et à travers les heures les plus sombres, apparaît toujours

A page a day; page 1 “Noir Rubber Shop”/ meeting DeepThroat(DT)

 

*********

From behind the foggy windshield sits Brenda with her extreme, blackcherry red hair; goth-guyliner; dragonsblood-red lips, and rave, ghost-white, melt in the sun complexion —and the attitude and expression of one not looking forward to a miserable Monday at the shop….. she drives a sedan, of a faded primer shade of terra cotta, with a replacement door of another primer shade of some nondescript off gray/white and, the car motor is noisy and seems in desperate need of a mechanic. 

she looks up at clumps of gray slush on the windshield that move across and freeze as the wipers slowly start to become frozen along their semi circle journey across …. the windshield 

She stops at the stoplight. Now notices the wipers are stuck 

“Fuck….” opens the car door and gets out to unstick the wipers

She bends over the car hood; she wears black rubber jeans with side zips that go from ankle to crotch (store merchandise —as it is necessary to wear what you sell)

someone whistles from a car window,

“nice ass!” one of them shouts from the car, “….see ya later, Brenda!”

She makes a face but her back is turned and mumbles, 

“yeah, whatever, fuck you….” under her breath, “fucking stalker….”and without looking, flips the finger 

Then pulls the wiper with a yank. gets back in. gets as far as the next corner 

“It’s less than five minutes to the shop!! Why the fucking fuck are there five fuckin’ million fuckin’ red lights!!!” she shouts this at the top of her lungs but the windows are closed and she’s blasting Paramour

her phone rings, 

“I’m driving I can’t talk.”

Hysterical voice starts yelling at her,

“You mean you’re not even at the shop yet?!!!”

“Listen, this is a favor!—it wasn’t me calling up and asking to come back to the shop!—a’ight?—you said you were fucking desperate so don’t—“

“Ok, ok—shit, the fucking store alarm is going off and the cops are calling, y’know?”

“Ok, great—fuck!” her phone flies out of her hand as she avoids running over a squirrel….  the phone lands somewhere in that nebulous dark side of the moon of her back seat. 

and she can still hear the voice on the phone shouting from somewhere within that 

“It’s a wicked gray miserable day in Detroit….” says the voice on the radio

“Yeah, no kidding,” she shuts the car off and at the same time the radio voice dies away as she jumps out having parked in the small lot in front of the shop

The voice is still shouting at her from the back of the car 

she searches under empty used paper coffee cups from the last several light years of her life mixed with a stockpile of mad debris she has been meaning to sort ….

“….yeah, I’m here—it’s fine! No cops! Cheerio, later,” throws her phone in her rubber bag

Grabbing her fresh cup of coffee now from the cup hold, she slams the car door shut as a gust of wet windy sleet hits her in the face and blows open her black fake fur trimmed black rubber motorcycle jacket, and in an audible whimper from the cold, she wraps closed the jacket and runs across the street to the shop.

“Noir Rubber” the letters written in lavender neon lights that go across the store front window. In the main window are displays of the most recent rubber merchandise and fashion, mixed in with artisan sidelines such as a huge, explosive profusion of phallic balloons; some that lost their helium and now litter on the platform below alongside an attractive display of soft, plush boob and ball toys and pillows

Only she is not really standing there admiring her masterpiece work of a window display as she is now covering her ears outside the store window, by the door as the alarm is going off and she is desperately trying to get it to stop

“Shit-shit-shit!” she says pressing the alarm code numbers Jennifer gave her —but it does not seem to like her code, “why won’t you shut-the-fuck-up?!”

From behind her a finger appears and magically shuts it off

“Oh….” Brenda turns around

a tall …. blond 

stands there

Blond, that is, in that blond bombshell kind of way; perfect Noir make up down to the deep red lipstick. Noticeably quite broad shouldered and strikingly appearing to be over six feet tall  with those heels …. Brenda momentarily stares  ….wearing a fuzzy black boa with a houndstooth print trench coat over hot pink tights and zip up black go-go boots and slinging an apartment sized snake print shoulder bag 

“Brenda?” extending one—very large—hand

“Uh—“ Brenda, still staring as she is caught in the perfection of the application of cosmetics…. but then it is the eyes she gets caught up in

“We spoke yesterday,” the sexy mysterious blond says in a very deep, but unnervingly sexy, husky, voice as to remind her

“DT!” Brenda remembers 

“Yes!” and smiling as Brenda accepts to shake hands 

“I’m sorry, what is DT short for?”

“Ah—uh—Greta….”

“Ok. Right—Greta—“ she turns to unlock the door, “so how did you do that alarm thing?”

“Oh—“ shrugs it off as they walk into the darkened and still closed shop, “a trick from a previous job….” Greta looks around at the store as they walk to the wall where the light switches are 

“Did Jen tell you I was starting today?” 

“Um—no, but she isn’t great with  little things like —details,” Brenda switches on lights and explains, “they all flip on in the morning then off at night.”

The shop phone starts to ring, 

“Oh, one sec, let me get that—“ Brenda puts her coffee down to answer the phone 

Greta takes a moment to look around at things, walking through the sections. It is when Brenda looks up and hears from behind a mannequin,

“DeepThroat…. just got here….”

Brenda puts down the phone and walks around

Greta smiles looking up from putting away phone,

“I uh—set up Siri to call Pouchie…. they can be so needy!”

“Pouchie?”

“My baby….oh, where should I put my….” Greta slips off the trench coat and shoulder bag

“This way, let me show you,” Brenda shows the way to the lockers that are that unique shade of bubblegum pink

Greta puts away the shoulder bag and turns, shutting the locker, 

“and this?” Greta holds the trench coat to stand before Brenda in a Lycra skin-tight long sleeved little black dress that clings to every body part 

it is in this moment that Brenda knows a moment of surprise as Greta leans, draping a long arm up the wall of lockers and leaning a slim hip as Greta looks deeply into Brenda’s eyes 

“Oh ….” hesitates as she seems to forget what Greta just asked but then remembers, “you can hang it up over here—“ Brenda points to the line of coat hooks that are above the desk area where the safe and book keeping is kept by the time clock 

and—well, it is hard to say exactly what next occurred as in this sudden moment Brenda moved to turn —and show where…. but —the nearness of Greta was suddenly much closer than expected as Brenda brushes past—and so, it’s because Brenda’s rubber belt loop on her rubber jeans gets caught on Greta’s oversized statement ring and for a moment they are stuck together with this awkward contact and, of course, too—the surprise of pressure in places where parts pressed create some unexpected reactions

But no time for either to remark, if they dared as —just then the bell from the front door announced the first customer 

“Hellooooo???” the customer calls out from the other part of the shop

“I suppose we better get that….” Greta says suggestively 

*****

this is manic madness comedy relief not genius—

And as it’s an experiment with ‘noirotica’ I’ll take opinions on if it’s preferred this way or is it better as “my diary?” —first person narrative? I can rewrite this that way —from the ditch, you know (with my Smith and Wesson) 

https://youtu.be/cvChjHcABPA

 

 perhaps it’s time to do my erotica writings under Ann Ominous

as in paying homage to my literary heroes 

de Sade (not hero) but 

Anaïs  …. so let’s call it Delta dawns Venus’ lilla duva and mythologies of the dawnage 

The Rubber shop 

*but, am I joking?!?

*some silences are more deafening than others

some silences are more deafening than others

….these are the worst days

J'aimerais savoir qui vous êtes.  Je pensais que je savais, mais peut-être que j'avais tort….  Je suppose que je suis un autre "Beautiful Mind" délirant….  un prisonnier à lui-même. Perdu

to the readers: there is something amiss I’m unable to say here; if I do not post for a few days, or it may be longer ….it is because something has happened 

….so very sorry; I do hope I will again post in future —and with happier news

Film noir; power suit(short/comic relief)

 

It is the awkwardness of the situation that has me baffled, so I stop as they walk on ….and turn and walk back in the direction towards the bedroom 

I am not there more than ten seconds before Jörn appears as I am dumping out the clothes in my suitcase and starting to kick off my boots on my way to the bathroom 

“What are you doing? I told you they’re here! We don’t have time—“ Jörn stops me in my progress to dreams of a shower, cutting me short by pulling my boot back on without any warning to me —and by my shoulders he is turning me and  insistently, pushing me back into the direction out the door 

and again catch a glimpse of myself….

and detain again over my hair

“Duva! There’s no time!” he is annoyed 

“Your mother?” I look at him expecting he gets my meaning 

“Yes! And she’ll have your head if you don’t go open the door!” and with it the kind of push you give a toddler to go jump in the wading pool 

“I would place bets she is still not over the opera coat….” 

I stand there to consider one second to linger longer in front of the mirror

“Duva!” he pulls me out the door 

And there is Stina standing there still and spying from down the hall as I hear the man named Marcus call after her from further on

and so, Jörn says outside in the hallway shutting the door,  “there’s a meeting I’m now two minutes late for—“

“Two? Actually two? Are you sure it’s not one minute and thirty five seconds?” ….”

“They are downstairs! They are waiting to come in! Don’t give mama more reasons to irritate her —it’s too early in the day for that!”

I catch the look in Stina’s eye as she implores me with her eyes with a look of disapproval catching the gist of conversation 

I take a deep breath and look at them; first Stina and then Jörn—but then I notice Marcus has reappeared and is looking at me with —humor?—in x-ray vision

****

I pass the hallway mirror by the door that I never appreciated until now. That is, until I see what I look like, but the doorbell starts ringing.

