The Voyeur; jm muse chronicles

at first it was his walk ....and then it was his eyes

I think of this now watching him from the balcony. He sits among the orchestra but I only notice him. Tonight it is the cello so I wonder who is ill or gone away I think I like the way he plays this more; how he holds it like a lover, especially for Eroica; I am his voyeur. I watch his fingers and even from up in the balcony, I see the way he lays his fingers.... for one so tall and physically strong, to see the shocking gentleness in the way he touches, I find, leaves me stunned by this devastation

It is by the end that he glances up from his bow to look at me and I realize he always knew I was there even as I never said I was going to be here tonight

When he stands at the end with the other musicians to bow out he turns to me in a subtle way and does his last bow to me and with the smallest inclination of his head infers to meet him where we always meet backstage

[and so.... must go for now ~perhaps more of this later]

somewhere in the crowd; the rush for the man with the vampire eyes

Overwhelmed by the need to see Jörn I return to the city on impulse to make it in time for this evening’s performance ....

I stop by the penthouse and rush to change clothes

tonight it is Beethoven’s Eroica

and as I search the closet for something to wear, in a mad dash, I reach for the houndstooth sheath from Ann Taylor from that day a million years ago it now feels .... and don’t even hesitate to consider and step into the bow tie velvet ballet pumps

I grab a cab to Lincoln Center

I am still zipping up the back of the dress on the ride to the Philharmonic

Peace Frog*; Electra’s dictionary

Of misplaced keys; a celf locked out



somewhere at the core of me it feels some chain has broken

there is this quiet whisper there

and all the color gone gray

the inner chamber echoes empty sounds

     .....so
    what is there to do but

spend the afternoon in deep communion with an unlikely friend 

*Peace Frog is a reference to the song by The Doors

today

reflecting on dna memories

Sometimes when I’m walking or hiking .... I start to be aware of memories that come from the landscape and the feel of the earth under me. If I carry something heavy I feel it more. I feel the swing in my hips as I move over miles with the heat of the sun

my foot as it lands on the ground

the first memories of the pirate came in such a way

like footsteps over layers of time

The Vampire as guide through hell; the fine line of artist and madness

‘Your words have made my heart so eager for the journey that I’ve returned to my first intent....

‘Set out then, for one will prompts us both.You are my leader, you are my lord and master,’I said to him, and when he moved ahead I entered on the deep and savage way.’

—(Beatrice to Dante from Inferno; the Divine Comedy) ~Dante Alighieri


“Tell me about your old psychiatrist that you used to go to. What was her name?” Jörn asks me this but as I read his eyes I know he already knows the answer to this

“Dr. Rothschild,” I say watching his eyes and wait before I say, “....no relation to the Rothschilds, you know, that old American family dynasty....”

“Are you sure?” his look is almost bored and yet one brow asks the question

It is already too much

I think about that and remind myself to breathe

so I say,
“What about her? She was my shrink years ago....”

but she was much more than that

 I just....but I corner on him instead

“Can I ask you about your ‘second job’, as you like to call it—?”

“You can ask me anything you want to,” he says

I watch his eyes though

I say,
“no, not anything....because I know you have your boundaries— I have stumbled into ....and around some.... “

such as Lisa

and what else is twisted up in his Raoul conscience

“I said you could ask....” he replies

“How often do you hop in and out of vans masquerading as laundry delivery?”

Jörn smiles,
“all in a day’s work, my dove....” but he seems lost in thought,

“I’m asking you about your old psychiatrist because I realized some time ago that your ex lover—who, are you aware? —first heard of you through her. A former assistant to Dr. Risa Rothschild, as he was then —Doctor— Dr Nigel Atherton.... but who ....has since lost his license to practice psychiatry....” his expression tells me he knows exactly how Nigel lost his license

“Yes,” I look back at him and nod.

So, Jörn has done his homework.

And evaded my question.

“Jörn, I’m sorry—but,” I can’t let him drop it, “I’m curious....how much of a spy are you? Or am I not allowed to know this answer?”

“I said you may ask.....” he chuckles in an endearing way, “You know more than you should as it is.... “ he reaches to caress my face, his thumb brushes across my cheek as he studies me,

“Most people in my life don’t know any of this about me. Certainly no previous lover was ever privy to this about me,” he says

“I’m so privileged! Oh, come on— your father knows and I’m sure your wife and your whole family knows, so don’t act like it’s not common knowledge!”

