It begins to reveal itself

2:15 PM

First layer of paint begins

Think of this as a pause between seasons in my journal writing

 ~even as I know the plot line .... as sometimes I go within myself for awhile, go inside the crypt 

~to continue it, because the dictionary goes on and 

we are hung by a thread with a cliffhanger because ..... it is

a dare from an echo

wishing for reflection 

only if it is actually heard 

31 December 2019 thus far today

at 12:34 ....

day 2; rough sketch

May need four more panels and a very big wall

‘the pirate and the dove’ begins today

my present studio

starting to sketch the piece onto two canvas panels

My mother’s old easle 

starting this piece from the bottom

missing summer hikes

(embracing the inner grinch)

one of a few snakes I have caught on video

Where does a person go to find peace when everything everywhere reminds you of what you have lost or never had

also from this summer; an insomniac playing with the animation loop

plays and ....keys

but before we go he draws me back as I stand to sit with him,

inside long legs in front of the piano, he stretches.... we sit at the keys, 

he lays his fingers over mine and lightly guides me to play chords ....

something he likes to do but we have not done for awhile ....not since we came here, I realize ....and as always it turns into this.... his mouth along my neck as together we play the keys; the way his fingertips touch and press into my fingers on the keys

it is some familiar arrangement we always play; a pattern, like a language between us and as always, it turns into something else, like how he puts his mouth along my neck from behind me and finds the place to sink his teeth

By design or by arrangement....?

woven thoughts in a wormhole fabric of time

I meet Gandalf on the mountain top; and as we fall, on the way down, with the Balrog raging below, his venomous steam of poison spitting up at us, and as we descend into Moria—Gandalf asks me,

“what would you say was your greatest sin in your lifetime?”

I reply, without hesitation,

“naïveté .... what was yours?”

“Faith in humanity....” and adds, “but not faith in the Hobbits....”

and as we fall I find I have a moment to wonder: 

how many lifetimes for the pirate to arrive on time?

The next scene; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

Jörn’s parents are well into their second or third round of “skål!” over akvavit as Andreas and I return

“Are you all right?!” —Josef rushes over, when no sooner inside —I do walk head first into a wall.... Maybe it is the shock of warm air from the cold  —as Jörn pulls me from the wall by the arm as I’m about to hit it again

“Oh—whoa!” I say and notice he gives me a disapproving look sniffing my hair

“We need to talk,” he tells me and leads me to a quiet part of the kitchen. But first he looks at me and takes hold of my face to look at him; he shakes his head at me and smiles but asks, “are you comprehensive?”

I get the feeling he is aware of what his son does in the farmhouse

I clear my head and look directly at him
“Yes....” then ask, “they are going to do your opera? —Andreas told me what has been going on, so.... Jörn, does this mean you are leaving—going ....to do your opera in Stockholm....?” and so now I realize it is what I have feared about this because ....then he would go —and events have a way of changing everything so I turn my eyes from his as he searches me

He says,
“I still have to finish it but.... and it would not be right away ....but that doesn’t mean—“ but we get interrupted by Josef who comes over with a glass for me to toast with them and insists

So I do not get to know what Jörn was about to say and find I brood about it

I don’t remember much about the dinner only that there was salmon and leek soup ....the colors distracting me ....along with all my fears

to see them all happy and me an outsider .... I find that I cannot look at Jörn all night because I fear I would burst into tears  ....but still I rationalize with myself that .... maybe this is why I came into his life; he had to write his opera so now.... it will end because I served my purpose

these emotions I could not work out before, I suppose, along with the sense of losing him to a world that I am not a part of; his world that I do not belong ....and find I wonder what it even was he sought in me ....as his lover.... I mean, I never really fit his life, did I? a feral vagabond

and it makes me wonder about the notion of purpose; “to be or not to be”

It is later once everyone has gone to bed and all the bedroom doors are shut that I find him at his piano. He plays lightly and thoughtfully and the sounds that bounce from the walls are light, like waterfalls and does not disturb the night sounds of the house even as music is like white-noise to his family as they fall asleep to Wagner

Jörn looks at me and spontaneously asks me,
“Of all writers, who would you say was your most influential?”

“As a writer particularly? Not as an artist? F. Scott Fitzgerald—why—which opera composer most influenced you?” I walk over to him and lean across the piano to watch his long fingers

“F. Scott Fitzgerald —? I did not expect you would say that....” he looks oddly at me and I see the creases deepen as he seems to read significance. At first he seems distracted by this and he goes back to playing the same troubling part of his opera but then he gets frustrated and moves to punch the keys but restrains himself because everyone is sleeping

He sighs,
“my biggest influence—? Not opera, but—Johan Helmich Roman; baroque.... and not just because he was from Sweden, his style has influenced the way I write.... I haven’t many opera favorites, to be honest, that is why I wanted to compose my own,” now he laughs as he looks at me and says in a low whisper, “I had to listen to my mother’s operas growing up and all my life, they drove me crazy! .... Saturday mornings, glasses breaking everywhere, her singing even before the sun came up....”

it is something about his smile. and his laugh.... the way it changes his serious features.... I move to him and touch his face, across his cheekbones and along the bridge of his long nose and look into his eyes

“Can you tell me now? We are alone .... when do you go? Or what is happening?” I ask him and move to sit on the floor by his feet but he reaches for me

“I told you, I still have to finish it ....and .... there are other things,” he says, “the case is at a delicate point and I would have had to delay it even if my opera was completed.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” I say but.... I hear something else he doesn’t say in his voice or, rather how, whatever it is, it leaves me with some sense of relief

because no, we never say and I often fear to know ....if he does

I move down to the floor

“What are you doing?” he asks me

“I think my earring fell .... “ I say but he laughs as I unbutton his jeans

but stops laughing soon after

“Duva, as much as I like to perform publicly, I’d rather not give someone like my son or my mother this kind of shock so.... what about the sauna?”

3 December 2019/Electra’s dictionary Lite mer smörgås familjedrama (edjmmusechron)

The stillness up here, especially when it snows, makes you believe that the madness of the world is far, far away, and in that sense is why, I suppose, I was drawn to coming out here.

And so, as I step away from the discussion amongst the musicians that I find I quite enjoy, even as I am always completely lost within it, I know they discuss the next proceedings of Jörn’s work, and ....the emotions in connection to all of what that entails, I find, I can’t work out because I want success for him and all that it may entail.... but mostly, it also terrifies me

It is their world .... and I am not really in their world, am I? and I serve no part in it. This I know and have never fooled myself about

So I walk to the stables to spend some time with Choklad and reflect upon what it is ....that I search for. to achieve ....this obsession to write this and the purpose behind it. And as I brush Choklad down, this I think about —it is about vindication, I think— and justice, I suppose ....I think I am searching for some means to release me by my methods of allegory

Only what does that prove?

This was never meant as some excuse to whine about some pathetic individual who gets used as a hockey puck all her miserable life because I never liked those kinds of stories

only, how is it possible to have vindication in a fucked up world?

for all my need to escape into illusion, deep down, I am a realist

the illusions are symbols, like props or archetypes and meant only to represent for my own internal intellectual discussion .... to make sense of it all; to find the order within all this chaos I got born into and have been manipulated by

I guess it really is peace I search for up here in the mountains and the more I stay here the more I realize that I never belonged in all the places I have been. Is there something to the theory of DNA memory? That I should instinctively feel drawn to the mountains the way the Welsh found their defense against the English armies by disappearing into the mountains as they were a nomadic tribal people

These random thoughts I get lost in until I hear the scrape of a shoe and look up from brushing

It is Andreas and for just a second I stare at him forgetting where I am and who he is

“I meant to thank you,” he says now as he leans on the door ledge of the stall

I keep brushing but look at him. He is nice on the eyes and I realize that he is far from a boy as I consider things about him and his recent circumstances. His hair is darker than his father and his eyes a different shade but some features are strongly like Jörn and again it makes me think about DNA and about the existence of one’s soul and how the two are woven together ..... and wonder about random and purpose

“I mean, for not telling my dad and letting me handle it,” he explains

I smile,
“people in my life tend to tell me their secrets and maybe that’s because they know I have too many worse ones of my own to catch them out, so to speak.... but, no problem, you’re welcome ....inga problem, du är välkommen—I didn’t say that right, did I?” I ask him

He hides a smile and a laugh

“Your grandmother has started ‘total immersion’ with me....” I laugh, “maybe it’s a good method to avoid actually having to talk to me!”

