Stranger notes; the petrified touch/Electra’s dictionary

 

“I want to know something,” he says now, but then he pauses as if not sure how to say, “.....what was your first impression.... your first reaction  or ....sense.... that first day in the lobby ....?”

our last phone call had ended abruptly like the time before with Willem 

....but my mind has been in some kind of dark bog; tangled up with painful and agonizing emotions about life. and need. raw emotion ....I don’t know.... and maybe he suspects the mudslide ....it is too far within and under it to .... be able to get out of it.... not the kind of terror people talk about ....ever; like being on an island surrounded by colossal dinosaurs breathing fire and slime at you with just a boggy pit as the only escape and out there in the vast ocean is a lost path where your heart is still bonded to because so is everyone who once mattered 

“What?” I say as I forget the question 

“I saw the look in your eyes,” he says 

Then remember the question,

“look? What do you mean....?” 

“You looked at me like you recognized me,” he says now; his voice low, it is almost a whisper 

I remember now,

“yes,” I say seeing it in my mind again 

“Did you think you knew me?”

It is only a second that I resist this. Between his question and the heaviness of the inky black bog wrapping its cape to seal out the air I ....go there instead 

“Why have you not ever mentioned these things before?” I ask him

or is it the safety of not having to face me that makes it possible to 

“Just answer,” he says

“Yes....”

“You did ....” he says but he seemed to already know 

So why do I choose the darkest corner on the floor to sit down in now..... and press my face into the curved wall and say into the phone,

“....but it wasn’t until that time in your kitchen when—“

“you took the cup,” he finishes my thought 

and then I am back there again in that moment,

“then it was like I ....knew.... it connected to the other ....things.... the dreams and then it felt like I had been expecting it.”

“So what was your first thought?”

His question is so strange now as so much time has gone but it seems some things are always,

“why do you ask me this now, Jörn? Is it because what I’m going through and you know I’m—“

“Please answer,” he says

“You go from never mentioning any of this and now with everything going on you choose now to bring this up—I don’t understand, is there something more dangerous happening that you feel forced to?”

“Just answer.”

“He came back for me,” I blurt out

“Wha—“ he stops himself in mid-syllable. The strange silence of the mobile phone dead-air nearly eclipse the conversation. 

was the call dropped ....?

until I hear his long exhale of breath, like he had been holding it in somehow and I guess then .... gives me courage to say what I never got to tell him until now,

“.... it was a strange chill that began like a tap on the shoulder and then took over and with it, like, the blinders came away ....even as it makes no sense.... it makes every sense.... that is ....what it felt like.... since you ask me this ....now.”

And I think now suddenly of what he said last time.... ‘I shouldn’t have left you there....’ and recognize the parallels 

where the catacombs go; e.d.&mynoirmuse

“The days are bright and filled with pain

Enclose me in your gentle rain

The time you ran was too insane

We'll meet again, we'll meet again....” 

                                                           —lyrics Jim Morrison ‘the Crystal Ship’

https://youtu.be/rbulIrN4scs

It is no wonder I never noticed the other entrances, designed this way, obviously with the intention to be invisible to anyone who did not know where they exist. Besides that the lighting is not so good in the distillery dungeon, there really are no visible clues nor signs that would reveal that they are there nor hints where they hide. As well, there is no consistency to the underground’s structure of cellar floors and walls, curving around in a tomb-like catacomb maze; nothing to suggest there are underlying secret passageways; hidden openings; secret latches disguised by bricks, camouflaged cracks in the walls; no trace at all of any entrances to secret tunnels.

And after the phone call that abruptly ended, leaving me with more questions.... and the vodka for company ....I spend a few hours reading through Jörn’s emails....  

Where he explains about and exactly where the tunnels go.....some go on for miles....

and lead to exits above ground that then lead to roads and highways through a cover of woods and forrest —yet .... to my amazement ! other shorter tunnels lead simply to parts something like ordinary rooms of a kind of house. And I discover from this, sleeping chambers with en suites —a sauna— and—guess what else? a gym that would not be hard to imagine who thought of this addition so— a complete underground bunker dwelling that only makes sense seen this way through these complexities of blueprints that read somewhat like maps 

But it is the discovery of the en suites in the blueprints which has me quickly quite interested and suddenly find myself avidly and aggressively searching for the way in and after some time of studying all of these I take to search to explore to find these nether regions. 

It seems this more domestic part of the underground is west of the stairs where I remember Jörn had been trapped with the bats when I had found him compromisingly dressed in drag. And, according to the blueprints, there is a shallow man-made pond outside above, sealed by plexiglass beneath the pond to let in daylight and solar heat, serving too as a kind of skylight.... wow, daylight; it’s been so long 

It is tricky to find the brick that hides a coded keypad to the doorway down and after the frustrating search for the opening and several rereads of the map, and, about an hour later, take my phone with me to open the email and save myself the trouble, it finally reveals itself. And while it would not win awards for interior decorating for any home magazine, it has a certain charm that I think would have appealed to Tolkien, with its rounded interior walls that look like white stucco but are smooth and reflects the daylight and the wide round bed of the first chamber neatly situated right under the skylight. Here the quiet takes on the peacefulness of a monastery and it seems to be somehow heated from beneath the floor.