“She doesn’t know. They don’t either.”

The levity of his voice stills my thoughts

I study his face

“....no....” I stare at him, “she doesn’t know? Andreas ..... doesn’t?”

“Andreas doesn’t know. Nor does Hanna.... My father only knows because he is close friends with the man who first got me .... to work for them....you know—my parents were against my working in this branch of —ahem-government ....international intelligence .... work..... but —they are sworn in secrecy—how much involved am I? I am so used to it that it’s not even work to me, min duva—it’s been so many years and become second nature to me. I just have a restless mind. I get myself in trouble if I don’t keep myself busy,” he laughs it off, “You know about secret lives, don’t you? Double lives. But well, over time you don’t really think about it. Like checking emails every day.... which is why it was so easy to stumble across all about you after.... I got curious about whose mail kept getting put in my post box.”

The oppression of feeling trapped makes me need to move around and pace and so I get up, dropping the towel and reach for the closest article of clothing I randomly spot, one of Jörn’s white button down linen oxfords and pull it around me like a robe

I leave his bedroom to walk around the living room. I circle the piano and look at it before I go to sit down at it. I lay my fingers on the keys and try to remember the Beethoven piece I once played that won me a first prize award when I was eight. A short lived glory. That got shut in a drawer.

Silenced. Stay in the shadows, dawn of shadows—

And I think of those sessions with Dr. Rothschild. The hypnosis and later the regressions..... Those sessions were around the time that I had mono .... and it occurs to me—those first floods of the dreams of the the boat. I think of Jörn’s recording with Gerald and how he described the hysteria of battle sounding like Carmina Burana.....

notes

keys

symbols.

         Rest

                 Silence

Like maps with a legend key



I lightly play the beginning of my piece as my fingers recall .... quietly they follow the pattern like a whisper from a closet

then stop

he walks towards me

“What was that?” he asks me

I don’t say

“Why do you want to know about Dr. Rothschild?”

“Because I found some old tapes among Nigel Atherton’s artifacts. Are you aware she would tape your sessions?”

But I have to think about all this....

How much does he know?

“When? —where, Jörn? Where were you? Please strop giving me half the story and tell me what are you talking about? You patronize me this way, you know that? It’s insulting! Do you think I’m an idiot and can’t handle your espionage secrets? You ask all the questions and I’m supposed to answer them but you never finish answering mine— Yes I knew Dr. Rothschild was doing a study on me.... she said I was a miracle case because I am— or was —the only known case she ever heard of who.....survived....” I stop myself from saying more

I stare at him afraid I have said more than I should have

His look is enigmatic

“Why were you there?” I ask him ”Where were they?”

“At his office. I did some excavating of my own you might say—I found them in the office safe next to some old fossils....”

“The safe?”

But he keeps the poker face now.

“Maybe you are not aware of your ex lover’s darker sides?”

I think. And yes.... there was all that about him losing his license, but that was years ago. His involvement with my old acquaintance Leighton —who had been a patient of his at the psychiatric hospital

....physician heal thyself

talk about patterns —

and especially with me ....and my blindness about trusting all the wrong people

I go to the window and lean my head into the glass

“I have her tapes here,” he tells me

“You stole them?”

“They were not his in the first place, he took them after she passed away and no one was sure how they had disappeared.”

“He told me she bequeathed all her case studies to him!”

“Does that really sound likely?” he laughs at me, “do you believe any doctor would —or could even do that without a lawsuit?”

“I never thought of that....”
shit.... I really can be pretty dense ....
fucking obtuse.... “fucking idiot!” I say the rest aloud in a whisper to myself and slam my head on the window

“Stop,” he says this calmly and pulls me away from the window

“Do you want to listen to the tapes?” he asks me and waves me to where he has them by his sound equipment where he usually does all his sound mixing

“Now? Why?”

