Violeta Noir is a woman with a long memory.
She writes from Jacksonville, Florida, where desire, power, appetite, men, food, beautiful rooms, bad decisions, and the peculiar things people reveal when they believe no one is taking notes.
Some stories have already settled into The Archives. These are the stories that survived long enough to become evidence.
Others are still unfolding in The Margins, written the morning after, while the dust is still in the air.
Some evenings deserve a table, a cocktail, and a review Around Town.
And some things are better understood through what was cooking or what was playing in the background.
This is not a diary.
It is a collection of observations, recollections, recipes, places, playlists, confessions, and occasionally evidence.
Names may change. Details may shift. Memory is an unreliable narrator.
Violeta, however, keeps excellent records.
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The Ritual and the Aftermath
Friday was quiet. No men. No mythology. No strange little plot twists waiting behind a cocktail glass. I went home, cooked, and rested. Which, apparently, was the universe conserving energy. Because Saturday got loud. I found a beautiful little coffee shop downtown, ordered something delicious, opened my homework, and settled in wearing an off-white lace…
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Thoroughly Marinated
Forty eight hours. That was apparently all it took. By yesterday afternoon I was so fucking horny I could barely stand myself. Wounded Boy was supposed to be at my house by six. I got off work at five. Dinner reservations were at six thirty. Afterward, we were going to the speakeasy I have quietly…