“No, she likes you,” he laughs, “she didn’t at first but....”

“So what changed it?” I ask

“My father— they are a very serious family— we are, I mean; our music is,” he shrugs, “but what it really is, I think anyway.... is that you have changed him,” he says profoundly

“—I— have? how do you mean that?”

“He is more —focused especially about this opera that he has always talked about writing —he would usually get fed up with it though and throw it away after a week or a month and he was usually always ....angry .... constantly just —always shouting or picking on everyone about things. I mean, I love my dad and he’s great to talk to about most things —he’s just .... like—nicer since he met you. And there was always this expectation that my parents would get back together but they’re.... better off this way.”

“That is quite mature,” I say 

“I don’t really think he was ever in love with her,” he says as I put down the brush

“It’s getting colder,” I say and pat Choklad on the head and head to step out of the stall

“You know?” he opens the door to help me through as the hinges are rough to open. “They never seemed really like—I mean, you’ve seen my grandparents but my parents are more like how my sister and I are, not —“ he waves his arms in a grand gesture that looks like a love heart

“Is that how you feel about your instructor?” I ask as we walk out and Choklad turns to give me a goodbye nudge with his head over the door

He seems a bit awkward with my question and instead he says,
“I think they see how he has changed too. Especially with the work. He’s never produced so much before and I think they gave up he would ever write it. It was what he studied to do, he wanted to be a composure and they were going to create their own opera house and perform his works but it never came about and then he moved around playing for different orchestras then we —me and my dad— came to New York and....” he stops at the pathway that leads not to the barn house but instead to the old defunct farmhouse, “do you want to come in here—have you looked inside here yet?” he asks me

I look up the hill to the barn house with all the lights and see indistinct outlines of all of them inside

“I guess they’re quite involved still, aren’t they?” I say vaguely

“They’re waiting for a phone call,” he says as we walk the path to the farmhouse

“Are they? I don’t know about this. What is the phone call about?”

He stops by the door,
“my dad doesn’t know about this so you would not know. They have been submitting his music to —I don’t know his exact title but this is someone who everyone back home in the ‘classical music world’ knows. He’s someone who could put my father’s opera into production which would be —well.... a big deal.”

“And that’s who’s calling?”

“Ja— yeah,” he digs into his pocket

“Oh no! Please don’t tell me you’ve started smoking,” I say with concern as he cups his hands to light.

He looks at me and smiles. Because it is dark I can’t see but he offers it to me, and waits with a patient smile; the scent reaches me,

“don’t tell my dad, and no I don’t do this all the time, it’s just been a stressful few weeks.”

“Oh more smörgås family drama, great— your dad would not be happy with me for encouraging this,” I tell him, “where did you get it from all the way out here?”

“I have a friend who goes to the university around here,” he says and still offers it to me

“Sheesh.... really, Andreas, I think you would regret giving me that as I have a tendency to talk too much when under the influence. I didn’t think Swedish people did that.”

He laughs,
“you mean because it’s illegal in our country?”

“It’s still illegal here for most  —how old are you again?” I ask but because I notice it’s starting to ash I reach for it but laugh, “no.... I can’t. You really don’t want to see me like that and—“ I look up at the house, “we still have to go back up there .... how would that look? My God, knowing me, I’d probably walk into a wall and act like an idiot,” I hand it to him

“They’re going to be awhile,” he takes out his phone, “farmor is going to message me when they get the call but he’s on vacation in Hawaii and it’s still early there,” and smiles at me. “Well, you don’t have to so— do you mind if I ask you something about your dad? You know, the statue one...” his speech is already different as his question is also more uncharacteristically bold and without waiting for my reply he says, “I thought you said nobody knows who he is anymore.”

“Well, he’s not relevant, I think I said—anymore.”

“Somebody played him in a show I was watching at— my friend’s....” and he uses the joint to indicate which friend, “a recent show —that guy from that big movie a few years ago was in it,” his words become more lazy as he slips into his own accent

“Oh,” I say even as I have no idea what any of that means except that somebody played him in a show, and start to shiver now from the cold

“Let’s go in here,” he notices I’m cold and opens the farmhouse door

It’s an empty and gutted house but the lights go on when he flips a switch

He sits down on a big square box like thing made of wood that is shoved randomly in a spot by the window

“So, is it true that your nephew committed suicide?” he asks me

He says it in such a way that— instead of it seeming impertinent or invasive, comes out more like a coaxing invitation to talk about it

“Oh.... yes.... “

“When was this?”

“The ides of March, actually,” I say and look around the empty gutted interiors

“So, nine months ago.... how old was he?” but the genuine concern in his question is honest

“Your age,” I sigh heavily

“So about your daughter’s age?” he asks

I walk over to him, “ok, give it here,” I say now and meet eyes that have now become somewhat pink around the Mediterranean blue of them

“Förlåt!” he says, “I have made you upset!”

“No.....” I shake my head, “it’s really ok....” but his line of questions make me sad

“Here,” he lights it

It is a solid two to four minutes before I realize I have been staring at nothing. Or maybe it is five. It could be ten, possibly

“What were we just talking about?” he asks me

“No idea,” I lie

but I still stare at nothing. It could be another five minutes. And after that I do forget

“I really hope this wears off before we have to face anyone,” I finally say

“Here—“ he says, “it’s going to go out....”

“No, I’m good,” I say becoming nervous, “your dad’s going to kill me, what am I doing....?”

“It’s not your weed,” he says, and presses it to my mouth, “it’s going out—“

“Well.... oh—gosh ....”

Possibly fifteen minutes.... no idea

“He says usually it’s Hanna,” I say

“What is?”

“The trouble maker,” and I start to laugh and then he laughs —and it is about another four minutes or more of forgetting why we are laughing “....so.... yeah.... he’s going to kill me.”

“I wonder why it’s illegal,” he says dully staring at a spot on the floor

“Because nobody would ever get anything done if they were like this all the time,” I say even as that is not true in all cases; such as a compulsive need to suddenly dance or excessive exercising like doing sit ups on a filthy gutted floor

“I wouldn’t do that,” he tells me, “I’m pretty sure I saw a mouse.”

“Ok....” and as I get up I start to notice what he’s sitting on, “what is that?”

“I don’t know, my dad said it’s some kind of safe....”

I look around the room and notice something else,
“do you know anything about that table?”

But then I hear someone’s phone getting a call

“That’s yours,” Andreas says

“Oh!” I say, “where is it coming from?”

I look at Andreas as he points to me,
“your pocket.”

“Huh!” he is correct and I discover the source and take it out of my pocket. I look at it and look at Andreas.... “it’s your dad....” and watch it continue to do that wondering what to do

“You should answer it,” Andreas suggests

I keep looking at it though, and whisper,
“oh my God, he’s going to kill me.... I’m corrupting his son in the farmhouse.”

“If you don’t answer he’ll just start to worry something’s wrong and come looking,” he says now

“Shit!” I say and quickly answer

“Duva?”

“Yeah....” I say

“Where are you?” Jörn’s voice over the phone seems extra loud somehow

“Um.... I’m —I’m just—uh.... was in the stables ....”

