et à travers les heures les plus sombres, apparaît toujours

🎟….  https://youtu.be/GUsZQZzQjYY 💋

 🕳🕣

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

 

With sick irony, really, lead me to thinking —that if Anaïs could sell erotica “a page a day” for that man she somehow mysteriously met (that part is still confusing; how did she stumble upon such a client?)

As well— this could be a useful. I guess. 

So it just got me thinking, contemplating— if nothing else, only distraction from —off the curb and a method of heat 

an artist’s life; dear Santa

so I find myself in this awkward position; because of my circumstances which —is connected with the hand injuries (and other injuries from the incident) from years ago I sustained while trying to pry my attacker’s fingers from my throat so, during the exchange each joint was intentionally bent backward as torture. Over time the joints no longer hold so, I am unable to do every basic thing in life without complex obstacles and now I am struggling in life to support myself as my old jobs I cannot perform. Today’s problem is, am I showing ingratitude to the people who, out of care for me, have started a GoFundMe for —this pathetic result I have come to—when they ask me to post the GoFundMe on my social media….? as well, why would total strangers care ? but —but this is completely not my comfort zone, I’d assume lay in the ditch; and you know, post it in my social media —so then everyone in my life would know and —things circulate; it could go so badly ….’people’; a sibling and a husband ….but apparently the cause —oh dear!— is not doing so well! sad, lol! —insult on injury 

do they have a Darwin Award for this? 

So the Shop is called “Noir Rubber” 

 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?!?

 “this is the strangest life I’ve ever known” —J.D.M.

 

My Jim obsession

When I was at Bard it was my first exposure to the American culture. But we were up in the mountains and I started there in the dead of winter, short of two weeks after I finished high school in the Netherlands. I was seventeen 

The snow was piled so high that you could not see out the windows in the commons where everyone went for meals. It was a strange place made up of international students, children of wealth or of whose parents were famous movie stars or somehow connected. 

I guess the only connection I had for even being there was for their theatre department as at the time their literary department was buried under the drunken minds of professors there of antiquity. I dropped my duel major because of that, but then—even the other department —theatre—was a huge disappointment 

but what I managed to get out of it were observations of people 

The film professor I had was pretentious as well as self impressed. He looked like he needed a good dip in a flea bath.  We would meet in this ancient building that was set up like a cinema. Seating in those uncomfortable pull-down seats with wood that jabbed your ass bones for two and a half hours. And it was freezing in there. But my first views of Cocteau came from those sessions. The shock of Avant-gard in film style 

I liked the crudeness of the cinema and the old projector 

The class was about fifty students and seemed to fill the theatre 

But there was this one odd guy in my class that stood out to me because —I guess he looked in a vague kind of way, like me —if I were male, had brown hair and was tall; that is, he dressed like me (boots, ponchos, hats), wore his hair like me (shoulder length and long bangs to the side) and sat far in the back hiding in the shadows like me. Back then I was searching for characters for the film I was constantly working on, Bard provided an interesting variety of odd character influences. But this guy—his name was Sean—so even his name was close to mine and I found out his birthday was a day or two near mine. I was not infatuated, more fascinated. As I liked to explore details for my characters, I found out, by chance, things about him from friends who knew him; he was shy and introverted; preferred being alone and …..was obsessed with Jim Morrison 

As I grew up in the Netherlands, I didn’t know about too many American bands or the culture going on. 

So this is how I discovered Jim Morrison. Sean was a film major like me and, as it turned out, so had been Jim Morrison. I happened upon Jim Morrison’s poetry soon after reading No One Here Gets Out Alive—which is what saved me from killing myself after my rape and —surviving my out of body death experience— at school and so, you see….once reading Jim Morrison’s words— I was changed forever. If anyone was like a mirror, it was Jim. The Oedipal I recognized right away and his methods of hiding his secrets with Socratic riddles 

a deeply philosophical and literary intellectual who used a persona as his soapbox 

 il semble donc que vous ayez disparu:( 

….. et je me demande ce que ça veut dire. 

mais alors….  n'as-tu jamais été là ????

  Je crains que tu me manques assez 

here lies a poet. 

