A Window Apart

no.

2010-04-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

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.

.

2010-04-01T10:53:00.001-07:00

I guess it's final then.

me to you.

2010-03-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

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

nothing to leave behind, and everything

2010-03-25T09:21:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-03-22T12:30:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-03-16T04:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-14T15:44:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-11T07:56:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-03-08T12:32:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-03-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-03-05T02:48:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-03-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-27T14:17:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-25T10:08:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-23T14:45:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-21T13:03:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-18T06:12:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-16T12:48:00.001-08:00

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?

2010-02-14T11:47:00.001-08:00

Andrei.

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

thank you.

2010-02-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-02-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-08T10:14:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-06T20:44:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-05T22:46:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-04T04:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T11:55:00.000-08:00

oh, gus.

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

2010-01-30T06:21:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-27T07:21:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-23T08:02:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T05:13:00.000-08:00

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

frustration.

2010-01-09T00:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-03T04:22:00.000-08:00

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?

the star of every moment.

2009-12-26T11:45:00.000-08:00

Andrei e-mailed another photograph of me from that day the count came to visit us.

Andrei's in love with his camera. says he's gonna be the new Steven Meisel. says I'm to be his muse. says he's gonna show the world true beauty.

"Aurora, you're the star of every moment," he purrs against my skin with the camera two inches from my chest, making his best Andy Warhol imitation.

trapped once more.

2009-12-23T12:35:00.000-08:00

the Rovanows are downstairs with the rest of my family, drinking tea in the Giuseppe sofas my mother had imported from Venice last week. mother envies the Rovanows' perfect and well-polished daughters. they've been playing Chopin the whole morning and now mother keeps sending the maid to come and get me, insisting on that I play La Campanella. "Miss, they are all waiting for you," says the maid with a broken English behind my locked door. "Your mother wants you downstairs immediately."

She knows I can't play with an audience. She knows - still she keeps sending the maid to come and get me. "All those piano lessons, Aurora, all those expensive piano lessons - and for what?" she said the last time the Rovanows came over for lunch.

"You should be grateful - do you even realize how much you have?" says my mother, the materialist, but she keeps forgetting that all I ever wanted was to learn how to play the guitar, and that she kept refusing, saying that the guitar certainly wasn't something nice and well-behaved girls wasted their time on.

Merry Christmas everyone
Aurora

drops.

2009-12-22T00:07:00.000-08:00

we're currently at Catalena's place, playing under water.

2009-12-14T23:31:00.000-08:00

Pina Bausch: 1940-2009.

love

2009-12-12T12:27:00.000-08:00

listening to Sigur Rós this morning. this'll be a great day. we'll drink plum wine and take baths together.

on how to stare at your plate.

2009-12-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

blouse, Hermès. rose, from mother's garden.

pointless dinner party after dinner party.

child, you're strange, whispers the baroness's eyes across the dinner table, but I'd rather be strange than forever ordinary.
the evening progresses; I sit immobile as my sisters charm the rest of our guests.

at the Roosevelt.

2009-12-07T13:41:00.000-08:00

do you see the sun, Andrei?
invitation after invitation on Facebook (add me darlings), but I hate clubs. bodies filled with alcohol; minds as empty as the shot glasses in front of them. thinking they understand life (still no one noticed the lost boy in the corner). we're at the Roosevelt and Hollywood never smelled more sour. money being tossed like the gravel found in your shoe.

the clock is coming to its end. Andrei takes my hand, leads me towards the back door.
we exit gracefully, forever trapped in a hiphop world.

nothing

2009-12-05T06:36:00.001-08:00

I'm not sure what you mean when you ask me if I'm a writer. I don't even know what a writer is.

father's back from Berlin. sister no. 2, the thin one, telling stories about her magnificent life while I watch quiet, my head bandaged. she'll be attending Yale next year. mother's proud; father's happy everything's going so well in our family.

it's good to be back.

2009-12-01T13:46:00.001-08:00

Catalena's refined body on early December mornings. she stands for freedom, elegance, and money. undressing slowly to Bird York; daunting the world with her beauty; coloring my room with her symmetry.

supposed to take over her family's business (an only child due to sudden sterility). romanian aristocracy in its most austere form; they never bothered to get to know her.

jour de tristesse

2009-11-29T09:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-27T08:05:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-23T13:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-18T23:18:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-16T13:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-14T03:19:00.001-08:00

in the fog of the banned liquids.

ditching classes

2009-11-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T08:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T01:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-01T17:28:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T10:57:00.001-08:00

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.

mad house

2009-10-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

the night's still young. my body longs for Andrei and Catalena, and zron cigarettes and plum wine. I have to leave tonight,

I keep slipping in this mad house.

and the winner is

2009-10-26T08:40:00.000-07:00

sister's calling. it's time.
the dark car of the baroness has arrived and this time, she's brought her will.

mother's excited but father knows better.

life.

