pass the door, through the curtain willow vines and do not mourn what never was, instead be glad who she was is no more
it seems the smog seems not to let the light; what if, alas, we are thus caught, and naught to be? the fate is cast within the din eternally and forever thus held in purgatory ....
“Down the way, the road’s divided
Paint me the places you’ve seen
Those who know what I don’t know
Refer to the yellow, red and green
Maybe he’s caught in the legend
Maybe he’s caught in the mood
Maybe these maps and legends
Have been misunderstood ....”
— song lyrics to ‘Maps and Legends’ by R.E.M.
“What fosters hope?” Jörn asks me
His question at first baffles me
it is when I find him staring out the window into the blackness of the night
having only just now entered the room
I had bad dreams
it was a marathon of dreams, as it were;
like several at once ....overlapping each other and mixing .... as if my mind was split in several sections
then images spliced.... then as if they were copied and pasted
a jumble of angst ridden images
and parts repeating .... during it I knew why. They made sense. But I became aware it was too much to let my conscious self keep that door open wide. There were parts from childhood... and parts from .... those other memories .... as I write of them here and share and I guess I take for granted .... woven through these scenes ..... Those dreams —the ones that make me wonder about the immortal soul; those emotional images that I can’t reconcile but have imposed themself for so long now in my life most especially during troubled times and through very deep sleep. This time they all wove together with these other ones about what I’ve been writing lately about as —they have lately reared into my thoughts from events; my current regrets that haunt me .... now so much .... things like the unavoidable.... inevitable .... entangling sorrow
“Love,” Jörn says academically answering his own question
and his one word holds me there
as if I never heard the word before; indeed it sounds foreign .... coming from him
is it because I never heard him say the word before?
Or is it how .... he says it
He holds the sheers by one finger as he stands by the window thoughtfully .... he’s been lost in thought. So now as he says it....
....well, I see the artist that he is; the musician .... and I see his introspective mood; the same look of mood as I have seen whenever I watch him at his piano doing his composing. Working through a puzzle ....it is like; how he goes over and over a sequence ....the short brackets of movement in threes. And then he goes back over them to play them all in sequences ....together; repeating themes, what seems has become the soundtrack of us
and as I am caught there looking at him my own thoughts are still tangled in the chaotic place I woke from
“You were dreaming,” he says this now, “I heard you.”
But my mind is incoherent of the meanings behind what he’s saying
as if I need to translate —caught between the worlds
and any or all of what to deduct from his topic of conversation
“I’m sorry —what?” I say suddenly overwhelmed as I fear I must have missed something rather important and have to go to sit down on the couch, “what time is it?” I say this even as I wear a watch and realize it is still the middle of the night. But I didn’t hear music. No that is not what woke me this time. He was not playing his piano
I had spoken to Gerald earlier
as I have been troubled
some by these dreams —but it occurs to me now that instead of ‘those’ dreams being the cause of the disturbance I have been feeling.... instead, they seem to intervene and recall me back to safety these last several times. And in fact, I realize, they always did.... they present themselves during troubled times, I have said.... but they are not the cause of what troubles, no—but they are more like a raft over troubled waters that act to pull me out as ....I feel I’m drowning
they may be sad but only for the way it ends up but .... not the other parts .... instead they are —
“Love,” he says again and lets go of the curtain sheer and as he turns to look at me
I look at him now. Without my usual masks of defense shields because at this moment I don’t feel afraid to search his face for answers. And his gaze back at me is open and direct. But he says nothing more. It is just his eyes.
Then he moves over to look at the pages of his sheet music with all his scribbled notes of writing and as he does this he says to me,
“you know, the reason I rework the opera—duva.... is because I am trying to —recreate ....the memory.... the dove,” he sighs pausing just a moment —then, with a quick, heavy impatience as he taps a stack of sheet paper to make them neatly line up together; it is one of his odd habits, and again, hastily, without pausing he continues, “I’ve been having them too, you know that, I’ve told you this before—it is what prompts the musical scores, my inspiration I guess, you could say, and I realized, you see— it is love; that is what has been —that nagging —that haunting—I mean why —?— but then, I realize! isn’t that really the basis of —well ....all masterpieces.... why they stand out in our memory; their brilliance.... All the great works....” and he draws his brows and shakes his head then picks up a sheet of his music to correct one of his notes and says to me with the need of driving his point, “what fosters hope.... this is what has been the missing element —no, not missing, I just did not really think about it as I’ve been so frustrated trying to get it all right....”his face lights now because by saying this now he seems to understand it. Now
And here he stops
Oh. Yes. I do get it. I get what he means
But then....
