Friday

skipped school

Saturday

woke up but then went right away back to sleep; 10 o’clock on a Saturday morning is a dreadful hour to get out of bed

horrible, horrible weather outside, but still went Photowalking; well, I did only the walking, Gramo, Oompa and Eros did the photo-walking

curiosity killed the cat

come and join us!

happy photowalkers

Sunday

Laura baked a delicious apple cake

went to Gramo to see the Gramo-kittens - they are adorable!!!!!; too bad Gramo-kid wasn’t at home

got a new musical obsession: Jay-Jay Johanson *thank you, Gramo-boy!*

he brought me chocolate and Charlie and the chocolate factory movie; thank you

Yeah, it was an amazingly busy weekend, but it was fuuun!

“I think she’s married and quieted down and maybe right in this very city.”

He considered a moment. “No,” he said, and shook his head. “I’ll tell you why. If she was in this city I’d have seen her. You take a man that likes to walk, a man like me, a man’s been walking in the streets going on ten or twelve years, and all those years he’s got his eye out for one person, and nobody’s ever her, don’t it stand to reason she’s not there? I see pieces of her all the time, a flat little bottom, any skinny girl that walks fast and straight — ” He paused, as though too aware of how intently I was looking at him. “You think I’m round the bend?”

“It’s just that I didn’t know you’d been in love with her. Not like that.”

I’d been living in the house about a week when I noticed that the mailbox belonging to Apt. 2 had a name-slot fitted with a curious card. Printed, rather Cartier-formal, it read: Miss Holiday Golightly; and, underneath, in the corner, Traveling. It nagged me like a tune: Miss Holiday Golightly, Traveling.

I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to see without being seen. She was still on the stairs, now she reached the landing, and the ragbag colors of her boy’s hair, tawny streaks, strands of albino-blond and yellow, caught the hall light. It was a warm evening, nearly summer, and she wore a slim cool black dress, black sandals, a pearl choker. For all her chic thinness, she had an almost breakfast-cereal air of health, a soap and lemon cleanness, a rough pink darkening in the cheeks. Her mouth was large, her nose upturned. A pair of dark glasses blotted out her eyes. It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to a woman. I thought her anywhere between sixteen and thirty; as it turned out, she was shy two months of her nineteenth birthday.

The room in which we stood (we were standing because there was nothing to sit on) seemed as though it were being just moved into; you expected to smell wet paint. Suitcases and unpacked crates were the only furniture. The crates served as tables. One supported the mixings of a martini; another a lamp, a Libertyphone, Holly’s red cat and a bowl of yellow roses. Bookcases, covering one wall, boasted a half-shelf of literature. I warmed to the room at once, I liked its fly-by-night look.

That’s very much on my schedule, and someday I’ll try to get around to it; but if it happens, I’d like to have my ego tagging along. I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany’s. […] She was still hugging the cat. “Poor slob,” she said, tickling his head, “poor slob without a name. It’s a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven’t any right to give him one: he’ll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don’t belong to each other: he’s an independent, and so am I. I don’t want to own anything until I know I’ve found the place where me and things belong together. I’m not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it’s like.” She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. “It’s like Tiffany’s,” she said.

“Why Traveling?”
“On my card?” she said, disconcerted. “You think it’s funny?”
“Not funny. Just provocative.”
She shrugged. “After all, how do I know where I’ll be living tomorrow? So I told them to put Traveling.”

Never mind why, but once I walked from New Orleans to Nancy’s Landing, Mississippi, just under five hundred miles. It was a light-hearted lark compared to the journey to Joe Bell’s bar. The guitar filled with rain, rain softened the paper sacks, the sacks spilt and perfume spilled on the pavement, pearls rolled in the gutter: while the wind pushed and the cat scratched, the cat screamed — but worse, I was frightened, a coward to equal José: those storming streets seemed aswarm with unseen presences waiting to trap, imprison me for aiding an outlaw.

Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door, she hesitated; she looked past me, past the boy still offering his cat (”Haifa dollar. Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it ain’t much”), and she shuddered, she had to grip my arm to stand up: “Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine.”

Then I made her a promise, I said I’d come back and find her cat: “I’ll take care of him, too. I promise.”

She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. “But what about me?” she said, whispered, and shivered again. “I’m very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what’s yours until you’ve thrown it away.

But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, and signed with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. Not Tiffany’s, but almost. Am joined at the hip with duhvine $enor. Love? Think so. Anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let you know address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it ever existed, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wanted to write her: that I’d sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing for divorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, I wanted to tell her about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It took weeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there were many false alarms — flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon inspection, were not him. But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warm-looking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now, certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.

Truman Capote - Breakfast at Tiffany’s

The first time I read Breakfast at Tiffany’s I wasn’t very impressed neither with the book nor with Holly. I was happy with my quiet life, I wasn’t thinking that much of one day simply packing and moving to another country and the translation was pretty bad as well. I’m not the kind of person who re-reads books, but I had to read this one again, I had to meet Holly once more and try to figure out where she got the power to leave everything and everyone behind.

