An Unfinished Story of People, Places, and Music

I sift through the oversized box, full of band shirts in different shapes of wear and tear, tour shirts with the date emblazoned on the back, women-sized shirts bought at merch stands, old, old shirts from decades ago, bought with money I scrimped and saved ahead of time. Widened neck holes, arms cut off, some teeny tiny that barely fit over these breasts I have since grown, kept out of nostalgia and memories and a faint hope that once my breastfeeding days subside I will comfortably fit in them again. Band names that no longer exist apart from in memories of basement bars and long nights, good looking guitarists always shredding my heart into pieces. The soft feel of the material between my fingers, the smell of bars and booze, Chanel no 19, coconut and cold vodka still in my mind, conjured up through the long-lasting lavender softener scent.

Music you own me, you are the rhythm of my memories and haunt my future, hold me up and pull me down, bring me back and push me forward. The Siouxsie shirt that went from office stress to DJing til early in the morning at Midway, fence down low so the sunlight wouldn't bother us. Years gone by and I can still taste the air, jager and stolen kisses in the DJ booth up high, Bonnie Tyler for a laugh, the electric slide along the floor. The tiny Secret Machines shirt, so tiny I don't even know how it fit, fills my soul with a swaying happiness, because despite everything it was always going to be OK, right place and right time, a moment in time which would slip away from us, both moving along and thanking each other. The one Cure shirt from back in the day, proper vintage, a perfect gift from a perfect friend, a mutual love of The Cure framing a friendship, an appreciation of the deeper impact of music drilling it deeper.

The pale green Sonic Youth tee, the eye staring, knowing, watching, a time of sitting back and listening, observing and not participating, a time of sunshine and beaches and sobriety, where the drunken stories were no longer my own bit those others told me. Barcelona wanderings leading me to moonlight ramblings from a balcony I will never see again, chain smoking with one hand, furiously writing with the other. The black Interpol t-shirt, purchased many, many years after my first Interpol show, that one in Staten Island, new to NYC, embracing my new life with an old but new friend, a door opening towards Ludlow and Orchard - Darkroom, Motorcity, and then The Skinny and later 200 Orchard. Pianers on Sunday, and so much stomping up and down those streets, heels worn down on my Fryes, eyes bright with anticipation or ivresse or both. The first time I met them, these people I fell in love with through my headphones, I was shy and intimidated, and then it was just all home anyway. The streets, the people, the music. Interpol and Calla and Dead Combo, my Ludlow, maybe yours.

Oh look there is my Spiritualized t-shirt, washed and worn so many times, so many memories of shows, Terminal 5, Radio City, Webster Hall... Hotel Rivington, watching the sun rise over the East River, a glass of red wine in my hand, having meaningful conversations with musicians, wishing I had more to offer, constantly feeling less than others, undermining my own value and feelings, a warrior fighting my own demons, while fighting my own self-worth. Spiritualized, weaving through my life, my firstborn's first show, a little secret in my womb, a pregnancy announcement whispered from one side of the balcony to the other. Come Together, before our lives all fell apart in an explosively wonderful manner. Spiritualized, always a cleansing, beautiful way to raise my soul, my happy music, sealing broken hearts, lifting me towards love. And always with my best friend, together even when we weren't. Surprisingly only one Nick Cave, my love now worn by my true life love, but so many moments in his presence from Lyon to the Beacon Theater, standing over me, that voice that transcends all others, whispering, goading, flipping your stomach inside out, grabbing you by the heart. There is no other, no other like him. The Kills, the one band I have seen more than any other, every time better than the last, never failing to grab me by the guts and shove me in front of my emotions.

And then there are those shirts that are only left in my memories, the original Ride the Lightning, paper thin with age, hash holes along the bottom, Metallica. I finally saw them 18 years later, Megadeth-Slayer-Metallica, teenage dreams coming alive in my 30's, jammed against the fence by the pit, screaming along to old songs with unknown new friends next to me. Strangers but together with the music. Seasons in the Abyss alive and well, lyrics taking me back to my teenage room in France, while standing on the soil of NYC. A 200 franc note blowing down the street, landing at my feet. I kept it for a week in case anyone claimed it and then ran to the shop in the center of town, spending half an hour deciding between two Nirvana shirts, finally opting for the one that wasn't the yellow smiley. My first own music t-shirt purchase, teenage uniform with my mismatched Doc Martens and ripped jeans. The Nine Inch Nails shirt, bought in the US on the Fragile tour, worn into the ground on a kibbutz in Israel, Trent’s voice’s effect on my heart lasting so much longer than his merch.

Hundreds of shirts, all neatly folded in a box, all waiting to be worn again, telling the stories of a lifetime of music, of lifetimes of music, memories dancing to the beat of a drum, twirling towards a crescendo, caught in time. Right there, that high note, Leonard Cohen's smile as he dances across the stage; the smoke surrounding American X, still true today BRMC; Peter, white faced and dark-eyed, once again reunited with Daniel, David, and Kevin, and me standing from that balcony in the Times Square venue, wondering how I had finally managed to make a teenage Bauhaus dream come true. Red wine and Lit, running through the streets of NYC, places that now only exist in my memories and maybe yours. An unfinished story of places, people, and the music that brought us altogether.

Words of Reflection from 2005

I don’t remember writing this. But I do remember the exact moment that this was written, my first late summer in NYC, my first taste of that magical month of September when you can finally breathe again. I didn’t really act on my thoughts right then, I’m still waiting for my writing to pay for that beach house, but I remember that girl so well. She isn’t all that far away really, still there, still me. She used to push herself to do things she found uncomfortable (move to a random city in a foreign country where she knew absolutely nobody for example, although that was easier than going out of the house and walking into a bar by herself sober). She used to wonder why she was so often alone, and then would refuse the advances of men all the time. She held on to nostalgia (still does), and dreamt far ahead, of days when there wouldn’t be a need to hustle anymore. She wasn’t innocent, and had seen things other would never see or experience already. She, me, would often sabotage everything for herself before it even began, or would pretend that certain things were more important than others (doing well at work vs being happy and free). I don’t regret anything, but stumbling on this folder full of 2005 journal entries, and especially this one, made me realize all the more why I need to finish what I started many, many years ago.