In fact, it does not stop

It seems to be broken, I think and with a sense of doom, I fling open the door 

Mama

It is another awkward moment from my life I would like to never have rivaled as she stands there looking me over; she looks me up and down —then, to add to the humiliation, it is the indicative sniff she gives me when suddenly she opens her bag and produces a little atomizer,

She shows me the bottle,

“Calyx—you see, I remember?—I was going to give you this later but….” then with emphasis, sprays me before she hands me the gift box with the torn open gift paper, and walking towards the closet in the hall, “where is it?“ she asks me 

“Uhh….what?” I watch her opening the closet, looking through people’s coats 

“Oh, Hanna’s opera coat, I am suddenly in the mood to see it on you—“ there she pauses and turns to look at me, her gaze paused on the mid hello kitty region, while softly under breath,“feral….” 

I think of those Norse curses I’ve heard Jörn say and no idea what they mean—but just now seem kind of perfect to wish to say 

With relief, I see Josef walking up and catch a quick glimpse at myself and the backwards image in the hallway mirror of hello kitty with a smart pair of pinstripes and motorcycle boots; power dressing

virtuoso vertigo

 

it is as dictionary, or my word for it ….I think in images without words all day; I am a broken wagon wheel. and rip van Winkle. and so glad of the wind to disguise when, without warning, I start to cry and as I walk trying to stop the sudden gush of it, I desperately hope that nobody comes along and sees

where do memories go when you die?

    ….they must go somewhere 

 that rip van Winkle sense comes to me with its touch of mortality like ice on the pane 

fugue

 

As I start to hear the music Jörn composes, how it has begun to come to me in soprano like seagulls wailing and tenors of vocalized lines from Norse mythological sagas 

when suddenly I get an urge and I want to hurl myself off a bridge 

this place of the celf ….do I forfeit ….so it comes to my awareness and so…. you see, it has always been a part of me; this dictionary …. this fortress….

even as I know the answer I ask —so do I move forward?

  ….I get sick with fear and vertigo 

it is not for them to take apart 

so what am I doing —what am I doing? there will be no where to go if ….I share the dictionary; no where to go, no other place to run for cover, no where left within —and no one….no one, at all 

but what was it for, anyway? 

but

—whose terms? The double edged sword, 

only but no, nothing is worth my soul; it is not a product ….is a nom de plume enough, I wonder, and my identity, my face? give them electra?and for someone else ….perhaps it is too much

threadbare rope

 encore une fois, un timing parfait….  et apparaît toujours

….tack

 

politics is war and ephemeral 

    but really, it is just levels of slavery 

           as it ever was 

Oh woe be gone, melancholy knight, the armor is far too heavy 

e.d. ….it is one of those days, but you know I won’t say. I can’t say. and must never. because the moment we do the slippery slope will win and so why do I come here at all if I can never say. so long, the knight. as the wind nearly blew me away today…. on such a bleak plain —so was it the disappointment in hearing something unkind that has gotten back to me about —oh I don’t know, enter any name (how about some barbed wire tied to an ankle) and add a stab to the back and so….it is e.d. just e.d. and only e.d. who has held us up…. 

et toi, si tu es vraiment là. parce que tu es peut-être le seul à m'avoir jamais vu, et pour cela, j'espère que tu es réel

 ….et tu sais que je le ferais

et apparaît toujours

I was living in Cedarhurst when I did this by candlelight during the New York blackout, 16 August 2003; the date is clearer here in this picture of the sketch than the one in the previous posts. I remember doing this and I remember exactly what I was thinking when this happened —like my horse reflection in the water painting and really, all my art, the images come on their own and create themselves. they always appear to me as if something moves my hand to create it so I am as much the viewer as anyone and as I realize how weird it is to admit this, there is something ‘magical’ that occurs when I paint or physically create, a feeling that I can only describe as something close to divine 

too bad it’s not a better drawing, I didn’t realize something was causing that line of impression in the dark.

bog memories

 

we become our own caricatures

 

peut-être n'existez-vous pas.  peut-être est-ce seulement que j'ai eu besoin de vous pour exister.  auquel cas, je me rends compte que je suis assez seul ici ….dans ce monde terrifiant et fou

 ac yn ymddangos yn fy amseroedd mwyaf enbyd, fy nghanllaw trwy Uffern

Choklad

One day a few months back, I was lost in thought walking along this road. I was coming from the right going back, I guess, and in my peripheral vision I was aware of a speck on the right of my horizon vision, following me. I stopped to look. And a few miles back there it came to me at full gallop. So, now we are friends, while I am here. 

Animals are always following me wherever I go, it is strange but I suspect it is because they know I prefer them to people 

***yes, there is more blog Noir of course btw; alas finished the backstory script of ep, 1(pure agony!)

et apparaît toujours dans mes moments les plus désespérés

Electra’s dictionary and film noir; first impressions (jmmusechron continues)*

 

So, quite compromised, there comes a text

….or rather …. it is the horror of the sound that alerts me, 

no mistaking that operatic shrillness that shatters your teeth through your ear drum as it hemorrhages (Jörn’s text alert for his mother is a short recording of her reaching operatic crescendo)

and …..so it does come somewhat delayed—that ….it is a text message —alert—

“knulla!  det är mamma!”Jörn exclaims

“Oh….” I panic as I try to get my foot from where it is wedged but I fall onto the floor and my hair is caught between a shelf bracket 

but he’s busy texting his mother as I hear another message alert tone come through as he mumbles what sounds like Norse pagan curses, and—I’d rather not mess with that and try to remove my foot from the pocket of his suit jacket but the linen closet is too narrow and it’s the same side he’s holding his phone with

“Yo ! Jörn! ….hey?—hej!”

“Vad?” he glances at me as if surprised to see me —and as I am but he takes a moment instead to think and he says, “you need to go greet Mama and Pappa downstairs right now.”

I don’t answer. Instead fall all the way back now and land against the wall with a bang to my head and almost take the shelf down with me

but what is worse is that we hear Stina’s voice again outside the door. She is talking to….?

Jörn mouths the name “Marcus” to me from…. across the small space of our compromised positions —in the closet. 

We hear her knocking on …. some door near us in the corridor

To my alarm it is my name she calls!

“Oh my god!” I look up at him, and whisper in horror then anger, “she’s right out there! this is your fault!”

He starts to laugh but holds it —successfully back

“You are laughing!? This is not funny—“

But just then his phone begins to alert a call,

“skit, it’s Marcus—“ he whispers as he and I look at each other realizing if they are right outside the door they can hear his phone ….he whispers, as he fastens me up and smooths out the cuff of my trousers as he removes my foot from his pocket  saying, “relax, this works in our favor,” and without much warning, says to me, “just, play along,” as he answers his phone and at the same time opens the closet door as we both fall out the door 

My first impression of Marcus is that he is a very tall man —at least from my perspective. And he wears Italian leather shoes 

Stina is looking down at me, she says,

“so office and recreation ….”

*wanting a break from writing Elan/Raoul script scenes backstory for ep 1; so emotionally draining 

 Alors, avez-vous compris pourquoi ils se «rencontrent» toujours “in the closet” ?

(excusez ma récente distraction du blog.  je consacre beaucoup de temps à la recherche de la trame de fond du scénario ;  ainsi que le script aussi - j'ai tendance à être très pris dedans ... il a développé de nouvelles parties surprenantes de l'histoire et comprendra plus de personnages qui aident à raconter l'histoire)

 

sometimes it happens upon waking, an elusive sense of…. having been with; other times ….it is the sense of a presence as close as a whisper 

I have met my destiny in quite a similar way; Noir/a short

Still standing in the hallway 

he says,

“we have a little time before they get here.”

I must have missed his meaning, my mind caught up in the spy games and ….the smörgås 

“Jörn,” I say now, hesitating over exactly what we are playing at, “we are —for the benefit of your parents—pretending we are ok —which right there is loaded with oxymorons and— the spy convention part, what do you want me to do? not sure, where do I come in there?—pass out party favors, is that my role? but I know —I think ….with Stina —why do you what me to be pretending I’m— pretending…. what am I pretending?—no don’t tell me, I know this one… uhhh—hmmm. No—I actually have no idea what —or actually why either so….?”

He hushes me and pulls me from the hallway looking around, ducking past a doorway as we hear Stina’s voice echoing down the hall followed by her shrill laugh 

“Look, first, erm—about my agent status —Mama thinks —or was lead to believe…. I mean—that—” he starts to say something somewhat awkwardly but stops abruptly changing his mind 

“She doesn’t know what—?” only I forget to ask because it only now occurs to me to wonder where we are standing, “Jörn—what is this?” I ask him in a whisper looking around as their voices are now right outside 

“It’s the linen closet,” he tells me in a low voice, but then after a moment the voices fade down the opposite direction and casually with a shrug he says in a low voice, “she’s with Marcus; he’s her director—among other things….”

And after their voices disappear, I sigh with relief and reach for the door knob, but he stops me,

“In a hurry?” 

“A hurry?” I repeat

“We have some time, Hello Kitty….”

Noir drama Royale/or/guess who’s coming to frukost(edjmmusechrn)

 

something disturbs my sleep….but I don’t recall falling asleep. I remember and it was late…. it takes awhile to orient myself—still within dreams ….of crashing waves and piers and pirate’s beds

And then get the vaguest sense of last night’s conversation …. Jörn—but what is that annoying sound ….?

“What is that? —and why won’t it stop?!”

“That’s your phone,” Jörn says to me from behind my head

“Jörn,” as it slowly returns to me our conversation last night—or early this— “what time is it?” I ask him

“Snälla du! —svara på din jävla telefon!” 

I say,

“what?” 

as he reaches across me to get it from the table next to me and then drops it next to my head,

“it’s seven-thirty-two according to your phone, so we’ve had roughly three hours of sleep —and it’s Stina, so I think you better answer it,” he tells me as I cover my ears 

But then the phone stops 

“Oh thank god!” I say and bury my face under the pillow 

but then it is only a few minutes later when

I hear Jörn curse under his breath and only once I come out from under the pillow can I hear someone tapping at the door 

“She’s at the door,” he whispers to me 

I start to say “answer it—“ until I realize that there is her proposition to deal with still and finding Jörn here would cause inconvenient suspicion 

I watch him jump out of bed, and then swiftly grab his clothes and all evidence of his presence and then walk straight towards…. the bookcase? —and still stark naked— disappear behind it! and then he shuts it like a door!  …what else, a spy glass? 

