Thursday, April 27, 2017

April fool

Every time I feel like posting something I'm missing the words and when I find them again I've always lost the will to write. And in spite of my silence you're still here, leaving me darling comments to read when I'm feeling lonely.

Paris is a strange sort of fairy tale these days; dark and hostile, a world of its own sporadically lit up by glimmers of hope that things will soon be better. I keep telling people the same old
stories over and over and instead of making friends I get sick of hearing my own voice.

I spend most of my time in a triangle between Printemps, CafĂ© de Flore and Avenue Montaigne. La Coupole is treacherous ground since I spotted the back of his head in the mirror by the bar. They call me sometimes to ask where I am, I guess it's some form of compliment. Either way I'm slowly awakened from my winter's sleep, getting ready to live just a little, step by step until the summer.  


Thursday, February 2, 2017

Whatever makes it alright

Did January even happen? I might have slept through it with my eyes open, countless bottles of Burgundy wine emptying themselves on my bedside table. I had little choice after the Christmas I had, New Year's I can't even remember. I might have woken up in a two floor apartment off Boulevard Raspail but the details are fuzzy to say the least.

I also have several messages and missed calls from mother, all of them from 24 hours between January 1st and 2nd. Needless to say I never returned them. Whether it was a nightmare or something that actually occurred, the last time I saw her she told me to stop looking for men that remind her of my father.

I can't decide if Paris is the love of my love or a whore dressed in fishnet stockings and purple bustiers. Depends on my mood I guess, only I can't remember what I've felt over the past 30 days. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Maybe I'll end up like him, tired of everything, afraid of nothing, waiting in vain for something to burst in this hummingbird heard of mine.



Thursday, December 1, 2016

Mannequins

Thursday afternoon, I'm in the Luxembourg Garden writing postcards to friends I lost a lifetime ago. The air smells of spring and graveyards, I'm the only one in sight wearing all black (and Philipp Plein stiletto heels). Asian tourists in beige parkas are shamelessly taking pictures of me like I'm part of the scenery. I'm not even trying to fake a smile.

Then, just as I'm about to pack up and leave, I spot him on the other end of the fountain. He's in his Wayfarer shades and the Etro scarf I got him for Christmas two years ago, alone and purposely heading nowhere. He looks right through me for what feels like forever, then turns away and disappears like a magician in the crowds, leaving me broken and breathless and cold. It's the first time I've seen him since I returned to Paris, even though I've spent months looking for him in the streets of Saint-Germain.

Whether it's a hollow fantasy or the remains of too many beautiful dreams, I stumble towards my hotel thinking that maybe he saw me and is now secretly following me back. I only stop waiting after an hour sitting on the floor outside my room, the cleaning staff carelessly stepping over me like I'm trash. I guess they've seen far worse sides of me.










Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Saint-Germain stories

Paris is slightly less of a whore than I remember. I spend most of my days half-dressed in bed with the Don't disturb sign hanging on the door knob 24/7, just in case. In the evenings I eat oysters and drink Chianti wines at La Coupole until the staff politely asks me to leave, hiding in plain sight from Henry. Every night I wait anxiously for him to show up from nowhere (because fear is, if nothing else, a feeling I still treasure), but he never does.

I sometimes fantasize about going to his apartment, to knock on his door and be invited in. He puts his hands around my neck and squeezes so hard I almost can't breathe. I pretend that it hurts me and he throws me down on his bed, rips the clothes off my body and fucks me without saying a single word. Afterwards we share a cigarette in the dim light from his kitchen lamp and he tells me that he loves the way I wear my hair now.

I was never the girl that dreamt about fairytale castles and pink princess dresses, in case you were wondering. The stories I wrote in school made my teachers call mother to emergency meetings more than once. She acted upset but on the way home always bought me candy and told me I was on my way to something truly great and beautiful.
























Friday, September 23, 2016

Is this just fantasy?

My birthday somehow seemed like the perfect time to leave. I stayed up until I couldn't hear them fighting anymore and then for another hour just to make sure they were asleep. As soon as the house disappeared from the taxi's rear view mirror I began thinking of this entire summer as a dream or a fantasy at best. I've never in my life been so unsure of who and what I really am.

Since I left I've been hiding in Paris, far from Saint-Germain and Henry. I know I have to see him at least once before I go back to LA but I'm afraid of what he might do to me. I haven't seen him since I left him behind and I've ignored all his calls and text messages ever since. I've dreamt about him but never in a sexual way and it frightens me more than the surrealist nightmares I've been having since late July.

As always I'm stuck in between reality and a dream and I never know which state to prefer or wish for. Being fucked by the Frenchman made me feel alive but only for as long as it lasted. As soon as they left I was emptied of all momentary happiness like so many times before. Now I'm just wondering how the fuck I'm supposed to go on living like this.
























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