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

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

"Aiutare"

Dear Ether, 

I don’t like to speak to anyone in Dr. W’s (my psychiatrist) waiting room.  I specifically arrive 10 minutes early before each session to gather my thoughts.  To collect myself and think about what I’d like to cover that day.  Unfortunately, he shares office space with other doctors, so I often have to sit with other patients. Everyone tends to mind their own business.  The crackly stereo plays classical music from the public radio station.  Eyes tend to stare down at laps. 

But every Thursday, whilst waiting for my 1:15 appointment, I’m always left alone with an Italian woman.  She’s in her late 30’s.  Severe black hair in a chignon.  Badly painted lips in a brick red. A dowdy outfit.  I know as soon as she walks in, flicks the button to let her therapist know she’s arrived, she’s going to begin conversing with me.  She doesn’t seem to notice my body language, my monosyllabic answers.  She often repeats the same things in a very heavy accent. 

“Ciao.  You look GORGEOUS. Always so stylish.  Oh, I wish I was like you.” Let’s just say I don’t wear my Sunday’s finest when I attend therapy, so I think she says this as an opening line to everyone.  I always smile, nod my head, thank her, and look down.  She continues.  “This week, so bad.  I am unwell.  SO unwell.  I drove 1 hour to get here and cried the whole way.  I think something is poor with my medicine.”  This is when she starts to cry—some more, I presume.  Now, I’m not in the best state either, and I don’t know how to deal with her.  She’s a total stranger, and I don’t know if she’s schizophrenic or has some other mental illness.  I attempt to calm her.  Ask her about Italy.  But she has a one-track mind.  She sometimes reaches to grab my hand.  I don’t like this at all.  Now I know this seems so cruel and cold.  But, I can’t stand being touched by strangers.  I’m also slightly scared of her.  She continues, “Please.  Help me?  You look like you can help me.”  I tell her, as I do every week, that I too am here because I have troubles and that I wish I could do something for her.  Then, like snapping out of some trance, she begins to overly compliment me about some item of my outfit again.  

Finally Dr. W. fetches me, and her eyes follow me as I leave.  I’ve told him about her.  He says he’ll speak with her doctor.  But nothing ever changes.  This has gone on for almost a year. 

On December 10^th—my Thursday appointment, as per usual, I walk in to see Dr. W.  I finally have peace as the Italian woman (I do not know her name) does not show.  What relief.  Maybe she has gone home for Christmas.  Dr. W. fetches me, I smile and crack a joke saying that the “Princepessa” has allowed me to think for once with her absence.  That I have some good things to chat about today.  Without any emotion, he tells me that she had actually hanged herself the previous week.  No one had found her for a few days.  She had no friends.  It was the smell which had alerted people of her death.  I nod my head up and down–eyes blinking, taking it in.   “You know, I spent a year with that woman.  1 day a week for 10 minutes.  She always asked for help .  And each time she annoyed me.  I’m sure that’s how she everyone treated her. And, I know I couldn’t have changed her fate, but maybe I could have made 10 minutes of her day a bit happier.” 

I guess, through my selfish behavior, I got my wish.  I no longer had to speak with anyone in the waiting room.  But gathering my thoughts in the waiting room—forget it.  All I’ll be picturing each Thursday–for a while at least–is a woman with raven colored hair, bloody colored lipstick and alabaster skin dangling from the ceiling.  What would 10 minutes have been out of 52 weeks?  Less than an hour?  Shame on me.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Only an artist's rendering--but how wonderful if it could be true.....The Fountain Of Youth.

Dear Ether,

“24 is my age limit for girls.  And truthfully, that’s even a bit old.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from my 20 year old cousin.  A girl my age was too damned old for him.  I had actually hit an age where I was considered a grandma to boys.  Look, the truth is, I wouldn’t want to date someone 20 (unless he was a Vanderbilt and BUILT) but I had never thought that I was excluded because I had a few smile lines and could legally drink.  In fact, I thought it would be a bonus that I could buy booze!

As you all know I’m not looking to date a poor student–and lord knows I’m NOT looking to date my bloody cousin.  But I’m freaked out about aging.  Hearing these words was just another slap in the face that there is no fountain of youth and that I’m not getting any younger.  There’s going to be a point where I’m going to be too old to wear certain clothes and hairstyles.  Shit.  Will I be too old to turn up Jay-Z full blast in my car also?

So, I have to accept that 20 year old boys look at me and think I’m a old broad rather than a hot tamale.  That’s tough to stomach.  I feel like I was in University and 21 not too long ago.  I felt like I could have anything and be anyone and now things are closing up for me.  Options are becoming more limited.  Many of you will think this post  is really immature and that I’m pouting about something trite.  But for me, this is like seeing a first gray hair (thank god that hasn’t happened yet).

I never thought I would ever be this age.  I never thought I would be strapped down in a relationship filled with problems.  I never thought I’d be saying good-bye to my twenties.  Truthfully, I thought I’d die my my twenties.  I really did.  Don’t ask why I thought this.  I just always had this premonition that I wasn’t meant to live past a certain point in my life.  Screw premonitions, huh?  (That sounds terrible–like I wish I was dead.  Please don’t misconstrue…)

I know most of you reading this would think the thought disgusting, but it makes me sad that I’ll never be able to kiss a teenager again or experience college love for the first time once more.  And you know what’s weird?  Movie stars from the film “Twilight” are the new generation of cool and desired and that “hotties” of my era are celebrating their 40th birthdays.   Robert Pattinson is too young for me, and yet, when I see him on the big screen, I find him quite attractive.  How odd. How odd that I am no longer able to have these crushes realistically (well, I was never going to snag a movie star—but you get my drift).

I cannot change my birth certificate.  I cannot change my experience.  And you know, a huge chunk of me still feels the same way as many 20 year olds.  But it’s off limits.  Very weird.  Very weird indeed.  I know you can’t change time, but I sure wish I had appreciated being young.  And I know many of you will think that I am ruminating on something stupid and repeating the same mistake that I wish I hadn’t done when I was 19.  But, I guess we can only live and feel in the now.  And right now I’ve never felt older.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365