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!)