Oh.... I think....
oh.... and let out a breath .... suddenly .... maybe disappointed
I shake my head and go back to my own troubled thoughts; the dreams and my earlier conversation —
“I spoke to Gerald earlier today,” I blurt out suddenly
“I know,” he says
“You know?” and look at him behind my hands as I press into the tension in my forehead
He walks over,
“yes,” he says and smiles as looks at me
I make a gesture; getting annoyed so he smiles again,
“I called him too....” he waits to watch my expression, “that’s when he told me he’d spoken to you earlier.”
“Oh.... so why didn’t you say anything about it before?”
He shrugs,
“we were both busy talking about other things. Remember? You. Me. About that shipment you know about now.... For you the photographer about the penthouse and the budget cuts you have to do because of —“
“Oh—Ilya, yes....” I realize he’s right and mumble, “the pandemic has taken over everything.... well....” I start to focus now as the fogginess of my mind clears a little. Maybe that is what caused the dreams, I start to realize.... feeling trapped and impotent, caught in such limbo
I think again about what he said when I walked into the room
What fosters hope.... ?
And I think again now .... of what he is saying
I look up at him .... it was something that Gerald said to me on the phone .... how —being at— well what he called ‘ground zero’ .... seeing things first hand, not read as some words across media sources. The front lines
He said,
“after people have faced death some people choose to pretend it didn’t happen, they need the security of some safe return to their version of reality.”
I remember reading somewhere once that often as a reaction to being through something violent and life changing event some people become excessively extravagant and spend excess amounts of money —Louise Bryant, I think it was, who spent lots of money on clothes and shoes after her life had been dramatically endangered during her experiences in the Russian revolution
Because now I think I do understand what maybe I had not before
“Sometimes, you know, when you meet again— ‘unfinished business’ does not have to mean disaster,” Gerald said to me before, “sometimes it is to heal.”
So I remember this now as I look over at Jörn as he is still busy tapping his papers in that absently nervous way he does
“Is that what it was he felt when he first saw her, Jörn—after the dove flew away?” I ask him
He looks quizzically at me not getting my meaning
But instead I ask,
“what did you talk about with Gerald?”
But he is still thinking about what I first asked
he blinks in a way that seems to pull him back to the present,
“I asked him if he’d known of people who meet again in order to —fix a mistake.”
my mood has been ....odd
as the strangeness of recent has heavily hung
and especially from the past week
sometimes it seems that I have arrived at some alien world and in another time apart from time altogether; people talk about a “new norm” but I don’t think the meaning they first thought that meant is ....what will be what anyone was or has been expecting. And ....I suppose it is just that I can feel these things. It is hard not to absorb the climate of this hardly brave but —is— definitely a most strange new world’s current atmosphere .... as I quietly internalize from a corner within
For yet, as well, particular to me and .... my life....even so.... more recent old personal matters in my life come to ghoulishly haunt me
with the same old teeth and claws bared
and I suppose I often must say through the dictionary ....to, I guess, acknowledge through codes what seems to never otherwise get to be expressed overtly; this little voice must stay quiet; always remain .... silent.... unnoticed and unseen
So inward, as always, I go to retreat....
****
As Jörn has been away a few days now —on one of his usual secret missions
and at first I go to my studio—the old gutted farmhouse but then.... find disturbing things there and.... spend a few days not even knowing what I do
as I don’t really feel in the right mood to paint
Instead I just stare at the pirate in my painting and .... hear that sea
hear it crashing .... the waves.... and think about the dreams .... like those that first came through; like the sounds of the drumming, the horses hooves beating and trampling the earth
I look up at him and see from the dream
consider him.... and look at the boats on the shore and what else has to go there.... fix the foam and the swords, the shadows .... as I see the scene alive from dream before me; and as always my works have their own life; they tell me what to put, what to write; they speak their own life to me, like I’m just the vehicle, the medium
I look too at something folded in my hand
.... as I have found more strange things like some evidence Jörn has left uncharacteristically around....
and so disturbs my contemplation....
and as I know I am not meant to ask him questions,
this one sided double wall,
only ....I do wish he was more forthcoming
there is so much I wish he would say.... so much about him I want to know ....beyond that stare
and now....
what he has left neatly folded together under a large can of plaster I spotted sticking out as it was wedged in an out of the way wall shelf ....