Because I am curious, I search for the other chambers that seem to let out from here; another bedroom, this one with bunk beds and then a kind of old library or den with vintage leather bound books, a pool table and an ancient looking pinball machine and a jukebox with very outdated music ....Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes and the Beatles ‘Help’ 

yeah .... I get the ‘Help’ 

But it is the bathtub that captures my undivided attention as all the taps actually work and after a rinse of it, is clean enough to use and don’t waste too much time before trying it out discovering that here too there had been particular attention to detail; I find bath oils infused with patchouli, bergamot, eucalyptus and lily of the valley that —are not vintage but like the honey and cacau, obviously are rather newer additions 

Still, I go back up to hunt through Cabaret shipments in search of fresh clothes to ad hoc my current lacking wardrobe, although most articles I find are not exactly my personal taste, I raid the shipment boxes on the conveyor belt for whatever I may improvise.

And long soaking in a sunken tub made of cement but surprisingly smooth inside, it is quite sometime later before I leave it, glad to be clean and human again and wrapped in a boudoir burgundy velvet robe. The round bed, an interesting place to throw myself upon, looking up at the odd glow through the plexiglass, when shocking the silence all around the hobbit tomb, my now fully charged phone alerts a call 

“Hello?” I sit up

“I shouldn’t have left you there,” he says, and his bewildering, tactile voice pervades me

“Jörn....” 

and then nothing else seems to follow but a very long and tense agitated pause; just strained dead silence follows. I hear him awkwardly clear his throat.... and ....it dimly starts to occur to me that he is trying to apologize. 

Without the presence of him and just the sound of his voice —after so many weeks, the effect it leaves on me washes over like an avalanche I could not have prepared for 

“Duva?”

But I don’t know what to say

“Are you there?” he asks 

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me?” and again, it washes over me and yet it is also what I hear in it, something different I never heard and am not prepared for

“I heard you,” I say

“—it just sounded like the call got dropped....” he curses under his breath to himself in Swedish ....but I find I am shaken by something even there in this that I can hear that I never have; it is something in the subtle nuance of his tone and he says it again, “I shouldn’t have left you there....”

more thoughts from the dungeon

this lengthy un-wellness that drags on and on gets to the mind.... is it just what this sickness does to the cells and emotions? I wonder has it reshaped the dna in those ways for the future archeologists to hypothesize about 

what do you think the world will look like —if ever let from the cage? 

I have found that lately I have long wondered over. 

will I recognize civilization well enough to want to dare ever rejoin it .... whatever would induce me to 

This world; once did I long to see more of it but weary now of things long lost and things transpired

The world and the madness of its inhabitants has lately made no sense to me

I just don’t know

Only, there must still be things left to believe

....and dare 

if only to know

as ever was before does it now remain emphatically yes, ever, more still....

 

for all that I am

Noir cave reflection/e.d.&muse

“Someone’s coming, we have to end the call,” Willem says and the call suddenly ends

and for awhile it seems I just sit there in the desk chair in some kind of stunned state of mind ....still holding the phone a long time later. still staring at nothing but thoughts inward. Alone, can at times, be a sentence but then, there is one advantage as it has often the benefit of removing  all the superfluous distractions that come with noise 

and at the moment, even if overwhelmed in chaotic thoughts, am aware there seems to be a bigger picture .... that I never saw with new factors I had not considered at all and blow my mind, what comes now as after shock of what Willem implied —my grandfather? 

And after quite awhile I do get up from the chair but it seems a task I force myself to do ....my world again seems to be crumbling.... these cave walls....

in a daze walk through the isles of the conveyor belts. The winding machinery, follow the curving isles that have now become familiar, to find some small corner to hide from spying eyes.... and again, not for the first time wonder —who is there to trust. Those rose colored glasses, blinders long peeled away and swapped by a sharp shooter’s optic lens

.... long past naïve, like some tarnished fairy tale 

My grandfather ...? Did he hire Willem ....? —to protect me from my father

and as I reflect am drawn back to the cage

I find my eyes are drawn to stare now at all the places where I last saw Jörn.... and can conjure him in my mind to see him standing there .... there—looking at the monitors, analyzing documents, pacing from the cage and back to the conveyor belts 

and as I search those empty spaces now I find it makes me sad

I go back to the under part of the stairs and consider my cardboard bed a moment as if to hide away from spying eyes

but then unlatch the hidden doorway and go back down slowly and let myself take it all in again now thoughtfully as I weigh it with the perspective of what Willem said

....it does explain what Jörn has been up to on all those long jogs 

and what seemed like hours of disappearing ....clearly he has been very busy.... I think as I stop to look at the golf cart thoughtfully ....

