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..

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...

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..

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..

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..