26 January 2019; dreams everlasting

 ....  he always showers after a run. He is like me this way; the neurotic hygiene obsession— in this way we are the same as it is an intimate quirk of mine or it’s not ever going to happen; to let someone that close, skin to skin....  for all his earthiness.... he is always clean.... everywhere.... and smells so good; and he says,

“I won’t be long, min lilla duva....”

I watch him walk towards the bathroom as he strips off his clothes; he peels off the long sleeves of the black Henley that still clings to his back muscles that flex with every movement he does....

the sinewy of his back and arms hypnotize me

It is when I fall asleep waiting for him

 a pathway has opened up. A passage through

This time I don’t run away,

I don’t run away anymore.... and only now I realize it has always been here where I seem to always be running back to

always running back to him....

 in those shadowy unnameable dreams.

And only now do I know.... this is what I have been hiding from. Deep within my consciousness, this person’s memories, this ancient pain that can haunt a soul. Part of a repeated theme and pattern

.... the heavy sorrow

and the dream of the pirate on the boat.

The frozen land and that unreasonable fear of the Nordic sea. And only now do i know that I have been visiting him all these years

he has been there, somewhere buried in my mind.  Haunting in my dreams.... and pulling me back to him; like the mermaid on the rock who traded her voice and dug out her guts

....I waited for him, and fell asleep

I dreamed of the enclosed hut with the fire pit, now cold and dark; I dreamed of the animal hides stacked on the floor; his familiar scent captured in the warmth of the furs that I bury my face into and watch the white of them turn blood red as I become colder and colder.... and recall that I feel such agony of longing and such sadness knowing that I am leaving him.... the pirate from the boat with the vampire eyes; how I love those eyes, with their ferocious beauty, like storms across the frozen Nordic sea

and slip into horrors, I am gone through the passage....

Time shifts; it overlaps. And runs in parallels as it rewinds and replays and plays its haunting symphony from out of time because time is not real; what ever was always is, it says in dreams. The pain never goes away, it never leaves; its memory indelible on the spine; it hits, it beats, it whips, it cuts, it tears into my flesh; it gapes apart these open wounds. There is no safety. No safety from the pain. As flesh tears away, as flesh is torn apart, as beauty is destroyed.... knowing I am leaving him as in slow measures blades carelessly carve, irrelevant of the girl’s torture as it licks into flesh; whip or bow or blade, the blood lets cascade in the laughing teeth as another takes a life cheaply. Sharply, deeply, through a passage, and through a glass starkly; the mortal blow is cast upon some cavity of an unborn child womb cocoon and doom is cast too long to last

The sadness of his vampire eyes the last time he looked....

I wake up screaming, still feeling the blade and the dead born in a flood

This time it was too real

“Wake up! Min lilla duva.... just a dream.... it’s just a dream! Wake up, min lilla duva!”

The strangeness of seeing him takes awhile to understand. He leans over me with dripping hair. It rains on me as he shakes me awake, falling in long blond streams around his face as he shakes me. It is a while before I stop confusing him with the dream, awhile before I realize she is not me. That girl is not me. She is not me. Is she....? Why should I ....?

Still

It is only because I wish never to go back to that place; not to that moment .... not want to see the disappointment there in the horror of his undead eyes that rain

I close my eyes and wrap around his neck, put my face into the pulse and tell myself: this is real.... he is real. I am here, this is now. But I am .... not sure I can believe it; I need to know

“I heard you screaming—“ he starts to say but then I am kissing his mouth, kissing him hard and throwing him back against the bed but he pulls his mouth from me and turns me over him as he moves over me to look into my face, he presses me into the bed looking wildly into my eyes, and says in a whisper in my ear, “you were having the dream.... I thought someone was here! you sounded like someone was murdering you—min Gud, shit! Was it so real?”

But I don’t want to go back there.

Instead of answering him I reach for him and pull him down to kiss him and he relents when I wrap my legs around his hips and cling to him as he says, “slow your breathing.... breath slower,” and says, “sshhhh....here, let me get dry, I’m soaking you, I just ran out when I heard you screaming....”

“Please no, Jörn....”

“Ok,” he says and laughs when I move my mouth down his wet body as I touch him with my hands to smell and taste him and put my mouth on him for the need of something real and of the flesh .... and this overwhelms everything along with the wanting that always comes as soon as he is near. The need to have him becomes everything; a kind of painful throbbing that is so urgent like some savage, desperate confirmation of life. He smells like pine and I put my mouth on him and feel his fingers in my hair as he cups my skull to him, “det är för mycket,” he says and stops me, pushing me back against the pillow on the side where he sleeps, pushes me hard into the sheets as he moves over me and deeply into me and it is only the brutality of his motions that takes away the nightmare

notes to a celf in a dictionary; Thoughts of the legend & the loss of all

What do you do when you have lost everything....?  Do I mean the homeless person who walks the streets daily because there is no where to go? do you feel for this person and can you put yourself in this person’s skin?

there is a terrible isolation to be deplete

I will not put my meaning clear; I will speak in symbols. because it is all I am able to say. but I speak of society and not really in the political sense. no. I mean it in the actual sense.

where do you go to find understanding and compassion, when there is no one who can relate, when you find yourself flung on the street and there is only street and black ahead?

Let’s think about our sad Viking with the vampire eyes because it is easier to talk of him. Let us consider a warrior who is used to cold and violence and has lived by the seat of his pants without ever stopping to feel. Because if you stop to feel.... you will crumble down. What he might have seen before he found his Siberian princess with the mahogany eyes, no doubt something turns you this way.

To consider this one aspect to know a moment’s joy from a bleak horizon —now the dead girl is left in her pirate’s arms.

