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.

To know her is to love her

My mother deserves a whole months worth of blogging to describe. I don't feel like it, so heres the basics:

She enjoys wine, and young boys. To much wine sometimes and that often ends with to young boys, fresh mens with curious eyes and jersey sweaters.
She does not show affection, I'm not sure she likes me at all. But she does call me darling, Belle-darling, almost like it's my full name. And she disappeard the day before I started blogging to seek an endless summer in Australia with a lover of hers, and has not returned yet although he died from heartfailure ( you know this, right?)

That's all I know. And that she smelles of Chanel no 5, wears nothing but Jimmy Choos and does not speak fondly of my father. But he askes about her all the time. So I stole his lap top and climed up to the attic. All the company I want right now is you dear readers and the girl with dark bangs from the photos. And the bottle of wine I so cleverly hid in my lugage. I haven't had wine in forever and I'm sure it'll feel very Proustian, sort of like remembrances of guilty pleasures past.

Speaking of penpales

French whores Miris mother yelled, well nonetheless one of my favorit girls is Chloe and she sent me a letter the day before I fled the dirty streets of London and arrived here in the plastic fantastic world that is LA. Since privacy no longer exist due to blogs, twitter and facebook I've decided to go all the way here. I've proven that before, haven't I? So hear it is, sent with love. ( Darling, I hope you don't mind)

Bonjour chérie!
Un petit message pour le Saint Valentin. Tu me manques, ah les soirs ici à Paris.
Le vin rouge, les cigarettes, les nuits, la musique et nous, toi et moi..
Vous vous souvenez?

Dis Birkin, pourquoi t'as pas grossi en vieillissant t'es toujours aussi belle qu'avant?
C'est que je suis maline.
Dis Birkin, pourquoi tu te mets toujours à pleurer dès que quelqu'un est en danger?
C'est que je suis sensible.
Dis Birkin, pourquoi tu ne t'énerves jamais on dirait que tu fuis la colère?
C'est que je suis fragile.
Dis Birking, c'est quoi ces yeux qui regardent dans le vide on dirait que t'es dans la lune?
C'est parce que je m'ennuie..

Oh I just love that song. With you in the windowsill, I couldn't see anything 'cause there were
smoke all over, nothing but your lovely profile and the parisian night in the background.
And Jane sang for us, sang until we'd emptied my wine cellar and we fell softly into sleep
on the floor. Some nights we had company, some nights it was just us. I miss you love.
Please come and see me soon again. Paris waits for you.
Oh yes, I'd sent you a little something, I guess it will reach when you get back from LA..

Bisous, Chloè

Long lost penpale

When I first met her I was 11, well almost and we looked like ying and yang, different but still very much alike. At least on the inside.

Seeing Miri all these years later, drinking coffee at Intelli in the freakishly hot sun looking at each other trough Prada eyewear makes it all feels like yesterday. Deep inside, none of us really grown up do we?

An alien wearing Fendi heels

I find it quite ironic that I reckon this being the one place in the world were the girls are the most skinny and tanned, and yet I have never eaten more in my entire life. I think my dad tries to stuff the silence with bagels and frozen yoghurt. When I ordered black coffee he laughed Don't you want a smoothie or freshly squeezed juice with vitamins? I lit a cigarette and shruk my head. He talks a lot about work, and askeds some subtle questions about my mom. How is she, does she still like wine? I don't know, I don't know her.

He took me shopping, said something about me needing some colour in my life and forced me into a red Balenciaga dress. I can't help but smile, annoying and overcompansating - yes he most definitely is but also sweet and caring. Just like I remember him. He himself wears black, and in his ray ban wayfareers ( he must have had them before they were fashionable and wears them now when they aren't as well) he almost looks like an old and tierd James Dean. It's wierd but he's very handsome.

Found some incredible photos when I went through his stuff in the attic. I was looking for anything that could tell me more about my own mother. I know it's sad but nevertheless I have this feeling like I don't know her. He didn't have anything, but he did have ten or twelve photos of a young girl with darkbrown hair and a bang that made her eyes disappear under the curtain of hair. She was playing with a wodden horse and looked really happy. In the back it just said five years old. I guess it was something for the magazin that stuck with him. I stole on. Children with happy eyes makes me feel good.

LA X

Being on an airplane for this amount of time provides the mind with a lot of free time to fill with anxiety. Not about an accidental crash and no survivors, no that wouldn't be so bad, but about how in heavens name does one greet their father when not a single word have been exchanged for years. The only contact we've had has been through letters, father loves anything on paper. And photography of course, which he manages to make a living out of ( he's shooting for fashion magazines although the models aren't wearing anything at all except skin over their bones)

He picked me up, the sun forced my eyes to look like two slim lines and I just couldn't bare myself to hug him. But he hugged me.

Smoking I see, what does your mother think of that he asked and lights one of his own.
And there, in his old black car with rolled down ceiling we bond in some matter. We connect. And the few hours I've spent in LA hasn't been so bad yet, Echo park is quite lovely come to think of it. It beats London anyway. Weather or not that is due to boredom I don't know.

And I can't wait to se Miri

I was looking for a place to hide away

Picture borrowed from the lovely Novastyleblogg

Instead I lost the heart I gave away
Tell me how could love stand a chance?

When I got home after being kicked out of mathclass I feelt content, I was going to spend my afternoon with Charles and drink some more wine. Instead I found out that he was nowhere to be found. He doesn't even have the decensy to answer my fucking textmessages. So I tried to call my mother to get some motherly advice, some love.

No answer for several hours. Later; a voicemail where she spoke in vocals, laughing and saying Dear, I hope you're feeling well. I am busy, I'll call you later

So I did something I haven't done in ages. I dialed a number far far away, to a warmer place where everyone is tanned and the recever has grey strings in his hair and smelles of cigarres. My father has not been very precent in my life.I was 6 years oldwhen I first met him, where he was before I haven't got an answer to and then left again four years later ( this was at the same time as my mother started laughing louder and crying more often, a time when there was bottles of wine everywhere and her makeup wasn't used for long periods of time. I understand why he left, I just wish he hadn't)

-Come live with me for a while princess, I need some company and you need a father. Little girls do.

He doesn't know I'm not a kid anymore, I guess he still pictures me as a child with my hair in high ponytails, but I need the vacation. I'm going to LA tomorrow morning. Don't know when I'll come back. Don't know if I even will tell mother. It's not like she cares. And Charles.. well Charles can go to hell.