As there is time after the piano is delivered I head over to the Met
it is the only refuge in the city that still feels most like home
I don’t know if it is the art or the history but I tend to favor certain parts and avoid others. There is a part that is like their catacombs; a kind of warehouse of hidden works that are not displayed but rather just tucked away and stored. An entire secret and very different museum —within a very public one.
Maybe I identify
I like to go there and see the unknown and ignored lost voices; anonymous and unheard of
.... those lost and forgotten unsung souls of unknown artists that nobody ever knew
but
whose works are worth the muse
which makes me think about Jörn and I suppose I never have stopped to consider his effect on me and even more, those things about him that makes him my perfect muse
like those things about himself that he never says
Those things about himself that he never shares
Even as I joke about his being something of a Spock. But I know he isn’t. Not really. I also know that the art that he creates, his work, could not be as passionate if human emotion was an alien concept to him. I have seen and been inside the den within; it’s there inside his eyes, that place I recognize and know because I recognize all his masks
in many ways he is my mirror
sometimes the self can only be recognized by one upon it best reflects; that sees past the smoke and mirrors who can throw a better and more kinder light, because I see it in the way he pounds the piano keys that he is his own worst critic and should try to dare to dream a little more and be a lot more kinder to himself. Andreas says his father could never write the opera until he met me but it was not me who gave him the idea nor the composition .... there is something unspoken between us. A communication and conversation never said out loud .... and we seem always to say —without ever having to utter the words. But more than anything I do long to hear his words
Because reflections also illuminate as to shed light on .... what was always there
I think it has something to do with something beyond what he may show the world that I can see in him....the energy of him and ....it is so easy for me to believe in all that he is and all that he can be, with all his bluster I don’t think he was ever as convinced no matter how good he is at convincing everyone that he has a kind of brilliance which is more than playing a government spy and more than a member of an orchestra.
I think again of my favorite quote by Cocteau, “mirrors should reflect before throwing back images” and I think too of his Orpheus and —think of Muses
as I walk through the museum passages
And as well, I think of the language of artists and their stories like Elan, washed away in the sand and so many histories of trials and tribulations.... lost in the sand; like the pictures found on caveman walls with their stories and meanings left behind ....like lost messages in bottles never found
It is awhile that I walk around and then after I head out I hear someone calling my name which always gives me such a start
but it turns out to be Gerald and he runs over to me, bundled up in his navy blue pea coat he pulls me away from a throng of tourists
“I knew I’d bump into you somehow,” he tells me with concern but looks me over, “wow, nice dress! —you look gorgeous, are you going out?”
“Just to Lincoln Center for Jörn’s concert,” I say and have to close my coat against the damp chill and so stop to button with a shudder against the wind
“Yes.... right.... Jörn....” he studies me in such a way that unnerves me
“Actually, I should head over,” I tell him with concern and take out my phone to see the time
He notices my shoes, I see because he stares and smiles when he says,
“let’s grab a cab, do you mind if I just tag along? I’ll cover the ride....” because it is a long walk
This makes me look sharply at him,
“did you have a dream?”
He does not have to say because his eyes reply with such vocabulary as to give me another chill
“What was it?” I ask
But he sees a taxi and rushes to the curb to wave it down
On the way he still looks at me,
“are those Prada?” he still looks at my shoes as if hypnotized
“E-Bay,” I tell him, “fifty dollars never worn —so? What is it?”
“I am worried about your safety,” he says oddly and with a distracted expression he stares through to the front of the cab, “what is it — do you know? I mean about what he is doing....” but remembers to drop his voice and glances subversively at the back of the driver’s head.
He says in a lowered tone that is almost a whisper,
“is there some information he is trying to get out of you?”
Gerald never brings anything up unless there is some important significance
I have to think. Of course I think about the safe back at the farmhouse
“Hmm.... why?” I ask
“You know how I told you that the reason souls return to each other in another life has to do with unresolved business ....?”
This makes me have to turn away not wanting him to examine my reaction.... as I think carefully .... yes, because I had thought about this as well quite a lot lately
Gerald says,
“I was thinking the other day how it isn’t so surprising that in this incarnation his other line of work —“ and he stops without saying to indicate his meaning and continues, “and before..... the parallels of lives are usually obvious in their meanings but hopefully in each new experience we evolve ....”