If he was too late then the heavy loss would burn his soul alive .... how did he get through another day?

who would understand the loss of all and where do you find such society? The awkwardness of shame keep people away and make friends into spiteful fiends as they look for excuses to avoid you

what society is there when dragged out from Hell and you are left with your guts ripped out

the Vampire Waltz; Piano Noir

I watch Jörn after we leave Gerald’s. While we walk together and in pace, it seems he is a million miles away or lifetimes..... he is silent all the way back to our building

I know he is disturbed and hardly looks at me. I would almost think he could not stand the sight of me if it were not for the way he suddenly grips my hand when I stumble and how he reaches to wrap me in his arms, within his long, wool coat when we wait to cross the street and watch the street light and the crowds.

I see his troubled creases between his pale brows reflected back from store windows.

There are moments when I physically hurt from some inexplicable pain within my heart. It makes my lungs hurt. Like a smothered scream

I don’t know what this is but he is right. About the emotions. It is too real to be able to ignore.... but it is madness

madness to think .... how our dreams link up

it is terrible too.... terrible because this is not like some movie or romantic novel. This is too real to dismiss

I realize the pain is .... coming from a life once experienced .... by someone— or someones

and for them this was a great tragedy. This makes me sad. So sad. So sad to know that such a great passion was .... snuffed out .... before it was ready to let go

the girl who could not leave her lover’s dwelling and held on to life, for once more to glimpse at him.... for the smeden who felt his love pass as he held her in his arms

I feel this when we are stopped in front of some store window. But we do not look at the objects in it; we hardly notice what we look at. I just see his image lit on the glass of the window. Despair—and I wonder at how troubled he looks there.

Back at Gerald’s when he spoke.... when he leaned into his arms as he sat there with his face in his hands.... I heard him weep; a stifled and muffled sound in his hands and constricted in his throat so as not to let us hear

He is mostly a rational man. While artistically creative as a musician, there is always a mathematical mind to a musician that holds firmly to structure and logic. But .... he is so deeply human. He hides this about himself but it is there always lurking in his music, in his love making....and in those vampire eyes

His vampire eyes.... those electric, undead pirate gems that sparkle like midnight frost

And still he grips my hand

and

even suddenly ....grips hold my skull stopping on a street corner and covers my mouth in a devouring kiss, mindless of the city rushing by.

And I forget too. I forget everything

When we return to our building he pulls me in the direction of his entrance and away from my penthouse side. He does not even look at the doorman. He doesn’t look at anyone just straight ahead. But when we go back to his place he says,

“I need to go for a run, min lilla duva,” and flings off his coat to quickly change

“Now?!?” I ask him as I stare at him, imploring him, feeling my emotions rise wildly

He kisses the top of my head like I am a child and mumbles something in his language but says to me,

“here, I’ll draw you a bath—and I will be back before the water is cooled, I promise, I just need to clear my head....”

He has his own mind, I will say about him, he decides and he is not one to relent and I watch him and follow him as he goes through to the en suit bathroom in his bedroom ....I listen as he starts the bath for me and sit on the edge of his bed

My mind is swimming in chaos

He puts on his running shoes and ties them sitting down on the armchair in his bedroom.... long arms and legs ....long fingers that tie decisively before he gets up to reach for a hoodie, zipping up and tying back his hair

I look up at him

“Jörn....?”

He looks at me

“I’ll be right back, I swear....” he stares into my eyes and forces a smile, “come—”  he pulls me to the bathroom, to the bath, “I’ll be back before you even get out....” he starts to take my clothes off me, each layer he peels away before I ever have a say

“....but I need to talk, Jörn.... you can’t just go!” I say and my eyes sting as my throat catches

“I’ll be right back....”

......

Awhile must have passed and it is when I am aware of music playing that I realize the water has cooled

Awhile

staring into the still, clear water

I hear a piano playing.... and realize where I am. Realize this is a sound proofed apartment....

I get out of the water and reach for what is handy. It turns out to be his black kimono from his transvestite night with me. I pull it on over damp skin and it hangs long past my knees when it was much more short on him, the sleeves fall long past my hands.

I walk towards the music as I tie the robe around my waist and follow the music .... it makes my heart pound

there is something about him that .... goes to my head

it goes to my heart.... he disturbs me deeply.... he does not even have to be in front of me, it can be the scent of him or his voice.... his passion

He plays a piece I recognize—it was something he played before. It.... was the piece he had been working on.... he said.... it has that strange Transylvanian feel; a haunting

I hear him step on the bar with his foot as he plays.... the madness of the way he pounds the keys make the music bounce from the walls

when I see him sitting there, his hair has come loose from the tie and tosses madly as he plays .... it is beautiful—his music is so beautiful

still in his running clothes; except for his feet which are bare. I like his feet.... they are like his hands; works of art; like every angle of every bone; like every feature of his face; especially the irregular ones.... especially

so I go to him because

....his music is beautiful

He stops playing and looks at me.... so I go over to him

.... I move between the piano and go in between his long legs and he sits back and lets me, opening his arms as I face him sitting on the bench with him, I wrap my legs around his hips and look up into the shadows of his vampire eyes

“I wrote that .... for you....I recorded it— I recorded overdubs with the cello and piano and double bass....for you, min lilla duva,” he turns his head to the side to stare into my eyes. He holds one entire side of my face in his one hand; forehead to chin and digs long fingers into my hair, “did you enjoy your bath?”

I smile at him

He says,

“was the water still warm?” and smiles back at me

“It was—” but I don’t get to finish as he starts kissing me, pulling my legs tighter around his hips and separating the opening of the kimono, he runs his hands up my arms and stands up with me wrapped around him and still kissing me, pressing himself —there— to me; he presses himself to me and holds me snug to him; pressing into my nexus

He says breathless into my ear,

“I want you to hear it....” he takes me with him to where he has his music recorded; he does this with no effort with me in his arms and he says, “min lilla duva.... you’re so thin, I could crush you....” and breathes into my hair; he whispers, “hold onto my neck....” he puts his music on and as it begins he brings me back with him to the piano and sits to play with the music

It is like being in his very own symphony

to know that he plays every single instrument I hear

it is like crawling into his very core ....to be that close

to someone .... mind and soul ....and body.... and body

I think about something Gerald said, how people “reincarnate in clusters....”

