He says to me,

“if it were possible to hop a magic carpet ride to —somewhere —some other time .... not in the virus time—what would you do?”

“In a world with no borders?” I say out loud and he nods,

“you mean where would I go, I think—don’t you?”

quiet noir noël

I think as I walk to the sauna through the little narrow pathway through the shrubs, it is the other way to get there from the part of the hill before it slopes down to the farmhouse

We have spent so very little time in here since last year, it only now even occurs to me. But suddenly it felt that I longed so much to be .... here

somewhere that matters

....somewhere I belong.... and it can be such a desperate ache ....to belong somewhere ....

but I only thought of the sauna because of how ....and only now realize once again — how yes.... how much like it feels like .... the place in the dream

but with the cold dead wood in the stove the place has a chill to it of another haunting image 

only it seems it does not cause me to want to go; I want instead to connect ....to feel.... to connect a feeling to that part of me ....that long got left as roadkill 

It seems our minds have been elsewhere instead of coming here to enjoy it, I think..... and sit on the wood bench that looks out into the trees

and I don’t know where I go in my head but it seems far enough away that I don’t even hear when the door opens 

“I can get a fire going,” I had not seen him come in 

“Oh!” I jump 

He follows my gaze in the direction of the view but it is not the view that I think we are both looking at. I mean— or is he? I’m not. 

He says,

“we should spend Jul night in here and just a fire....” but it is there in his voice that tells me.... he remembers it this way too and says against my ear, “celebrate like pagans.”

 

the armor has become so heavy, all the crumbs blew away 

            and it is just so dark upon this solitary path  .... 

the burden is so heavy 

         

[a short]Film Noir soliloquy: of Encrypted Notes to Celf & statistical anomalies

 

it occurs to me as I hear the chords play.... I think of this now as I write this....

it is later when I find myself staring out the window .... 

watch, like a synchronized ballet.... reflection like mirror in the water.... reversed

the codes.... 

backward 

numbers, 

backward 

letters....

reflection 

He has figured me out.... we knew that though, didn’t we? ....well, no, there are still a few loose canons out there he doesn’t know about..... but.... still.... I suppose them being safely away in Sweden made me stop thinking about that old safe and drum table ....

I’ve been hiding in the mountains .... and closing out the world to retreat from society hoping to find inner peace through monk like meditations vomited into prose to catalogue my mysterious journey all spoken in code through symbolic meaning 

so.... because he broke one code does that mean I am defeated? It is just one code, after all and he had already, I just chose to ignore it. I mean, without the confirmation of opening it.... well, it was all hypothesis ....you know? Don’t confirm or deny ....

but now he has the safe and table. But where has he put it? Did he ship it here? 

has he already opened it and not said? ....what is in that safe anyway? 

Electra’s dictionary; notes and stranger notes (jm noir chronicles)

 

In any culture it seems it is our stories that define us. The bards and their harps, the folklore, the ancient myths and ....stories told in sand ....sometimes around a fire 

*****

Jörn has spent months rewriting certain parts of the music. I like to watch him when he is deep at his work. I get the best studies of his expressions in the spot that I watch from above by the second floor gallery sometimes with sketch pad, sometimes with phone, pressing play where closeups are a useful tool, as well as my noir footage 

today as I watch him he throws his pencil down from the music paper .... 

he goes from notes to keys as he plays and then he records this in notes.... still in his running clothes, he had returned from this morning’s run with a surge of music as soon as he sat down; not even stopping to drink water nor to shower; still at it an hour later ....he is caught in this one part 

It is the part of the opera that Jörn has described to me. it is across from a watering spot where he has brought a horse he purchased with the sale of some swords when he first sees her

the part when the dove appears to him and then magically it turns into her

but the fear of him startles her and she is speechless with fright

he bends over the water and makes a ripple that reaches her.... and then she bends to reply, doing this back to him as they watch each other across the water

But she has come there to fill a jug with water to bring back to her father at the market place stall where her father is selling herbs and healing the sick so she then returns to her task. He follows her to the marketplace 

by now I have gone down to the kitchen to cut up an apple and quietly observe him from the butcher block table I chop the apple on. 

His spending more time around has me wondering if this has as much to do with the repossessions of the safe and twin table and the association of Nivek Retnuh or ....maybe it is just the opera after all? 

I study him thoughtfully.... then notice his hair has also gotten long ....

the ends need a trim and so impulsively I reach for the gardening shears.... but as I watch, now suddenly in a violent motion he tears the music paper out of the notebook, balls it into a crumple and then savagely throws it like a javelin with some Swedish curse

I go over to the window where he’s thrown it to and pick it up unfolding it

“It’s shit, toss it in the fireplace,” he waves with a sweeping angry gesture and points to the fireplace with a pissed-off commanding glance at me 

“Hmmm....” I look it over as if I can actually read the symbols dancing about my dyslexic haze, still I pretend as I like to collect his scrawls and then walk over and put the crumpled sheet down on the piano surface and say, “hold still!”

“What are you doing with those?” Jörn glares at the gardening shears with a horrified look 

“Don’t move!” and climb on him to stop him from moving 

“I wish you wouldn’t walk around holding those that way,” and grabs for it

“No, really, hold still,” I take out the tie, “you can trust me, I’ve been doing this for years—“

“Not to me!” he protests even as I get the part that was bothering me in a clean cut.... which he hears and suddenly decides to stay still as he says under his breath, “should I point out that I am already feeling slightly bitchie?” and the humor of his tone is meant as a warning 

“Two seconds and it will be over,” I say and swing around, getting off. 

Impressed the shears are freshly sharpened. The neat flutters fall down like little feathers 

“I really don’t recall making this appointment, never mind, it’s getting all over the floor, duva, can you stop now?”

“The floor is slate, not Persian carpet .... you should let me do this for you, this is going to look so much better than who ever it is usually does it—no, don’t move, this part is tricky—“ as having worked around him, am back to the front, getting back on 

“Tricky—“ he repeats in a hiss under his breath ....after a moment, “will be if you ever get away with it if I don’t agree with your artistic vision.”

“There. Fixed,” I let him go and get off as to my amazement the shears made short work of it; a quick glance over, then touching the fresh ends to watch how they fall in a more natural angle that sharpens his bone structure—go get the broom, “you can look now....”

which he wastes no time in doing. He is by the entrance hallway mirror in a few strides as I’m sweeping up the hair dust into the bin and walk by him to throw it away

He’s still at the mirror inspecting himself with an odd, slightly indignant twitch in my direction as I notice him straighten up and look himself over thoughtfully but still with a slightly dubious expression as he brushes imaginary hair off his shirt 

And as I go to the sink I watch him 

I think of the wave in the water ....

    then see it as if in front of me

I get a sick feeling, standing there. But it is not so much sick as it is the kind of motion sickness.... this only happens when ....those things which happen and have happened that I never write much about as they are quite strange; I get a strange feeling. That kind

I consider this.... water .... the water hole .... reflection in the water and watch it like a movie of daylight sky .... reflects ....like a mirror on the water .... watch it 

I don’t even notice he is back at the piano with new enthusiasm .... suddenly a wild burst of vigor which seems to nearly explode from his fingers as he pounds madly the keys ....his hair in the light hypnotizes me, like the sand on the beach on one of those stops ....those nights under the bright stars with their legends and stories 

Suddenly he bursts through my thoughts and says,

“come here!” like some kind of order —I want to call him Henry the eighth or something but stop myself because —I see that wildness in his eyes ....and it is threatening to erupt ....and just go

he indicates the bench hastily between slamming the chords with one hand still in pace and I sit there fast where he has made a quick place for me. He pulls me inside his arms and plays over me,

“I want you to play this exactly this way!!” he nearly shouts this

I watch his fingers pushing down over mine, he places them and we play it together a few times. Then he says he will do something around me but to keep doing these chords as he showed me 

I get confused the first two times and apologize when he gets irritated but he insists and we do it again and after the fourth time I hear .... what he was trying to do 

with the layers of sounds; the first set is one, the other reflection .... reversed notes .... then played back and the strange blending sound made together ....then the left hand.... 

