different, too. She never tried any drugs in highschool; doesn't come for SF; and has a great gift for impersonation. She'd rather shop than visit a museum, go partying than read a book, and doesn't like solitude.

We drove to Lido today. Hot, blue sky, green water, The Cure on the CD. I came home with a sunburn, a rock in my shoe, and the sense that today was special.

She's sleeping in the next room, and I'm glad, really glad, that she's here.

Ever had one of those nights? Of course you have, but I'm telling this story. So I went to bed late last night, too wired to sleep, but worked out a deal with Morpheus whereby if I got at least 2.5 winks, I vowed not to cut off his testicles and fry them in oil.

5am. There I was, snoring away, when there's this clawing sound from my closet. I'm awake in that heartstopping, why did I watch Exorcist 4 again, there's a serial killer in my apartment sort of way, all sweat and pulmonary kaboom-kaboom. I decide I'll die with dignity, and grab as a weapon a gargoyle I use as a bookend. Because I've identified the sound, and know the killer's locked himself in my closet, torturing me by running the edge of his scythe against the wood. It's a slightly weird modus operandi, but he is a serial killer, and I don't question. I position myself beside the door, gargoyle in hand, heart bursting from my chest like in those kiddie cartoons, only this isn't love but shit-scared fear.

A voice from a thousand horror movies whispers, "Get out of there, you stupid moron! Call the friggin' cops. Everyone knows a gargoyle bookend, no matter how heavy, will have no impact against the boogeyman." But I'm a little stubborn at 5am, so I reach out and throw open the closet door...

And shriek, as my two fucking cats come spilling out (that's just an expletive--they weren't actually fucking). How they managed to open the door, get in together, then close it, is a great mystery, given that they can't even be in the same room without ripping each other a new nose. But maybe they've found common ground in psychological torture. Lucky me.

This is seguing to a point here. See, if I'm man enough to confront the closeted boogeyman, why aren't I man enough to admit my worth as an author? I don't mean to you--no offense, but I don't know you--but to me. If I said, "Okay, you're not half bad," what will happen? I'll be one of those people who stagnate in a slimy green pool of arrogant self-satisfaction, the ones where you go, "Honey, if you only had a tenth the talent you thought, you'd be bearable." I'll parade around, trailing no odors except sanctity, haloed with the glory of me-ness, then stumble across my name on one of those venomous bad-fic sites and spontaneously combust.

The truth, if I can weed out the crusty little bastard, is that I can't believe. It's like how I am with God. I think it'd be really cool to believe, to have the comfort of faith, but I just can't get it up for the whole Christian thing, no matter how hard I try. And when you're lying in bed at five am ready for a date with an ax murderer, you try pretty fucking hard.

Amen.

Jacques Lacan argues that a formative stage in our psychological development depends on a confrontation with a mirror. As we gaze at our reflection, its mimicry teaches us that we're not who we think we are, because we think we're not. We are Other.

If Lacan's Mirror Stage is cross-polinated with Sartre's notion that "l'enfers, c'est nous outre," that would mean that what we really see in the mirror is hell.

Add in Foucault's theories about the archaeology of ideas, that history is a construct, a field of contradictory ideas open to analysis, then what we see in the mirror is a hell of our own making.

St. Augustine (of Hippo, not Canterbury) argued in The City of God that hell was eternal, so our reflections spit back at us an atemporal state of perpetual suffering.

If we exercise free will in revisioning our reflected images, we create a paraodox and negate ourselves--which might be a preferable state.

Ergo, we have three choices: never look in the mirror; always look there; cut a deal with the devil.

Last night I somehow managed to write a short story. It's been almost two years since my last output in this specific category, so I'm kinda proud of myself. Of course, the story's quite shitty at this stage and needs to be re-written at least a couple of times to be ready for submission, but considering how obnoxiously I write shorter works, I regard this achievement as an important event. Anyway, it's an SF piece and the central theme revolves around xenophobia, which is only a metaphor for today's homophobia/bigotry, and that is something I'm familiar with. So, we'll see how it goes from there...

One of my friends told me the other day, after reading an excerpt from the novel I'm currently working on, that my fiction lost some of its earlier 'hotness.' I asked her what did she meant by that, and she replied that now I write mainly deeper, more philosophical stuff, which is cool, but she misses the action of my previous works. By action, naturally, she means sex.

"Where are all those hard, sweaty bodies, pulsing cocks, dripping pussies, hot men doing each other up the ass?" she complained worriedly. (This is, of course, my paraphrasing, but point is the same.) And, startled, I realized she's right. The scorching erotic scenes were always my primary trademark, and now it seems like I've become... tamed. Even when I wander into sexual situation, I don't dwell on it. Dammit, when did I become polite?

I guess I was a tad concerned that my love for explicit erotica can udermine the power of my stories, make them seem as nothing more than a cheap pornography, so in an attempt to create a truly engaging story and characters, I started to avoid sex altogether.

Then again, when I wrote for myself and a circle of close friends, I could allow myself to be more personal, honest. Now I'm concerned with the opinion of a broader audience, but I should not let that restrict me, should I? The thing I enjoy the most about writing is exploring the characters' innermost thoughts, emotions, desires; and sexual intercourse is a big part of that exploration. So, from now on, no more restrictions. I'm going to let those eager bastards of my stories fuck their brains out.

