no.

dear loved ones, I'm in Romania.
I miss Catalena. I miss my windows.
they cannot force this on me, I will do everything I can to get back.

.

I guess it's final then.

me to you.

what would I do if they send me back? how do you handle something like that?

nothing to leave behind, and everything

the tornado which is mother is blowing through our home. father's back from China. I've put on Chanel lipstick, their darkest shade of red, and mother's pearls.
my sister, the curious one, comes into my room but remains standing next to the door.

"They're thinking of sending you back to Romania for a while," she says, her eyes fixed on the floor. for the first time I notice she has a scar under her chin and for a second I think of everything we never shared with each other, of how we're really strangers living under the same roof. "You should really get it together," she continues, and then my sister does something she has never done before. she gives me a hug.

it's strange to feel her so close, her skin touching mine, her carefully brushed hair against my nose. her mouth smells like strawberry and as strange as it feels to say it, I kind of liked it.

once more.

dear readers,
I'm back home again.

I've been dragged out of the apartment, I've been thrown in the back of the Bentley, I've been put in my room with my beloved windows once more.



Sara, thank you for taking care of me these two weeks, I won't forget it.

sleepless.

nightmares tonight. can't go back to sleep. dreaming about Romania, 2001, before we moved to Hollywood.

that big old house with its 50 (so strange with even numbers) windows and 23 doors. "Life's too short to stay inside," said my beloved grandmother (the only one worthy of our family name). "Come on out and play with your sisters." but all I wanted was to wander the hallways, observing the world from the fabulous windows. a different scene in every window, a different story through each glass.

window no. 7; grandmother smiles her gracious smile as she tickles my sister (the thin one), but has collapsed on the damp grass from her final heart attack when I get to no. 24.

mirror land

this is Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia, one of the worlds biggest mirrors. have you ever been there? if so, tell me.


it's the remains of dried-up prehistoric lakes, the worlds largest salt flat. the reflective salt gives you the illusion you're walking on clouds. for the past two nights, this is all I've dreamt about. for the past two nights, this is all that has existed.




take me there,
where heaven meets earth.

about a room with a mattress.

love by Édouard-Henri Avril

my room here is rather small, completed with a tiny window. I can no longer observe the world from above in the mornings, with a cup of tea in my hand, as I usually do when I wait for Catalena and Andrei to wake up.

last night; Catalena's white breasts, Andrei's longing body. no lights except the moonlight. a nipple in my mouth, a hand up my thigh. kisses down my spine.

suddenly I hear Sara's voice and the lights are turned on. we're caught like the deer in the headlight for a second, before Andrei takes his tongue out of my belly to ask Sara if she'd join us.

"don't you fuck all day long in Sweden?" he continues but she's already gone.

free.

I'm currently living with Sara, in her new apartment. Swedish girls are beautiful.

mother's calling incessantly. and, to top it off, my teacher's called her, saying I haven't been in school for several days. I have no friends at school, they call me 'epilepsy girl.'

sorry for the short post, darlings. just thought I'd update you about where I'm currently living.

leaving the mad house.

that ysl dress if anyone remembers

tonight, party under the Hollywood sign. Sara's turning twenty, mother's turning red.
I was recently grounded.

it feels good to scream at mother. I haven't screamed in ages.
I will leave tonight.

I will leave,
and I will not come back.

chasing moments.

my hair's much longer now

the week's been uncoordinated; a jealous objection against the free birds. it has now been exactly eight days since I showered last.

just get into the shower, says mother bitterly as I wobble in through the front door, closing the night and life behind me. I've read your stories about the world over and over. I envy and adore you all and

tonight, I'll sleep.

could you?

I love you. I love to read your comments. to see that someone out there cares. this is new, scary in some ways. wonderful in others.

please tell me about places in the world you would like to visit. please tell me about exotic animals and plants far beyond America. please tell me about the oceans and what to expect, cuz I'm never allowed anywhere since I seizure so easily. could you tell me where you would wanna go, you, who represent the free people? could you tell me stories about the world,

could you?

beautiful day.

my sisters, learning synchronized swimming

my sisters, interesting creatures.

long legs, straight hair, thin waist (and with personalities as intruiging as cardboard).
sister nr.1 has got broad hips (to mother's despair). this is, if you ask me, by far her most interesting feature.

