Monday, April 30, 2012

Starlight, Star Bright...

Sometimes, creativity takes the best of me. I write and sew and write some more, and then, three days later, i sort of wake up, look around and go yikes. That happens a lot, actually, and a couple of days ago, i woke up, went yikes, and took a picture of the mess i make when i'm lost in the wonderland of creation.

Fabric everywhere. Bits of yarn and patterns and measuring tapes lying around. I'm surprised husband puts up with my house keeping :D
Anyway, after taking the photo, i cleaned up. And what do you know, my vacuum cleaner decided to quit. In the middle of hoovering, ka-blam, dead. I kicked it, and husband kicked it, but nothing.
So, the next day, i went out, and did what Dad taught me to do. Walked into the nearest shop, and told a clerk i needed a new hoover. Walked out with this.

Samsung's canister vacuum cleaner with a hepa12-filter. Boy, will Dad be proud of his Little Princess when i tell him what i went and got :D

Did i mention starlight in the heading? I did.
We went out shopping a week or so ago, and i found the cutest velvet purse. A small one, fit for carrying cash and mobile and lipstick around in when hitting a bar (we have one around here worth going to).

It's quite simple, a bit too simple if you ask me. So, after seeing what Mothmouth had done to her jacket, i dove into my cupboard, and came up with a handful of starshaped rivets.
I didn't put many on, just a few to give it some oomph.

Can't wait to take it out :)

Speaking of going out, we visited friends the other day. I wore clothes. It was a very bad clothes-day... i had to clean out my closet before i found anything to wear...

top: UFF
shrug, skirt, corset: hand-made by me

I never wear foundation or powder anymore, and on that day i seem to have been a bit, well, blotchy. My world, it is ruined!

So. I'll try to return at some point to report about something important. Like, writing. Or stuff. Everybody have a happy labor day, i know i will.
... have to go to the job office :D

Friday, April 20, 2012

Who is this irrestible creature who has an insaciable love for the dead?

(living dead girl)

i haven't felt like myself in a long time. today i realized it's because of my hair. it was red for a long time, and, as i'm not naturally red, it made me really self-conscious. since i dyed it brown, i've felt more secure in my own skin.

who would have thought such a little thing would have such an impact on self-image and self-esteem.

i feel like i'm discovering myself again. the girl who doesn't really care about what others think of her. the girl who has a big ass and small boobs and doesn't give a fuck about it. the girl i really am.

i remember being about four, and watching TV. there was a documentary on about some fashion designer (i can't recall who it was, though) and i was really stricken by it. in the program, the designer had made these incredible dresses, flowy and light, and he told his models to run down the runway like wolves were chasing them.

that was the day i decided i wanted to become a designer. and now that dream is, in a way, about to become a reality.

we'll return to that later, once i get things organized. this post is about me, and about what makes me tick.

when i was sixteen, i was hanging out at my sister's place, and she wanted to read, or whatever, and she gave me a book to read. it was stephen king's salem's lot. i read it for about an hour, and after that i decided i wanted to become an author.

i worked my bum off for ten years, or even more, i've never been that good with maths, and now i've actually accomplished my goal. i've published seven books via smashwords, more than some writers can manage in a lifetime of work, and more is yet to come.

and still, i don't see myself as having accomplished anything. i'm nothing but an amateur, trying her best at succeeding in two very difficult careers.

why did i go this way, one might ask, as i often do. why didn't i just study to become a shop girl or a psychologist or just go out and be a stripper. why this, this life of uncertainty and beauty and living nightmares of disease and death? why, oh why, didn't i just accept and embrace a normal life?

a question that has yet to be unanswered. perhaps someday an angel will fall out of heaven and show me why i am what i am, and not something accepted by society.

i've always been a goth. a stranger in a world of ordinary people, an outcast, frowned upon, sneered upon, laughed upon. as an artist, i feed upon it, feed upon the laughs and the sneers and the jests and the jokes, as an artist i take that hate and use to create something beautiful.

i remember reading an interview with steve'o. he said the best feedback is not the praise. it's the people who write and tell him his books gave them nightmares.

that's what i feel. if someone reads my books and writes back, telling they soooo loved it, i go huh, so what, i loved it too. but if someone tells me they had bad dreams because of the mousetrap, or got angered by the witchhunt, i say good, that's what i was going for.

writing isn't about being praised. it's about making you look at the disgusting thing you fear the most. what i fear the most.

the mousetrap is all about my fears. it's about the things that keep me awake at night. and after having written it, i sleep better. i've gotten the fear out of my system.

i'm working on a new novel now. much like the mousetrap, it's got to do with my deepest fears.

sometimes i wish i could just write fantasy all the time. it's easier. with fantasy, all you have to do is to imagine things lovely and bright. in fantasy, you can just create the things you wish were true.

but i can't do that. there's too much fear in my heart.

i like to stay awake while others sleep. that way no monster can crawl out from under my bed and surprise me. that way i can face my nightmares before they become real.

i don't write at night, though. nights are sacred. nights are reserved for dreaming, whether you're awake or asleep.

at night, i watch the world outside.

my nights used to be filled with sirens and noise and people dying around me. now all that ha changed. now when i look outside the window, i see a dark night, stars and the moon, mice and bats, cats stalking prey.

i like this much better. nature cannot hurt you. it can kill you, if you're not careful, but i can't really hurt you.

hurt is reserved for humanbeings.

i have been hurt alot. by friends and family and strangers. i'm sensitive, though i appear tough.

i hide my pain in silence, i hide behind a painted smile. i am, and no-one can tell how i feel. i hurt, and no-one can see it. only the one's who read my books can tell what i truly fear, and love, and crave for.

i dream of a world of dragons and fairies and wizards and magic. i long to live in that world. i long to write of that world, to share my waking dreams with the rest of the world. and still, the nightmares i carry within my heart take control of what i can put down in words. fear is what keeps me going. fear of death, of sickness, of loss of loved ones. fear is the thing i thrive upon.

and still, the world of fantasy beckons me. the world in which everyone is lovely, everyone is free, everyone is loved.

i wish i could make that world true for you, and for me. i wish i could make that image in my mind come true.

an image in which models run down a runway being chased by hungry wolves, heavy skirts gathered in their hands while the moon shines down on their raven-wing hair.

i wish i could.
and i know i can.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


The favourite subject, chatwise, among women, has always been other women.
"That one's put on weight."
"That one's lost weight."
"I hear she's got a new boyfriend."
"I hear she takes money for sex."