Knock! knock! knock! (Stina)

While still a bit stunned yet more angry suddenly, and jump into motion mumbling to myself,

“who goes knocking on bedroom doors of someone else’s house?” searching for clothes so that I can answer the door and not be naked —where did my clothes from before disappear to …? And in search of anything to wear…. and wondering how things disappear ….I dig into my suit case and put on whatever haphazardly comes out. Ending up with a Hello Kitty t-shirt and black pinstripe trousers 

and I do manage to get it zipped up before her next round of banging which gradually has begun to get louder 

and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror (yikes, knullruffs), stepping into my Harley Davidson boots on the way to the door 

“Yes??!” I say swinging open the door just as she had begun to knock again. 

I can see I have set her off balance 

But she looks at me and slowly starts to smile,

“nice look for you. Office attire or—?”

“Is there a reason you are knocking at the door at seven thirty?” I ask stepping outside the door into the hallway 

“It’s seven-forty-five,” she says, “let’s go chat on the pavilion, do you want coffee?—they just made it fresh.”

“No, I want to go back in there and sleep for two more hours and then have a shower.”

“Let’s grab two coffees,” she says this as if I never said anything, “you will want to know what I have dug up on your sister—“

But my hand is still on the door handle,

“well, can you—do you mind if we…. it just seems it’s kind of too early in the day for grim, wicked sisters—“

But all lame attempts at fake friendliness disappears as she suddenly gets impatient,

“I need to ask you if you have given any more thought to our earlier conversation?” 

“You mean about Jörn?” I ask

“Shhst!!!” she looks around and gives me an evil-eye look and after a moment where she is sure we are alone in the hallway, she says, “you know that’s what I mean. Well? Have you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“So, you mean—you want me to—“

“You were his lover before, how unpleasant can it be?” she asks me very matter of fact

I almost laugh and have to fake a cough,

“and I get?”

“We can talk about the details but—first you would have unlimited access to information—“

“Why do you want to go after her?” I ask 

“Who says I do?” she asks and laughs, “oh, no, no, no—people like your sister are small potatoes; she’s not exactly big terrorism and for international purposes, could you imagine I could care about your deranged Qanon organization—“

“Mine?” I ask, “it’s not mine. Don’t confuse me with—“

“Your sister.”

“Right!” I say but then I get her meaning…. “oh….” and think about that. But what exactly does she expect me to do with information like that?  ….no, she’s just baiting me but because I think about what Jörn said I say,

“I mean…. sure— I’ll do it,” pretending more interest in what she said 

“You know we are going after Retnuh,” she watches my face reaction and then she says, “so you will go back to being with him and be able to let us know where and what he is and up to?”

“Up to….?” I say

Then suddenly from behind us we hear,

“Stina!” 

Jörn —freshly showered and wearing a pressed suit as if on his way to a board meeting ….is suddenly walking briskly towards us. 

And once again, between them, I feel painfully underdressed by comparison in my Hello Kitty as I  seem to be emerging from my sleepy haze and now notice what Stina wears; red dress and —again, spike heels 

“Jörn!” Stina does her fake laugh, but then rattles off, at lightning speed, several phrases that leave me in the dust with my current grasp of their nuances of pronunciation 

Jörn says, in English,

“Marcus is waiting for you in the courtyard.”

But then it is the strangest reaction! She says nothing at all in response and seems to momentarily look a bit taken by surprise before I see her face go bright red and then suddenly rush off without a single word 

I look at Jörn,

“that was great! Thank you!”

“Well, we have another problem,” he tells me

“Ok….”

“You know that movie ‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner’?”

“The original or—“

Jörn shakes his head and says,

“let’s just say that this would be called, ‘Guess Who’s Coming for Breakfast!’”

“Who’s coming?”

“My parents. So I need you to act like everything is fine between us.”

“Your parents are in Sweden.”

“My parents are at JFK. Surprise! I just got off the phone with Pappa.”

“You didn’t mention they were coming.”

“I didn’t know until five minutes ago —and it is the last thing I need as now as you know, it seems I am currently the moderator for an international spy convention….which was not something I’d had expected either.”

 ond rwy'n credu fy mod i eich angen chi.  gallwch fy ngweld mewn môr ymhlith y gwag a'r deillion. ac ie, byddwn i

terrors & goddess mantras 

over and over and over …. who do you think you are? but reality is subjective comes my reply …. who am I? what am I ….. 

I am me and I am mine, on into etcetera, I am me and I am mine —I am electra 

ceiling thoughts after midnight

 (To be deleted….)

I look tall from far away because I have extra long legs. So it must be a shock to arrive in front of me and think you are in Wonderland. I’m actually just all legs 

I tend to forget my relation to large scale things until actually faced with formidable things like oversized furniture. Ladders. Trucks 

but I am the exact height I was when I was eleven. 

when my daughter was in middle school, I went there for a meeting and I kept being mistaken for a student. no, really, it’s embarrassing —so I try not to walk by clusters of middle schoolers as a general rule

 ond yna .... beth ydw i'n ei wybod?

 pwy ydw i beth bynnag

Electra’s dictionary; Vampires in the Noir Part 2/the Power of Knowing[the scene is the last conversation as it continues](edjmmusechron)

 

“…. ‘when’ in the grand scheme of things—what did you say?—“

“‘in the grand scheme of it all when exactly did you first stumble across me….’” I say now

“Ahhh….” Jörn’s expression becomes thoughtful and after a slight pause…. “and, you mean because you know about the secretary’s key I found in that box of yours among your diaries —which you tossed into the dumpster behind that old  apartment building you lived in—Cedarhurst, I think— with your first husband—“ and shakes his head at me “tsk tsk…. careless key toss, duva, how lucky I found it— which was —when? I believe that was 2002— but that was not when I first stumbled across you ….hmm, so you want to know….” and then after he considers, with an  awkward motion, wherein he turns his head as if to crack the tension from his neck along with an odd shrug, “so— then…. I would say it was …. around the time when I first joined the intelligence—uh—became an international intelligence agent—so that is when I came across ‘something’ ….and …. so …. actually that would have been my first case with Willem. How we met— it was our first case together.”

“So, what did you come across?”

“It was something connected to your legal father— as I was investigating a current case of the time—it was having to do with a sensitive operation we were all working on, connected with several other countries, as a matter of fact, but mostly European. It was when I was cross referencing some old documents….” he says vaguely 

So I think about what Willem had started to say that time 

“And so what was this to do with me?” I say looking at his eyes to try and read them

For a moment he is pensive but guarded. After a quick deep inhale and exhale he looks at me decisively and says,

“duva—it was a picture of you….” he studies my eyes and seems to measure his words carefully as he stares into my eyes, “I felt like I knew you—“ he seems to force a laugh and shakes his head, “that sense, as though I could not place where I knew you from ….but —I knew in this way …. it was just like this strong gut sense— I felt I knew you from —somewhere….” and here he stops talking and stands up and walks across the room. 

He goes to the window and looks out into the darkened blackness but where the sound of the ocean brings the mind to see in inferred  

….those timeless, infinite ocean waves …. 

I watch his silhouette as he stares into blackness as he looks towards the sea into the darkness …. I feel such a weird sense now by how he stands there, I have seen such a scene like this before…. how his shoulders are set, the tension in his stance; I see someone else standing there …. that I have seen before…. And it makes me wonder now; is he somewhere else at sea …. and maybe too, lost in time 

After a moment he turns away and walks towards the bed, he hesitates before he says, 

“….Duva, you see, I never used to dream —or maybe I just never remembered that I did —but it was right after I saw that photo that it seemed, it was —every night—the same dream—or versions of it —and with it too was the most horrific —horror….” he shakes his head as he recalls this now and rubs his eyes and quickly looks away for a long moment. His expressions pass like secrets across his well groomed, top-secret mask ….

Now he looks at me,

“duva—it was your face…. you understand? —the photo; it was a copy of your passport photo and I ….became curious, it is true…. it was, at first, such a gradual —like a fascination, it was—a slow nagging kind of mystery that just seemed to elude me…. And then ….well—now suddenly always dreaming this same series of events that seemed like from some dark age  time and ….all with your face —and …. often violent things happening —her death …. which I would wake up from dripping in sweat and shivering ….that one repeated the most at first…. and  …. seeing her dead —the pain of it, I could never go back to sleep …. it is how the first bars of my opera came from …. you know, just to express—to get it out this…. overwhelming emotion …. for me it has always been my music where I can release emotions…. and watching her die ….again ….and again in my dreams…. the brightness of the blood on the white hides …. I know I haven’t shared this before…. it was never the right time to speak of all this—when do you speak of such things? And I admit that I avoid emotional scenes usually —so….you could imagine what an impact it left —I mean, duva, from just seeing a photo of  a person’s face —you think you recognize but know you have never met….and it was this knowing like—I —knew— and you know it was not that I knew you ….—now—“ he leans his head into his hand a moment and sighs “….but I guess I just felt crazy because I did not know —how—that could be….” he shakes his head and whispers, “of course, I still don’t know —but…. “ stops himself as if suddenly remembering something, and almost to himself he says, “I always knew —and felt as if I was waiting until ….we would meet….”

But I am not sure if he means —he always knew he would meet the person in the dream or ….the photo …. ? —or?

