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?

the star of every moment.

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.

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.

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

Pina Bausch: 1940-2009.

love

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.

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.

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

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.

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.