Film noir, Falling through the cracks; of the JM muse chronicles

she could see the street outside the kitchen window and she saw what wasn’t there


The Sunwitch’s face shone and laughed a wicked laugh


but her scream was always silent in nightmare real or fake


Once upon a time there lived a child who lived inside a yellow house with neat hedges and an iron door

that as soon as you walked behind, it was another world

On this side of the doorway the mailman didn’t go

On this side lived the man with the wooden valet which displayed his prized leather belts


Everything was different on this side of the door and the walls caved and warped

There were two mothers who stood in the same body

One wore the pretty yellow dress and smelled like sunshine, the other shook the child and told the child she wished she’d never been born, her nails scratching

then left the child in scorn


One day the child found a doorway to go through and came upon other places and other realities

This was where she hid the real story

In this place she found a pen that was a magic wand and all she had to do was write a dream and go walk right into it

one day she never left

she left a secret pathway back behind hidden in riddles, but one day something blew away all the riddles and they got scattered everywhere leaving lost the pathway back. sometimes it bothered her. sometimes she was glad she would never have to go back

If you bang your head hard enough you could still hear her voice. sometimes it was necessary to know she still existed. because without her it could not feed the magic into the wand

some betrayals are worse than others

“What happened to you that day?” Jörn asks me as I am still sat stunned and dripping by the writing desk in front of his laptop ....still staring at Nigel’s email

He puts a towel around me and the gesture takes me back to the pirate on the boat and it makes me stare at him

“What?” I ask because his voice sounds far away

“What you said....It was not clear,” he kneels down to me to look at me

“What —I’m sorry—not....?”

“Which time did you disassociate?” he asks

The metallic taste is in my mouth and I shake my head, “Jörn....”

“Because it sounded like you confused the two incidents—the belting and —the assault.”

I think about his question but I’m somewhere else. I want to answer him only

there is the need to lean against the wall inside

and

if I let him in

..... only

we need this wall. it’s absolute. no compromises.

not ever, there was another way once

and I consider my words to him carefully

“Is that your word for it?” I ask him “Maybe both,” I say

“What would be your word?” he asks

“dictionary,” I say

But he pulls my face up to him and forces me to look into his eyes. He stares in there. I watch what I see reflected inside his blue prisms as they laser through me, probing and tripping past; unfairly he trips past

“I think you saw something you shouldn’t have,” he says this gently and waits as he watches the meaning unfold in me

“His desk.” I say because it triggers it “He kept papers and I would ....play with his answering machine....”

The vampire eyes with their den inside throws its cape around .... hides

“You read something. You saw things, didn’t you?”

and holds me back from the edge.

 I have begun to realize he sees things I have missed....

The dictionary

Encrypted~Film noir; Jörn, god of the underworld (JM muse chronicles continue)

“Come, there’s something you need to see,” Jörn says to me biting back his fury as he stands up naked from the bathtub

without concern for dripping all over the floor tiles,

he starts towards the bathroom doorway towards the bedroom

....and as he goes, he waves at me in that way he has— like some underworld god with this assumption of control,

Still

I don’t get out ....

does he really think he can snap his fingers at me like that? Seriously.... yes, so

instead I sit there in the water

I hear him from the next room loudly clear his throat. Like some kind  of warning or command.

But I don’t move

except to flip water with my thumbs in the bath water

because my head feels ready to explode

would you call this anger or defense.... but maybe it is myself I am more angry at

because I remind myself: this is what happens when you lower your guard

Isn’t it so.... messy and tedious ?

getting caught up in the bullshit of

    human contact....

I swear, I think Swift had it right,

I should go off to live with horses or move to Lilliput where I get to be a giant for once

only —my internal reverie is startled to silence when he loudly raps on the doorframe with his knuckles and almost gives me a heart attack

I have to reach for my glasses to look at him

he stands there naked with a menacing look, long wet hair in mad disarray

“Whyyyy????” I ask him still not moving

He sighs,
“Lisa came with her boyfriend.... for your information,” he says flatly and looks straight into my eyes

“Who’s Lisa?” I ask

“My wife....“ he raises one threatening blond brow at me, blue eyes blazing as he says sharply, with a note of mockery, “the woman in the picture —taken by Nigel....  only that’s not what I need to show you,” he says this although calmly but —the pirate gems that burn brightly belie something far from calm and likely much more sinister

“No, wait—why.... ? is she in the Hamptons ....? with your —parents!?” I ask with surprising calm

“Lisa’s boyfriend is a fashion photographer —and— Hanna is in New York doing some modeling for him....” he says this simply as if it is no big deal

“Ohhh.... hmmm.... yes, I see.... Hanna—is—here—too....?”