“If it is not something that can be physically grasped, touched, prodded and analyzed in a lab it can’t be real?” I ask

“I think from conversations we have had, you would know I am more willing to be open minded about the possibilities of …. I am willing to believe there is more than just this existence —but no, I just never expected to have to encounter something unexplained myself, I guess…. I sometimes feared I was losing my mind or possessed because it seemed to always be at the back of my mind but….” he stops and thinks a moment “you know, duva, I may not say ….but there are things I feel and —I have said it before…. about you, it is strange that I seem to always sense —somehow know—if you are in trouble, I feel it here — it is like I know what you are thinking —I can feel it, it is something so strange, I noticed right away after we first met and, you know…. it has never been this way with anyone else —so—now I have answered your question,” he says this walking back towards the bed and now stops to drape himself on the bedside beside me, “….and more —so now answer mine duva, why do you stay? —you know what I’m asking….” but he plays with my hair, drawing it away from my neck where he presses his mouth and says, “it was right after we first met that the rest of the music for the opera came to me…. do you know why I call you ‘duva’?”

“You said it was to do with the dream—there was a dove that you said foretold an angel would come,” I say

“Well not an angel exactly—and yes it’s to do with the dream because right before every time she appears, a turtle dove appears first—and you doubt my intentions?”

“It was not that.”

“Then what?”

“You are right—I mean about trust…. only do you trust me?”

“Duva, you are the only partner I ever have had who knows what I actually do—considering my line of work, is that adequate proof for you?”

I’d never thought of this before. And dully, I realize this is the first time I ever heard him refer to me this way….it seems to signify

I say,

“no, it was just my excuse….”

“I know….” he says and goes back to playing with my hair. He runs his finger tips lightly down my neck and follows with his mouth to bite, then says, “tell me why you stay,” blowing into my ear 

I say, 

“du vet varför.”

“Du vet varför!” he says correcting how I said it

“Yes,” I say, “ja…. du vet varför….”

“Du vet varför,” he repeats anyway and begins to do something I thought he forgot I liked; which confuses me and when he says the phrase again so I should correct myself, I automatically repeat it back because he is too good at what he is doing. I forget the purpose of resisting. and so, maybe that is why I do weaken, 

“Du vet varför”

“Du vet varför!”

“Du vet varför,” and feel myself forgetting to keep up the guard but not wanting to care somehow

and when he says, 

“why do you stay?….tell me….”

“Du vet varför…. because…. jag älskar dig.”

“Jag vet varför.”

but it is only after a moment that I realize what I said. and what he said 

but then he says,

“and I know what Stina is asking you to do.”

“You know?”

“She wants you to be my watchdog,” he says, “say you’ll do it.” and said all the while not missing a beat while still adeptly at his task 

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to. Is she offering you some kind of payment or bribe?”

“Both.”

He thinks a moment. Then says,

“she wants me back over there—they do….”

“That’s part of it. She mentioned my sister and a will and —that you’re planning on ….going after Retnuh.”

“Hmm, then again it would mean getting under her clutches —does she know about your project?” he sees my reaction and becomes more serious a moment. He thinks. 

“Jörn….about what I said—“

“Jag vet varför.”

Of dreams everlasting & vampires in the Noir night Part 1 (edjmmusechron)

 

“What time is it?” I ask him feeling confused about what he is doing here and —what is going on

He reaches for his watch that is next to the lamp beside the bed,

“it is just going on three now,” he says

I rub my eyes and look at him in the shadows of the dark room. He watches me. 

“Were you here all night?” I ask him as…. I still cannot be sure what or how much was real

It is an oddly slow reaction I see cross his face as he still just watches me with the most pensive look

He says,

“I came up after the meeting ended….” and still watches me. He reaches to draw away a mass of hair that falls heavy over my face and holds my face steady, pulling it up to look at him. And with an oddly peculiar tenderness, he strokes his thumb across my cheek and then says in a very low tone, “you were asleep when I came in….” and still he holds my face and studies me with ….such an unfathomable expression. I don’t know this one of his at all as I have never seen that look

“So….” I struggle to think as my mind is distracted by his touch and the look in his eyes

“Jörn….” I say and start to move from his hold, but he does not let go and keeps me there

“You were dreaming,” he says in the same thoughtful tone but now it is curious, “what were you dreaming, duva?”

“I was…. did we—? I mean, did you….? Or…. did I dream that?”

“Were you dreaming about me?” now he lightly chuckles  as his hand releases my face then to comb with his fingers through my hair…. and then I realize that he is teasing me —and so, now figure out he must also know what I’m wondering too—which answers the question …. I suppose

….and as I look at him now, I become aware of that internal bruised feeling and the other areas of soreness as proof of that indisputable knowledge it was not all the dream —which now sharply brings back parts of the moment in a sudden flash that burns my face 

He asks,

“so, was it a good dream, min lilla duva?” and hardly gives himself away if not for the smallest clue of a smile in the grooves at the corners of his mouth and…. it makes me think back to our conversation on the pier but then, consciously avoid thoughts of Stina’s 

I look up at him as parts of the dreams come back to me. There were two dreams together —no…. three…. strangely overlaid and seeming to run in parallels ….danger, fear, and sense of a deep —heartbreak ….with violence and I wonder now too about what I might have said 

“Jörn—please, I must ask you —is this your property?”

Now he does smile and glances away to hide a guilty expression but not before I see it; his poker face must be slipping 

 But so like him —he does not bother to answer the question—I suppose because it is obvious 

Instead he says,

“Do you remember when I asked you awhile back—?—why you stay….” and again surprises me with a gesture rather uncharacteristic to him; he runs his hand with such a kind of shocking tenderness along the side of my face. 

“Why do you stay, duva….?” he asks me now as he caresses my cheek and stares deeply into my eyes

But it seems slowly does his question come to me, and it is something like a delayed moment before any comprehension, caught inside his stare, it seems to dull my mind and so he says,

“I mean, I know at first —but then things happened between us, maybe because I was not straight with you about my work —but duva…. if there had been no assassin, and no pandemic ….would you have stayed?”

“would I have?” I repeat back at him only half aware of the question —still distracted by something else 

“Please, duva, answer me,” he says in a low voice 

but I lower my eyes from his and say it in a whisper, 

“….yes.”

“Tell me why,” he asks softly

“Why?”

“Why….”

“Jörn, what did you not tell me? About that —thing— of my mother’s you said you found in the compartment in the secretary? Why did you say that strange remark about that it requires I trust you?”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes and reaches to grip hold of me by the back of my head and pulls me to him,

“—snälla du! snälla svara på min fråga!” and makes a frustrated sound and in an almost painful grip, he pulls me tight against him and pressing his forehead to mine, says into my ear, “I want to know why you stayed.”

but then I ask, 

“did you want me to go?” 

I feel the tug of my hair as he angles my head to look at him with an emphatic pull —so I look up and into his piercing gaze ….then instantly feel that strange seasick feeling, recalling the memory of a boat and the brilliance of such eyes 

I say,

“du vet varför….” and look directly back at those eyes

and he just stares back at me a long moment, but then slowly shakes his head and with narrowed eyes, inclines his head 

I take a deep breath and hesitating begin to say,

“I know you came back…. and for the record…. no, I never thought your opera was just part of your spy cover…. it’s too beautiful to just be some contrived and meaningless think tank cover, I thought you knew how I felt about ….your work—don’t you? I thought you knew …. you need to finish it, it needs to be performed….”

“Well,” he shrugs with a self deprecating chuckle but shakes his head, “and our ….shared….dreams, duva?—you think I made all that up—and when we went to see your friend Gerald—what about that?”

“I don’t think I ever said I believed you made that up!”

“Well, no, not exactly. Only that you have suggested you feel a great deal of doubt about my —my…. well—intentions—“

“Intentions,” I repeat slightly amused then I say, “since we are asking questions here…. Jörn, I have one I’m still trying to get the answer to— so, going way, way back to before we first ~’bumped into’~ each other in the lobby that day claiming that you kept getting my mail —which I’d love to know how you contrived— don’t tell me, is the Swedish government infiltrated in the postal service here-?-so, anyway, this I have been wanting to know: when exactly in the grand scheme of it all—did you actually first stumble across me? Because, it seems it had to have been long —long— before my convenient presence at the Manhattan penthouse…. and—actually too—how perfectly convenient you happen to also live there —I mean, never mind also getting my mail—which, have you ever explained any of this to me?” 

only he smiles like he finds this all amusing and shakes his head, 

“don’t think you can squirm out of the question, it is still your turn but —I’ll indulge you and oblige you—since you ask….”

apology

 

Mae'n ddrwg gen i.  na.  Dydw i ddim yn iawn.  Rhaid imi erfyn ar eich pardwn.  Mae'n rhaid i mi gau fy hun i ffwrdd a dod o hyd i heddwch

Dwi angen ti.  Nid wyf yn iawn

 

roedd fel taflu arian ataf yn ffordd i'm calon.  fel dwi'n rhyw fath o fachwr….  Yn y canlyniad….  Rwy'n prosesu'r tonnau sioc….  Dwi angen dip mewn datrysiad glanhau llwyr i ddod oddi ar y teimlad….  socian, rinsio, ailadrodd

Electra’s dictionary and film noir notes of strangers (jmmusechron,ed)

 

The chill air with wet hair bites at the nerves. We watch the sky. The sea and the fire…. and the feel of hands. They weave through my hair ….and this time in the night as I watch the shadows on the wall move in tune to the music that pounds upon the piano keys …. I forget who I am, where I am —I forget time and place

…. and disperse into the nonsense of senses to the rhythm of the Long Island ocean waves. It adds skewed dimension to dreams, such as warping images 

They melt into the fabric on the static, and senseless like shadows across the wall

there is only this. Yes, it is this. This sense that it does connect somewhere ….and …. I do hope it will find its way to me and within such lucid dreams, I feel into the great chasm beyond those leaps of faith and —know that here I do trust. Yes. Here I do. It is here— because here —I know…. without question 

and just grip so tight onto it; and with it, it comes like the warmth that spreads with the scent of cedar and sandalwood, and the silk of his hair —and without need to reflect, give up and wrap around pressing in to me, unconsciously awake, and like so many times we have once long before done this so like this, we move and join to each other in that age old embrace and where somewhere in consciousness and time, and wrap around him 

 under that big mysterious sky of characters  the waves crash

and take him upon the shore

****

It seems awhile that I stare into those waves. And the waves it seems I watch ….and the foam ….mix with cloudy images ….like thoughts…. like memories, water and waves and sky and foam ….that reflect like clouds in the stillness 

And I see his face …. I see another face ….beside his face ….I see another time 

and no he is not the pirate here nor the spy but another time …. he is younger but it is the same eyes ….and it is somewhere cold and …. the gold of his hair in the light —but he wears a black Cossack shirt —why should I see this now? ….I wonder looking at him, from —across the wide circle because ….

