Stay Golden

Tous les Même

There was something in her eyes. For Paris it may have been all the same- to me it was not. The way her hands moved. The curly roots of her hair pulled into a top knot. Her full lips stained red. Plump, they sucked the life from her cigarette and in that moment I wanted to be her. Middle aged with smooth pore less skin, there was something familiar to her presence. It was all the same, yet different.


As I sipped my coffee the steam seducing me with the aroma of richness, I realized she was the woman you never wanted to fall in love with. She sat alone in the cafe for a reason. For if you tried to join her, if you dare tried to love her you would never be able to turn back. She would demand every ounce of love in your veins. You see, as a stranger looking from afar- the cafe was still. There was little movement because she demanded my focus. I could not divert my eyes.

Her average blouse and coat were all the same. However, it accentuated her jawline, sharp and tender, and that gorgeous collarbone. As a woman I couldn’t help but wonder what men 20 years ago thought of her. Did she tease them, or was she teased? How many times was she properly loved? What does properly even amount to?

She was mysteriously divine. The smoke clouding around her was the warning sign- don’t you get close. It was all the same smoke, with a specific message. The ashtray was becoming cluttered, and as I rummaged through my coin purse ready to exit, I glanced back at this woman allowing her silhouette to stain my memory.

I was possessed by her aura. When her eyes finally caught mine- they smiled. Women with those eyes are quite rare. They are the women who sit alone in the cafe with their cigarette loving only their solitude. It is the women who are certain of themselves that can smile with their eyes. She peacefully pierced my gaze. Slipping beyond the door to the cafe, the rest of Paris kept moving. It was all the same. 


Leather Shields

To the moments we never forget.

The room is frosty at 5:00 AM in New York City. My leather secures me from the frigid devil nipping at my toes and the edges of my ears. I am stumbling along the spiral staircase, clumsy and disorganized. I can feel his hands acting as my only guidance. Those hands are the pillar allowing me to levitate above the bare concrete. I plaster myself against the only warmth in the room. I can smell the emotion, the sexual tension is flowing from the ends of my hair, rippling off the walls and outlining our silhouettes. I can taste the weakness on my tongue lingering behind the traces of vodka. The desperation was pouring through my skin.

I was unstable, yet placed my boots neatly on a table. The gold cuff lacerating my arm joined the small army of my belongings. Everything had its place, in an unfamiliar place. My bareness accompanied the terror. Yet, somehow that terror electrified me. The bones of my body felt brittle, while my muscles relaxed into an abyss of h and comfort. I was safe without knowing what that meant. A moment of trust done right.

I remember his skin. That soft skin, melting into the darkness of the room. As a child I was always afraid of the dark. I was afraid of the unknowing creatures and thoughts that darkness brought out. In these moments, I have realized that child no longer exists. In that darkness I felt clothed and I became scathingly hungry. Perhaps it was the breath caressing my collarbone, my shoulder, my elegantly long fingers that left me burned. I was scorched by what was sensible and what I desired. Sensibility dies alongside lust.

It is now 10:00 AM in New York City. The same beautiful darkness wakes me, the leather lays lifeless on the ground. The leather I wear is my protector- a stiff shield from those attempting to grasp what they are not yet ready to understand. My pants dig, stretch, and collide with emotions never leaving me after nights of pure sweet darkness.

Lady in Black

photo (15)Black is when a smoker leans into a cigarette. It is the moment between the inhale and the exhale. That’s what black is. Black is the second before anticipation and the instant release following pleasure.

Black makes little sense, yet is always sensible. It is always witty yet excruciatingly bookish. Black is everything you want it to be.  It is who you are and also who you wish you were.

It is not simply a color- not merely something on a palette of “others”. Black is deserving of more than that. You see, black is a state of mind.  It is a state of mind only the wild can love. It is meant for those who find it mundane to walk barefoot in the jungle.