This time I read the book in English and I liked it from the beginning to end. And, of course, I fell in love with Holly Golightly. She’s an extraordinary character! I just loved the way she cherished her independence and freedom more than anything; the way she say “darling” and how she was able to manipulate everyone around her; the fact she was so bohemian, that she didn’t know where she would be the next day and she couldn’t even care less about that; I loved her apartment with all the suitcases and crates scattered all over the place, always ready to be packed and taken away and I loved that fact she didn’t actually know what she wanted.

She is simply fascinating, but she’s just a character. I don’t think such people exist; we need a place we can call home, we need someone to be by our side, unfortunately, we care. But wouldn’t it be great to be like her? I, for one, wish I was…

Radiohead - Bullet proof

And another thing: black tea without milk or coffee creamer tastes like shit

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones, my bones

The Decemberists - The engine driver

Today I’ve missed him more than ever

… for an answer from the publishing house I went to the interview. I was very, very nervous but the lady who interviewed me was nice and I managed to cool down. She asked me about my previous work experience, about what I want to do after I finish university, stuff like that. I sent her an e-mail and told her the time intervals I can be there every day and she said she had to check with her boss and she would let me know. If I get this job, I’ll start on the 3rd of December. It would be the perfect Christmas present

… for my mother to finally realise she can’t control me. Just as she doesn’t like to financially support me, I don’t like being supported by her. I simply HATE the fact that I owe her so many things, that I still depend on her. I’m sick and tired of her threatening me to stop sending me money if I don’t do what she says. Yeah, I’m not the perfect grateful daughter she wants. No, I’m not at all ashamed/sorry for what I wrote about my aunt. That’s the truth and those are my feelings regarding her. I’m not the person to give second chances and I’m not a hypocrite to pretend that nothing happened and to continue going to her place and be all happy but deep down inside to wish I was anywhere else. And I don’t know why she made such a big fuss about that because it doesn’t concern her. I has nothing to do with the way she brought me up, but with the way I express myself or, to be more correctly, the way I can’t express myself: except to a few people who really got on my nerves and who made me incredibly angry, I have never been able to tell someone face to face what bothered me about them. I know it’s not normal and it’s not good, but I can’t help it. Anyways, what’s done is done and I really don’t feel like even trying to explain myself to her cause I know she won’t ever be able to actually understand me. She’s my mother, not my equal, not my friend. She doesn’t need to know everything I do/feel/want/am because she won’t understand and we’ll end up arguing. Therefore, I asked Jen to ban her IPs from my blog. I just hope I gave her the right ones

… for the day I would understand myself; the day I would know what I truly want to do with my life; the day I wouldn’t feel like running away from it all.

I’m going to a job interview; my very first job interview ever. I’m nervous, my hair’s a mess *but I’ll neatly tie it at the back of my head * and I don’t actually know what to say/do or what not to say/do. Hope I won’t be hyper and look too eager. Damn, it’s complicated stuff

Puck came to visit and she brought a friend Too bad uRMa didn’t like her

Get away from my tea!

Mother and daugther

Messy hair ftw!!!

Butter and Cup

Tea for two? The white teapot is a present from Vio Thank yoooouuuu

Boooooks!!!

I’m quitting my job on Monday. No job - no money. No money - no trip to Norway And I don’t want any kind of job. I want to work for another publishing house and that’s that. I was so used to the idea that I would going to Norway, that I would actually save money for something I really wanted. My CV is crap, I don’t really have experience in this domain, and the fact that I read doesn’t mean I’m good for this kind of work. Sending my CV to publishing houses and waiting for a reply is going to be bloody stressful. Shitty times are coming

I hate myself today.
I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I hate my face today.
I think I look so shitty.

I have some sweat everywhere.
I’m not even shaved.
My hair all greasy.
I look disgusting.

My eyes are glued.
My lips are chaffed.
My legs are prickling.
And plus I’m stinky today.

How can I date someone with a face like that?
I know you’re gonna dump me again,
And I am gonna cry.

Cuz you want a perfect girl,
And I’m not what you expected.
You want a perfect girl,
And I look shitty today.

Maybe I should put some makeup,
And find some crazy outfits.
But I am very tired today
And I don’t care if I’m not pretty.

Should be like these girls,
Skinny and great all the time.
I’m still wearing my slippers
And eat all the candies at home.

I should sleep more,
And stop going out everyday.
I should focus more,
And stop complaining today.

Tell me, How can I date someone with a face like that?
I know you’re gonna dump me again,
And I am gonna cry.

Cuz you want a perfect girl,
And I’m not so perfect.
You want a perfect girl,
And I look shitty today.

Tell me, how can I date someone with a face like that?
I know you’re gonna dump me,
And I am gonna cry.

Soko - Shitty day

Today is just one of those “I hate everyone / leave me the fuck alone” days.

I’m going to the airport to meet Vio! Oh boy, I can hardly wait!!!