Wednesday, September 30, 2009

on how to climb out your window.

fifty year old Macallen on the beach, under cloudless skies - mother sends out our driver Grigore to come and look for me.

drunken sex on the beach; nice and sloppy. trembling fingers searching for the goal, and three unsteady pair of eyes too young to know better. naked bodies under the moonlight; damp sand on my pale thighs. three hours left till Grigore finds my sore body.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

she's got the IV

The Ivy this morning, hangover breakfast. Catalena rubs my feet under the table while I finnish my risotto, the only thing worthy of putting in your mouth at this tragic place. some b-list celebrity has caught the attention of the other guests, but we're still too high on last nights escapistic adventures to even notice.

life is a dance, says Andrei for the seventh time since last night, and orders me another glass of Bellini.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

bird songs and tinnitus.

Irina & Bianca

two thin sisters in the pool. mother loves them while I'm the disappointment of the family.

synchronized swimming lessons early this morning - I observe from my balcony. an oppressive hangover thudding against my temples.

they're beautiful, and I'm thinking, maybe beauty never really was waisted on the young ones after all, but on the wrong ones instead.

Friday, September 25, 2009

chasing Picadilly.

mother's locked me into my room again. oak tree outside my open window, intruiging, as always on locked in Fridays. mother's beloved old Degas is gone and she wants to know where I've put it.

the air is buttery tonight. I'm lying across my bed with a bottle of Riesling - in love with hundreds of people and in love with life.

we'll return the painting within time
, says Catalena,
my greatest lover to date.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


pointless dinner party after dinner party this week; mother makes sure I smile politely as the baroness enters our dining room. half a night passes and father's still talking about the economy and about money being passed from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie; from the leopards to the hyenas.

and I figure that,
maybe I should begin documenting this unfortunate existence of mine.