This is a Romanov. She is strikingly beautiful. Though she is not the woman whose photograph would later captivate me, when I saw this image of Princess Olga and she took my breath away...I felt she was a good way to convey how I felt the day I DID see the visage of the stranger on the other end of the phone.

Dear Ether,

Somewhere in Odessa there is a photograph of me.  It might be stored away gently in a envelope.  It may be crudely covered in rubble in a dump.  But somewhere…..somewhere in the Ukraine there is a snapshot of me taken when I was in my mid 20’s.

The original keeper of the photo was a woman I never met.  She spoke no English and I no Russian.  My glossy print sat on her mantelpiece for about 5 years in her modest studio flat.  It shared space with images of her grandchildren, husband and daughter and a few tattered black and white photos that survived the war.

English gent is half Russian.  His mother is this woman’s daughter.  To me she was only known as Babushka.

I only spoke to her a few times on the phone.  I muttered foolish statements that English gent had taught me.  “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia” (I love you).  She laughed with good nature into the phone and repeated. “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia Tour-Jah” (I love you too).  It felt sad that I was crippled by language and couldn’t communicate with a woman who I knew had a tremendous history and warmth.  I had never been handicapped by language before—in fact, it was something I was so good at.  I always handed over the receiver feeling like a puppet who’d just done her job entertaining.

One day, I asked to see her photograph during a visit to English gent’s house.  His clan are a family of pale, fair-haired, light eyed, slim people.  Babushka was in her twenties in the photo I was shown.  She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall.  She had coffee-colored hair and brown pupils. I know it seems crazy, but I felt a sudden closeness to her.  I felt she was from my stock.  That English gent’s genes had all come from his father’s UK side (and even his mother was shockingly fair—she didn’t resemble Babushka at all).  Though I’m much taller, we were both the dark horses.  I asked English gent’s mom if I could send Babushka MY photo.  I felt if that made me feel a connection to her where words couldn’t, maybe my photo could create the same spark.

When she received my photo, Gent told me she cried.  That she “understood.”  She loved my dark looks—and it made her so happy that he was with someone who reminded her of her heritage.  After that, I made sure no longer to be a marionette on the phone but to have a translator and convey true feelings across the line.

But, as we all know, time is a harsh enemy.  And she was not young.  She no longer could speak on the phone or read letters.  And then she died.  When English gent’s mother went to her flat for the last time, she said she noticed my photo immediately.  It stood out more than the others and looked as though it had been fingered the most.  It was slightly dog-eared and had many fingerprints on its finish.  I like to think that she passed it around for many to see.  By the time Gent’s mom came back to clean the flat, the mantle had been tidied and to this day, those pictures have never resurfaced.

Though we never got to know each other, when we looked into one another’s eyes from so far away, we had an understanding.  I often wonder what my photo got to see in her little flat?  I wonder what aromas surrounded it as she cooked her traditional meals?

Wherever I am in Odessa, decaying in a landfill or safe in a drawer, at least I can say for a moment in time a picture spoke a thousand words for both of us.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

My words began to haunt me.......

Dear Ether,

To become haunted by oneself through ones own words is disturbing.  I would see the same pattern in my writing that happened in my real life.  I started out with promises of friendship, stories, fashion, beauty—and yes, life as it truly was (the good, the bad and the ugly).

But as time progressed, all I began to do was write about the bad and the ugly.  See Ethers, this is what always happens to me outside the sphere.  I lure people in, friendly with a sense of humor, witty banter about vacuous pop-culture.   I even look the part wearing trendy clothes and a big lip-glossed smile.  But as you get to know me, the facade cracks and all I am is gloss.  A shellac that you brush over worn out wood or cracking paint to make it appear glistening.  But, underneath this varnish, what you have is damage that needs repairing.  And even through my anonymity, my veil, I still couldn’t stop from being who I was.  I could have hit the delete button or not published certain stories—but I did.  In doing so, One of 365 just became another ugly appendage of the human being sitting in front of the screen.  I was afraid of people leaving me.  Becoming bored of me.  I felt self-conscious, like I was moaning about the same woes for months and no matter what advice I was given, couldn’t change.  Being deserted again horrified me.  I couldn’t bear being a failure in yet another forum of my life.  So, I pulled a Houdini of sorts and disappeared.  I didn’t check my e-mail for One of 365, leave comments on posts of fellow bloggers who I love, Twitter became a ghost-town for me.