“Duva!”

I wake up

 

  he pulls me up from sleep with his hands under my arm pits with a slight jostle and stares at me —the same way as the dream and ….for a long moment I am frozen in mind; my thoughts  seem somehow misfired; mis-wired between unconscious worlds ….still within 

I stare at him. And touch his face. I trace his eyes with my finger tips staring into them …. with my eyes burning; I touch his mouth ….and then the bridge of his nose and mold my fingers across his face up to his cheek bones seeing ….so many ….many ….memories 

 but he stares at me intensely,

“duva….?” 

It is kind of a fraction more of moment where I feel myself reeled back into the present moment —by him 

He says,

“It was happening again—you were screaming.”

“Was I?” but all I remember is ….watching the water and—oh, yes, the dream when I saw —him?

“What’s wrong?” he asks me

Only does it occur to me that it is the middle of the night —and we are in the Spanish pirate’s giant bed —together…. so, what part was the dream that was so…. familiar

“Is something going on you’re not telling me, duva? What were you dreaming?”

“Why?” I ask him and—staring at how the moonlight’s shadows fall ….in hollows of his face which —distract and mesmerize me but wondering why he’d ask this, “something going on?”

But …. why is it that he just looks at me so oddly?

e.d.jmmusechron/“Stina’s Pawn” reflection scene(from within a fortress)

{Contrast of parallel lives:}

(Scene is ‘Electra’ in bedroom at Southampton’s house after Stina’s proposition about babysitting/spying on Jörn)

panic, like being flushed through a tunnel into white heat that just tastes like fear…. but we don’t let it reach inside…. just a reflex ….hair trigger that awareness ….the awareness ….there’s reason ….for and in the codes as….this is the only safe place to put ….

trust ….

this implosion, I will own it, electra …. I will —I do own it…. as you know, I thought it was a safe gamble but —anyway—fuck; we land on our feet every time, don’t we, e.d.?

to put a marker here, I document here and show you through example how secrets get expressed through literary code…. the language we speak in, my immortal pirate with the vampire eyes

****

I think now of how it felt to be locked in “the dungeon” 

and ….

those days alone inside that crypt where the safe had been

….imprisoned behind a coded barrier 

…..and I think about Stina’s proposition …..not knowing what to do

….the confusion of trust 

    is it such a surprise to face this now?

For, how many times have I had to revise my list of those I can truly trust? ….switching loyalties because they were not whom they said they were 

switching loyalties …. like a repetitive dance until ….you are the only one —you/theCelf—knows who is ever consistent and says what she means 

….yet I always get cornered….

Jörn though…. and I go back over to the towel with his platinum/silver embroidered monogram that shines like his eyes in the light; such powerful kryptonite ….and I think of Gerald’s words when I asked him why should two souls meet again lifetimes later…. I had thought it was to settle some score, they always say that, don’t they? 

but no, I’d never thought it could be ….”to heal”

….so then ….how do I proceed? It would be so wrong to plot behind someone’s back ….and my conscience would never let me….. but also…. how could I ever do that to Jörn? I could not. And then I think about how Jörn said —I could not trust…. only —I do— I do trust him—but ….I can’t tell him I do and —I don’t know if this omission voids it out for its value ….and if it does, what does this mean?

….but then, I never got to ask—does he trust me?

and with this thought I turn to look out at the ocean waves as they work to lull my mind….and lean against the headboard feeling tired 

cyfrinach ryfedd amdanaf - byddaf yn cyfaddef yma yn iaith niwl a hud…. (a'm treftadaeth gudd, gudd)

 does neb yn berchen arna i.  Nid wyf erioed wedi cwrdd â dyn yr oeddwn yn teimlo ei fod yn deilwng i allu rhoi fy hun iddo.  weithiau mae wedi teimlo ei fod oherwydd fy mod i eisoes yn perthyn i rywun ers talwm.  mae wedi bod fel hyn i mi erioed;  roedd yno bob amser yn cysgodi fy meddyliau a'm cof

by that threadbare rope; notes to a stranger/ 25 August 2021

 

always, it is when in my worst hour of need that he appears; he does come to me 

                                                  …..in dream 

 tack

chi ydyw; notes to a stranger

I wake up with my mind caught in a lasso. emotions and then nostalgia …. destroy me…. and no idea why…. 

if I could, I would admit …. 

and say 

the only grip I have ….tossed out through the cyber channels and volleyed like a whisper ….from the language of our codes —that very threadbare faith …. I am truly heard…. and it is not imagined

         ….thank you

 ac eto, mae eich distawrwydd yn fy llenwi ag amheuaeth nad oes gennych unrhyw ddiddordeb yn y prosiect na….  ydych chi'n aros am yr eiliad iawn yn unig?

 à quoi ressemble un effondrement implosant

Sometimes in sleep we join

sea air fills my head 

as the voices drift up from the courtyard …. 

I say to ambush …. 

voices linger across the currency ….strategies and plans spoken and hatched…. 

someone else says, 

surprise attack….

Only I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to go chasing some evil demon….don’t want him to—fear—tempting fate ….and watching the sea as it drugs the mind with its hypnotic rhythm; how it pulls and tugs….you back…. on its currents; ever forward its encroachment onto the temporal earth; pulling away to sink and drown its sandy flesh, leaving behind skeletal shells that fossilize 

….we are all fossils, dust

but we are more than this, 

more, much more, than flesh, 

     more 

          even 

              than ashes

                   and dust….

                       more, 

                           much more too….

                                than de roet 

he says it is ‘to heal….’

I forget myself…. the limitations of the human mind that conflict within but it is so easy to give in to

How I have searched and longed for, in truth 

—why I have avoided anyone getting too close

this bond. It cannot be broken. not even by lifetimes. Still it keeps me

like that first moment when I first saw him…. It was something in just his walk

I recognized….

the way he moved ….

how his hair caught on the breeze ….the hut with the deep fire pit; the beat of metal against metal; the symphony 

“Tell me why you stay,” he says pressing himself deeply within ….as thought and words are like tedious knots; booby traps, confusing and causing any ability to process to malfunction 

“Tell me,” he says and withholds himself and his motions

But dream takes over, and I watch the shadows on the wall…. and listen to the pounding of the piano keys ….his opera that plays in my mind as I press to him mimicking his motions —and with it, it naturally comes, this urgent need wrap around him, to press to hard to him as I say,

“no,” as I do this

but he does not move at all

“….please….” pressing to him

Only he repeats,

“tell me why you stay,” still holding back

“Please….” I say, and whisper,  “don’t go with the others—promise you will stay here, I don’t trust the others!”

“Stay where—here? The others, duva?”

“Yes, please! don’t make me wait….”

he says,

“wait for what?”

“The sun, you said! Don’t make me wait!”

“Duva….?” he says with a jab in a whisper, sinking deep, pressing 

“don’t leave…. promise me! Don’t leave here alone, please!” but all thoughts dissolve, overcome by the fluidity of his moves 

I hardly hear him say,

“no, never again, duva! I promise —not, never again….”

but I do hear ….as it echoes in the morning in my mind 

…..upon waking

segway next scene/A short from Electra’s dictionary

It is hours later in the master suite, when I am alone, that I think of what Stina said …. leaving me to brood over our conversation on the beach earlier

 she had left my company to return to the others with this parting remark —said almost like an absent-minded afterthought—

“it must be quite curious for you wondering about what Retnuh said— the Will …. and your sister….” 

It is the calculated inflection of her words ….and then the well timed pause between 

“I know if it were me I would want to get my hands on any information that could be dug up on her—any idea who would have access to unlimited personal information?” and then she says, “Quid pro quo …..” and walks away

So I sit there for a long while staring into the waves not realizing how long until I feel the chill of sundown blow from the water. and get up and walk back

only then to find that I get lost in thought again, watching the water from the balcony off the master suite, going over all recent events and conversations with everyone …. and hear the muffled voices from the courtyard drift up from the secret spy meeting outside…. Jörn’s particular, distinctive dry voice often dominating the conversation, with loud responses from the others 

“Do I wait for him?” I say to the empty room, he never said ….how long the meeting would be. nor if he would be leaving soon after …. I think now, and wonder again about the conversation he meant to have with me. And start to feel sleepy ….as I think over and over his words…. analyzing his words for a clue 

but I go in circles and have to give up and go to fill the marble deep tub with water and sit on the ledge and watch it as I wait wait for it to fill high enough, and then, sunk deep into the water and shut my mind to everything 

When I get out to dry off, I notice the towel has a monogram of initials and an insignia…. I feel my face suddenly burn when I recognize both …. design and initials —on all— of the silver gray towels…. Wtf….

 I don’t even have to remind myself that they match the engraving on the platinum pendant I’ve been wearing all year since he gave it to me. I know the design well…. 

How did I not notice this on the towels until now?