There is a big reason why my blog is all over the place. I started it in 2003 before I went off to Israel for what ended up being over a year and a huge moment of change in my life. Over the years it evolved into a place where I force myself to post writing that would otherwise stay locked up on my hard drive or my written journals forever. Of course, I want people to read what I write, to react, to talk to me about it, but at the same time I can’t force anyone to. I’m terrible at marketing and I couldn’t sell myself to save my soul, so I most likely won’t be ever buying a beach house with my writing. But sending some of my most personal writing, poems and stories out there into the big wide world is something that I have told myself I will do for decades. And I promise myself this year it will happen. With Spring Comes Hope was my first step into this lake, dabbling my toes, and with Of Hearts and Sea Glass will be a full on dive. In the meantime I will continue to share some of what I write with the world via my blog. It doesn’t have a niche or a certain topic, but it’s my home on the internet.

Here you go, the ramblings of a lonely 27 year old, ready to settle her roots in a new country, but not entirely sure where her roots are anymore. All content, apart from names that I have removed, has been exactly copied from when it was written in 2005.

Saturday September 4th 2005

Although still hot during the day, the evenings are cooling down. Now I can sleep with a cover again, instead of rolling around all night, sweating… Most days I feel like I haven’t slept in months. Most mornings I wake up before dawn, worrying about something or other at work. I think it’s time to get some sun as I am paler than I have been in years.

I feel so lonely. My life feels fulfilled on a few levels: my job, my own place… But I miss my friends, I miss flirting, drinking, dancing, dressing up, emotions, emotions, emotions. I want to share my bed with someone again. And I seriously need to erase the [ex boyfriend] demon for good. He needs to go. I need closure because he’s not going to come back. I don’t break my promises, but it’s difficult when the other person forgets so easily. It’s over [ex boyfriend]. I can’t give you my heart anymore, I’ve tried for too long now. You’ll never ever find someone like me, and whether you regret that or not doesn’t even matter anymore.

All those men in my heart, and he’s the only one who sticks. I can still remember his touch on my body, I want to forget and remember at the same time.

I want to lose control again – down a bottle of vodka, sleep with a random guy who keeps complimenting me, dance all night, feel free free free again. I’m young. It’s time to start living again. I feel like I haven’t been doing that since I left Israel. I’m setting my roots down again. I know the pain of ripping them out, but it’s worse when I just stumble along day by day, just surviving. It’s time to be alive again. See, do, hear, feel. No more walls again. Just me and my life. My friends will always be here, and now it’s time for them to come to me. And time to make new ones in this city. Time for real hugs again. Time to remember how things are for real.

[Close friend] will be here in a few weeks and I’m really looking forward to it. Having a friend here, sharing my little haven with someone else, partying and talking and walking and sharing and drinking and smoking and giggling and smiling and crying.

I have to put [ex best friend] behind me too. I’ve given so much in the past, and there have been so many times that it’s been thrown right back in my face. But I will never stop giving because that’s the way I am. Her spirit was just not free enough. Maybe I was just too wild but sorted at the same time. I can take on so much, I can deal with it all, and she obviously couldn’t. Tant pis, ce n’est pas si grave a la fin, n’est-ce pas? Life can be strange at the oddest times, you just have to get up and leave it behind. Some things just cannot be fixed however hard you try, as sad as it is.

I remember sitting on the wall next to the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco in the background, smoking a cigarette, wind blowing, running up to hug the sailor statue, singing out of tune in the truck. I remember lying on my bed in Sassenage dreaming of Kurt. I remember tickling [friend] in l’Ile Verte, talking about everything and nothing. She never left, she just got older and maybe a little wiser. Yes, me. Remember going to school and running off to Champollion with [great friend] every break? Stalking men we had never spoken to before… Pine’s Friend, Pine, Bog… Nirvana, Hole, PJ, Candlebox (well that one song). 11 years ago. Who would have thought that at 27 I would be living in New York?

One day, when I finally get my act together I will tell the story to all. The one about the young and shy girl who overcame (maybe) her tragedy and found herself. I wish I would stop making excuses. I don’t need the house by the beach to live. My writing might just buy me that house one day though. Forget your fears and just go for it.

I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone or anything. Not even au revoir. Not anymore. Enough is enough.

Music Keeps the Memories Alive

We used to hang out on the steps in front of the FNAC or the church across the street, clad in different shades of black, black lace and combat boots, waiting for something to happen. Time never seemed to be a rushed back then, boredom a given, but just sitting and waiting was a normal pastime. Waiting for a new album or a new show to be announced, a new person to walk by and capture our attention, a new adventure to pop up. We would nonchalantly complain about how nothing ever happened in our city, about plans to form a world-famous band, and about the best way to get drunk, but always from our church step pulpit, a stop on the way to other stops. No one had cell phones, so the church or FNAC steps were the meeting points. One by one we would gather there after school, rummage through the CDs at the store wondering if we should really spend our little money on the one album with the one song we knew we liked, or save it up for the next big thing? Or should we just club together and buy some hash and smoke it in the park?

Adolescence is a mess, but it contained a real sense of belonging for me too. A bunch of outcasts together on the same plane, taking steps together before the next turning. Music brought us together initially, and then we moved on towards a bigger sense of friendship and love. Some relationships turned sour, some bonded stronger than others, some people left, disappeared, others joined us, a little hesitantly at first, and then became part of us. Us: together, against the boredom, the normalcy, the day in day out trappings of life. Now we are all spread out all over the world, families and new homes, new loves, old flames, friends forever, and friends no more. Sometimes during a conversation over the phone or email or messenger or in person a name will pop up and we will wonder what happened to him or her. Remember that one friend who came out and we just said “oh cool, good for you!”? That must have been so hard for him in such a tough crowd of metallers, and I’m sure he was shunned by some, but it never surprised me or my close friends. I wonder what became of him? Or the girl who said she was a psychic witch with her emerald green eyes that hid so much fear? Did she end up having the child and living a normal life away from the big city and all of the evils that it contained? Or the one with all the violent and extreme “ideals”, did he simmer down or lose himself in hatred? We may have all been in the same mosh pit together or stagedived from the same death metal stage, but that doesn’t mean we all were the same, or even agreed with each other. With life comes certain realizations and we all move in different directions, towards different ideals and dreams.

