Jag är så oerhört ledsen

I shall give my madness full reign and jump headless into the flames 

you up there

It is often written, about my biological father; that “he was a great man” and “only once in a lifetime are there men like him” and his followers still talk about him to this day 

I don’t know why but I often find myself caught within that web of ….just those self diminishing thoughts or that feeling that I far from compare and ….I hardly ever knew him He did so many things that have helped better people’s lives by the laws he had passed; changed laws—this was his life’s work. sometimes I believe, he from that afterlife place, has continually watched over me. Sometimes. Sometimes it has even felt as if he is physically with me, and even before I knew or remembered I was aware of a strong presence there. But now I think I have disappointed him, I never got to do anything great and I am not nearly as great as he. It makes me sad. Because I remember how his close mates looked at me long ago. They had expectation which then I never understood. But now I do. They thought I’d be great like he was. So I feel bad I didn’t achieve that for him. I can say maybe it’s not a great time to be female because it’s not. Was there ever a good time ….

so I was thinking about him and yet I do remember he was kind. He was very kind to me. So I guess maybe he’d forgive me for not being great and know I tried my best 

Electraspective Vampire Noir; the man with the vampire eyes

The transformation to become dissociative did not occur all at once. The Darwin theory of survival of the fittest, I’ve said often enough, requires adaptation. The sociologists of the current times feel they are the authority on what is normal. 

Again, I must look to Darwin

I remember the slow process—as an actual choice; I was a child at the time facing the daily horrors of fear of my father because he often used a leather belt on me. That really hurt. A lot. It was very painful. He waited for me to cry. 

I never knew why he did this. The reason was never given. Sometimes it was if I just appeared in the room at the wrong time.

I got sick of the constant exhaustion. The emotional exhaustion. The physical exhsustion.and also, I got sick of —letting him WIN.

I think it began with that anger. And it occurred as he was sweeping the leather into my skin. I felt the raw fire burn my skin; I knew it—I felt the sting in my eyes begin ….

I heard him laugh 

it was that ….and I jumped out of myself —I’m not sure how but….the rage within did a weird reflex switch that triggered something when I should have begun to cry 

Someone else took over 

It wasn’t me. 

I stopped feeling it. The pain was gone. I heard myself actually laughing and encouraging him to continue 

That was the first time and ….back then I wondered if I could choose to trigger this on my own or….

it had begun brewing awhile I know—I often felt an absent sense of “going away” when I was in an uncomfortable situation 

but often I went into a trance that scared everyone as well as myself— so the disconnect was first the shock of the physical pain mixed with the confusion of trust and horror at my parent and the utmost safety lost 

I know it was too much to process as a child. So it started in small ways like that. Often the self protection was triggered all by itself. I’d just blank. I’d feel nothing. Sometimes I heard what was happening. But I was far far far way. Nothing gets in ….there 

I would say as a survivalist of the Darwinism championship, my disassociation is not an abnormality as the DSMV, the bible of modern day human behavioral’s right and wrong judges~I would say, I’m light years ahead of them in evolvement 

which is why standing in this foyer in Jörn’s dungeon staring at that name has me thinking about 

my soul’s evolution 

   on a scale I do not think could be registered in the DSMV

Noir Catacombs & Crypts

You know when all guns are not firing. When you start to spin out. Like a spacecraft you watch falling out of orbit with Houston. 

There it goes spinning. 5 o’clock news. Breaking story. From every angle. They got it. There you are on the evening news. 

When did I start to think of it as “the catacombs”? Was it something that came to me out of the blue or was it something he said? 

No, it was how it felt. 

You know, I always have found myself at old cemeteries. Most places I’ve ever lived, I’ve somehow found myself at the local’s historical cemetery. And it is not my intentional course to decide upon; it seems always, I stumble there on a lark. It seems, unconsciously, I find the spine of some lost most trodden path by instinct of landscape; architecture; and the ruse and fall of the sun across the visage. The strangest cemetery I ever saw was in Colton New York because it was perhaps a disjointed mix of history with war mixed with layers of Puritan history. So many mentions of young soldiers died in battle from this tiny forgotten town spanning the country’s fight for independence, Native American conflicts, the American Civil War world wars, Korean War, Vietnam and all the way through known skirmishes. 

It boggles my mind how such a lost, forgotten town with one shop and a closed gas station was so connected to their country’s history. Like an unsung hero. 

Like a sleeping vampire. 

Walk past the headstones. Stop and read. Look at the whole family layout and see all the names of all the descendants. And realize all the streets are named after most of them.

The ground is so hard to walk over; the trees’ roots have always upturned the once more gentle climb up the path around the cemetery isles. I suppose this is why so few would like to bother. And, to be honest, bothering usually left me feeling more desolate than victorious but I’d like to say, in retrospect, it’s put into perspective how dramatic do realities shift. Just takes a war. A mad ruler. A natural disaster. A horrific tragedy.

Yet, strangely, in the end, I found I did often feel most in tune in those place —with the balance of life; and then leaving there, rejoining the town I found myself in —they felt like the real ghosts to me, somehow 

And it always left me to think. And think as such thoughts and curiosities as these is exactly why I hear a distant drummer they don’t 

Perhaps this is why only Jörn does understand me— perhaps he is the yin to my yang; what I’d instinctively found my way to by the magnetic north pull ….it is electric isn’t it? or an energy like how brainwaves act 

Moving so much, I’ve found it part of the natural course to investigate such places. 