watching them from my window as I write this. they're learning how to play golf today, mother's hired a private instructor. "Straight arms!" he commands, but Bianca can't help but to look like spaghetti.


toplist of things mother's forced upon my cotton candy-brained sisters and which they have failed at:
1. synchronized swimming, sister no.2 looks more like drowning celery than anything remotely graceful.
2. piano, but they're still struggling with pieces I learned when I was nine.
3. golf, it's been 30 minutes but all they've done so far is to scar the lawn.
4. singing, don't know what that is but it sure isn't a tone.
5. french, 4 months in Nice and countless baguettes later they still couldn't carry a conversation with the maids (but Bianca's hips looked even bigger, if possible).

the world, it's yours

temple in Chiang Mai, Thailand

2010's only begun but still father's managed to travel and visit more cities than I've ever done during my 15 years here on the planet.

Baghdad
Bangkok

Lisbon
Copenhagen
Stockholm
Rio de Janeiro

since it pays for her newly imported coffee tables from Venice, mother's not complaining (does she even miss him?)

I know what he's doing though.
I would too, if I could.
it's not easy staying sane in this house, God knows I've failed.

somewhere else.

Catalena

Andrei's back from Europe. we're all gathered at his place. is everything forgotten?

Catalena just got out of the shower, in bed now. I hold her body tightly against my chest while Andrei digs his face into her small curls, inhaling unrestrainedly against her ear. he sighs then, a sigh of satisfaction, his lungs now full of life, as he withdraws himself from her.

and

I wonder if real life seems
inadequate

as he steps out of the world which is Catalena's hair and aroma.

ridge walking on top of the roof.

we had just moved to the states from Romania. I was eight and a dreamer. Hollywood and its shallow people appeared strange and lonely.

I had decided that I too wanted to fly, like the free birds I observed from my windows. I grabbed an umbrella, mother's beloved vintage Dior, and, I jumped out my window, three stories above ground. two seconds of free falling.
don't know what was more broken, me or the umbrella.

got away with two broken legs and a bruised face though (worth it).
after the cass was on, I kept telling mother I would be fine, promising I would never ever jump out my window again. but mother cried that whole week, telling stories about how Christian Dior himself had owned that very umbrella.

chasing.

I can't even trust my mind anymore. we were at the Ivy that morning, having risotto and Bellini, the usual. and as I walk home alone, I bump into .. or did I? I want to say Nick Jonas. I want to say he had golf clubs with him and wearing .. something blue. is he even in LA now? am I imagining things?

but who cares really, celebrities are people forgetting moments, chasing static emptiness.

I am yours and you shall take me with you.

aren't whales the most extraordinary creatures on earth? their size, shape, their effortless but yet dominating presence. demanding your attention, they remind me of someone.


Iceland, take me to Iceland. take me to the cold water. put me on a boat, put the binoculars in my hands. let me see something else than this typical Hollywood weather. something else than the tans, than the celebrities (you have no idea who bumped into me the other day).

guess who's back from Europe?

Andrei.

but he's changed. perhaps he left a part of him in Norway, or Barcelona.

thank you.

I want to thank you all for your concerns. I read your comments, I read your blogs - it means a lot. when an ordinary day for me carries few kind words, it truly means a lot. you have no idea.

as it turns out, Miri was the one who called the ambulance.

Miri, sweet Miri.
there's something about Miri.

the way she walks.
her profound poise.
her captivating manners.

or maybe just the way she tilts her head when she knows you're lying to her.



she wrote a post about Avy's party and my accident, you can read it here.

death wish (so called)

mother's mad. yelling. the maids observe pryingly from the kitchen. you have to begin taking care of yourself, she says, one hand on the hip. you want to die? you have a death wish? is that what this is?

this is anything but a death wish. if anything, it's an attempt to live. to live.

I've written four songs tonight. about poor people (about healthy people - happy people). all this money and nothin to spend it on.

someone said they liked my song Ghosts on my myspace. thank you, whoever you are, dear anonymous. hope you're well. hope you're happy. and with that, far more wealthy than I'll ever be.

on how to wet yourself.

Avy's party was wrong, right, unusual (everything in between).

my insomnia finally took its toll on me, trigging my mind.

dear epilepsy, I love you, I hate you. but more importantly, after two and a half years, I still don't know you.

collapsed in the corner. shaking is even more (if possible) distressing when your head keeps hitting the baseboard and socket. just got home from the hospital. not until an hour ago did I notice my white Derek Lam has a deranged yellow shade to it. haven't washed it since the party. I wet myself. can't control my bladder during seizures.