Many of us are still connected though, through mile long ties and strings that refuse to break despite time and distance and life. We reminisce about days gone by, chat about the present and the future over food and drinks and through the invisible wires of the internet. Months, sometimes years, go by without a proper conversation, but time doesn’t change much, just adds a few more wrinkles and takes away a few more brain cells. These people all had a role in helping me become who I am today, sitting in the same classroom, smoking the same cigarettes, drinking the same beers, and listening to the same music. If you think metal and rock are just brutal noise then think again, it brings people together as tightly as any other music. We needed the brutality and the beauty behind it to convey our fears and misunderstandings and angst. Some got trapped, some were released. For some it was just a phase, and for some of us the music was life and we still get excited about certain bands, and love new ones. We are now the adults in the crowd, the ones we used to look at and say “that’s us in a million years time”.

Do you remember L’Entrepôt, le Rail Théâtre, le Lion, l’Exca, le Champollion? Do you remember le Jardin des Plantes and le Star Rock Café? Piling into a room together, smoking cigarettes and listening to Emperor and Burzum, Kurt Cobain on the walls, Alice in Chains in the cassette player? Do you remember rolling down hills at the Bastille, The Cure playing in your ears from your walkman, drinking wine at Berlioz, and headbanging to Metallica at L’Usine? Randomly hanging out with Oasis at the Drac Ouest, and playing football with Impaled Nazarene in the backyard of the Rail Theatre. Hanging out of car windows, drunk, while coming down from the mountains at 3am, not a care in the world, no fears, just happiness, that elated feeling of being on top of the world with your best friends. So many memories, so many concert tickets and stories and photos stuck into old journals, trapped away in little drawers in my memory.

There are bands I don’t listen to anymore, bands that served a purpose during adolescence, like Cannibal Corpse or Deicide, and others that I will never, ever stop listening to, like The Cure or Slayer. And you know what? This music has brought me together with people in all places that I have visited and lived in… A common interest found here and there, and it was even the basis of my first conversation with my partner, the love of my life. Music creates the strongest bonds and memories and I will always be grateful for the ones that it has created for me… Kurt, Layne, Lemmy, Bowie (and so many others), you may not be here anymore, but you did way more than just make music. And that goes to all of you who are still here, still creating, still inspiring. You may be dark and you may be morbid, but you still make our lives just that little bit better.

Nostalgia tends to fuel me and my writing, I know, but I often wonder for how long these memories will be so vivid, and I worry that one day they will fade away into some kind of oblivion. Music and writing them down keeps them alive.

I've always taken many, many photos, and scanned some of the negatives in a while back. There are many, many more to do, but if you were there, you might be HERE.

Fiction: A Story of Oblivion

Ah, those years between 18 and 22 when you are supposed to be "sorting your life out"... When your emotions range from euphoric to despair in the space of minutes, even seconds. Another chapter from the book I never finished. Another excerpt can be found on the blog under the title Run, Run Away.

It’s too hard to get out of bed today. I know that the moment I step out from under the covers I am going to have to deal with life again, and I just wish, for one day, that I didn’t have to deal with it. Just one day, world, just one day of peace and quiet and silence. No classes, no work, no bars, no alcohol, no talks, no demands, no… No him. I mean that I need a day when he doesn’t pop into my head every two seconds and distracts me from life. A day away from life, where I can disappear for a time, be it into some oblivious sleep, some faraway country or just some dream world I concocted when I was a child.

I first learned what the word “oblivion” meant during my first week at the Lycee back in the 90’s. My English teacher had the words “oblivion” and its antonym (it could have been “consciousness” but I really can’t remember anymore) stuck up on one of his pin boards that were hanging on the wall. It attracted my attention, and when I finally had enough courage to ask him what it meant, I decided that it had to be used in my first book. I think I may have told my teacher that, and I hope that somewhere, somehow, he will see this and remember too, although he unfortunately isn’t here with us anymore. In any case, oblivion is one of my favourite words and also the word that will always be the best explanation of what we want to fall into during those times when we fall down, down, down.

 What is oblivion to you? To me it is just somewhere where none of all this that we have to live with and deal with every day exists, and where we don’t have to remember or listen to anything or anyone, and when we come back from it, well, we won’t even remember that it existed anyway. Kind of like the characters in an episode of Lost. You don’t remember the island or anything that happened on it once you are away from it. But once you are there you are away. Maybe I just have a rosy vision of what oblivion really means, maybe it means just gone away for good, unaware of anything, in a catatonic state? I prefer my view. Oblivion is a soft, down-filled bed that I can sink into, like a fluffy white cloud on a sunny day in spring.

Merriam-Webster defines oblivion as being one of the following: “the fact or condition of forgetting or having forgotten; especially : the condition of being oblivious” or “the condition or state of being forgotten or unknown”. I still prefer my definition, it’s just more… Poetic maybe? In any case, this week I just want a day of what I see as oblivion, and although I know that it won’t happen, it doesn’t hurt to dream.

Anyway, I just don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to have to go on the tram and be squished up against some pervy man again like yesterday. I don’t want to have to have another attack of the low blood sugars in the middle of class, just because I couldn’t face breakfast again before I left the house. I don’t want to have to deal with all of the idiots who are still in my class because they haven’t dropped out yet, the ones who think they are just too cool. I don’t want one of my professors to yet again ask me what I think about such and such writer, just because they know I am the only one who will dare to say something at least meaningful, or at least thoughtful. Or maybe I just think my responses are meaningful, and they only ask me because I can be bothered to answer. I’m probably already taking myself too seriously, and I haven’t even left my bed yet. I suppose oblivion is not for today, yet again.

The phone is back on the hook again, with at least 5 messages from him. I can’t bear to be woken up by the sound of it ringing and ringing, all night long, with both of them telling me that I should be with them, that they miss me, singing me songs and telling me that I should be out on the town with them, getting drunk, laughing, hugging, kissing, talking to the late hours of the night about everything and nothing. We are not going to save the world, and the world is not going to save us, but we can still talk about the impending doom and the sunrises over the horizon, contemplating what life would be and what life could be and listening to our favourite voices push us on through the night towards a goal that still hasn’t been created in our minds.

I love these boys. I suppose I should really say men, because we are all adults now, but I can’t bring myself to. We are all still so naïve but bolshy at the same time, we know it all but haven’t built those walls of protection around ourselves to save ourselves from the pain that is obviously going to come hurtling down on us at some point. The other night we were all sitting around my make-shift coffee table, drinking Desperados out of cans, listening to Tom Waits on vinyl, smoking Gauloises Blondes and talking about Israel and the anti-Israel politics in France. Sometimes I feel like a few of us pretend to be right wing, but are really left-wing, and I live my life on my own political spectrum terms, which go from the far left to left of center, sometimes hopping over the border to dip my toes and always running back again to my safe haven. We are all so smart and full of ideas, but they always only end up being coffee table ideas, as no one really has the energy to really go for it. It’s come to a point though where I need to move along, make my own way. While I was sitting there mainly listening to them all talk I just realized that I needed more. Instead of talking I need to see, feel, hear, be there.  I can’t stay here like this, dreaming about being born in another century, or at least another year, pretending that everything is allright, that one day I will miraculously wake up somewhere else, somewhere better, in a different life, in a different place.  Back to that oblivion, maybe it’s time to make the oblivion I want a reality.