Like a chill ....I feel something seem to touch the top of my spine 

Defining more of the path of the legend (reflections in parallel)

“....I mean, my writing that I put in my blog is a kind of mirror to these more personal thoughts that I record here. The public one I am less likely to delete as the public one protects me in anonymity with its guise of fiction. I can use allegory to support those things that allow me to take another breath and suppose in the strength of the universe some balm of humane understanding as if what I say actually matters, as if my words fall upon some mind out there who may connect with just one tiny aspect to understand.... even just to fool myself, really; it lets me breathe at least another breath.... The purpose is the same though, both in the public and private ones. It is about the search for why I am here; the search for meaning —why anyone is here, I guess, as well

I mean, not everyone is intended for greatness or fame or notoriety. We may argue that some lives are pointless and many attest that all lives matter; all are special, etc, etc

I guess I am not fully convinced; I question this, especially in relation to myself. 

So let us then say that all lives are necessary and all are special even if they are not intended for greatness but to be that cog in the machine .... (the cow, the pig, the chicken, the fish, the ant, the oak tree?)

So what does that mean to me? And what does that mean to my project? 

Does it stop after my trilogy is complete? What does the trilogy signify in relation to what it intends to define?

....I mean, ‘Beth who is what’ was another exploration which reflected a similar diary at the time .... that I suppose I outgrew as that Bran who stood for someone at the time and, like that life ....fell away ....was part of why it did because —did I define that “What” I was searching to find? That ‘bastard “What” that I am’— having now learned to be resigned in: ‘whatever, this is me; take it or leave it’

Has it even dawned on me—(we become our names)Jung and his archetypes and synchronicities .... no, I still search and my medium seems to be whatever my mood of expression happens to require, and I don’t really think it has ever been my choice, just my mission or cog in the wheel which forces these words, these paintings, these thoughts that grips the hand to grab the brush or the pencil or keyboard .... it won’t shut up.... I start to feel that the trilogy is only the introduction to .... 

where it is telling the legend to follow.... but I have not yet reached that Paradiso; the pinnacle of what that high path has been pulling this level of levels along so, really, how can I yet know where it leads?”

(as I sometimes do keep a private journal, I’m not nearly as faithful to it as ‘the dictionary’ as it has twice been my history to have it discovered and used against me; this is why hiding my meanings in fiction is much more reliable)

Screen time with Josef

 

....I am feeling quite foolish and also quite at something of a loss .... as I am staring at the monitor and hearing a disembodied voice in excited chatter

I have taken the “call” in the kitchen where Jörn set it up before taking off for one of his jogging meetings and leaving me in at a disadvantage wondering what I’m doing 

“We have been busy with keeping up with regulations,” Josef says vaguely, “as nobody quite understands —but it’s rather serious here at the moment ....so I am sorry I have taken longer for our chat,” he is saying as he seems to be moving around as he says this

but hazards of ADHD, I don’t comprehend quite what I’m looking at; there seems to be too much going on and adding to the oddity, I am using Jörn’s laptop that normally, he never lets me near. Besides that —I avoid doing this kind of thing 

and it seems Josef has walked away from his side of the camera.... and find ....I can’t understand what’s going on—

and no idea what or —why ? ....but what I am looking at?

Never mind the point, where exactly is this? But, really, I feel like I want to indulge him because it seems, in a funny way, rather sweet, isn’t it? I mean, I have missed him being around.  And he really seems so intent on showing me something

“Well, I can come here because, as you see, the place is empty— not including the phantoms and the ghosts—a meter and a half! I tell them to keep their distance too!” he is saying, as he chuckles loudly, “really, I think this is the safest place to be—no one has been here for months—I mean, if you don’t count Hamlet,” and here he laughs again

I catch a shadowy glimpse of him and then.... he disappears again —submerging into the darkness —then he reappears, reminding me of a kind of Houdini act, even as his voice continues on, talking away as with a lot of activity on his side of the screen. In fact, quite a lot of movement and sounds of bleeps, gashes of music, levers and switches being hit, echoing, clanging, his footsteps, props being moved.... and then! A bright white flash of light pops on; a round spotlight appears first alone in the blackness before more lights follow in a kind of picture spectrum of colors and all the time he is still talking from somewhere. It is only now when he adjusts the light then when I realize I am looking at a platformed stage. Oh.... then it occurs to me this must be the opera house as the focus is now clearer in the light

“....this is the orchestra pit,” he is saying as now a focused light appears he must be controlling and waves the light about like it is a pointer device as he now adds a sudden blast of some recorded music—yes! that I recognize! 

“Oh that’s....!” I start to say and move closer to the screen more curious and —now thinking I am starting to make sense of what this is about and maybe ....where this is going 

“Yes, it’s Jörn’s piece — actually, as a matter of fact, from that night,” he remarks with a kind of giggle as he adds, “I think we recorded that crack of lighting, if you listen....” he says all this from the reaches beyond as he has not returned to the camera’s angle

but I am wondering why he is showing me. Well, I mean, it is interesting. I’m entertained.  A good distraction. As it has been such a dreary wet day I think  ....as more lights come on and then go off, changing the atmosphere .... 

....until hmm, some image in the background is projected

“There!” he says and seems to move the focus or....? what is that? the image in the background now blown up and projected becomes more sharp 

“Oh my god....” I guess I actually gasp out loud because I realize —the image is mine. I mean— that is my painting he’s somehow projecting  ....or paintings.... why and how ....? one or two projected somehow and then overlaid —now three .... and somehow seem to take on a whole new life this way with the music, the stage and the mood

and .... 

I suddenly feel myself break into a sweat, now hyper aware as the music reaches a like a kind of level of hysteria ....or is it just me?

Gadgets indeed.... I am thinking

does it matter

 

into the stillness stare

intent and wait and strain to hear

and start to fear

that what if what I thought was there

just never was

Intermezzo noir

 

When I’ve had enough of the Caberet Headquarters dungeon; the weirdness of subterranean life, like living underground, viewing the world in cyber space I can only do that for so long .... I really don’t like that because I so detest being trapped inside. it is like torture —especially this year.... like everyone else 

so much prefer being outside; among trees and wild life .... so desperately long for the forest tree lined trails, the grass and the woods 

Likewise, the desperate need for anything tactile 

which, this year, calls for some extreme invention of ideas towards the primitive 

considering survival options for planning what to do with a long winter stretching ahead.... promising drear.... 

avoiding populous; crowds; society 

....without climbing the walls for the next six months —at least— of Adirondaks mountain-cold; caveman snow and high altitude blizzards; it fills me with dread

hopefully still containing the memory of how to use practical physical exertion skills with some prospect of discernible application

I decide, as I have always had an interest to experiment in botany.... 

to order a wide range of things to grow in doors 

Which today prompts what’s in hand upon their arrival by post —along with what I come to realize is quite an ambitious amount of terra-cotta pots.... I suppose I must have been quite bored at the time I placed the order —as I am faced with a kind of endless and involved Russian-doll task of having to unpack the daunting lot. Adrift in bubble-wrap, seeming a twisting sheet of several meters-long stream of a recycled, paper, boa constrictor, and a million environmentally-friendly (how friendly?) packing peanuts .... what the fuck was I thinking that day? At least the mess is all in the farmhouse, so Jörn won’t have any idea of the extent of my madness 

having dragged the boxes down the hill, as I couldn’t have chanced dropping them through the pantry trap door 

immediately have to go about rearranging my artist’s studio to accommodate some space. 

I always find the process of physical work to be a great device for meditation and clothed in my favorite artist smock gear of paint splattered black leggings with my paint smeared giant plaid flannel shirt—a hundred sizes too big to allow for the several layers beneath, much required in the freezing and gutted farmhouse. So, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, get to work; first sweeping away the summer debris of bugs and then set up rows of metal racks; which arrived a few days ahead, thankfully, I’ve already set up — intended for drying herbs. But then I am finding now I’m thinking of other possibilities.... Is there enough space for candle making I wonder? —as I don’t like being bored.... maybe they could be put in the Caberet catalogue ....?