I squeeze my eyes shut because I don’t want to think about that ....

his music is so beautiful—so intense, so deep and passionate; yet so fierce

He stops playing and lets the recording take over as he stands with me again but detangles me from his hips,

“dance with me....” he says into my ear

“I don’t really know how to waltz,” I say to him as he slides me down the length of his body. The kimono falls open. I land upon his feet lightly as he guides me down. It is the gray shadows in the Nordic blue of his eyes that dance and draw me into their glimmering den.

He takes my right hand and draws it up with his, but he is such a long way up; he puts his other hand on my waist and stares into me.

He possesses with his eyes

and this is how we begin to waltz to his private orchestra

he conducts all; me and the music, all layered in webs of notes, and I, like a prow, am cast balanced on his feet

....it is his music, the abandonment of his notes that weave their magic; how forlornly they are strung together and ....hold me; the devastating remorse

and it makes me think of the smeden ....with the undead eyes staring at the empty body of his love in his arms.... it makes me think of mourning.... his grief.... I realize his music.... this is about grief

and so now I realize ....

He needs her forgiveness; it is his soul that does

.... and I wonder is it because he feels he let her down in the other life that in this one he needs to make it right? So.... does he need to do this to free his soul?

And as we waltz to the abandonment of his notes with his eyes looking into me, we seem to spin in slow motion, as though spiraling through walls that melt out of time....as though finding something so long lost and I think of a boat and of the chill water.... of the man on the boat with undead tragic eyes that mirror the dark and deep blue sea,

It makes me remember his eyes that first time he looked at me, how they seemed to burn like a brand to scorch my soul

“What happened to you at your college, min lilla duva? The attacker,” he says this now in a kind of lulling coax while still dancing

but I shake my head,

“no, not tonight....”

“I want to know .... I would like you to tell me why nobody did anything about what happened....”

I just say,

“you know why.”

the psychic visit continued of the JM muse ‘vampire’ chronicles

“I remember the fear the most and this is what lingers most of all from the dream,” I say

It seems everyone is silent now because to process all of this seems impossible

“My big question to you— well, it’s really to both you guys is.... “ Gerald sits yoga style in the arm chair as he speaks, leaning forward, “well let me just start by prefixing all that with this: something has reached its zenith in either one or both your lives which .... for what ever reason, all the energies are lined up— if you could picture an energy force like a football game where all the key team players are set up, so you see the goal is right there and now the shot comes.... well, Jörn , you asked before if I think these are past life memories so, I should answer your question....

“In all my experiences with people I have met where they believe this is true — certain things seem to always be the big tip off of if this is the case. Like in my case when I went to Thailand and met Haley— other people I have known all experience this typical aspect in the initial meeting. First it’s the eyes. The instant recognition. The other key factor is— not to sound sappy — there’s a kind of overwhelming sexual attraction. It’s not the kind where it’s like teenage hormonal infatuation — this is more like the covenant or worship that in this dimension can only be translated sexually but it’s being directed from —actually— the solar plexus. Which I consider the seat of the soul. The sexual energy that happens is just the expression that is best communicated through physical connection but it’s .... actually doing something more. You know about Plato’s description of the Higher Self? While the soul continues to exist after death and in between life, as we get born our minds in physical form cannot comprehend so many lifetimes. It would be too much. So there’s a part of us that holds all those memories of other lifetime’s of emotions and memories.... this super consciousness.... almost like the super ego in psychology.....how all that manifests itself is this sexual energy because the mind and body can understand it through this sexual level of consciousness.... have I lost you or am I sounding like a complete guru weirdo?”

I smile and look at Jörn. He seems tense I notice.... his brows drawn.

He seems uncomfortable and stretches but stands up. He walks to the window and looks down below at the street. From there we watch him as he leans on the window frame.

He turns from the window and walks over,
“if it were not for these crazy dreams I would think you were nuts right now but —“ he hits his chest hard, “but these emotions I get from the dreams— I watch her die and it’s .... terrible! It’s so real to me that it —it’s too hard to sleep after. I can’t sleep after. I have to get up and play my music for a few hours until I can stop thinking about it.”

“So— can you describe for us —or is it too much right now?”

“You mean tell you how she dies?” he glances at me when he says this

“Yes. What happens?” Gerald asks

Jörn sits down and leans over, he runs a hand through his hair and studies the rug under his feet. He sighs quietly and slowly breathes in. He says,
“I am returning from a boat and I start to run for— it’s like how she described— a kind of hut and I run there somehow knowing.... I dread as I run because— I feel it....” Jörn lays his hand flat on his heart

“When I get to the hut I see her.... “ his voice actually cracks as he says this. He stops talking and shakes his head looking down. He covers his eyes and face. After a long pause he says, “this reaction I feel inside myself.... it’s too real to be just a dream.... “

“So you watch her die?”

“Yes.”

“Is there blood?”

“Yes....” he sighs, “when I go to take her in my arms .... I feel her pass away because she waited for me to come, she knew I’d come.... but I was too late.”

Gerald looks at me,
“didn’t you tell me that you were assaulted when youwere 18?”

I nod.

“Do I remember this right— were you left for dead?”

I nod.

Part 1 the psychic visit of the JM muse chronicles

When we go to meet with Gerald we visit him at his apartment; a modest walk up by the Metropolitan Museum. He has a lot of earthy rugs everywhere and a lot of tones of orange and red and there are a variety of plants everywhere in gorgeous earthenware pots. I notice hand made pottery is also everywhere.

Gerald is what anyone would call a nerd and he often calls himself this too, so I am not insulting him by saying this. I am also one myself so I cannot judge against this in anyone. I knew him years ago during my bookstore days, those days when people met at Borders on a Saturday night for coffee and  to watch some grunge band that would be playing live at the cafe

Back in those days when I was knee deep in Virginia Woolf and Baudelaire he did the occult section and he was going for his doctors degree in religious studies and metaphysics. You would not think it to look at him; he goes to the gym and has neatly cut brown hair and wears square black framed glasses —the same kind as me actually. He wears a very ordinary dark blue knit pullover with Levis and thick brown socks. You would not think he was a New Age Medium.