“Why do you sound like that?” he asks

“Like what? It’s cold—I got cold so we came to warm up in the farmhouse, I mean—Andreas....” I say and look at Andreas now who is shaking his head and laughing at me

“What’s so funny?” Jörn asks me, “what are you doing in the farmhouse? Ok, never mind, can you both come back to the house? Mamma has just cooked us some big celebration dinner as —there is something important that I want to tell you face to face and she’ll be angry if the dinner gets cold....”

“Shit..... like right now?” I ask

video ‘gray socks’, a chat with an ex

duel not duel

a break with some nonsense between the definitions

a dictionary that begs to define; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

‘My life has been extraordinary
Blessed and cursed and won
Time heals, but I’m forever broken
By and by the way’*


https://youtu.be/bHR0MBF-AZc



I get up in the night to vomit from pain and sit on the floor of the shower with the water hitting me


And then lay there on the floor and think of Elan and of her pain .... and how she died, I think of her blood and of her torture ....

so much like mine —like the hours i spent in that dorm room at Bard as he beat me

and it makes me think of parallels of lives

their importance in their present meaning

 .... like the vampire pirate in whose arms she died who was there too late .... and understand too how this could leave a soul with a heavy burden of responsibility  ....I think these thoughts

as I try not to feel this

inflammation of scar tissue on spine; in all fingers/joints

pain that could be best described as

a hot iron migraine felt throughout your body, with a pulse-pounding punch administered with sadistic tenacity .... by its ever-present perpetrator that still beats

a week of illness; it is what I usually hide; especially here in my writing because I resent what it has done to me from something I never asked for but am left with its consequences .... my rage?


and  there-after for days ....once it finishes its meticulous, abusive course, it leaves me utterly ruined; like some sloth; just useless and exhausted

after these episodes I always notice that pain burns calories

but it also consumes muscle and leaves me just weak and thin

whatever brings it on is its own choice and after time, you learn its pattern; it has its signals

ironically, the best thing for my condition is extreme, vigorous exercise, but only if I am strong enough to stand

Sometimes I understand when I am deep within this personal hell .....

I know that at the center of all my madness has been this .... self.... manifested actuality

A manifested self just from what you learn to have to become to make a compromise within the self: to endure

Sometimes just from physical pain and that is itself another lesson, under fire

..... because certain levels I have learned to not feel and maybe it has made me stronger .... but .... I wonder really —is that strong? to not feel? .... unless it is the tragedy to give up feeling

and it has somehow dehumanized a certain level of my self ; that is, maybe callus .... it has caused a separation within ; pain—what it has done to my mind I can never fully say; pain has been my most familiar constant and rooted me deep within into and within myself ..... this place within

And I think about Dr. Rothschild statistics and how she said most don’t live past 20 and how I was a trail blazer on her statistical chart; a ‘miracle case’ she said, which was the only reason she took on a new case as she was retiring to devote to her studies of this—and, she was curious about my famous biological father; quick to notice my obvious resemblance to him.

So why did I survive.... and how....? My theory is —my madness. And complete disregard of normalcy. Adaptation and the survival of the fittest


If I am a masochist, I had to be in order to survive and there is a certain madness there.... this is a tiny clue that I only give away because .... I’m tired of keeping it to myself


So because I can’t withdraw into Ethan’s penthouse with one of my usual creative excuses

that I would normally find to disguise my invalidity ....

and shame.... not meant to be public to anyone but me and why i never allow people too close to see me like this and loath myself because ....now he has seen me at my worst

The night Jörn told me about the table from e-Bay, he later had told me about finding other things my sister sold, not just on e-Bay but through Christie’s —which came up in all his searches, he shows me screen shots of old transactions all from around the time of our parents deaths and .... I recognize all the items....

My mother’s jewelry, which would have put Elizabeth Taylor to shame, original oil paintings from our trips to France and Italy, marble pieces and a nineteenth century secretary and so many other things I recognize that had been in the family generations

.... and I think about this now.... how odd it was that Jörn looked at me —so

before he said,
“so there were no wills.....”

rhetorical

intentionally

to beg the question

And so I then said,
“well, she would argue that if I wasn’t considered his blood I could not claim his inheritance —but....” and I forced a laugh to say, “some of that had belonged to our mother’s mother or handed down by her father, my grandfather.”

“So she sold things that should have been yours by right?” Jörn pressed the question and I did notice a very biased note of hidden anger in his voice and then he asks me, “why didn’t you fight for any of it?”

“When were kids she kicked me in the crotch with her brand new Danish clogs and when I defended myself by punching her, I got caught by my dad and guess what happened after that? Yes, I got the belt. I was told never to lay a hand on my sister again not even to defend myself .... and that was the last time I defended myself,” I shrug and say, “you don’t really want to know .... because then you will understand how someone becomes feral and I think it isn’t exactly a nice wholesome image.”

I wish I could cut that out of me. These things. These shitty things. I wish that didn’t happen. Those things. I hate these things about me. Does it make me a better artist? It just makes me another fucked up artist

I needed to get away. from there. I want to be hidden. in these  mountains. For awhile. I still wish I could run and never stop. I know I will never be free

He says the demon is inside me

Jörn says,
“I know what ever you have so deeply buried it .... is about some kind of shame, duva.... you don’t want me to know what it is but I think I already know. But I know you think I would look at you some different way if you told me what it is.... you seem unable to.... I don’t know, maybe accept or forgive yourself or —maybe it’s more your feeling of being defiled ....”

His choice of word shocks me as he hits a nerve with sharp precision

“I think you figured out some of it, Jörn.... but not all of it. That time you said it to me .... the night, you know, with the fishnets.... you were right but that isn’t all of it....” but I stop myself and ask, “how do you know you wouldn’t think differently of me?”

I decide it’s best not to look at him at this point and keep talking,
“when we were small and she used to make me dress up as the father and play House ....at first I pretended to go along with it just because she always bullied me —so as we played her game of House with her baby dolls, the fake pots and pans and she the mom and me the dad— I came up with an idea to say I was going to go work on the car in the garage ....so, naturally, that was my way out and then I would leave and sneak away to go play with my toy car collection, but that didn’t work after awhile. It turned out since I didn’t play the way she wanted me to she ran to daddy and told on me and so I got the belt .... so I learned ....to play along....” I stop here and glance at Jörn and look away “Jörn.... but —she expected me to .... do things ....”

I don’t know how to continue. And I don’t want to. I want to stop. and wish to retrace and erase everything I have said

I take a deep breath and still without looking I plunge on

“It started when we were very young and.... there is something very deeply wrong with .... “ I shudder now and put my head into my hands and cover my face

I know he is aware of my discomfort and —without looking I can feel his

Neither of us move but he clears his throat,
“duva.... “

So I look up st him,
“so—you understand?—I mean what is behind her revenge? And.... so what if I told you that the person who left me for dead at college that night .....bragged to me that night how he’d been banging my sister too....”

I wonder if he is aware of the layers, like paint that covers up the old walls of a stage that has had plays long played out and reinvented for new scenes acted out of lies, coated over more layers, of still more layers, of hidden evils closed up inside a dictionary that begs to define

**************************************

It has been snowing a lot. It looks like winter has taken the stage as now everything is covered in white outside and it’s not seeming to go as more snow is supposed to come

He has taken to splitting wood after his morning run and sometimes I watch him from the window above from the bedroom upstairs

I worry about how he must think of me with all the chaos of my life and there is a stigma of being what I am .... but this is who I am and i cannot change who I am .... and if I am too much, so be it because I would not know how to change .... I know that he is a reasoning man; he likes to figure things out first by taking things apart and examining every detail and thinking then to use his logic to put the whole personality together, as I’m sure that is how he must work going over his top secret people on the radar portfolio cases —but in my case I suspect some parts have fallen out and long gone lost so....

