Despite all my rage

I read somewhere that a butterfly's wings are extremely sensitive. Once touched they will be rendered useless, making it impossible for the butterfly to get off the ground. That's why you should be so very careful around them, because if you're not you might end up, however unintentionally, causing their death. I don't know if it's really true, but I like the thought of something beautiful being that fragile.

I fled the house again this weekend, mother doesn't seem to have missed me although I can never be sure with her. I went to see him, mostly because I didn't want to be alone. I think he felt it. He has a way of smiling with his eyes, but I don't know whether it's a smile of pitty or compassion. Maybe it doesn't matter. He listens to me and I want to love him for it, but he makes it hard by holding my shivery hands just a little too long.

He said I want to get close to you, and I said you're not supposed to touch the wings of a butterfly. 

Just in case.

All the flowers died when you went away

I've always hated how winters in this plastic city never look or feel like real winters. At best the endless boulevards and avenues are emptied of fakes and wierdos by a sudden storm, washing away all dirt with its heavy scouring rain. But then, just a few minutes later, the California sun comes out again and the skies clear up as if nothing had happened. Everything goes back to what it just was, only shinier.

Inside, the storms are silent and the seasons never change. I walk around on glass, trying my best not to cast my shadow on the marble floors of our airy house. Regardless of the weather there's nowhere to hide, but on cloudy days at least I come closer to being invisible.

From time to time I forget why I'm so cautious, but whenever I run into mom I'm painfully reminded. It  breaks my heart to see her trying, being nice and sweet to me, asking me how my day was, but the damage is already done and there's no coherent way of fixing it. Sometimes I wish I could tear off my mask and just hug her, but I know I'm lost for words and there's too much I too badly want to say to her. And I hate crying.

So I don't.

Today it's sunny but cool. Mother was just in the kitchen packing a bag so I asked her if she was leaving. From her reaction, the subtle sadness in her eyes, I could tell she thought it's what I wish for.

This is the end

A small part of me just died, and I think it may have meant more than I can fathom just now.

For two weeks or so I've been trying to avoid throwing out the Christmas tree. Mother has asked me several times, and now she obviously got tired of waiting and did it herself. I never thought it would hurt so much. During all this time I've been telling myself I didn't want to do it because it's hard work, but now I realize it was something else that stopped me.

When I was little and dad was alive, we always used to get a miniature Christmas tree just for me, a real one but small, maybe three feet high. In a box under my bed I had a little set of blinking lights I would use to decorate it, and when I lit them I knew it was Christmas for real. It was always a very emotional moment. I remember how my whole body would tremble and I felt this warm almost limitless joy and happiness, as if everything was perfect and would always stay that way.

And now, nothing remains of that time but a faded memory. I try so hard to feel something as strongly as I did back then, but seeing our dried-out Christmas tree being stripped and thrown away in silence only reminded me of the fact that I can't, and I will never be that innocent child again. I will never again be overwhelmed with joy decorating my own little tree with those blinking little lights, initiating yet another perfect little Christmas. The world is bigger now, and so am I.

I guess I've always known that, but it just became so very real. And that hurts.

Whenever I'm alone with you

Darlings, how are you?

I've spent most of my waking hours on the phone this weekend, I think more out of a sense of duty than because I actually wanted to. He talks for hours and I listen, but I rarely know how to respond because I don't know what I'm really looking for with him. I don't have a purpose which makes me very uncomfortable, so I keep quiet and hope he doesn't mistake my silence for arrogance and disinterest.

I've been in this position before, and in a way I think it shaped me more than I wished for. A couple of years ago, during one summer, I had to choose between two boys. One was helplessly in love with me and wanted to plan our fairy tale future together, the other one just felt relaxed in my presence and had no grand illusions of story book love. He took me out for picnics around the beach where we sat all night talking, looking out over the dark ocean, drinking wine. We made no promises and knew that once summer was over so were we.

Still, I picked him over the needy one, not because I liked him more but because he never made me feel trapped. I could breathe around him, and he was more of a steady ground to stand on than a weight I had to carry on my shoulders.

Maybe the other one had been good for me, I don't know and I never will. And I'm not even sure it bothers me, simply because I'm not someone who needs to be put on a pedestal. At the same time I know that I want to be loved, and I want to get to know that boy with soft hair, just to see if maybe somehow we could function together. I just don't know how to tell him that. That's why he talks and I listen.

But for how long?

Dinner at eight

Darlings, I'm alive, which is actually a bit surprising after spending last night at the dinner party from hell. I didn't want to go but mom forced me, literally. She knows this very strange family in Beverly Hills and takes every chance she gets to hang out with them.

Why?

Because they're rich. Super rich, really, and no one knows for certain why. I guess that adds to the air of mystique surrounding them. Mom loves it, I just find it slightly ridiculous.

