It begins to reveal itself

2:15 PM

First layer of paint begins

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

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

~to continue it, because the dictionary goes on and 

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

a dare from an echo

wishing for reflection 

only if it is actually heard 

31 December 2019 thus far today

at 12:34 ....

day 2; rough sketch

May need four more panels and a very big wall

‘the pirate and the dove’ begins today

my present studio

starting to sketch the piece onto two canvas panels

My mother’s old easle 

starting this piece from the bottom

missing summer hikes

(embracing the inner grinch)

one of a few snakes I have caught on video

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

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

plays and ....keys

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

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

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

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

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

By design or by arrangement....?

woven thoughts in a wormhole fabric of time

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

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

I reply, without hesitation,

“naïveté .... what was yours?”

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

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

how many lifetimes for the pirate to arrive on time?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I move down to the floor

“What are you doing?” he asks me

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

but stops laughing soon after

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only what does that prove?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hides a smile and a laugh

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

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

“So what changed it?” I ask

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

“—I— have? how do you mean that?”

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

“That is quite mature,” I say 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that’s who’s calling?”

“Ja— yeah,” he digs into his pocket

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.... yes.... “

“When was this?”

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

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

“Your age,” I sigh heavily

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

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

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

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

“Here,” he lights it

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

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

“No idea,” I lie

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

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

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

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

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

“Well.... oh—gosh ....”

Possibly fifteen minutes.... no idea

“He says usually it’s Hanna,” I say

“What is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then I hear someone’s phone getting a call

“That’s yours,” Andreas says

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

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

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

“You should answer it,” Andreas suggests

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

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

“Shit!” I say and quickly answer

“Duva?”

“Yeah....” I say

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

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

“Why do you sound like that?” he asks

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

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

“Shit..... like right now?” I ask