“Yes, they flew in last week.”

“When were you planning on telling me this!?” I ask him now becoming enraged again

Hmmm —and, yes, that’s when I must have flooded the floor with ....an irrational gesture

Yes, I cause quite the stir

I look up at him then

The warning should have been his nostrils flaring because he just leaps at me

and then hauls me out of the tub,

and slugs me over his shoulder

water poring off me and down onto him and everywhere

He does about three long strides into the room and throws me soaking wet across the bed

then without even pausing he is already walking towards his bureau and looking for something

leaving me in the wet pond of his bed to sort out the mess he’s made of me —my hair caught in my glasses and the sheets stuck to me

but I don’t get very far fixing things before he indecently throws some photographs into my lap falling invasively into  places of me I’d rather they didn’t

“Ahhh!!! What the fuck....!?” I say peeling these off my .... skin

I want to kill him by now.... who knows where these photos have been

because they are old photos....

Old photos....

I stop my concern over decency when I start looking at the pictures.

These are very old photos. Of my father. Both.... fathers.

“This is —“ I look up at him

“Barcelona,” he finishes my thought and watches me with a nod

There are about ten of him among a suspicious group of men in business suits that do not look particularly American. And, actually, they don’t even really look all that European either

and the more I flip through the photos the more dark and interesting the characters become

and then I keep looking at photos to find that the photos of .... the man from the campaign badge are even more interesting .... among his very colorful, and global associations

“I want to show you something else, come sit over here, min lilla duva,” he pulls out a chair from behind the small writing desk that he usually keeps his laptop on which is, right now, open

I make a gesture at him indicating I object as I’m feeling like a wet envelope covered in postal stamps but he seems impatient

“You need to see this, min duva....”

I get up letting the photos drop off me and go to the desk sensing his vibe

“Read this,” he tells me

It’s a screenshot of an email and I instantly recognize the address; it’s Nigel’s

It reads:

After several sessions of putting her under I have reason to believe she has some deeply buried memories not just of early childhood traumas but also I have discovered she has buried codes—secrets—she doesn’t remember these but I am sure with more time I can get them out of her. Can you imagine? After all these years to find all the secrets have been stored away in a child’s buried memory?”

Film noir : The other woman; troubles in paradise




“I am curious about something, min lilla duva,” he looks at me where we are inside the wide sunken tub

I lean against the side that touches the wall but with my chin upon my knee because I’m concerned about.... something Nigel has just sent

It is as a photo he took from his phone

a blurry image yes but —of someone who looks a lot like Jörn.... same thick blonde hair and wears the same black blazer and.... the same shoes he wears for concerts

and this person is ....embracing a woman in the photo and so

I am troubled.... and so

as his hand reaches for me to lay along my right knee he studies me

and yes I find I am troubled too staring into the smokey shadows of those electric eyes that —have their own measure of supernatural powers

“You say that you were to be sent away when your mother told you about your real father,” he stops and watches me

“What about it?”

but then I realize now ...that I have seen this woman before!  and it occurs to me in that instant from where.....!

“Why were you not sent?”he asks

I look at him cautiously,
“why is this so important to you? Are you just curious? You know, you are as bad as Nigel who—as you know, is a doctor of psychiatry and ....he was always putting me on the couch with his laboratory rat experiments on my head..... don’t analyze me,” I say sharply and pull away

I can feel his reaction to my words because he only sits quietly

He lets it go awhile

Then he says,
“what’s bothering you? You have been very strange since.... “ he moves abruptly in the water causing waves of uproar, and it makes me look over at him, “you went to your phone right after we.... who texted you?”

I say,
“You want to know why? I got very sick. That’s why they didn’t send me away. But now you answer me please, and tell me why do you want to know these things about me?”

“What kind of sick? What happened?”

