Friday, April 22, 2011

Sad songs say so much

Friday begins, mom's having some of her most obnoxious friends over for Easter. I'm in my room, desperately trying to get drunk off overly expensive eggnog while they're downstairs giving CPR to the early 70s. The smell of pot and Sangria intoxicates my whole system, tomorrow I have to break out of this cocoon, this sarcophagus over times well spent, then frozen and eventually lost. Even Chernobyl must be a better place than this, 25 years on, at least a more quiet one apart from the mutated birds singing for the dead.

I imagine spring flowers withering in the radioactive Ukrainian air, slowly languishing while nobody's watching. And I think of mother and her friends, fading in the very same way, except they always have an audience. The only question is: do they dare look at themselves in the mirror and face the aparent decay of their once so pretty and youthful features?

Judging by the way they're drinking, I guess not.


  1. Thanks for posting a comment to my blog! I agree with you, being famous and rich isn't everything...

    You're a really good writer, I can just imagine what you are saying.

    With love, Kirsten

  2. I like the part about "giving CPR to the 70's". Such a good line!

  3. Hmm that 'giving CPR to the 70's' does it for me as well. That said, will we be giving CPR to our youthful folly when we reach that age?
    I daresay I am in some ways.
    Great observational prowess you have...

  4. Great post, I adore your writing. xoxo

  5. You have a nuclear holocaust inside of you.

    Breathe. Go out in the open.

    Will help more than that eggnog.

  6. beautiful words yet a depressing scene. hope you survived dear. bisous, aurélie