Happy holidays

Happy holidays lovers. Christmas eve in France.


Empty bottles of champagne. Old wooden floors punctuated by high heels throughout Christmas dances. When I was little I used to hide behind the two large glass doors that made the entrance to the parlour. There I could admire the wonderful skirts that twirled around the room to the rhythms of old jazz. The men were tall and handsome. The women beautiful with pale skin and blood red lips. Their diamonds made reflections of the sun on the walls, through the lights from thousands of candles. This Christmas was filled of that old jazz and dad poured whiskey from the old crystal carafe I love so much. He served endless amounts of macrons and sang to me with closed eyes. I dried empty three bottles of champagne myself and hummed all night.


When the party had died, all the presents had been unwrapped and all the guests were either in their guest beds or long gone home, I took the last bottle and emptied the tray with macrons. Danced to myself while humming. Then I fell asleep on the floor and dreamt about the Parisian sky and C and the sunrise and him and more champagne. It was quite a silent holy day. To be honest.

the beginning of everything else

I spent months in Paris. Drank red wine in the morning, drank even more in the afternoon. C taught me how to make french pastries and so that was what we did. For hours we then sat on the roof, sipping red wine while we ate it all up. On Sundays we traded the red for bubbles and gave the sweets away to the neighbours boy. It was comfortable, life weren't too hard at that time.. 

Then at some point we got restless, needed more. We left the apartment and started wandering the streets. We found secret after parties, slept in public places, made love at a club and discovered where to go when nothing else welcomes you. At this time, there were only two of us left. He'd gone back home, had some things to take care of. He told me to keep on living my summer dream and hold onto it as long as it lasted. Then come back home. Well, that was harder than I thought it'd be..

would you still have me, darlings?

It was all black. For another thousands of years, it would continue to be black..

That was the feeling I had when the summer ended, and it was still there when the autumn started. And now, when winter's here, I suddenly feel like the cotton swimming around in my head are starting to drop out. Letters are starting to put words together, thoughts come easier and tend to stay for a whole second. I've been woken up again, I'm here again, and oh how I missed you all. 

Love,

A

and I was the neediest bitch in the room

So we flew away. And he fed me take out on the floor, stroke my hair and held my hand. The three of us took over the nights in Paris, listening to Louise Attaque all night long while emptying endless bottles of wine. We smoked cigarettes, forgot that we ever had voices and joined in a silent humming. Life was good and I felt safe. Yet I couldn't write it down, I couldn't say it out loud - I was stuck in a fantasy and we all know that those tend to slip away as soon as we make them public. I was happy as ever, still something was missing..


I stopped eating, had an exclusive relation with cigarettes and wine. Started again after too many disappointed looks from him. There were never any arguments, just the looks in his eyes and the times he turned away and disappeared into the night "to think".. I messed up and was minutes away from loosing it all. So I picked myself up from the street, with the help of my two big loves, my lovers in silk. And together we played the charade of life, still trying to figure out the lines, but it is always less hard when three sharing..

just what I needed

I told him I had to get away, get out. I said it in pain, after a bottle of wine, didn't think that he listened. Yet, when the weekend came I found my bags, packed, next to the door. He carried them out to the car, with a mysterious smile. He put a scarf in my hair, and we drew to the airport, cab down. He knows what a sucker I am for cliches. 


After a few hours.. we celebrated with bubbly wine so I lost track of time.. I found myself standing outside Cs door in Paris. She opened the door, took me in her arms and kissed me on the cheeks. Then she kissed my other love and showed him around in the apartment. It was the first time he had come to Paris with me, it was the first time they had ever met. Yet, somehow, it felt like we had always been there. Like the three of us, always lived together in Paris and that there were never a sea disconnecting us from each other...

Tuesday is fun day

Darlings. The sky turned grey and screamed out my name today. The apartment shivered and I searched for my cigarettes, they were nowhere to be found. Empty bottles in a line, all the way down the hallway to the bathroom. Empty bottles, dried out. No more soul, no more fun. Now is the time where we rest in each others arms. We get naked and expose our hearts during blurry nights à la woodstock, at least that's what they told me I did. Do we trust them? Can we? Love is all around and mother is keeping watch. I miss C and everything is upside down. Should I stay or should I go?

balcony blues

I missed you. I missed grapes, well mostly liquid ones. I missed guitar play, the balcony blues we had every Wednesday night. I missed having my fingers feel your shivering body. And I missed being one, two of the same kind, bound together by transparent thoughts and see-through skin. But now you're back. You know you have to teach me how to breath every time you're away, so why leave at all?