2009-10-24T08:17:00.000-07:00

-it's peeing all over my exit.

lords of beast town.

2009-10-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

last night, - marking Hollywood. go to Sunset Blvd to see 4 yourselves.

holding Catalena's latest ysl heels as she colors the ground; she quotes me in one of my saddest songs.

"Don't waiste your best words," it says in bold pink.

flushing snow down the toilet.

2009-10-21T12:47:00.000-07:00

our house is storming. maids running around. frenetical. calling.

calling, "Aurora! Aurora!"

calling, "Your mother wants you downstairs immediately!"

calling, "Show yourself, child!"

what now? what this time? they're thinking as I climb out my window and into the day.

illusions.

2009-10-20T12:50:00.000-07:00

sweaty sheets, unlocked doors; mother walks in on us as we're sprawled out awkwardly on my bed, naked and satisfied, staring at the ceiling.

mother's pale; looks at me like she did that time she discovered the widowbird tattoo between my legs (I was twelve at the time and shaped like and ironing board).

mother walks out stiffly - no words. maybe she's run out of words by now? she looks disgusted.

the veins on your thighs

2009-10-18T09:03:00.000-07:00

I love your body, Catalena.
make love to me, -you make up for a trapped life.

how we end.

2009-10-15T12:21:00.000-07:00

currently in Bucharest; stone-faced grandfather has gathered the whole family at his 200 acre estate. the last time he did this was to explain cousin Augustin's mysterious death, but even back then they couldn't convince me it wasn't suicide; cousin Augustin had always found life dull, like every other spoiled aristocrat with too much time on his hands.

remembering the funeral now (mother dressed in Chanel. dark blue - not black).

Augustin in his coffin; the hint of a smile on his pale lips. his face appears soothed - finally at peace.

press pause.

2009-10-11T14:04:00.000-07:00

today: a dull Hollywood outside my windows, waiting, mocking. the limo has pulled up the driveway.

I observe the world for a while.

myspace?

2009-10-10T14:12:00.000-07:00

last night resulted in three full songs and one unfinished. my ugly voice echoing in my ears.
rhyming "claws" with "jaws" - "mother" with "bother". will get a Myspace account as soon as I've showed them to Andrei, he always cared about my music.

dotted with goose bumps.

2009-10-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

today: bathing with Andrei and Catalena.
two bottles of Amarone and 33 cigarette-ends on the bathroom floor later I realize that there's not much more to the world than these two.

he soaps her breasts - they're dotted with goose bumps.
I snap a picture.

and I believed him.

2009-10-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

my first year here in Hollywood:

eight years old, trying to run away back to Romania. away. away from stiff families - away from a house full of maids.
but our driver finds my tiny body wandering on Sunset Blvd the next day and brings me back home.
my sisters looked pale; mother got another wrinkle ; only the maids cried.

give it some time, kiddo, said my father. you'll love it here.

Hollywood, -tonight

2009-10-06T13:09:00.000-07:00

the Frog wants me to sing with them, ignoring my stage fright.

they'll be @ Overground tonight, second floor.
don't bother coming if you don't know the password.

that hour before morning turns into day.

2009-10-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

waking up entangled in each others bodies. floating around in oceans of white sheets and bright morning sunshine. my lips are sore. the world consists of two things:

Catalena's white breasts,
Andrei's hard body,

"Now," she commands, her neck still colored with last night's kisses.

early.

2009-10-03T04:10:00.000-07:00

our house, made out of bricks and common ivy.

spending nights on my window sill. I could fall.
three stories - 29 feet.
landing outside sister's window with a shattered skull, an easy scare.

stage fright

2009-10-01T22:25:00.001-07:00

daytime is the worst time. I spend my nights writing songs about our house back in Romania, the one with 31 windows and the well which kept me occupied during a childhood without friends.

maybe I should get a myspace-account and put up some songs, I'm not sure.

on how to climb out your window.

2009-09-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

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.

she's got the IV

2009-09-29T14:53:00.000-07:00

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.

bird songs and tinnitus.

2009-09-27T09:37:00.001-07:00

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.

chasing Picadilly.

2009-09-25T23:16:00.001-07:00

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.

first.

2009-09-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

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.