My head has been in chaos and no doubt remains
It is when you reach for the manual that is titled: Assuming the Worst Case Scenario
so, as I write to get a grip on myself .... through the codes
this may come out half-mad or worse ....so be it within the deep morass of the waters of Lethe
~
Jörn slams through the door like an explosion
I’ve been in the farmhouse ....painting as it conveniently has become my studio
I had not expected him to return today.... so....
No. I’m not at my best....
“It smells like a party in Amsterdam,” he says
without ceremony but clearly acknowledging the obvious
That I decide to ignore only
I can’t look at him, no, because it is like I have been caught playing hooky and I would rather not appear ....
instead I shake my head ....and will the concealment that is offered behind my hair and hide....
in my defense, I have used my time well —that is, in deep meditation ....albeit, mostly meditations of rage mixed without much sleep and not much nourishment and a lot of conversations with some walls —those walls that lie and those walls that hide
for the convenience of others at the arbitrary expense of —whoever is handy
I was tempted to kick but resisted and so kicked at myself instead, within.... walls that lie, walls that hide
like the ruins you see crumbled
walls
discovered left by an ancient world with those walls that you wonder over —who built them
and why
.....I am in the Farmhouse wanting to escape my mind
like how many other times when you sit on the edge of a life event that
will alter your life forever I survey over ruins
(from the mostly gutted farmhouse) taking a break from painting
“taking a busman’s holiday”, as my mother used to say— and wanting to avoid reality especially in all forms of news as I’ve limited myself to small doses a day now so I watch a movie adaptation of a much-loved, long- dead artist/writer’s life .... only the one playing the artist’s role overacts .... so I did get annoyed and then threw my phone onto the floor by my bag; hence the philosophical epiphany —
“You’re back,” I say not bothering to move from my view of the ceiling
As he comes over I close my eyes and hear his shoes scrape as he walks. But I keep my eyes closed and do my best to avoid looking at him because I had expected he would be away for a little longer and I was just in the middle of this mind blowing epiphany and right before he blew in through the door was just thinking .... note to Cocteau:
there is nothing worse to an artist than unauthorized exploitation
....I am aware that I look like something of a disgrace.....
what am I wearing? I have a moment of dread
like strata layers of time packed in stonewalls, I brood on this....
I find I don’t remember getting dressed this morning ....never mind brushing my hair
which he pulls me up by —after I say,
“hmm.... I’m not the only one getting sloppy, cowboy —or should I say bandit....?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks standing over me but then, in demand, says, “open your eyes!”
As luck would have it, I happened to have kept his pink invoice in my —jeans pocket oh, jeans.... I realize I’m wearing jeans—so glad I’m not in my underwear, and say,
“Ouch! let go,” as I sit up more or less faster than I would have opted to but manage to produce and hand him the invoice with all the zeros
He gives me a sly look.... as I take in his appearance as he’s been away almost a week. He has let some of his facial hair fill in,
I notice the way it outlines his mouth and chin, like a pirate ....so much like the dream
but then also observing that—he actually wears a black trench coat over dark clothes? hmm ....but then no, not really inconspicuous, I remind myself, he’s Swedish
I say to him as I look him over,
“so, are you smuggling or bootlegging?”
he goes over to where Andreas left the tin and I watch Jörn take the lighter and light it to the invoice. He walks to the sink beside me as it takes flame and drops it into the stainless steel sink and calmly lets it burn itself out without concern
So I repeat,
“you’re getting sloppy.”
He shrugs and folds his arms as he openly looks at me shaking his head
but instead he says,
“because you see an invoice ....I.... am getting sloppy?” calmly and as if indulging me, I guess? he chuckles as he looks at me with his arms folded in an exaggerated way that he usually gives Hanna —that disapproving glare lit with deadly sparks of icy steel .... well, I become curious what I’m wearing and so have to —glance down....OK, no big deal, so a black T-shirt.....
but then he— with a casual raised eye brow,
“You know, your shirt is on backwards,” he tells me
I look inside,
“no it’s not, how would you know?”
“Because it’s inside out too,” he reaches to show me
the place where they print the fabric information —is under my chin ....facing him
“Oh.... well.... oops....” I say and feel like an idiot but shrug and fold the fabric under my fingers to hide this new disclosure .... and ignore the way I can feel my face burn, and look up at him, “so, is that what your —‘case’— is....?” I ask but ....then I say, “I know you can’t tell me....”
I watch the tension leave his face and smooth over and rearrange into symmetrical plains
“No....” he says to me but his eyes say more as he reaches for my jaw to make me look at him.... and then looks ....and studies ....deeply and silently into my eyes ....as he searches
he stares into me in that Bram Stoker way,
“would it surprises you if I told you I am not worried about what you know, duva?” and still he studies my eyes thoughtfully so that I get lost almost and cannot discern this from the dream ....it is the way he stares, “.... and what will you do with this trust, min lilla duva?”
I feel such a chill
is it that it just dawns on me that he is offering to make me a partner in crime or —that he has already made the decision for me?
or.... did long ago
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