I believe this is what he does as he splits wood; he works on his mental dissections. What he does when he runs. Without even realizing he does this .... I like to watch him when he is deep in thought and I suppose that is when I dissect him. I like to watch him.... it doesn’t matter what he does; he fascinates me in a way I have never known but always longed to know as an artist. Have always searched for like the dream memory and think of her pictures in the sand ....I would never tire of his face no matter how old he got

sometimes I think I must seem to him some unbelievable Candide who goes through life attracting atrocities ....because I don’t get the feeling he has encountered too manylike the like of me before and so I always fear that I overwhelm him with how deep my complicated maze does go

but then, his talent is a safe cracker

His parents will be leaving to return home soon and, strangely, I am somewhat sorry but this is a foreign concept to me that I dare not try to analyze at this time and so I think this sitting here tapping into my phone as I watch Jörn from the window .... and watch him put down the axe to take out his phone

he sends me a message!

<i want to show you something—can you come out in about fifteen minutes?>

<where?>

<come around the back behind  the garage by the shed. Give me fifteen minutes>

I check the temperature on my phone.... -4C —not as cold as the other night at least

When I go downstairs I see that his parents have gone to sleep and Andreas has shut the door of the room he’s been sleeping in

I find my boots and put on my coat, then go out through the kitchen because the door is quieter. I didn’t realize there was a shed but then, that must be where the axe is stored, I think, as a cold blast of air goes up my sleeve as I open the door. My boots sink into the snow as I walk around the garage and to the back and realize two big trees had overshadowed the shed —which is, like a double shed —like a tiny duplex house with two doors on separate sections. One that faces the back of the house and another that I only notice as I go around the back—that faces the mountains

and this is where Jörn is waiting for me, leaning against the wall

he smiles when he sees me as if he has a secret but he gestures to the sky because of the stars as he comes over to me, opening his coat to pull me inside it,

He points,
“right there is the Big Dipper—see the North Star?”

Skies and stars ....

I follow his direction and see it is visible until some clouds come and obscure

“Is this my surprise?” I ask and turn into him inside his coat looking up at his face

“No— guess what is behind this door?” and he pulls me towards it

“No idea....”

And he opens it,
“the owner is Swedish, remember? She installed a sauna —I just had to fix a few things about it before I wanted you to see it.”

“Have you known it was here all along?” I follow him inside

“Lisa said there was one here but it needed some things fixed which I did....”

It is all pale wood slats and  two long layer steps of rounded recliner areas but as I go inside with him I get the strangest chill

It is the placement of where the window is and where the wood burner is set.... and how it looks.... and reminds me of....

I look at Jörn but he moves to the fire and adjusts something

“It’s just starting to warm up,” he takes off his coat and hangs it up on a peg by the door and comes over to me, unzipping my coat and pulling it off me

“You’ve been busy!” I say as I look around, noticing a pile of neatly folded white towels ....

and placed ....

“Jörn....” I say low to myself

arranged as the sauna is..... it is exactly where the hides would have been stacked up ....in the smeden’s hut—I get another chill and look over at him as he comes back from hanging my coat

“Boots—“ he points

so I take them off as he goes back the fire and —it is like deja vu for a moment.... I see everything the way it is in my memory and I see both, together overlaid in vision ....the way he stands now before the fire as he warms up his hands, he does a motion

I watch him take off his shirt and as he stands there with his back bare in front of the fire I know ....I cannot ever doubt that I have .... “Jörn....” I whisper again as the shadows that fall into contours of the muscles of his back —flesh to life a memory the way a photo on paper emerges from chemicals, he turns now to face me,

“are you warm enough, duva?” he asks me as he opens the button of his jeans and starts to remove them, “do you like it? I’ve been getting it ready while you were ....unwell, I thought you’d like it.”

I move nearer to him and stare instead of answering because of the strange tricks of my mind and without thinking I say,

“I love —it,” and continue to stare at him as he kicks off his jeans to sit down naked

He smiles,
“come here,” and opens long arms

and it makes me think of the image of the beach with the full moon. I go over to him and his hands move over me, peeling off my sweater and jeans

“I don’t want it too get too hot, Jörn,” I say about the sauna, “I can’t be in extreme heat, you know, because of ....”

but he pulls me onto him to sit wrapped around him and fits me ....to him

“By the way, I don’t think any differently about you —but I can’t promise about the heat,” he says against my ear






*lyrics by Billy Corgan from the song ‘Muzzle’

a pirate’s prize

‘I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone 

To lie here and die among the sorrows 

Drift among the days

‘For everything I ever said

And everything I’ve ever done is gone

And dead

‘As all things must surely have to end

And great loves will one day have to part’*

.................................................................................

Elan on the beach washes her shame in the ocean

She learned to loath herself by the man that she called father

she goes along the shore in search of moonstones

she walks up the way to the market where people sold and traded things like silk and pottery, dried herbs and root vegetables

Elan and her father traveled with a donkey because their horses were taken when the raid happened two years before

and so they walked everywhere and packed up the donkey and went by boat to travel and trade

He was thought to be a medicine man and his herbs promised cures

they would travel by season when weather allowed it and returned to familiar ports

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time the pirate with the vampire eyes looked at her with possession 

it was her first encounter of being valued

*”Muzzle” Billy Corgan https://youtu.be/bHR0MBF-AZc

Noir haze (edjmmusechron)

“So do you want to go back to the city?” I ask him

“Eventually—yes,” he nods with an obvious shrug, “I’m a musician, you can’t expect me to perform for sheep and you know you can’t stay in hiding forever. It’s not realistic. You will crave the city again,” he says this matter of fact with a sharp look at me

“No....” I say back “I don’t know that....” and shake my head for emphasis “....!”

but he ignores this

He says,
“.... can you really see yourself blending into the mountain range?” he asks me and gestures around us

“Why not? Trees are my favorite people,” I say

He laughs and shakes his head,
“No, I can’t see that. You say this but you are an artist and you will crave things like actual culture soon enough..... and want the city again and I mean, not necessarily the city —being —New York City.”

But I don’t want to think about it right now, it feels too much

He says,
“there are other cities.”

my attention gets sidetracked by what he says.... other cities; yes..... because

each time when I decide to just pick up and go some place

there is such a thrilling rush.....

that feeling of escape

like now, when I think of it it .....to finally finally get away .... and naturally, for me it goes to ‘no place like home’ and thoughts of running back to Amsterdam..... to
finally get away from here; far far away from what has been one very long nightmare since I arrived at Bard college

He pulls up to the house and before he moves to get out I say,

“sometimes I wonder if it is only the code that you want from me.”

He shuts the car door he has just opened without getting out and as I start to get out of the car he grabs my wrist and stops me

I wiggle free from his grip by fast reflex and get out fast and rush to the house

“Wait!” he calls after me but I run inside

“Is everything ok?” Elsa says as I rush by her

“Oh, I just —“I say but hear Jörn calling me as he walks through the front door but I say to Elsa, “—yes—fine....I’m just....!” but I keep going until I reach the stairs and rush up and shut the bedroom door kicking off my boots and tossing my coat in a mad need to be free of it. I hear him come up the stairs still calling me. I run to start the water in the bathtub and shut the bathroom door

He comes right in and he seems slightly angry

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a bath,” I tell him

“Why do you say that and then take off? Is this about the other thing?”


Then I hear another voice and realize it’s Andreas asking if I’m ok.

I shut off the water and sit on the ledge and call out that I’m ok and look up at Jörn

He takes a moment to watch me and leans against the sink with his arms folded then he walks out and opens the bedroom door and calls out

“Vi kommer snart nere!”


and then shuts the door again and comes back

“I know what you’re doing!” he says looking at me with sudden awareness



*from the song ‘Muzzle’ by Billy Corgan

Noir Cruise Control (edjmmusechron) 7 November 2019

It is cold —and even when we get into the car so.... I wait for him to put on the heat and shiver as I lean sideways against the side of the seat with my legs up and my knees to my chest to huddle for warmth

I ask him now about the weird thing he just said

He takes out his phone and shows me something,
“do you know what this is?”