Gossip is our favourite pastime, and most of it is friendly batter meant only to think out loud, to wonder about someone's new hair, or new dress, or new boyfriend. Sometimes it get mean, though, and on those occations, it's got plenty to do with either jealousy or dislike.
In real life, jealousy is usually dealt with by talking about people when their back is turned. It happens, though we'd like to think it doesn't. People talk, especially girls, and sometimes we get in trouble because of it.
Been there, done that. Cost me a friendship that had turned cold and sour years ago.

I don't see gossip as a bad thing. It can do so much good, too. You talk about your friends with other friends, and that helps you understand where the friend in question is coming from. If you're left to go over every little detail in life and love and everything else all by your lonesome, you get your head all messed up. Venting is good for you. But you should remember to keep it nice. Ish, at least.

Gossip is OK, acceptable, a part of life, but it has taken on a new twist.
Anonymous comments.

Internet provides us easy access to other people's lives. We surf the web, reading lifestyle blogs, celebrity rumour, scandalous stories about dead movie stars, and we get to talking. But talkind doesn't take place over a cup of joe of a pint of lager anymore. It happens, more and more, in blogs and on forums.
In places where it's all too easy to hide behind an IP-address.

Celebrities are easy targets. They live their lives in public. Musicians are easy targets. They give their art to be ripped apart by the hungry mob.
And then there's bloggers. They're easy targets, too. But we keep forgetting, that there a crucial difference in between celebs, musicians, and bloggers.
A celebrity's person is public. A blogger is just a girl/boy who thought to share his/her life with friends online.

Internet reaches 70% of under 30-year-olds living in Europe and Americaland. 70% of them hang out online everyday, checking out facebook, catching up on gossip, and some of them have decided it's cool to vent their frustration with life on others.
Bloggers, that is.
I haven't gotten my first anonymous comment yet. In fact, my blog is painfully quiet. But the comments on other bloggers' blogs make my skin crawl.
The amount of hatred poured out on the internet is shocking. It goes on world-wide, and since the world-wide-web is blissfully free of supervision, there's not much anyone can do about it. Forums can be, to a certain point, controlled, but bloggers remain easy targets to those hurt by the disappointments life has to offer us all.
It is probably best this way. Too much control limits freedom. But still, one has to wonder what goes on in the minds of those who plague bloggers with anonymous comments. How much pain have they been subjected to? Are they truly as twisted beings as they make themselves out to be?
Are there truly monsters out there?

My sweet twin has had her share of anonymity. As a struggling musician she's met the vast public of anti-fans. Lacking self-discipline and grace, both qualities that seem to belong to every blogger out there who's gotten targeted by anonymous commentators, she wrote a song about the charming notes she got.
Her Wickedness - Anonymity

The wonders of modern life have provided us with much and more free time. It saddens me to see how much of it is wasted in dwelling in self-pity and bitterness. Life is much nicer when you learn to channel your pain into something productive, and enjoy the moments in existence, when everything's perfect.

Peace and love, have lots of chocolate, it makes you smile <3

Monday, April 2, 2012

blood of my blood

A few years back, or quite many, I worked at a Salvation Army flea market for a couple of months. One day, I was going through the book cases, organizing, and noted something in the discount basket. I picked it up, read the back, took it to the counter, and read for the rest of the day. I totally and completely forgot where I was, and that I was supposed to be working.

I went through it quite quickly, and as it ended, I wanted more.

Of course, the book was Game of Thrones, by George R. R. Martin.

I tried to look for the sequel (back then, the song of ice and fire was claimed to be a trilogy) in Finland, and came up with nothing. I was discouraged, and gave up, thinking I'd never get to see the dragons grow up.
My sister and her husband were living in England at the time, and we went for a visit. I, of course, had to check out the book stores, and there they were, waiting for me.

I bought these two straight away, since I figured I couldn't fit more in my suitcase. The next day, I went back and bought the next part, too, thinking I'd carry it in my hands if I had to.

By then it was pretty clear this was no trilogy. After finishing what I'd found in England, the fourth part came available in Finland, too.

And then the wait began.
I read all five books twice while waiting for Uncle-George to finish the rumoured last part. And while I waited for it to come out in paperback (it took 8 months, can you believe it?), I went through the tales of my favourite characters.
A week ago, I finally got to order the last part. And on Saturday, I brought it home.

I still haven't dared open it. I've waited for it for so long, and I'm afraid I'll dribble coffee on it. Somehow, I just want to lock it up in a safe, and crack the door sometimes to admire it.
I won't do that, though. Books are meant to be read, not looked at.

The song of ice and fire is well praised, and not in vain. It's enchanting, magical, breathtaking in all it's glory. As a writer, I am envious of the way Uncle-George paints incredible scenes and fabulous dresses, as a reader I'm enthralled in the tale. It is a true master piece. I only wish it is a tale which will never end.