Lets cry it out

Another year, a lot of lonely days. Some in the most loving company there is. Miri held my hands in Camden a couple of nights a go J D Salinger died this year ya know. We drank mai tais until our vision was blurry enough, and then we loved each other a little bit more. Sisters by heart, connected through sorrow and guilt. We know the secret, we just cant deal with it. We dont know how to handle it. We're no good at protecting the light (We always seem to blow it out)

Father figure Frank wrote a letter, the second one Ive received during these nineteen years.

He promises that 2011 will be different 1) I'll talk to Belle 2) I wont leave if you ask me not to

I promise that 2011 will be a year when I 1) Start drinking earlier in the morning 2) Write letters, long ones. Let me know if you want one darlings.

J D Salinger died this year. But we'll always have catcher in the rye.

Unite and take over

Christmas was awful.

I didnt plan on going, but when the dark night hit the city I felt lonelier than ever and I ended up attending Amanda's party. My hair worn as a veil, covering my pale skin with white strings. I used to have freckles but they have faded during the last month. Much like everything else. December kills a lot of things.

One violent embrace later, A loves with intimidating strength, I poured two glasses of slightly heated plum wine down my sore troth. Ive been smoking to much, eating to little. Scanning the room filled with thin girls and boys wearing suits, but with striped tshirts under instead of shirts. Feathers on the floor, pearls and punch. Christmas orphans, unite!

When I woke up in the bathtub after a minute of unconsciousness (an hour?) all I could see was red spots. Dark red spots. My nose cant take this anymore. My body is old, and its starting to resent me. A called my driver, and when I finally got home I fell a sleep in the black corset that had taken me an hour to get on with a lit cigaret between my lips. Unfortunately it didn't end up burning down the apartment. Nor did it kill me. At least, not in an instant.

A timekill to die for

Last night I tried to poison myself, not the suicidal kind of poisoning but just enough to sleep throughout this whole day. I failed. Plum wine, methadone and demerol. A blood red haze. In my dreams, Frank kissed my forehead and sang to me ( did I ever tell you about his voice? Its the most soothing sound I know) She is the sad one I’m a clown, Charlie Chaplin, Eva Braun ,She learned to smile, I bought her friends, It was the beginning of the end and I think he sang about me. For me.

I woke up feeling lonelier than ever. Amanda had left a message on my cell. She knows I wont return the call. It has nothing to do with love, its just my phobia. Much like what Freud felt about women. Keep them away for they are the devil. The fact that I own an iphone is so ironiC I wont even get into it. There will be a party, or lets call it a charity event, for lonely young hearts at her apartment tonight. No gifts, no fucking food and no singing she said. "If you dont come, Ill have you killed"

She's serious.

I still cant really focus my eyes, and my mind resembles a Pollock right now. So I have to sleep some more if Im going to make the far walk to her place. Or maybe I should take some more. Depends on what kind of night I want.

Poison is for professionals. Im an amateur. Always have been.

( Id love for you to email me today, if you're bored : Belleinarms@googlemail.com)

Partial lobotomy

The excruciatingly silent morning after, he had slept on his stomach in a pathetic attempt not to get blood on the expensive sheets. I hadnt slept at all. Those nights when I do are rare.

Franks back, dried up drops saying bonjour . The same colour as my nails, signed Chanel.

With the kind of movement that resembled a very old woman, possibly half dead, I stumbled out of bed and sat down in the window. Treating the cigaret like a vail, taking comfort in the fact that white smoke is only half way transparent. As long as I was smoking, I could act as though the silent didnt bother me. He finished a glas of bourbon still half full from last night Belle dear, Im thinking about moving to LA, London is nothing but one of the nine stages of hell without you and your mother. That is when it hit me. The present perfect tense of last nights sentence -It was all going to be okay. He was; still eager to heal me. still in love. I was ; Agonizing. Loving him. Biting my nails until they were bleeding. Mixing it with his. We : No blood connection. Fiction. A bond beyond what meets the eye.

His wound undoubtedly has healed now.

I still cant sleep (Technically speaking, the operation is brain damage, but it's on a par with a night of heavy drinking. Nothing you'll miss)

Ages have passed since I last felt alive

Punch me I yelled, please punch me

His blood freckled my arm. I didnt mean to puncture his pale skin below the shoulders with my brooch,or at least I didnt think I would go that deep.

But he was sleeping so heavily ( heavenly) that I doubted he would even wake up. Unfortunately he did. This surprised me because the needle was so thin.

I just wanted to write my name on your skin I lied.

The look he gave me when those words were spoken is until this day still the gloomiest my eyes ever met. Then he gave me the most sincere embrace, stroke my hair carefully and told me "everything is okay. It will all be okay"

And I closed my eyes for a second, then I focused on la plaie invisible that I had given him, and the suprisingly amounts of blood coming out of it.