The gust of cold should have alerted me,

“What is all this?”

“Uh—what?” I walk straight towards my easel and brushes, “just paint and things....gosh, that meeting ended sooner than you expected, how was it?”

Still he looks stubbornly back at the slithering Basilisk-like ‘boa constrictor’ taking over the majority of the farmhouse floor.... along with the infestation of peanuts ....and taking in the mass array of seemingly multiplying terra-cotta pots with a dubious expression

 of ....some kind that I ....don’t know how to interpret (—maybe it’s disbelief?)

 ....and decide not to 

and focus on what is in front of me as his appearance is a sexy distraction.... like how good he looks in that shade of gray with his eyes ....

“So how was it?” I ask going over to him

“What?” he says as I reach up to loosen his hair and watch it fall through my fingers,

“what is that—cedar or cloves?—you smell good....” and breathe it in

“You’re trying to distract me....” but I don’t let him finish that and kiss his mouth, “....from the fire hazard going on in here....” he mumbles anyway 

“It’s just a new project —I would have had it all done in here had you kept to your schedule—so why are you back early?”

“I just didn’t feel right about you being here without.... I just wanted to double check the security system —oh, that’s right! —there’s interesting development with the vaccine I need to act on ....” but I sense he wants to distract me from what he began to say

“What do you mean?”I ask, but kissing me back, clearly he decides, instead to continue my line of attack with marked proficiency 

“I mean, maybe you should leave this hazard in here for later and come back up the hill with me,” even as he raises me onto the nearest countertop, moving his hands up the paint splattered leggings, “but first I think I need to give you a bath—you’re so filthy!”

which is true. he’s not kidding.... as we really have to get better about cleaning this farmhouse and I think I say something like that or —maybe it was, “yeah, I feel so dirty, let’s go....” but then we don’t go right away 

next scene; Electra’s dictionary/a stairway to heaven; a denouement .... and the vampire noir (jm muse continues)

 

****

I guess, at this time it is necessary to elaborate more in detail things I have only touched upon

 —if we are ever to reach Paradiso (or do I mean Valhalla?—with Jörn as guide?)

******

the morning after.... 

I wake up hungry and go to the kitchen and start to make something for breakfast ....he has gone for his run .... in front of the stove, I find I get lost in thought and ....need to write 

because as I think about Jörn and his more lucid and sensitive moments of .... what is that? Reflection? I was going to say emotions, but is it that....? as I struggle to pinpoint if I’ve observed .... any there but.... there have been moments —like .... well.... I have seen those glimpses about him, especially engrossed in his music, or when I know he remembers and thinks about those memories that we both share.... the dreams from what I have come to accept as real; from an actual real life.... dare I say it here? and all that too about Jörn— I know he feels there is something to it there 

And even related to present life, how when something is going on —I have seen he avoids it

as I am aware he does feel deeply because— I have seen the hints of it behind his eyes.... those hints of something quite deep and intense— but he will not express this, I know I have seen it pass across his features and I have felt it from him—but something seems to always stop him from letting it; from fully feeling it.... and I think something keeps him from letting himself

it is the intensity. Only I do not believe it is as simple as ‘fear’

..... I saw it that night; it was before he left for Sweden back in September—it was that night when he found me.... outside .... the night after the zoom call with Paulina, when I found I’d faced some demons from out of the closet .... and I saw something there in his face when he found me on the ground; it was there on his face—like a window shade drawn down showing almost another face— a moment there it was; across his features, a white fear; a glimpse of worry—and I saw .... was it that he thought.... ? he had found me with the pocket knife.... and then I moved and —then it was gone; it just quickly evaporated from his face; like the shade quickly shot up.... but right before it went I saw it there clearly— I think maybe it was terror, you see, because he could not find words after as he looked at me to even express what I could see had been there just a moment before in his eyes.... 

those deeper emotions which I am certain are there but that he steers clear of. Each time I have ever asked what he feels, he refers to his music .... is that his legend? the keys.... his own keys to everything ....?

and so I have to wonder about the dreams ....with their terrors —like the music to his opera which he has mentioned before; like the battles that he has referenced....  like those shadows I have watched on the wall as he plays out scenes of a life and its purpose to compose it which seems to mean more than to share it or have it performed .... are the smeden’s swords there too in his music, I wonder?—the endless nights by the forge? ....maybe they are there too in his music.... like the beach and the stars; the moon.... and running into the waves —to drown ....the beach and the midnight sun .... it is all in his music, isn’t it? have I not heard it? I recognize it all, I realize 

and even the last memory in the hut .... with the hides turning red with blood .... as I have also known and felt ....going cold and looking up and seeing, watching me, those vampire eyes 

It cannot be that it is just to dream of —not just to haunt a soul. It must mean something more than —just this 

and his music— to him, it must mean more, the musical keys more than just keys to music— because, I think, they are more like actual keys 

these things in every day life

we walk by 

we ignore them 

don’t we laugh at strange coincidences? 

No, instead it is easier to believe what society ingrains, isn’t it? Empty material concerns which in the end mean nothing at all and .....we are all required to be part of a machine and  for whose benefit? an assigned role to live a life which blinds too many to live such empty lives. So why is the world so dissatisfied? Is anyone really alive?

So long ago when I first began to have the dreams —when I was going to see Dr. Rothschild. I told her about them and —she believed me. That is why she regressed me.  Did hypnosis which, she told me at the time, was frowned down upon by her profession but— as she was soon retiring to write a book on her works, she felt daring to break some rules. And.... I know, to also document 

I get a chill now and half consider calling Gerald to talk.... because ..... as I write these thoughts into my phone .... it feels like something necessary is surfacing 

but I find myself locked in a kind of wonder .... as if on the edge of some kind of epiphany 

 —if Jörn has been my Virgil, maybe it is no accident then .....is it possible too, then —that maybe I am —his— Beatrice.... ? 

to take some journey back to .... his battlefields .... and face emotions

and maybe the music is a kind of ‘bridge’ —his own need to integrate something because 

as he seems not have access to something .... that keeps him from experiencing — but the opera ....it haunts him like a tug-of-war that keeps that hold on him and pulls him back and I see how it refuses to let him go 

So now I think.... as I know I search and struggle to understand life and meaning; especially now in this nightmare of times of what feels too much in this present life as apocalyptic times. 

So ..... I guess I find I wonder.... dictionary..... what if to each other we are both guides?

who found each other for this purpose; both artists who are a bit ill equipped with expressing in the ordinary ways but to each other somehow find ways to communicate; like pictures in the sand ....and it occurs to me, as it so often has, that he understands me better than ....anyone I have ever known 

My mind goes back to that day before he left—what he had asked me that day....what was it he said?....I forget his exact words something like “How was it that I beat the odds of the statistics?”

because I had once told him what Dr. Rothschild has said (no, that was not really her name, I chose this name for a decoy to conceal who she really was as her family was also of another well known dynasty —in this country—so, for purposes here, this name characterizes and safely serves to deflect who she really was; as woven in, much of what I write is actually true)

   

when she had called me a “trailblazer mapping my own course in uncharted territory when no one else known ever had....” because around the time I went to see her there had been no known documented cases of someone who had survived to adulthood —

I mean....so again, I say this: I guess at this time it is necessary to elaborate more in detail of things I have only touched upon....

It was because, you see, I had not succumbed to the statistics — those peer reviewed, documented and charted cases of those who, to put it bluntly: beginning at an early age, those who were victims of physical and sexual abuse on a regular basis and which, oddly enough, always seemed to be the prologue to later experiences in young adult life of violence and rape, lending a checkerboard pattern of calamities throughout their short lifespan. In effect, what would tend to follow was a life of drug addictions leading to overdose, or experiences of assault or their own intended suicide. As two other ....such persons.... I have known in my family whom —I have made reference to here....

****

I am sill in the kitchen when he returns from his morning run. 

he intrepidly walks over to me and tries to be somewhat playful, not knowing how to act after last night— which, he may not realize, be that as it may, after a month of dormancy, has left me sore— and more in his favor

but still he says,

“your flaming ginger roots are growing in,” as he tries to make light conversation, “they make it look like your scalp is on fire—have you decided to stop making it that dark burgundy?” 