“It looks like musical notes,” I say

“Yes, well, obviously! Look closer, duva,” he insists

“I’m dyslexic—but— I could hazard a guess it is —what—the major and the minor piano chords? I never could read music, Jörn.”

“Exactly....” he says and smiles at me, “but you are right, that is what this is.” He puts away his phone

Suddenly he says, and very casually,
“So did you miss me?”

He can be so strange but so impossibly handsome. I move over to him and angle between the steering wheel into his lap and wrap around his hips. I press myself there to him, and loosen his hair then cover his mouth with mine,
“what do you think?”

He smiles as he glances at the side rear view to see if anyone is there.... then runs his hands up the back of me to my hips and pulls me to him with a roughly accurate motion which belies what his expression does not

“You should put your seat belt on,” but he laughs and pulls me by the hips to press me into but then he sees someone in the rear view,
“actually, you should, there’s a state trooper ....” he says now

“Oh! ....Do you know it has been a year since ....” I say as I move up to move over ....but then I stop for a moment to look at him; to look .... into that den inside his eyes, “that first day ...” and watch his eyes respond with their elusive mystery

I move to the passenger seat and say,
“but you are too rational to get caught up in things like ....”

“Things like?” he asks me but he teases me

“You know—emotions..... You don’t really ever get emotional about anything —so it seems things don’t really ....” I run out of what to say

“I don’t? You think I don’t feel things?” he asks me seriously, “you think that I don’t notice you’ve been sleeping in my bed ....?”

And still he says nothing

“Jörn.... you know, I think you are like .... you’re like Spock, I think, —I mean, sometimes a girl needs ....a clear indication .... of—some sort of....” and run out of words

“So I’m Spock and my father is Yoda— what does that make you?”

“....Barbarella,” I say

“So my mother would be....?”

“Sarah Connor—“ I shrug easily as it’s a given but see he needs a hint, “the Terminater....” and I cock an imaginary machine gun. 

we both laugh but then he shrugs with a heavy sigh,

“You really are obtuse.... you know? you don’t notice ....how I have turned my life upside down ...?” he looks at me and waves his arms, “look where we are.... why are we here? Because you wanted to get away from the city —do you know what I did just to bring you here? Why? Because of something going on in your pathological past you still won’t talk about and I have not forced out of you but you are running away from something that .... “and he looks at me in a kind of tragic way.

What is he thinking? He takes my chin in his hand thoughtfully and then drops his hand and looks suddenly away “.... which, at this point, you have to realize that.... the demon is inside you,” he says

“Yes. Well, whatever. Dr. Freud ....be that as it may.... Jörn, still.... sometimes a girl needs a more obvious sign.”

“My opera ....you know it’s because of ....we’ve talked about this.... ” he says and looks at me, “and the fact that my parents have accepted that Lisa and I are done.”

Such a brave statement and a comfortable commitment

I become aware of more than one conversation happening at the same time.

But then he asks me,

“Do you still want to know what I was doing in New Jersey?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I found the table that went to the safe —your sister sold it on e-Bay for eight hundred dollars back in 2003. Wasn’t that the year after your parents died? They died six weeks apart, right?”

“Hmmm....” I put on my seatbelt

“And there were no wills....?” He asks me

but I take that as rhetorical rather than decide to open that conversation

and now ask, “the table to the code ....?” and look at him

He says,
“The table with the code ....key  —to the safe with the code —lock,” he says

“What does that mean?” I ask him

“It means ....” he starts the car and turns in the seat to back out, “I need you to remember how to play that piece you won that award for.”

Vampire encrypt

“My life has been empty, 

my life has been untrue


And does she really know, who I really am?


Does she really know me at last?

And are you just like me?


Dead eyes, 

are you just like me?

Her eyes, her eyes 

were as vacant as the seas, yeah

Dead eyes, 

Dead eyes, 

are you just like me?”

— ‘By Starlight’ lyrics by Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins album “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness”

https://youtu.be/GYJfzw6gZx8

*************************************************************

as I wait for him at the airport I watch the sky .... and realize

looking up at the setting sun

I had the dream again ....last night

it was the one again where at first I don’t see my foot prints in the sand as I move across the shore

..... and I move like gossamer but this time, I see an image of a field of burning crosses and see the silent screams of dead empty skulls swinging from trees

I hear his music to the opera in my dream


And then I see him again for the first time 

the day at the market....like a moment eternally frozen in time

the way the wind swept back his hair, like shimmered gold against the beach of sand as he stood there at the market with his bag of swords,

the slate gray of his eyes of his eyes of possession that blended with the blue of the sea and the sky

and then it is another scene with the smeden on the beach through her eyes.... a ritual or ceremony

under a full moon

in the dream I walk around him on the wet sand and draw a circle around us and kneel before him and before I move to kiss his body, I hold up the moonstone and scry into the white-blue moonstone cabochon

and hear the foreign words spoken from my lips say,

“am byth....” as he repeats the words with me ....

and then I see too that.....

he is so young really....too young to look so old

 ....his eyes, like that of a vampire who lost his soul—sucked out by life—eyes of such wild beauty and hidden fragility that only a dove could actually see

and I become aware, as I have the dream, of this warrior’s heavy sense responsibility; of that life and its great burden on his soul, to trade for an artist’s soul and found myself wondering how he took it on and what or how it served his life’s need, if it kept his soul in shackles and defeated his greater purpose; the warlord; a prisoner of a life, was that why he was given the chance to try again and does the burden remain because it has become a comfort of baggage and all that he knows?

***************************************
It has gone quite chill in the mountains and there is sleet on the road on the way to the airport


Jörn is easy to spot from a distance, as he stands out tallest among the exiting passengers with his gold blond hair pulled back and carrying his cello. He wears a long, heavy, trench coat over a gray turtleneck with darker gray flannels.


He smells good when I reach up to him and kiss his neck; like wood and citrus. He fills my head and .... I catch my fingers into his hair to prolong the embrace.

it is always such a rush to see him and it occurs to me it is going on one year since the first day I wound up in his living room to retrieve my mail

“So what were you doing New Jersey?” I ask against his ear stretched on toes to reach him, “and what were you saying about a table and e-Bay?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says and then, enigmatically, he says, “hidden keys, notes, codes, chords ....”

The raging sea

When we were little I nearly drown in the ocean but the sea spat me back. I swallowed whole gallons of sea and watched the sunlight dim through the wave as the current held me down

we had been walking on the shore, my aunt and my mother, my boy cousin Steve and my sister and all in a row until she pushed me down into the water as the big wave hit. I saw her laugh and walk away to follow them and as I sank into the ocean that was my last image before I was being pulled and pumped of the water .... I saw her just standing there watching me with no remorse

Electra’s dictionary; word for vampire soul

a meaning of ‘Wavegirl’

Because I think in pictures and scenes, ‘Wavegirl’ contains an encyclopedia

much like characters in a story are dialogue drawn as symbolic props as voice to speak the secrets whispered from an internal dialogue never uttered aloud


I did ‘Wavegirl’ on four pieces of cheap oaktag that I taped together on the floor of the apartment we lived at by JFK airport. I could not afford good materials so the paint I used was also cheap acrylic but.... this painting got me through so much and it contains a piece of my soul.....



I did this painting during the time of what I just wrote about; the date is 2000.

My divorce papers are dated September 2001 as the proceedings took a long time

and from the window there I used to watch the airplanes ....

