Monday, February 28
Amanda waited in the hotel bar, laughing at some man who must have made a clever joke when I stepped in. He looked at me with such dispair. I ruined their moment. She wrapped her arms around me, kissed my forehead grabbed my arm and yelled VAMOS!
Alone in a bar with a ceiling filled with airplanes. Walls covered with photos of old american presidents. Im the only guest, the bartender is old and he makes for a sad excuse of a man. Dry martini, no music in the background. must have been turned of when I walked in. He's not closing, but the night is dying. I watch him with loving eyes as he fills up my glas, lights my smokes.
A man walks in, talking on his phone and orders a beer without making a pause in his conversation. He smiles at me. I empty my glas. Another one. Another road not taken.
One hour passes, I cant focus my eyes on one single object, my eyes move like a tornado. He changes seats, moves closer and when I look up he grabs my hand. Wedding ring on. He holds my cold thin fingers in a firm grip for a minute or two, Im to tired to care, to intrigued to pull back. When Ive finally gathered the curidge to say something he pushed a finger to my lips, lets me hand go and pick up a book from his briefcase. You need this more than I do he says, and leaves in such a hurry Im left wondering weather or not it actually happened.
Woke up this morning next to "Little birds". Anaïs Nin understands young girls better than we understand ourselves.
Why didn't he stay and tell me why. Why did I need it more than him?
Sunday, February 27
I never understood the whole green tea revolution. I don't drink to get healthier, feel better or live longer. One cup of black tea wont effect my decaying body, so I don't really appreciate the way the young man in black uniform looks at me when I decline his offer to give me something with "a lot of nutrition"
If its "supposedly" good for me, then so be it but I've made a habit out of choosing the other option. I always chose the other option.
Can you breath he asks and when I reply with a slighty nervous nod he ads pressure by forcing his thumb into the thin skin that covers my throat. This is what I chose above love and comfort. I choose little or no air.
I close my eyes and the smell of death passes me by, a longing for some sort of constant sleep suddenly feel more present than him or my own body for that matter. I wish for a never ending sleep.
Instead I get green tea when I specifically order black and a city filled with life and laughter. Its a tragedy, being alive but feeling dead.
Where to miss, home I presume?
Yes, sure. Sankt James hotel, please
Friday, February 25
I never felt closer to her than when I read about her first time. of course, this was written by an adult so it didn’t have the right tone but there was something in her words I could relate to. The disgust, the feeling of being in the wrong place although the place had nothing to do with it. She wrote about his sent and the way he moved. To imagine a man making her feel uncomfortable is like seeing god.
You see, she never felt uncomfortable, except when I cried at family dinners. He was heavy, or maybe it was just that I was a very thin girl at the time I cant help but laugh. The honesty ends there. Her truth is always modified, and I am forced to realize what I should’ve know from the start.
I only feel close to her when she lie.
Thursday, February 24
I pour another drink, gin on the rocks except I have no ice left and carefully flip through the pages. She rambles about Oscar Wilde, how he would have been the perfect husband and how she would have looked perfect with an 19th century background. The drink doesn’t help, doesn’t make it easier. I feel a sudden urge to change her words and look around desperately for a pen. There isn’t one pen in this god forsaken room. So I have no other choice but to tear out the page but it doesn’t cut it. It needs to vanish, it’s filled with her condescending words and lack of knowledge. When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire I think and start chewing (a page or two is easy to swallow)
There's a new blog out there, written by a girl who I have a feeling just might get IT. She just might be what is missing.
There's heaven and hell, there's good writers and awful ones. There's serpents and then theres Eve.
Wednesday, February 23
- I remember him telling me to leave her alone, she had been drinking and I had trouble sleeping. Dont talk to, talk to me he said and poured some scotch in my warm milk. It was almost midnight, octobre and I was minutes from turning eleven. I might as well had been fifty. There was nothing to say
- .Since I never really slept I didn’t have bad dreams and I hadn’t really learned to lie yet. Like a baby shark I could smell the blood, I had an idea about lying but I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t kill on my own. Deep gulps of milk and scotch made my eyelids remember what Darwin told us. What plastic surgery can undo.
- I don’t remember laying down, but I remember him carrying me to my bed and softly whisper Do not wake her up, darling. You don’t want her to wake up
Tuesday, February 22
Next piece is about me.
Sunday, February 20
Thursday, February 17
The blond cheerful face belonging to the doctor wakes me up in the elevator. This cant go on any longer.
-You're not dying, but a flue is still a serious thing. Take care of your body, or it will resent you.
-How did you end up here darling, what did you do last night?
Wherever i go, people always seem to feel an uncontrollable urge to take care of me.
I smile and while looking straight into her kind blue eyes I open my lap top. I want to show her photos.i want to say "This is what I did last night"
People are afraid to merge of the freeway,and nihilism is deeply rooted in romanticism.
But I dont have the photos. And she leaves.
Mothers journal is mocking me, lying there quietly on the bed stand. Go on, read me. be disgusted!
I think about it while undressing and I slowly smoke a cigarette in bed. Could this really get any worse?
I open the book.
Monday, February 14
Saturday, February 12
Trying to check in to a hotel next to a night club. Snow storm outside. Inside. In my hand I have my passport, some cash and mothers old journal.