So, why today?  Is it because it’s the 1st of February?  A new start and a fresh month?  No. A dear friend of mine dedicated a post to me.  I didn’t deserve her kindness, as I didn’t answer a single e-mail from her for 3 weeks.  But my bosom buddy Wildernesschic (who if I could have a smidgen of her passion and kindness…) kept at me.  I couldn’t believe someone was willing to see past being ignored.  And then, with a deep breath, I checked my inbox and comments area.  I was surprised to see that others had asked after me too. I was so grateful.

I don’t think I’ll ever be writing about cotton candy and keg parties.  That’s just not me.  And you know what else isn’t me anymore?  ”One”—at the header of my page.  The story will always be there for all to read—it is my first entry.  But, I’m going to re-write that page as an “about me” instead.  The only thing that still stands true in that piece is my hope in One of 365 to discover something in the journey of blogging.  So far I have already.  And one of the realizations is that a huge part of my writing here in the ether no longer has anything to do with that girl and her night with Mr. X.  As said, it will always remain in One of 365’s archives, but it is no longer who I am.   And, I’ve thought about the title One of 365.  Yes, I will do my hardest to post daily.  But one day out of 365 doesn’t necessarily mean consecutive days.  Fair compromise?

To all you who cared about me and didn’t just “gloss over” this varnished set of numbers….as always….

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

If only I had seen through my driver's windshield wipers....but it was too late. All I could see was a blur.

Dear Ether, 

“Is this your first time to London?”  The man was Indian with a very heavy accent. All I could see was the jaundiced tint to where the whites of his eyes should have been.  He also had muddy brown pupils.  “No, no.  I’ve lived here for years.  Just coming home actually.  I’m from Los Angeles.”  He sat up a little further in his seat.  Now I could see the blackened circles under his lower lids.  “Why come here!  This place is rubbish.  I wish I could have taken my family to a place like California.  It’s always sunny there, no…….” 

I continued to let the man speak as I stared out the window.  Sunny.  Yes, it was always sunny in Los Angeles.  And the sun, the same sun, felt so different, shone so differently in England than it did where I’d been 11 hours earlier.  It was, for a winter day, remarkably bright through that van window.  In England the sun is so much paler—much more searing.  It seems like it bleaches everything.  Whilst in Los Angeles, when the sun hits, you feel warmth.  It glows rather than ices things over.  

I remember in Uni we would sit in Greenwich Park.  We would lay in little tops and skirts.  Legs and arms bare.  The sun would be in full force and yet, I never felt it permeate my skin.  I might get burnt or my eyes would sting forcing me to don sunglasses, but it always felt like something was wrong.  Like the sun was broken.  

When I would sunbathe in Malibu on the grainy beach, I would always get down into a bikini, slather myself in SPF 30 and my skin would take in the light it was being given.  I always walked away with a golden tint and a little more ruddiness to my cheeks and nose.  

I used to look at the sun in California for salvation.  For happiness.  It would get me up in the morning.  In London, I sought the same pleasure.  And when it was a bright day in Blighty, I felt so happy.  It was as if England had become paradise.  But when it rained and was dark for a week, then another week—-I would dream of home.

Years later, on a rainy day I was looking out of my spectacular floor to ceiling windows in my flat in Hampstead.  It had been miserable outside and I was perpetually depressed.  I couldn’t take it any longer.  I thought I should go home.  Where the sun would once again permeate my skin and give my heart and soul the jolt it needed to be alive. 

It was an Indian man who was my final driver to the airport.  Same jaundiced eyes.  It was pissing down as we drove on the motorway.  “Where are you going?  On holiday?”  “No, I answered.  I’m moving back to Los Angeles.  I just can’t take London anymore.  Been here so long.  And weather like this….no sun for a week….I’m done.”  He peered at me through the mirror and said, “Shame.  I love the rain.  Because it gives me the chance to appreciate the sun when it does come out.  I have lived in climates where it is sun, sun, sun!  It’s nice for holidays and such.  But everlasting.  No.  I am grateful for the rain.”  I said, “But the sun here, it never FEELS like sun.  It is always icy and pale.  Never rich.  So even when you do get it, it’s teasing you.  It never feeds you.”  He stared at me again and said, “The rains feeds you.  It gives you crops.  And when the sun does shine, it feeds you with all its might.  It may not be as strong as where you come from, but it still shares itself and radiates the best it can.  You cannot rely on the sun to be your light.  You must  have tough will and you’ll glow on your own no matter the weather.”  