I listened to the 5 voicemails, all drunken laughter, songs, mainly Jacques Brel and Leonard Cohen, “we love you” and “wish you were here”. I know you wish I were there, but I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t continue to be in love with someone who is in love with someone else, it’s just not possible anymore. If I stick around long enough he will marry me, that’s what he has always said, but I know that I need to live a life for myself before I can accept that and even agree to that. Only because I know that I am the comfort zone, and the others are all the chase, the idea of something different. I don’t want to be someone’s comfort zone, I want to be someone’s muse, I want to inspire someone and to be inspired at the same time.

Hiding away in my apartment and just concentrating on my thesis, my classes, my books, my writing and my depression is my only way of letting go. Leaving the protection of my house is always a chore, that nervous bubble that grows in my stomach, then the building of those protective layers to stave away the pokes and the stabs that are surely going to come my way in the outside world. Eyes to the ground and book in hand I make my way to each destination as fast as possible, hide away in my tiny classes at university, sit in the library for hours taking notes and doing research, teaching my students in the different locations, shopping and then home, to the pure comfort of my bed. I love to have people over, and to cook for them, but I am really struggling with being sociable and happy in public right now. If I go out he will be there, we will drink and talk and kiss, and then I will go home and watch him walk away to the new girlfriend’s house, knowing full well that she is waiting for him there, and I am going home alone. So what if I have his mind and his sociable hours? She has his love and she has him in her bed at night. I am just not pretty enough for him, or just not young enough, or just not something enough, I don’t know. In any case, this is my way of letting go of him. It’s time to branch out, it’s also time to leave the protective group of all my male friends and find someone who will love me for who I want to be. Or something in that vein. In the meantime I need to stave off that feeling of worthlessness, and hide from wanting oblivion too much. Every day I battle these feelings and every day I feel like I fail a little bit more.

Once I finish this thesis it will all be over, unless I want to continue and study for a PhD, and I know now that it’s too early for that. So what next? Run away? Start a new life somewhere else? This world is so large and there are so many places I have to see, but I just don’t know how. Can I leave the comforts of today and go? Can I just pick up and see where the wind drops me? What about my family and friends and cat and belongings? Will I feel the same any place I go or will I feel like a different person? All of these questions keep going around and around in my head, and I can’t keep my brain quiet any longer. I just want to get out of all of this. I need to remove myself from the feeling that if I throw myself in front of a tram on the B line that it will be a quick end. Or take a lot of pills and just fall asleep. Or just never wake up one morning and it will all be over. No more pain or feelings or sadness or confusion or hurt or shyness. No more keeping my mouth shut to avoid confrontation, no more wondering what life would have been like if certain things hadn’t happened. No more missing a person who will never ever come back. And no more hating a person who I can’t fully hate, even if I have every right to. There are so many days that I just want it to end. Too early, too late, never the right time. I just want it to end.

But I know I could never do that, only because I know what the pain is to lose someone in that way and I don’t have the heart to put anyone else through that. No one deserves that, however bad it may be, it could be worse, right? I’m sure there is an answer for me, and I am determined to find it.

Oblivion can wait another day.

Ramblings: A Little Village by the Mountains

The photos in this post have been taken from the Ville de Sassenage Facebook page, and are official postcards. My mother has many, many beautiful photos of the village, our house and the mountains surrounding it but they are all in print and I didn't want to ask her to scan pictures for me while she is busy travelling the world shooting bands and working! I've posted some links below for more information on the area.

Some days when the sky is blue I find myself wandering back to summers of many, many years ago, where mornings were very young and evenings crept a long way past a normal bedtime. Nightfall came with the songs of the cicadas, hiding in the long grass by the stream, talking to each other over the sound of the frogs and the water rats scurrying around. The occasional car would race down the back road that passed in front of our house, but other than the rare, muffled sounds from the not-very-close neighbours, the bats, the cicadas and Led Zeppelin or Lou Reed were the soundtrack to those summer nights. A large village on the outskirts of Grenoble, surrounded by mountains that literally loomed everywhere you looked, Sassenage was one of those places that remained somewhat suspended in time while trying half-heartedly to keep up here and there. While you could find small supermarchés  and even a Mexican restaurant down at the foot of the village, the centre was up the hill along a windy cobbled road, lined with buildings that were being renovated to create an image of what they looked like in their heyday, before the pollution of Grenoble started its graying damage. Boulangeries and épicéries and boucheries and Tabac/Presse, your odd little old bar and PMU where the older men would grab their Pastis and gossip before dinner, maybe partake in some afternoon pétanque beforehand. The Post Office was at the top of the hill, in an old building, and I spent a lot of time there, posting letters and packages and walking back down the hill in the afternoon heat, shops closed for the siesta until 3 or 4pm, shutters firmly closed over windows to keep the sun out and the cool air in.

Summer afternoon calm, no rush to get anything done, just the tranquil sounds of the water moving through the fountain in the square, the birds hiding out in the shadows of tree leaves and the occasional car driving past. Around 3 or 4pm the old village would start to wake up again, the sun lower in the sky and naps having revigorated everyone after their solid lunches. The boulangerie and the fromagerie would open their doors for 3 or 4 more hours and the square would get a little busier again. The little parks would fill with parents and children and we would sometimes join them, my sister, brother and I, and play there until dinner time. Unless that day had been pool day, when we would rush to the pool in the morning with sandwiches and crisps and drinks and stay there all day, basking in the sun and jumping in the cold water, refreshing even under the hot sunlight. The village was a strange one, unlike the villages where I had lived as a young child in England, with its “old” part and its “new” part, no real border between the two, probably just a little village that had slowly grown towards the next little village towards the city of Grenoble. The A tram would leave you in Fontaine, and we would either walk the 15/20 minute journey home or we would jump on the 51 bus for a couple of stops along the main road. And then off, past the high school and the side road by the stream towards our house, a sizeable standalone villa in cream and brown with the peach tree that we planted from seed in front of it and the lawn neatly trimmed and the flowers and bushes and grapevines popping up all around you.