My heart was away, and then he came back. I am so lucky he's got that habit, it kinda makes me complete. Flickering, while he unbuttons my dress. Every time. Need of a pause, to catch my breath, in between kisses on the neck. Slowly arranging my limbs in place, posing, before he looks at me through the lens. I missed him.


I missed you too darlings. It just seem so hard these days..

not what it used to be

Cravings. An urge for sentiments. To feel things. Lately it seems like I have been locked inside a closet, no communication either ways. I have been a plastic flower, a painting on the wall, a forgotten framed dead kept away on some dusty shelf somewhere in a room where no one ever goes. I tried wine, tried to smoke 11 cigarettes in a row, tried to bury myself under thousands of layers of silk, tried to read the classics - dream and fantasize about a world beyond mine. But nothing worked. It just left me with a pounding headache and no food in my body. An uncontrollable search for life and death. Questions constantly filling my head and mind. A need to know why and why and why. Is that the reward of this emotional anorexia? 

Troubled while the spring arrived

The sun is forcing life to be easier. That is what everyone says, right? As soon as the light is around, we will all manage. And if we don't, we can't blame it on the regular winter depression. On the other hand, the green tempt us to drown our sorrows as the cliches says during all the spare time we can find. That should make it easier. Well, I have to admit that the balcony is inviting us to live the life more often now than it did just a few weeks ago. But the question is, does it solve our problems? Does it really hurt less? I think I can still feel the heart pounding in my chest, still feel awkward et mal placée..

when was it... ever?

Watching the sun rise over the ceilings, golden shimmer all over town. No sleep needed, no eye lid heavy enough it seems. Can't blame the wine, the party, the music. It all ended hours ago. Like 28 hours ago. Still, no sleep, no rest. My head is heavy, but never heavy enough. Restless legs, half asleep, half dancing. Arms hurt, have been holding the same pose too long. Since.. was it yesterday? When did I move the last time? Time to get the morning paper I guess, I wonder if they have some from the last days left..

home is..

Back home. Felt an urgent need to be me. I left my french alter ego at the airport and with her, the smell of croissants, wine traces leading back to our front door, piles of champagne corks and the forehead kiss C gave me before walking out the door. I then called him and went over to his place, he was having a party tonight he explained. I thought, what place is better to be alive than in of those pictures.. Bodies moving to unheard lyrics, liquid levels shrinking outside, rising inside. Under control. I always carry around straws in my handbag.


Spent several hours staring in to the sun, next to his warm shadow, and when the sun fell asleep the candles continued to cause stains on my retinas..

last chance

it is cold. I am leaving. c forced my ankles to stay for an hour. too numb to feel the fire near my lips, too distracted to hear the screams. is this for real?


just like he sang - every gun you held went off, therefore I have to leave you know. meanwhile the others is counting your breaths, we were never enough..

paris says..

At a party. C is queen. In control, wearing silk, shimmering. All the girls wear clumsy wedges. Not a stiletto in sight. Where are we? Me, in control, in the corner, alone. Out on the floor - no control. 


A girl smokes golden cigarettes in the window sill. She painted them. I can see a little spot she missed, right next to her pinkie. That's right, she holds them between her pinkie and ring finger. 


A boy comes out from the kitchen with a silver tray. Foie gras and something that looks like flour. Does he want to brag? Does he live here? C walks up to him and says, with a british accent:
- That really looks like poop, referring to the foie gras. 
The boy looks offended. And so she is the center of attention. Who is the silk queen from far away? Poor boy.


Paris makes me scream. No need for the good-girl-charade. In the circle shaped room, in what corner can I hide? 

don't fucking tell me what to do

Paris is thrilling, noisy and forbidden. We have left the apartment and spent days and nights in the streets, bars, anonymous apartments et cetera.. C smiled twice yesterday, like really smiled. Inside out. Sincerely. It made me warm inside. Her family isn't too happy about having her running around like this - but she knows how to handle it. She might be thin as a stick but her mouth and fists can force anyone to do anything. Don't mess with the anorectics I learned yesterday..


Pont Mirabeau:
Breath regularly Aurélie, but small amounts of oxygen each time. Because they will make you pay for it. 


Few bottles of wine and suddenly she sees clear. You just have to love her. 

travel-pass

Packed my bags. Went to comfort C in another part of this world.. 