My mother died in 2002

This painting faced so much

it hung on the wall of where I slept on the floor

and was next to Marissa’s playpen in the living room and I would climb into her playpen with her and lay down inside and stare up at the painting when she napped with her head against me

but it is now actually stored back in Michigan by courtesy of Ken’s garage.... along with all of my art, including the one I did of the ‘Vampire Pirate’ in 1999; all from around this time.... my art is part of my vocabulary; my personal documentary of a dissection of a Celf

and so I fear it has not fared too well

If you look inside you see the goddess and so, gutted, yes, she holds the goddess within which I did not notice until I had completed the painting and hung it up. Like the horse reflection .... that painted itself for me.... often art for me is something much more than art, it has often sent me more than just its vision 

Electra’s dictionary; word for Cinderella’s wicked sister

“If you see the wonder of a fairy tale,”
                       —lyrics from ABBA song ‘I Have a Dream’ by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvarus

****************************************

Layer 1 of the sister backstory

****************************************

“How did you lose custody?” Josef asks me

Jörn was suddenly called away last night on some secret mission but he tells everyone else the reason has to do with the philharmonic and Lisa uses the excuse to follow him to the city with Lorenzo

It is late afternoon

It seems Josef has decided to follow me down the hill to the mysterious ‘Farmer Granger’ which has turned out to be the farm attached to the property; once a major farm that eventually stopped running due to the mass competition of commercial farm industry

We heard the story, reluctantly, from Lisa as there was a hidden clause involved and part of the fight that was going on all around me in Swedish

Her client, Agneta, who had been a flight attendant for SAS, is a widow whose late husband’s family had once owned the property for generations. Agneta had met her husband, Theodore (Ted) Granger, then an architect, on board the plane to Sweden for a work project in Stockholm. And then met again on his return flight, which the two took as a sign for destiny and the rest —is history. Thirty years later with children grown and husband now deceased, Agneta wishes to join her family back in Sweden which is why her property is being rented, but

Lisa never bothered to explain about the horse

And the small plot of farm vegetables

nor the chickens

and the goat and sheep (just a handful)

Which was behind the sweet deal for the newly renovated barn house —yes it was also a sweet deal because Lisa was to be featured in an article for the interior renovations; Agneta wants to put the property on the market so, it was contrived for all around possible profit

The tomatoes that were left outside the door, I had worked it out now.... was left there by ‘Joey’ the person who was tending the farm and who had suddenly quit after some disagreement with Lisa (which has not really been examined, come to think of it)

Lisa’s sudden appearance with Lorenzo and Jörn’s parents had a two fold purpose and had something to do with what to do with the farm dilemma and apparently Andreas had humble dreams of filling Joey’s shoes which neither parent supports but Lisa blames on Jörn for his “foolish choice to leave the city” that I have heard her say more than once, in English, for my benefit

***

as we are now in the stable....

“You see....” I begin as I look back at Choklad, the old horse, as I brush him down, “I had been living away from the family in Michigan as ....I always tried to live my own life out of their shadow and so I moved away with someone I had been seeing for awhile who was from there who.... is the father of my daughter ....”

Choklad is a very affectionate horse who seems to like to nuzzle a lot; especially when I speak; he seems to like my voice

So for a moment I am stopped to enjoy the attentions of my suitor

and with relief because it allows me to go inside myself and wrap myself deep inside the inner well. I search there as I press my face into the coarse dark brown fur, touch his long face with the flat of my hand , close my eyes and breath

It is when Choklad gives me a shove that I find the courage to go on

“My mother had stage four cancer....” I explain

I hear Josef shoe scrape outside the stall door behind me and he hesitates before he asks,

“what kind?”

“It was breast cancer,” I say

and here I find myself touching and stroking the long mane with its strong, thick fibers and watch the strands fall from my fingers

“She lived a long time with it, considering.... it was so hard to see her that way....” I have to stop myself. I don’t ever go there. It is too painful .... and so many years now it has been; surly more than twenty ....? time is so strange.... and I am such a pro at cutting off feeling. I am a pro at going cold, I’ve had so much practice

just a blank page

I take a deep breath and grip a handful of the strong mane that absorbs a trace of my weakness

“I had my daughter in Traverse City, a little city tucked away in the snowy north of Michigan— less than a year after my mother’s first round of chemotherapy ..... you see, I knew she was dying, I had come to visit her —her eyes .... you know .... and it turned out that my husband did not love me because .... you know.... you sometimes only find these things out when real life hits ....”

I stop again and search for a different brush, finding some fresh hay too as I go around the tack room

I glance at Josef who leans on the stall door ledge watching me

After a few brush strokes I say,

“He said he did not love me.... but then it turned out I was pregnant. I never understood why he agreed to let us try for a baby if he didn’t love me and it happened right away. So.... he was not pleased....” I have to stop because it is such a tedious story with so many parts of a celf folded into tucked corners, hidden deep inside drawers long jammed shut to bursting. Those you never intend to wedge free

I walk around the tack room and Choklad follows me with more nudges

“At first he ignored all the obvious signs of my pregnancy hoping the home tests were wrong and that I had a stomach flu....” I look at Josef, “he did not want it.”

At first I just stare at Josef’s eyes as my mind splinters off and as I lock onto his gaze his bright blue eyes encourage me to continue. I blink a few times as ....I am not experienced to what I find within his gaze..... I do not know how to respond at first.... so I am caught in a moment’s confusion. It is too late to turn back. But why does he want to know? is not my life such a boring bit of ‘Les Miserable’? ....how pathetic a picture I must be. Not at all how I would like to characterize myself.... but he stands there waiting and.... he is such a kind man and ....so kind to me.... only— in a way I am so ignorant of

I step out the stall and close the door and let Choklad nuzzle his goodbye as I say to Josef,

“I said I would walk him in the paddock again tomorrow....” and we start to walk out but I suddenly worry and say, “is that hill too hard for you?” looking up the path back to the house and consider the old family farmhouse we are nearer to

“The incline is not so bad,” he insists as we start up it, “I’d like to hear more if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, gently but his tone reminds me of a teacher reminding his student of the assignment

“Ohhh....”

“.....your daughter....” he prompts me

As we walk I search the view around us for wisdom to describe the cavernous secrets of my heart with as little attachment as I might summon

the colors of the leaves....

my favorite colors ..... the yellow gold, the deep burgundy .... the fading sage-green that blend with the sky’s sea foam green of a setting sun behind the mountains

“So, we were getting a divorce in Michigan—all the papers drawn..... it was very civilized, he wasn’t even fighting for custody back then—I guess because, it turned out Ken had met someone, some trainer at his work.... and because my mother wanted me to be near her during what remained of her time, we agreed to move back to New York. The plan was for me and my daughter to stay where my mother was living....”

I stop now.

I take a moment to ask if he is all right,

“do you want to rest a moment?” I ask

Josef smiles at me and slowly nods as he studies me and we stand at the incline by a tree

only I do get the feeling he does this somehow for me. He makes an act of wanting to lean on the tree but his eyes belie with a twinkle in that Yoda way that he has as he pretends not to study me but I feel his mental tentacles reaching with his own magical ‘Force’

“Well, one day everything changed....” I say in a fast gush just wanting to get it out and over with as there was obviously no turning back now; he’d never let it, I suddenly realize....

“So what happened?” he gently prods me

I lean on the tree now too, press my face into the texture of the trunk and touch the grooves with my hand. It is an old, dear tree that stands far taller than the house with a trunk so wide that it is impossible to put your arms around; a tree with an old soul

“My parents had moved onto the estate where my sister and her husband lived in a huge house..... they had an apartment below where my mother wanted me and my daughter to stay..... you see..... she wanted to have us near, you see.... “

I gather more strength,

“....My aunt was still alive too back then, so—one week before the move to New York.....” I look into Josef’s eyes and say, “I get a call from my aunt.... and she tells me .... she tells me I had to find other accommodations .....”

At first Josef just draws his white brows together as he searches my eyes with his

I finally say,
“you see.... my sister did not have the courage to tell me herself that she was not going to let me stay there so she asked our aunt to tell me.... and, to add insult on top of injury— I was forbidden to even visit there because our father did not want me there either.”