I can’t keep it up for much longer. what do I mean by that? it’s nothing deep; I’m just so exhausted and —so will I evaporate now…. ? it’s the first time I don’t care, without the pathos, truly 

but who was she before, 

you know? 

she never was. 

no, she never was, not ever. but on one side you have the world as it is now and then on the other, well….still, what to call it?identity; purpose; messenger ….misfit, maverick, maniac 

I am a master of reinvention so ….

who knows 

some silences are more deafening than others

why the rush now—? ….well, it is something about necessity and timing; but as things turned out, I never got to proofread before she sent it. some things I’m not happy about; some missing dialogue and bad transitions, and worst of all, and rather quite important; a lot of missed details in the intro; some necessary archetype-like images of the dictionary never made it from my notes…. but dictionary, we will never say about what bombs were falling when I was writing it ….if they only knew …..such as, right now, I am in the middle of a Doctor Zhivago lifenovel….and trying not to let it show 

So, the draft; a very rough diamond in the rough; maybe it requires much more chipping but so burnt on what I cannot write here about…. well, how final is a final draft? flies in the ointment smear clarity; bad first impression/anyway

….these are the worst days, so absolutely out of battery is it just out of habit I cling? as it is mission, it is also lifeline; now such a threadbare rope…. 

 il fait toujours le plus sombre juste avant …. dawn

 ja*

that damn witching hour

 

I could be Louise in the car sailing to my doom with Thelma as I write this from my phone 

but no, I am alone and contemplating that thought 

I know there is a flow between my “live work journey” as I alter it into drama as a living allegory; some is real, some isn’t but every detail has a point

So maybe what is happening now …. I should —turn it over to the dictionary for ….guidance because it guides in other ways as it maps the story —what about in real life?

well, darling…. it just always goes this way, doesn’t it? while I will not say, as is my way 

and instead use my drama and fiction….my symbols? my mythology? to say ….only I can’t —not now, no, I wish I could but I know one day if I make it out, that is; so camouflage —I mean, it is always something like this and now it is this and something else which is the cause of what is hampering the whole purpose of my life…. the project. It would be one thing if this was a new situation but no, it’s the same one that keeps happening ….Shit, Electra…. what to do…. And, if anything —it has allowed me —let me ….hit pause to think about my original purpose and intention; and why give that up….

it is the fragility of the artist ….I don’t think people quite understand 

if they are not also this way ….why does the individual turn to an altered place to think in; no—to BE in —the writer, the visual artist, the performing artist, musician, animator —any creator who works in another “realm”

it is —I suppose, a way to subjugate emotions or filter them through a kind of altered tonal landscape ….because it is safe

for some. I mean. Anyway. because it allows a release, it is a freedom to pretend it is not you at all …. it is not you at all

it is…. 

we paint a pretty screen

—it is you*

that is a form of intellectualizing those terrifying shadowy corners of mortal existence; this agonizing experience we live…. we think and feel and talk about what they gloss over and completely miss 

those people don’t live in this world and their world is filled with smog and pollution

I can’t live in their world.disasters everywhere, but there’s one that nobody can see; quietly, rupturing and burning; silently, and ….still people walk over them; they are just road kill to them. so tired of the people who prey upon —those; when they could have chosen not to

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

again and again 💋

 💋

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

diary; a year in reflection/the boomerang effect; some thoughts ….

lately, when I reflect back on this year, it seems to me it became the year in my life with the punctuation at the end of a very long Sentence. 

an exclamation point;! 

especially about people I have known from my past who have tripped back into my life 

but this time when I see them….

their masks fall off and their grotesque true facades show their fangs 

especially about chris…. these things it seems he has been saying about me, it is disappointing and it is childish. this is not the first time I have heard him say things, as it got back to me by other friends who thought I should know. 

it hurt too much to laugh. it only proved he has no honor and, well, I deserve better, so it just only proves he never saw me.

not everyone fits the mold of someone’s expectations so— and so what if I don’t need to care to? I don’t care —I realize now, it feels not worth my interest to believe it matters 

many years ago I met a psychic who told me things would happen in my life and this she did foretell; she said that the veils would drop away from all the people I have known and I would see them for who they truly are 

I did not understand then 

she said that after the experience I would emerge like from a chrysalis because I would be free of the lies and cleansed and it would fall away from me like soot and I would walk free 

it is only the pain of it all; the years of damage that can never be taken back; lost years with my daughter because of unnecessary poison born of spite ….I just really cannot let myself go there. 