It is so baffling to me....
Which is why, instead, I now find the farmhouse oppressive with whatever mysteries it keeps me from
I go to the sauna —the separate little shed, that is actually cool because it is well insulated from outside and also because it is without any heating by the wood burning stove because it has been too hot.
That now makes it seem almost more like an outer space ship or more like a space waiting station, sitting in the backyard, overlooking the forest beyond; especially as the interior, with its minimalist starkness and pale wood ....it stands in dramatic contrast viewing the jungle of trees it presides over
I look at the papers in my hand: one pink, one green and one white ....trying to figure out what he is up to because—
it is more perplexing receipts .... dated over a week; one seems to be for a shipping cruiser— ? another for jet fuel? and the third—
But I get interrupted by a sudden burst which causes me to start
and nearly jump out of my skin!
“Why have you had your phone turned off?!!” he nearly shouts this at me
“Jörn! My god, you scared me!” I gasp at him trying to catch my breath as I jump to my feet
He is holding my phone and waving it at me as if to demand an answer
I notice he’s gotten some sun and he’s wearing his running shoes but his jeans have smears and some mud, or grease, like his shirt
“I’ve been calling you since yesterday—I thought something happened to you!” Now he does shout at me
“Chris started harassing me again,” I turn my back as I explain
“Chris? Did he come here?” Jörn starts to look around, ”has he been here?”
“No— he’s now in Michigan! ....actually—“ I almost laugh now
“Michigan, I thought you said he lives in New York?” Jörn tries to make sense of what I’m saying
“ —ha—!” I force a laugh at that, “yes, he’s visiting there —and! Ha! guess who he’s staying with—? You won’t believe this! the other ex! Crazy, right? like— what are the two of them up to—? Right? you know, one Butchers and the other is just Lew-d—Chris started sending me texts at two in the morning Monday night! Two in the morning! a fucking barrage of them! —they didn’t stop! which is why I turned my phone off —you see? This is normal for him; it’s how he gets—he just doesn’t stop, he’s relentless!”
I can hear in Jörn’s voice he’s irritated as he asks me,
“Why don’t you just block him?”
“Because I don’t trust him, you know? I need to know what he’s up to because —he’s there, you see? and staying where my daughter is—! it’s just madness! Isn’t it? And—you know, I had this feeling— I suspected ....back in May I mean.... you know—that Chris was behind what happened with my daughter —her letter to me— remember? especially when he admitted to me that he had been talking to her— you know? he is like that.... sneaky and manipulating and ....people don’t even realize he’s wrapping them up— he’s a gaslighting professional nightmare....“ but I lose steam exhausted of it then and just suddenly don’t have the energy to go on and stop talking— giving up because .... it’s just not worth it anymore
yeah.... I stop and give up my tirade defeated .... because it’s done isn’t it? I’m done, anyway— as by now it is a dead horse
and I won’t beat that dead horse anymore; those
because ....I think I have finally learned not to give it power, not anymore—especially not to him .... I long ago walked away, didn’t I? just let it swing there over my head like old broken Christmas lights ....and really there is nothing more to lose, is there? they’ve already taken everything
“Why don’t you just divorce him already?” Jörn asks me in a tone revealing he is tired of it too
“....yes I am done with it.....I had enough— with all of it actually.... them—! ....all of them....You know.... “ and I say as I think this, “sometimes people just choose to blame others for everything instead of facing their own truths— have you ever noticed that? They look for scapegoats all the time— that is their pattern all their life and —I guess I am tired of taking that role for everyone— finally .... you know, they don’t realize that they are the toxic ones —and not the ones who they accuse others for being —but, whatever.... never mind.... I wasn’t even going to tell you about this garbage but — since you asked so....”
and then I look down at what I dropped,
“Actually, wait— Jörn, I have a question for you—“ and now I pick up the receipts I dropped, “why are you shipping gold to Sweden?”
But he just stands there looking at me blankly ....
I think a bit surprised. It occurs to me I actually caught him off guard
“And quite a lot, I must add!” I look again at the receipt
I notice he runs his hand through his hair now as he thinks ....before he reaches for the receipts to grab from me
and then quickly with a glibness he says,
“I buy gold all the time— sometimes that’s how I get paid —do you think I’d just keep it laying around?”
