Wednesday, May 23, 2018

hidden notes & muses; edited (or random thoughts while playing dress up with nigel)






not too many people know this about me but.... I was sort of a prodigy piano player when I was a kid. I won two first prize awards. But nobody ever talked about it. And my awards were stuck in a drawer. It irritated him, you know. but being dyslexic it is funny about me. The way my mind works is so different .... it is like I am wired differently. I get mentally bored and look for trouble. That is what gets me into trouble. I get mentally bored.

Anyway, I was able to watch the piece played once by my scary Austrian huge piano teacher, she frightened the hell out of me.... Mrs. Klinkacich or something —I don’t spell so very well as we know but anyway, I have a photographic memory for certain things and.... I could play it right back.... but to read the notes....? for a dyslexic to read something as confusing as.... lines going one way and more Another, then these twirly symbols that randomly appear..... then you follow these flags..... no.... no no no.... it is like tripping on mushrooms for a dyslexiccto try to navigate through all that commotion static and noise.... disturbing, really .... I could stare at those sheets of music and later always need to vomit from a migraine

“I think your cat is adjusting,” Nigel says watching Fluffy walk around the ground floor with trepidation ....I go back to writing....


He says,
“let’s eat out tonight.”


....I never bothered to read any of it because it was impossible to find where the notes were hidden
how to find a shy person?

where notes are hidden....
how do they find.... each other
like a symphony or a Love letter for a muse... to amuse, subliminal;

in illusionary form; meant only to be subliminal....? or sublime

Later....

we are at Ann Taylor as he made me try on sixteen outfits .... he says they’re for me but really they’re for him .... so wait standing to finish because now he’s adding on hosiery ....idle minds are a dangerous thing, dear, dictionary....

So hidden a note

like an opera or a poem or novel written for a muse

but why does someone hide their light under a bushel?

“you got to stay bright to be the light if the world....”

from Godspell.... when I was ten I saw that performed and that is the spooky way I began the mission of Electra

There is a secret symbolism in that. I dare not say. But it just makes you realize just how much of us is in our DNA

So the path that pulls my dreary mind out from the bogs ....bogged down, as it were .... broken dawn

as such .... like that squirrel without a tail .... the day after I saw a tail missing a squirrel ....

talk about an identity crisis.... I saw that poor thing limping across the road as an amputee. I felt bad for it. Really

so there goes my mind again, where was I just now....

So about going to England, I think I have to research some areas and look at those places I get the triggers.... they are called psychic hot spots; someone explained when I said about how I know certain things. There comes a kind of heat and it is center by the sinus or third eye. Then it shoots through both arms to my fingers like electric signals

It is something I have always had. Before words even

A long time ago I was with my class in England and we went to one of those places where they have fossils. But I got pulled away from my class by a weird feeling. I don’t know why. I felt this all through England but there I went to a spot ..... I had to climb ..... I was never athletic back then, quite a weakling but I got to the top. It was a huge chunk and it had the most amazing things in it. I still have it.... but it’s with my art that is right now hostage.... anyway.... it looks like the fossil of a dragon; long, gorgeous, spiny vertebrae —and on the other side you see shells and other bones but compared to what everyone else cane away with, I realized I got the pirate’s prize and quietly wrapped it up. It weighs a lot and being the weakling that I was, you must begin to imagine the nerd girl that I was. The only one who couldn’t wait to see The Tempest performed and Shakespeare’s house. Only.... I believe it is the nature of something like a center. Whether it’s the organic DNA calling from my ancestral memory; the theory of DNA memory or whether it is something of a previous incarnation that triggers the psychic hot spot, I could not tell you. I suppose I would like to know. As it has been driving me all these years. I think it goes back to an obsession. A blood feud. Something deeply buried that had not been resolved. That it haunts me instead of some castle hall? Am I in ruins after all ....because there must be nothing left of those halls

So where would I go if I were to go with Nigel back to his England? Where would I be pulled to go besides west because people traveled then too so other memories could come from any other place .... I would need to find out, I would think. To trace back to about 1630.... which is after Elizabeth and so James, no Charles I, of course, (surprised nobody caught that and messaged me) They arrived in Jamestown just as it became. So who were they? Who was the boy? The stowaway. And was that really his name?

These are the things I want to know. And believe is what is behind my fixation over this part of history






Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Compromising positions




I listen to Nigel talk on the phone as his voice carries through the house. He talks about some exciting news in the world of archeologists that may shake up history as the world knows it....