I am not sure whether to laugh or to be offended,

“I just haven’t been in the mood for the whole henna process.... Jörn, I’m not mad at you....” I say looking up at him, “you don’t have to act like you need to walk on egg shells....”

“No.... but I think .... I understand.... what you have been trying to say....” which does surprise me. He moves nearer to me where I am mixing a pot of porridge; today it is whole grain wheat and the warm aroma fills the kitchen. He takes a lingering reflective moment to play with my hair roots, “I don’t understand why you go through the trouble to cover it, some people would kill to have this color naturally.”

“It’s almost blonde now. I don’t see myself as a blonde.  But, the effort to bother lately doesn’t feel worth it—“

“No, it’s definitely still red— it’s  flaming!” he teasingly objects 

“—so what exactly do you understand? —what Jörn? I mean, since now you have mentioned it....?”

“You think I come and go as I please ....with no concern for you.”

“It was a month with hardly a phone call, who knows what you get up to back in Sweden with your ex there among others....”

“My ex? Duva, I wasn’t just in Sweden, I was actually on the move quite a lot, and that is why I did not have a lot of time to ....call. I’m sorry. My work gets in the way of things like this. Probably why, before we met, I had not been in any meaningful relationship for a long time.... But, listen, there is something else you should know—“ he pauses an instant to meet my eyes, “I guess you won’t be shocked to know this because of Gerald— I was being followed by—a certain demon of —your—past....”

If I was not sure whom, his tone is enough to fill in as it does not take me long to deduce

“Nevik Retnuh....?” it comes out in a rushed whisper as I shudder and stare back into his eyes

And his eyes squint a bit in reply as answer and indicates the affirmative with the slightest nod of his head and then he reaches for me as I seem to suddenly lose my balance and stumble,

imperceptibly, his touch is unobtrusively —affectionate; he grasps hold of my elbow to steady me

“Why do you think he was following —you?” I ask

“Well because.... of a certain set of things I am now again in possession of ....”

“The safe! And the table?”

He hardly moves a muscle as he looks directly into my eyes; their vampire heat seems to dance there, deep within the platinum blue with some mad and wild flame

The dizziness of fear rushes through me and I reach for the feel of the stove to right myself to gravity



Electra’s dictionary; Spy in the house of love/strip poker Noir

 

“Red follows grey across the air,

    The waves of moonlight ebb and flow

    But with the Dawn she does not go

And in the night-time she is there.

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old....” 

                         —from The Sphinx

By Oscar Wilde

—and in trying to read between the lines, sunk in the nebulous morass, later

....it is only when he is inside me that he says,

“you won’t tell me....”

he takes this moment to press this and .... to drive it in

to press the question .... 

and although I realize he is always rational, in moments like these I can feel something that he never usually exposes —but later I always forget ....this 

I suspect even as I know why now this should be true but —I suppose if it was not something I understood in myself that .... I could almost easily overlook this about him; this awareness 

but I do not answer.... partly because I am somewhat caught up.... in his motions and —partly because I use this for excuse to hide

what does his rhetorical question mean? only, this too I understand .... because there is always another conversation going on with Jörn.... the more important conversation .... the one that is never said aloud with words .... but it is always going on and is loudly somehow expressed .... in that intrinsic way .... that he has. I have found about him, it is all in his subtleties —oh, those subtleties .... how much goes on below the surface .... those mute suggestions that seem —on the surface— something that it is easy to wonder if it is something I have imagined— but .... as it is so constant about him.... I cannot make the mistake to ignore .... and so like a spy! to only wish to convey without ever having to admit anything 

again he says it,

“you won’t say....” and this time with a measured tone, coupled expertly with his calculated physical motion and with it, as well, the added touch of his mouth from behind my ear to my lips and only when he is granted the aimed response does he intensify his purpose until I am forced to answer 

“Why should I....? I don’t know what you mean....”

again —pressing— his advantage he says,

“you still don’t trust me,” but still it is not a question 

“It is not that ....” and only thus caught up within this aura he exudes, only obvious in coitus am I ever acutely aware of the rawness behind it which is easy to otherwise miss as he does not, by habit, let show

“No?” he asks

it is when I start to say, 

“you hide behind your spy persona—“ that he pushes me up against the headboard using his body to impale with the same calculations of practiced technique he does in everything— but now for his personal interest to cross examine; he  searches my eyes and it is only because I understand that hidden language of his kryptonite do I finally ..... see something unintended of a hint there exposed 

but I say,

“no —you— will not say....” only I am meaning something else and stare back at him knowing there is nothing between us —not here in this moment; as there is no way to hide myself; he knows every move to undo me—which he does.... more than once. And only after the third or forth does the resistance exhaust for me to finally say, “you refuse to acknowledge....”

“Acknowledge what?”

 “—that you need .... or even that I matter to you— to....”

a poet in a virtual world

like adverts on a train with eyes avert 

look not at the leer of the grim-reaper, casting shadows everywhere 

little lights that flicker past from some faraway train as it passes,

glimmer and ricochet the walls their whispers of hope

even though shuffled in invisible irrelevance, as thrown 

into this strange norm, what’s become the daily apathy 

here cast in a virtual overcrowded commuter train

On a virtual transit ride 

                                            ….to nowhere 

in a world unseen somewhere among the crowd lost

scrolled anonymous finds his message left on the virtual subway wall

…..and suddenly, much less alone 

so, with fingers pressed to fog a print replies her message on the wall 

in the fog

Electra’s dictionary; Scene Noir: sparring humor/hidden foreshadows (where life and dictionary overlap jm muse chronicles)

 

the pendulum of highs and lows seems to have blown all sails off course 

....it seems lately like I am standing outside of myself, watching from far away, even occupied in whatever the task being done—like watching myself from a surveillance camera.... watching with no connection....no meaning

I have been wishing I could hop a magic carpet ride to some other time or universe.... 

and now, on top of it all, am aware I have developed a new phobia of people; as in encountering —or being anywhere a mile near —to the point, I fear I am becoming something freakish, when before it was only shyness, now I think it is become something dangerously close to certifiable  

So.... it occurs to me now it has been a long while since I have been drunk or otherwise inebriated—maybe it is long overdue; perhaps it is time for a bender....

gripping the dictionary, Electra,  dearest, to hazard sense of present life ....dear dictionary....

*****

Jörn goes for an early run, and is gone for awhile.... doing whatever it is he does during those morning, mystery phone-call jogs; wearing the mobile headgear apparatus while having conversations around the globe .....shifting chess pieces, bit and gold bullion. Who knows what else 

The interruption of recent events of life which, on one hand, has kept him physically away but also in the other, with the preoccupation of other things, allowed me the excuse for the reconstruction of walls 

****

It is much later when Jörn finds me in the cage packing up and going through pending orders and seems surprised

“You’ve been busy,” he says as I notice he is still in his black ninja running clothes 

“It’s been steady. Paula is surprised,” I say

“Le Chevalier line?”

I stop what I’m doing and smile,

“not to brag.... eighty percent profit from last year, just by the addition of the new line.”

He comes over to look over my shoulder on the computer screen. I look up at him,

“I know you just wanted all this as a front for —well, whatever it is you do....” I say and try to read his expression 

He shrugs and straightens up before he walks around to look over the neat stack of packed up boxes of orders and turns to glance at the loaded conveyor belt,

“I’m .... impressed. I guess I never expected you to be so industrial....” he walks towards the conveyor belt to get a closer look, “....eighty percent?” 

“I’m used to keeping busy. Since we left the city, not having the Ethan estate to occupy myself .... it’s just nervous energy. Does it bother you?”

He turns to look at me from where he’s standing, across the distance through the cage door,

“why should it bother me? Maybe we should be partners,” he says lightly and walks back, “but I think your real talent is being wasted.”

“What’s that?”

But he just shrugs and comes over and says into my ear,

“by the way: you left the pantry trap-door open back at the barn-house. That is how I found you. If you want my plans of protection to be effective, you need to remember to —and make a habit of—closing it.”