I text Gerald from the edge of the massive, Spanish, pirate ship bed 

<what reason do two souls meet again?>

and press send. And as I do I find I am magnetically drawn to stare out into that vast deep blue sea and the waves that hypnotize my mind 

why do two souls meet again….? Are we destined to repeat our past mistakes? Is he still that pirate in the guise of a spy? do things always repeat…. until you get it right? …. but maybe not everyone gets to find out

After a blank space of time of being somewhere I know not where, re-entering the present reality finds me staring at the phone …. like it’s some kind of alien…. when an alert sounds, as if it is from some space-age enterprise and, for a moment, I seem hovered between parallels of realities …. one foot in this world and another in that long forgotten land in that little hut they shared, and now, with the scent of him on the sheep hides. strangely, now, when worlds collide, I feel the overlap within my mind as it fills my head 

A reply text comes from Gerald 

he says:

<sometimes unfinished business is, in itself, a powerful reason>

<but how can it be resolved? I mean—because he was not there in time to save her?how can this wrong be made right?>

<but also to resolve. as your friend, I can be a bit blunt because you can be extremely obtuse so…. don’t pretend not to be aware of your issues of mistrust. your meeting now is no coincidence. what reason do two souls meet again? My ‘professional opinion’ would conclude —what was too quickly taken away, to have the second chance to love. to feel. and to heal.>

from Beatrice to Heathcliff (edjmmuse)

a hidden door to doorways

It was this queer chill tap upon the shoulder. I mean that day…. I think, at first, it was his walk…. of all things…. he had a strangely strong familiar aura about him …. it was as if I was drawn to stare; as if a magnetic field drew me to keenly focus upon him. I knew that walk before…. how often and how many times have I seen such an image emblazoned on my inner retina …. he moved easily within the faded dreams outline of ….. the pirate on the boat…. his every manner filled in the gaps of memory the dreams had not shown but now made the memory image stronger and more clear ….

And then it was his eyes; that haunting, wild beauty balanced between noble and savage 

 

how cruelly he thinks to tread across my emotions in his hobnail boots

    which I deflect like an empath’s magik 

immortal pirate; the man with the vampire eyes(e.d.jmmuse)

 

there are other times I recall about the pirate from my dreams; the man with the vampire eyes

…. and I still see the strange and vast landscapes 

I seem always in search of to find again those long forgotten plains and barren hills

—they reach out from my subconscious and from the depths of sleep in dreams —and remain imprinted in my thoughts all the next day…. traveling journeys often on foot and with the vampire shadow that falls over my view; the gold flax of his hair shimmering on the wind and following behind him

….sometimes when I’m walking; it is something about the motion of the swing in my hips and the weight I carry….

this is when, on the oasis of my thoughts, upon that horizon ….

I can see him from the line of shore…. and the boat waiting

loaded for the journey

noir modest proposal/e.d.vol.1jmmuse

As Jörn and I head towards the back courtyard, it escapes my awareness, somehow, until much later —how at ease he walks through the back and towards the house as if he….? uh, well, like I said, it did escape my notice….

and we walk through the back way, where the hedges are shaped like trophies and then past the Grecian statues with ….my thoughts on what he wants to talk to me about —and ….as I recognize dully looking over, at first just two or three, then I realize there are others there….

“could you do the coffee?” Jörn suddenly turns to me. He seems to be guarding my vision to keep me from seeing who else may be among the group

“Jörn—“ I hesitate, while trying to see behind him, “you want —me— to do the coffee —and then what? Tiptoe and leave it twenty yards away?”

He gives me a blank stare, as if he’s lost the plot —and then laughs, but too cool, of course, I see right through it,

“no, I meant I’ll meet you in the kitchen and then I can take it in.”

I head off and find my way to the kitchen, and only about now do I start to wonder about those other things ….

I find I wish I had spoken to Gerald …. and I wish …. there had been a moment alone with Jörn 

before having to face the firing squad to …. say things

….because there are these moments I find I am overwhelmed with such a sense…. I feel him within myself ….as I’ve always have ….long before I saw him that day for the first time ….

but I wish he would say…. I want to know what he thinks ….he never says …. he never confirms anything at all ….and then I have felt as if I am out of my mind…. it surly then just must have all been in my own head and so then I must be crazy ….to believe ….there is this —that memory; that life and ….bond there between us…. because so many times it has felt I can feel him when he is not there ….reaching for me ….I feel him in my mind speaking to me just like I know what is behind the awkward silences that sometimes happens because I hear him somehow…. I just wish he would say it out loud and to my face —but he confirms nothing, he says nothing 

his silence devastates me 

Do I believe him to be the cool spy even when he is off of work? Do I believe him to be the composer/artist and actor of many talents even off the cameras behind his own scenes? Does he ever face himself in the mirror and ask —“did I know her once before? Did I recognize it? Or even —do I feel in a place even deeper than the heart?” But mostly…. does he feel? and ever admit to himself that ….I matter to him? And do I really think he is capable ….of deep emotion? anyway

I stand staring at the French press confused….

….And have to remind myself —why? am I —making coffee…. 

I fill the giant kettle that weighs a ton and put it to boil, then go in search of coffee…. 

and then with my back to the room I hear someone open the door as I start to scoop coffee into the glass coffee pot

She says, 

“What are you doing?” and I see Stina is walking right to the 19th century antique silver coffee pot and setting it under the space odyssey coffee maker

I want to say the same back to her but then she seems to know what she’s doing, as I see by how she drops in a few pods and presses a button.

So I walk back to the stove and shut it off.

“Walk with me,” she says now 

The shock of her statement of demand sets me off balance 

She gestures with her head toward the kitchen door that faces the beach

“But the coffee….” I say

“He can get it. You’re not his slave,” she half glares at me in the way to obey her as she glances, imploring, like: out the door and now!

We go the opposite direction of the back courtyard. Instead she leads me to another part of the beach, past the lifeguard post where she spots a bench and motions me there

We sit down

“I don’t want to waste time. So I will be blunt with you,” Stina says in her usual ‘friendly’ way, as I take note with amusement that, today she has pulled her hair back into a severe sweep and is wearing unexpected brightly colored high heels, “what are your plans?” she now asks

“My plans?” I look at her searching for a clue what she means by that

“Yes, for your future. What are they?” and she looks at me frankly

“Why is it your business?” I ask and laugh, “this is not your jurisdiction!”

“No but Jörn is,” she says. 

Her eyes go cold

Something shifts somehow. I feel another conversation. So I wait and watch her face

“And by default you are my business,” she says this like a battle strike

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite following you,” I tell her

“I need him back in our country and it seems we have an obstacle in our way. So I want to know what you want, what your plans are —you understand?”

“No—it is still —actually, even more hazy….unless you are talking about a different Jörn, because—in case you haven’t noticed —he does what he does. I’m not your obstacle, he is.”

“Then you are fooling yourself but that is not my business and now let’s try to change the dialogue, I think, yes? I know you are some self claimed starving artist on some hippie mission—what is it? You want to save the earth? We have Greta Thunberg,” and there is a weird pause 

and then smiles or maybe it’s indigestion

“Ok. La-di-da,” I say

“What if you had a sudden mystery backer who would fund your project?” she says now 

“Is this a joke? You forget Jörn is not short of cash so if it’s a question of me looking for money, don’t you think I could just try asking him if I really wanted to do —what—what do you know about my project anyway? It’s a bit too dry for you as it’s to do with humanity and I don’t get the feeling you have explored the subject—so exactly what are you suggesting?”

“You have too much pride —I don’t think you would ask Jörn. That is why I think you would consider doing this because you would be doing something to earn the cash,” she says

“So you don’t think I have business ethics or personal ethics? Are you asking me to spy on my boyfriend for you to pay me to fund my project?”

“Not spy. Babysit.”

I have to laugh,

“have you met Jörn? Babysit him?”

“Did you know Jörn is now on a mission to go after Retnuh Nivek? Which is putting at risk another operation we now have in place that takes precedents,” she watches my face before she then says, “we could sweeten the deal —as I am aware he has been working on an opera. There is an orchestra I know he wants to play his music because I have heard him mention it. I could arrange their involvement.”

Noir Denouement; tying up loose ends/with intro to Electra’s dictionary Vol.2: ‘the Will (& power of’)

 

Introduction (structural explanation) 

As I have drawn upon Dante Alighieri’s premise of the three levels of the Divine Comedy (my intended use with allegory of Paradiso as having the characters —and their story’s meaning— reach a higher awareness of something beyond the temporal life; the previous Inferno and Purgatory were first reflections on the past, then the focus turned to events and journeys taken to shape the destinies, respectfully) it makes sense it should follow that I now turn to, another favorite, and appropriately, a contemporary of Dante; Giovanni Boccaccio by referring, for my own interpretations, with his Decameron while an obvious choice, had always been my plan upon following the conclusion of E.D. Vol. 1 (was this perhaps portended?) even before our current day plague hit 

******************************

Electra’s dictionary; JM muse chronicles Vol.1/Tying up loose ends Noir part 1

Leaving the pier we don’t speak and as we walk, both within our silences…. I do not feel tension from him, somehow, because I can feel his mind those times when he is not in his spy world. This part of him I know instinctively because, through all the times, of things that have happened between us, there has always felt to me, a sort of compass between us. I just don’t always pay attention to it ….too distracted by those ways he triggers my nerves sometimes 

Even though I know he is angry at me—I do feel that…. but there is something else that feels is even bigger than now, bigger than us

I think it is the waves as we walk. I think it is the sky and the seagulls; their cry overhead…. he does not say anything …. but I feel his mind 

I feel it the same way I have felt it listening to him at the piano; the notes he chooses when he plays ….I feel his thoughts

I feel the things he does not say. I know where his thoughts go. I always have…. and I think I am a guilty party here because, I think I have ignored what I heard his mind say…. and said so many times. And you can hear it in his music. I know he goes back to that hut, the same as I do. I cannot ignore how he always arranges the furniture …. just like that little hut; how can he know unless he too was there? I know why he chooses not to say…. but I realize what I have been guilty of. So very guilty. I heard it just now in his voice and—until then ….I did not realize ….I have been punishing him. I did not realize this. 