Please hurt me I begged

Abandon all hope ye who enters here

Where're you going?

I ran through rows of well dressed people. Chinawhite doesn't even have a sign, its so pretentious I couldnt stand it. I left A there, she handles those situations well but I panic. I always panic.

An hour maybe two before I left, a model offered me some escape and then she peed while I was still in the booth. Models are horrible people. Model citizens. The ones who will all save us someday.

God loves the beautiful ones.

Two drops of blood from my nose landed in the champagne, I drank it all - thirsty for something real. Something human.

Someone knocked and pulled the door handle . We'd been in there for ever. The model and I. When I first kissed her she pulled away, then she laughed - took a deep breath, a snow white inhalation. Then she she said ; Do you know someone, like really know someone? Inside out, get them completely? Cause I dont think we ever really will.

Its just dust.Peter Pan didn't want to grow up. You can even walk on it. Fly above it. It kills every sound around you if you want it to, creates a layer of innocence on top of everything you see. Its a brand new start, it covers the filth. Its snow. And the winter is much like the truth ; cold and awful but beautiful from the outside looking in.

If you cant beat them (join them?)

I was ten, it was four days until christmas and I was in London. Boarding schools does not accept minors to spend the holidays in their premises without parental approval. No matter how much I begged.

Trying to read Rules of attraction, falling in love with Sean Bateman. In the dining hall- laughter climbs the walls, mothers voice clear and oh so loud and then he proposed. Can you imagine. Dear lord, I can not cope. Such a sad old man he is. Ten, or maybe even twelve different laughs joined hers.

Mockery, one of her many talents.

Tea parties, one of her many excuses to avoid me (out of sight, outof mind)

They didnt drink tea, and their gossip wasnt suitable for my sensitive ears. I wasnt allowed to leave my room until they all had left. That didnt spare my soul. I could smell them, hear them far to clearly. Pearls and Chanel dresses. Gin on the rocks served in tea cups, scones and cigarettes.

Air is overrated

A paper bag does not

ASPHYXIATE

you.But when wore for several hours as a mask, you do get slightly lightheaded.

I bet you thought you knew me, F

One month. A little more than a month ago I thought to myself, I'll never write again. Frank called one month ago and yelled I do not wish to be a character in one of your little stories Belle. I do not want to participate in the wordvomit you call blog. You stole my personality, put it on display, and I feel used Belle, I feel used.

And so I stopped. Without a word, without a goodbye.

Im sorry about that. That was rude. But since then I've 1) Slept in his bed twice, numb from cranberryjuice and gin 2) decided he is not the boss off me. He's simply father figure Frank. Triple F. The F man. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck the instructions on the back of my sleeping pills "should not be mixed with alcohol"

His breaths into the back of my neck was like a lullaby, his warmth made me feel safe. That night my heart broke all over again, that night I was a little girl whos mother drank to much and whos role modell left for a job in Dubai (or was it France?) That night I cried untill there was nothing left to cry about, nothing left to empty.

Nothing left to put on display

The easiest way to lose something is to want it to badly

Since I came back for London I've been quiet, not by choice but due to the curcomstenses. Who am I supposed to talk to I wonder. By not talking I've realized something : When I have company, I don't really do much talking anyway. So I'm okay with silence. I enjoy it. I listen to my own breathing, adjust it so that it'll match the base in whatever song I might have on. And I think it's gonna be along long time until touchdown brings me around again to find I'm not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no. I sip wine slowly, exhale smoke into my pillow and pretend that the world does not exist. Or maybe that my apartment is the world. My bedroom is France of course, bathroom Spain, kitchen Italy, hallway Germany, library USA and so on. I change what language I think in when I move from room to room.

Maybe Im going insane. Or maybe I've got the whole world in my apartment, and in that case I might just be the luckiest girl alive.


( Amanda, Im terribly sorry but I will not answer my phone until the atarax has left my body. Give it a day or two)

97

Autumn, and right back where I started from. London, rainy and cold london. The city where I was created, where my mother left me and I started to build up my own character. Wore the cloths I thought fit, not the ones she put out on the bed for me. Heartbroken still, but not as living as before and therefore it hurts less.

What do you do when you've lived an entire life during one year?

Fuck a stranger, tell him to hit you hard in the face. Watch The Loved One. Drink five bottles of plumwine and watch the earth spin. Try heroin. Give away your favourit Prada dress to the homeless lady who sleeps on the sidewalk around the corner of your seven bedroom apartment. Listen to Joy division. Call your father and tell him he fucked you up because you loved him to much.

Or let go of the rage. Find some inner peace. That is what Jane Austin would do.

