It is unbelievable how it feels as though I feel frozen in time.

I write to clarify to myself 

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 ….

of ships & apocalyptic times Noir Vampires we are

I find I get lost in a room within. 

    I do not know for how long it seems I have been wandering; like a droughted sponge that is never past parched no matter if it swims under a waterfall 

  it still comes up thirsty ….this need 

is

        to wish to wash clear; tabula rosa ….power wash away all nebulous dust and mist then wind swept off all dew

    It would not be right to walk into some new ….scene ….where all previous ones were all the mistakes —to not at first really clear out all the bugs squashed dead in the corner crevices where thoughts decay. 

Days to myself in private solitude and keep counsel only to myself 

Do I trust myself …. I must prove that I can ….i find —like going down allegorical corridors and opening up doors; the catacombs ….the dungeons of thoughts; Jörn’s dungeon ….it is a good place to go. It is fail proof. No one can get in. This is where I go. A room in my mind. 

Before I want to trust anyone or believe the Folkmoot story, I need to wrap within this cocoon built within of iron stronger than anything in the universe. Like a sleeping vampire. To go within a crypt ….only once there through scrying dialogues which deliver me to a cleared path ….

can I face either the revival venom of a vampire’s breath or the serenity of being reconciled to the devoutness of my personal truths and alas know it is more than any material wealth 

I get lost here in this room with my back turned away from the monitors 

Do I think of life ? life’s meaning ….. time ….wasted time; years wasted ….but they never are really wasted —that is the riddle ….

I do not wish to step out there from my temple until I appreciate every scab and scar and also too, every happy and quiet personal moment ….when I forgot to feel guilty for being lazy….when the automatic scheduled demands are gone —there….her; that one….that is ….the one to step out again for nothing less than my own long lost Andreas and Hanna from my long lost life 

I stay in the dungeons a long while to think, far from the madness of this crowded world 

I don’t choose to let down the portcullis and consider a walk through the catacombs humming Jim Morrison’s Soft Parade but thinking of his Crystal Ship

https://youtu.be/4YWPhmduSDQ?is=6nl5xrTMND9OHw6w

the path upon the grounded Celf

emotionally dangerous people are the ones that intentionally destabilize you

the people of whom destabilize you are emotionally dangerous to you 

harmful ….

       with those, we take on lessons we do not need at all 

   we do not need the derailing that takes you so far off your true path 

    it is best to be the friend you need to yourself 

it is best to keep upon your road to the center of the Celf 

  to know your truest north within 

    ….tune out the rest 

     take me as I am ….your inner self knows ….I take me as i am —just focus within; they do not matter to your path….their opinions weigh little to the Celf 

your mantra: I do not need emotionally dangerous people who suck you in at first with generous kindness then work to destabilize you by making you believe that you need them more than your truest Celf 

Vampire ScandiNoir/Smorgas: en bättre mors dag imorgon

 

“So my question to you is—why all of this? Why now? Is it the biological timeline narrowing in or—I don’t know…. Out of nowhere you pop back in when things were—“

“—when things were—what? Going so well for you?” Jörn asks me with a kind of repressed scorn I don’t quite understand 

I shake my head and squeeze shut my eyes to turn my thoughts inwards and away from his xrayeyes. 

I think about what was my life like lately before …. before —yeah, before he waltzed back in again 

“Think about that,” Jörn says 

as I realize he assumes the conversation continues — with or without and vocals unnecessary 

“To be honest, it was painful watching your life continually spin out —and don’t look at me thst way, duva—it wasn’t just me who couldn’t stand to watch, I told you about our meddling offspring who have usually been the impetus to force the hand—usually mine—and right under your nose and you never realized it,” he says all this in one breath 

And I am the one left breathless 

“Okayyyy…..” I say trying to pull out of that what I can 

“Let’s see—there was the evangelist theologist when you were twenty, then the renegade boyfriend throughout your twenties, then there was ex husband one, ex husband two who was really the rebound of the artist best friend —sorry am I forgetting someone? Oh yes, Bran—you know I am not sure who has walked more all over you….why now? Because it’s too much ….we can’t watch you do this any longer—call it intervention —a rescue mission —but the dreams we’re catching up with you again —“

“Not true! I’ve not dreamed in months!”