So we take off our shoes and come in

He offers us herbal tea and after making quite a ceremony of preparing it in front of us, we are only too glad to agree. He asks us if we prefer music and samples a few as he invites us to sit down

The sofas are grouped in two areas and both spots have book cases filled with books with tables. He selects some background music and begins lighting candles

He does all this as if it is simple as going to have your taxes done —only no, but that’s not really all that simple then

But, anyway, in all this time Gerald is looking at the both of us and staring, at times, at Jörn .... he seems very focused as he studies both of us

“So tell me about these dreams....” Gerald says casually folding his arms and leaning back on the armchair he sits in

Jörn looks at me awkwardly and nervously pushes up the sleeves of his thick gray sweater

“I told him about your dreams,”  I say by way of explanation as I look at Jörn’s eyes as he now looks away


....and then he looks back at me. He keeps looking into me.... he stares into my eyes but says aloud to Gerald,

“the dreams began after the first time I saw her in the lobby—no! It was before that....” he mumbles under his breath in Swedish as he thinks; drops his eyes and turns to Gerald,”they started when I began reading her blog. I had not seen her yet —did she tell you? I kept getting her mail. The damn postal person kept fucking up and so— I got curious —I don’t know—and looked her up —so I found her blog. There was her picture at the profile part and that’s when I saw her. It’s an odd picture as she is obscured. Like one who is hiding .... like the shadow of her too on the blog page. But.... the dreams .... like when they first began they were first just these chilling shadows —“ he stops and shudders, then continues, “then I saw her in the lobby that day talking to these two irritating English guys and this time I could see her eyes clearly.... it was like seeing—a ghost or.... that night I have the dream again.... this time....I see her in the dark.... obscured. The first time. Just her eyes glowing....afraid.... but this time I see her eyes —wide and scared and then always someone comes and she screams....”

Gerald looks at me,
“Are you ok?”

I feel strange. I say,
“I didn’t know that.... he didn’t tell me this.”

Gerald takes a long sip from his cup,
“usually when I get a strong feel this way about a person it turns out that a very important turning point is in the process of occurring. Usually. But in this case we have three people with similar dreams. Did Dawn tell you that I had a dream about you and I called her out of the blue—we haven’t talked since—what? Five years?”

“At least,” I say

“We’ll text sometimes—but you know how it is, she was living in Michigan for like the last ten years and.... now she’s back and — I think there’s something significant about.... why all this —and the timing —or really more while for me it’s a strong hunch but that it feels like a memory to you guys ....”

“Is that what it is then?” Jörn asks with a self conscious shrug. “Are you suggesting we knew each other from a past life?”

“Before I answer that, tell me —where you are in your spiritual belief system? Are you religious?”

He smiles,
“I’m Swedish.... we are not big on religion and for the most part I agree with that .... but.... however—there are some things I feel that I suppose you would call spiritual speculations.... about things. I mean—you know what I mean, I think?”

16 January 2019.... hauntings of a pirate

I have always known something deep within myself. Always been aware of ..... looking for someone—it never has made any sense to me but the dream

.... you see the dream? Where I go through a pathway.... I have dreamed this dream all my life. The first time I saw him.... I knew

.... it’s been he who I’ve been searching for from my dream..... I knew he was here

and I knew why

the beautiful haunting of his vampire eyes....

12 January 2019 Film Noir; the beautiful haunting of his vampire eyes (edjmmusechron)

Last night in sleep I recall somehow in the experience ....the realization of ....the knowledge I have been re-living the same dream. Flashing images that unfold like scenes and plays like familiar, long distant landscapes that trigger thoughts, like memories that hurt. Sometimes different. Sometimes the same.

…. I see his face; long and sharp as he emerges to me from shadow …. a bearded blonde warrior who ….looks like Jörn. 

I see him in the shadows; I see his eyes. His eyes are Jörn’s .... the hair longer with part of it tied with a thong, pulled back from his forehead. His face obscured. Like the shadows on the wall. The hair is longer and there is a great scar that distorts —a slash over one cheekbone, and golden facial hair that covers his jaw and chin. I recall the shadows it creates on the wall that is shadowed on smoke. And the fire pit. I recall an orange glow of metal and animal hides.... the hands are the same, elegant and strong like a craftsman; like an artist

It seems I go often there…. where is there? to visit him in sleep lately; I seem to walk through a pathway to find him.... and a feeling of seeking.... shelter. Shelter among the heap of hides

Always it seems, I watch the glowing flames and watch as metal hits metal from long arms. I realize he is a smith; smeden....

It is when we are at the Strand bookstore, when I am fishing through Anaïs Nin diaries and flipping through the purple pages that I experience a chill that floods over me. It begins with the top of my scalp and goes down my neck through my arms and spine

Jörn is a few isles away looking at something else on a table and quickly I glance at him. I don’t know if it is the words on the page or the proximity of where and how he stands there but I feel suddenly feverish.

It is something in the description of her words, something in her pace and fluidity that melds with the memory of my dream. I don’t know why. I recall his body slick with sweat as he carries the weight of metal to hammer a flat, long blade; I recall a sense of irrational lust and the memory of detail of sinewy.... the smell of the hides and the ache to have him within my sex as I watch and as those pirates eyes turn from his work to watch me

“What is it?” Jörn causes me to flinch as he is suddenly next to me and he takes the book I hold in my hands and gestures with one shake of the head towards the place to pay, “let me buy this for you—Andreas is waiting outside, I just got a text.... come....” he pulls me along, slipping his long arm around me so that I am caught up to walk along side him

We are meeting his son for lunch as Andreas has decided to find me interesting and wants to know more about who my real father was

“So he was a political leader?” Andreas asks

“In a way,” because these questions make me uncomfortable but I like his son; he’s very sweet, very charming
“I saw his statue the other day,” he tells me

Jörn looks at me with one raised, blond eye brow to tell me he is impressed. He says to Andreas,
“what made you go to that part of the city?”