“Oh....” I consider this....  “yes. I didn’t .... think about —that.... well.... it just suddenly occurred to me to use it as now I know how convenient it is to go between the barn house to the farm house ....” and look up at him .... 

as I realize .... not for the first time either.... 

the key to communicating with Jörn is always .... in his subtle hints 

he’s trying to tell me something 

he does not ever say straight out what he really means

But he does always say .... what he means .... 

especially when it is important to be said. But you have to search deeper for his meanings which on the surface is not always the obvious and not always clear 

but at the moment....I guess I am busy thinking about a million other things. Without really wanting to be thinking at all. Wishing, instead, that I could get caught up in some mindless distraction 

as if it were possible to turn off thoughts and redirect them that easily 

now leaning over me where I now sit to process a shipping label, “you’re miles away,” he says

“And you should talk? You who are, no doubt, deeply involved with the world’s game of chess .... hacking and hatching political schemes—I’m surprised you find the time to wonder about my mental mileage.” 

but even saying this exhausts me and feel the need to collapse into my arms and let out a heavy sigh, “I’m just wiped out....maybe it’s ‘long Covid’ or something, I don’t know....”

“Maybe you need your snack —what was it? Ground cacao was it— and honey? —you do know honey isn’t vegan.”

“You called me vegan— I never said I was....I just don’t eat things with families.”

“But you don’t mind robbing from the bees?” he asks. 

I know he’s teasing even as he keeps a serious tone and expression

“You think they mind?  —don’t you think they would fly away?” I ask and then say, “you don’t have to answer that. I know you think I have selective morality but beekeepers are helping to preserve an endangered species—and I know you also think my logic is crazy....”

He shakes his head, as he walks back over to look at the orders lined up on the conveyor belt, he seems to be holding in a laugh,

“When did I ever suggest you had selective morality?— or that I thought your logic was crazy?”

“Well you do. Don’t you? I can see by how you look at me—“ I say watching him

“How I look at you—?” he comes back over

“You’re doing it now—“

“You’re misreading me, then,” he laughs at me “are you sure you’re not projecting? I think I know what the problem is....” he leans over me and says something into my ear

******

as was before 

so does 

it now remain

more still 

the need of you 

contemplations in a world of plague; a hope for healing

(today’s fleeting reflection)

as Boccaccio and Dante referred to the Black Plague in their works, their reflective interpretations, seems to me, to have been tinged with their views of spirituality and humanity’s need for atonement. I do not pretend to feel secure of what is going on now in our world 

the sad reality is that life begins and ends and always has and —it is never equal how, nor how long each one of any living thing has ....and this has been the way since all existence of physical life. And, the spiritual realm, I dare to suggest, has the final say. And as we live, it is the brutality of life that we have to endure

 —and I guess I believe as long as there is the chance to reach outside; without; for a purer state, and strive to forge on, hopefully driven by something other than material greed —toward something higher than personal ....given the opportunity in the time allotted 

despite ....whatever the powers that may be present in our material world, as I really think all that is really just tedious stuff and nonsense.... 

were this a portal

 

for despite whatever the proximity, may well be another galaxy, 

how far away, the distant sea, would that communication bend

Electra’s dictionary, noir Halloween hauntings; jm chronicles/next scene

 

(Same day:)

Only when we get back to the house from the airport, no sooner have we got one foot past the bedroom door that Jörn immediately gets a call,

“sorry, duva, I have to take this,” he says

and disappears downstairs 

I watch him from the bedroom window as he strides from the patio of the back of the house, across the back lawn, down the hill to the farmhouse and watch him go in

I go downstairs to make tea and sit in the bay window seat that faces the other way into the woods and look out into the  dense, dark night. And for awhile just look out into the darkness 

....I get lost in thought ....

and think about a dream from the other night

It was the night before Jörn sent me a message telling when he would be returning ....and to meet him at the airport

a strange dream, and after I woke up, I couldn’t sleep after. All through it I heard his music as it was playing all through the dream, but it wasn’t being played by Jörn, nor by anyone —it came from an organ that played by itself, the sound of it was hollow, echoing; it was in an old gothic cathedral and the gargoyles removed from where they had sat perched in the stone and they flew in through the arched windows up to the vaulted ceiling and landed on the rafters where they watched me from. 

Something outside was calling me that sounded like monks chanting but they were druids and I followed them to an open field that then lead to a labyrinth made of hay. It was dark and hard to see and I kept losing sight of the moon which was the only source of light; full and shadowed with a mist that kept altering the light. 

When I looked down I was holding a map to the glow of the moon and as I walked the map followed my progress as I wove my way to the center. 

When I reached it, I found an old wooden safe that looked more like some old pirate’s chest with a combination keypad in runes, still partially covered in dirt.... but then when I looked away I realized that I was standing in the center of a military base, surrounded by statues encircled by canons  and the statues moved —but then something else happened as I heard that strange ominous bat call that seemed to warn me and — it was then that I saw the face emerge from the shadows that woke me up. 

Like a blurred overexposed image that blended two photos of two pasts; like two faces merged as one as it it stared at me.... a face.... from two pasts and with it the memory of blood and the white hides turning red ....

That is when I woke up and went downstairs to make tea as —it scared me and I couldn’t go back to sleep 

and then, even more strange, Gerald texts .... asking me if I was awake. And somehow knew he must have had a dream too and immediately replied. Then he called 

Before saying anything, he asks,

“is there a security system in that house?”

“Gerald....” is all I say when I answer but then I say, “yes, of course—who do you think installed it?”

But then he says,

“he’s looking for you.... he knows where you are—he’s after you!”

The next morning Jörn sent me the message he was returning....

I sit there lost in thought wondering how it is I have become so used to .... being afraid.... as if always living on the edge

***

So lost in thought, I don’t hear Jörn come in 

.... and I realize it is because I see him emerge from —beneath the floor! —and surprising right by where I sit! .... on the floor of the kitchen walk-in pantry by the bottom shelf....

surprising to both of us.... I think he actually had a start —as he stalls for time to recover and brushes some lint off himself as he casually shuts ....the floor .... and latch it—like he does this all the time....

“What are you doing?” but —he—asks this! 

Well.... as he has found me in a guilty position —on the floor of the kitchen pantry by the bottom shelf ....eating ground baking cacao out of a near empty box 

—still I do catch his quick hidden reaction of abashment which he manages to cover with a casual yet, still somewhat awkward smile

even as I then realize he is trying to play it off as if he meant for me to catch him out ....as we ignore the stampede of elephants that —followed him through the floor

It takes a few seconds to connect the dots....

My mind goes back —and begins to put things together ....that day with Smulagan and Stina 

and think about the other pantry wall and .... the hidden distillery .... considering the possibility and how far the catacombs of the conveyor belts go

“Doing? —me....?! Jörn.... “ and just stare for a stunned moment before I consider my appearance and sloth-like behavior, “what does it look like?” I ask looking up at him, as he steps around as if his own behavior is nothing unusual....

Only, instead, just say,

“I guess I was waiting for you,” and dare him as I wait for him to explain himself looking up at him. But realizing this is not forthcoming as he seems to choose only to mock me having caught me in the act of something hardly ladylike

 But I shrug,

“—I got hungry,” and wait for him to say something, but then I laugh, “but, you know, I promise I won’t ask ....”

But then I get fed up as he seems more at ease with holding out longer with his poker face game, and say, “Let’s just skip to this, shall we?— I mean your timing .... are you going to tell me— do I have to say? it’s either that you heard from Gerald or .... is it that someone who keeps popping up —coincidentally in both our lives ? ....that you —might have— ? recently ? or maybe not.... have stumbled across your radar?— but, no, I know! you can’t tell me —right? It’s your usual line—and why would you tell me?— not like it is of my concern and never mind who you were just sneaking out to the farmhouse talking to ....before —climbing back up,” and I look at the spot he just climbed out from, “but.... never mind it’s been weeks.... hardly a call or a text—why should you be concerned if some stalker terrorist is after me, Jörn? no, I’d never expect you to divulge precious secrets from your noir spy universe, not that it concerns me or anything!”

