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.... “
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.... “
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