It was a beautiful house, with real marble floors that were heated by the hot water pipes underneath them in the winter and the sun would shine brightly through the windows and doors. The balcony was huge and looked out onto the road and the walnut tree across from us, and the kitchen was always cool in the summer. Our bedrooms were upstairs, in the rafters, with secret cubby holes and sanctuaries, light coming in through the skylights, peaceful until it would rain and then all hell would break loose on the roof, a symphony of raindrops clattering down, drowning out all other sound. The summer storms in the Isère were always quite spectacular, the city and surrounding areas protected by the mass of the Vercors, Chartreuse and  Belledonne mountain ranges, but these walls of stone never stopped the sudden lashings of torrential rain, booms of thunder pounding over your head and rays of lightning landing wherever they felt destined to land. And an hour later the sky would be a pure blue for a little while, until the pollution crept back in again to change it to grey-blue.

There are memories of hiking in the Vercors, around the areas where Jean Prévost and his contemporaries fought the Nazis and were betrayed; along the little streams and rivers that fell down the mountain sides, sometimes grouping up into waterfalls and natural pools under the trees, a slight danger if you got too close, the rushing and the clashing of the water over the century smoothed stone and down into the pool below. Fresher and cleaner than the swimming pool, with big rocks to use for sunbathing and picnicking and caves up ahead for those who would rather explore the inside of the rock than the outside.

I’m not one for rose-tinting my childhood, but there was something special about those years lived in Sassenage, the summers spent free and sometimes carefree, outside in the sun and the rain, running errands through the village, learning French as the days and the years passed. Writing letters to friends far away and waiting impatiently for the postman to stop by on his bike every morning, hoping that he would leave something in the letterbox for me.  I used to write and receive so many letters, and I have kept every single letter received, but that is a story for another time.

I’m sure Sassenage is nowadays more of a little town than a village, but I do hope that the old village centre has kept its sleepy charm, the little river cascading through it, down from the mountain above, and that all of the little streets and shops and old stone houses still carry the stories from different eras, from war and Occupation and Liberation, from Revolution, from bustling market days of centuries past and those days when the roads were carved into the mountains and the legend of the mermaid was not even a legend yet, but real llife. Special little place that will always be dear to my heart… I wonder how our walnut tree is faring and if the cherry trees in the back still bloom as strongly as they did back then…

Chemin du Vinay… <3

Jean Prévost

Sassenage in Photos

We could see this beautiful chateau from our house - many a day I would daydream about living there.

Ramblings: Orchard between Houston & Stanton

While I haven't actually worked on Orchard St for 11 months now (which coincides with the current length of Luna's life plus 2 weeks), and I haven't been back for a while now due to winter months and new pregnancy and little munchkin who hates traveling in the cold, I have so many wonderful memories of the years I worked and played on that small block between Houston and Stanton.

Today is the last day Taqueria LES will be open before being demolished (they will be reopening on St Marks later this week thank goodness), and I don't know if 200 will be open after this week either. Both of them my old places of work, so many friends made, shots drank, pints poured and margaritas shaken. So many memories, mostly good, some bad, some a little cringeworthy, and some just simply wonderful (how about meeting the father of my children and finally settling down for one?).

Lunches of Swiss cheese omelet a and fries at the French Diner before opening up the bar on a Tuesday or Wednesday night, strong tea and a bagel from Sugar before a long double behind the bar at Taqueria, shorts and Doc Martens in the summer, stomping down the street, drinks and shots after work with everyone, walking up the street day in, day out, sliding on the ice, gliding through the humidity. Veggie sides from Georgia's and cheese quesadillas with guacamole, dealing with leaking basement roofs at 2am on a Saturday night while 6 months pregnant, Rock Trivia every week at 200, hummus and falafel dinners from Bereket, late, late nights and early, early mornings, special breakfast sandwiches from Sugar at 5am and so many wonderful people in and out of each other's lives, leaving a lasting mark and a memory forever.

I won't see the block again before it is partially demolished and transformed into condos. I don't know if I really want to. But a while back I took a bunch of black and white photos of the block and of a lot of the people who made that block home for me. It doesn't have everyone on it, but it's a good glimpse of what it was like at that moment in time.

The Orchard St photo album is HERE.

Great memories and great friends; wonderful times and wonderful people.

Ramblings: Golden, Rusty Days

This is actually a combination of two unfinished pieces that I thought worked well together. So many half-finished pieces "in process", I'm going to try to finish what I can this year!

When I think back to those days they seem golden, hazy and golden, like a fluffy white cloud surrounded by late afternoon sun rays. Even though I know they weren’t really, they were full of unnecessary worry and timidity and longing and soul searching (as well as fun and games and friendship and love and passion and many a bottle of wine). If I close my eyes I see myself back then: slim (even though I thought I wasn’t), scared (of everything), worried (I wasn’t good enough for anything), unsure about my looks (wishing I were prettier), happy (because I had wonderful friends), in love (I feel like I was always in love in my late teens and early 20’s), sad (because I only fell in love with the guys who were not in love with me), bored (because I had no idea what I was going to do with my life) and crazy (the number of stories I have regarding my group of friends and our nights out is phenomenal).

The amount of freedom we had in those days in incredible. Even more incredible is the fact that we didn’t even realize it. We had no real responsibilities apart from turning up to our classes at university and passing the year and making it to work on time (if we had jobs). For the first two years I lived at home, the last two shared an apartment in the city with my best friend at the time. We both worked part time and spent the rest of the time on “campus”, going to class, hanging out with our friends in our regular bars, and roaming the city at night drinking wine and causing all types of mayhem. Those days come with a soundtrack by The Cure, Mylene Farmer, Bob Dylan, Muse, Placebo, Marilyn Manson, Bauhaus, and mixed tapes, rolling down hills in the dark and many a long night discussing everything that we would like to change one day.

I love how easy it is to look at everything more clearly but coincidentally through rose-tinted glasses, gold-edged but slightly rusty, sepia-toned in the light of the afternoon. Strings of happiness, sometimes thinning out, sometimes broken, some areas rugged with knots, but pulled tight through the years. Lanes that span through the countryside and the hills, through the cities and over beaches and oceans, coming across dead ends and turning back to choose the other side of the fork in the road that had appeared a few miles or a few hundred miles earlier. Pulling those strings with every step, stopping to reinforce them or to tie two broken ends back together again. So is life, we just never know what a right turn may bring, and such is the beauty of it all.