The mother is a real original, one of those people who shamelessly wishes she was an 18th century aristocrat's wife who's only important task in life is to throw fabulous dinner parties and raise two perfect children. Unfortunately, she only has one and is married to a stiff accountant from Canada.

So there we are, like animals in an art deco cage. The mother at the head of the massive oak table, obviously, frantically giving orders to the butler. I'm on her left side and my mom on her right, trying to make eye contact while I try to avoid it. Across the table from me the bald, hunchbacked husband in a plain navy suit, staring moronically at his plate throughout the whole dinner. He's not the one calling the shots in that family, but my guess is he pays for everything. 

And last but not least, beside me, the doll faced daughter with her creamy white porcelain skin and puppet-like little feet in shimmering designer shoes. I hate her. Bursting with pride the mother goes on and on about her perfect daughter's perfect piano playing and her perfect ballet pirouettes. My dear mom - getting more and more drunk off of the ludicrously expensive Italian wine - smiles and adds nothing about her own failure of a daughter.

It's not that she's embarrassed, she just loves to give me a quick patronizing glance and let the following silence speak for itself.

So that's the dinner. As I try to find a suitable escape route I suddenly realize the dining room has no windows. The soothing sound of twittering birds comes from the stereo.

Sympathy for the daughter

Many of you wanted to know what happened next, in the dark corner of that garden alone with the boy with the soft hair. Well, he has a name and my number, time will tell where it leads me. I promise I'll get back to you on that matter when I'm not this lightheaded.

When I got home that morning around 7 a.m., mother was up waiting for me. She said she was worried but I know in reality she was just jealous. I could tell from the stains on the recent issue of the L.A. Times she had been crying, and her tears have never been meant for me. She only cries for herself and her lost youth, and in secret she wishes we could switch lives tomorrow. I think that's why she's been away from home so much lately, so she doesn't have to compete with me over who gets to attend the coolest parties and hang out with the beautiful people.

For me it's never been a competition. I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not even comfortable in that kind of setting, that being around the pretty and the popular only reminds me of the fact that I've always felt like a misfit.

Maybe I should.

Satellites and messages

Friday night was so weird. If I believed in any of that stuff I would ask who's the imaginative and playful author of my destiny, but I don't so nevermind that.

I met up with S. who always seems to know just where to go and who to hang out with. We ended up at a party in a very extravagant house somewhere off Mulholland, packed with antique Persian carpets and dark heavy velvet drapes. I don't know who owned it, but everywhere various types of celebrities were drowning their precious plastic noses in powdery white snow. I guess they had a reason to be there.

As the party continued out by the swimming pool someone took out a guitar and started playing. When eventually he got to Elton John's Tiny Dancer, a group of maybe 10 people were singing together, awaiting the sunrise.

Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

And all of a sudden, there he was again. The boy with the soft hair. He was standing alone in the dark on the other end of the garden, shining like the moon. I got up, walked up to him and said hello. Behind me I could here the group still singing.

Turning back she just laughs
the boulevard is not that bad

Out and about tonight

Whatever makes her happy, whatever makes it alright

I need to get out of this house if only for a couple of hours, so I'm soon on my way to meet up with S. She's a good friend, she doesn't always understand me but at least she's trying. When she asks me how I am it's not just a greeting phrase. She really wants to know and I love her for it.

The only thing that worries me is that this city is in fact not very different from my house and my home. In both cases, I'm afraid that if I touch something it will break because it's all made of plastic. I'm afraid that if I scratch the surface I'm only going to discover that there's nothing there, that everything is fake and fraud.

Sometimes I just wish I could see it for the first time once again, with innocent eyes and a clear mind.

I think it's our history, L.A., that makes me hate you.

You can't always get what you want

A lot of people have asked me about my blog title, is it really true?

Well, let's just say that I'm not mother's greatest accomplishment, not in her eyes anyway. I've always been considered as something that just happened. Not neccesarily as an accident, but not exactly a blessing either. It's almost as if I got in the way of something else, that instead of filling a void I created one by interfering with the best laid plans. I don't know what they were, mother has never told me a lot about her life, but I know what made her happy then, many years ago. She would never let me forget that.

And obviously, any psychologist with a decent degree would explain that our house is full of expensive art, furniture and electronic gadgets because mom is trying to fill that void with something concrete and tangible.

Me, I don't judge. I can only guess.

Good riddance

Mother has these subtle ways of waking me up at ungodly hours. Putting on some music, "accidentally" banging the vacuum cleaner against my door, or letting the phone ring just a little longer than necessary. It's her way of saying I should get up and do something - whatever - whether I have anything scheduled or not. And more than that, it's her way of saying I should make plans for my future and figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. She doesn't like to say it to my face, and knowing myself I probably wouldn't listen even if she did. So she tells me by sending elusive but evident signals, making me read between the lines in an all too assertive body of text.