This is not made up. It is what really happened.

I say,
“Ken already had his new job to start in New York, he had an apartment secured in a town near JFK airport .... and in one week I had no where to go with my daughter to live....”

I turn away for a few seconds to watch the sun sink along the horizon and watching the sun I say,

“by then Ken’s love affair had ended .... and I guess he changed his mind about Marissa.... the divorce proceedings stopped instantly as he offered the only solution that I was forced to take.... and that is how I lost custody. I had no where to go and no means. His family raised money for a good New York lawyer.... and my father and sister got their revenge .... I stayed there as part of his deal—but as the babysitter; we were divorced so he could carry on as he wanted ....on and off with .... I got a night job and paid him rent but made sure to get her to school and fed and I felt at least lucky to be near my daughter .... my mother died about two years later.”

“So your sister ....?”


I finish his question,
“....is behind why and how I lost custody....”

the mystic sun

Jörn does not speak often about the strangeness of the bond between us. Almost as if he assumes it is something that is understood

 but I believe his opera is his way to express this

He is too rational a person to speak about these things but sometimes I wish he would. Life is so fleeting and moments go by in a blink. Some moments you never wish for again

but others are gone before they ever got to happen and then it is too late

I write from my phone from the gallery alcove above that faces diagonally to the wide, open, living-room, space below

But I face the window and watch the leaves fall with my headphones on to tune out the voices of conversation that trickle up from downstairs —between Lisa, Andreas and Jörn that I know I would likely not understand but I am sure the tones would tell me enough

So, again, I watch him from afar, it seems, absorbed in his world .... like an artist’s task, penning scenes of his life in my dictionary; occupied with the theater of my muse

Josef and Elsa have gone driving locally exploring the autumn foliage on an audio tour they discovered on some app. The Adirondacks are beautiful now; like a travel postcard; everything brilliantly yellow ochre and alizarin crimson



but I think of this morning.....

*****************************************

“I had to come back for you,” he says

only he says this to me in sleep or maybe it is half sleep

an early light seeps into the room with us. I am turned to him in sleep; pulled inside his warmth within the circle of long limbs and I find I cannot move, caught in his fingers that hold my skull, his fingers tangled in my hair. He unconsciously grips and then releases, creating a symphony within my head of his touch and by how he breaths I know he is not awake

I don’t know if he is aware of what he says but he says in a deep, soft voice,
“I was to late that time so .... I knew I had to follow you....”

if his words did not make sense to the dream I just awoke from I would not find the relevance

because I dreamed again of the little hut and the smeden .... the blood and the hides and watching the firelight die beneath the forge .... and....  he held my head this way.... the same way he does now

when I left him ..... when she died in his arms

I dreamed again

all the blood everywhere, all over his white hides .....how he never let go, and how he stayed that way long after going cold ....and remember how hard it was to go and to leave the sight of him, to long to be near him that lingered


You see, this dream —these dreams of the pirate, only ever seem to surface while in extreme duress of danger or emotion —when something in the present life is in deep turmoil

or— just triggered when we first met when it seemed like every night we had the dreams

  ....like some voice that recalls, it surfaces when it seems all hope is lost

“Follow me from where?” I ask him holding back a sudden sob

absently he caresses my hair, his fingers comb through, he says softly with heavy regret,

“I was too late....”

And the weight of remorse feels nearly oppressive; like a burden


And it reminds me more of other things.... details from somewhere.... like always watching for the sun, searching

and there just beyond .....the hut apart from the other houses with memories of the thought of his scent on the hides when he was away ....the hut beyond; a small shrublike grove that faced the sea....

But he was too late

he should not have gone .... I know from dreams.... because  of the fear for the maimed warrior lord

.... this dream we had tonight

that is when he said he would “be back before the midnight sun”

But he should not have gone

“I had to follow you....” Jörn says this again and breaths slowly, “....min lilla duva.... you were the angel that appeared like a dove.... I couldn’t let you go again.... why did you go?”

I try to look at him. Try to move my head. But I am caught in his grip; his fingers tangled close to the scalp and holding my skull caught and cupped in his hand

what does he mean?

“I could not let you go back to this place alone but —what was the chance I’d ever .....”

“What?” I ask confused

“What?” he asks in reply but still grips me

“Ever —what?”

“....find you.....!”


“....Find me?” I ask and now try to angle or move my body to turn to see his face but he is much stronger and keeps his hold on me as I struggle to free

which now is what seems to wake him and he releases his grip of my skull, his hands absently move down my body, as he sighs so deeply that it vibrates warmly as he pulls me to him,

Only I realize he’s still between dream because now he says,

“....I told you I’d be back before....”

but then now he wakes up

he takes another deep breath but it is more ..... like someone stabbed; like a kind of grunt and his arms go tight around me like a vise,

“.... the midnight sun.”

the desert of j’adore

“It’s you that I adore .....

lovely girl, you’re the murder in my world 

Drinking mercury 

To the mystery of all 

that you should ever leave behind 

in time 

you’ll always be my whore 

you’re the one that I adore....”

—-‘Ava Adore’ lyrics by Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins album ‘Adore’


https://youtu.be/yzVQT5EgDpw


there is a moment when you try to reach through in dream to confront the bogey man

but sometimes another dream enters and the dreams overlap

Dr. Rothschild used to say it was a ‘defense mechanism’

the same reason why I have blocked memories ....because it is more than the waking mind is prepared for

But I have found that over the years the veils that kept me safe from their being recalled have worn away to thin and ....

suddenly in the middle of a day the awareness of what it hid is fully realized —and they seem —incomprehensible

....those moments when you stumble

     those moments when you understand why a tea kettle might suddenly combust

then crumble

My objects mean different things

      especially in dream —like blood

not always a purging; it is sometimes just more of the side affect of trying to dig it out


but more often than not, the manner to prove I am tougher than pain;I do not feel pain; I do not feel ..... I do not feel anything and nothing gets in

I do not feel

Nothing gets in—I do not feel

only I am never prepared for hypothermia

Such as now

I have wandered outside I realize and barefoot and cold whether I feel it or not —every part of me is shaking as I try to walk towards the house

sometimes you detach


The first memory, the first image of the memories.... I ever had of the pirate was on the beach.... the cold frozen ground and gray light with the wind and looking up at him. It was not the first memory but the first memory I realized..... but it was his eyes and how he narrowed them against the wind....

and exactly how he looked at me —with claim..... like how Jörn looks at me when no one is around; when he adorns me and dresses me —like the strange and erotic way he washes me

only....  it is the feeling like I have known it before—with him; have known him before ....like his fingers when he handed me coffee that day, now so long ago, in his kitchen

—I remember the way his fingers had brushed across my hand that caused me to look up at him suddenly and then I saw it there..... that first time because

I became aware of the den inside his mind, because it was familiar and had to be the reason why we became lovers before we even knew each other; because we already knew each other .... it seemed


“I’m going to put an alarm code on all the doors,” he says now, “—put your arms around me, min lilla duva.”

when I realize we are outside and that I have been dreaming

in between dreaming

....he wears a wool trench coat over warm flannels and he pulls me inside his coat with him

Virgil

Stain



It is because I dream a bad dream. It is a disturbing dream. Like one of many .... I fear sleep because of this

the dreams haunt me always



“I don’t want this....”