It was half a lifetime ago, that 18 year old me. 18 years later and while so much has changed, I am still her, just a lot older, a lot less scared, more knowledgeable (I hope), more cynical and less trusting. Nowadays I stand up for myself without even thinking about it, not worrying what someone else is going to think if I open my mouth.

You know that thing you do when you are able to pretend that you are all sorted and together on the outside when your insides are melting in anguish? That won’t really go away. It just gets a little easier to let go sometimes and stop pretending that everything is OK. Nothing bad will happen the day that you drop everything and burst into tears in front of a bunch of strangers. We are all human and the only person you have to prove something to is to yourself. Remember that.

Don’t change anything; everything has its own way of working out just fine in the end. You are going to make some wonderful decisions and some really, really stupid ones. You are going to travel to places and meet people, fall in and out of love. You are going to smoke too many cigarettes and drink too many glasses of straight vodka (my head hurts even thinking about it). You are going to hurt some people and some people are going to hurt you. You are also going to make some people very, very happy, and others are going to make you happy too.

There are days when you will not want to leave your bed, but you do. It is worth it. All those mornings getting up at the crack of dawn after a few hours sleep. It is worth it. All those late nights, working, in bars, reading books, dancing in the streets, they are all worth it. All those journal entries, day after day of rambling thoughts, they are all worth it. All those words left unsaid, they are all worth it.

I promise you, you will fall in love again. Many times. You will get your heart broken again, quite a few times, and you will also break a few hearts yourself. It may take time, but when the real thing hits you, it will hit you with such power that you will fall over. Love isn’t always all happiness and birds of paradise, but once you have it you will never let go. Never lose hope. Just continue to do what you always do, when life gets tough, hug those you have close to you, look after them, pick up the pieces and continue on your path.

There will be forks in the road, and there will be times when you get lost and go round in circles. There will be times when you turn back in your footsteps, backwards towards the last fork so you can take another direction. Some things just won’t work out, no matter how hard you try, and other things will just have a knack of falling into place without any effort at all.

I can’t say “don’t do that” or “watch out for that” because everything that you go through is part of learning to be yourself and how to deal with whatever life throws at you. Just know that whatever happens, it will all work out in the end, even though there are times when everything seems worthless and wrong. I promise you, it will all be OK in the end. You will turn out OK. Well, I am still working on that part now, but I suppose that is a continuous work in progress, right? I am more than OK.

I suppose that one day these current days will feel so far away and I will look at them in the same way, remembering life in New York City, pregnant with my second child while cuddling and kissing my first. Every moment full of beauty and joy. May we all aim to live and love a life full of everything we aspire to, the simple and the complicated, because in the end it is all worth it.

Ramblings: My English Summers

It’s funny, because after years of feeling pulled between England and France, the former my place of birth and the latter where I grew up, I ended up thousands of miles away in NYC, a place I had never visited before I moved there. This is a memory of how my summers usually happened between the ages of 16 and 22. I’m sure the trains are not the same anymore and I know for a fact that the Eurostar now goes to Kings Cross (if that had been the fact when I used it it would have made my life so much better). This is not one specific summer, just a recollect of many summers in one. It's been quite a few years since I spent a summer in England.

There was a train that went from Grenoble straight up to Brussels, stopping at Paris and Lille on its way, every morning around 4am. It’s was TGV that arrived in Lille four and a half hours later, where you could catch a two hour train to London. So, basically, within half a day or so you could comfortably travel from the south east of France to London, while watching the beautiful countryside pass you by. The rails ran through mountains and valleys, some flat lands and then skirted around the big cities so that you only saw the smoke from afar. In London you would need to change stations, Waterloo to Kings Cross, and then jump on the GNER up to Peterborough. From Peterborough there was just one more train to Stamford, and once you got there you would be home. Home for the summer anyway. All in less than a day; the most stressful part being the Tube journey between the two train stations in London, especially when you were carrying suitcases and would have to lug them up and down the spiral stairs without any help.

Where was home? France where I grew up? England where I was born and where I spent every summer? Both? I never really knew… As soon as the school year began to end and the fete de la musique was over I started to yearn for England, for the little villages in Rutland, for my job at the pub, for my family in England, for my little room in the corner of the old cottage, for the little Jack Russell who cuddled up next to me every evening and for my friends who I hadn’t seen for a year. Whenever the end of August drew near I started to miss my home in Grenoble, my friends in the city, our wild parties and long, long conversations over coffee followed by wine. I was pulled in both directions, one way towards the countryside and the other way towards the city; the countryside in England and the city in France. I knew that one day I would make up my mind for good, but until then the back and forth between the two countries worked out pretty well.

Rutland is the smallest county in England, nestled between Lincolnshire, Leicestershire and Cambridgeshire. For a while it lost its right to be a county and was divided up into Lincolnshire and Leicestershire, but it rightfully became a county again in the early 90’s. The main (only) town of the county is Oakham, and the main attraction of the area is Rutland Water, the largest man-made reservoir in England. Not the place you go to swim, but a lovely place to go for picnics, walks, bike rides, late night hang-outs with your friends and to go to get drunk or high. There is an old church still standing in the water, Normanton Church, which I would love to sit near every time I was there. The county is spotted with many small villages, and everyone knows everyone, even if you don’t happen to come from the same village. Everyone goes (or went) to the same schools and to the same pubs and clubs. I was born in Rutland and spent the first few years of my life in a tiny village called Manton. That’s where my grandfather and my father are buried, but probably not where I will be buried once I am gone. I left Manton early enough to not consider it my home anymore.

Empingham became the place I could consider home, where some of my family in England lives. Where there is one main road, one village shop, one tiny Post Office and one pub. A bus comes through the village a few times a day passing through to pick up passengers travelling to Oakham or Stamford, but other than that you need a car, or a bike, or just your own two feet. The amount of times I remember walking or riding a bike the 6 miles between Manton and Empingham, or just picking up my bike and riding around the reservoir, taking in the peace and quiet that were always available, wherever you went. The graveyard was the meeting point for a lot of us; we would sit on the old tombs, smoke cigarettes and joints and talk about everything and nothing. Before making our way over to the pub for a pint or six. The same pub that I worked at every summer for years, saving up money for the rest of the year.