And in my silence as we walk, this I think about. 

And Gerald’s meaning in his texts

Because …. I did not have to be punishing him. I did not see that. But I think I couldn’t see this because I was so sure he would let me down 

…. I think it is my self-fulfilling prophesy —assume he would; or will him too? A defense mechanism I long ago developed to toughen against an inevitable blow

I realize only now that he has been punishing himself, he has felt that lifetime’s guilt for not reaching in time. The sun that wouldn’t set. The promise not broken…. to be back before the midnight sun. But it did not set. It happened anyway. But it was not his fault. She did not want him to go but he was forced to—that’s life, isn’t it? It isn’t fair, it is often tragic 

Why should two souls meet again? I wonder…. Why—when there are other life times and other loves? 

Sometimes the mind plays tricks, as thoughts are swayed by senses, like how the ocean breeze touches your face in that particular way, and the shoreline looks so like another…. like the time she ran into the waves when they spoke of her mother and he brought her from the water and then built a fire, when something changed forever between them, spoken through a language of their own

And as I see the outline of the red tile roof up ahead…. I think about what he just said to me on the pier; how I am not capable of trusting him and I look up at him now as we walk. Should I care about whatever it is he found in the secret compartment ….?

I stop walking and reach for his arm,

“Jörn….” gripping the sleeve of his shirt to stop him and when he stops he looks back at me and I search his face, search his eyes…. looking ….until I see —yes, it is there…. the same eyes, “I’m sorry,” I say to him ….like a message long from the past….because I want to free him ….and remove what burden he’s carried that was never his fault, it was just life 

At first I think he does not understand. That my meaning is lost on him. 

But then he shakes his head and looks towards the ocean,

“but you are right…. how do I expect you to know….?”

And he starts to say something else when someone calls out to us from the house and we both turn to see Michèle running,

“excuse me—we saw you arrive! You have people waiting now for you at the house, I was sent to get you.”

Jörn sighs and looks at me,

“more unfinished business, duva—I was expecting them tonight,” and with a note of apology in his tone he puts his hand on my arm and says, “let’s talk after they’ve gone.”

“They?”

“We have guests,” Jörn says with sarcasm, “Punch and Judy and—“ now looks at Michèle, “is Willem here as well?”

“He is. They are waiting in the back court,” Michèle says

“Tying up loose ends,” Jörn says to me by way of explanation, “no doubt I’ll be raked over the coals for not consulting them for my choice of action in regards to the safe— let’s go, duva and get this over with.”

avez-vous déjà été là? ou j'imaginais que tu étais là ?

Je ne pouvais pas tolérer que la vie doive l'affronter à nouveau invisible. Je sais que tu me vois. J'ai vécu si longtemps sans être vu par personne. Je craignais de quitter ce monde sans jamais avoir été vu par personne. et je craignais qu'en quittant le monde, aucune trace de mon existence ne soit connue de qui que ce soit.Je ne pouvais pas tolérer qu'il soit oublié par too. Ce serait comme si je n'avais jamais été….être oublié de toi

Electra’s dictionary; of chests without treasure & pirate legends ….noir (e.d.jmmusechron)

To some Legend is a story, to others a list of symbols on a map, to another legend is key ….to a dictionary 

Michèle stops first at the nearby drugstore off Main Street to let me pick up a few basics before heading to the safe house. He walks in with me, but as we pass the front line of people checking out, I glimpse at the magazine tabloids and see the letters that spell out “hostage” but that isn’t what caught my eye. It is the photo. Because it is a photo I know. Of myself. And though the mandate of mask wearing has been dropped, I find myself reaching into my hand bag for the one I happened to grab from the package I had seen in the penthouse kitchen before I left and decide to put it on now as I notice some gaping stares.

I look up at Michèle as I do this and whisper,

“you would think with all the celebrities that come here people here would be better accustomed to showing a polite respectful observance of space,” I search for the aisles I need, quickly grabbing shampoo, body wash, and some other basics and cannot be out of there fast enough, slamming the car door shut as soon as I slide in. 

Michèle pulls off down the street and I hardly notice what I see beyond the reassuring familiar shops that have been there forever and the shaded sidewalks with heavy limbed trees in front of those classic billion dollar homes we pass as again my mind is recalling other summers here walking with my mother into those very shops.

It is not until we are down an old familiar street I used to often walk, by the beach that, I am pulled from those balmy memories. It is the road with the tall hedges where you cannot see anything of the vast property that lurks behind except for the massively long rooftop with its defining red Spanish tile reaching its highest pinnacle somewhere in the center in that great mystery. But this is exactly where Michèle stops and gets out to enter a code into a security keypad at the black high iron gates and the gates start to magically open as he returns to the car and gets in

“Don’t tell me this is the safe house, Michèle?” I say now to him as we drive through 

He glances at me from the mirror,

“yes, but it is where it will be for you. There are five guarded security people right now there. But don’t worry, you will have privacy. They will be staying at the guest houses and will stay out of your way but they will be close by if the need arises. Are you so surprised?” when he asks this now, he turns to look at me from the front

“Of course I am!” I say as we drive down the long gravel path that leads to the incredibly grand front entrance that has massive steps leading up and now have to ask, “where is the person who lives here?”

But now he shrugs,

“I cannot say for sure, but he is not here.”

“And he doesn’t mind I am going to be staying in his house?” I ask as he slows to stop in front of the entrance

“I am sure,” he says now 

And after I step out onto the gravel path, Michèle takes my suitcases from the back trunk of the car and then leads me towards the entrance,

“we have all been instructed to give you complete privacy,” he now says as we mount the brick steps up to the front door and as he unlocks it, and pauses to hand me the keys he says, “I’ll just put these for you in the bedroom, which is this way, mademoiselle!” he says with a fliratatious smile

“You are too kind,” I say with a laugh and follow him, shutting the door behind us

The cool interiors sweep around in a breeze coming from somewhere outside as we step inside and right away, I am in awe of the architectural beauty, after my eyes adjust to the dimness of the interiors, lit only by natural light from all the tall arching windows. The floors are terracotta and spread throughout the wide open entrance and onto through the following rooms that lead off of the wide entrance; the hallway all flanked by tall red-clay, vase shaped pots holding, I notice, bunches of eucalyptus, cattail, heather and pussy willow, their earthy and warm nuance of scents lending an atmosphere of welcome. We pass a sitting area that I see leads outside to a court beyond tall arching doorways and past their distance comes the unmistakable sound of ocean waves.

At the end of the wide hallway, unlike the usual hacienda, there are stairs leading up to another floor and once at the top I follow Michèle down another hallway

Michèle stops inside a room and waits for me patiently as I catch up. I have barely noticed the room when he puts down the suitcases and says,

“I will let you settle in. I have sent a message to your phone so that you have the number to reach me, whatever you need, if you need to go somewhere, I am at your disposal.”

“Really?” I hold back a snicker, “well, is that necessary? Can’t I just go walk downtown? It’s not that far!”

“We’d prefer not. You may still be in danger,” he sighs 

“Oh….” I say feeling the disappointment of the loss of freedom and look out towards the window 

“We can, however, watch you from the beach from the tower. It is a private beach for residents, which is why this location was the most favorable.”

“Yes. I see….”

“I will leave you here,” and he starts to go. He stops by the door just outside of it, “feel free to help yourself to what is here. The kitchen has been prepared for your stay here so, all that is at your disposal too.”

And then he leaves. And now I look around the spacious bedroom. There are two wide arched windows and between them an arched door that I only now realize leads out to a balcony 

I walk over to one of the arched windows in the room where it is possible to see the beach and look out. And immediately I am hypnotized by the sound of the ocean and watch the waves. A private beach. After a few moments I see Michèle walk across the lower property and head out towards the beach, then disappears from my view. 

I look down from the window and see that the bedroom overlooks the court below. From here I can see there are topiary gardens outlining beds of flowers, climbing rosebushes that wind around statues that as they flank, they mark the entrance to a small labyrinth made of manicured lush green hedges 

I turn from the view and sit down on the much too big, dark, heavy-wood, four poster bed ….that looks like it belonged to some Spanish pirate— and then I think: oh, from a dungeon to another ivory tower

****

“I have some news for you,” Willem stops by, as promised, a few days later

I invite him into the large kitchen built for a full service staff, with too many ovens to count and a lot of unidentifiable kinds of equipment cluttering the intimidating pantries. But the ‘contraption’ intended to make coffee I long gave up on, so instead have opted to using the dependable French press and, as I serve it for Willem, using the heavy hunter-green cup and saucers with the gold trim, I glance up to notice he digs into the messenger bag that he walked in wearing, slung over one shoulder. 

He takes out his tablet and sets it up on the marble prep island which dominates the room. I bring the coffee over, dragging two tall chairs after and then walk towards the industrial sized stainless steel refrigerator,

“you take milk?” I ask but when he does not answer, more involved in what he’s looking for, I find a porcelain pitcher and pour some milk in and bring it over

“Here it is,” he says now and taps on the touch screen as I go about putting honey in my cup, “this is an email from Jörn— everybody got one of these....”

“Everybody? Who’s everybody?” I ask him

“Stina, FBI—Smulligan.... CIA.... Interpol, KGB, you name it, they got it....”

