Wednesday, November 28, 2012

An Advent calendar

This blog is growing so ridiculously fast, I don't know where all this interest in my life comes from but I guess I'm grateful. I guess it means you understand.

Some of you have been here from the beginning, others just started reading. Those of you that did may not understand everything I write about, so I thought I'd do something for you.

When I was little, my father would tell me stories, one new each night in December as a countdown to Christmas. He would sit on my bed and tell me stories that sounded like fairytales but really were his way of letting me know who he was.

So, for each new day leading up to Christmas I will share a quote, something someone once told me that meant something to me and that says something about who I am. Some of them you've already heard, others not, and maybe they'll only make it all even more confusing but at least then you'll know I tried.






Saturday, November 24, 2012

Primavera

Chloe comes home after work on Friday, kicks off her Vera Wang leather boots and collapses theatrically on the kitchen floor. "I think I've made one of the ad men fall in love with me" she sighs. "What did you do this time" I ask but I know it usually doesn't take much. Her Botticellian body in a little black dress is enough for most men.

Whenever someone says they love me I know they're lying. What it means is they love the idea of being in love, it's a form of self-deceit with two potential victims. I haven't said those words to anyone, and I've only really felt it once. He deserves to hear it but now we're a wasteland apart and I'm slowly starting to forget what he looks like.

Tonight we're chaperoning, mother invited Frank for dinner and ordered us to stay home. She's been dancing around the apartment in her purple Alexander McQueen velvet flats since early this morning, the floors smell of lemon and she almost seems happy. That always worries me.







Wednesday, November 21, 2012

War and Peace

Mother - being the self-obsessed full grown child in Italian couture that she is - has a ridiculously short attention span, our little battles never last more than a few hours. Of course there is always the cold war raging in the background, and she fights it really well. Being of Russian descent, I guess she knows a thing or two about low intensity warfare.

On Monday I got this pretty illustration from Ivette at Little moon lover. She also did this one to illustrate this post. I love both of them, and they're not that far from the unvarnished truth.






































Sunday, November 18, 2012

I confess


Waiting for mother to return from one of her unscheduled journeys back to LA is like being in a constant low-frequency Hitchcock moment. She never calls from the airport or from the cab, she just shows up, her keys in the lock like a sudden lightning bolt and there she is, always hiding behind those oversized Balenciaga sunglasses.

She checks the three or so weeks of mail as if she's waiting for something important. What she doesn't know is I've already gone through everything that looks interesting, opening, reading and resealing every letter with the address hand-written on the envelope (nothing found this time).

She proceeds into the living room, still in her high heels and fur overcoat, and discovers that her precious Calvados bottle is opened and emptied. "You know I got that from Elvis!" she shouts (she means Costello). I do know, it's one her favorite stories but it must have slipped my mind. To her it's an act of war. This is going to be a fun Sunday.









Thursday, November 15, 2012

All the things we never said

I never asked Henry about that girl, the one I saw him with. They were standing close under the street lights in Central Park, she wore a blood red velvet jacket and she kissed him. I kept quiet, just as I did with Carl when I saw him through the haze for the first time since that awful night.

I'll never forget the way he looked at me then, the way it seemed as if everything and everyone in that room dissolved along with the smoke and left us alone with each other. I wanted to ask him, I wanted to tell him how I felt and I know that I should have but I didn't.

I don't remember what he said, just that he held my hand in his and that it felt like falling. I leaned against his shoulder and I wanted to tell Belle all about how he forgave me because once she told me that he never would.











Monday, November 12, 2012

A different haze

How was your weekend? Mine was like a poorly scripted, slightly darker than usual, Dawson's Creek episode. Minus the pompous dialog.

Saturday, Chloe invites me to a party in Brooklyn, we take a cab to one of her ad agency colleague's apartment. "Oh, and by the way", she says as we get out in the dark, "he still has no electricity after the storm".

It's after an hour or so that I see him across the large living room, Henry, this time through the smoke from our breaths and the hundred candle lights*. He drags me closer without talking, he looks at me and only me and I can't tell if he's smiling. I sit down next to him in the sofa, we don't say anything and the smell from another moment like this years earlier almost paralyzes me. Maybe it's just the cold.

"Are you happy", he asks, the first thing he says after what feels like hours.

"No", I say.

"Good, only ignorant people are truly happy. The rest are just faking it".

Someone sitting next to us starts laughing nervously. Henry grabs my hand under the blanket, we both know it wasn't supposed to be a joke.
























*Today's ad men don't smoke and they can't tell whiskey from brandy



Friday, November 9, 2012

No we can't

They say a new storm is coming but that's not why the streets here seem so empty. There are always people around, there's always traffic and noise but I'm afraid that if I scream all I'll hear is the echo of my own voice bouncing off the cold glass facades along Broadway. Instead I keep quiet just because it's... no, let me start over.

I don't do this to get validated. I've never cared about what people think, I just need to know I'm not alone. On election night I passed by Times Square and the tension in the air, the excitement and the anger and it frightened me because I felt nothing at all. Which pathological liar and hypocrite gets to tell me what to do for the next four years?

They care, the masses gathering to see their votes projected in neon colors on the Empire State Building, as if it really mattered and maybe it really does. I listened to their heartbeats and felt their hands creeping up under my clothes, so close until I almost couldn't breathe.

I went home and turned off the lights, closed the windows and my bedroom door, as I'm sitting here now, writing in the dark. It's 2 a.m, I'm browsing through your comments and emails and all the sweet things you've said to me. You compliment me on the way I write and every time you do my heart skips a beat, but it stops entirely when someone tells me I understand.

Ever since my father died I've been lost somewhere in a storm, alone in the dark, unable to make sense of the world around me. That's why I'm doing this, to at least try. Every word I post here is a piece of that puzzle I'm trying to solve, as hopeless as it sometimes seems. Like taking drugs to get over an alcohol addiction.

And when you tell me that the way I think somehow makes sense, when you tell me I'm not alone in this, I know it wasn't for nothing.

(Thank you)






Sunday, November 4, 2012

Waterfall

Passing through Central Park at dusk to the sinister sound of a hundred birds (that dream again). The first thing I recognize is his graphite Alexander McQueen skull scarf, he bought it because I told him it matched his overcoat. I've never seen the girl, her slender legs look perfect in black tights and 4 inch heels. He holds her hand, she kisses him softly on the right cheek.

Chloe sees it too. "Come" she says and grabs me by the arm. We were going somewhere but everything changes and she knows there's nothing to say. We end up on my bed with a bottle of Calvados, mother's shot glasses and a chessboard. She lets me win and we talk about Marilyn.

In the morning the birds sound different, I remember him calling me but it was just a dream. The letter I wrote to him still lies under a book in my night stand drawer and for the first time I actually consider posting it.







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