IWOKEUPATELEVEN

Silverlake Serpent

2011-03-23T02:58:00.000-07:00

Wow. For the first time in my life. I'M IN LOVE.
Her name is Cassidy Cole and she pees outside of Intelligentsia every morning 2 "get some action in her life".
x

x peek x

2011-02-09T05:37:00.000-08:00

Hideous kitchen. Old potteries and smudge.

The woman, Olivia, has made tofu-beefs for us and there’s nuthin 2 drink.

Luckily I preppd the evening with 100mgs. Belle’s fixxing things up, stitching the roofdamage with her pretty colgatesmile. Olivia obviously tenders her made-up orphanhood.

They suddeny hold hands cross the table. I hear O saying ”yeh, my son’s dead. Happened on the way home from work. He was a real-estater.” It’s all quite tragic. I suddenly look up.

Chickenheartbeat. On the fridge: A crow in a cage. I look @Belle, and I know she’s seen it.
SHIT. The world is falling apart and nobody seems to notice.

You look like my mother (II)

2011-02-08T02:13:00.000-08:00

Belle clenching my fringe. She is 2 cm from my face.

”Did you look at her?” Her face all red and bloated.
Wine/blood/fury/no make-up. Takes me a moment to recollect my memory.

I reach for my Benson&Hedges, still in her grip.
Nah. Why would I look at that woman? Lipstick on her teeth??? (!!!)

”You freak!!!” B blurts out. ”She invited us for dinner. I had to say yes. And I want you to look at her and say ’I’m sorry’. ”

Now: No ventilation in the bedroom, I’m alone. Breathing old smoke. Didn’t we always know it would b like this? But I don’t do fuckn blackmailing.

symbols crashing everywhere

2011-02-07T09:54:00.000-08:00

Gasoline?

2011-02-07T02:37:00.000-08:00

http://www.tmz.com/http://hotair.com/archives/2011/02/06/super-bowl-open-thread-2/http://hotair.com/archives/2011/02/06/super-bowl-open-thread-2/

You look like my mother (I)

2011-02-07T01:33:00.000-08:00

3pm. 3 hard knockings on the door. Sounds like distant thunder from between sheets. Belle’s not wearing her face. I hear her stop the conversation she’s having with the unplugged phone. Is it possible?
In the door: the woman wears an old D&G dress and slippers. Tanguerine lipstick on her teeth. Walks thru the door, glances at my pantyoutfit.

Suddenly she’s all over the place yelling something about a moisture damage in her roof. Boasts her way past us and into the bathroom. 2 cm water and the shower still running...

Graveyard silence. Her slippers getting wetter and wetter. Nobody seems to consider to turn the shower off.

”I know who you are” she says. ”YOU smogged my laundry!” Furiously she writes a number on a pc of paper.
”YOU better make the call. Fix it.” And then she goes on and on about that damage. ”The roof will BURST” she exclaims, gesturing.

She’s probably right. I’m so sleepy I go back to bed. Ma mom always said: If you have trouble, all you need is some sleep.
Hon är årets stjärnskott

STORM

2011-02-05T17:00:00.000-08:00

something in the air is crisp. A storm comin in, sealevels rising, birds moving back north. I can feel it at the Arlanda airport. It's not euphoria, it's just a vague glimpse of something. In this state of limbo, between idle sheets, I hear insects dying and springice breaking. Am I just imagining?

Anyways. I'm going to live with Belle. Much as she is a storm, that's not why I love her. WE both had sum troubles with DADDY. nah ok. really, how can somebody you never meet be a problem? oh daddydaddy. Probably too dreaming of springice breaking.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL THIS IS NOT A DRILL THIS IS NOT A DRILL THIS IS NOT A DRILL

2010-12-21T12:12:00.000-08:00

snow.

cars outside like siberian heatwaves

symmetrical windows, symmetrical faces

if looked on from the streets

in that cold your heroes are dying one after the other, sparrows punctured or powderized

but I'm still here

finally writing my symmetrical lines

and you think stop it's probably the same as ever better than never

you're still the same loaf meat meet nobody another meatloaf can't

meat another meatloaf they are just attracted by their mutual gravitation

and won't tell me what stop is going on nuthin and on the screen I see Jen

DNCING in the dark with the black night in armour and people's eyes are

pierced by the ancient sword of wisdom needles crouching in the back of

their heads bending letters and excuses and I have to tell you it's the last

time it is the last fucking time I REPEAT it's the last I REPEAT myself

as I press play the panthomime starts starring the stars of the human race

like a 16 mm film that's up to 1000 frames a second and every picture is

you you putting the prince to sleep you putting yourself to sleep hosting

the milliondollarparty but baby I'm not wearing this dress 4 u I'm only crying

when the camera goes off and the tears are not mine neither are the words

they only run silently along the neck of the monalisa like a prayer

blank

don't be scared

and I'm not expecting anyone to be able to handle ethanol undistilled so plz choose the words you like

