Random post anybody? Obviously I'm bored.
Night night xx
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Wieskirche
These photos are from the almost scarily ornate inside of the famous roccoco Wieskirche in Bavaria. Believe me, the photos do not do this church's decoration the slightest justice. But don't think it's just a showy tourist piece, you are not permitted to take photos or speak inside and are promptly removed if you behave in an inappropriate manner. We sat as they had Mass here one evening, and it was rather chilling, the empty silence filled only with the chants of the priest, followed by the men, followed by the women.
Random post anybody? Obviously I'm bored.
Night night xx
Random post anybody? Obviously I'm bored.
Night night xx
Friday, January 23, 2009
The damage a man can do
"It's said that everything is connected to everything; the butterfly effect.
You drop a pebble into a pond and the ripples radiate outwards, touching and effecting everything. Until finally a fish grows arms and legs and crawls out of the water... and picks up a rock and smashes the next two fish over the head, and we have the first serial killer."
You drop a pebble into a pond and the ripples radiate outwards, touching and effecting everything. Until finally a fish grows arms and legs and crawls out of the water... and picks up a rock and smashes the next two fish over the head, and we have the first serial killer."
- Dexter Morgan
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My Secret Story - Part II
By the time I was 13 my self-destructive ways had already taken a two year toll on my body. My forearms, stomach, breasts and legs were riddled with scars, my eyes were pouchy and yellow and I was constantly tired. When I could, I slept on two dirty, bloodstained mattresses stacked on the floor of my bedroom, which was barely visible for the clothes, papers and assorted litter heaped on it.
The planks of wood on my wardrobe door were kicked in and the entire inside of it was scrawled with things like “I fucking hate you” and “I love Benn”. There were ivy weeds growing from the room’s skirting boards, which I drizzled with tap water from my en suite daily.
The en suite was, at the time I claimed the room my home, fully equipped with a shower, vanity, mirror and toilet. From the time I was 12 until I was 14, the mirror would lay in shattered pieces on the tiles that I refused to pick up despite often cutting my feet.
The mirror had fallen forward and smashed over my head whilst I had been taking photos of myself. I wasn’t hurt, but I was upset because I had owned the mirror for some time. The walls of the shower were covered in red swipes, spatter and hand prints and dried shampoo. Before I could have a shower, I would have to search fervently for any spiders that were living in it and place them in a container before letting them back out when I had finished. I often felt I was being watched in the shower through the vent in the ceiling or that somebody was waiting just behind the blue shower curtain to torture and slaughter me. I was terrified of this, but comforted myself by imagining that this particular somebody was in fact Jason from Friday the 13th and that I could simply turn the showerhead on him. To embody this fear, I painted the words “Friday 13th” in large, bold letters outside my en suite door.
All or most of my time was spent in my bedroom. It was where I went to eat, drink, sleep, shower (compulsively), cry, cut and anything and everything else I wanted to do.
My bedroom was my haven and nothing could hurt me there, although I did believe that someone broke into my bedroom on a daily basis and would watch me sleep. One night I woke up and felt someone breathing on the back of my neck. To this day I do not and will not believe that it was a dream.
I never seemed to try to hide my personal turmoil from the people in my life, leaving the razors I had unscrewed from pencil sharpeners in plain view along with various pain and sleeping pills that I emptied into a small glass jar I kept beside my bed, although they weren’t things I flaunted and I can’t even recall ever thinking about it, or, for that matter, anybody else ever mentioning it.
I was completely content in being unhappy with myself, and didn’t plan on changing. It was the one stable thing in my world and for the first time, I had found some order in the life.
And then He showed up.
The planks of wood on my wardrobe door were kicked in and the entire inside of it was scrawled with things like “I fucking hate you” and “I love Benn”. There were ivy weeds growing from the room’s skirting boards, which I drizzled with tap water from my en suite daily.
The en suite was, at the time I claimed the room my home, fully equipped with a shower, vanity, mirror and toilet. From the time I was 12 until I was 14, the mirror would lay in shattered pieces on the tiles that I refused to pick up despite often cutting my feet.