On the road

The longer it takes me to write you all something, to tell you that Im alive and breathing, the harder it gets. So once again, my apologies dearest ones. Are you still here?

Chloè left our apartment about a week a go. Packed her bag and left wonderland in a red coat far to hot for these indiansummer days and a cigarette burning between her lips. A tout a l'heure chèrie! she said and closed the door. I couldn't bare chasing her down the stairs, didn't want to beg. I had begged enough. A woman in the need of fleeing shouldn't be tied down by guilt, and my voice filled with despair must have caused her heartache enough to last for a lifetime. At least I hope so, if the tables were turned I know thats how I would have felt. She kissed the crisp morning air outside and her stilettos said Bonjour to the cobblestone.

I hope she'll be back soon, you see we understand each ohter on other levels of madness than anyone else can on this burning planet. And she made me love her. Now.. I just miss her

Will you take me back?

She insists on wearing sheer white dresses although the parisian nights demands colour. Last night it made me anxious, innoncence shouldn't be announced.
White never stays white, innocence will always be taken from those who posses it and I dont want her to change. She needs to hide her innocence I thought so I pierced her freckled cheek with a nail painted black.

Her blood painted a Pollock on her chest. The smile on her face was the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. All of the sudden my red valentino felt like the biggest chliché ever.

count me in

There is still blood in my veins, music in my ears and macaroons on my plate. Im still here, I've just been looking for the right words. I didn't find them, but I found snow in the middle of a sunny paris. The kind that makes everything silent and calm, and beautiful. Powder.

Chloé is back to her old singin and baking self, but Im not buying it anymore. Im taking her up to the roof tonight, we need a picnic with the stars. This city is for strangers like the sky is for the stars.

Gloomy Sunday

These last couple of days have been a bit like drowning. I've been unable to form words since my lungs have been filled, and my heart stopped beating for a split second (the longest second of my life). Chloé went for a walk, said she needed air from the outside. Didn't want me to come so I stayed, with eyes sparkling by the rejection. The water was coming out, it wasn't just filling me up on the inside anymore. When she returned hours and several bottles of wine later she threw a dead rabbit on the floor I thought we could give this to the crow, death, when he visits tonight

The rabbit must have been dead for days, the blood was dark red, almost black and it smelled like flesh do when its decaying. Eyes opened, I reached forward and gently shut his eyelids closed. Lifeless eyes are judging. Like they're let in on a big secret , like they've seen everything and more. Like they despise us and our ignorance

And now lovers, the water has filled up every part of me, taken an exit through my eyes and started to pour on our hardwood floors. For every step I take, the water splashes around me creating small circles. and when they die out, I feel the need to make more. I'm worried.

his skin was soft as feathers, mine was cold

In black dresses, both touching the dirty parisian streets as we walked, we faced the city where everyone thinks their true love lives. Chloès illnes have gone from bad to worse, but she'll die if she stays inside anymore she said so we put lip stick on our torn lips, covered our bruises from the last time they met.

Plum wine, warm nights and cigarettes made us feel like something from an old movie. I'd say it was pretty perfect. As perfect as something ever gets before one starts analyzing. Starts to really think about whats going on. Why was Chloè wearing the same dress as me (she hates black)and why was here eyes seaking for a man (She hates men) And why did she, later on, walk into my room and kisses the man whose skin my nails were piercing

Nothing was perfect when I started to think, but I didn't untill now. Last night was perfect. But today, last night was awful.

Sin is the only note of vivid colour that persists in the modern world.

When I slowly opened my eyes this morning the first thing I saw might just be the most beautiful sight ever. Chloè in her long white nightgown, sitting in the window smoking a pink cigarette. The wind played with her hair and her lips had the colour of plum wine. I didn't want her to know that I was awake, didn't want to ruin the moment. After ten deep breaths her eyes met mine. A smile spread across a her face and inside of me, then she said the strangest thing

Belle if you were a man, I'd hate you

1.

Father figure Frank called. Men are weak, they always want more than they can have. More than they deserve. I have things to take care of before I can return to LA. If I'll ever return.

His name isn't Death

I was supposed to leave for London two days a go. Walk the streets where I was turned into what I am now. But Chloè is pale, feverish and sad. So I'm trying to gather some aulturism, some sort of motherly love and take care of her. No friend or lover would leave such a fragile little sparrow on her own. So I'll stay in white sheets and a cloudy apartment where dreams are easily mistaken for reality. I'll stroke her hair and tell her that she will be all right. This isn't the decade of the black death although it sometimes feels like it. The sweat on her back will dry out and her temperature will go down. But untill then, I'll stay by her side like a soldier armed with care and love.