“I wanted to see the statue,” he grins boyishly.... I sometimes forget how young he is. Because he looks so much like his father I often believe he’s just as wise but it’s not true; Andreas is still rather impressionable

Jörn smiles at me, with a shrug,
“he finds his civil protests interesting ....”

I nod

“But he was tall?” Andreas asks me

I nod

“But you didn’t inherit that trait,” he laughs because he likes to make fun of the fact that I can wear his sister’s defunct opera coat which is actually big on me

“Obviously,” I concede with a smile and a shrug

Later as we walk behind Andreas, Jörn, who carries my purchased book in his other hand says,
“what was it in the book that gave you such a spook?”

“Oh, you mean back at the book store?” I see his nod as blue eyes piece through me, “oh— it wasn’t the book.... it was about my dream—this one it seems I keep having.”

I see his sharp look and he says,
“I’ve heard you mumbling in your sleep. You seem to repeat something that I cannot make out. But I —haven’t told you something; I was afraid you would think this too crazy but.... no first tell me about yours....”

I feel the familiar chill along with the cold sweat that seems to erupt from my hands and through out me; I look at his eyes. I stare ....in there

I say now as I stare,
“I think it’s a memory, Jörn.... I think somehow all this time that....”

I shake my head unable to allow myself to say what I’m feeling aloud

But I see he reads me as we walk and he pulls me along and looks ahead as we cross the street, Andreas ahead as he speaks on his phone to his latest female conquest

“When I get up in the night, min lilla duva, it’s because.... lately it is because I have such a terrible dream about you,” and now he shudders

It is awhile as we walk and he says nothing more so I finally have to ask,
“what is it about?”

He becomes noticeably disturbed,
“it is a strange vision..... makes me feel so hopeless.... and I have to get up and play my music....”

“But why? What is it?”

“I don’t want to say.... it’s too morbid.... did you say your friend Gerald is a ‘seer’—a psychic?”

“In a way....”

“Do you think there’s a reason he had to tell you.... you know.... about what you told me he shared with you?”

“I don’t know.... I guess.... I mean.... yes, I think he believed this was necessary—somehow. He’s never done anything like this with me before but I do know he ..... well, has done work with people where he knows things.”

“Yes. I see. Do you think I could—we could.... not to be strange about all this but, it’s been happening a lot and now you tell me about you and your own dreams—could we meet with him possibly? I’ve been wanting to ask you....”

“But— you mean because of what you dream— what is it about?”

He shakes his head,
“I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to upset you....”

“Please—this just makes me need to know more! Tell me, Jörn....”


He glances uncomfortably at me. He says,

“it is .... your death.... “

10 January 2019; codes encoded corrected & in conversation; Electra’s dictionary

smeden, Sweden; codes and conversation

Jörn laughs at me when he discovers I have been trying to learn svenska (Swedish) in secret

So he tests me; he says,
“show me what you know so far....”

He stands there challengingly with a kind of smug look on his face

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” I ask

He holds up one hand like a crosswalk cop and then does the underhanded wave, ‘come’ and says, fast as whiplash
“prata på svenska....” And raises his brows with a shrug and a nod

“....hmmm?” I ask trying to rewind those sounds in my head

He says it again,
“prata på svenska....” but still, it comes out fast like a bebe gun shooting rounds

“Ok? Uh.... how do you say slow down?” I ask

He smiles holding back a laugh,
“kan du tala långsammare....” (which he says just as fast)

He looks at me and does that wave again and walks over to me

“Ok.... kan du tala l-luuu....”

He stands close to me, and looking down at me repeats it over me staring into my eyes. So I try again  ....but he is not satisfied—he does this several times making me repeat like a drill sergeant and each time he says it again he waits with an imploring nod

It is about five or six more tries before he begins laughing and says,
“you had it right about six tries back,” he pulls me to him in an apologetic embrace and says,”but you’re fun when you are confused,” but then he laughs and says, “säg något....”

?

.....?

Covertly I reach for my phone as I still have it on me and dig into my purse mumbling “.....mmm hmm.....” and nod wondering how that’s spelled.... (somehow I figure it out).

But he sees what I’m doing. He seems to think it’s a comedy act and is openly laughing at me by now,

But once I realize what it means I know how to answer and so I say,
“Jag vill att mitt namn ska vara jordgubbe.”

Jörn takes me by the shoulders and sets me back a few inches to take my phone away. He looks at my phone and shakes his head as he says,

“Du vet att du bara kallade dig en jordgubbe?”

So I try the phrase again,
“Kan du tala l-la—“ and get stuck on the long word

“Långsammare,” he says laughing at me

But I have lost my patience for now and so just say,

“yes I want to change my name to Jordgubbe,” I tell him (because, it is—so far, my favorite Swedish word) and so I repeat it, “jordgubbe.... jordgubbe....”

I notice he puts my phone far away from me as he walks across the room to his piano. Without warning he sits down and dramatically pounds the first several bars of Bach Taccata and Fugue in D minor in rapid succession on the piano keys, then just as suddenly stops so that the last notes are still echoing in the room as he says, turning towards me from the piano bench and says to me,

“and why, min lilla duva, are you studying my language? Are you concerned my contract with the philharmonic is nearing the end?”

Only I don’t know how to answer him. I walk around the vast room and search the surfaces of the tables set at various places between the piano and the rest of the open room. He tends to prefer minimal design so there are not many objects to distract myself with. I find his phone and wallet but only to touch it and then set down

“I know so very little about your world,” I tell him, “is it strange to you that I want to know?”

“No, of course not,” he says, then taps the piano bench at a spot next to him and says, “come sit beside me.”