wisdom

milliondollarparty

armour

dress

neck

francesca woodman

true love is true love

2010-04-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

About that date. My state of sobriety was painful, like luminous rays without closing my eyes.
Zencalm. Not xanaxcalm.
Nothing fysically wrong with the lad. Woolfy and british. Didn't call the waiter douche even once, despite the irish cufe/cappa-confusion. (serchez la femme. so? he was talking about society and needed a it!)
@ some point he inevitably stopped talking.
When he did. He put the fork down like a symbolic gesture. Looked at his plate, this time as if it was his last way out. It was empty, so he looked @me.
Like ulook @ an exotic parrot that oughta reply, or at least repeat.

Send me to university wontcha?

Lucy in the sky with diamonds

2010-04-09T12:51:00.000-07:00

Went on a date last night. He was talkin to his plate, like to the full moon, like in prayer.

Never trusted guys in brown shirts, and definitely not this one. If there is anyting that I look down on, it's guys in brown shirts.

Proved I was right. He was telling me about his plans on going to Africa to save them lil ones.

I would have been more impressed if he was saving LiLo, but that is another story.

So I laughed, because I needed a joke.

My little heroine

2010-02-02T11:55:00.000-08:00

Two things are white.

Innocence and cocaine.

In our youth we used to sit on the attic. The floor filtered mom's and dad's voices from below. It was the closest to heaven we could get at that time. It scares me to think that maybe it was the closest to heaven I've ever been. The ground hits hard but heaven hits harder and I've been falling falling. Flawlessly, but nonetheless falling.

13 and lolitas. I remember Calais's prophecies about our future. Offtrack hands, cheekbones and pubic hair. Of course love was not one of those things we used to talk about. Neither was drugs. Up there, white as dreams.

Then we started talking talking. Ladylove liberty LSD. Like love, it's not a dirty feeling once you're in it. This one nite I experienced both. Two atomic bombs imploding, unveiling me in compressed format.

I had my kokakola veins pumpin nirvana into my brains. I had my heroine, my heroine friend.

Bend back , arteries in my neck pulsing and I feel slightly seasick when I think about those days.

There are still white clouds above me. White as innocence. White as cocaine.

I realize I always wear black. Makes me feel safely tied to the ground.

Found the pic somewhere, I'll refind it soon. (Oh youth I despise thee.)

Et vous? What are your secrets, please unveil them for mankind. Yes that's me.

found prophets

2010-01-30T04:38:00.000-08:00

Decided to ask Calais about the mother/Lars dilemma. I realize it's not the first time. Calais is good at giving advice.

Especially when it comes to love and drugs.

She introduced me to my first love of my life, and my second. (whether the second is a person or a substance I don't know.) Her sleeping with both of them is another story.

Now she said. Quote.

"Quote: Only impossible love can ever be romantic" End quote. (the same is not true for drugs of course)

So here we are. In our current state of delirium chippin nailpolish and castrating love until it's impossible enough.

From now on I will only date guys who look and speak like Marquis de Sade / or have had a relationship with my mother.

And I will tell you more about drugs tomorrow.

We don't rise

2009-11-18T14:22:00.000-08:00

No I didn't drown in that pool.
Flight was alright altough I had to sit next to Roselyn Sanchez'z broilerpupppy.
We're in my cousin Leo's flat in Berlin now about to be off to Berghain.
It's not really open, but the manager's son Anthony hired it for a private bdayparty.
Everyone's looking fragile in too heaviy dresses and it's freezing cause Leo left the door wideopen and it's not very late because in Berlin the konga starts when the mortal rise and we don't rise @ all.
We never rise but we fall and Leo's looking out over Lichterfelde from the balcony, streetlights creating a sky below us. I wonder if falling towards the sky would be like flying and then a soapbubble on my cheek wakes me.
Anthony blows them but he's really gay and not aiming for me butt for Leo.
Thisis why I'm not supposed to write when in Berlin, because tomorrow I'll probably wonder what the hell thees letters mean.. but then again theris no tomowwon.
Seal is coming and Verona Pooth, but the bubbles are crashing in the sky and my dress is so heavy.

Paradise Lost

2009-11-09T13:40:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up with colours still vibrating in my nostrils and fingertips. In my dream I'd been a peacock. Helen of Troy, sex on the beach and a million missonidresses in one single feather. I am not gonna lie to you. I was paradise.