I shake my head,
“I.... it was bad—you know.... from the belting ....” I don’t look at him, “but why must you ask me these things! Why is it so necessary for you to know?” and I half shout this

I know he wants to ask more but he holds off

After some thoughts on this that I turn over and over

along with how much of my guard he requires

 I decide to just say,

“that is what the doctor in Holland years later discovered about me. That was the first damage to my spine —before my assault at college—“

“That you believe your father was behind,” he interjects

“Yes. From things that were said to me during the assault.... You see, I —guess I went into .... a kind of shock from the beating ....and also from what they were telling me ....I think it traumatized me because I just —I don’t know, I kind of just got stuck in-side....there— I couldn’t get out of it —I just seemed to.... get separated .... I don’t exactly know how to describe how, but I just kind of went into a —separate world....”

where we left her

And now I dare to meet his gaze and shrug, “so yes, I am feral you see? The wild thing who got kicked around so .... stray cat, street urchin—your parents are right. What do you want with someone like me?”

“Tell me, what do you mean your separate world?”

But I can’t take his gaze on me .... survival of the fittest

I decide to reach for my phone, “who’s this? I saw her in pictures Andreas sent from South Hampton, who is she?”

Now he gets taken aback as he sees the photo text

“Who took that picture?” he asks me

“Can you please just answer one of my questions? Who is she?”

“That’s my wife,” Jörn says with an irritated shrug

“What is she doing in the Hamptons?” I ask becoming enraged “oh let me guess, is your mother plotting to reconcile you by getting all cosy with her?”

“Who took this picture?” but he answers his own question when he takes my phone from me and hisses, “Nigel?”

   reflections in a scrying pool.... images emerge

Electra & the search for meaning in a meaningless world

Electra’s dictionary; symbolism

This painting was inspired by Van Gogh


I painted it from Chris’ left handed guitar when we were still together

I’m not sure what he’s done with it because he kept it, maybe he uses it for target practice

I called it “Van Gogh dreams in psychedelic sound” (minus one ear)

Van Gogh is a word in my dictionary

Svenska schack or Agamemnon and Electra & Echo and Narcissus hidden in Film Noir chronicles (of the JM muse) continued

something i meant to write about and never got to last week—

It was one morning, Jörn went to go shower —I noticed that he left open all his notes on his desk. Papers all spread out, his Mac left open to all his open documents

I guess I was thinking I would find more about his secret agent work or.... who knows but instead it turned out to be

his opera —

he writes the music down as he listens to his recordings and replays them so it is in layers of audio and then the sheet music but, then I discover he has notes on his computer documents that tell the story....he has the storyline mapped out in one document and then the songs and what they portray along with the actual written bars of music with words (all in Swedish)

From what I was able to translate of it using my app....

The character of his mother —or I should say portrayed by his mother.... she is the narrator sung operatically through the opera 

(along with the scenes that have sung dialogue and some action)

....but

it reads as though she appears to be God! 

—or something like it and turns the mermaid into a dove as some kind of punishment to the wolf—who isn’t really a wolf, just got turned into one by her for.... I’m not sure about that part

but it seems to appear that the dove was really at first just a wild sprite or —angel—I’m not sure ....and then God’s husband is a Demi god.... but I did not get to read beyond that as Jörn caught me, returning from his shower and ....wrapped in a towel

he is quite protective of his work, I noticed 

he says, protecting his work from my eyes,

“I’ll show you.... it’s just not ready yet....” and shut off the Mac and closed up his papers in a drawer so.... I’m full of suspense

Dear dictionary.....

It has been such an emotional time for me

   and I find it hard to center artistically.... I have been so scattered these several days—no, weeks really.... can you read between these lines? If you know the codes it all makes sense

the parallel life underlay

  this play

(as Will might say)

but, honestly, Dictionary,

I think about that thing Jörn said; how I avoid ever saying what my conflicts are —he called me a pussy, I believe, wasn’t that hat what he said ....right? And then laughed at me.

But.... I have thought a great deal about that since he said that. It has been bothering me because I have never thought of it that way. Because then I guess I am a fraud if I’m not willing to .... you know....

 he’s right

As much as I worry he may be some evil incarnate slaughtering women and children .... but maybe only to that other life

that her

 that was me...

they say soul mates reincarnate together when they have unfinished business between them

I read this recently because I have been searching for data on others who may know these strange kinds of experiences that .... we share and I believe this is what drew us to each other. It was something we knew but didn’t know what it was we knew

 just that we knew

and with this I start to suspect.... sense .... and believe....