A black crow has been visiting us for the last couple of days, he's claimed the balcony his and returns with cadavers every night. Chloé calls him Death, says he's here to collect her soul. French girls, so dramatic, so fragile. So beautiful. His name isn't Death, he's just a symbol of our decaying souls.

We will all die at the same time

Fois gras, macaroons, plum wine and cigarettes. That's what my body contains. Or not just contains, but the diet it actualy survives on.

From what I've heared, parents make their kids eat vegetables and fruit to stay healthy. Mine never did. The ice queen that is my mother thought vegetables was for poor people, and fruit is only necessary for cocktails. I guess I'm going to die young.

And that calls for a celebration.

A quiet scream in the dark nights of Paris

There is an ocean inside of me, storming with anger and a lust for revenge.

I've never been the angry kind, not the kind of girl who raises her voice or lashes out infront of people. My mother tought me to keep feelings prisoners locked inside and never let them see the light of day, never show anything. A neutral face is a beautiful face she said.

and beauty is what keeps us alive, isn't it? So therefor I follow her example, I keep the storm inside and never let anyone know that all I really want to do, all I long for is to scream from the top of my lungs. To call the girl who passes me on the street a whore, to give the man who rolled of me a black eye. That's what my heart desires. But we all know I never will. She is her mothers daughet my teachers used to whisper when I gave them the silent treatment eight years old, like a stubburn old lady. Maybe I am. But I chose my father figure. I chose him.

Worn out/staying in

Paris is burning, I'm cold

On my nightstand, a half full bottle of plum wine. Not half empty, not today. Chloè next to be, blond hair covering the pillow, her freckles resembleing the eifeltower if you look at her with eyes wearing glasses of imagination. Like a child she slept, eyelashes moving to insure me that she was dreaming. I wish I could flee into her dreams. I never dream, but then again I barely sleep. I just go unconsious.

With the plum wine in one hand, I sat down in the window - opened my mouth and placed yet another cigarette between my bruised and torn lips. Evidence of lost love. And now I'm telling you, I must be the biggest clichè ever and for that I apologize.

Bonjour ma chèrie

Woke up with sun teasing my face, like it was telling me to get up and welcome it, like it felt it deserved. Me sleeping was in insult to a beautiful day dawning. I obeyed. Who am I to say no to the Paris sun? Is anyone entitled to that? Stroke the hair in my eyes to the sides, like a curtain that tried to shut it out but wasn't thick enough. Got out of my dress that smelled like cigarettes, plum wine and decadence. Like last night. Chloé was nowhere to be seen I realized after wandering the entire apartment with drunken steps. Poured some coffee and placed myself in the kitchen, said god morning to the eifeltower and found her note

Chérie,
petit déjeuner pour deux,
à tout de suite.
Ensemble c'est tout!
Biz C

Now thats love in four simple sentences. She knows me.

This one is for you

I carried a gun in my Chanel 2.55 once. A boy I liked left it in my apartment and I didn't want it there since it took my breath away everytime my eyes met it and not in a newly inlove kind of way. It apeared in my dreams at night, it controlled my thoughts so I gently folded some silk around it, put it down carefully and walked with determinded steps to the thames late one night with stars as my witnesses and droped it into the dark and forgiving water. The moon turned black for a split second and my heart stopped, then he returned and all was well. My bag was easy to carry again, and my feet had broken loose from their concrete foundation that they'd walked around with before. But now I miss it. It was a beautiful piece, something to put on top of a pile of books. The weight is incredible.

But it's gone, much like the boy I once liked. But Paris, loyal and beautiful Paris is still here and so is Chloè with her loving eyes.

A love letter sent to late

Paris called, and I answered with a hungry voice. I was just about starving when the sweet smell of croissants, macaroons and perfect café au lait filled me entierly with its warm and comforting sent. Chloé held me close, took my bag and told her driver to take us to a dark bar as fast as he could. Ten minutes later, dress change in the car and heels on, we were sipping perfect plum wine and wearing masks. Men came and went away again when we didn't respond to their bonsoir. We had eyes for each other only. Laugher lived next door to tears, in the same zip code as disaster and we loved with our hearts beating like one that night.

I'm sorry I left you all without a word, without a trace but sometimes my words run out. Like the hot water in Chloés apartment. And then you have no choice but to stay warm with wine and red pall malls instead. I hope you understand. But I've gathered some strength here while walking the streets of Paris. I wish I could have brought you all with me.

high flying bird

I guess that wasn't a new girlfriend I nearly whispered and swallowed down the taste of my uncomfortable question with black coffe, looked at him over the breakfast table and smiled carefully.