Then mum came in, her heels like drumsticks and her mascara still in control. Nobody controls her mascara as she does. When she doesn't, she uses it as a weapon. Don't get me wrong, she is a good person. She just doesn't show it very often.

"Dahlin, you're late. You missed breakfast. Dad's on the phone."

Her voice like a siren and her heels torturing my floor on her way out, leaving marks as on tainted hearts. Dad's on the phone. How could I have forgotten. He always calls Mondays. Almost always. One Monday in August, they called from the hospital. I never got there to see him, but I knew what he would look like. Greygrossgroggy. A deadpan Che Guevara.

As I peek through the venetian blinds I look for the crows. They always come in flocks.

Angst

2009-10-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

Acrophobia- Fear of heights Agateophobia- Fear of insanity Agliophobia- Fear of pain Agraphobia- Fear of sexual abuse Atychiphobia- Fear of failure Aviatophobia- Fear of flying Barophobia- Fear of gravity Catoptrophobia- Fear of mirrors Chiraptophobia- Fear of being touched Coitophobia- Fear of coitus Isolophobia- Fear of solitude Nosocomephobia- Fear of hospitals Octophobia - Fear of the figure 8 Pharmacophobia- Fear of drugs Pupaphobia - Fear of puppets Scoleciphobia- Fear of worms Somniphobia- Fear of sleep Xenophobia- Fear of strangers Xyrophobia-Fear of razors
Zeusophobia- Fear of God
Calais's sis got us in, what a fluke. We navigated around the huge flower arrangements, Calais using my body to push trough the crowd. I'd been chanting a list of fobias like a mantra all day after the accident @ brunch with mom.
Deven Bush and Chelsea Miller danced way too close to a chandelier, distracted by the photographer. As Chelsea's wig took fire that knucklehead poured blue champagne over it to put it out, without success. That's about how exciting it was until my xenophobia relented.
Which happened pretty quickly as the waiters kept refilling my flute.
I don't want to seem like someone bragging about meteoric affairs, so let's just call him P. P looked like my dad. P had a red nose. P was the one removing Chelsea's now blackened wig. A modern hero.

I met him in the window, smoking the marlboro's I'd been sent. I gave him one, talking about the accident and about a producer dressed like Jesus.
We made faces. We made eyes. And somewhere down the line, we made out.

When I woke up, dirt in my eyes, the mask still on, my nose was as red as his.
My body temperature oscillates between arktis and Dante's 7th circle of hell. Maybe I'm finally insane. Maybe I'm a hypochondriac.
But I think P gave me the swineflu. I googled it. It fits.
Fear of swineflu. That's the phobia I missed.

Mauvaise foi and complete freedom.

2009-10-23T07:21:00.000-07:00

On our way to Akbar. Everything set to chart new waters, mascara making spidermovements against our brows.
Sara, behind the wheel and in mood for hunts. Black widow and irrestistably blonde.
Calais in the backseat hiding her newly sharpened collarbones in an oversize Whitney Eve blazer, silently chanting thiiis is for loveers, running awaay.. glancing suspiciously @ the two of us behind her flute. Half of the champagne on the seat.
- Hey babe. Is that dress H&M? I mean, you're swedish, eh?
Sarah's spiderlashes flicker.
- Uhm, no. Guess?
- Ok. Acne? Whyred?
- I said Guess?
- I'm tryin I'm trying. Nordic... Laagerfeldt? Is that swedish? she grasps.
- I said Guess? Sara turns her head and almost hits the sidewalk.
- Oh spare me. Some other burgeois ladida then...
Sara makes a drastic turn shouting "no! I said GUESS?". Then shouts something else as we hit a trashcan. Calais's blazer soaked with champagne.
We start laughing as the chaos from the trashcan sets off the alarm on the car up front.
We never make it to Akbar.

Ingénue

2009-10-21T11:58:00.000-07:00

Viktor Vauthier

Lars came to Hollywood like any other innocent megalomanian actor. Now he's sipping margharita in the hammock by our pool, a gargantuan joint dingling unlit from his lips.
Looks @ the joint as if it is the essence of his dreams. Keeps flicking the lighter but can't make up his mind.
I get over. Light it for him, then light a cigarette for me.
-Why are you doing this?
-Doing what? He closes his eyes and exhales.
-I mean the whole acting mumbojumbo. Do you get a lot of free stuff and shit?
-He who is brave is free.
-Rad..
As I can't think of anything else to say, I decide to chillax in the hammock next to him.
The hammock was about as instable as my schizofrenia. It turns over.
We lie laughing in a heap beneath it, in the shade of the hammock. He doesn't move, even though I burnt him with my cigarette. I don't move either.

Ever heard about Murphy's law? Before we could get our shit together mom turned up in the door. Looked at the joint. Looked at me. Looked at Lars. Looked at us.
I didn't really bother to run after her.

