Thursday, March 22, 2018

Wake from your sleep

Snow in New York and the memories seem so distant. I forget that I was there, the streets and the smell of them. More and more seldom I think of going back, knowing that sooner or later I'll have to.

I've worn black from Givenchy all week, pre-Tisci of course. A British expat complimented my shoes at Café de la Paix, in my current state it was more than enough to follow him home. The last time a man noticed my heels I was 17 in LA and probably shouldn't have fucked him, but back then I remember it felt like destiny.

The Brit told me his name was Steven but I called him Neil because it suited him better. We watched La La Land in his apartment on Rue du Four, I cried at the end and fell asleep on his lap while he tried his best to comfort me, his hand in my hair, a bottle of Californian Pinot Noir like blood flowing through my system. It was sweet.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Paradise Lost

I came to Paris looking for something and whatever it was I still haven't found it. I'm as lost here as I am anywhere, as much on the run as I've been all my life.

Christmas and New Year's came and went, I can't remember what I did or who I was with but my favorite dresses are all torn and the heels on my Chanel's, the ones I got from mother, are an inch shorter than they used to be. My phone is full of text messages I can't interpret and pictures I never took. I haven't even bothered checking my voice mail.

And on Sundays, while everyone is getting ready to pick up the remaining pieces of their lives, I'm still here, in the bar of some hotel, watching my reflection in the mirror as it changes into something I no longer recognize. I'm still here, starting to make up stories about the life I never knew I wanted to have.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Les Confessions

Marie Antoinette lost her head 224 years ago today. I would eat cake if that was something she actually said, but Champagne seems more suitable to the occasion.

Nights are getting darker and not just in my riotous mind. I sometimes come to think of California and the way we'd plan our imminent escape, Chloe and I. When I finally left it was because of her but she followed me across the wasteland to New York and in to my childhood dreams of falling through the skies together. She never called to wish me a happy birthday and it hurt me more than any fragmented memory of numbing sleeplessness on the beaches down in Santa Monica. The lights that never went out and the sound of the waves and her breaths on the back of my neck.

I follow the queen through rue Saint-Honoré past the boutiques all the way to the Place de la Concorde where she died. Wind in my hair and across the open spaces, all the stone and the traffic and the gray outside the gates to the Tuileries Gardens. I always hated this place.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Live and let die

Another year older and I should have grown up a long time ago. S calls me before anyone else, from her aunt's house in Florence. She sounds hysterical but happy and I miss her a lot more than she misses me.

For my twelfth birthday mother gave me a signed copy of The Sun Also Rises. It was one of those rare times she didn't try to buy my loyalty with designer clothes and credit cards, and probably the only time her gifts actually meant something. My father had read it to me that summer on the beaches near Antibes where we had our last fleeting moments of happiness together, just the three of us.

September kept closing in on our family and I didn't know then that the people I loved the most would all soon become ghosts to me, alive or dead, near or on other sides of the planet. They were all just trying to escape and I learned much later that the one thing you can never really run away from is yourself.

Friday, September 8, 2017


I'm in the Luxembourg Garden writing postcards to some version of myself, a cup of coffee with vodka getting cold in my hands. The sun sets in red and lilac across the river, bars and restaurants filling up with people I'll never know. I look for mother in the crowd of shadows, I look for Henry and I look for Carl but no one's there and the air is getting lighter.

I've been so fucking tired of the sound of my own voice that I let others do the talking. It's amazing how badly people long for someone to listen. I know how they feel because I used to be there but I lost my way and ended up here, silenced by my own thoughts, unable to let go of the future.

Another summer ended, I stopped counting them the day he died. Remembering what he told me just days before it happened is the only thing that keeps me going. "My darling Avy" he said, "don't ever stop dreaming of the things you really want."