When I go over to him he begins to play something. He then stops and reaches around me to play with me inside his arm. I find this surprisingly intimate. He takes my right hand and places my fingers on the keys. In a soft voice he says, “you used to play, I remember you said.... play these keys....” and he shows me, running his fingertips along my fingers. We play it together, his long fingers over mine. He takes his left hand and plays something else. Then we do the same keys again. He shows me another combination in the same range and plays more at the same time with his left hand.

He is warm next to me, I feel the heat of him through the crisp linen of his shirt and the subtle scent of his body that always smells so good. And always seems to drug my thoughts. His music moves me. His passion.... I find easily caught up in

we do this awhile and I follow his patterns.... so easily—as though I read his mind.... a very intimate kind of secret conversation and.... it feels intensely erotic and strangely—almost— only.... while yes, it is erotic it seems, too, to come from some deeper place.... some higher place; yet lower too. It is powerful and somewhat.... almost dark

So it is through this music and his closeness that an image comes to me. A memory. It is another memory. A dream maybe I dreamed last night? I don’t know. But it is the forge, the fire and a memory of his hands but ....I don’t know why ....I suddenly say,

“svärd.”

He stops playing suddenly

He looks at me. After awhile he asks,

“what made you say that?”

I shake my head because I know it wasn’t something from the Swedish phone app. It wasn’t from anywhere.

He says,
“were you reading my mind? I was just thinking about something I thought about today I was .... passing ..... the Met and —you said the word just as I thought it just now.... what made you do that?”

It is so strange to me too. I am just as baffled and shake my head. I say,

“I think I dreamed it” I look up into the vampire eyes that dazzle like a pirate’s gems and hear this phrase again from my dream, “—mid..... midnattssol ....svär—dtillverkning....svärdtillverkning.... “ I say it aloud with hesitation not knowing why but somehow knowing what it means—“it was last night....you woke up again in the night and I had this dream.”

Jörn’s look within his eyes is almost spooked and he says,
“the midnight sun. I had the same dream last night.... smeden.”

9 January 2019; touch on discussionof motif; a short from Electra’s dictionary; epiphanies

I meet Jörn before his performance

He paces the hallway and then motions for me to follow him. So I do

“Is this a coat closet?” I ask him

“Nobody’s using it right now,” he says but smiles like a vampire who’s hungry for blood, “don’t worry, I’m not going to ravish you here....”

only he does not keep that promise

So, Eliot was right, but it was a public rehearsal—which I have never seen before.... a somewhat informal performance and a bird’s eye view of professional musicians

and so then.... it occurs to me as I watch him from the balcony that.... I am ascending to hell but I am looking down from the balcony

If Nigel was Beatrice then Jörn is Virgil; my guide through Hell

7 January 2019; Electra’s dictionary; sketching out the concepts to explain the indie project

It is such a surprise when someone from my staff tells me that Eliot is at the door

I’d gone out walking earlier and then it became so cold out that I turned and came home intending to write but then Eliot drops by unexpected

I’ve not heard from him in months.... not since Nigel and I....

He walks in as if he was only here yesterday and kisses me hello

“So, have you been avoiding me?” he asks

He sits down without waiting for an invitation and when Iyla comes over asking if we want coffee, Eliot says,
“Yes.”

Should I still be surprised at his presumptuous actions?

I don’t sit. I go over to the window and look out

“Don’t worry, I’m not a spy for Nigel,” he says

I don’t believe him though

“So.... what brings you here?”

“Well, I was wondering if you had been giving any thought lately about the film....“

I study him

I have such a hard time taking him seriously. The fact is: I don’t actually like his style of film making. It actually irritates me.... so, how do I tell him ‘no thank you’ ?

At this Jörn calls me .... I recognize his ring so I go over to my bag that is laying by the sofa.

“Jörn?” I answer the call

“Come meet me here....” he says in that voice

“You mean at Lincoln Center?”

I hear him laugh,
“no, I mean the Taj Mahal—where else, min lilla duva?”

“What time?” I ask and feel Eliot watching me. I turn my back

“I’ll give you time to get ready and send a car for you around seven, how is that?”

After I hang up with him I look at Eliot as Iyla brings the coffee

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask him now because I find myself a bit thrown off. It seems to be Jörn’s way with me, I seem to forget whatever I am doing

Eliot stares at me and it starts to make me uncomfortable

“Who was that?” Eliot asks me, “I know it wasn’t Chris—because you never look like that when.... wait—it’s the bloke from the lobby, isn’t it?”

“‘Bloke’?” I ask

“The big Swede from that day....”

“Why would you say that?” I ask him

Eliot just watches me,
“it was that look you had that day.... it was something—weird about that—and you have the same look now.”

“What look?”

He shrugs,
“like .... you just saw a ghost —rather sort of spooky—he’s kind of —not quite.... there was something berserker about him; sort of daft—it’s him isn’t it? Are you seeing your neighbor now? Isn’t that like incest? Or fraternization?”

“What?!” ....because I don’t know what else to say.... it’s not his business! And I do not need him to go tell Nigel....

“No! Don’t tell me, you are!” he starts laughing, “it’s written all over you....”

“What is? What are you even talking about?”

I drink coffee and don’t bother answering him in any more detail

“So why are you going to Lincoln Center?” he asks me

I shrug,
“oh just to go to a concert.”

“Since when are you into chamber music?”

“You didn’t think I liked classical music?” I ask

“Well, to actually go to a concert—but I am pretty sure there’re not doing one —aren’t they in rehearsals?”

“How would you know that?” I ask him

“I actually overheard a conversation on the way over on the train —what is it, Scheherazade?”

Eliot is an actor. I often forget this. Not really a good actor. So, why does he always fool me?

I start to think now about what this is about so finally I say,
“you saw me with him, didn’t you?” because I remember one day I thought I saw Eliot across the street when Jørn and I were leaving the building together but then I forgot all about it

“Well—yes....”

“It was that day—“ and remember it now as the evening of the first concert with him. So I look directly at him, “did Nigel put you up to this?”