I'm currently reading The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories by the wonderful Gene Wolfe. Every time I dive into his works I'm left speechless and mesmerized at how stupendously brilliant this man is. Beside his elegant, flowing style, exquisite command of the language and ambiguous, multi-layered prose, he possesses that rare ability to make his tales linger in the reader's mind for a long time after the reading is finished. I hope that one day I could achieve that level of artistry.

With online journals, we're back in the twelfth century, the days before privacy existed, (re)creating the cult of the individual.

These journals are so insistently "I" focused, a declaration of uniqueness so strong it has to be made public. We're Chretien de Troyes or Marie de France, Abelard and Heloise, not only affirming the values of courtly culture but training the eye on the solo performer, the one, not the many.

At their best, online journals, as a genre, offer fascinating glimpses of crackling alien synapses. It's voyeur's paradise, better than Big Brother (the show or Orwell), where you're encouraged to pull a Hannibal Lector and cut away the top of someone's brain to peer inside. (If I'm misspelling his last name, it's because the Latin is so appropriate to my discussion.)

At their worst, online journals undermine their basic purpose by regurgitating teeny-bopper gibberish that's about as individual as a Big Mac.

"I met Bob last night."

"What a hottie."

"My dog's name is Roger and he barks a lot."

"I'm depressed because no one loves me."

So you're depressed. Either take some Prozac and go veg in front of the tube or use that feeling to write something with suicidal beauty.

In the Middle Ages, people expected their written material to circulate. Text arguably achieved a status parallel to relics: like those fragments of God, text carried an almost supernatural power. Writers and readers obsessed over it. Would it offend God? Their friends? The king? Was it an insult to Petrarch? Homage to Dante? Would it last? What did it all mean?

You wrote to matter. And if we're harkening back to a time when privacy didn't exist, when writing was public, when the individual was starting to peer a la Kilroy over the feudal wall, then let's get off our asses and do more than caveman grunting.

(What was that, dear cyberdiary? Are you suggesting that this blathering is a defense, a way of avoiding the real issues and distancing myself from yet another crappy situation? How perceptive of you. Too perceptive. Perhaps you'll have to be destroyed for probing too insightfully into my psyche, which has taken enough probing lately to last a lifetime.)

Note to self: don't write entries in 'contemplative' mode. Extremely boring.

God, it's good to be back online. My computer went dead on me about a week ago, and now it's finally repaired (temporarily at least; the ol' gal's so aged and feeble I should get myself a new one--pronto). I swear, one more day and I would stick some plug into my vein or something. Where are the Borg when you need them?

Oh, well. Being without PC (and, mostly, without life), I had time to read compulsively; I finally got my hands on books I had for months, but didn't have a chance to devour sooner. Thus I came across The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks, and completely fell in love with the story, the writer, the Culture. What a wonderful storyteller! I'm truly delighted whenever I discover a new brilliant author that captivate me with both his imagination and writing skills; will definitely get more of his books.

Onto one of my weird little interests. I've threatened to write an article on the pictures authors place on the dustjackets of their books, so it's no surprise that I'm fascinated by the pictures people choose to represent themselves. I'm like the sorceress Nimue, she of the magical powers and power-hungry ways, who imprisoned Merlin and hexed his hoodoo. (Ed. Note: Nimue went the way of all powerful sorceresses, and is now doing the wild thing in a cave somewhere with a hunky Celtic god of war). A Pre-Raph like Burne-Jones is way obvious, but since a cute man recently said I looked like one, I decided to indulge myself with some Victorian eyecandy. Besides, there's the medieval connection, and they'll kick me out of the club if there's no token reference.

How come this thing has no "perky" mood option? I'm back up to my usual perky status, admittedly having flashbacks to that Szeged pub where two of my best friends told me I could never be perky, no matter how hard I tried. Little did they understand that perky is a nirvana-esque mental state that doesn't always look like a huge fake smile, a McDonald's uniform, and a shrill, "Have a good day!" It's grooving on those inner chemicals released by cat petting, end-of-work achieving, smut-writing, tea-drinking ecstasy. Oh yeah, and post-orgasmic bliss.

Being in perky mode makes me want to run around and do housework. But today, I'm rebelling, repressing that desire to vacuum (and what kind of mental case actually has a desire to vacuum?) in order to concentrate on achieving fictive perkiness, which right now means deciding on the proper balance of foreshadowed elements.

You know, maybe this isn't perkiness. Maybe it's snarkiness. Snerkiness? Pnarkiness! Yes, I'm decided pnarky today, which is precisely why I can't vacuum.

All hail the evil sorcerer bitch monster!

I know I'll be addicted to this thing. It's the perfect lover-friend: it never looks away, embarrassed, when I admit that I'm upset; it listens when I whine; and best of all it doesn't expect me to cook it dinner! I reiterate that marriage proposal. I love you, cyberdiary.

I used to keep a real, hardcopy diary, starting when I was about fifteen. I poured my teenage nasties into it, every dark fear and desire, holding nothing back, letting it cradle me back to sanity. I kept it up through my undergrad days, vomiting into it, purging to health.

Then, my sister found it and read it. Without my permission. She saw me, all of me, every vicious, hateful, dirty thing I'd ever thought or done. She blackmailed me with these informations for months, until I finally got my revenge and annihilated her sorry ass. (Okay, that's hyperbole. I'm not a medieval aristocratic sadist, and I love my sister. But I did taught her a lesson.)

I think I need some tea, some of that delicious Passion by Tazo, which smells like purple Kool-Aid and offers caffeine-free comfort.