C has her own apartment. A deal made with her mother, some sort of growing up strategy - still she is living in the building next to her. The apartment is filled with mirrors in big, ancient golden frames. Ironic since C hates the image of herself. I walk through the spacious corridor that is the centre of her home. Enter the living room area. Everywhere I turn I can see notes up on the walls. C follows my eyes. Therapy thing, she mumbles. 


I traded one balcony for another. One love for another. We sit together, smoking. Not talking. No need of words. She holds her teacup with both hands, they have the same color as eggshells. Her hands that is. I observe. Her body trembles. But her hands are still. Her bruised collarbones, fragile smile expose her, she is not well. Yet, she is better than the last time I saw her. That makes me glad. 


We spend the morning on that balcony. Sharing cigarettes, a tea pot. In her company there is always too much smoking, never enough eating. It feels relieving though. A man is staring at us from his window across. C waves and gives him of one her juvenile smiles. It's the time, of the season, for loving..

I am a rock

Sitting on his balcony. Wrapped up in three layers of fleece. We're sitting on the floor, hiding from the icy winds. In front of us, a sea of candles. My throat is sore, too much smoke has passed down there the latest hours. His fingers are too cold to play the guitar, mine to cold to handle le tire-bouchon. Next to us, a bowl filled with hot water - no one likes the red too cold..

His silhouette in the light of the playful flames, with a curtain of smoke. Like a dragon, silver smoke sips through his nostrils. Warm breath, glittering eyes. I like solitude. But tonight, I am glad not to be alone. For the first time, I think I appreciate him the way I should. A rock to depend on.

mess

The twinkling glimpse of a catastrophe. Before it hits you, you realise that you are already in the middle of it. Start crawling, no need of turning back when you got death on your side, ready to let you taste of his wine. 


This is how it always ends. One little situation creates tons of emotions, places thoughts in my head. Thoughts impossible to get rid of. A chaos created by an emotional storm inside of me. Such a vital state of mind though. Without it, I don't think I would be able to feel passionate about other things. Comfortable, saved. It is a grey zone. Forbidden to talk about out loud. Not really accepted. But is it not like this, that after the time we spent feeling anxious and misplaced - all other feelings are welcomed and experienced as uncomplicated and so much more clear?


All I know for fact is that I'm so exhausted for walking around with all these thoughts, too heavy to bear, too heavy to deal with. I just don't know what to do with it all. How do you do it?

from the past

So I must go to France. Of course. It will do you some good, my mother told me. Yet I heard the fear in her voice. Whenever I visit my father, she is worried that I might not come home. It is strange and we have been discussing it for years, still it's just the way she is. C is stable, her mother called last night. Anxious woman with a high-pitched voice. She once told us that when she was young she tried to make it darker by drinking a lot of whisky. Then she understood, her face turned crimson red and she left us with our mouths open. She is a lovely lady, that's for sure.


So my booked tickets made me dig in my wardrobe, and I found treasures. Old photo albums. My father is a photographer, meaning I have every minute of my life from France memorised in thousands of photos. In our old house he had a installed a dark room in one of our walk-in-closets. So there is not only a lot of photos taken, there are a lot of photos developed. Result - hundreds of albums. Invaluable for me. I have always been a sucker for the written word, for the illustrated images. 


Found one of her. Fathers wife that is. From one of the parties in the old house. She wore long black silk dresses. When she finally put on some heels, became an amazon and whirled around in the house - as the perfect hostess she was. As a child I loved to hide under tables. When she came looking for me, the skirt always reminded me of running horses. The silk fabric waved and showed off her shapely legs. We were both as proud of her, father and I. She was the foundation, the supporting pillar of our happy family. After her decease, it just wasn't was the same.. 

drained

Exhausted. As a result of no sleep, to many thoughts, too heavy to bear. My head is banging. Haven't been able to close my eyes even for a second, to much going on inside of me. My headache is not from drinking to many bottles of wine last night. I would like to bang it in to the wall. Because that kind of pain I can take. But this, this is something else..


I escaped last night. When I woke up from my coma I realised that I haven't met him for a few days. Just the distraction I needed. So I went to his place. We made up a fire, emptied a couple of bottles, smoked each other down to the filter and made love, whenever our subjects of discussion ran out. I ended up sitting naked in front of the fire, staring. Together we fed the fire with old Elle mags, and she licked everything we gave her. I saw the thin smiles of spotlight girls disappear into it. For a second I thought about c, but then he kissed my neck, continuing down my spine - and I forgot about all the sadness and choose to live in the moment, as of right now.