I am a different person now from who ever I was when I’d play with her at the playground, she does not even remember so. what happens when you learn to shut off an emotion because you know it would destroy you? do I see truth? do I see my patterns? I do. and own them ….i think I wanted penance for crimes I never did. I kept getting caught up in people ….who reminded me of my mother ….and ended up doing what she did. tried to control me. and did. wound up being enslaved. alas oedipus —so, thus revealed 

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

🥀 donc j'en ai raté un autre

 

Je suis sûr que tu étais brillant. & je penserai à toi demain à 13h30.  naturellement! comment supporter cette injustice ?  il ne doit pas en être ainsi ! 

c'est la muse, en héros, qui donnera une voix à la sirène

 celui avec les yeux de vampire ;  avec leur beauté féroce et sauvage

threadbare rope

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

….tack

 Yay it’s done:) I just finished!!! just needs editing, I’m doing mental cartwheels as it’s the middle of the night 

 

même si je savais, bien sûr, mais je viens de réaliser….

seulement sept de plus ?  -et je ne vois pas un seul; c'est une grande tragédie:( 🥀

 💋tot zondag matinees 🎭

 🕳

 ❤️

 

as it is nearly done, you see, the stress of things has been too much lately; what is going on; what I won’t bother to say; fear is not great for focus —on this— it has made me feel like a lunatic as one presses fingers into ears to ignore atom bombs dropping —to finish her opus; and yet this is the only thing there is to grasp in the mudslide.

I spend the day with UN Jackson (yes, that’s code) as he has a way of putting calamity into perspective —well, it is his job after all, flying around the world …. how calmly he can tell me the terrifying things he’s seen —and yet always with heart

we spend Black Friday at an arboretum and we are the same suddenly as we were at 14 weeping on each other’s shoulders about things; like we did in the school hallways. He was the last person I ever expected to be there all through the years, listening to the disasters of my life; we were not exactly the two most likely to be friends —as he ran with the wild crowd

how weird it all is to me; this world; life; pandemic world and the stupid decisions you make because of the pandemic; it is the isolation and the horror over what dark dinosaur next emerges from within the human being ….I don’t think I learned the technique of desensitization ….except self-inflicted; the exception that makes the rule.

It seems necessary to at least go out in flames for me, so why not put everything into this madness that I have created/creating/amcreating— and be as bold as Jackson Pollock tossing paint at canvas from across the room. I suppose when you live on the edge it forces you to stop looking down ….electra, at the center of why it is because ‘it must be’—like some program in the mind, set off by some Beethoven chord long, long ago

It must be 

 

just one more scene left to do

 

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

 télépathique encore !….  le mien le ferait aussi

 ….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

side notes; a sketch for a sketch

Open to black and white of what at first appears like two silhouette, paper, cutout, mirror-reflections staring at each other; like a still image from a Busby Berkley film

the one on the right has a 1920’s flapper-like hairstyle and the other on the left wears a Gatsby hat; the two silhouettes stare at each other. 

From black and white, the tone changes to a deep, dark purple and for several beats, and frames, it stays like that before it softens to natural tones of shadows with surreal interruptions of tones caused by the lights from the city outside that spill and color their nearby shadows in a lunar blue; the blue glow reaches and illuminates their skin tones 

Like voyeurs watching we see  from slightly behind this view and slightly above looking down, the hand of the one wearing the Gatsby hat on the left, moves to touch the other, leans over and pushes the one with the flapper hairstyle back, and leans over in a deep kiss

it is awhile before the shadows make sense of the features and the shapes to distinguish who is the male until more light is introduced. 

the smooth, white, shiny satin that glows in the light worn by the flapper, cling to broad shoulders and the unmistakable outlines of well-built muscles as each acts out their role; a silent pact between them.

Until, both caught in the heat of this, the flapper decides to change tactics, and suddenly shifts position to the dominate position which, lends a kind of perversity with the shimmer of the satin chemise and the feminine elegance of his make up as his hair falls across her like a curtain, as the Gatsby hat gets tossed across the room 

which closes with an outline view of them through a keyhole as her hands are seen removing his chemise going up the muscles of his back 

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

 indeed (lol!)