Paris is burning darling, the opium is running out just like the oil and soon we will all have to face what we've done to this planet we call home and what we've done to our souls. There are no records anymore worth buying. People can't spell and they don't use real words, it's all lol there and wtf here like those letters actualy has some value when put togheter. They slaughter the greatness that used to be the kings english and call it modern so please just pass the juice darling, he said and poured it into his gin.

I lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke over my plate of pancakes and put my hand on his.

And besides, my heart beats for two girls. Thats enough to make it wanna burst with love he ends this bisar discussion with. And I wish I hadn't asked to begin with.

On such a timeless flight

In the middle of the night, with stars above me and my legs in the pool I sat quietly listening to my morning jackets version of Rocket man and I'm gonna be high as a kite by then sipping gin on the rocks. And then I saw her. Long dark hair with soft curls, a black dress touching the ground as she walked fast out from our house and into her car. She looked in the mirror and wiped away what I can only assume was tears under her eyes, or maybe it was dust and drove off. With the wind in her hair, a cigarette that left traces in the air and those lips that carried a colour of red wine - she looked like a heroine. Like someone who could take on the world. But that night she wouldn't.

She reminded me of myself. I washed away that disturbing thought with several large sips and dove into the pool. Cleansing myself.

So what if you'll catch me, where would we land?

There's no salvation for sinners like us.

We might as well be strangers

It's hard trying to compose something about how you feel, when feelings are new to you. Since I entered Lalaland I've been somewhat clear in my head, the haze from my pills have been absent which has shed a new light on everything. Making me experience things, for real and not from a distance. And that's both beautiful and awful.

When someone asks me how I really feel, I never have an answer for them. I rarely talk about emotions which might seem like a paradox to you, but there's an enormous difference in writing here and actualy saying the words out loud. I hide behind metaphores and song lyrics, photos and anger. I don't talk about what I write, I don't write like I talk. This right here, my words on a silly webpage is the most real I have ever been in my entire life. I think you know me more than I want to admit, I've invited you all into my dark and troubled mind and you always have love in your words when you write back, so I'm trying not to climb back into the cage where I used to put all my thoughts and emotions, I'm trying to take the open and honest Belle into to real world. Thing is, I'm scared. Everyone I've ever let in has left. But you haven't.

Some men should talk

Those years between my birth and the first time I met Frank were years of silence. Mother had no answers for me, at least she kept them a secret and still does but I did receive one letter and I still have that with me. It was short, one page filled with trivial sentences about life and making choices. I was a child, I didn't understand. Still don't. But we don't talk about the silence, that would complicate the co existense that we both seem to enjoy. He makes me dinner sometimes, takes me out for walks and comes home with dresses in sizes to big but I still wear them, I like the feeling of fabric falling of my body as I move.

I used to keep that letter under my pillow for several years and then moved it to my wallet, folded a hundred times. I read those tired words ten times a day, trying to picture him, trying to get to know him. It felt like chasing a shadow, trying to hold on to thin air, dancing with wolfs. One letter in six years. Who says I'm demanding? He could get away with anything. I still put him on a pedistal. The man with black tshirts and wayfarers, he stole my heart as a kid.

It could have been so perfect

He managed to get my number somehow. Called and I actualy answered, with my mouth filled with plum wine and cigarette smoke. The house was empty so I told him to come over, but the possibility of crossing paths with his friend, my father figure frightened him so I wrapped my body in a black silk dress and he picked me up with a silly smile painted on his face.

Hotel beds, oh how I've missed them. The white sheets makes everything feel so much better, the dimmed lights and the minibar. His nails pierced my skin, made little marks all over and my teeth left evidence on his shoulders of what the last couple of hours had been about. Afterwards, in a haze of red wine and cigarette smoke he looks at me with concern in his eyes How much weight have you lost since I last saw you?

I stormed off, with black silk wipping my legs as I ran through the hallway in heels that weren't ment to be worn when movement was planed. He had no right to talk to me like that. He had no right talking at all. Why don't men ever know when it's time to shut the fuck up..

I think there's a storm coming, there's something in the air.

step by step, heart to heart

I write to little, think to much. It's like the words are trapped inside of me, caged in the insecurities I posses, and they can't get out. They're starved and light sensitive after such a long time in the dark and their steps are careful and slow.

An airplane took my best friend away, sent her through the air and landed her far away from the sun. It's selfish of me to wish she lived here, it doesn't suit her (does it suit me?) but I want her close, at all times. On my nightstand lays two blue pills. When ever life gets to rough, she will save me from a distance. On the airport, when I grabbed her hands and stroke some hair from her face she gave me a book, Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens. I've spent the last days with it and bottles of plum wine on the attic, smoking camel blues and feeling sorry for myself. But I'm done now, I feel like taking a walk. Tears always seem to dry on their own don't they. And Sara did make me laugh a little last friday when she hit the ceiling with her head trying to dance on a table. She's fantastic. And wild.