I stop what I’m doing as I watch Willem move to tap open an attachment of the email but —then, he just waits holding his finger over it as he says,

“it’s a video of him.... with the safe....” Willem studies my eyes as he says, “he’s opened it....” he stares at me for a long moment

I hold my breath looking back at him as he says now,

“he’s gone to a nearby island off Long Island.... he went there to—“

But I gasp cutting him off, 

“to destroy the weapons!” and cover my mouth in shock. 

I sit down in the nearest chair but grab Willem’s arm,

“oh my god!” then put my face into my hands and then whisper through my fingers, “when was this?” 

“This morning.”

I pull my head from my hands and look up at him. Finally, I say,

“and....?”

He moves to tap as he says,

“Just watch, Dusk—“

“No— wait! Just please tell me first.... please, Willem....”

His eyes soften and he half smiles,

“no he did not blow himself up or get himself contaminated with chemical weapons, if that is what you’re worried about.”

And only now I see something there exposed in his eyes as he searches my face. And then, after a moment he kind of nods to himself and makes a clicking sound in his mouth, as if somehow just having had a question answered, and now goes to tap the screen.

For the next forty-five minutes we watch together. First the process of opening the safe, using the series of codes. Jörn, wearing a safety jumpsuit and goggles now shifts the focus through a microscope-like lens that shows a peep hole of the “lock-letter” grooves that line up and the puzzle like edges fit into each other. And then the angle of the video shifts to show the other part of the safe’s ‘key’ —using the base of the safe’s sibling; the matching wood stained drum table designed by the Dutch windmill maker, with the base, its pronged four legs that insert into the cut out grooves of the base of the chest safe. A click snaps as something has released in an eerie haunting echo that now vibrates chillingly through the kitchen

And feeling sick, I now watch as Jörn opens it like a treasure chest, split in half —and inside, reveals a tripped ticking bomb that by this opening of the chest has set off. It is some twenty minutes as he solves the wiring and safely removes it. There are jars beneath it and sets to task over each one and through every step he is explaining his course and what each thing is and what he is doing

....when each object is neutralized and destroyed, Jörn drags both safe and table into a room and steps outside the chamber and shuts it off behind a thick stainless steel door with a locking lever, and through a lens that records the chamber’s interior, both objects are reduced to ashes

And by the end of it I am left too shaken to say anything. 

I don’t even notice how much time goes by before Willem finally says,

“why don’t we go for a drive to East Hampton and get some coffee there. I think this lot has gone cold.”

*****

I spend the next few days in a strange and uncertain daze.  Sometimes walking downtown reluctantly allowing one of the plain clothes heavies to follow several discreet yards behind me to see again the old, familiar town where, no doubt, I have left one of my celves to haunt the streets…. But when this gets too tedious having that sense of being walked on a leash by a body guard, I find I prefer the illusion of freedom of walking up and down the beach, stretching my legs and reacquainting myself with the feeling of being out in the open sunshine and air, feeling the warm sand under my feet and looking out into the ocean. Stopping to write. Sometimes to sketch…. 

I have always found watching waves and water so healing to my soul, the sound of the waves so reassuring and the gulls overhead. I spend hours looking out into the sea, looking out into those depths, searching the distance and the beauty of the sky, the salty smell of the sea. 

And my moody thoughts evoke some deeper place I’ve been avoiding…. emotions

There are so many emotions wrapped in these sensations ….thoughts of my early youth with my mother in Florida…. how we’d go out on her giant raft to ride the waves together ….and I’d lay looking up at the sky for hours till I fell asleep…. memories of beaches and sunshine…. memories to ….even before those days…. like those memories of Jamaica, on those beaches with her …. and the soft feel of the pink sand where I spent the first year of my life at the Halfmoon hotel where that year we lived; it belonged to her best friend’s family…. years later I’d listen to her stories of her jet set world, her wild friend at their resort hotel in Montego Bay; how my mother did love the sun and the beach, being here now, I remember Southampton with her, she had a house on Leo’s Lane which was right by Adams Lane…. And as I think of her and my being here, I think of how it seems to have come full circle — like of a layer of a Divine Comedy…. this labyrinthine journey…. in search to find…. towards some center —of a Celf 

But only after a few days of this I start to realize …. I had the dream again …. and for days now, I have been hearing music within my thoughts …. as though, like some invisible current pulling me

and, no, it is then not the memories of my mother that I find my soul reaching for here on this beach

And should it really startle me to realize that my thoughts have been long lingering down other phantom avenues of some place 

that long ago was —once home. 

And so, I wonder now, as it seems to have long dawned upon me, this realizing….

….

how long has my mind been going in my half-awake/dreamy thoughts back there to visit?

But lately, it is with a more peaceful sense that I find I now end up there as I go. And with such certain memory that until now, when before I could not really fully let myself accept or truly acknowledge….

That I do feel the warmth of the sun —that I —do—that I can—feel now again —as it was ….then ….and know…. it is not as dream but as —memory

And even as now I look out to this present ocean, as I do now in this moment in time, I am not breathing the smell of salt sea air

no…. somehow— whether it be strange —it comes to me —so poignantly sharp— a very different scent of sea ….that I smell

And so, even more strange—but then, really, is it so very strange after all? That it should come to me with music, and it is —his— music …. which is like that of a heavy stage curtain that alters the setting and sense of everything —and dominates the backdrop of my mind ….as sharply and intensely —it comes to me now

like a ghost’s tap on the shoulder, with its eerie whisper from the shadows and with it more buried emotions to unearth and chase me and catch me up 

….but it has been there all along

hasn’t it? 

And always….in the background

      always playing …. 

the heavy yet warm sound of his haunting music that —in those early days saturated my sleep and dreams and blended with the shadows on the wall of his bedroom. It presses indelibly inside the recesses of my mind, that image of him, sat at his piano…. those haunting notes …. and watching the mad flight of his hair flung wild as he slammed on the keys, the shadows reflected on the wall ….the pounding of keys

his unfinished opera…. 

I think of this now and feel inside me this incredible ache

And even under the warm sky, I get a chill and shut my eyes. I think of his hands and remember their touch; so unlike any; fingers that, though strong, have the adeptness of an artist that is accustomed to hold fine things…. not to warp or break

But the wind now, brings me to myself, as if reminding me to be aware; with its reckless trait that comes of a sudden from the ocean without warning, its unpredictable roar— but don’t care to bother to heed it and with eyes closed, I can still see the memory, not dreams, of that pirate with the vampire eyes; his long silken hair blown across and distorting his war scarred face ….and that little hut with the forge that was home….but the chill is warm and so are the kryptonite of his eyes

And finally, only now…. do I reach to pick up my phone 

to open my text messages to Gerald …. and reread his messages….

After awhile of looking out into the sea, I get up and walk along the shore letting thoughts go where they will

There is a small pier a little further up the way where I like to go and sit on the edge and sometimes I write into my phone sitting there…. thoughts…. more thoughts of the legend 

and that is where I head now, and set out to do and dwell within that room inside where it is always safe and nobody can enter without my permission and get lost in my words for awhile

There are a few boats that come and go from the nearby houses along the beach; their long graceful shapes, like beautiful ornaments that decorate the water, yachts with their wings of sails ….

watching over the sea, ever watchful on the horizon 

For this view of the water, with those boats and sails, I would only choose watercolor for my medium, not oil

for their light buoyancy would demand nothing at all heavy 

as oil and water do not mix —and like the unforgivable ocean, there is no room for error in a watercolor; there is only one chance of its lifetime

And so as I look up now, I think this, wishing I had with me a paintbrush, rough paper and a set of watercolor pans as I see one beauty nearby as it moves across the line of the horizon —but then it appears to stop, as if just for me, it poses for me to paint its portrait 

This one I have not seen before. This one is slightly bigger than the others that I’ve seen. 

And I watch from the distance of my pier, I watch as it seems to drop anchor as I stare into the horizon —and now see a man on the boat ….now climb down into a dinghy, and with the sun brilliant, high overhead, blazing so bright that it blinds me, it catches reflection off the water and—I catch my breath —with sight of the gold of his hair….

It is a slow approach, and as I watch the boat as it eventually nears, moments later, the sun seems to dim and to fade, as it dips in its descent from the horizon 

I stand up now as the little dinghy boat nears…. 

When the dinghy reaches the pier, he ties it to the pole, and pulls himself up to stand just a few feet away from me and then just stares at me with those eyes 

After a long moment, finally, he says,

“….did you really think it was all just for the code?”

But it is hard to hold his gaze, how he looks at me when he says this. And it causes a strange rush so that I lose my balance, and start to feel dangerously seasick, and stumble backward,

“I-I have not known what to believe, Jörn….” and look down from the fury there of his eyes to stare, instead, at the floor of the pier

“And my opera—you think as part of some cover that I just conveniently made up that whole opera thing?” and as he asks me this, pulls my head up by my chin, to look at him, “duva….?” but I still keep my gaze at the pier, so he half shouts at me, “look at me!”

And now when I raise my eyes to look up at him, defensively I say,

“you don’t make it easy, Jörn!—it’s not as if you ever…. say….!”

He lets go my chin and shakes his head with a kind of shrug and then glances in the direction towards the house, 

“and you don’t either, duva…. and for the record—I did came back….”

After a tense moment of silence he sighs now and says,

“Uh….there’s something else you need to know about and no one else even knows about this….something that I found when I opened that compartment in your mother’s secretary. But then, it may require something from you that I seriously doubt you are capable of….”

“Something you found in the compartment? What?”

He shakes his head,

“I’m not sure if you’re ready for this…. Or ever will be….”

“Jörn! About my mother or— me? Or who?”

“Like I said, I don’t think you’re ready for this as… it may actually require you trusting me and ….” he shakes his head doubtfully

“What are you talking about?” I ask staring at him

He shakes his head,

“it’s been a rough week and right now, I could use a stiff drink so …. you’re welcome to join me back to the house—that is, if you should feel so inclined to decide it’s safe to —you know, be in the same room with.”