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.