“You did block him on your phone....” is all Eliot says to that with a shrug

I feel angry

I try not to say something. I tell myself that nothing I say will be good and the consequences even less good. I just breath hard because I feel like a dragon ready to spit fire at him

Finally I think of something to say,
“Are you spying for him now? Is this about your silly little film or about Nigel?”

“I was here for selfish reasons actually—was hoping you were not actually shagging the Swede so that I might have another go with you!” and he actually laughs

Why do I keep him around? I always thought he was comic relief but right now it feels more like he’s inspiration for target practice

“Look, I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” he stands up, “do you want me to go?”

“I don’t know....” I say and sigh sadly shaking my head, “because I don’t really know what to make of you and I never have. I am so used to people leeching on me that I don’t even notice it happening ....you want something.... of course you do; everybody always wants something from me.... it’s plain; obvious, I mean, isn’t that what was always behind your interest in me?”

“Probably—at first; but I always thought you were cute,” he shrugs, “and I’ve never had an original idea in my life so I thought I could use your ....story because—of our family connection....”

I sigh heavily. No, this does not surprise me.... I finish the coffee,
“I need to get ready so, why don’t you go now? Not to be rude —but I will say this: I will think about the film idea but only because you’ve admitted you don’t have the ability of an original thought—because maybe you can leave the thinking to me. Only the real problem is, I don’t know if I can trust you so— I need to think and —right now get ready for the symphony, all right?”

Electra’s dictionary & film noir; Notes to a stranger

2 January 2019 Electra's dictionary and film noir

There is a sense when you walk into Jörn’s place; a sense of walking into a cocoon as if descending beneath the earth

Even though there are windows. As if it is an alternate underworld with its own atmosphere

“Oh the quiet?” Jörn smiles looking up from making coffee using a French press, “I had all the walls soundproof insulated because of my playing...,” he shrugs casually and pours us coffee in the open plan kitchen. Everything is white, immaculate or of a natural, pale wood tone, “I did it when I first got the place.”

“Really?—so you can play as loud as you want all hours of the night if you feel like it?”

“Yes. And do. That is why I did that. Sometimes in the middle of the night.... when I cannot sleep....” he shrugs, “I always have been this way. I did it last night when you were asleep, did you hear?”

I think as he watches me.... but it was a dream.... I thought

“It was one the things my wife could not stand about me,” he smiles like a lecherous vampire; the kind that wraps you in and keeps you willingly there.

“Wait....” I say, “I heard you at the piano....? Or was that part of....” but then I remember my dream suddenly.... because it was so strange. I remember music.

.... I remember it was like some Bela Lugosi scene only —it was some place outside ....with the moon. It was such a strange dream. Yes, it was an early or ....late sky; a pale light ....outside—somewhere....cold with snow and something else that was odd. A fire pit of some kind. Like a kind of forge. And everything was gray. The sky and the frozen ground.... all the same

This makes me shudder now

He’s watching me in a strange way. He turns his head to look down at me and studies me, his head to one side,

“does my playing disturb your sleep?” 

His question baffles me. I almost don’t comprehend his words. It seems almost like another language. And it is as if instead I heard him say something else —that makes no sense.... I try almost to hear —that instead.... he hands me coffee

And as I take the coffee....I know. It feels....like a flashback —I take it from him.... and our hands briefly touch.... yes it feels— like we have done this so many times before

The fire pit....

I look up at him now and remember the question,

“no.... it does not disturb....” I say this even as a warm shudder rushes through me

I think too of last night with him.... and how sometimes in sleep....we join.... it happens in sleep....it’s happened before—and it seems to mix with dreams. And scenes of memories like a movie I don’t know why I see. But he feels, every time, more and more ....like part of ....my self; part of a subconsciousness; shared....

Does his playing disturb....?

Yes, I remember him getting up in the night and watching his shadows on the wall. As if I expected him to....

“Your face reminds me of those Russian princesses,” he says this thoughtfully and walks over, “you have those cheekbones....” he rubs his thumbs across this part of my face and then holds my face in his hands, “you have such a different kind of beauty,” he stares at me; whispers, “and such juxtaposition....your eyes are dark mahogany flames but your skin is like snow. You look like your father, I see that as ....I’ve been looking things up about him....”

I know he is also bemused by something as well as I am about him.

“What did you mean the other day when you told me that I looked familiar to you when you first saw me?”

He tries to find words. I watch him draw his brows together and he begins to smile but it’s an awkward smile, he shrugs,

“like from a dream. Or a story.... that feels more like an old memory—blurry but real....and it is only real because of the strange emotions—emotions....? Is that what I mean....?” he looks into my eyes again and still holds my face in his hands and shakes his head,”I knew what your voice would sound like before you even spoke— at first I was going to ignore how curious it made me—but then I saw you again and.... this time your eyes briefly met me—“

I suddenly remember this now. It was a day with Nigel.... the day with Eliot.... I only saw Jörn in passing as we were in the lobby and he stepped out of the elevator. He seemed to be laughing to himself as he looked over at us and I remember feeling almost insulted by his expression of superior disdain and wondering what it meant. And why it bothered me

We both are at that moment together right now as we both think of this day in the lobby

I remember how my heart jolted when I saw him—and it was irrational to me ....I remember thinking. And strange too I was attracted to his insulting grin as he stared at me with those pirate’s undead eyes that burned like sparks of lightning.

He says now to me,

“I was reading the part again in your blog—the entry about when you had been approached by an investigator back in The Hague—and something about that really sticks out in my mind....”

“Why?” I ask why ....but I am really wondering how far back he has read. So many of my entries are meant to just analyze through streams of consciousness; so I find myself quite disconcerted

“Because —you said you had something happen to you.... some mystery about how your arm became suddenly paralyzed....?”

It is how he says this that makes me shudder now but I nod.