Share elevator with a man in a dark suit and eyes like the devil. He looks at me with such horror, such fear. I step away from him, trying my best to keep the smell of gin to myself. Not let him know what my breath always gives away.
Outside the hotel room, I struggle with my key. A maid helps me open, guides me to the bed and remove my coat. She dresses my pale skin with some t-shirt that miraculously appeared and when she's about to leave I feel an uncontrollable urge to ask her what I fear I already know
I used to live here, didn't I?
Friday, February 11
These streets of scandinavia's most nihilistic but beautiful city is filled with crisp with snow. Headlines tells us not to leave our homes, but I dont have one. I arrived yesterday, naked under my grand mothers rabbit fur. The paleness of my skin slowly turned less white and more blue for every second spent outside. No bag, just a passport cigarettes and cash.
The freckled girl behind the bar gave me a disturbed look when I ordered my plum wine, they dont have any but they have a lot of port she answers. Thats not the same. Would you sleep with someone less attractive, less understanding, less educated just becaue that is the only option left when you know someone so much better is somewhere out there? She shrugged. I emptied the glas of port anyway. This is not an exit.
Four minuts blanc, not a second more, I rested for four minuts in a pile of snow. And you where there, wearing black. Removing wine stains below my lips with your thumb. Lifting me up, you almost tripped. But you didn't, you stayed stable. You kissed my left eyebrow. Dreams are nothing but a reflection of what we want. And I want that, an stable rock who sometimes almost fall to the ground.
And the second before my eyes opened again, and I realized that I am nowhere near stable. That must have been why he fell.
Thursday, February 10
Wednesday, February 9
Dinner last night, the old woman went on and on about her roof. Our shower still running upstairs. There is no explanation to why we wont shut it of. I stopped taking showers ages a go. I hate the sound of water running.
Miri almost fell a sleep in the middle of a sentence. The old woman had crazy red hair and offered us long island drinks stronger than the ones Louis used to make me. She told us about her Hollywood career, about her wealthy husbands, about her modeling and all the money she married into and left with. She made sure we ate a lot, forced foie gras on us until we begged for mercy.
Miri is staring out the window now, not knowing that she is the most beautiful in a straight forward angle. I need to let last night go. I need to get out of my dress. Black of course, I had a feeling last night was a funeral of some sort.
Tuesday, February 8
Monday, February 7
Three Tramadol makes me feel less heavy inside. Five creates a massive amount of stones in my stomach. Its all about balance. Control. I look around the kitchen. A bottle of what I assume is champagne is left half full on the table. I grabb it and empty it in 3 gulps. For each one the distance between emotions and me grows further.
Sitting by the table smoking my benson slowly coming to life I suddenly notice it. . A black tattered notebook. I look at it like it holds all secrets of my past. Things is though, I realize while flipping pages that its not mine. Its hers. Iris. My mother never told me about a journal. she never told me anything.
Her childlike letters and crappy spelling hits home, I hold the key to something awful here. With a mixture of hate and fascination I read.
Louis needs to get his act together. I wont help him off the floor again, put him in some black cab and tell it tp drive off to yet another rehab. I wont do it, its not fair to me. I have my own problems.
Cant help but think, did she really think of me as a problem to take care of? If so, why didn't she?
Outfit of the day
Dress: Jil Sander circa 1975.
Lipstick: chanel, colour of coagulated blood.
Death and disaster darlings.
Sunday, February 6
Friday, February 4
Thursday, February 3
Wednesday, February 2
If you could chose anywhere to wake up tomorrow, where would you wanna open your eyes and meet the morning? Father figure Frank called in the middle of the night, he whispered with a voice filled with unanswered questions. Filled with guilt and anxiety.
I know the answer. Its a vague and unfulfilling one, but an answer non the less.
Louis owned a spectacular house, maybe he still did until he was brought back to life and then killed once more.Louise Dahl-Wolfie would have made such a beautiful painting of him had she known him like I did. L walking
endless corridors, mirrors covered with black fabric in the end - his face had lost its beauty and L hated all things
whom lacked beauty, he hated them above murder, torture and war. He hated ugliness. So he hid, like a mad man in a house big enough
for fifty people. His young adonis stayed with him, took care of him and helped him keep his substance abuse under control.
Under control for them meant satisfied, and fulfilled.
I adored that house, the parties held there were the best ones in Britain. Models, actors, poets and other idiots
drank Louis champagne and smoked cigars until night became day. And in the middle of it all was I. A young blond freckled little girl,
not ever a word spoken but still there. Watching, and thinking that in that room - I wasn't that different.
Iris never cared if I came home smelling like gin, and with evidence of wild nights in the shape of white powder on my expensive dresses.
She never cared. But she made sure the dream was interrupted to early, she woke me up and forced me out of it prematurely.
If I could run anywhere, I would run to that house.
Tuesday, February 1
When sleeping comes to be the hardest part of the day, thats when you have to self medicate. I turned to Anna Karenina and Tramadol last night, like two knights in shining armor they guarded my mind while sleep failed to do so. I lit candles in a circle around my bed, pretended to be a corps in an old and expensive chest. It was a funeral, it was a childish dream.
Much like my life in general ; a funeral/a childish dream