When we reach our destination there is still an hour to kill so we go to the cafe to talk
“There is some information he seems to need,” I admit drinking hot chai but take out my compact to check my lipstick
“Why?” he watches me
“It’s to do with his.... work....” I look from my lips to his face and then go back to my lips once more before I shut the compact
“I know you can’t tell me,” he says
I look carefully at him and then hold my hands over the cup for the heat which I do because I am always freezing,
“are you saying I am in danger from Jörn?”
He thinks for a moment and scratches his head through his thick hair that is a bit rumpled,
“well, I thought so at first —until....”
“Until....?”
“Until just now..... “ he looks at me again and seems uncomfortable suddenly as he studies me without wanting to seem like he is studying me
I take my phone out again to check the time
He says,
“is this information something you are reluctant to share with him?”
“Oh. No. Reluctant? Well.... I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember what he wants to know?”
“Right.”
“You mean, it’s something you just can’t think of now or —“
“It’s.... buried memory....” I look at him.
“Repressed memory ....” he says and nods.
I take out my compact again
and add more lipstick ....only it’s the lights —isn’t it?
I use the paper napkin and blot ....
I finally say,
“well, it isn’t like something I have not thought about. I mean— I don’t think I should say what it is about. It’s .... well, I guess political—? no, more it’s — hmm, I don’t really know but....”
“It’s something you saw?”
“No. Not like I witnessed some heist or something—“
“Yet he was a Viking in his past life,” Gerald says it as if it is a basic fact and hardly notices the shocked reaction of a nun sitting nearby that I see reflected in my mirror
I consider .... maybe it’s the color ..... and wonder if I brought another lipstick only .... I notice something else reflected in the compact mirror
There is someone across the way who I see using opera glasses and looking right at me
“Maybe we should go,” I say now and consider what’s left in my cup as I am starting to feel uneasy. And check the time
“Let me walk you to the entrance,” Gerald says, “how long are you going to be in town?”
“He doesn’t know,” I tell him
As we walk in the direction of where everyone is now heading, he lightly touches my shoulder through my coat to hold back a moment,
“listen— just make sure that whatever it is he is trying to find out ....make sure it is for the right reasons and —not for some prize in diplomacy.”
“Some prize?” I stare at him. Why would he use that word ....?
“Or ....I mean—for some political coup....”
We agree to meet to talk and as we part ways I head to the entrance and towards where I usually go only I realize that I drank tea and won’t make it through the whole concert without going to pee first
I get a bit lost looking where to go and find myself in an unfamiliar part but there is at least a nice bathroom with decent lighting
“Oh there you are,” it is Frank, I bump into as I leave the restroom, Frank, who is a guard who works there and usually helps me find my seat, “Jörn said to find you because you haven’t been answering your texts.”
“I haven’t?” I take out my phone and notice a lot of texts I missed, “I guess I hit the silence button.”
I check my coat and take the ticket for it. We have reached the main lobby and as we head through there is a loud shout suddenly. It sounds like someone shouts, “look out!” but then there is a burst of commotion
“What’s going in?” I ask Frank only as I ask somebody starts running towards me. And I realize it is the guy with the opera glass! —but not in time ....to avoid —because I am thrown onto the ground as in confusion another runs after as somebody screams
What makes me turn my head then? Because I see someone in the far corner quietly watching me and ....I get such a queer feeling I have seen him before. Along with this a feeling I don’t like.
I start to bolt out of pure instinct despite Frank telling me to stay still. Never mind that Prada’s are not the best for running. It is something almost surreal to notice someone jump from the next level from the wide grand staircase off the gallery down what would seem a whole flight
it is even more surreal to realize that it is Jörn as he comes running towards me but as he reaches me he says,
“don’t move, stay here!” before he peels off after the last guy who ran past as I watch Jörn sprint across the lobby with everyone watching too; the crowd parts like the Red Sea so that it is possible to watch the chase continue
It all happens so fast and so surreal that I just stand there watching as he tackles the guy to the floor ....
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