And then I began to cry.  Because my driver—a roaming philosopher, had warned me too late.  And I realized that I was probably making a grave mistake.  And you know what Ethers, he was right.  Because it is so warm and sunny here all the time.  It wasn’t the fucking weather in London.  It was me.  I was relying on a false blaze of fire to make me strong—-and the truth is no matter where I go, rain nor shine, the weather report is always going to stay the same unless I change.  

I would do ANYTHING for another chance to have seasons again——-at least I’d feel SOMETHING.  Feel change every so often.  Because here, there’s really no point.  I don’t even venture to leave the house unless forced to.  My skin is whiter than it was when I was living in England.  Regret truly is a nasty emotion

Talk about feeling burnt……………

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

How many have watched the tide come in on New Year's Eve?

Dear Ether,

I don’t know if people were more afraid of me last night or if I was more afraid of them.  But, gladly, we all ended up keeping our equal distance.  

It was 4am.  I was bundled up in a coat, my long hair wild having been unraveled from a bun. I was wearing trousers with bright gold shoe booties.  My make-up was smeared around the eyes which were very wet from constant crying.  

I sat overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, about a 20-minute car ride for me, watching the dark water.  The pier stayed lit up for partygoers.  The lights of the Ferris wheel reflected off of the tide. 

It was 2010.  The new decade.  

Was it last night?  Or, this morning? 

Everyone was asleep by then. Earlier, it had been a very pedestrian evening.  I usually come home for Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m used to being in California this time of year.  My family doesn’t do much.  We go for a very nice meal, come home, sit by a fire, and then watch the ball drop on T.V. from Times Square.    

But this time it was different.  This time, I felt trapped.  I felt a big pillow smothering me over my face the whole evening.  2010=my 3^rd decade on this planet, and what the hell was going on with my life?  I don’t want to get into it—many of you know the fine print.  But, I certainly didn’t feel like clinking glasses and signing “Auld Lang Syne.”  Every year when the clock strikes 12, I close my eyes and I swear THIS year will be different.  That things will change.  But they never do.  The only thing that happens is that I get into a bigger bind and I age.  And the people around me age.  That ball is actually like the hands of time reminding me that yet another year has passed………and none of my dreams have come true. 

When I went to hug everyone as the fireworks went off in the background on television, I saw the look of fear and sadness in their eyes.  Maybe it was my skewed and negative imagination.  Big Apple Beauty’s age suddenly betrayed her, as did her loneliness.  Bachelor One of 365 gave me a stiff squeeze and I saw in his eyes a vacancy of a man who has yet to have found love.  My mother held me too tightly.  A sickly woman, she grasped me like it was her last celebration, and I saw desperation in her glare.  My father, the man I’ll always love but will never please, hugged me but stared at me with discontent and confusion.  And then there was English gent.  His once almond shaped and welcoming green eyes looked downcast and defeated.  Yes, he was my New Year’s Eve Kiss—but I felt like our lips simply grazed skin. 

We all parted, Big Apple Beauty asking for an anti-anxiety pill to help her sleep because she couldn’t stop crying.  English gent passing out in his office.  My folks meandering into their own room and Bachelor One of 365, my dear brother, off to yet another party, in hopes of finding that soul mate.  

I sat on my bed, hugged my dog and cried into his fur, threw up in the bathroom and suddenly felt claustrophobic.  I needed freedom.  I kept seeing the Thames lit up and the London Eye spewing fireworks from the news that evening—I wanted to see the water.  I drove in absolute silence to Santa Monica.  I kept hearing my mother’s voice warning me as a kid saying that only drunks drive on the road on New Years Eve.  I didn’t care.  I was in a trance.  As mentioned above, I was still in my clothes from dinner.  I looked wild.  The wind was fierce and I couldn’t light a cigarette.  I gnawed at my fingernails.  I purposely didn’t take a mobile.  I didn’t want to be reached……and I figured if they noticed the car missing, they’d known I’d gone out.  I wanted to be in a bubble.  

I looked back on my year.  Mr. X and how fucked up that had been.  My mess with English gent and all those years now on the line.  My 20’s almost over—and what did I have to show for any of it?  My relationships with people and how sour they’d gone.  Bolting from one place to another and never being happy.  London.  How I slept half my life away.  I looked at all the people holding hands or friends elated to be together on this night.  And here I was on a park bench in stupid gold boots and purse that could have paid a month’s rent somewhere.  