It gives a sense of who the origins were, even without the churches no longer there, although some still are in places, like one I found completely hidden in a spot in tiny Sudlersville Delaware

I think of this now as I walk away from Jörn’s cage with the monitors, down the winding halls that evoke memories of ….what feels like ‘capers’ when compared to over a thousand years of ….searching?

Because I think of Gerald too. Of how Jörn first behaved when I’d introduced him to Gerald years ago. 

I know Jörn’s emotions now were ….deeper than he said at the time. Looking back, as I’ve done often enough recently— with new filters to re-interpret how I first noted events

His initial wont of denial to concepts of reincarnation. His claiming to be rational

But then —what of his opera? Duva…. his dove —or little penguin; whatever he calls me by in his language —no, it was the turtle dove! Because of the color against the frozen snow caught his eye….and then —she —who was Elan ….appeared with a decanter to retrieve water from the river but to him it seemed she changed from the turtle dove to her

I wonder now suddenly if this was how he first believed he might bring her back?

But what of his opera? He has said nothing of it for years now. 

I stop to think, turning down a corridor two after from where Jörn’s gym is—where the encounter with Retnuh Nivek occured; swiftly I go past there and see how the path opens and veers. From back away, it appears to end but now it is clear; it is an optical illusion. Then to the left the path splits. Right at the center between the fork is a dome of light above and an odd kind of mosaic or pattern on the ground arranged and fitted, pieces of stone, metals and gems form odd looking abstracts. I find myself staring at the patterns and the pretty gems that twinkle in the grey cement. 

How weird.  

But I keep going as there is a curious draft coming from further up the way. Now the hallway seems to shift to glass; ground, ceiling walls all glass and shaped like a tunnel. But now I can see why it is glass—there seems to be some sort of interior lab.

I take more turns through and find keypadlocked doors and past that a —gate? It is unlocked

Strange greenish light comes from somewhere and I go to look for the source, it is past the gate. There is a doorway. 

From the hallway where I stand, it looks like some old museum. There is art on the walls and ornate fixtures that I can get a glimpse of from where I stand. 

I wonder why Jörn never told me about any of this. But also, I wonder how I overlooked this before—unless it really was the optical illusion—why would I have bothered to question it, back then, as I was too busy trying to escape my nemesis 

That Jörn omitted telling me …. which is clearly a common occurrence about how he does or does not communicate 

This angry thought makes me decide to ignore my trepidation and just go in

Once past the dimly lit walls of art; all oil portraits of people dressed in wealthy attire spanning many centuries. In the dark, it’s hard to truly appreciate their craftsmanship, but to my best ability the works could easily compete with Holbein, Rembrandt, and Di Vinci which is why I get caught for awhile staring at them 

Eventually I get past two more halls and find a series of foyers —about six on each side. As I walk past the foyers I notice they all have the same dome lights to illuminate within. When I reach the end of this hallway I decide to look in the foyer to the right; the last foyer —just because it is the last one. 

By now my eyes are well adjusted to the dim light. Within the foyer I see it is circular. And the walls are paneled in a dark cherry wood with square like frames with golden nobs at the center, like drawer fobs. 

Curious 

I walk all around. The floor is gritty but it’s not dirt. Indeed it looks like unpolished marble. Marble? Also weird. 

I walk all around the circle and notice an alcove in the circular wall. Within the alcove is a sculpted piece of art that looks like it is made of some kind of metal of a woman that reminds me the pose of Nike of Samothrace; Winged Victory—but this is metal and she has her head; and while she has wings she holds a bow and arrow with the bow pulled ready to let fly the arrow which points above, heavenly 

I don’t know why but something about the piece holds me captive. I stand there a long while just staring at it with total wonder

After awhile it is fatigue which forces me to decide to turn back and as I start to reach the doorway out of the foyer, something above the doorway catches my eye.

I look up. 

Engraved in the cherry wood ornate paneled wall above are carved letters that spell out in archaic lettering : Milstrum 

And it only takes about five more seconds for me to start to suspect where I am 

I take a careful backward step and look around. Again, I decide to walk to the right to study walls filled with the square frames all with golden nobs and stop at the row closest to the end where I walk. I look at the highly cherry wood polished square frame that is eye level to me. Now I notice something I couldn’t have seen from where I was. All the frames have lettering. And when I look up I see spelled out to me “Andreas”

I take a deep breath

I move to the frame beside this one. This spells out Hanna. 

I start to feel my palms sweat. And then that telling chill. 

Another deep breath….. I look at the next name on the frame beside that one ….

a lapsed moment aside for pop tarts retro pensive sculpted Rodin moment

like a vampire who looks back across eons of time 

I find myself thinking of an old song, with that line which if song properly, is like a cathartic anthem of release and triumph  …. like the Doors with songs like Peace Frog, https://youtu.be/22GEvDupWGo?is=3ey6N6xJ3A6O7r1_ 

what was that misfired ‘soundbite’? ‘Watergate would be’ a —commercial break….is that what advance was actually saying ?

“You can go your own way, go your own way,” sung best loud with just both middle fingers pointed in all general directions 

https://youtu.be/ozl3L9fhKtE?is=dVvYAXn9eEYvXMwE

few acts from the Rock era could sound they hold up even better with time 

like this whole album masterpiece https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_nVaA0orpORfdRjNAGyfMZhGkvrYkkgMHI&si=SAynjI5OUsyb9trL

seems like such more innocent times from this end of the timeline telescope —would you listen to an entire album all at once anymore without getting bored of the singular, egocentric, inverted, shallow tone?

apokalýptískt tómleika. 

manstu?

Ég sakna þín líka

Ég sakna líka athugasemda þinna