Who is C?

Took me quite some time to realise what he'd said. What had just happened. And then I needed to figure out what to do. I hid in my room, let the tears come, the screams, the memories.. C is my great love. My only friend. My femme fatale. We grew up together, sharing everything - heartbreaks, favourite clothes and family troubles. She was my sister. She already had quite a few, but for me she was the only one. When we moved away, we wrote letters. Hundreds of them. I have saved them all, in three rusty boxes. They contain every thought, every laugh and every cry we have ever had. Together or in solitude. 


She struggles. She have the biggest heart, the most fair smile. She is weak in her mind, but strong in her fists. We've been through this before. I have had that call before. Because underneath the beauty lies something dark, something that carves out her soul, break her bones quietly from the inside. Something that she will never recover from. I know. For a long, long time I was the only one who did. We shared it. Like sisters. Then something pulled me out of the water, gave me the oxygen I needed to continue. Saved me from myself. But no one did the same for her. She just continued to drown, one day at the time. I was never enough. Though I yelled at her, stroke her hair and whispered softly in her ear, cried beside her hospital bed, picked her up from the floor and said that I was done - she never stopped. She wouldn't even consider it. There was never something else. Just that. 

numb night, saturday it is

So, my father called. I needed the night to recover. I needed the time to sort out the thoughts, to figure out the words, to let it sink in. After 53 minutes since the first giggly sound from mother, she jumped off the chair and walked across the dining area and up the stairs covered in soft velvet. She knocked, did not wait for an answer and entered my kingdom of solitude. She handed me the phone without a word, turned around and left. Mon coeur, enfin! was his first words. The six following minutes contained phrases without any real meaning. He described that when a glimpse of sunshine came, he turned his face against it, just to feel a little bit closer to us, his loved ones. He told me that he visited Christophe et Jean-François the other day. Their big house on the countryside was my childhood heaven. Big house filled with surrealistic art, antique porcelain behind glass doors and books, so many rooms just for books. I could hide away from the world for hours behind hundreds of bookshelves, reading dusty books that made me cough. He told me that he missed me. That I should come visit, some time very soon. I will, I thought quietly to myself. He sounded so eager to get me there, not like usual, but as the world and our future depended on it. I shivered when I understood that the funny undertone in his voice was panic..


C is hospitalised chérie. You must come home. She needs you, they need you, I need you.

A punch in the face. A sudden indisposition. A lump in my throat. Then all black. I fell on the floor, dropped the phone under my bed. Mother came running when she heard the noise. She helped me up in my bed, picked up the phone and closed the door behind her. A few minutes later she came back, wrinkles on her forehead and a troubled face. She brought me tea in my favourite cup, asked if I wanted company and went off again. She knows me too well. 


I left my tea untouched. Situations like that require something stronger, something calming, something to numb the feelings. So I spent the night in my window sill, shivering, numb, anxious and totally empty. Long time no see, I haven't had one of those nights in a very long time. It was overwhelming so I spent most of the day in bed while listening to tragic jazz tones . Mother left me alone. I smoked cigarettes, put rum in my tea and continued to be numb. I can't think about the consequences quite yet, I need some more time..

paris calling

Came home this afternoon and heard giggle from the kitchen. It was mother. She was sitting on a chair, dangling with her legs. The image of a little girl. I knew who she was talking to. There is only one person whose calls will transfer her into that. I knew it had to be my father on the other line..


My father. Tall, dark and mysterious. The one they talk about in movies, the one they describe in literature. He lives in Paris, Jean-François. Mother ones lived with him but decided to move back home to England, because she missed the weather she explained. But I knew that was not the real reason. So she moved, well we moved. But they continued to be together. Long distance romance. Every once in a while he'd be in England and they'd carry on like nothing had happened. Same thing when we were in France. Then father met his french love and they moved in together. But nothing could change the great love between my parents. One or two or even three persons to love is only natural. And I got along really well with his new female friend. So who would care..


So our lives were filled with love. Everybody loved everybody. C'est l'amour, elle est comme ça, explained my father. And I never questioned it. I never thought about it as something other than perfectly normal. I just lived with it, like everyone else..

walking down memorylane

Dutiful Wednesday. Loads to do, will not do any. Long for the summer or spring, well at least for a warm breeze that gently strokes my cheek. I miss the colorful blindness you get from staring in to the sun too long. I miss the freckles on my knees. I miss sable under my feet. So I run, far far away. Days like these are made for wine, cigarettes and endless daydreaming. I sit in the window sill and I remember..


