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.

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.

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.

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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