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!)

dear e.d. …. of course it has been such a horrible time 

but so many other things make up for it …. 

and of course how am I even writing the script? —but then wasn’t it Rowling who was once so desperate she wrote HP all on toilet paper ….I have taken to over exercising to deal with the stress. but am not eating. I am upset all the time here and I get so scary thin, e.d., so just hope I don’t fall apart but you know, I have faith my work is going to pay off, I do believe in it as a work; it’s been all that I am since I can remember

….and I realize lately that as always, the dictionary is guiding me ….because that is how the journey began. I know I need to keep going. it is meant to take its complete form ….I trust it will show me the way 

but if it is about humanity, after all, seen through a philosophical artist’s lens then, I feel it must require an actual poke inside an excavation as odd as maybe it seems— what is this to do with art? but it does as the human story and I would be beyond thrilled to have that happen; 1) for the research 2) for the research (lol) 3) for the credibility of course 4) for the ideas 

I mean I always knew archeology would enter in —as related to the Elan/Raoul story; And even before —my obsession and fascination with bog people,

and it’s all there in the earth, isn’t it? 

a part of the history of a planet but —there is something about the tactile proof of its existence that causes one to feel a connection to their stories in such a personal dimension. But, I have had this feeling a while that —I think I am meant to find something because so—many other things have turned out ….accurate…. these thoughts along with —sitting alone in a room— get me through the tedium of the detail nail biting script writing ….and done on my phone …. while walking the highway for seven miles, and i suppose by now whether I like it or not I am used to living by the seat of my pants…. 

life is a cabaret…. J'aimerais être là

et apparaît toujours dans mes moments les plus désespérés

 

tack

 la télépathie

🥀c'est tragique;  mon coeur se brise a chaque fois🎭

* Hélas! pour le film noir!notes à un étranger

 curtain

🌹

 🎟🕳    

              

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 

 

I’d cross right over the intangible, 2amuse

 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)

the return of gamine

 

the freedom of hacking off pandemic hair— 

  shackles of weight released; like some rediscovery of artifacts found at an archeological excavation, long lost in antiquity

  so it begins again….  

        with this electra; reinvented 

searching….electra

 

Stepping back as the projectors eye 

I have thought over and over again lately why; what is this I so madly work at; like some marble sculpture that I never stop refining as it grows like vines new insights and it often feels like I am this student letting my story guide me as they come to me through those strange currencies ….does this babble help me figure it all out? I don’t think it was ever a choice to be this dharma philosopher caught up in this saga 

it just keeps ….evolving, going, and this won’t let me go, and look at me and the lengths it’s physically driven me to…. and all for…..this need to …. 

and just searching —in search of answers to the meaning of life, invested years of my life searching, writing, researching and ….still I want to know more —when I’m ‘supposed’ to be slowing down—as if? but I can’t —why does it chase me to keep at it, it is so a part of me I wonder…. and of which I am so entangled in. and maybe it is just that. (the lost Celf in search of the meaning of ‘Self’?)

 it is me and I am it and without it. I never was ….but no—it never really was about me, not as the body of its meaning, just the apparatus to perform this mad life I live ….it was always about ….meaning ….but no, it is even more than this too because it chases me, like I am its slave to ….create this or —no, it feels it is more I am merely its messenger and so what then is the message? humanity ….oh—so would you say it’s the eleventh hour? like I have any voice to speak (talk about voice, mermaid ….) and did our Greek masters think they needed to voice ….? (but I’m nobody, a mute mermaid) (shut tf up, do I care what anyone thinks anymore knowing the stupid things they think about?)(Don’t judge,bitch)

—should I question why? yes—because if I expect to sell it it requires me to question but to sell it requires to forget why and sell it to the lowest common denominator. should I judge? well, the Vikings would not require me to whore —why question why ….because I’m like some mad scientist riding a blind horse at full speed with no reigns I sometimes think—and purely because it feels “it must be” 

 

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 

 

💐🎭

  ….J'aimerais être là,:(

sick and tired of everything; notes à un étranger*

 

somewhere in the crowd 

tente ta chance

that’s all I ask of you honey.                 d.

*that’s been decoded🔍🦇

 throwing myself into script as it gets me out of here e.d., adjusting location —it actually makes better sense in Stockholm…. but first it opens in Amsterdam —now so much adjusting 

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….”

 

the timing of things, the pressure now, with things gone into motion; to complete draft ep. 1, synopses & presentation and so—of all times it is now that, after almost seven years —I hear from my daughter….