His face is impassive .... I can’t read it—but if ....not slightly amused. Amused? 

He asks me,

“what is that?”

“What....?” I ask noticing his expression —and why do I instantly feel defensive? “Just cacao powder!— with honey! —don’t judge! —it’s not like you’ve never thought of it ....”I say

he says,

“No. I’ve never considered a box of baking powder as a midnight snack,” as if this is the more shocking revelation 

“Well.... yes.... right now it is right in of the box —originally .....it had plans to join some rice milk but it never made it so....guess what? —you know one of my dirty secrets— just saying....” 

He kneels down to me,

“do you always do it on the floor?”

and only then do I realize he could keep this up all night 

I get fed up,

 “—it’s been weeks, Jörn! —is this really all you can say?” 

He moves behind me, his hands in my hair,“when did your hair get long?” he says into my neck and against my ear 

“....you’ve been gone a month....” but when I repeat this now it’s lost its steam 

but then, more seriously he says now,

“there are things going on in the world right now, duva.... and there are things demanding my time beyond my control. I wouldn’t leave you in danger — You do know, don’t you? that the heart of a mercenary is not single-mindedly faithful— you see, their personal agendas are not always at their convenience either—they can wait a long time and —like their ethics, their moves answer to one protocol, like their alliances, which are, as the weather, just as predictable but consistently always belonging to the highest bidder .... one regime ends, they find the next as they patiently wait .... and, you realize, I could not have this kind of conversation with you over the phone, and as it was I was tied up and I couldn’t get away until now.”

“This kind of conversation? Jörn, really? I doubt if he intercepted it by bugging the line that he would find it as clear as I do to follow the point. I mean— what do you tell me?”

“Was I worried about you?” he turns me around to face him, “I’m here.”

some beauty I have known; a retrospective perspectives photo gallery

 

   

Seattle airport May 10, 2017

Oregon autumn 2017

Michigan, my old Volvo from apartment stairwell circa 2013

Electra’s dictionary; the Bridge to Paradiso continues....(noir at the opera)scene

The interior of the airport is dimly lit. I am the only one waiting in the waiting area; it is deserted. And so I stand by the window and watch from behind the glass as the small plane descends and lands and speeds down the runway and with it, that odd sound as the wheels hit the ground

There is only a handful of passengers that empty out, all still wearing the mandatory face masks while disembarking; a small cluster, I can hear them speaking Canadian French as they walk coming through the arrivals/departures passageway as if emerging through a wormhole and Jörn, the light catching the gold of his tied-back hair, wearing a dark gray shirt and black well-cut trousers with his signature leather boots is the last to file out, carrying a small case with a gray trench coat over his arm, he sees me and removes the face covering as he walks towards me

“No disguise?” I ask him and notice he looks tired as I hold back but then, putting down his case he reaches for me and draws me to him

“No, Stina lets me do as I please these days,” he tells me

“You’re tired,” I say looking up at him, but then ....the rush....the one that always comes looking into that stare; like being caught in a blaze of a meteor burst

“Let’s see, three connecting flights, and then a three hour layover in Ontario—I guess, maybe just a little stiff from the seats....” he shrugs inclining his head; but then he suddenly surprises me, he reaches to take hold, gripping the back of my head, he presses his mouth to me, as he is not usually public, if ever, but as there is no one around and —it has been almost a month....and it shows just how long as his mouth becomes more intimate, “did you miss me?” he asks stepping back to look at me with a wry, wicked smile, not bothering to wait for my answer as he picks up his case to start out

I smile,

“did you miss me?” but I don’t bother to wait for an answer either and say, “you say—she lets you do as you please these days— why is that?” I ask as I rush to keep up with his quick pace out the door

But now looks at me pointedly and glances around with a cloak and dagger expression, that silently says ‘not here,’ but  verbally asks,

“where are you parked?”

“The usual place,” I say as we step out

which is round the back a little ways. By now it is dark outside and the stars are all out and clear. But I notice his preoccupied mood. His pace is fast and I almost have to run and so doubling my pace I nearly sprint in order to head him off, reaching the left of the car first. He goes straight to the trunk area to put his things in the back as I slide into the driver’s seat.

he comes over as I start the car,”Move over,” he, anyway, says 

I climb over, but not right away,”humph....” 

He shuts the door,

“duva, about this trip—there are things going on I can’t tell you about.”

“Are you working for Stina now?” 

“Not for— I don’t work for anybody— but.... you know.... it’s —government stuff. I am telling you this and that is actually more than I should. So, don’t ask me. Ok? Obviously, that’s what kept me so long....” it is once we reach the highway that he says in a lowered serious tone, “you have made jokes about me being a spy and — the Cold War. You may joke but.... things are going on,” he glances seriously at me “I may be coming and going a lot more right now and I should just warn you I won’t be able to tell you what it’s about.”

I get a chill,

“Ok. I won’t ask. Understood....”

For a long moment he just drives and is silent as he keeps his eyes straight forward on the road. Then he looks at me, “I am just telling you so you don’t think it’s something else.”

“Ok....” and turn to watch the road too. “The deer are out,” I say, hoping to change the subject, “and other ....things” I mumble as I think.... about his spy life and wonder. I did recently come across things in the news, some things I read which I suspect is what it has to do with— only knowing this, I find, it is far from reassuring. “But, Jörn— I mean .... so .... like.... are you in danger?” I have to ask

He looks at me and smiles,

“so you did miss me,” and reaches for my hand

“You change the subject....”

“Oh, my father asked me to ask you something,” he says

“And you do it again.”

He puts his hand back on the wheel, but continues anyway,

“he’s bored— you know, the opera house has had to be closed a long time from .... “ and instead shrugs to silently say; skipping the obvious, he doesn’t bother to say, as we both know why, “and even now with the restrictions it limits the schedules— so he wants to chat with you about something ....”

This surprises me,

“Chat?”

“FaceTime—“he says

“FaceTime! Ewww! I hate FaceTime, you know that! Ugh—chat with me.... why not just use a phone?—can’t we?”

“Because he wants to FaceTime—“ he’s trying not to laugh at me, “he wants to show you something,” he shrugs

“I didn’t know he was so savvy with modern technology—“

“My father?” he laughs, “he’s worse than me with gadgets. No—it’s you who’s clueless.”

“Clueless?—I’m not! How am I clueless?” but he just laughs at me and does not answer which then leaves me wonder, “anyway....” and mumble to myself under my breath, “so what is it like to travel in this? It must seem a lot different there now too?”

He just shrugs and makes a scowl and says, “like everywhere,” and just says, “more stressful.... I was thinking about quarantine —for you. It feels uneasy sometimes, coming back here— how bad it was for you— but I did a test before .... so he has an idea—my father—“ and he looks at me with an odd look, “it’s an interesting idea, actually. About my opera.... “

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he glances at me, “....and Electra’s dictionary....”

“What—?what do you mean?” I look sharply at him 

“Well, like I said; he’s bored and losing his mind needing to keep himself busy, but—don’t look like that, its a good idea, I think—I mean, it could possibly work, and with memberships and some imagination it could even profit.”

“What is it you are saying— I’m missing something, Electra’s dictionary? —your opera? your father?” 

“Well, the opera house has been empty for months, he has all those stages — and all those empty theaters at the opera house,” he shrugs, “mostly all empty, not even being used....”

I get a sense of dreading apprehension and say,

“well, that is one way to change the subject.”

by any other name

 

Electra’s dictionary & Film Noir/notes to celf; the bridge to Paradiso/(shortshot of Electra writing into her phone waiting at the airport for Jörn)

 

As I wait for him at the airport, I think of that night

It was a full moon that night

“How did you beat the odds?” I remember, he asks me. And felt him take it from me “....what did you do different?”

“I invented secret hallways in my mind to escape into….”