About Yesterday

2009-10-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

I think about it in front of the mirror, inkblood coagulating in my pores. Why did I lie to them?

Having to stand there in front of the blackboard. Locked in place, stuck in space - a multitude of heads in my direction, targeted questions.
Where are you from? (Guy front row in velcrovest.) Why did you move? Are you gonna try to get in to showbusiness? I played it quite well I think. On stage nobody remembers who they are, only who they're supposed to be. Berlin. Mom's job. I already am.
Front row-guy watched me suspiciously. Scratched his acne-cratered chin.
-What does your father do?
Lost the pen I'd been holding, ink dot on the floor. Must have been looking completely kaputt, front row-guy was making fish sounds. Opening his mouth, closing it, opening again.
How did he know which question to ask? For a moment, I just stood there, completely transparent.
Dad's DNA, black heart and lies secreting through my skin. Daddy daddy did not do. Daddy and I are through. That's not what I said. I knew exactly what to answer.

Why did I lie?

A normal day

2009-10-12T14:17:00.000-07:00

@ college.
Mommy sent the application to "surprise me". Mildly surprised I stare glumly @ the Dean's mustasch (blackened by cigarettesmoke beneath the nostrils), wondering what's the higher meaning.
Mom's squeezed herself into grannies petite chanel, her breasts like plastic explosives*. Dean's ovale glasses seem a little rounder and his mustasch becomes darker as he exhales.

Silke: How's your wife mr. H?
Dean: Oh (flinches) She has.. recovered.
Silke: Amazing.. Anyhow, when can my daughter start attending class? (Plastic explosives stretching cotton as she breaths in.)
Dean: You ARE aware about thte fact that autumn semester starts in Septemer?
Silke: Ja, aber.. Some personal troubles shouldn't get in the way of a brilliant mind, don't you agree? I know what she means. The Dean knows what she means. Even the mustasch nods hesitantly.
Then plastic explosives somehow escape.
And I Am Not Surprised.

(I got in and I need some Sangria with C @Akbar)

Packet of Marlboro on the doorstep. Who's sent them?

*this post will get publicity from CIA

Sinday

2009-10-11T09:59:00.000-07:00

I DID wake up @ 6am this morning. I DID make scrambled eggs for breakfast.
I DID set off the sprinkler on our lawn and even make a small GMA wave to Guillermo across the street (who's got an adorable habit of parking on the lawn.)
I even cheered sum 8 y-olds from our street up in my morning costume (last night's stockings and black underwear).
I hear them calling out my name: Vagin ah vagin ah vagin ah ah ah ah
Whadya think, am I an amateur?
Called Calais. Heard her loving her beneficial friend. Heard her loving herself too.
Hung up. Gave up.

Cages

2009-10-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Before the Victorian era, common belief was that those who suffered from mental illness had a "disease of the soul". The madness coming from an "evil within".
Let's just say, that if I'd lived then I'd be in a cage.
So says the psychotheraphist.

Receivable blames

2009-09-30T04:34:00.000-07:00

Waking up in foreign arms, the lie feels more honest. For once in a long time I dare to breath deeply without guilt. Guess it's the amnesia.

When Calais called I told her I'd just given John Frusciante my last joint. Can't be true. I mean, I don't do freebasing. And it's only midweek.

I grab a semifaded tee since my strapless ziptop vaporized somewhere between Elsinore st & bellevue av.
It smells used, but I just think "as do I".

So I slammed the door.

Champaigne for bfast

2009-09-23T14:00:00.001-07:00

Calais hands me the cup

- It's YOU. she sez.

- No. I tell her. It's a cupa soylatte.

She laughts, takes a zip on it. Squints as if she just swallowed Jay Leno's pubic hair.

Adds six bits of sugar, half a xanax and shakes it til its champaigne.

- It's YOU! It's you postLA.

Omit myself

2009-09-20T09:18:00.001-07:00

So we left Unter den Linden. All I can remember from Los Angeles is this house. Grandma's place. Kiki's place.
She used to live here, right in the heart of Silverlake, right in the middle of my heart. Probably the most ordinary person there has ever been, and entirely out of order here. But then again, that's the point, isn't it?

Mum on the other hand is extraordinary. If Jude Law'd been the right sex and wearing 3.1 Phillip Lim, Jude Law would've been Silke. Including the cheating part.

They all tell me she'd be a genious at whatever she did. Unfortunately that was being a psychologist. PSYCHOlogist! Verdammt, if she'd only chosen to become a concertpianist! Maybe then I wouldn't be neurotic and borderline and obsessive and.. I could even be european.
But I guess Silverlake is just right for me.