I think he has something to teach me. And strangely.... this I sensed about him right away.... since the first moment I saw him. And with it too —an innate faith of a kind of trust .... I feel he knows things or .... no, it is more that he has the ability to understand how I’m wired and —knows what I need to hear .... I know this only because it comes from some instinct; call it emotional intelligence. Because I think the reason the girl was drawn to him ....was because she knew he valued her and could ensure her safety. This innate sense she could be safe with him. There is something to be said about what fear can do to someone

It is this underlying sense now that I feel about Jörn that I feel ....that it cannot be explained by logic.... but I know it the same way I know why she loved him.

And how he could leave an indelible impression on her heart; on her soul; like tattooed and woven through her entire soul. Yes it is possible to imagine how this could be possible

And —in my present life these things he says and things he does I think must have significance somehow now....now in the present and it makes me think of

the mute girl inside. Mutated. How I left her behind. Even the knight walked away

only sometimes she seeps out between the cracks needing to be heard.... but she gave up her voice

and has gone deeper inside

I fear I have lost meaning as an artist .... I don’t know if I believe in hope anymore

and this worries me. And as an experiment as I document my emotions in symbol, I think I dare to find any proof that any of it matters .... what is the purpose

is there purpose after all and if not then why art

    as someone who once has defined herself through this self created reality spoken in the tongue of hidden meaning with the prop of drama to hide behind—anonymously

What is the purpose to define identity if it does not even matter? This dictionary; diary; journal is my own personal documentary on Does It Matter? Why not just keep her in there forever

because what else do you do when you are a dirty secret? You cling to the shadows because that is all you have ever known and all that was permitted.... go sit in the corner where no one can see you.... don’t outshine your sister by showing off

Sometimes I wonder why she did it.... you know, Mom.... but she told me why. She was demented as a person but I forgave her that long ago. She just loved this man who was forbidden so it was a Romeo and Juliet situation. He was forbidden. She was only 21 when they met and he was .... well, who he was. He was once written somewhere I read —as described to be at one point in his political career as the most powerful man in the world. But in that Gotham way....

They never officially ended even after their marriages and divorces and his remarriage.... she confided to me he was her big love and she never got over him. I know because that was what I did for her; I listened to her and was her shrink or her lap dog or her pin cushion or her Oedipus

So the reason I was abused at home was because I looked like this other man and I was her consolation for her not getting the man she wanted. At her whim or mood she ignored or fawned on me and dressed me like her pedigree poodle

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It is a few days later....

“Why do you hide your face, min lilla duva?” he asks as we stand outside the door of his place

I am thinking of the contractors back at the penthouse that I have to remember—they come tomorrow with some marble to install

—Johnny and Ilya convinced me of this but now I have to figure out what these guys are saying

(the construction people)

....whenever they explain their problems to me.... and it isn’t just the accent that’s the challenge as I have never actually owned property in my life so .... I don’t know anything about pipes and tubes nor tiles and flooring but I’m an artist so, I usually pick the prettiest choices and make it up as I go

“My face?” I ask him but because I seem to constantly get a stomach ache as soon as we are about to face the firing squad—I mean, his mother.... I tend to use whatever props I have handy .... hats work well.... scarves.... jackets with collars up

“Yes,” he says and decides to not open the door right away. We stand outside his door and he puts his key in his pocket. He looks at me dead on; stares

“Stop!” I say and hold my hands over my face

“This has to go,” he says and pulls off my hat, “and the glasses—why don’t you wear contacts?”

“Can I have my hat back?” I ask him, holding on to my glasses and reach to grab hold of his jacket sleeve as I say, “you need to remove this, Jörn, and can I have my hat please?” I yank at his jacket

He laughs and shakes me off like a flea ,

“no you’re not getting your hat, but no really, you need to stop hiding behind these—“ he tries to take off my glasses

“I can’t see without them so, you need to let me wear these and to answer your question— I used to have contacts ....” and I yank at his jacket and get it off one shoulder

I notice he’s smiling at me

“They’re not home....” he says

“Oh....” my stomach ache instantly goes away and he lets me take off his jacket

“So where have they gone?” I ask as he opens the door

“I’ve sent them to the Hamptons,” he tells me in that lecherous vampire way he has

“You sent them?” I follow him in

“I even ordered a car for them,” he tells me and shuts the door behind me, “they’ll be gone all week....Andreas went with them....” he holds me up against the door and smiles at me

(edited/altered again*) Part 2 next session at Gerald’s

“He signed a consent for me,” Gerald clears his throat.