Why? Because it is a love affair with the fiercest man you will ever be with in your lifetime. Black looks dashing in a tux and rustic in worn out jeans. It is an affair with the most luscious of women- the woman who is curved and draped in silk.  Black will leave you feeling desperate. You will always be hungry, because black never satisfies. It knows how little to give, and always how much to take.

Black is only for those powerful enough to run with it. The creatures are so decadent and furious that he or she is rightfully chosen for this elite society.

What is black to me? Black is everything and nothing. Black is in the air and in the water. Black is a beauty, a damn treasure.

Let it Burn

I experienced a truly transformative moment a few weeks ago as I sat silently staring at the ceiling. The hysteria ensued in the same way I fell in love. It was sloppy and unpredictable, harsh and jagged. My body was convulsing as I laughed those deep, wholesome laughs that creep its way up your esophagus.  The recollection of the sweat, tears, and heartache began its voyage of release. My eyes became glassy because I realized perhaps, in some sick, twisted way…I had thrived. I was granted the power to save myself.

Agitated and quick tempered, I was bitter as though the world broke that part of me pumping on the inside. I forgot what it felt like to progress- to position one foot in front of the other. Mystified in the abyss of what I passionately ached for, and what existed as my reality, I became stagnant. United together as two beings, we were unable to endure. I wanted to hide from those emotions that were dense and forget how much of myself I had sacrificed.

How dare I hide from the feelings that have scorched my insides? I needed to taste the repulsive nature of regret. How would I describe the taste of being broken? I suppose it possesses a pungent bite of rage. I even owned a bit of self-pity and denial. I was digging within myself to feel something, taste something, and see something. My emotional Mecca was clearly becoming visible.

I had begun to celebrate my history, the wounds, and the anger. Slowly, peeling away at the edges of my soul, there was beauty among whatever made relationships so deliciously maddening. Darling, I refused to accept a part time love. And instead I shed the cocoon of the me that once was. Sipping on something heavy and musky, I let it burn and brand this new me. The me that should be…the me that will be.


I am a firm giver, a helper, a stubborn negotiator. I want to hug tight, kiss hard, and cry only when no one is watching. I am addicted not to a substance, but rather a feeling.

The beautiful souls that I call my friends, my famiy, my brothers, my sisters- they all have extended apart of themselves to me. In little bits and pieces, the stories have unfolded. Some have unfolded like neat little packages, others have unfolded among chaos, with burnt and torn edges. But nonetheless the stories, the baggage that we all carry is revealed. Those thin slices of our memories are stripped away. And this is how we grow into each other, this is how we realize that we, as humans, as lovers, as soulmates, were meant to meet. We allow each other to give and take from our baggage- not necessarily in monumental ways, but simply lending an ear, sharing our pasts, and realizing that we can save each other from our own darkness. This process allows us to become rooted to each other.

I love you because I want to know your past. I want to dip into the parts of you that make you nervous- the parts that make your hands shake a bit and your head to become muddy with emotions. I grant you the persmission to give and take what we both have learned and what we passionately wish to learn from each other in the future. I love you not because of where you are now, but because of that journey that has allowed you the courage to have made it here. I am addicted to being the one you seek refuge in because I know no other way- I know no other way to give myself to you. It is that moment of realization that I am not equipped to save everyone, that makes me fearful.

Perhaps the relentless nature of being a Capricorn will always define me. The inability to rid myself of my addiction, will always determine who is strong enough to be in these pull and tug relationships with me. I wonder if our souls were equipped to be addicted to anything- people, emotions, ideas, passions. If I am addicted to saving others, I wonder then if I am capable of saving myself. How much of ourselves should we give? When does giving too much become dangerous?

Get out of the jungle

“Living” in New York City- okay traveling here every month since July I have been exposed to the intricacies of the city life. The people, the nightlife, the emotions, the hardships. I can’t help but feel like Carrie Bradshaw. Sitting by the snowy filled streets with my thoughts in hand contemplating a future book deal I feel compelled to squeeze out every emotion in this post. Swinging in and out of the NYC nightlife- the clubs, the drugs, the beautifully flawed people. Some are my friends, some merely faces that at the right time, with the right amount of alcohol are recognizable. The irony of this city, is that even when you are surrounded by hundreds, drink in hand, the music bashing against your hips – you can feel completely alone. You become vulnerable to the one person you want, the one person who may not necessarily give you the time of day. 