Bisous

Je ne sais pas

Father figure Frank took us out for breakfast dressed like death, all black and cigarette smoke surounding him. A looked at him with indecisiveness, it's like she can't hate him since he makes me smile but she does loath him for making me stay. Or maybe I just want it to be like that. Maybe she's looking at him with lust. I would have, if the tables were turned.

We should have invited Miri, how is she? F asks, trying to be light on his tone. But the way his lips moves makes him look nervous. A lonely daughter must be some kind of humiliation here, or maybe it's simply concern but either way I'm sure that in his mind, A has already left and I'm back on the attic reading and drinking without speaking again. Maybe the tall dark man who must have been a friend of his told him, maybe he needs me to be occupied so that I won't violate his other friends. Maybe he just wonders what happend to the pretty girl with the dark fringe under which she hid her mysterious eyes. My whole life is one big Maybe.

She comes bearing gifts and love

found at thefashon

Amanda arrived, making this lalaland a little more like home. we had some coffee at Intelli and it felt fantastic to have someone I don't need whole sentences with to make myself clear. She gets it by looking at me, and my chewed down nails. You don't get any sleep , darling? Put two Propavan in my hand, for emergency only. Like a saint with advanced smuggling skills. She told me about her dance around the fire, the model ex boyfriend that is. Or just boyfriend, he she nor I know. But does anyone ever really know? We use words, definitions, but actions often speaks against it. Like the way someone flinch with their hand when you touch them. It's more of a knifestab in the gut than any outspoken words I know. Hurts more then being left behind in the remains of a past that wasn't so perfect as you imagened. Ruins of something that's decaying, and smells rutten but you still stay, because pain is better than nothing at all. As long as there's pain there's hope.

I would rather burst into flames than dance around that fire ever again. That's the one thing I'm certain of.

When there's no where els to run

I'm feeling worn out, like someone punched me right between the eyes and now I can't really see straight.
It resembles the feeling I get from mixing plum wine with Propavan but I haven't, not since I got here at least. I feel old, like a houndred year old woman trapped in the body of a teenager. Maybe I need to sleep when the dark falls and be awake when normal people are, but I have such a hard time sleeping that I can't plan it. My body decides for me, when it wants to sleep it does but when I want to it objects. Forces me to be up, making my legs restless and my body aches from being so damn tired but still so bloody energetic.

I gathered some pillows and climbed up to the attic with gin on the rocks and a cigarette between my lips so that I won't chew on them like I always do although my mother used to spend hours everyday telling me what an awful habit it is. I can't seem to stop.

I'll read Le chien couchant until my eyes can't take it anymore, until they finaly let me drift of into a haze of smokey dreams and lips with drops of wine still left on them.

Everything looks perfect from far away

Down the Sunset boulevard

Last night, cocktail party at father figure Franks house ( I guess I should call it home, but that's way to soon) with gorgeus women in tight dresses and diamonds, men in suits and me with feathers in my hair and way to high heels.

Invite some of your friends he said but I really felt like spending the night with adults, pretending to be one myself. Cigars and whiskey, I placed my red satin covered bottom in the library and had a conversation with a fashion magazine editor about Balmain. He has managed to make himself old news in so few years it's almost fantastic in some tragical way. She thought that was clever, and wrote it down. Just wanna take credit for it before I see it somewere in print with another sender behind it.

Mingled and got intoxicated by all the decadence and of course the liquid in my glas which I later dropped - making it turn into a thousand small pieces. Just like my mind. And when I walked out to the kitchen, trying to find someone who would clean it up I saw him. A tall man with dark hair and no wedding ring. Green eyes. Made a cigarette appear from inside my bra and he lit it for me. He didn't change his mind when he realized I was Franks daughter

nor did he object when I let my dress fall to the floor.

Everybody's changing

His sun rises and sets with you she said, stroked some blond hairs from my forehead and kissed my cheeks. It could have been filled with love, that act, but I knew mother far to well after 10 years to belive such a thing. She was hiding something.

The next day was my birthday, and mother had decided that I was no longer a kid - I had to have a grown up dinner party to celebrate the year gone by. She invited her friends, hairdresser and the women she drank wine with every tuesday afternoon at The Connaught. My friends? Well, I was allowed to invite a few. Amanada was given permission only if her parents were to come with her and Chloé came all the way from Paris with her aristocratic mother by her side. And the three of us sat at the end of the long table, eating macaroons and giggeling while mother tried to entertain the guests by telling the story about how she met Roberto Cavalli once and went on a trip on his yatch. Awful story, a ten year old girl should not have to hear what she did, and Frank looked uncomfortable the entire evening. I felt sorry for him.