I always listen to these conversations of his because I am always fascinated by what he talks anout. They always take me somewhere else ....that I prefer. I cannot ever imagine ever tiring of the things he talks about

I think about those things now.... his world .... his land of Fē..... Who he named me after.... his world ....

places I prefer....


I hear him going up the stairs as he talks and he is saying,
“still not sure where we’re going but ....yes, Bogie—I mean Humphrey, sorry! Humphrey will be pleased to have his true master back now that you’ve made arrangements ....”  Nigel spots me looking out the window on the bench of the bay window and walks over as he continues with his phone call, “most likely east from here, yes— not sure where or how far or near—“


Nigel stops to study me and gives me a quizzical look then suddenly says,
“sorry—somethings just come up, I’m afraid I’ve got to go....”

after he ends the call he bends down and leans into a sit onto the floor and lands with his usual agile grace. He takes my hand and looks up at me,
“let’s just go ....” he suggests

“Where?” I ask

He looks into my eyes

He has never looked at me that way before. He stares at me and they are so open and clear .... no shields at all

he has such beautiful eyes. There is something in there that I have never seen .... in any other pair of eyes .... and it pulls me in ....because they are warm and safe .... they are kind eyes and I have never seen the like anywhere else. His other worlds? Yes, I believe in all of his. I will gladly sink into their depths

Kissing Nigel is like breathing under water

“Come back with me,” he says

I start to move to kiss his mouth but I watch his lips ...their pretty shape outlined in dark stubble .... I start to kiss him

I say, hopelessly,
“I lost my passport and it’s expired....” and kiss him ....anyway. I push him back onto the floor and kiss his mouth, I touch his hair

“You can get a new passport....” he whispers this into my ear indulgently

“I guess that’s true but ....how about if I say— eventually ....” only I’d rather kiss him than talk,”.... mmm but that is possible —plus I could do my research better.... only I’m not ready because some things I still have to take care of....”

He moves over me and gains higher ground and smiles at me and with his hair messed up he looks even more beautiful in that wicked naughty way

“Say yes,” he says

He leans over me and takes both my hands in his as he laces his through mine,
“say yes,” he whispers into my ear, “I could show you my work....” he says this with his mouth on my neck and uses his teeth along my skin to softly bite until he makes me gasp

“yes,” I say “....eventually”

Monday, May 21, 2018

girl in the bog


....tonight

I am at Nigel’s when I receive this text

it is from Stefan, my UN highschool friend from my Holland days—the one who sat next to me in history class optionally all year to snicker comments into my ear, sends me three poems tonight that make me cry .... he was reading them somewhere, they are not his .... but he said they reminded him of me. Especially this one

“How come she ever lost
All the hope she never had?
What was it that she wanted from the start?
How come she ever cried
For the dreams she never tried
And couldn’t learn the secrets of the heart?
So longs to go back
To where she’s never been
The way that she plays
She’s never gonna win

How come she can’t stay home
And can never be alone
With nightmares that she’s never gonna to face
How come she’s killing time
With no reason and no rhyme
It’s sad the way her beauty goes to waste

She longs to go back
To where she’s never been
The way that she plays
She’s never gonna win
She’s fragile as an angel in the snow
How come she hugs the thorns and can’t let go?
And how come
I love her so?”


It was written by a female lyricist Fran Landesman that I imagine must have been written as a song .... but

 it reduced to to tears instantly as it reached the core of me because it came from him— he’s known me since I was thirteen. He was my subconscious mind learning history and ....giving me advice. He was always trying to look out for me which back then was an oddity because he was the most popular boy in my class and more known to be tough and an asshole. But to me he was totally someone else and when nobody was looking he liked to talk philosophically with me about life .... he was deep and always got me pretty well and no nothing happened between us —Why? Because he told me I was a sweet girl and he’d hate to hurt me because he was only interested in sex so we were close as friends but didn’t socialize, you see.... I was something of a mystery at my school .... they tell me now such shocking things about what they imagined about me .... of not the so chivalrous kind, I mean— but I think it’s a good thing I didn’t know because I never could have handled it

When I look up from the poem my eyes are streaming down my face

“What is it?” Nigel comes over to me

I shake my head.