Days were longer. The sun sets later and rises earlier in England in the summer than it does in Grenoble, where the city is surrounded by mountains. It always used to surprise me to look outside at 10pm and to see that it wasn’t dark yet. But once the sun had gone down, the village would be cloaked in darkness, a slight light from the street lamps along Main Street, and sometimes light from the moon, but other than that darkness. And silence. I only hear that silence in Rutland. I used to love walking home from the pub after an evening shift and sit on the bench by the clinic, smoke a couple of cigarettes and listen to the silence. Once you have worked in a pub or bar you really appreciate pure silence, no one asking you for anything, no loud music, no banging of glasses and bad singing, just the sound of your thoughts bashing against each other in your head until they finally settle enough for you to sleep.

My friend Danny would often meet me on the bench before I went home for a chat about the world and how we could make it right again. A chat about old times and new times, about our lives between the summers and about what we would be up to once the summer ended. I loved to write letters at the time and we would write to each other during the year and then catch up again in the summer, and sometimes at Christmas if we happened to be celebrating Christmas in England that year. I have kept all of my correspondence over the years, since we left England when I was a child, and cherish all of those letters that I have. So many different people, some that I am still in contact with via social media, and others who I have no idea where they are. I don’t know why I keep that huge box of letters, but I just can’t bear to part with it.

When you wake up in the morning in a tiny village all you can hear are the birds singing (so many of them) and then maybe an odd car here and there and people chatting on the street corner. I think back towards the gloomy, rainy days and the beautiful sunny days. The walks along Rutland Water, alone with my walkman or with others. The butterfly farm by Sykes Lane (sadly no more), that smell of Rutland Water, indescribable, but just the smell of the water; walks along the back lanes where every mile or so there is a farm or just an old farm house, little streams and miles of green and yellow and blue, hills wherever you look, puffy clouds in the sky and blackberries ready to be picked for blackberry crumble.

What about those nights spent dancing at Central (nightclub) in Stamford with Louise (going right back to 95, dancing to Underworld while drinking too many WKD). I got my first tattoo in Stamford, just walked in and got It done, and then hid it for ages. It actually still looks good today surprisingly enough. Or the time that Zoe and I went to Stamford on the bus, paying half fare (I got away with it as I looked young, and Zoe wasn’t 16 anyway), and we spent all our money except for the bus fare… And the bus driver refused to let us on if we couldn’t pay full fare, because if we could smoke cigarettes then we couldn’t be under 16, could we? Staying up late to watch Alternative Nation and Headbangers Ball on MTV, cooking dinners with my Nana and eating enough Linda McCartney veggie sausages and Walkers salt n vinegar crisps to last a lifetime.  Jacket potatoes and real cheddar cheese; watching the Olympics with Grandma and pondering my next steps in life; lambs in all the fields and Sunday lunches at the pub… Trips to Kent, to the seaside (Norfolk) and to London. So many photos stuck in albums and in boxes in our closets. So many stories to write, much much more than I can fit on here.

Who knows, maybe I will end up choosing England in the end, with my family. Or are my memories just nostalgia, tinted with pink and light purple, just memories and not reality? Or would it be just like every summer, I would end up missing my rest-of-the-year life, in another country, in a busier place? Even after 12 years away I still miss France, so much that it actually hurts sometimes, but even then I know that it is not the same place that I grew up in. I feel truly blessed that I was able to have place in a two different countries that I can consider home, still. One day I hope that my daughter will be able to say the same about the countries her parents grew up in. We are going to have to do a lot of traveling…

Rutland Water ©JadeAnnaHughes

Writing: Run, Run Away

I'm halfway through 3 different essays, one nostalgia piece and three music reviews but Luna isn't sleeping well this week which makes me even more tired than usual, so instead of writing I've been grouping up work from different times and trying to create something of a portfolio. Anyway, four years ago I was trying to write a novel. I got about a quarter into it when I realised that every "chapter" was a little too close to my life, and kind of drifted away, telling myself I would get back to it one day. Every "chapter" was based on a different time in my life, and in the end they were all supposed to come together as intertwined small stories. I never finished it, but there are some fun flashbacks to a time and place in the past. The teenage years are the best - it appears I was able to really tap back into my teenage self's mind, even at the age of 32! Some pieces are even more personal than this one, I may or may not post them all one day...

I loved that Metallica shirt...

Run, Run Away

Light my candles in a daze cos I found God – Nirvana, Lithium

Everything was running around and around in my head.

I fucked up my whole life. A year ago I was at school, responsible, not really missing class, getting good grades and basically just getting through it all. Now I am a high school drop-out, I don’t have a job and I spend my days hanging out with my friends, listening to music, getting high and writing poetry. I am not even looking for a job, all I want to do is stop existing in my own body and in my own head. I look in the mirror and I see the same face every single day. Boring big brown eyes, boring long brown hair, boring skinny body, boring, boring, boring. On really bad days I just want to cover myself up and hide behind my hair. Ripped jeans, old t-shirts, large sweaters and flannel shirts, scuffed Docs. On better days I will wear an old dress and make-up, with the trust-worthy scuffed Docs. Maybe the green ones if I am feeling extra happy. Black eyeliner and red nail polish. I know I’m not normal, but I just can’t force myself to try anymore. Maybe if I hide for long enough I’ll just disappear. Maybe if I get high enough I’ll fly off into a different world full of rainbows and butterflies. I doubt anyone will notice much anyway, I have just become a burden on others.

It nearly happened last week in the park. The usual crowd was there, hanging out, talking about everything and nothing. Some guy came up to us and asked us if we wanted to share a joint. He looked normal enough, so I said yes. He passed it around, some declined as they had to go back to class, but a few of us finished it off. Next thing I know I am lying down in the grass in a haze of bliss. The sun was shining on my face and I could hear voices in the background, but I felt soft and fuzzy, and on another plane. All feeling in my body left me, except for a perfect feeling of numbness, just perfect. That state that I always want to be in but can never find. Well that was it. I suppose people tried to move me, but I was in another world, a world I had no intention of leaving. Then my mum turned up and literally carried me home with someone else and put me on my bed – I barely remember that, except I think that I was laughing because my legs wouldn’t hold me upright. I could hear everything Mum and Grandma were talking about in the kitchen, but I couldn’t move from my blissful haze. Then I got up and had a cup of coffee and acted like the normal human being I am not. And I didn’t even get in trouble for it. I suppose Mum isn’t going to yell at me for something that she knows I am going to do again anyway. I’ll just make sure to never smoke with that guy again, because as much as I want to be away from reality, I can’t do that to my mum. If that was heroin I want it again and I never want it again.