Mother slept for the rest of the week, since she swallowed sleeping pills with cocktails. Father figure (at the time, just "father" though) Frank and I started taking long walks. On some rare occations he told me stories about his worktrips to Paris, Milan or Dubai. He showed me some pictures, and told me he would give me the world someday. Promised I would not have to stay in that seven bedroom apartment with expensive jewellry kept in shoeboxes and designer dresses on the floor.

Then he left.

A devil meaning well

First time I met my father Frank I was six years old. It was an indiansummer that year, the sun kept on providing heat and the autum was waiting although Octobre had already came along with it's promise of fall. But even the leafs where still hangin on to the trees, the ground was clean and I had a innocent heart. Mother put red lipstick on her lips for hours, glanzing at the mirror to make sure her hair was perfect (it always was) and the stereo played Rolling Stones which I knew mother wasn't a fan of. She was more of a Aretha Franklin kind of woman, so it must have been for him. Just like the lipstick, and cupcakes on the kitchen table.

He came in a black convertible, with his dark hair short on the sides just like James Dean and a cigarette in his half open mouth. I can still picture it, maybe because he looked just the same when he picked me up at LAX a couple of weeks a go. Mother threw herself in his arms, and he lifted her up from the ground making her red soles show underneath. She was happy, and the soundtrack to this moviescene was Gimmie Shelter, suiting wasn't it?

Then he took his black wayfarers of, looked at me and said Hey Kid. And I've loved him ever since, no matter how much he disapointed me later on. I guess daughter and father- bonds are often stronger than the mother-daughter bond will ever be. At least in my case.

(Darlings, it has come to my attention that some of you are so kind as to link to my blog. Don't do it in silence, please, I want to know so that I can thank you. Email me, write to me on facebook, comment here. anything!)

we're gonna die at the same time

What a night it was, Saras birthday party was held below the big W just like I told you and I think we could all smell the desperation and longing for fame it stands for.

Avy pushed a boy down the hill with anger in her eyes and I stood by not sure weather to laugh or be worried. From what I've heard, he had it coming.

We decorated the hill with empy bottles, more and more as the night went on and I was overwhelmed with all the joy these girls seem to posses, they have a way of making everything seem impossible. Nothing like London girls, I'll tell you that. I kissed the youngest boy my lips ever met, he didn't even have wrinkles in the corner of his eyes and that sure is new to me. I like them old otherwise, no suprise there.
But I didn't go home with him like the little gossip girl SaraJo claims. When the party came to an end, close to sunrise I went on a long walk and then I returnd to the scene. It was bisarre. Almost like returning to a place where you committed murder, just to se if you remember it all correctly. I sat down, found some left over wine and smoked for an hour straight. And then it all hit me. I live here. This is my new life that I've chosen for myself. My eyes seemed to think that was sad, or just confusning, but eitherway I started crying while my mouth was smiling and making me look like a moron. A complete fool.

Nevertheless, great night.

And she gave away the secrets of her past

Last night I fell a sleep by the pool. Father figure Frank was out for dinner and I didn't want to come. Instead I chose a bottle of plum wine as company and dangled my legs in the warm water, listening to Joy Division. I thought about Charles although I didn't want to, tried to remember what he smelled like but all I could think of was how the sheets smelled after sex. That smell isn't how I want to remember him, I want to drag down the sent from behind his ear deep down in my lungs but cigarette smoke was the only substitute I had.

I drank slowly, singin along And she expressed herself in many different ways Until she lost control again And walked upon the edge of no escape and thought about the time he brused my wrists until I didn't miss him as much.



Woke up five minuts a go, got in but I can't seem to fall back a sleep. I've got a feeling of emptyness in my cheast and I think maybe father figure Frank's pancakes can fix it. Maybe. All I know for certain is that this is the first time in what seems like forever that I don't want to fill the whole inside with Old Raj gin. And that's got to count for something, right?

Some of you have started to send friendrequests on facebook to me, I just wanted to say that I really like it and keep it coming. I smile everytime, and some sort of warm feeling grows in my gut - and that's a rare feeling for me.

That one time in Paris

Remember this? It is one of my greatest memories from 2009.

You just might find that you get what you need

I miss Chloè

Black coffee, cigarettes and a copy of the Times. LA mornings are fantastic, the air is crisp but warm and I don't ever wake up hung over here like I used to back in London. I guess that has more to do with the father figure- Frank than the scenery but anyhow, it's comfortable.