We ran through the grass. The dewdrops licked my ankles wet. We were hundreds, well at least a dozen. Sky painted softly in apricot. Afternoon had turned into evening, night and now morning. We were out on an adventure in the woods. Surrounded by green. We made fires, danced around them singing softly, shouting loudly. We built a community, for just one night. 


I met him for the first time out there. I loved his curls and I adored his voice. He sang to me that night and he spoke french like a native. We shared wine bottles, cigarettes and breaths. We made love under the stars, like one of those virgin cliches. Still it was no cliche. He swept me away, heart body and mind all at once. And I found myself lying on my back out on a field. The others just a few feet away. He tucked his shirt under my head and touched my collar bone with his fingertips while whispering the world was made for us and no one but us 

some might call it love, I call it need

Velvet sky with tiny, shimmering spots above our heads. Calm night. No traffic, no sound. Just us. He walks upon the bridge parapet. Laughing. I laugh too, though my heart is beating faster. He's drunk, we both are. It's not the epic hour so why wouldn't we be. He might fall, I know he won't but he could. Half a bottle of bourbon in his hand. The last one lays a few feet behind us, you can see the broken pieces reflect the streetlight. He looks at me, smiles and lands on the pavement right in front of me. 


Don't worry love, I wouldn't leave you. Not now. 


He'd seen the panic in my eyes. Can't camouflage it with a faked smile. Can't disguise it with bourbon. Not when you're body shiver, when you're fear are so thick you can almost touch it with your fingertips and your thoughts are so loud they might as well end up in a mind bubble above your head. Oh yes I'm predictable. Still, if those skinny legs, the sharp irregular shoulders and warm honey breath disappeared.. I'd be nothing. Nothing at all. Call it love, I call it need. 

there's no sugar in france

Today was a war. No soldiers, no weapons, no fire. Me against myself. It's very simple really, you just don't do it. You just don't put that kind of things in your mouth. You just don't put yourself in that position where it's available. But today I did, and so I had to fight it..

When I was a little girl I learned that the white crystals were no good for you. They existed only for you to hate them. It was my fathers french wife who taught me. She was the most beautiful woman, tall and slender. She never wore Chanel but I always imagined her as an aged model. Those tall legs were mostly captured in flats, but when she wore heels, she became the most compelling woman, she was a queen. Not only to my father but also to me. Her long dark hair, flying free in the wind. Her scent, filled my nostrils whenever she was around. She was the perfect mixture of bohemian and chic. A simple nod and you'd obey, still when she smiled at me - she filled me with pure happiness.

The memories of her are clear, like a framed picture on a wall in my mind, still I somehow try to cover them in fog. I shouldn't remember her as I do. There's too much pain, too much confusion, too much shame..

another guitarfilled night

Late night yesterday, not enough sleep and way to much wine. I knew that the morning would be rough, Wednesdays are always early mornings. We stayed up and he played me tunes on his guitar. His curls fell down before his eyes when he leaned forward, he's so intense when he plays. His whole body kind of shakes a little bit. He concentrates and wrinkles his forehead. 


We sat like that for hours, sometimes he glanced at me, a little smile, then he continued to play. Like all other nights, our guitar filled nights. After a bottle of wine, he starts to sing. Quietly. Almost whispering. After two bottles, he doesn't care anymore and his voice grow stronger, fills the room with every inch of him. If we continue, he'll take me in his arms and he tries to get me to play with him. But then I'm already too drunk..


When the guitar is asleep and there's nothing but silence we lay down. His bed, a mattress directly on the floor. Just enough room for us both. White smoke rise against the ceiling, candles are creating shadows on the walls. Normally I'd be scared and my imagination would fill my head with all sorts of weird hallucinations. The shadows are always a man with an umbrella. But with him, I feel more safe than ever. Maybe that's why I always fall asleep first when we share the same bed. 

something new

The end of January. New year, new beginnings. Everybody's talking about change, improvement, goals. And even though we're never going to change, we still like the idea of it. To pretend to be willing to start over and get better makes us comfortable. It justifies our old sins. Still I like my old habits, I like my memories and I look back with no regret. Because I know, there's no change for me this year. Just like always. 

Bienvenue chez moi