“Your legal father—“ but he stops himself when he sees me shudder again. He is analyzing my expression far closer than makes me feel comfortable. Instead he says, “he traveled for his business— did you say that one day he left suddenly on a mysterious business trip after —“

I interrupt him,

“the blood test —yes. I know what you’re thinking....”

Jörn sighs,

“your father’s business had to have been a cover operative and things don’t make sense about what happened after your return to the US. Why your assault was never reported and you were never taken to see a doctor....”

I pull away, I go to sit at the table and set down the coffee cup.

I don’t like these things about my past. I hate remembering them. I cover my face inside my hands. Close my eyes.

At first I feel him just watch me for awhile. After a couple of minutes he sits down too across from me at the table

“So you think you are piecing together clues,” I say now. “What is that about? Do you think there’s an old Cold War political plot?” I force a laugh

“No, min lilla duva, I think that your legal father was trying to have you murdered— what was the cause of the paralysis? Did they ever discover the reason? Some kind of virus was it? But then the doctor discovered you had a spinal injury from childhood....”

“Jörn—even if there is some kind of mystery there, do you really think it has any baring on the present?” I ask

“You say you are interested in learning about the purpose of each of our lives; existentialism; purpose and Truth; what your project you say is all about,” he continues holding me caught in his accuracy, “your blog ....you as you write you are delving through and searching for purposes of ones meaning or the significance of an individual’s individual identity.... why these differences in all of us have purpose—isn’t that what you said the other night?”

....the champagne on New Years.... I forgot about this conversation—evidently I became philosophical about myself and isn’t that always awkward the next day?

“The only way to look at truth, my tragic Electra, is by acknowledging the whole truth about who you are—do you understand the necessity of acknowledgement? Otherwise you are not really wholly conscious, are you? So how can any personal discovery hold merit as a Truth?”

“Ok—yes,” I hear his words but he misses something else, “how do I do that now when these crimes are too late to be put to justice—for this purpose of acknowledgment??”

“But is that not the whole purpose of your ‘dictionary’—defining, you are defining, yes? That is your proof that you search for. The one that gives you permission. You are caught in your own shackles and will run out of air unless you give the mermaid back her voice.”

“Only there is no way I can tell my story..... not here. Not in this country. You understand that don’t you? I mean why.... why I still have to keep my real identity secret.”

He does not respond right away but seems instead to search my face before he says,

“you are an artist haunted by a past and the only way to be released is through your work expression. Your work is necessary not for commercial success so much as the need to express this as an artist’s right for existence. The irony of notoriety and the need to be recognized....” he chuckles like it is a personal inside joke. He shrugs, “you need to get this out.....maybe you should do it in Stockholm....” then says in his language, as if only for himself:

“gör en svensk film. Det skulle vara en psykologisk thriller. Kallar det en modern Electra. Vad sägs om en ordlista på svenska? Kalla det konst.”

Only I don’t know what he is saying only that I sense ....as I always have: language is a good place to hide

a dictionary

4 January 2019 Dear Me, notes to a stranger

When I open my mouth to speak no sound is heard

People say ‘you can never really run away...’ or ‘you can never go home again...’

Maybe this is why I am lost

I search for identity. I search for myself .... only I am not really looking for myself

not exactly

It is meaning I search for. As in....regards to purpose. As in the individual’s purpose. So in searching for ‘myself’ it is more that I am searching for a personal brand of purpose as relevant meaning ....for some greater whole; universe.

Does that mean I am some kind of zealot? That I am deluded in thinking that there is any purpose for our universe? Any purpose to our universe?

The universal consciousness....  well, I don’t really care if anyone considers me deluded this way. For me, it is more necessary to search for this Essential Truth

Whether I make sense to anyone.... I have only become tired of searching for proof

Because I cannot quit myself, can I? I cannot escape my own thoughts. I have done exercises where I change my way of thinking or changed my narrow opinions of some matters I fall into being blind about as I know I am not perfect.... I do know that—but after sifting through the debris of my mind over years of discussion with all walks of life, studies through research and my own travels which this last few years I have done a lot of

....well, I have found that one cannot escape oneself nor one’s essential truths

They just haunt you

And chase you down..... to be true to the Self is .... the actual teacher. It is so easy to believe that the Self are the negative criticisms you find yourself guilty of

I call my alter ego Electra

Because at the center of my madness

....yes my madness..... because I realize that this chaos I live within is a kind of madness

I cannot live without my madness.... you see, the center is my father’s rejection of me from my earliest life memory. It devastated me as a child

It influenced my understanding of my own importance to the opposite gender. It was like having been told my own gender was not acceptably up to my father’s standards.... it’s an innate sense all the way inside of my own personal self value. I did not adequately measure up to my father, in my mind and so I felt emasculated of my feminine gender

and to compound this was the Oedipal secret that I am unable to speak of

Except here

through suggestion. The riddles. The themes. The themes.... which are the hints of codes to follow

It is a dictionary I write. A dictionary that lists my versions of meanings of words. My invented codes that let me hide my clues kept only for me.

Or the very very clever

I dare you

It is such a heavy .....shame—so Electra bears it

As I run away from Chris, my estranged husband to people that reflect with fun house mirrors warped reflections back to me

“Mirrors should reflect before throwing back images,” Cocteau said, and forgive me for loosely quoting him this way.... he also said, “there is nothing worse to a poet to be admired through being misunderstood....” his tragedy of a poet

I did not feel seen by Chris. I felt invisible to him. I don’t know why unless it was that I felt he did not hear ....what my heart was asking him for

It was to be acknowledged and to have this reinforced by expressing to me his acceptance —for all that I am.

To heal the rejection

It was wrong to need this from him. I suppose. But it was what I needed

You cannot run away from your essential self. This I have found. Even if I have tried the Pavlov conditioning to convince myself that my sense of gender is good enough for the opposite gender for which I long for.... I will never believe it

Electra’s dictionary is code for Oedipal’s dictionary, as in accordance with Heraclitus

When I look up at Jörn I see he has been reading this.....

He says,

“Your voice is lost here.... but maybe it’s the language.”