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

My thoughts dressed in someone else's

When the thought of Charles simply deciding to disappear one day makes my eyes a little moisty, I just think like Amèlie did

Nino is late. Amelie can only see two explanations.
1 - he didn’t get the photo.
2 - before he could assemble it, a gang of bank robbers took him hostage. The cops gave chase. They got away... but he caused a crash. When he came to, he’d lost his memory. An ex-con picked him up, mistook him for a fugitive, and shipped him to Istanbul. There he met some Afghan raiders who too him to steal some Russian warheads. But their truck hit a mine in Tajikistan. He survived, took to the hills, and became a Mujaheddin. Amelie refuses to get upset for a guy who’ll eat borscht all his life in a hat like a tea cozy.

Do you have a song lyric or a movie quote that helps you when you're down? I'm thinking that I'd like to write yours down in my diary, a book with thin pages and a sent that reminds me of congac and cigarres ( it's not from this house, it smelled like that in London as well, promise) if you'd like to share.

Not now, I'm dancing

She's my knight in shining armor. When I had finally gathered up the courage to call ( It's not her i'm afraid of, naturally, it's the bloody phone) she called me. Let's go out and forget all about this madness that is our lifes. Who am I to say no? Green door was packed and I felt awkward in my black dress. Apparently no one wears black in LA. Cameo brooch on my chest, could feel M's eyes piercing it and going straight for my heart, making it beat faster. Wish I hadn't wore it.

Xanax and mai thais, someone made out with Brody Jenner and I danced my way through the night with her by my side and Choos on my feet. Black dress and a cigarette, I couldn't be more wrong in this town. But I'm not sure I care.

Got home late saturday morning, with the heels in my bag and bare feet. Went into our livingroom and fell asleep infront of the tv, Oprah tells the best bedtime stories.

Silence sits in walls much like the smell of cigarres

Jakandjil.com

After several cups of coffee, dinners and long walks he still has questions to ask me. And I haven't found any answers, I bet I never will. But he does not answer mine either.

Things we do not talk about:
Where he was my first years and why he chose not to spend that time with me and mother.
What he did do after he left, where di he go. Who the girl who keeps on calling is, and weather or not the black lace bra I found in the bathroom belongs to her. Why he drinks gin in the morning. Why he decided to become my father again. Why does he want me here?

I need some company, if I wasn't terrified of phones I would call Miri.

A sweetheart with punk rock manners

I had an early morning coffe at Intelli, Silver lake, with Miri yesterday. Needed to get out of the house where questions come to die, and far away from the one asking them as well. Miri hid her tired eyes behind the pretty dark bangs of hers and I draw djuging eyes towards us with the cigarette smoke making it's way from my dark red lips up in the air, passing the perfectly tanned and healthy sitting next to us. I don't care, and Miri understands me. It's nice having someone who looks at you like she does, with love and caring eyes. When we were kids and our mothers talked silently and drank a lot of plum wine togheter, she looked at me just like that.

On her chest there was a perfectly placed brooch that made me think of one of mine, looking almost exactly the same, that had been given to me by my father on my fourteenth birhtday. You're a big girl now, and a very special one. Special girls need special jewelry and I still wear it sometimes. But not now, not infront of him. That would be to except him fully, and I can't do that. Not yet.

Miri wanted to see it, didn't believe me andso I took her home to dads house in Echo Park where there are chandeliers hangin from the ceiling and green velvet couches everywhere. I don't know why, but I think my father Frank thinks of himself as someone who inherited a lot of money. Maybe he did. It still wouldn't justify the fact that his house looks like the dinning room on Titanic. Although maybe it's fitting. He's sinking and so am I, into the dark and troubled water of a stormy past. After showing Miri the brooch she left, the cigarre smoke was overwhelming and she needed air. I went up the attic, put my brooch on and grabbed my favourit book, Bonjour tristessè. I'd had enough sun that day.