Friday, July 29, 2011

Empty spaces

The house is empty and silent, a handwritten note on the dining room table: I'm going to New York over the weekend, there's food in the fridge.

Luckily, there's also a large amount of alcohol in the liquor cabinet and a set of Chanel dresses from 1974 in the closet. It sounds and smells like a Friday night. If only S were here, we'd have pillow fights in our underwear (like girls do) and drink all our stupid problems away. Her being away is like a constant phantom pain in my amputated heart. I try to fill the void with other people but no one is as close to me as she is.

No one is as close.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

It's just a shot away

Today is Mick Jagger's birthday. Mother pretends like it doesn't matter but drinks an extra glass of wine when I'm not watching.

When my father first left New York and came to Los Angeles he brought his Rollings Stones albums and the clothes on his back. Nothing more. He found a city with the shiniest of surfaces where everything seemed so perfectly polished that there couldn't possibly be any room for sadness or grief.

He already knew that nothing ever is what it initially looks like, but it was still going to take some time before he realized that with LA it wasn't just a few scratches in the armor. The whole city was rotten down to its very foundation, and true ugliness can never be completely covered.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Sky high in the airwaves























Hernan hasn't been around for over a week. I know it gets to mother because she doesn't play her Beatles songs anymore, like she does when she's happy.

Sunday I wake up from a violent dream. From downstairs I hear Shostakovich's Nocturne playing on the stereo. I go down in my nightgown and see her crying, an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux on the Persian carpet. Do you love me, she asks as I sit down next to her on the sofa. Of course I say. I'm a terrible liar but I can't say I love you because I have to when she looks this frail, like a little bird or a butterfly. Her hand in mine like a cold porcelain doll's.

Outside a warm wind pushes through the garden carefully, as if it lacked momentum, as if something was missing. Our flowers are slowly withering.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Pandora's unopened box

Another change, another journey away from the status quo. This time it wasn't according to his plan, but one has to take chances too, right? New York had been everything he had dreamt of, but he couldn't shake that eerie uncertainty: what if...?

People had first come to California looking for gold, this was more or less the same thing. Falling in love like that is not something that just happens, it has to have a reason. He had never believed in fate or a deeper meaning to the things that happen in life, but this was in a way bigger and more profound than anything he had ever seen or felt.

He remembered something his mother had said when his family went through the toughest of times at home: you will never regret anything more than the chances you never took. Nothing will sting more than wondering what could have been if only...

Los Angeles laid open before him, like a clouded dream.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Terror in Silver Lake

With S. in Italy, I spend more of my evenings with mother. She's in her LC4 chaise lounge with a glass of rosé wine in her hand, moaning like a teenager. I looove this chair, Le Corbusier is just the best.

For a second I contemplate asking her about his Plan Voisin from the 1920s, where he wanted to tear down everything old in Paris and replace it with gigantic housing towers and scattered green areas, following a grand geometrical master plan developed in his theoretical writings. The dated and old fashioned city had to give way to the new, and the new meant more traffic and less space for people to move and live like human beings. It reminds me of downtown Los Angeles.

I glance at her, all cuddled up in her $3,000 chair with a childishly happy smile on her face. Le Corbusier was a terrorist I say before I realize she doesn't know he was a person and not a brand. She looks at me as if I was an alien and says well, Osama could never make a lounge chair like this one.

Friday, July 15, 2011

On a lighter note...

I would never claim to be a fashion blogger and I don't want to be one, but that doesn't mean I don't care about clothes. I do, and very much so, simply because... why wouldn't you? This world can use as much beauty as it can get, and if you don't care, how can you ever expect anyone else to?

With that being said, I've created a profile on Lookbook, just to be able to share some of the worldly things I find beautiful. The rest of me is in the words I write.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Changes






















I remember finding that journal for the very first time, I was twelve and another autumn had just begun. I sat on the floor in the library all through the quiet night, hypnotically reading. As I got to the part where he decided to leave New York and move to Los Angeles I cried as silently as I could so mother wouldn't hear. It was a painful reminder of what a good person he was, and what a poor choice he made.

Now, years later, I can also see how all those choices affect us throughout our entire lives. Nothing he ever got was what he really deserved, except maybe for a daughter that loved him more than anything. And I'll never know if he thought it was worth it.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

When I'm standing on my own

Some of you might wonder how I know all these things about my father's life from years before I was born, and the simple answer is I've puzzled it together. He told me much himself, but he also kept a journal and when we weren't together he would write me letters. I've forced myself to go through everything he ever wrote and saved, just to be certain I'll never forget anything.

And sure, I was just a child at the time but already then I knew there was something wrong with this world. With so much blatant hypocrisy, deceit and pure evil everywhere around me, and with him being the only bright light on a clouded night sky, why wouldn't I listen? Why wouldn't I remember? Why wouldn't I treasure every moment, every story, every piece of information that helped me understand him a little better?

When you've only known one truly honest and good man your entire life and he's suddenly taken away from you, what can you do? How do you move on?