It's not that I don't have plans. I do, and I literally think about them all the time. It's just that standing at the crossroads can be so immensely intimidating. If someone ever tells you that choosing paths means having the adventure of a lifetime ahead of you and that you should feel blessed for all the wonderful opportunities out there, they're lying. Leaving everything you know and love behind to enter the unknown is nothing but painful. So every now and then I try not to speak, move or even breathe in the hope that maybe nothing will change if I keep quiet and still in my little dollhouse bedroom.

It never works, of course. For all the time I try to hold my breath, all I can hear and think of is the clocks ticking away the hours, minutes and seconds of the present day.


Tick tock tick tock

Calm as can be

Sometimes - too often actually - I don't trust my own judgement. I can't get the boy with the soft hair out of my head (although I've tried, and wanted to), and I don't know why. Is it because I honestly want to see and get to know him, or just that I feel guilty about not having called him yet? After all, he was nice enough to accept me not giving him my number.

So what was I supposed to do?

I've already decided it's not a good time to meet someone, but on the other hand I'm a bit curious, and you can't let people wait forever. They will eventually grow tired of you and stop caring. So, I did the next best thing to calling, I sent him a text message. Being the ludicrously nervous and impatient person that I am I expected him to answer immediately. When he didn't I started counting the minutes that passed, reasoning over what he could be doing instead of reading and/or answering my message. Maybe he gave me the wrong number? Maybe he has a girlfriend?

Maybe he's dead?

One hour and seventeen minutes later I got an answer, so my silly mind starts working again. Does the time it took mean that A) he had better things to do during that time or B) that he wanted to get his revenge on me for having to wait for me to contact him?

Why am I so obsessive about these things? Sometimes I just want to be normal.

Whatever that is.

The trick is to keep breathing

Wake from your sleep
the drying of your tears
today we escape
we escape

I don't dream like I used to. When I was little I always had these wild and intense dreams, waking up to a few marvelous seconds of doupt about whether it was real or not. Good or bad, at least they were vivid emotions. These days I just wake up feeling empty, as if sleeping drained me of all meaning and purpose and I rarely remember dreaming at all. Then gradually everything comes back to me, but waking up is no longer the thrilling explosion it once was. I miss that.

Earlier today I bumped into the boy with the soft hair as I was in a hurry to meet S. More or less running away from him, turning back as if to say sorry, I heard him ask why I haven't yet called him. Before I even thought about it I answered "oh, I have so many offers".

Why did I do that?

Everyday is like Tuesday

How do you avoid Armageddon?

I've been dialing parts of that number over and over again today. First two digits, then four, then six. I'm not afraid of getting hurt, it's been a long time since my heart was that naked. No, I'm afraid of hurting someone else, someone who hasn't done anything to deserve it. I'm not a cold person, I just happen to be adequately armed in response to a cynical world. It's nothing personal, just self-defence.

Behold, I send you out as sheep amidst the wolves

Can you blame me? I don't know what else to do, this is how my experiences have shaped me.

Now I'm searching for a way past the obvious and the predestinated. A way to dial those last digits and calmly wait for an answer. The quiet storm has settled.

Within the sound of silence

Mother hasn't yet asked me about New Year's, I don't know if she ever plans to. Not many words have been uttered at lunches and dinners ever since I got back.

- Would you like some more, dear?
- (I've never been dear to you) No thanks.

Not that it matters, they would only create hollow echoes anyway, bouncing around designer chandeliers in the ceiling and expensive turn of the century paintings on the walls. Maybe they would end up in one of the rare pieces of art deco furniture so tastefully spread out around the dining room.

If money equaled happiness, my mother would be the luckiest person on the planet, but she's not. I know her too well not to see that stroke of sadness in her eyes as she smiles, trying the best she can to hide it. I refuse to carry the weight of this world on my shoulders, but I can't help but make it my own problem. I feel bad no matter how hard I try not to, so I keep quiet thinking that if I said something it would be the same as forgiving and forgetting everything she's ever done to me, and especially to my father.

I'm not ready to do that, not just yet, not like this.

But as always, I guess, there is still time.

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me

So, tell me how long
before the last one?
And tell me how long
before the right one?

I'm finally home again with aching feet and a bursting heart. My New Year's eve started at the house of one of those families that have portrait paintings of long gone relatives on their walls. It ended with me leaving all too visible traces of mascara on a stranger's pillow.

Around midnight I found myself sitting alone in a dark brown Chesterfield sofa when a boy came up and offered me a drink. He was tall and skinny with dark eyes, soft hair and a striped shirt. He talked to me in a way I've only been dreaming of for the longest time, but how can I possibly trust anyone in a city so full of fakes? I took his number but didn't give him mine.

Mother called a little bit later but I ignored her, I never know if she calls me when she's feeling guilty or when she's not. The boy asked me "aren't you going to answer that?" I told him a little bit about my mother, he was quiet for a few seconds and then said "be careful what you wish for".

Today, my clothes smell vaguely of gunpowder and Acqua di Giò. It's all starting over now.