The game is alive more than ever here. That ridiculous game that you want to believe everyone eventually grows out of. The game of dating, swinging from person to person, communicating merely to fill your own ego. It is all alive and electrified in this place of millions. We are all hurt. We have all been hurt. We all come from hidden stories filled with aches and pain, and we are all jaded. So we fall into the trap of becoming a piece in the game because there seems to be no other option. 

We forget to remain human. We forget that becoming a piece on that gameboard is harmful, it’s toxic.  Much like animals in a jungle, we program ourselves to survive and look out for ourselves alone. To hunt, prey, sleep- somehow in the frenzy of survival we  forget to let our guards down. We miss the idea that to be human and to survive means you must also love. You must also drench yourself in beautiful emotions of passion, and untouchable bliss. The sex will fulfill you to some degree, the alcohol will calm you, the drugs will sedate your mind and emotions, but nothing will  make you feel what it feels to be loved by another. To relate to someone who accepts your flaws, and appreciates your past regardless of where you come from. There is nothing more calming than touching the skin of another who wants to make love to your soul, not simply your body. 

Carrie and Big found their way out of the jungle- I wish the same for each and every one of you. 

You have to do …

You have to do what you believe in and stay with it. Never give it up …. not everyone will agree with you. Don’t worry about the next guy. Don’t look over your shoulder. Don’t worry that he may be right. You know how to do it. Keep going.


I am drooling.


Between jet setting from Miami to New York City in the past two weeks- (dare I say I am alive?) I have tousled with my emotions of being a lover of all things urban, industrial, and city like. I want to be that person that can fall in love with a country side- but as I weaved my way among the scorched pavement of Manhattan I found myself in a trance. To truly love this city, I believe you have to love it all. You have to embrace its chaos, garbage, density- and allow it to overlap with its sense of vibrancy, ingenuity, and charm. I mentally sucker punch those who complain about New York’s loudness, diversity, and wit. I have always known it as a city that discards of the weak and futile. Darwin would applaud this thought, but what I have learned on my many journeys to Manhattan is that if you are a minimalist, stay out of this city. The cramped, cluttered, and overdecorated skyline makes me lustful for patterned interiors, and excess of accessories on my wrists. 


Swaying from the Palm for bar bites, to the Upper West side where I rested on my favorite friend’s rooftop- NYC treated me well this July. Don’t forget the property envy of the floor to ceiling windows of my friend’s father’s pad- drool all you want loves, watch out for the keyboard. But as always I realize when waiting for the subway, or biting into the most decadent of cakes in Manhattan, perhaps I was always destined to have my greatest love affair with this city. (Credit goes to Carrie Bradshaw for that one, SATC fans rejoice!)

Golden iPhone


An impromptu photo shoot for an up and coming fashion site led me to the discovery of beautiful iPhone photography. I am a bit late- but truly, the toss up was between a Sony cyber shot and the iPhone. My confidante Amanda and I made the obvious decision to ditch the digital, go straight for the iPhone 5. The photos came out brilliant. A bit of editing for exaggerated colors- but overall the shots were good to go. There is an entire world of albums filled with iPhone camera gurus- why am I now hopping on the bandwagon?

I suppose I am attached at the hip to my mobile device. An iPhone 4S, I play, call, text, Instagram, and devour a lot of my world through this techno box. Perhaps, I want to rely LESS on this device- deem myself a bit more “earthy”? I want to be the kid that can ditch the advance electronics and go for the film camera. I would like to appear more….authentic?  But with a bloody brilliant camera as it is-@#$%^&!. One more use to let it hang around in my back jean pocket a bit longer.

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Photography: Amanda Bertizlian