4th Edit— backstory analysis dissecting the freud complex in regards to explaining the purpose of Greta and why in a personality ‘contradiction’ (first broad attempt)

~my asides to delete later~

as I explaine/define why I choose to focus on hidden issues within aspects of identity and sexuality as the role of this subconscious conflict  

so in one layer of identity is the confusion of rights/existence/self—but of course there was and remains another issue of self and identity. with Freud he offered me an intellectual insight —for all the attacks of criticism he gets; I have to disagree because I recognized everything; how he explains the Oedipal/Electra complexes saved my life when I was first studying psychology many years ago. I researched him vastly as his words offered the first clues to my inner and most awkward confusions that I just never could tell anyone about …. 

 what does someone do with all this poison; it has consumed me for so long and I know it will kill me; I need to get it out of me and put it into something like art; like hope…. maybe even to be a beacon as it cannot be all for no purpose 

….this confusion over gender that as well—this ….too, as I have written here; it was connected to my sister’s twisted nature in other areas; to tell anyone; to ask anyone about this….? But worse —really, for a child, to ask what is wrong with me? nobody talked about such things and …. gender…. girl or boy….? what it says on the birth record is what you are so….

so what does that mean when the little Hitler in training shares the childhood bedroom and nursery with you? every night and every morning, 

things like 

“something happened —you were supposed to be a boy and they don’t like to talk about it but —you’re not a real girl but nobody says….I won’t tell our friends but now you have to give me all your Christmas candy!”

a normal little girl?

I know how insane it sounds to adult knowledge. But then, I know from studying for my degree there have been such cases and are such cases and more than we realize in many different umbrella spectrums of this —which I suppose has always existed in our species but our current culture is only now having it blasted with this revelation— often and more often than not— an individual may not have the text book outline of characteristics of their gender ….she —my sister, for instance…. cited that as proof I was really a boy, why did I like toy cars more than dolls?—and why did I want to only play with boys and be a cowboy (and play with toy guns which I only got to do over at my boy-friends houses). to a child her reasoning terrified me. yes, I liked boys and and emulated them and I loved their gadget toys and did not like dolls at all nor girls nor their stupid games….and this is the link connected crux, somehow; no I did not want to marry daddy ever; did not want to be reduced to whore as I suppose I thought he treated her; my mother….as and I cared for her, I idolized her and worshipped her….mother—dear electra, 

so…. to say as mirror 

    this is ….or….

would be to —examine roles; the acceptance he offers her without having to say a word; to be released….ultimately, in theory—to heal so…. it is an experiment of what can be said when the gender roles are reversed —but not to perversion;

 this idea of a character …. ‘he’s a man who is comfortable and able to be both masculine and feminine’ without the requirement to denounce his masculinity 

which—is the opposite of ….well, what Electra was able to be behind the screen of her mythologies and legends 

to examine in order to set up the explanation of purpose of ….how, in one way, a rejection from the father and the confusion of self’s gender gets inverted into your personal sexuality; so of course my personal appetite would have been formed into something rather near impossible to find —in satisfying— these particular emotional and sexual aspects…. to work realistically in finding anyone; with the majority of possible partners in society, to fill this kind of role?— near impossible 

 

more thoughts of identity in my search for a self 

There are so many innate things that have contributed to the need to search for who I am/existence which….

I realize to any outsider may think ludicrous but

no, I was not sure I existed during most of my younger life

as I was a shadow of my sister in my family. She had rights. I did not. This was different among company. The acts changed. But between day and time at home with them I had little in the way of rights. I was different than other little girls I knew about in the manners I was treated by parents. I was tolerated. I was a show piece. I was an ugly reminder. The acts changed. I waited for my cues. 

Am I hungry? I never knew because I was always with stomach aches and ulcers before I was ten. So she ate out of my plate first before I got what was left. He’d watch and wink at her. Do —I—exist? I’d wonder. Because my mother, where was she? She was on the phone talking to her mother and tying her apron. You don’t know growing up if things should be different until you see other people. I saw as soon as my first day at school that I was not like other children with their family.