I don't even try, I know it would only end in tears. It's just not worth it.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Tonight tonight

My darlings, please continue sending me your lovely e-mails, they are the hallucinatory drugs I run on for the moment. If only they were real letters so I could drown in them, what a glorious suicide it would be. Printing them on paper and getting ink stains on my light colored clothes just doesn't give that same romantic effect.

It's a glorious night by the way, so quiet and calm. I should only sleep when the sun is up.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Just like girls

This summer seems unusually hot, but maybe it's just my longing for rain that makes me forget. S and the boy she's into are here, she's once again refused to see him on her own and made me promise to go out with them later. His middle name is Henry, he dresses like a Backstreet Boy but has a sweet voice and sincere green eyes.

Mom's already out, we raid her closet for the perfect designer outfits. Henry is on the bed, helping us choose. Try that one instead he says, just to get another glimpse of us in our underwear. S giggles, I play along.

After deciding on combinations of Prada (shirt), Trussardi (jeans), Comme des Garçons (dress) and a splash of Chanel Nº 5, she and I take our Singapore Slings up to the roof. I pretend I need to smoke but it's a lie to get away. I never have to smoke.

How will I know if I love him, she asks. He will break your heart I say, so try not to. She looks sad and I immediately wish I could lie to her. Cynicism has a way of making you inexorably truthful.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

So close/so far away

He was never one who enjoyed talking much about himself. It was partly a result of his upbringing in a country where you were implicitly supposed to keep a low profile, but also a realization that actions speak louder than words.

Be that as it may, he still wanted to know more about this sparkling woman, so after telling her his life story (at least that's how it felt) he wanted to listen to hers. It had to be good, he thought, what he had seen and heard so far seemed close to perfect.

As they strolled past some of New York's most distinctive landmarks, she told him about her childhood, about her family that always wanted to escape from Russia but never managed. She had left on her own as a teenager and was now all alone in a strange country, just like him. And what was more important, she had left her home for a purpose, to go to the land of her dreams where her heart and mind had always longed to live.

Before they separated that first evening he suddenly realized he hadn't asked her where she lived. Was it close, could he visit her the very next day, maybe it was just a few blocks away?

He asked her.

Los Angeles, she said.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I'm only happy when it rains

I would be lying if I said I wasn't in some sense drawn to darkness. When someone tells me the songs I listen to make them sad I say "...and that's why I love them". I guess you could blame it on circumstance or heritage but I don't complain, and frankly, I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all. This is the only way of living I know, I've always found different kinds of beauty in the things that are hurtful.

You could say It's my way of surviving.

When the darkest of nights comes upon me I look to the many little stars that light up the sky. Right now there are 700 of you, one hundred for every deadly sin, and I love you all equally. Thank you so much for reading, and writing ♥

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Blessed states

4th of July, mother drags me out to celebrate my dependence on her, or maybe her independence from me, I'm not sure. She's not drunk but looks at the fireworks like a child, like they really meant something to her. They did to me too, once, but then I grew up and the world around me changed into something I had trouble understanding.

We used to go out, the three of us, hand in hand and just be quiet. The sky above us would explode and I remember feeling immensely liberated and hopeful. My father would squeeze my hand, so lightly it was barely noticeable, but it always meant that everything would be all right in the end.

And now it seems like a fairytale, slowly evaporating from my memory like the ideals we once held as sacred. Nothing makes me more afraid than the thought of forgetting, nothing more sad than seeing what has become of the dreams we once shared.



Sunday, July 3, 2011

Shine a light

Saturday night, just after a dinner for three in silence. I finally get tired of my misguided jealousy and call a dear friend I don't see as often as I should. He used to love me, I ask if he wants to pick me up with his car. Sure, he says, where do you want to go? It doesn't matter I say, just bring that CD.

He knows what I mean and shows up outside our house twenty minutes later. Can I sit in the back seat, I ask.

We drive for hours, past fields and forests that haven't yet burned down. I can smell the gasoline, just like I could years ago in another car, but this time I'm not afraid. I don't need his protection like I did back then when he was someone else, someone older. He looks at me through the rear view mirror, I turn away so he won't see me crying to the song we're playing over and over again.

I think you're the same as me
we see things they'll never see
you and I are gonna live forever

Saturday, July 2, 2011

The deadliest of sins

Who am I to need you when I'm down?






















Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is my confession, safely outside the walls of the condemnatory church, far away from the ears of the priests. I'm saying this to you, my dearly departed father, because I know how much you detested the sin of envy. Given where you came from I understand how you felt, and every time I find myself being jealous of someone I want to make it up to you by asking for your understanding and forgiveness. It's all that matters to me.

I'm looking at mother, seeing how she acts around Hernan, listening to how she speaks to him. What they have is not love, not even affection, but something cheap, sordid and soulless, and still I can't help but envying it, just a little. I guess it's the closeness, having someone to talk to and confide in, even though I know he's paid to listen. I should call it sad, but as I'm thinking of you it bothers me even more, because I've been feeling so very alone ever since the day you left me.

In nomine patris.

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