“You don’t remember them—and do you know why—?”

But the neurons in my head seem to —at first scramble me—until they halt me and ….pause my train of thought. 

I stop all thought. Just think. And some of what he said sinks in. 

After a long moment I look at him. I raise my eyes to his. I don’t say anything. I just look at him. 

Finally he says,

“you have no allies in that life, duva—this one, and …. No one but you holding down your own fort. Nobody defends you, no one is looking out for you, everyone just stabs you in the back including this life’s daughter—she’s your biggest traitor, they all were! And I can’t watch this as they all take advantage of your generosity and kindness as they use you—I mean, duva— if I really believed you were better off with all of us leaving you to your present life I would but none of us feel—even Andreas, and you know he is the diplomat of us—usually it’s Hanna ready to go in with twin guns firing but, do you know what this is? Even you have stopped defending yourself and you don’t even see it but—this I believe —no, I know, it’s because somewhere deep within you you cannot forgive yourself for —“

“—the curse,” I say because it does make sense 

why I never felt I deserved …. happiness 

I look at Jörn and search within the ice of kryptonite 

“It’s always been that,” Jörn whispers this as I watch the shards of ice dissolve in streams down his face and like a projection his mental images filled my mind 

If a picture can say a thousand words then whatever I saw within those shards’ depths seemed to clarify some of the elusive doubts behind Jörn’s motives. All doubts evaporated instantly 

“Where are Andreas and Hanna? I’d really like to see them,” I whisper this getting up and walking towards the window 

“They have been waiting  ….for you to remember and —to hear you say this….”

Past Present Perfect/More smörgås family drama history/Electra’s scandi-noir; the man with the vampire eyes

 

Jörn asks, sitting next to me,

“tell me again what you remember of that night in the hut—with Ulf—how far does it end in your memories of Elan and the dreams?”

He puts his hand upon my arm and searches my face

I realize it has great importance and because my mind has been swimming back and forth over thoughts and details I keep spinning out when we get here 

I shut my eyes and think. I think about the new details I have learned from Jörn and —I cannot deny how things he’s said seem to trigger …. a complete picture perfect memory. The sharp details of these that go with the sudden flash of a memory picture are made only more vital because of the emotions the image triggers. The sudden urge to burst into tears. So, I’ve been in no hurry to think long upon all these crashing revelations 

Truth be told, I seem to be embracing complete denial that this is real. Or not. Which ever ejects me through the safety hatch door out 

So —using that sense of detachment which, shock of events have altered me into, I go into the mental place where the memory is sharp ….

“It was cold—there was blood….I remember being chased—hiding from—that guy ….who was that guy?”

“Mama’s other brother….”

So…. I think, trying to put it all together; the blood feud—and he said Elsa is Lisa’s aunt. Was she Ulf’s or Ivar’s? Or maybe there was a sister ….? 

It is hard to keep hold of the plot when it is happening right in front of you. Being played. And a pawn. 

But I continue,

“there were heavy weapons around because ….” I look at Jörn suddenly.  Because I remember something suddenly. I remember the ones he was working on still when —this happened. They were still lying across the table by the welding pit. This memory sends a chill. As a flashing memory goes across my thoughts recalling the decision to choose one of the ones he’d not finished yet so I would not wreck something he was ready to sell 

“Thank you,” Jörn says to me

I look up at him,

“I thought you said it doesn’t work that way.”

“I lied,” he smiles that lascivious, sly grin 

I shrug. So…. at least it saves time when I’m not in the mood to talk ….

“I….used it….didnt I?” I look at him now as I put more images together as they flood my thoughts …. “Oh my god ….”

Only it is too horrific to say aloud 

Because there was more to the story of that day —maybe I never wanted to remember; and horrors that are too disturbing 

But I remember ….as her—I stare at the sky from the window now, thinking of another sky and I say,

“it changed me….I believed it cursed me—it went against the faith I’d believed in ….”  but I remember more than that. I understand more about what he said before. The blood feud that wasn’t mine to end. It must have been guilt over killing Ulf that caused the self sacrifice only there was more to it; I look up at Jörn now understanding why my memories of Elan never go past this but I say to Jörn,

“I remember coming back ….” I feel my face drain of blood as that light headed feeling hits me 

I take a moment to think. The parallel lives. The lessons. The timelines. The repeated lessons that never got learned and return to haunt through incarnations 

but Jörn never gets to die. To reincarnate 

“That isn’t precisely right,” Jörn says —correcting my thinking ….