The mirror had fallen forward and smashed over my head whilst I had been taking photos of myself. I wasn’t hurt, but I was upset because I had owned the mirror for some time. The walls of the shower were covered in red swipes, spatter and hand prints and dried shampoo. Before I could have a shower, I would have to search fervently for any spiders that were living in it and place them in a container before letting them back out when I had finished. I often felt I was being watched in the shower through the vent in the ceiling or that somebody was waiting just behind the blue shower curtain to torture and slaughter me. I was terrified of this, but comforted myself by imagining that this particular somebody was in fact Jason from Friday the 13th and that I could simply turn the showerhead on him. To embody this fear, I painted the words “Friday 13th” in large, bold letters outside my en suite door.
All or most of my time was spent in my bedroom. It was where I went to eat, drink, sleep, shower (compulsively), cry, cut and anything and everything else I wanted to do.
My bedroom was my haven and nothing could hurt me there, although I did believe that someone broke into my bedroom on a daily basis and would watch me sleep. One night I woke up and felt someone breathing on the back of my neck. To this day I do not and will not believe that it was a dream.
I never seemed to try to hide my personal turmoil from the people in my life, leaving the razors I had unscrewed from pencil sharpeners in plain view along with various pain and sleeping pills that I emptied into a small glass jar I kept beside my bed, although they weren’t things I flaunted and I can’t even recall ever thinking about it, or, for that matter, anybody else ever mentioning it.
I was completely content in being unhappy with myself, and didn’t plan on changing. It was the one stable thing in my world and for the first time, I had found some order in the life.
And then He showed up.
My Secret Story - Part I
A surge of panic rose in the pit of my stomach, bubbling over and mixing with a white hot anger I hadn’t felt since…
I struck out, hitting his arms, chest, face, anything I could do to get his hands off of my chest. He groped and squeezed, trying not to laugh as he played his sick game. Carey lay twisting on the floor, covered in his own vomit and groaning in his fruitless effort to get up and help me, save me. One hard grasp shot a sensation of pain rushing from my right breast into the rest of my body. My eyes went wide and I let out a high pitched yelp.
“Oliver, stop!” I thrashed underneath him, his heavy body constricting my legs and stomach. Considering the great deal of pressure on my internal organs, my rapid breathing and shaking were probably not the best idea, but the human body acts on its own accord and right now it seemed mine wanted very badly to escape.
My stomach and chest felt crushed and he was still staring down at me, that huge grin on his face and I knew in that moment that even nothing He had ever done to me had been this bad; He had never laughed. And He had never even forced it on me, had always ensured that it was right, for both of us, and of course it always was with Him. I loved Him more than life itself and would give up anything to hear Him tell me that He felt the same. I was sure that He had loved me now, even though I had always been a suspicious partner and had questioned His motives in the relationship to no end. But now He was gone and I had bigger things to worry about – no pun intended.
Oliver was a tall, pale and flabby boy of 16 with clumsy, stubby hands and a waistline that stretched about 2 foot across, a real showpiece of Australian youth. He had blonde hair, which he attributed to his Swedish decent, and seemed to either be suffering a long-running rivalry with genetic facial craters or, maybe, too much chocolate. His weight was too much even for my usually strong body to handle; I gave up and let my arms fall in hapless repose by my sides. There was no use struggling against his massive power, and so I decided to spare myself the pain and humiliation. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of the terrible things that were happening to me, but the brush of a tongue over my left nipple sent me into a terror-induced seizure, my entire body shuddering and vibrating under the giant like a child’s toy gone berserk.
His dark brown eyes met mine and I saw in them the unmistakable, taunting excitement that I could hadn’t encountered since He had been in my life. I’d watched it in His eyes as he anally raped from the front, when he’d slammed my head into the wall and when he had gently pressed his pocket knife into my sternum. But there was still love in His eyes, and I knew that He cared for me a great deal, despite His inability to act accordingly.
My mind fluttered back to the present and to Oliver’s oafish body on top of mine, and without hesitation shut down into a blackness that swept over my entire body. My eyes rolled into the back of my head in one quick, final spasm and my body went completely limp.
And for a little while I didn’t think anything at all.
I struck out, hitting his arms, chest, face, anything I could do to get his hands off of my chest. He groped and squeezed, trying not to laugh as he played his sick game. Carey lay twisting on the floor, covered in his own vomit and groaning in his fruitless effort to get up and help me, save me. One hard grasp shot a sensation of pain rushing from my right breast into the rest of my body. My eyes went wide and I let out a high pitched yelp.