 

were it enough

                               ….to be seen

 

and 

would that this be a portal to the intangible 

yet only

the pirate and the dove vampire database; red herrings

 

Walking behind him over the miles, over the landscapes, Elan would look out into a vast and strange horizon; the wide scope, stretched-out and stamped into her retinas like a ghostly picture....

like a picture it would forever lay indelibly in her mind; preserved within the recesses; past, present .... to glimpse from out of the soot— 

~such as this hopeless anomie that is now, that is this~ 

He would take her with him during those weeks he did the trading and they would alter going on foot if they traded the horses

she longed more and more to know his thoughts 

to know his mind to what lay behind those sparks of brilliance to that den inside 

carrying the heavy bags on their backs, the motion of the swing of her hips in step with her foot as it would land on the earth when she walked with the weight of the sack she carried on her back .... 

Electra’s dictionary/the following scene; (past the noir) confessions, deflections

 

~“Give your evidence,” said the King; “and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have you executed on the spot.”

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter.”—from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll~

it is later, after the video zoom chat with Paulina—which I suppose I would rather not go into for more than one or two reasons, like so many things that I find it hard to speak of, write of

like so many things on my mind and too hard to let myself even to feel —even as I know they are there; the haunting seems more endurable than having to survive the agony of the aftermath once aired and the consequences of climbing back out of the clinging bog that has often threatened to topple any resolve to —go on

it is easier to —instead, I guess —to speak of other things —as I do.... instead; easier to deflect. And to shift and veil behind; to obscure because.... I guess, I find it terribly hard to say some things even to myself, nor even let myself ....look at full-on.... and best to mind —not— to let it show

sometimes I flee

as if the devil is chasing me....

and so.... it is when I go straight after the meeting to draw a bath — I suspect Jörn sensed it because he saw me leave as soon as it was done — 

and in my wild haste I forget to shut the door behind me.... realizing I must need a bath and —kicking off my shoes with an urgency and removing my jeans, to drop, discarded onto the bathroom floor.... but stop and in some strange daze now, I just stare at nothing —still leaving on his shirt and tie that just an hour or so before he put on me in front of his closet and so I stare without seeing what I look at as I just blankly watch the water fill, leaning into the frame of the bathroom doorway and .... it must be because I am sleep deprived that my thoughts go faraway and don’t notice when Jörn appears and walks over to me. He touches me and makes me jump with a start. And when I turn, I forget to expect him to be still dressed that way; as Greta; he wears a cerulean mini dress that reaches mid thigh with fishnet stockings and go-go boots from the shipment and it is hard not to stare at him with his face made up expertly like a drag queen; his hair softly loose and ....caught in an unguarded second I reach to touch it.... touch his hair ....caught up in something there and.... without realizing I stare into his eyes —drawn to him....

awkwardly I move away. I go to the bath tub and look for the patchouli oil and pour some in and lean down to watch the water fill

He says,

“come here....” in that way and when I don’t move and just look into the water, this time more softly I hear him say,”kim hit....”

I guess maybe it is something; just something different this time in his voice that makes me stand up and without looking at him, I just go to him

But he says,

“look at me,” and pulls my face up to him. He asks me ....something .... noticing my reticence but I don’t answer and so, instead, he asks me something else that I don’t expect .... 

and then—he blurts it all out at once as if he’s been holding it back—he just says it all at once, 

“was it because you wanted to protect your mother from him ....because you thought if he beat you .... he wouldn’t beat her ....and—was it also because she disappointed you by what.... she —did— duva, it wasn’t just your sister who did that— was it? ....she did it ....too — but she is who confused you and you knew it was wrong and you couldn’t tell anyone.... because you were trying to protect her —duva, is that why.... ? you needed somewhere to tell.... but she found your diary —that is why you first created the dictionary.... isn’t it—Electra.... Oedipus?”

I feel sick 

his questions stun me and I get dizzy 

Sometimes it seems that —that closet overflows

the doors nearly bursting apart —as now with the weight of all the skeletons, it falls and bursts wide open and every inch of my skin seems to be scorched and on fire, in shame .... so long inside it feels too much to stand up, so long —holding it in to keep it from showing

and I know .... he knows that because he says this to me now as ‘Greta’ ....that this way ....he ....can 

and maybe that is why 

I search myself and ask myself: did I suspect he knew? did I not know....? no.... I really did not— I mean, I hoped he did not —and hoped he would not ever 

wished he would not ever

have to .... know

I can’t look at him, and the walls seem to warp and cave, their soot running off and all over my skin

....I did not expect such questions. Nor that he had, by now.... guessed ....as much as he has. and so ....it makes me wonder how long he has known. how much he knows. and why.... he still .... is there.... 

Why .... he is still there ....why is he.... ? why has he not .... gone

now knowing what he knows; what no one else has ever known....And maybe it is the relief of letting go of the burden.... I begin to shake 

and it is somehow no longer a shock to look at him ....now.... this way, 

even as he does not make a pretty woman but this does not lessen the impact he has to disturb me and instead I find I am, in that moment, quite suddenly more aware that there is something ....I feel.... 

”kim hit....”he says again, pulling me towards the bath, he shuts off the water, “you’re shaking, duva—let’s get into the water,” he says,”låt mig tvätta dig.” 

He turns off the lights and lights two candles and in the dimness, he undresses me, undoing the knot of his tie that I wear, when he undoes the buttons of his shirt on me, starting from the bottom, he pulls my face up to look at him, “look at me,” he says.... and when I do, he watches my eyes and face and then he touches me under the shirt —he says something ....but I don’t know the words or what they mean, but it is something I hear in the meaning in his voice that forces out the breath I have been holding and blurs my eyes and then it is the surprise of his touch that over rules everything ....even the dueling, chastising censorship of those demons within my walls, those cruel demons with their thorny fingers that never give me a moment’s peace, but for now, they seem to have lost their power, I don’t hear them ....just Jörn as he says those unknown words again and take a breath and breathe .... breathe in his familiar smell mixed with the scent he wears, I lean into him and looking up at him ....feel the need to place my hand intimately on him.... touch him —and the feeling rushes over, I climb onto him and press myself to him.... by the sink, on the edge of the counter

burlesque; the importance of being Elton

“Are you sure Lisa’s there?” I ask Jörn 

“I heard her talking in the background— he had his phone on speaker....” 

“Oh. Hmmm.... What about the secret distillery basement?”

“No, she knows about it, she was talking about it the first day when she was here, you just don’t remember,” he says

“Oh. Right. I forgot....” but then I say, “what about the extra guest room down the hall that’s become the dumping zone?”

“She knows every room in the house, duva, remember she ordered all the furniture and planned and designed the color schemes and I’m sure she has all the specs still on her computer to refresh her memory.”

“Well, actually I was thinking about the closet.”

“The closet?”

“Well, the reason nobody likes that room is because it’s so ordinary looking and boring, which is the reason it’s become the dumping zone where all the junk gets tossed into, but —more to the point: the closet is possibly the worst feature. It reminds me of the closets of half a dozen dreary apartments I’ve lived at in Michigan.”

“It looks like what closets look like,” he banters not getting my point

“Yeah, it does so —yeah—it could be anywhere, anyone’s, right?”

“You suggest we do a zoom meeting in a closet?” he scoffs 

“Do you have a better idea?”

“A closet? Duva—“

“Yes— look, I can say that it’s a promotional idea. Something we’ve come up with and are trying it out. Since Paulina wants to continue to be involved in the company—as you know—he wants to remain in charge of the website because that’s what he did before it changed hands to —you— I mean ‘Greta’— he seems unwilling to let Cabaret go, if you want my opinion— he’s going to be like a pimple on your ass, you know—and he’s extremely territorial, especially about making the decisions about what goes in the catalogue!”

“Why do you care? It doesn’t matter to me. I just need the front for storage space. Just let him, if he wants to do the work—“

“No, Jörn—you said— I mean— well you said because I used to run a boutique— well I just assumed you wanted my input.... and.... so.... you should know — um— that I placed this really big order and—well— Paulina was not exactly pleased that she—he—I mean— wasn’t consulted first.”

“You placed a big order?”

“It was when I was waiting last night, I got bored and.... so, anyway....”

“Hmm,” Jörn only says 

“Are you mad? Was that wrong?”