So?

“The shifters shift between life and death,” he says simply but just as sudden as that remark is offered, he quickly drops it, “what else do you remember ….?”

“You want me to say it aloud what I already know you know I remember ….?”

He raises his pale brows patiently and looks me in the eye.

“I believed I was cursed—“

“—because?”

“When I recovered back from the dead ….we lost our first born— it was miscarried ….”

“Do you understand why you choose not to remember?”

“Because I believed all our misfortune was ….” because now I start to remember other things of after ….and after ….and more still ….

I sigh and cover my face. I take deep breaths 

Jörn whispers, reading my thoughts 

“You remember Andreas as he was then, don’t you ….his first steps and Hanna’s—arguing over what to name her that time by the surprise of that herd of deer—“

“I fell in the river—“

“It was a pond,” Jörn laughs 

It takes more moments for shocks to wash over as details seem to drown my thoughts but finally, after a deep breath, I ask,

“do they know?”

Jörn stares at me oddly before he replies,

“can you imagine anything ever getting by those two?”

I shake my head but I say,

“I mean—they don’t actually think—believe —I’m ….”

Jörn sighs,

“I was harder to convince than they were. They picked you out of a crowd before you even met them. They’ve known all along. And—I might add, have been constantly going behind my back snooping around —well, doing what kids do ….”

I laugh,

“Kids…. what are they, like 1,100 years old? And—how is that —like how do they….?” 

Is this something to do with what he was referring to in “slowing my biological timeline”—because Elsa and Josef ….

the Man With the Vampire Eyes Scandi-Noir “Bloodsucking Inteligence” /Electra’s dictionary

 

“So how exactly does this whole thing work?” I ask Jörn as I am well at the point of having exhausted the subject to be nearly desensitized of it. 

Or I am actually just over tired so the sense of horror has dulled, as it occurs to me now that vampires suddenly have become a normal pattern of my thinking process, as if it was always already there. No, not exactly. I’d almost say ‘woken up to,’ but that’s not exactly how it feels either

It is more of a sense of remoteness. Like being outside of events watching. Like a stunned bystander scratching her head and I am just an observer examining all the characters and trying to connect with …. a time line? 

“How does what work?” Jörn asks me

Even as …. I know …. we both know ….he can read my thoughts 

I’m looking up at his eyes thinking this —as I see a spark alight within the shadows of kryptonite and without moving a muscle on his face, I can see he is almost laughing at me but concealing it well even as —I see the humor in his eyes

He sighs and shrugs and then paces twice back and forth across the room with —it feels almost— like lightning speed ….he leaves trails; like traces ….when he moves —little flares of blue lights evaporate as he —as if, hydroplanes in motion 

I realize he does not mean for me to notice this. He is more distracted with the new level of himself as the-whole of himself is now exposed to me. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would think he is unsure of  ….me? Now that I know. 

Jörn suddenly looks at me sharply from where he stands by the window 

“It isn’t that I am letting my guard down,” Jörn says, proving he is still reading my thoughts and then after a pause he continues on to say, “to us it is not reading thoughts. It amazes us how loudly mortal humans scream their thoughts. ‘Shifters’ communicate with their thoughts—do you see?”

I find there’s a lot to unwrap in that last part —and the first part —and maybe all of it together as a whole as much as in pieces 

“‘Shifters’? You call yourself ‘shifters’?” as it is the only easy part I can think of where to start 

“There are so many names. But there are many variations of —it’s complicated ….just like how there are many species of animals and —many races of humans ….that may be a vague way to help you understand.”

“Like—vampires, werewolves—“

He is beside me in a flash,

“—don’t do that,” he says in such a way that it seems some repulsive aversion causes him to almost physically stop my words. 

I realize as I rewind in my head what I just said how maybe I might have caused insult

He says,

“While I can understand how the blood sucking thing came about as some characteristic, it is not exactly the defining feature or even the norm. That is more the extreme when —it’s gone rabid; but that rarely happens and only did during the black plague, so….”