“Oliver, stop!” I thrashed underneath him, his heavy body constricting my legs and stomach. Considering the great deal of pressure on my internal organs, my rapid breathing and shaking were probably not the best idea, but the human body acts on its own accord and right now it seemed mine wanted very badly to escape.
My stomach and chest felt crushed and he was still staring down at me, that huge grin on his face and I knew in that moment that even nothing He had ever done to me had been this bad; He had never laughed. And He had never even forced it on me, had always ensured that it was right, for both of us, and of course it always was with Him. I loved Him more than life itself and would give up anything to hear Him tell me that He felt the same. I was sure that He had loved me now, even though I had always been a suspicious partner and had questioned His motives in the relationship to no end. But now He was gone and I had bigger things to worry about – no pun intended.
Oliver was a tall, pale and flabby boy of 16 with clumsy, stubby hands and a waistline that stretched about 2 foot across, a real showpiece of Australian youth. He had blonde hair, which he attributed to his Swedish decent, and seemed to either be suffering a long-running rivalry with genetic facial craters or, maybe, too much chocolate. His weight was too much even for my usually strong body to handle; I gave up and let my arms fall in hapless repose by my sides. There was no use struggling against his massive power, and so I decided to spare myself the pain and humiliation. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of the terrible things that were happening to me, but the brush of a tongue over my left nipple sent me into a terror-induced seizure, my entire body shuddering and vibrating under the giant like a child’s toy gone berserk.
His dark brown eyes met mine and I saw in them the unmistakable, taunting excitement that I could hadn’t encountered since He had been in my life. I’d watched it in His eyes as he anally raped from the front, when he’d slammed my head into the wall and when he had gently pressed his pocket knife into my sternum. But there was still love in His eyes, and I knew that He cared for me a great deal, despite His inability to act accordingly.
My mind fluttered back to the present and to Oliver’s oafish body on top of mine, and without hesitation shut down into a blackness that swept over my entire body. My eyes rolled into the back of my head in one quick, final spasm and my body went completely limp.
And for a little while I didn’t think anything at all.
My Secret Story - Epilogue
Tap, tap. Hello neighbour. Tap, tap, tap.
There was something in His eyes that told me He was the one. He felt the same things I felt, thought the same way I thought. He was special and I was almost certain that He knew it. He was by any count nothing special to look at, but for some peculiar reason I took a detached liking to his appearance. The nameless ‘He’ was a good 20 kilograms overweight with pale, speckled skin that was host to a variety of interesting scars and blemishes; putting His arm through a glass panel as a young boy, jumping from a tree, cutting His throat in my bed; all the happy times shown in an array of bumpy, pallid imperfections that begged the question:
Why on earth do you love Him, Elysha?
What do you see in His plain brown eyes that makes them seem so shiny, or in His dirty black hair that you find so attractive? What could it possibly be, that you find so completely and utterly indispensable about Him?
And consequently I would learn a great deal about what it was that I found so essential about Him. It was a connection that took a full 2 and a half years to break, and when it did I was left completely helpless, a miserable lump of flesh without purpose or direction.
And so it began.
There was something in His eyes that told me He was the one. He felt the same things I felt, thought the same way I thought. He was special and I was almost certain that He knew it. He was by any count nothing special to look at, but for some peculiar reason I took a detached liking to his appearance. The nameless ‘He’ was a good 20 kilograms overweight with pale, speckled skin that was host to a variety of interesting scars and blemishes; putting His arm through a glass panel as a young boy, jumping from a tree, cutting His throat in my bed; all the happy times shown in an array of bumpy, pallid imperfections that begged the question:
Why on earth do you love Him, Elysha?
What do you see in His plain brown eyes that makes them seem so shiny, or in His dirty black hair that you find so attractive? What could it possibly be, that you find so completely and utterly indispensable about Him?
And consequently I would learn a great deal about what it was that I found so essential about Him. It was a connection that took a full 2 and a half years to break, and when it did I was left completely helpless, a miserable lump of flesh without purpose or direction.
And so it began.
Monday, January 5, 2009
I'm back
I'm back after my writing hiatus in Germany and I come bearing all sorts of new experiences to babble about. This is just a short blog to let you all know I didn't get locked in the laundry and suffocate.
Au revoir.
Au revoir.
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