I finished Fight Club and started reading Alice in Wonderland - haven't read it since I was a child and I guess now's the time since everyones talking about white rabbits and having a teaparty. I'm thinking maybe I did fall down the rabbit-hole once, somewhere at that time when mother left for Australia and I drank wine like water. When the men were twenty years older and bought me expensive things although I didn't need it. I didn't ever want their gifts, I wanted their weight on top of me and nothing else. It was a time when I could isolate myself in the apartment for several days and never ever pick up the phone. ( Seems like a hundred years a go but in fact it's just a couple of weeks)

Or maybe I fell dow the rabbit-hole when I got of the plane at LAX, maybe this is wonderland. Maybe I'm going crazy by all the sunlight. I still am a pale little brittish girl who's used to rain. Not being tanned.

( Thank you Sophia. You made me smile throughout the whole day by posting this. Bisous!)

You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh

I have never been in a war where the weapons have been others than words. I have fought many battles with my mother and once or twice with a close friend but it has always come down a heated exchange of words or curses, my body has never really been involved. The only physical violence I know is sexual, but that is only cause I actualy need that to enjoy fucking. I need some punching. I'm not talking about leaving the bedroom broken and bleeding, but a little bruises are in my world only evidence of true passion.

But the last two nights have been spent with the book Fight club and it has actualy made me long for a fight. It says you can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick. . I wonder if that's true.

( It was a long time since I had sex so maybe I'm just going crazy but hey even the Mona Lisa's fallings apart)

When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire

I'm tired. Moving makes me tierd. I've moved several times the last ten years; all that time in boarding school and the various cities where the streets sure did have namnes - it's just that I don't remember any. After a while most cities look the same, but LA did something to me no city has done before. I actualy enjoy spending time here, and the sun has had a lovely impact on my mood which I never thought was possible. So I decided to stay, and Frank liked the idea.

The last couple of days can only be describes as a total chaos, I've spent all my waken time which making my room look less like a hotell and more like.. well my own I guess. I'm a rootless child anyway, so why not be it somewhere with friends and some sort of family. Only thing is, Amanda will kill me.

Stop jumping in my bed

I couldn't sleep, been up since yesterday morning. Eyes tired but body restless, to restless to sleep. Are you familiar with that feeling? I hate it. It's like my body is forcing me to be awake although all I want is to drift off. I used to take care of this by swallowing down two Propavan with some red wine and then I hazed off, but they took my pills in customs since I didn't have a prescription with me. And just alcohol won't do it for me anymore, I need stronger stuff and now I'm stranded without them.

Miri won't return my calls, I'm worried but I don't know what to do about it. I can't drive in this fucking country, the cars are all coming at me and I forget which side on the road to stay at. I'm scared all the time. In London, all I had to do was call my driver. Frank doesn't belive in having people working for him. He's an island he says, but that's all bullshit and we both know it.

Last night we had sushi in front on the tv, watched Breakfast at Tiffany's ,I'm like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don't even belong to each other, and I felt quite comfortable when he called me daughter instead of Belle in the begining of some useless sentence. What if I would stay?

Like diamonds in the sun

Yesterday was an adventure. Sara needed help finding a perfect place for her birhtday party ( 20 is so old dear, let's take some Peter Pan fairy dust and stay young) so we went hunting. Two bottles of plum wine in my bag and cigarettes makes a perfect day, doesn't it?

A couple of yards down from the big W in Hollywood we sat down and enjoyed the sun. This is it, isn't it? The perfect spot, below the big sign of hope and big dreams, is where it'll go down. I wish I could stay long enough to experience it.

Down the rabbit-hole and through the looking-glass

When the sun hasn't really begun to provide any heat yet, and the coffee still's hot enough to taste well there isn't much to do here in Echo Park. Frank just left me at the breakfast table to go work, want to come and watch expensive cloths on cocaine sticks? I stayed here obviously. It's not that I don't want to fall down the rabbit-hole, I just know that I need to leave soon and trying my best not to get to attached. Cause I have already started to adore him. Mother called last night and yelled he is not your father, he's just someone who got me pregnant. I hung up on her. She doesn't know him anymore and she didn't use to refer to him like that. He used to be the love of her life.

Ps, I'm getting a lot of lovely comments about my new banner. I can't take any credit, it's the amazing SaraJ who's the brain behind it. Tell her she's great.

you must have seen her dancing in the sand

Woke up late, headache and some sort of anxiety I couldn't shake of. My sheets were still wet, I wore a bikini bottom and on my nightstand was a halffull bottle of gin. Fragments from last night includes Miri pouring wine into my open mouth, the pool on my father's backyard being exactly the right temperature, her legs splashing water and my hair sticking to pale skin making me look dressed. Cigarettes floating in the water, and a text message from Charles that I asked M to delete without reading it for me. Rebel rebel your face is a mess.

Now he's home again, and Miri must have left early. I have no idea where he was yesterday or where she is now. I never really know anything for sure these days. It's liberating