Friday, December 31
Tuesday, December 28
Saturday, December 25
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"
Monday, December 20
Saturday, December 18
Friday, December 17
Tuesday, December 14
Monday, December 13
Thursday, November 18
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
Tuesday, September 21
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)
Wednesday, September 15
Wednesday, September 1
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
Monday, August 9
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.
Tuesday, June 8
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.
Wednesday, May 26
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.
Wednesday, May 19
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.
Sunday, May 16
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
Saturday, May 15
Thursday, May 13
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.
Tuesday, May 11
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.
Saturday, May 8
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.
Monday, May 3
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.
Saturday, April 24
petit déjeuner pour deux,
à tout de suite.
Ensemble c'est tout!
Now thats love in four simple sentences. She knows me.
Wednesday, April 21
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.
Tuesday, April 20
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.
Sunday, April 11
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.
Friday, April 9
She reminded me of myself. I washed away that disturbing thought with several large sips and dove into the pool. Cleansing myself.
Wednesday, April 7
Sunday, April 4
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.
Wednesday, March 31
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.
Tuesday, March 30
Sunday, March 28
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.
Tuesday, March 23
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.
Friday, March 19
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.
Wednesday, March 17
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.
Monday, March 15
Saturday, March 13
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.
Thursday, March 11
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.
Tuesday, March 9
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!)
Monday, March 8
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.
Saturday, March 6
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.
Friday, March 5
Thursday, March 4
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!)
Tuesday, March 2
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)
Sunday, February 28
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.
Friday, February 26
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?
Thursday, February 25
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.
Wednesday, February 24
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.
Tuesday, February 23
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