“No—I ....what kind of order?” he asks 

“It’s just —some idea I got for a new line that I told Paulina I wanted to call ‘Le chevalier’....“

“Hmm...” he says again and at first it is all he says. After a silent pause he asks,

“what kinds of clothes did you order?”

“Oh, well—you know.... shirts with a lot of ruffles.... like Oscar Wilde dandy clothes, you know, like those ‘poet shirts,’—some waist coats with velvet britches, long brocaded coats—like—kind of Louis XIV style but with a modern look.... I found this on a search I was doing because I was losing my mind watching the monitors for hours with nothing happening. These were cool, I thought, so, why not?— they’re all by an unknown designer— I mean, as I noticed the Cabaret catalogue only had femme fatale things mostly there’s a whole other genre that is being overlooked and I thought— well—and I was thinking ‘Elton’ wouldn’t be dressed in tights and stilettos, would he?”

He laughs,

“now I know why Paulina wants to see what you look like!”

As we are now sitting up in bed I watch his face carefully and becoming worried, I say,

“why—wh-what does—that mean exactly?”

“Never mind—let’s focus on the zoom meeting, we don’t have much time—we need to—well, besides having to throw our act together, I don’t know what we can do about you—and as you point out, the shipment that came will have more than enough for Greta —but we still have no idea where to do the zoom meeting....hmm, really ....le chevalier....?”

I try not to read too much into it,

“So, what about the closet?”

“What about the closet?”

“For the meeting.”

“You are seriously suggesting we do a zoom meeting in a closet?” he is not impressed

“Well, just listen a minute— we can throw some Christmas lights around it—I noticed that there were boxes of feather boas in the shipment that came, we hang some of them around with that fake leopard jacket I saw, hang one of those little black dresses with rhinestones that I saw was in there too and—set up some high heeled shoes on the shelf—you know, I think we had a lot of extra red Christmas lights, didn’t we? we could use those—I mean, it’s a small space but we can dress it up like a Cabaret and say we are working on a promotional campaign called ‘Party in My Closet’ for the obvious euphemism of the closet, but —it now it just occurred to me we can say it’s our way to do our part to ‘chase the Covid blues away’ since everyone is pretty much depressed and stuck in forms of isolation. Tell him we think it would be good to promote sales, say we were thinking to do a ‘party in my closet’ contest for customers and we thought it might work to boost morale —uhhh.... whatever— what the fuck,” I say because he’s laughing at me, “ok. Never mind, forget it. I know it’s stupid—sorry, it was just the first thing that popped into my head .... so.... maybe you have a better idea where to do a zoom call where Lisa doesn’t know.”

“Is this the window designer coming out in you?”

“Hey, I was good.”

He gets up suddenly and yanks me out of bed dragging me to his closet,

“Good or bad, I can’t think of anything better—and we’re out of time. We’re doing it.”

The following scene, Victor/Eltonia noir; Spy notes, Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

 

“When did you get back?” I ask him after

“A few hours ago....” he says this against my ear, from behind, pressed up to me, “I saw you up here. You were sound asleep. And it seemed like a good idea.... as we’ve been up all night.... you didn’t even feel me get into bed next to you,” he says and draws me to him, his arms like a seatbelt buckled in front of me; he kisses my neck, “I think you were dreaming.... or maybe I was because— I didn’t even notice when I fell asleep.... was it the hut again—your dream?”

“And the—“

“Moon....” he says it with me as I say it too

“The moon....” I sigh seeing it the way it was in the dream as it shone into the hut; full, beautiful .... and the sound of the sea.... and then I heard—

“I heard music,” I say now, “yours....”

“That was my fault, I’m sorry, I had it on.... I’ve been going back over some of the parts and had it on when .... I was laying here next to you. Before I fell asleep....”

“What time is it?”

“It’s a little after twelve.... we should probably get up,” he says reluctantly

And because I hear it in his voice I ask,

“why? What’s up now—Jörn....?”

After a beat he sighs,

“he wants to do a zoom meeting.”

“A zoom meeting? Who does? Who do you mean?”

“Paulina.”

“Oh.... ? ....he —is— a ‘he’—“ I say, “glad you clarified.”

“You couldn’t tell on the phone?”

“By a phone call? Jörn—nobody jumps to conclusions these days, yes? We don’t jump, right? —but, you know, I’m not even sure how you have  managed to—rope me in—to your shenanigans, now— how did this even happen? I am trying to imagine your motives and —I mean how did you ....?—do this?—and I let you, because I’m —a twit— obviously —this is crazy! What is it you expect me to do?”

But instead he does something ....he knows I like —which is an unfair trick. 

He ignores my questions and instead just asks,

“actually, you need to tell me, I’m fascinated —how did you manage to convince Paulina? I think he almost has a crush on you now and he only likes boys,” but I notice he does not laugh, rather sounds somewhat astounded 

“What?!” I laugh at that, “did I? With just my voice!???”

“Yes, because now he wants to see what you look like,” now he actually laughs, and, he seems even wickedly amused

“Please—you’re not serious....”

But he keeps doing something he knows I like so I think maybe this is a spy tactic he’s picked up 

“I’m not that easy to convince,” I say

“You don’t lie very well. No, tell me, how did you disguise your voice? I’m really curious.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Well, first when I called I got the voice mail and hung up. I sent an email. Then he called me back. But —not at first. About twenty minutes later, I guess it was. I didn’t expect that. Because— see, I realized I was hungry. Because actually, I didn’t eat since some time yesterday —on my hike. When all I had was a granola bar. So I decided to make something— I was half asleep but starving and so I was just going to make a baked potato and I didn’t realize the shaker to the cayenne pepper was on the wrong opening and I inhaled a cloud of pepper dust when he called— so I was actually choking and totally hoarse.... he really thought I was a guy?”

now he’s really laughing at me,

“I guess you better start inhaling more pepper because .... well—“here he pauses, “besides that—we need to make you look like someone called Elton.”

“You need to do some explaining, Jörn. And why —exactly— do you think I’ll do this? Sometimes you are too demanding, I swear Jörn—“ but I stop protesting.... because he can be convincing, actually 

But I hold some resolve still, and I say,

“I do want to know why.... why now? Why suddenly do you decide—to now make me a part of your spy schemes?”

“Why do you think?” he says this into my ear between kissing my neck 

“No—I don’t know.... really I don’t....”

“Maybe because of what I wrote on the note ..... it is time to.”

“That is so cryptic, Jörn. You make it sound like you are explaining but—you never actually say anything! Would it be too hard for you to—for once— to actually say? Something? Actually tell me something? Something! Maybe once, just once. Dropped your guard, maybe?”

“And that is why. I knew you’d get there eventually.”

I am silenced by this enigmatic remark. 

“More of your riddles! I swear—!” 

Only, no. I don’t finish that remark. 

Because I cannot. 

and even so, my mind is trying to work out what he means even while in the midst he presses his advantage with his methods of distraction. And then ....it is some time before the conversation gets anywhere; he teases and says,

“I feel I owe you for your birthday,” as if for excuse 

***

And not too long after ....

he concedes now to admit,

“All right, I will explain: Paulina’s ex is Lisa’s best friend.... Bruno—“

“Bruno?”

“Yes— he was partner in the business with Paulina —the Cabaret —all of this— which I only discovered after.... I bought the business .... that is—Greta.... bought the business—“

“Shocking—maybe you should have hired a detective to get the lowdown first,” I say with irony. 

Which he ignores, not even pausing,

“—and— she cannot know; it would blow my cover and —cause a lot of misunderstandings..... this presents the problem of the zoom call as— besides that you can’t look like you, also, because you know she knows this house and I know she’s been consoling Paulina on the break up —she’s currently at his place....”

“This is insane! How is it possible of all drag clothing companies you buy the one who is somehow connected with your wife?”

“Lisa is a home designer, Bruno went to her design school— and it’s Stockholm.”

“What does that mean?”

“So—“ but just ignores this question, “now we have to come up with something fast to disguise not just us but also this place. This house. That she got for us. Any ideas?”