But then, he stops and paces some more. He stands by the windows in a spot in between the two so that they flank him, giving him almost the look of having great wings as the sun descends orange behind him 

“Most are not able to see the ‘traces’,” he tells me with air-quotations and then after another disjointed pause he peers sidelong at me as if with a guilty expression. He looks back out the window but walks towards me as he walks like a habit from years —centuries?—of watching out for spies. He sits beside me but still is looking outside. 

He says,

“you are starting to notice details most people will never notice about us.”

His remark stuns me. I stare at his profile,

“How? From being around you? am I catching it—picking it up—is it like contagious or ?!—what?”

“No…. years ago we ….slowed your biological time line,” but he says this in such a low voice. I almost don’t hear him 

“What did you just say?” I almost choke on the words 

“There comes a point where it’s harder for the transition if ….” but here he stops and seems to leave the thought. “Did you never notice how often people have made Dorian Grey jokes to you? Remarks about —had you had any cosmetic procedures? Things like that?”

I jump to my feet and stand up and for a startled frozen moment I am like in a cartoon when the character stands frozen and its eye balls drop out in shock with its jaw dropped gaping wide. 

“‘We’?” I ask from the window with my hands on my hips, like one ready to charge into battle shooting from the holster …. but then ….I think more about what he just said about seeing more details of things about them. While mostly Jörn as it has only been —or mostly only been Jörn whom I’ve been around since all this materialized for me. 

The shock takes awhile to adjust to. So—he’s a vampire. Or not a vampire—a ‘shifter’ whatever that means 

“The bats?” I ask

Again, of all things, I grasp onto these superfluous details because the bigger thing is too insurmountable 

“I….” again a guilty smile at me, “there’s —they have a unique cellular make up in their dna that when (we extract a drop of their plasma) injected into a ‘shifted’ is able to rebuild—it stimulates the metamorphose and works as a healing agent. The ancients discovered this by accident. Hence the legendary myths came about,” Jörn shrugs simply 

“So—you mean it’s the bat’s blood you drink, not the human’s?”

Jörn shakes his head,

“neither. And we don’t kill bats. Never—“ he laughs with a sinister tone,”they are like the sacred cow to shifters. And you need to forget all the movie versions. The only thing they do have close to being credible is where it is believed to have come from—at least on this side of the planet; because that is the way knowledge of this reached our seidr —the one I said my mother went to when she told me it was to bring Elan back….it all goes back to this—I cannot tell you without going back to then— duva…. the last time it happened when you died it was on a battlefield— I was away fighting another battle and to save face and represent for me, you decided to stand in my place— it was against Lisa’s army—it was the end of the blood feud but you paid it and it wasn’t for you to pay, do you see?”

“No—Lisa? But why would your mother ….whose blood feud?”

“My mother is Lisa’s aunt—it was a blood feud with her brother Ivar and she had never revealed the nature of what that was—I never cared to know after what happened there ….”

“Ok—then, tell about how …. Redbad…. really? —and you have been slowing down my —what? Bio—logical— ? —timeline? —And when did this happen?”

“It was when —that day—Willem was sure it was you—he didn’t tell us but the day at the Wassenaar bar—“

“My rum and coke?” I blurt out as it hits me—as the memory of him that day has always been so sharp 

Jörn smiles,

“did it make you batty?”

I don’t laugh at his joke. I’m back at the Dugout that day in Wassenaar remembering my drink with a Dutchman named Redbad not Willem 

“Holy shit, wait, that makes sense—because —wasn’t he fighting against the take over of the Christians….? like fighting in battle against—like, as in —the actual Charlemagne?” I start to laugh because I’m expecting Jörn to correct me but when the odd silence hangs there, that note of truth belches loudly, “Redbad was a pagan ….” I stare at Jörn and into the bright of kryptonite and his eyes do not look away. Willem fought ….Charlemagne?

After a moment Jörn says,

“you think you got all that so far?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Would you like to hazard a guess who the pagan Viking seidr is that my mother went to to resurrect you?”

My mind goes back to something Jörn said recently. And along with it, I think suddenly again of that day at the penthouse when everyone filed out of Ethan Rhys Jones office years ago….the first time I ever laid eyes on ….

“Stina….?”