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

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

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

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



—————————————————

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

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

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

<wow, what kind?>

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

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

“Oh, good....”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

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

when you deny yourself of an emotion

you start to question everything you feel and

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

to live in denial of one’s own personal reality

You doubt your own observations

Every experience and emotion you ever have....

you question if it really happened

Along with the concept of having

The .....rights

that I was not entitled

that life

Forced to live

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh that’s nice,” I tell her

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

in my spine

seven bone spurs between

they are sharply progressing into the neural sack.

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

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