I get so angry at myself and the world around me. A few weeks ago I had a bad day and I just wanted everyone to leave me alone in peace, to sit on my windowsill and listen to Nirvana, smoke cigarette after cigarette and dream of another life. But instead I had to sit down to dinner and listen to my sister talk about her new boyfriend and go on about school and have to answer my mum when she asked me what I had been up to all day. I wasn’t really going to say that I spent hours dreaming about moving to Seattle and marrying Kurt Cobain who had miraculously reappeared from the dead, divorced Courtney Love and fallen madly in love with a much more beautiful version of myself. So I just mumbled something unintelligible and pretended to eat my pasta. My sister started asking Mum for some money and then went on to make some sarcastic comments how I wasn’t even doing anything to earn any money and I still got everything I wanted. I couldn’t help it… Up went my fork and slammed straight down onto her hand, and up went my glass and smashed against the tile floor. I screamed something along the lines of “Fuck you all I hate you!”, grabbed my jacket, cigarettes and keys and legged it out of the house. I had no idea where I was going, but I wasn’t going back. Ever. I wandered around for a while, crying silently, then called a friend from a telephone booth by the park. She couldn’t really help, seeing as her parents were listening in, and to be honest I don’t think she really understands the depth of everything I have gone through over the past few months, few years even. It’s not her fault, I haven’t explained much of my life story to her. The less people know the less they feel sorry for me. Things are better kept bottled up inside rather than out there in the wild unknown. People use this type of information against you, or they treat you differently. I don’t want to stand out and I don’t want to fit in either. I don’t know what I want anymore. In any case it isn’t here and no one can help me. I stayed at another friend’s house and went home in the morning. She called my mum to let her know I was allright, even though I told her that she should just keep them guessing… But Mum was already worried enough, so I suppose that’s how it should be. I scream and cry and mess up and then apologise and am forgiven. I feel allright for a few days, even happy sometimes, and then it happens again. I’m a mess, and really a waste of space.

I picked up a knife yesterday and spent 30 minutes contemplating it from all angles. It was a big knife, and sharp enough to draw enough blood in order to die. I thought about how my father must have contemplated ending his life and wondered how long he had thought about it. Did he think it over for days or weeks beforehand? Did he make a conscious decision on how he was going to perform his final act on earth, or did he act on a whim? Did he just wake up and do it? Did he even think of his kids when he decided he had had enough? Did he shoot up on enough heroin to not feel the pain, or was he sober and completely aware of his actions? I turned the knife around in my hands and felt more and more agitated when the phone rang. It was Alicia, telling me she had a feeling I wasn’t doing too well and had left school and was on her way to get me out of the house. Such good friends are special. I just want to feel numbness. Not death, not pain, just numbness. Drugs and alcohol are a safer and easier bet. Nothing like the gentle numbness of good hash, the floaty feeling, and the heavy eyelids closing, surrounded by music and soft voices.

Poor thing, poor thing
Do you have a sister?
Would you lay your body
Down on the tracks for her? – Belly, Someone To Die For

Hash brings happiness and sleep, alcohol brings silliness and joy. I can never mix the two as the point is to disappear into a different dimension of life, not spend my time puking in the toilet bowl. I learnt that lesson well, if you don’t mix then you outlast everyone. Weak stomachs don’t enjoy too much of a variety of good things, but if you only do one kind of good thing you can do as much of it as you want. Yes, I will drink you under the table, and yes I will continue to drink long after you have finished. I don’t need to stop, it’s not like anyone really cares anyway. When I drink I feel free. When I drink I feel like I can be part of the world, talk to people, dance for hours on end, and write lyrics to songs that I may compose one day. Most days I feel like I can be myself without having to worry about people talking about me behind my back. I can actually talk to people I have just met without thinking I sound like an idiot. I feel so much stronger and ready to face this world I am part of without wanting to be part of it. I wish I could feel like this all of the time, just naturally. Sometimes I do, but I can never count on those sunny days, and at the moment they are so rare that I feel they will never come back. So give me all of the substances I can find because I need them to exist right now.

I feel ugly and stupid. Technically I know that I am neither, but I just can’t get myself to actually believe it. Why would anyone be interested in me anyway? Who really cares to hear me talk about Russian literature and how beautiful it is, or how Bikini Kill have affected my life? Who wants to hear me talk about my obsession with the French Resistance during WW2 and how I feel like I was part of it in a former life? I like to think I was like Jacqueline, my favourite character in Marge Piercy’s Gone To Soldiers. Strong, beautiful and so loyal she would fight through all dangers to protect those she loved. I want to strive to be like that, but I am too scared. I rebel against everything and then hide when I feel like my inner self is becoming too strong. I constantly battle between my shyness and my outgoing real self. Can one not live with the other? Why can’t I just let what is inside stomp the shy part out? I’m just too scared to let go of these walls. They have protected me from everything since, well, since forever.

I’m only 17 for fuck’s sake! Some days I feel like I have seen and lived through so much that I don’t know what else I can be put through. Death and violence and hatred and love and joy and pain and fear. Religions and prayer and different countries and different languages and different countries. I’ve read so many books and have so many more to read. I write and write and destroy most of what I write. Who cares about poems full of questions and dark images and death? I’ll never be as good as Baudelaire or Rimbaud so why even try? What are normal 17 years olds supposed to be doing? School and boyfriends and music and hanging out with friends? I just left school but I have boyfriends, listen to music constantly, go and see bands, get thrown around the mosh pit, drink, smoke a lot of hash and Marlboro Lights and hang out with my friends wherever we feel like meeting. Church steps, music store, café, park… Anywhere where we can sit and talk for hours. I sometimes like my boyfriend, I sometimes think I could love him, but he tends to annoy me after a while, especially when he tells me how much he loves me. How on earth can he think he loves me when I am such a mess inside and out? Does he not see what he is getting himself in to? How could I even love anyone else when I don’t even love myself. Most days I literally hate myself! Most days I wake up crying and wish I didn’t exist anymore. How can I make this better? I feel so old and angry and hurt and just want it all to go away. I’m just tired of being inside my brain all of the time.

Pigalle, Paris. Coffee, cigarette, writing. Happy to see that my style hasn't changed in 19 years.