     ***

and so I go and search the closet

I look for something clean. And then pace back and forth to the sink in the bathroom to the medicine cabinet .... i search and search for something ..... because it never goes away


There is a loft gallery where the upper floor rooms face out and at night all the bare windows downstairs scare me. The windows are so dark. They have a million eyes. Their faces are skulls

Barefoot on the floor I am silent through to the kitchen where there is a door and so I go because they chase me

I seek the familiar; the earth and throw myself down

and as always the only place that I ever feel safe; next to the earth with the trees to watch over the water

to watch over the water .... to wait for him

the hands that pull her from the water because he brought her back.... and dried her hair with the hides and made her clean again

skulls & body language; shower conversations

I am still in the corner of the shower on the floor where the water hits; bent like wavegirl ....as hot as I can take it....seeking some intangible sense for safety

The warmth of the shower water, it is safe; it is like arms that hold and keeps the world away and melts the saline tears.... cleanses the shame and everything that I am —is removed; is void of this world

I don’t hear the bathroom door open; then the shower door, as the draft disturbs just before I hear his voice

“.... min lilla duva....” he says as some chill air enters with his intrusion “....it was a thoughtless joke,” he says

“What was....?”

“Lisa....”

“Oh..... “

I hear the movements he makes as he discards what he wears before he comes into to shower stall with me

“Please stand up from the floor,” he says as he crouches down to me on the bricks of stone tiles, “why are you down there like that?”

I shake my head and don’t want to move. I put my hands over my face

I say,
“no,” and shake my head

“Please stand up,” he says

“No—please let me alone,” I say this but not loud enough for him to hear over the water and shake my head

“Snälla....” he whispers against my ear and I feel his hand go around my shoulder as his other hand goes down my arm and finds the raw flesh from the pumice; it makes me bolt as he presses into the flesh. “What are you doing to yourself?” he asks me now and his voice belies his frustration along with something else I don’t recognize .... and he seems to become worn of his patience,

“get up off the floor,” he says this like a demand but I am not in the mood to listen. I block him out instead. Press my head into the shower wall with some impact like a bang. He shouts at me in Swedish but I don’t try to understand but then he says, as if pleading now, “the bear is gone as well as the deer skull.... duva! It was a stupid and childish thing for her to do. Everyone is angry at her now for it.”

“I don’t care,” I say and shake my head

“Yes you do.”

“No. I really don’t, Jörn—I am so used to people doing things that —maybe— are kind of mean but —it doesn’t even register with me. I don’t even think I notice any more.”

“Well.... you may say that but it is not ok with me.... I don’t think I understood before why the skull bothered you so much,” he says over the water that comes down over us

I think about his words but then instead say,

“Jörn.... she just doesn’t like me.... and I know they don’t either,” I say

“No, that’s not true—look at me, duva, I want to see your face,” he takes my hands from where I press against my eyes.

He makes me look at him when I try to avoid his direct gaze.... but I don’t like it; it makes me feel like an idiot. And I mumble something to him. Still he keeps me there and puts his hand around my jaw to hold me steady, “please stand up from the floor; I cannot watch you do this to yourself,” but it is the intensity within his eyes as he blinks away the water that clump his blond lashes together, an intensity that burns with that kind of supernatural kryptonite that he has that is like some superpower. That all-seeing, all-knowing ageless wisdom like that of a soul that has haunted for lifetimes.

But now he pulls me up off the floor, and lifts me to stand and presses me against the stone tile wall of the shower as he stares into my eyes. I watch his turn red around the gray/blue slate that can go from cool to hot with lightning speed

“Stand up,” he says this even as he lifts me, pressing me into the wall and holds me up,

he raises me up above him, raising me slowly until I am lifted high above him so that he is looking up at me....

he holds me there above him

it is blurry with the water and without any visual aid to see ....

only I see him clear.

I see him

and what his eyes say

he presses me into the wall and puts his mouth on me, and with the water and the mist he kisses my skin as the water runs down; he licks along the trail of water and where it goes

and I forget the nightmare from last night,

I forget the family chorus outside the bedroom and even the deer skull

and reach for him, and tangle my fingers in his hair and pull myself to wrap my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his hips and move to grip him to take him to me as this need to join to his body washes over every other thought; I say into his ear, I say.....

but no.... this I will not say ....not here anyway

a day for the races; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

“Pushing through the darkness
Still another mile....

“I have a dream
A song to sing
To help me cope
With anything .....”

——lyrics from the song ‘I Have a Dream” by Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaenus



—————————————————

It is in the morning, today that I get up before everyone to make coffee when I get a random text from Gerald asking
<how is Jörn’s opera going?>

<Have you had another dream?>I text him back

<They have been consistent the last few months but I have been getting other ....well—signs>

<wow, what kind?>

<It’s to do with his work... as it is to do with you... just know he has to .... it’s hard to say as I don’t want to read into anything and think it’s best just to say.... this work is about something else something bigger than just two people..... than.... well— that it seems more than just ....  art. It is about something necessary but I’m not sure why—only that I don’t usually get these kinds of signs so— I wanted to ask you if he is still working on—is it an opera?>

<Yes!!! Now his family is involved and they are working on it too..... He has been almost obsessed with it!>

“Oh, good....”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

*****************************************

when you deny yourself of an emotion

you start to question everything you feel and

are soon detached from ‘the self’ —and no longer trust yourself nor your gauge of reality

to live in denial of one’s own personal reality

You doubt your own observations

Every experience and emotion you ever have....

you question if it really happened

Along with the concept of having

The .....rights

that I was not entitled

that life

Forced to live

the lies; like fibers on a loom that ties and binds you

where does the anger get released..... where does the anger go..... what logical  choice of violence to resound and rebound upon the self that it already has beaten should it seduce to martyr its everlasting Celf?





“They had the dimensions wrong,” Lisa says when I ask about the furniture

I watch as a different crew of truck people arrive to remove half the furniture

“Some were in metric and some were ....” but she does not bother to finish her sentence

“I have an idea,” Elsa says suddenly coming over to where I am cleaning up the morning plates; she rests her hand on my arm and she says, “Josef and I noticed there is a nearby farmer’s market and they are having a harvest celebration with pumpkins.”

I find it odd somehow that she would want to tell me this, expecting a catch

“Lorenzo and Lisa will be doing their photo shoot all day here so we would like to explore,” she tells me.

“Oh that’s nice,” I tell her

“Oh, you are coming with us,” she says

“Oh good,” Lisa says, “this way Jörn can help with the furniture here without being distracted with D—“

“Oh he’s coming too!” Elsa laughs and tells me, “we need to pick up things because we are going to make jordgubb rabarber paj,” she goes on to say

“Where am I going?” Jörn asks when he hears his name and walks over from watching the furniture men get too close to his piano

But then Lisa starts a conversation in rapid svenska and I take it as a not so subtle hint to mind my own business ....and clean the kitchen.

They don’t notice when I slip out after to find my way to the shower

It is on my way as I walk through the bedroom to the en suite that I stop and look at the bed and jump with a start

It’s the deer skull propped on the pillow and below it is the severed hide of a bear with its giant head stretched across the length of the bed

I don’t hear Jörn come in but I hear him curse in Swedish, “skit,” and go right to the bed to grab both off (my side of) the bed, “Leeeeeesaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!” he bellows and drags björnen behind him

I just go and start the shower .... sit at the bottom and pull inward into a ball
*************************************************seep
let the water beat me....as I sink deep into thoughts

six cervical vertebra they line up like the strangulating width of a large hand’s grip; like a collapsed accordion; crushed herniated in a descriptive bulging line, portraying a crime

Like left fingerprints at the scene of a crime. If you measured it, the evidence would read like a confession by the murderer. Like a signature or autograph claiming a victim


.....and so I find myself turning inward and ....

   turning also to that vague and distant memory of a father I once knew.... but was told I must never recall

because it was always his conviction in my mind’s ear that I have heard through all these years.... because, father.... I think I have lost .... the power to believe ..... I beseech you to send your beacon for the light is fading fast
————————————————-

in my spine

seven bone spurs between

they are sharply progressing into the neural sack.

It claims the sensory reflexes and administers it’s pain ruthlessly with no expectations to ever let go its grip

It pervades and eternally breaks at the last lingering of daylight’s faith