It feels as if the universe is charging me with magnetic waves to send electric shocks through me

What does it want .... from me.... I know why he sent it, he fears I’m on the edge and he always can tell somehow no matter where he is in the world

When I look over at Nigel I realize he’s read the poem and he gives me the saddest look

“.... you really have no idea, do you?” he asks me

So I say aloud my devastating thoughts as they pour out of me,

“I have heard that exact question before. But, Nigel, I think of that girl ....in the photo at age five ....with those eyes.... ‘no idea’.... and, no, I really have no idea. What anybody even means when they ask this. What is it I miss because I —well... “and so I interrupt myself because, “no.... “ I argue with myself aloud to Nigel finding myself flow into Freud and patient “....Stefan’s message —the meaning he meant me to hear is I am the self fulfilling prophesy of my own doom because .... I cannot let myself win....”

“yes....” Nigel whispers this as if waiting for me to arrive at something .... he waits and I feel him hold his breath

Only I don’t know if I dare ....

“Because.....” he whispers to prompt me

to say aloud

He says again into my ear in a whisper,

“.....because....?”

“I can’t ....” I start to cry

“say it—out loud,” he whispers this

So I say it

“I can’t forgive myself ....”

he takes s deep breath and puts his face into my head and pulls me to him. He puts his arms around me and tightens his embrace near to breaking me so that it is only he holding me up anymore

It is a kind of epiphany .... obvious to everyone but me

For what? What is it I cannot forgive....? Is it not obvious.... it is not just that I am born of a sin, the wrong side of a blanket, passed off as white as another man’s kid etc etc ....that I had to be hidden and born as a shame ; an awkward inconvenience or mistake.... I was not supposed to be here; and with it an inborn guilt of that shame, there was the incest too and that leaves it’s dirty stain and why I have felt so unworthy and easily at the stem of my acts of self harm whatever forms they have taken in my life ....

to do penance for things that have not allowed me to

.... stand up for my truth

because I felt I was a Lie

“Forgive yourself,” Nigel whispers this and lifts me off the floor, “je t'aime, mon fē, for what it’s worth ....”  he holds the back of my skull within his hand and whispers, “girl in the bog....”





Sunday, May 20, 2018




but then it is to Nigel’s that I go afterwards

I tell him about meeting up with Eliot,

“you know he’s gotten a crew now, don’t you?” I ask Nigel, putting down my bag. Bogie waits for treats

“I know.... well, Humphrey’s dad is returning soon so....” and here Nigel ruffs up his head and ears, “.....where is your latest target practice to ....land your pirate ship? Any updates you’d like to share?”

He’s cooking

I go over to watch him. I lean into the corner of the counter, folding my arms at my hips making myself comfortable there as he’s always amusing to watch
He takes it so seriously .... I watch his process of caramelizing onions and keep my critiques to myself

Without warning, he says,
“here!” and stuffs something into my mouth

I try to ask what it is but I cannot as he gave me quite a lot and I’m not sure what it is..... and it may cause alarm

“Just eat it, it’s not rat poisoning and there are no living creatures in it.... so did he tell you what he wants now?”

I realize it’s a stuffed grape leaf that he made. His choices of foods to attempt to gourmet are usually not what most other people bother with

So I try to answer his question but he says,
“here, you look hungry, here’s another....”
The return of Eliot


I go to the library to escape. Wherever I am. This time it is Ferndale and I throw myself into my research

With my crisis I have had nothing else but cause to concern myself about a place to live that has a roof

Nigel’s offer is .... definitely in the running


it is only that now I itch to get out of here .... I feel this overwhelming feeling if claustrophobia

It was that was to in Oregon—the mountains were like gates in surround panorama and felt there to be in the middle of no where. And far too far from my beloved Nederland

years ago when I was troubled, I went to an astrologer who mapped out my future .... she had to be an actual clairvoyant because everything she said about my life came true. All of it. Even about my daughter and now.... these troubled times

There were some incredible things she told me ..... she knew about my sense of needing to deliver a message to an unconscious mankind’s consciousness

so she said something else too .... she knew about my lighthouse .... she told me when and how

I pick up a book and flip it open.... I come across Ethan Jones.....

It is one of these Penguin Viking books with a clear index. I search for more mentions ....

I hear a familiar sound. You know a person’s voice clearing scratchy sound as well as their face

“Eliot....” I look up

He gives me a grin .... oh no, he’s up to trouble

“I hear you need rescuing, Why didn’t you say?”