I sat for about an hour.  I couldn’t bring myself to watch the sunrise.  Too romantic.  Wasn’t there for that reason.  And, sorry Ethers, I came to no conclusions.  I stood up, my hair whipping me in the face, smoothed out my coat, took a deep breath, and walked back to my car where I mechanically drove back home.  

The house was still.  My dog greeted me with a stretch, but also with a pleading to sleep.  I walked up the steps, entered my hovel of a room, dumped all of my clothes in a heap on the floor and realized that the bench I had just occupied and vacated meant nothing.  It was as if I was never there.  And, I suppose I feel that often about my impact on the past 29 years of my life.  That I’ve sat on many benches and it wouldn’t have mattered either way if I’d been there or not.  And the people I love who are in pain and agony, who feel lost and scared…….they too have sat on many benches and stared at the sea and it could have been just as well had they never arrived.  

I got into my duvet coffin, the 2010 version I suppose, curled into the fetal position, dog warm at my feet, and wake today……..like any other day……….

I have no resolutions.  I have no dreams or expectations.  I’m just a girl who sits watching the ocean endlessly ebb and flow and life reflect off of it. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Ermm....even if I had an ass like this...I need a bit more coverage...

Dear Ether,

Is it wrong to wear knickers from Costco?  Does buying underwear in a vacuum-sealed pack by the dozen make me less of a woman?  

I don’t enjoy spending a lot of money on undergarments.  I like them to be functional.  Now, it’s true that I haven’t been on the dating scene in a long time. I probably wouldn’t wear my 80’s floral patterned pants to meet a hot dude at his apartment.  BUT, what about schlepping around during the day?  I mean, women, when they go to the market, wear lacy-black thongs (how do I know this—well, you know when you squat down looking at the bottom shelf, be careful!  We can see your business…enough said).   Or, ladies power-walk to work wearing La Perla.  I suppose many women feel that it all begins with the foundation of your clothes and then you build up.  Not me!  I like the freedom of throwing on my cheap-o undies, 100% cotton, fully covered bum, in a dopey pattern or just a block color.  Though I do have my standards–I never wear white! 

I own a couple of sexy little numbers.  And sometimes, when I’ve been bad about doing laundry, I’ve been forced to pull them out for everyday use.  I feel silly.  Like I’m wearing a cocktail dress out to McDonalds.  It doesn’t feel like I’m treating myself to something special.  In fact, it feels scratchy or too posh.  It seems like a waste.  People would laugh if they knew what was under some of the clothes worn to many of the events I attend.  For example, I have a beautiful Chloe dress that I wear with black Louboutin’s.  Yeah……I then rock the look with budget lingerie from the Gap or Primark.  

When I first changed in front of English gent, I didn’t expect to be going au natural.  And since I rock the shitty undergarment look, well fuck, out came the 5 year old, no name nude bra.  And, of course, the Costco paisley-print briefs.  HOT!  As a joke I said “What do you think?” He laughed and said, “That is truly shocking.”  Hey, Ethers, at least I still had it in me to shock a man!  

When I see a woman in an ad or a film wearing a gorgeous set of lingerie and see her power of seduction, yeah, I often feel the elastic in the waist of my knickers and frown.  But, instead of spending 30 bucks per pair (at least) on some silk string bikinis, I’d much rather enjoy a nice lunch instead.  

Recently I saw some tabloid photos of Miranda Kerr (Orlando Bloom’s lady) in a corset and thigh-high’s from the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  Yep.  She looked amazing. But, then I saw another pap photo of her changing in the background of another runway show.  She was wearing a crappy, plain nude bra and from what I could see a tan thong.  And you know what, she still looked pretty fucking hot.  At the end of the day, if you’ve got a great bod, those vacuum-sealed bargain beauties are gonna be just fine.  And if you don’t have such a great figure, yeah, maybe a sexy number from Rigby & Pellar will make you appear hotter or feel better.  But, hey, let’s face it, no matter how tight you lace that bustier, you ain’t gonna look like Ms. Kerr.  So, my feeling?  Save your bucks.  You’ll only be wearing that stuff for a few seconds anyway if you’re with a guy.  And at the end of the day, the fewer strings and snaps he has to deal with to get to you, the better.  Viva la underpants!!!!!!

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

One of the MANY reasons I choose not to wear white underpants.....visible panty line....though this lady has a few other things to think about!