jour de tristesse

still at the hospital. they've said I'll be released tonight. woke up this morning with a body full of drugs, my head's bandaged; my lips blue. mother hasn't left my bed since we got here; father's still in Berlin. no calls.
there are bite marks on your thighs, the nurse said slowly, eyeing me carefully. mother looks away, ashamed.

hospital blues.

dress, Givenchy. window, Catalena's

standing in front of the class, supposed to hold a speech about World War II. images of loose body parts flash before my eyes; images of a war my grandfather told me so much about.
I know it all; how he'd piss all over Jewish corpses; how he'd shoot them right between the eyes.

suddenly an Arado bomber plane flies across the troubled skies outside our classroom windows and below it Hitler has gathered his cold army - they salute him. years later they'll swear never to do it again, but have no idea history will always come to repeat itself.
the Arado crashes on the school yard. I realize it's just a car backfiring, but it's too late; I'm already shaking. the epilepsy's back. I'm on the floor, head on the threshold with blood creating a morbid halo. I'm shaking. twenty-nine pair of young eyes watch me carefully. they've paid for a freak show and they'll expect to see the star.

summertime and the livin is easy

Tunic, Hermès

the maids have opened all sixty-seven windows of our house in order to get rid of the dusty smell mother detected the other day. beating the persian carpets and polishing the antique wase in the dining room.
the count's coming to visit, all the way from Bucharest. not even grandfather would get this much attention.

Andrei and I hide in the basement. he snaps my picture as I sing summertime to him.

no time but time

by Traci L. Matlock

lying in bed, below my windows.

memories from a long gone Romania, flickering like candles before my eyes; suddenly I'm five years old and falling down grandfather's three story Victorian house all over again. I'd thought I could fly -I still do sometimes. nineteen stitches after landing on the garden rake; the gardener was fired the next day.

scar tissues as thick as the glass my windows consist of; Catalena's sweet lips taste them as the short hand of the clock reaches its end. it looks fatigued as I glance at it through the moonlight. -will it ever get to rest?

Bird Brigade

my music: http://www.myspace.com/birdbrigade

bad quality. recorded in Andrei's basement. two songs; one about war and another about that one movie that got so famous. I mumble a lot, -sorry about that.

seizures

dear readers,

I'm sorry for being such a terrible blogger. Andrei is currently seated in front of me, listening to a song I wrote about the soldiers in Iraq. I've created a myspace -will share it with you as soon as my body's calmed down. this epilepsy is taking its toll on me.

last nite

in the fog of the banned liquids.

ditching classes

the blue dressed students of my school are... whatdoyousay howdoyousayit - empty.
the school uniform itch. Grigore drives me to Andrei instead and I give him the afternoon off to not tell my mother.

education is not for us, we decide when we realize that after all of this schooling, the world's still unlearned.

like Dean Martin that one time.

no more heroin for me. you can call me a lot of things; attention whore, spoiled brat, sex addict, cry baby, failure etc etc, but I am not a junkie. I refuse to be a junkie.

it's Sunday and time evaporates quickly through the pores of my skin.

I miss you, mother says, after sitting by my shaking body for two hours without saying a word. I want you back.

it's a disturbing sight when she gazes out in the thin air like she does sometimes, her grey eyes getting stuck on something only she can see. maybe the lost rhythms of life, if she could ever see them, but as I dig my face into my pillow, I realize that I miss my mother.

you grew old so fast, she says. outside my windows the birds play. they're careless; free. detached from time.

and so did you, I answer.

the bad daughter

today; lying by my window, listening to Sigur Rós with uneven heartbeats. collapsed outside Hyde last night - too much Martini in an empty body. got carried home by our driver.

mother's mad today. and now they've finally decided, once and for all,

I'll be shipped off to boarding school next semester.

they're finally getting rid of the black sheep of this tragic family.

yet another dinner party

this evening: aristocracy filling the first floor like hair clogging the sewer.

running away. a bottle of Amarone in my hand. escaping reality.

entering our living room again eight hours later, coming home just in time for tea. I face the stiff party with blank eyes. too drunk to stand straight. my ysl dress ripped in awkward places.

I love you, father! I shout as mother drags me upstairs. We have to leave!

we have to get out of this mad house.

fab.

Catalena and Andrei are here now and we're doing it on mother's antique couch.

October - don't be sad, everything's forgiven.

bloody sunday

sorry for the crappy update, people. this week's been excruciating.

as it turns out, both my sisters are mentioned in the baroness' will.
however, I'm not.