He gets “shushed” by s dozen people

He gestures we should go

“But I’m reading this, obviously,” I whisper this

“Check it out,” he says

(More shushes follow)

He gets up and waves me to follow heading for the entrance

Great.... just when I got into it too.... I put the book down and follow him

Saturday, May 19, 2018




He says,

“why don’t you.....?” and leans into my ear and whispers again “ ....just stay....”

he does not look at me; he keeps his forehead into the back of my skull. He holds my head in both his hands. And again, I am reminded of the archeologist that he is.... bogged down by the bog girl Who he digs up because his nature is to delve; to analyze.... it is what he craves because he is hungry for the exercise to pour out his emotions

I understand his words. His subtitles .... things he does not say.... I hear him well because he speaks into my head. We are connected. He is in my head, yes, all the time. But I am in his too. Because I crave the exercise with a worthy opponent

It’s been so long alone inside .... here

I don’t choose to come out. And I really don’t care what anyone thinks about it. This is me. Take me this way or not at all .... and if you can’t then I don’t need you.... it is my only priority. My personal truth is who I am if I had to define a meaning.

So his thoughts they glow into mine and I hear his own thoughts go in some ways .... not like mine but something I instinctively understand. I know his soul. This is Who I hear and that is the voice within him that I hear. Very loud and very clear. And always in my head. I have not told him .... I cannot even say

“Please stay,” he whispers and says, “the only way we can go forward is if you do let him go.... I know this is why you resist every time I ask you....”

And so my throat hurts with the heartbreak as mine is cracked not only in half ....but in so many places

I know he is right

His eyes of labradorite ....my lighthouse .... that draws the mermaid off the rock and on towards that distant shore.... the worthy champion.... I adore

More later ...... maybe

Thursday, May 17, 2018

the mermaid and the lighthouse

the mermaid and lighthouse


I go to the studio for class. I have like four friends now .... so funny.... they just all came up to me and I don’t know why because I am the shyest one there. For me it was not any interest to look for friends —I was just looking for a good way to make some money because people seem to say they like how I sound .... you must see the irony here, yes? I swear nobody knew I had a tongue until third grade when to my shock I got called on by teacher

my jaw went crunch

I knew everybody heard that sound

but they couldn’t hear me at all .... “talk up, talk up, Dawn.....” and to me I was shouting so .... plus being dyslexic .... I was in agony


yes so, it was a strange surprise to discover I had a voice. To me as well. I mean, I live in my own head, obviously, and it seems ok to me because I can do more than one world at s time. The spheres ....  they spin like a mobile ....and step away any time

My sister used to .... insist I tell her a story at night. My first was about a puppy, did I already mention that?

“Yeah, you did,” Nigel says reading over my shoulder

Anyway, so....

She picks me up and we go first somewhere.... I weirdly see —now as I reflect—everyone has separately approached me to be my friend .... more than other people there but I am not even doing anything. I’m looking onto the floor and taking notes and .... this guy hi fived me for no reason too ? No idea —no it was the  fist thing they do I think ...

so why do they approach me in a circle ....
when I was intentionally hiding?

and, you know, I’m a walking catastrophe right now too.... about to be homeless ....you know, since the horror movie in the back yard.....

I don’t know why I .... standards as Nigel says.... he’s right

chewed from foaming jaws of sickfuck ..... the only worthy description I could arrive at, sorry .....

but I suddenly tell them everything, the whole story about what happened to me in the backyard in front of the whole neighborhood ....

because I still can’t believe it

Like head spinning with pea soup vomit


so Liz —she picks me up in a nice red car so, that must have made a stereotypical, superficial most interesting impression

I am not ever like this, so it’s weird to have everyone rushing to my side because I didn’t mean to actually say why I might be moving far away.... spinning like Dorothy

But where yet .... not sure. I don’t really think it’s running

I think I just know when to go

just go

bye bye

Like the book and amazing film Unbearable lightness of being.
 What is there

Without my daughter.... my baby.... what is there? Who cares about anything .... so I guess that why I gave all my stuff away

Who am I? Beth Who is what .... Electra .... the quandary of self and parentage ..... the meaning of self and identity

Who am I ....?

Even as a kid before I knew the words that he called me: bastard nigger baby

that was my nick name; his name for me.... said with a snarl

when I see those old photos of me, they scare me; I mean ....I look at my eyes in those childhood pictures.... she’s not there .... my eyes look .... insane or .... just terrified and I don’t say this for pity but because I guess if we ask about voice

and self

and meaning


what does anything mean? What is life? What is existence? Are we here.... Why now..... at this exact moment in time and all of us together at the same time.... on this planet? these things I wonder about and it could be because I was dropped on my head.... too many times

But maybe that accident was .... a happy accident. Because don’t you want to know more about the boy and the teddy bear and that dragon?

I did ....

“You’re so quiet,” Nigel says coming over to me. He hands me a glass of wine and sits down next to me