I was a shadow member

In public I got attention because of my red hair. I never noticed it myself and I was surprised to see people so happy looking at me. It was nice but confusing. But I found to strangers ….I was no shadow 

It was this way older at school. But young, I never spoke and I hid and kept to myself. Looking back I know today teachers would have spotted the signs but nobody did back then. My quietness was rewarded at school. I came home with gold stars on little papers. That wound up in the trash. Her gold stars were framed and put on the wall

did I exist?

sometimes? 

why am I treated worse than the pet at home? I would wonder over and over ….what did I do? why am I bad?

so I suppose part of my identity has to do with knowing: you are a shame; so guilt and the feeling of not deserving …. food, clothing, shelter ….air….did I exist? days at home nobody ever spoke to me…. except for our black maid Annie, who I loved and talked to every day after school. I learned a lot from her. I existed and mattered to her…. she always addressed me “Miss” and my name. it made me feel special instead of ‘bastard’ which is the name he picked for me. with two prefix adjectives attached 

I saw fathers adore their daughters. but mine offered me a selection of Bally belts to pick as my beating instrument ….who am I? as each blow hit my skin—stings and burns until you decide to go out the door in your head to that ….other place

who am I…. do I exist and do I deserve rights ….why am I here?

And I not prepared to face a world to find out how …..to stand up for my own rights without the awareness of what they should be. Candide out in the world with a kick me sign 

but I had something I guess that got me to survive it all 

not sure what it was but it is wrapped up in discovering and inventing that Electra ….inside 

and the faces like shields I created to keep the world from coming in….those rooms; observatories to note the day and allow the bows and arrows to deflect off my thickly created skinned masks ….we….went further inside but not to share the beauties and wonders and thoughts with a mark ….. the dictionary in the cave is the cryptic symbol left behind like some Rosetta Stone 

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 

ydy, mae'r olygfa honno'n mynd yn y gyfres.  sut ydych chi bob amser yn darllen fy meddwl?

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

more e.d. ramblings 

there are some things I could never say in the blog. either it is because these things cannot be said in words by me or because there seemed no way to write it as if it is a diary …. 

like our Viking’s backstory —I know his story but it was just not meant to be put in my blog. I don’t blame you to wonder did I make it up? No. It was all there as soon as I stumbled across him in my dreams …. I have only found out recently that most people don’t seem to dream the kinds of dreams I have which —I didn’t know (saga dreams? fully illustrated immersive children book dreams? no? is it a wild imagination?)

….and as well—it is not possible to explain why I say it should be Oedipus’ dictionary, nor why when I say he is the mirror. It would be much easier to say this in a scene with him dressed like Greta that relied heavily on provocative suggestion but not to sexually exploit as there would be another reason to do this scene which —if you really paid attention you would notice I have skirted the crux of the issue of the neurosis and because of its very awkward nature to the author it’s always made sense to do it in a scene with no dialogue 

e.d. note:

 

That scene at the piano when he hears her playing

so maybe season 1 should end the moment he realizes she’s playing the notes of the code

footnote & asides, hashing thoughts of….

(more passing thoughts of….)

there’s too much for thirteen episodes. so much would be cut. so, it occurs to me between 2019 till 2021 is more like three seasons. so a trilogy of ‘the safe’? three levels of divine comedy….so I guess, then ‘the Will’ I’ve begun would actually begin fourth season ….but actually, this way, would allow the story telling not to be rushed and would give more time to build the symbols and develop characters with more opportunities to experiment with mood and imagery and allow the possibility for the body of work to become its own identity 

footnotes for e.d.

 

I am not at all attached to any particular city the story opens in—it does not have to be New York, it can be nearly anywhere; Amsterdam, London, Paris, Stockholm— it just must be a somewhat international and cosmopolitan place that has a symphony orchestra and would be a natural habitat for spy games. I can adjust the plot around it; adjust the infamous and notorious illegitimate father’s political background and life causes 

today’s morass (edited)

as I talk to mm about the scenes and the story she says,

“those flashback scenes; the story of the Viking and duva, —you know, his battle scenes, their journey on the boat—it’s so important to the story….but you know, for it to be done right it ….will be expensive….”

so I think about that

to create modern mythology it really must be perfectly staged —and I am such a perfectionist about what I am trying to say, it’s quite mad I realize—and, I am crazy, we have established —a mad philosopher/artist and I can’t help it, I won’t rest till I do this only…. she is right. so how do I pander myself if this is what is required? 