“What—does—that—mean?” I ask expecting anything at this point— perhaps the ceiling to open up and Odin to come flying in

I just hold my breath

He sets down his mug and pulls himself into a full yoga pose; even his hands and fingers; he closes his eyes

He takes a few deep breaths and with his eyes closed he breaths out and says in exhale,
“we taped our last session. He wants you to hear it.”

Why do I shudder in fear?

I watch Gerald reach for his phone to find the voice memo— 

I suddenly ask now,

“How many times has he come to see you?” I ask this as I reach for the chai needing the strength suddenly “how often does he come? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Gerald looks at me in this way; you know.... like the cat who swallows the canary

and looks awkward

I sigh,
“well he admitted it to me that he has come to see you .... Gerald, you can’t say? Client/professional-confidentiality?”


“Where do you want to start?” Gerald asks me, adjusting his sitting position, “why don’t we just start the recording?”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Jörn’s voice fills the room.....

Recording: it always begins the same way, it is a kind of howling .... it howls— and rings in the air with a hammering and echoes like a chorus ....

like Carmina Burana but not as nice.... and more male vocals—mixed even with mine.

Some times I catch myself waking up with the sound in my lungs .... that’s when I get up to play.....

it’s become worse since ..... since meeting her.... min duva.....

seeing her eyes that day in the lobby..... like a turtle dove.... her eyes, those colors of the feathers and like my dream from that same night....

she tells me she dreams in color too.... I know from the other dreams.... all the blood

All the blood on my hands.... it is smeared like across my eyes, pours from my sweat into my eyes.... smeared like a giant movie screen across the wide battlefields, the rocks, the earth.... the mud..... even the ice and slush .....

this dream has always been a part of my life but I have never been able to tell anyone because..... this won’t make sense but— I feel guilty.... for something.... for things..... as though I need to —suffer somehow; martyr or do a kind of penance which I cannot explain because I’m not religious..... but I always get some all consuming heavy weight of guilt for —something— which.... I always have felt

and has made me often feel this need to sacrifice my own needs.... my own dreams and especially about happiness and part of why I felt this obligation to .... do the government work; this shame this need to give back something .... she’s told you, I assume? About my secret second job? I know since we signed the paper there that we have trust about confidentiality—and I know how to find you [here Jörn laughs and you can hear Gerald’s laugh too]....

when I saw her in the dream back in October, when these new dreams started to surface.... yes the colors.... with the dark blue robes and the red hair—I remembered something.... I was reminded of another dream or maybe really it is part of the whole dream—which isn’t really a dream —is it?

You know I never believed in any of this about reincarnation—not that I disbelieved either, I just didn’t really like thinking about that kind of thinking....

but there is as an older dream. Which is darker and what I was just describing to you.... where there is slaughter .... gruesome and —sickening—along with this a prevailing sick smell that you taste at the back of the throat— and mixed with it a wild high.... a kind of euphoric madness that I find .... where I feel most of the center of this guilt .... which often forces me to wake up.... why I need my music to .... release this

And ..... well.... [heavy sigh....]

In this dream I see another warrior torturing a woman.... and when I look around myself and see heavy bags of plunder and dead children .....and this I mostly find it hurts to look at in the dreams.... I think it must be about— or connected to.... his own family, his own losses.... I don’t know—is it me? Who then is it? But I feel it. Know it. Or is it more that I can’t deny it. That I wish I could. I know from the emotions that I am responsible for what I witness ....the tortured woman .... the mother to the girl.... she wears dark blue robes like her and has the red hair and as I see her I always hear someone screaming for her mother.... and it hurts in here.... in my pulse— in my beating heart.... I hear the sound of the girl’s voice screaming.... as I watch the torture of the woman being slowly slaughtered and cannot watch it any longer with the sound of her screams ....and this is why it seems—I have to stop it.... and do with one stab into her .... to give her peace..... but I know it is my fault somehow.... and then I see a dark blue image running away into the trees..... in the distance

(*no doubt will be edited again still—the perils of writing while hiking & in public places; dictionary: excuse this maniac’s approach to a writer’s craft)