Sunday, June 28, 2009

Sunday Breakfast

These are the things that keep me going, a sunday breakfast on my swan-white floor, his voice on the telephone, the memory of his scent. Our bougainvilleas in the petite terrace, flower-patterned china cups, jasmine tea, coral lipgloss on marshmallows, a darling teapot that was given to me as a birthday gift, L'Air du Temps perfume for sunday mornings, writing about love, heartache and devotion in those white pages until my hand becomes numb, that music box that plays Parlez-Moi D'Amour, a chinese heartshaped mirror, my dreams and hopes for days where love is soft and peaceful and not this constant tangle of petals, roots and thorns

This is my favorite song right now,
I can listen to it until it becomes slurred and confusing,
but still, it's such a beautiful song

it's originally in Spanish but the lyrics go

Poppy, Pretty Poppy
Will always be your soul your own?
I want you, dear child of mine
just like the flower loves daylight

Poppy, Pretty Poppy
Don't be so ungrateful, look at me!
Poppy, Poppy
How can you live so alone?

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Ma Jeunesse Fout Le Camp

This is one of my favorite records in the whole wide world, Ma Jeunesse Fout Le Camp by Françoise Hardy. It’s one of those little things I consider a treasure, just having the physical cd with that dreamy cover and the even dreamier back cover makes me glee with joy!
I love this record this much because it has been the hymn of my twenties (a soft flowering haze of kisses, divine fevers, nights of champagne, a secret life, romance, romance, the romance of my life. It brings to my head beautiful images of nymphs, summers in Paris, late night conversations with my dearest sirens, laughter (as loud and bright as possible). it reminds me of his dark eyes, of my skin agaisnt his, of caresses flowing out from the feble fragile bones of his hands, it makes me think of the Klimt girl ghosts in me, of golden seas of honey, of beauty in its purest, most graceful form).

In this record, every song is a love song, Françoise’s voice is so warm and haunting, there are violins and the sweet echo of spanish guitars, her glittering green eyes staring back at you from all the photographs, the tiny daisy between her lips like nectar…it’s magical and delicate, it’s the flower of youth..

Ma jeunesse fout l’camp
Elle a rompu l’amarre
Elle a dans ses cheveux
Les fleurs de mes vingt ans

My youth slips away
it has broken the rope
It has in its hair
the flower of my twenties

Monday, June 22, 2009

on farewells

I've never known how to say a proper goodbye. I've never been good at it. When things come to an end, I just turn my head and walk away with a terrible ease, it frightens me. It does not mean that separation and distance will not pain me but that they hurt me so deeply that I simply cannot show a trace of emotion. Goodbyes freeze a part of me so I prefer to remain quiet and walk away. I feel as if I was constantly running from everything that has ever mattered in my life. I never return to who I once was, and that is one of the reason why I treasure the few things and lovers that stay with me over the years (it's so easy for me to just walk away, even if it breaks me to pieces). I have never set foot in former schools or former places I used to know, everything is gone and forgotten, everything fades away. Most days I'm a ghost to myself, I see places, streets and lovers but they are strangers, they are shadows. I have never know where my heart has been, all I know is that it's always this constant chase, this downpour of love without ever stopping to look back.

If we ever have to part, think of me as the little loveghost who won't shed a tear fearing it will turn him into a sea of sorrow.

painting by Romaine Brooks

Saturday, June 20, 2009


Humbert: She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo… Lee… Ta.

Lolita will always be one of my favorite films. Dominique Swain is and always will be the perfect Lo.

Lolita was the first grown up book I ever read (at 12 years old) and it changed my whole life. All throughout my teen years I did and played Lolita, she was a ghost in my life, it was hard to shake her off and I couldn’t even tell if I have. She is always creeping on, always telling me to find the next Humbert.

How could you possibly not want someone to write this about you?

“Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.”

It’s deathly and terrible but so gorgeous.


I keep a tiny notebook I bought once in Venice by my bed and sometimes I doodle, make lists and write silly love notes.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

the great gatsby

Some of my favorite scenes from this darling movie