….popular genre, love story, struggles with modern day themes of identity

 —I don’t think I’d be required to pander —plus there is the tongue in cheek James Bond storyline—but in my noir world which ….is a bit fucked up—but that can be fun…. especially when he dresses dresses like Greta (but that would require no dialogue and subtlety of angles and shadow to convey the mirror/with the secret he stands for) …. I could spend a month on the storyboards alone …. like the scenes at the piano and the shadows on the wall ….but so many scenes to get through…. and an adhd mind with a plethora of thoughts constantly cramming every idea

Hitchcock noir and horizontal blinds (to refer to the parallels of the lives)…. odd angles from down the hall and the triangle of light from a single lamp …. too many details? see, I don’t know when to stop

monsters in the closet

sometimes I get the feeling it is the need to distract from so much pain so, I just make myself do outrageous things …. otherwise I would go back to what I used to do…. I think that’s why I keep running but—you know, I can’t run away from it because…. it is—in here 

 [desperate hour/to delete later]

thoughts of the legend ‘project e.d.’

 

E….

MM tells me to come up with the final rough draft scripts for thirteen episodes so the synopses can be completed ….while D has me practicing horrors drawn of my life in monologues as I wonder over his point in my doing this 

….as I begin the mammoth work of breaking things down into thirteen episodes, dragging myself, I think about an earlier conversation last week —as we discuss approaches forward, funding, possible theatre house ideas…. and whilst discussing money, agents, etc R tells me that someone has showed interest in E.D. and said they wanted to do it but —we’d have to get funding— of course —never! —as it is my project! 

he says I should take it as a good sign my film concept is a good idea (but I knew that) 

then later as we chat, he suddenly tells me that he has just realized he knows someone in the Swedish symphony who might know ~him; yes that would be interesting, I think

&, no I could not just see it once, I’d have to go back again and again 

notes from a crypt

 det verkar tragiskt jag kan inte se det.  som jag kan se skulle du göra en så sexig demon

thoughts on a Celf left on the shelf

 

in this whole theatre of mine 

….. it is all about …..this searching for meaning 

                                              But even more, sometimes it is also about identity ….

How many times as a child did I have to reinvent myself whenever we moved….changing schools; peer pressures, bullies…. new mask, new shield ….a kind of artistry to it but…. you get so lost in there

I stumble over —what do I call myself 

and return to Electra as the natural conclusion 

born of illegitimate secrets and a pinned on name that was never my own that …. I could not wait to discard it…. then each name I hence acquired by marriage carried their heavy shackles but …. 

what’s in a name?

and so, yet again

 —a rose by any other name….

and…. 

am I not who I created after all? by intention or weird fortune this Frankenstein born of unheard of sums of algorithms…. but then so aren’t we all ?

never simplify 

maybe I am just a satire with its own natural conclusion 

 

so it seems I can still stop traffic —for boys in muscle cars. 

or maybe it’s my h&m shorts 

“hey baby,” out the window at me 

I think I have found my director. we studied theatre together. like a century ago

 I could have guessed yours would be from Cabaret

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.”

Thoughts of the Electra project

 

was just thinking it would be such a cool idea to shoot the scenes of Electra’s dictionary inside a performing arts theatre. I was imagining making the sets so real that it looks like realistic interiors. So the opening shot could start with someone stepping up with a camera or some kind of movie lens that would go from outside the street into the theatre and then you enter the theatre of Electra’s world where it looks Hitchcock film noir and the music would be Beethoven 

I thought that each inner theatre of the building would hold different settings 

and then those reflective moments would be sat outside this theatre and without reference to why, it suggests the narrators thoughts behind the scenes within her world; contained inside this theatre ….while writing into the phone these thoughts on the search for life’s answers 

well—it’s an interesting concept to me as I’d not thought of it till just now but, that could work —especially to portray symbolic themes 

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

notes from behind a screen

 (work prep notes&selfpsycho-therapy….)

The life is the work and the art bears it’s reflection; this is why I put my footnotes across the story

it tells another layer to the story, does it not?

Like Boccaccio’s Decameron with layers of stories within stories and since the purpose of the work is meant to grow with the artist as she grows, the work is colored by the new experience 

I once tried to tell this to MM years ago at first I said to think of it as a mobile with various universes dangling together …. and within each to cut a cross section ….and each holds meanings to life —told in a drama; that was the documentation of the artist narrating the study of a story to search for what is ‘our purpose’ and the meanings of life…. and for the purpose of the study using a form of scientific method, use myself as example on a guided tour of my inner world 

told ….

through my codes

This deep morass 

~how much is real and how much fiction …. ? of course the surprise would be how much is not fiction; not to announce my life story~

Dwi angen ti.  Nid wyf yn iawn

llongddrylliad emosiynol

a gwrando ar y ddwy gân ABBA newydd…. pam ydw i'n crio mor galed?

 

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