Tuesday, July 31, 2012


I never thought so many would take an interest in my life, sending me so much love, guessing and speculating: who is Avy Stanford? A few hints, I'm not paid for by H&M (I hate them), I'm not Georgia Jagger in disguise and I'm not from Iowa.

I also don't believe in loving everyone equally, because not everyone deserves to be loved. The only fair way of judging others is by their character, so always know what it means when I say that I love you. For taking the time to read, for understanding and for caring enough to tell me what's on your mind. It means the world to me, you are all beautiful.

Now, tell me a secret.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Is this it?

"I didn't think you'd call" is the first thing he says, Henry, even before hello, but what he means is "I knew you would." It's there in his voice from the start, in every word, that natural confidence that makes me want him to come over through the thunderstorms and rip my clothes off like butterfly wings. I have to bite my lip to not tell him that.

And speaking of clothes. Having to sleep in just an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt in that nerdy boy's room was the pinnacle of embarrassment, fashion wise, until someone called me an American Apparel campaign. I've never been more insulted in my life.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Using you

When I go to bed late at night and everyone's already asleep, I feel like calling Henry. When I wake up to the sound of Chloe's early morning routine hours later (the shower, dancing around in transparent clothing, drinking a shot of something strong with her coffee) I don't. I think it has to do with the darkness and how it changes the way everything looks.

And still I can't get him out of my mind. It's not like with Carl, the image is so much more defined and the emotion stronger. It doesn't mean I care more for him, only that my body responds to his boyish charm like a shy little school girl. Chloe urges me to call him ("imagine taking advantage of someone as cute as him!") but there's someone else I have to talk to first.

How are you this summer, my dear ones?

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Fairytale of New York

I'd like to say that summer fills New York with tourists, but it's like this all year round. There's a constant whir of different languages in the air like mosquitoes and I love it. I read somewhere that a third of the people who live here were born abroad. So was my father, although he soon moved to California to be close to my mother.

I've said that I don't know why he killed himself but the truth is I do. He never told me so but I know he thought that if life isn't a fairy tale then what's the point? Sometimes on the edges of tall buildings I can feel it too, the difference is I dream of flying and not of falling. If I close my eyes and let the whirlwinds touch me it can all seem so very real, and that's when I have to open them again. I've never wanted anything other than to be alive in all this beauty, I just need to be reminded of that sometimes.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Though nothing will keep us together

At first it's just a peripheral vision, a sudden movement somewhere in the corner of my eye. Chloe walks behind me down a flight of stairs when it happens, she says something but the 60s mod music drowns her voice. She's in a floral vintage dress and wine fumes, the city smells of summer sun and melting asphalt.

We dance but only with each other, a hundred mustached hipsters undress us with their advertising minds. Bowie sings about heroes and that vision shifts my balance again. Familiar faces flash, I see Carl for a split second but it's not him, it's Henry, coming towards us through the crowds.

 "Call me" he says with his hand in my hair, the way he used to touch S. When he walks away he doesn't look anything like a Backstreet Boy and I see girls turning their heads to watch him go. This time Chloe just smiles and pulls me so close I can almost feel her heartbeats. A hundred drunken hipsters gasp for air.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Devil is in the details

It's on 6th that I bump into them, mother and Frank. I've spent the morning walking around in Midtown on my own, he asks me to join them for lunch and mother only objects with her uncomfortable body language. I pretend not to see it.

He's different, there's something about him and not just in the way he looks at me with that secret Gioconda smile. Mother's expensive male friends all wear black suits and plain shirts picked out by their wives, but not him. The cream colored Paul Smith jacket and Ferragamo loafers give him an air of individuality and self-awareness, and it suits him well.

We talk about communication and I suddenly hear myself asking mother what was in that letter. "Oh, nothing in particular" she says but the fraction of a second it takes for her to answer speaks volumes. Frank looks curious but doesn't ask, at least not while I'm there.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Horizontals, White over Darks

Some people have money but no class, some have class but no money and very few have both.

What surprises me the most about mother's expensive friends is not how they live (they don't have a view over Central Park from their apartments, they have several). It's how little they care. Tuesday's gathering over drinks and hors-d'Ĺ“uvres followed the same predictable pattern: me and Chloe squeezed in between millions of dollars, listening, leaving hours later without having said a word to anyone.

It's only when we're at home thinking back to the conversations that we realize why: they only talked about themselves. They have the means to do and see whatever they want but don't care about any of the things that make the world beautiful. The only true interest they have is their own reflection in the mirror, and that image is, as Chloe puts it, "as flat as a Rothko painting". What a waste.