I was discovered, after 56 minutes of lying in my own fluids, and someone (who?) called the ambulance.
sorry about your carpet, Avy.

on how to climb out your window, -chapter 2

tonight - party over at Avy's house (still haven't slept). not a chance, -you're resting tonight, says mother with a glass of Madeira in her hand. besides, you're only fifteen, says sister no. 2, the thin one. when I was your age, all I'd do was to read books. but still she can't tell Daudet and Proust apart.

wearing Derek Lam, the white dress. see below.

gotta go, the evening's arrived.
I'll exit through my window. three stories - 29 feet.


mother, I borrowed your lipstick

the baobab

if you believe the Arabic legend, the baobab tree was planted up-side-down by the devil himself (so it could no longer complain). from afar, it appears its branches are more likely to be roots.
it's magnificent.
some of them over 6000 years old. try to imagine what they've seen, try. they know it all.


haven't slept in 23 hours. insomnia, not good for my epilepsy. keep watching people walking by below my window. they appear free as they laugh, walk, lick the ice cream off their lower lip. unaware of how fortunate they are to not have to observe it all from a window instead. like an old woman in front of the TV, wistfully watching days of our lives.

the baobab tree, you'll find it in Africa. 18 hours with airplane. first class. -and countless ways to seizure before even landing. guess I'll just google it instead.

climax.

Catalena says there is no meaning of life, and that the Christians should get over this heaven versus hell-thing (non-typical aristocratic behaviour).

"Don't wait for heaven when heaven can come to you," she mumbles against my stomach, slowly moving further down.
I dig my fingers into her vibrant hair.

and then, climax.

hypnotica

oh, gus.

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

Catalena

tears and bacardi (my tears, -Catalena's bacardi). adolescent hearts and low dopamine levels. tonight I fall apart in Catalena's arms.
Andrei's still in Europe. if he returns, I'll be anything he'd want me to be.

"My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder." Catalena sings along with Jeff Buckley as she holds my shaking body.

r-evolution

no sleep last night - sat up with Catalena instead. watched her fill her blood vessels with Vintage Port until morning came and she collapsed in front of me on her parent's Persian carpet.

talked about climbing Nilkantha and observe the Alaknanda River from above. oh, what a dream. I've never been in India. I've never really been anywhere but here in Hollywood, and Romania of course. guess that's the humble entrapment of epilepsy.

dear

clarifying: of my seven windows, this one's my favorite

when Andrei looked at me for the first time, I went deaf. all I could grasp was his image; his prominent jawline, those broken eyes. his lips held a strange shade of purple, as if he was constantly bruised, and his dark curls didn't seem to obey anything, the very least gravity (didn't know I was bisexual until I met him).

he spent that whole day teaching me some of Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 3 (B minor) on the piano. as I played, he leaned his chin against my right shoulder. to test my concentration, I thought at the time, but I would later find out that Andrei was a hopeless dreamer, and a slave to every lust and, not to mention, the fragrances of women. dreaming pornografic dreams about him, now that he's in Europe. he's touching them (older women in Barcelona perhaps, or younger ones in Berlin) digging his face into their necks. he always preferred Chanel No. 5.

wherever you are

for you, Andrei. bring some of Paris, Amsterdam and Vienna home with you, if you decide to return.

frustration.

I was never the emotional type of girl, more of the don't-care-but-wishes-she-did type of girl. I think it has to do with my austere upbringing. "Aurora - straight back," said my mother stiffly through the usual dinner silence (it was when I was invited to have dinner with Catalena's family at the age of ten that I discovered other families were different). we weren't raised to show emotions, me and my sisters, none of us were.

Catalena never complained. Andrei, however, says I'm emotionally challenged. says he can't stand being around me anymore. that I'm cold, -too depressing to be around. he's left for Europe. don't know when he'll be back. am I really that cold? am I really that depressing?

three fingers.

her kisses are so hot that nothing can drag me out of bed when she's in it with me. bite marks down my left thigh. Andrei watches apathetically from the corner, lately he's completely lost interest in us. will he leave this dysfunctional relationship of ours? has three at last become one too many?