So it occurs to me to wonder if this must mean that the octopus arms all connect to the same center somehow? —secret doors? secret walls? secret stairs ....

I would suspect as this section of the limb would not really require a golf cart 

And now decide to understand the layout of what is here and walk around it now

It is all neatly laid out with a practical use of space, I discover, and find another doorway at the bend of grocery isles that leads to a small kitchen area for cooking and washing, with table and chairs. 

I had not noticed this before. 

And, locating tea bags, a cup and a kettle.... sit down with a cup of tea and .... reflecting, think of Jörn.... 

it seems ever since he has crossed my path I am being forced to look deeply at all my own truths.... and I wonder if it is maybe because he is the only one who has ever truly seen me 

 

a lapse of thought in a passing moment 

 

dictionary ....do we sometimes hang from a thread of a threadbare rope by just one desperate thought? 

 

this one seems to hang me like a noose to acknowledge 

 

it is not so much the differences that separate but the destitute of ever knowing acceptance. I wish I understood why the safe choices in life never seemed to be choices I could sustain and why they did not seem to fit nor apply

and I so do wish, as I often have so desperately at times wished it so —to be the kind of someone that could 

have I wished for too, for that rare unknown; to be fully understood and utterly accepted at least by one such someone and this clause does hang the balance as it is not possible to occupy a life unwilling to be faithful to this essential truth.... clearly, dictionary, it does seem this life’s lesson~to endeavor to learn to relinquish the need, with it all needs and accept with grace to aspire to find the power in order to do so 

The noir call scene continued ....

 

“How did Willem know about what number to call?” I force out the question fast not wanting to be intimidated and hoping to get some answers now 

“How did Willem know....?” Jörn repeats 

“How is he involved?” I ask

“Duva....” but here in just two syllables I hear it —Jörn’s voice changes —it is in the silence that I hear it somehow, I don’t know how but it seems I ....feel....hear....like I can hear his thoughts somehow—without uttering a sound but it is there and there—again even in the subtle way he clears his throat as if to stall, too, for thought ....yes, and even though I know I hear it— I ignore it.... don’t trust it or somehow ....it is just doubt 

and then he says,

“‘how is he involved’—duva, ask yourself....” 

and it is there again ....in his silence 

He sighs,

“he is here if you would like to ask him.....”

And I hear Willem’s voice in the background say something 

“He’s there? where are you exactly?” I ask

But now it is Willem who I hear,

“hi, old friend,” he says in his heavy Dutch accent, “it’s Wil, glad you called the number —we were starting to worry.”

“Can you tell me what is going on?” I ask him

“They want the code, what do you think?” Willem says simply 

“The guy in the ski mask?”

“You mean one of the guys,” Willem corrects me, “they are still there. They’ve surrounded the house. They’ve been watching. They had been watching you for days so ....they knew that you were there ....maybe they think you are hiding somewhere if not in the barn-house maybe in one of the other buildings. We’ve seen from the cameras. They have been camping there for days. These people don’t give up when they know they are on to something,” he says.

“On to something?” I ask, “you mean on to me?—is that what you mean?”

“You have the code. They know that.”

“How do they know that?” I ask, “I didn’t know I had the code— not really! I don’t understand how they could know that—I mean until recently I .... but I don’t know it! I swear, I don’t know! But —if they believe I know it—Willem, what will they do?”

“Don’t ask that question, I don’t think you want to know how they get this stuff out of people— we won’t let it happen, ja? ....but until one of us can get there you are safe where you are— there is no record of the underground base—nobody would know its existence — which is why it is important you stay there. Not that you could leave in that snow storm.”

—Snow storm? What is happening on the surface?—

“Until one if you gets here?” I ask, “where are you guys? You said in your email that Jörn has been detained—what did you mean ‘detained’?”

“It’s to do with —some government policies ....they don’t approve of some —well, certain things; you know red tape and so ....”

“Is that why he hasn’t tried to call or reach me?”

“If they knew he was in touch with you they .... he is trying to protect you —but they would go after you too, which is why he wants them to think things have ended with you —they took his mobile to check for your calls —“

“To check for —my— calls? They? Who is they? This is who—government? Whose?  or —who are we talking about? —you can’t tell me they think I’m involved in international espionage or —Willem— are you both being held in some kind of governmental custody or whatever they call it? I mean—and if Jörn hasn’t got his phone, how is he watching the cameras?”

Willem laughs,

“you really have no idea about his work, do you? You want to know what is going on. I don’t blame you as you are somewhat now at the center of things .... look, what you need to know is—this goes back to a long time ago—I mean years ago....”

“You mean when I first met you in The Hague....?”

“I mean the Cold War. Your father— well, one of them—well , actually, both....”

“Both....” I repeat in a daze as something he said triggers something else in my memory,

“Willem— when we first met I was still in high school but you seemed to know details unrelated to any of this; things about me and my family, my grandfather.... why?”

“mijn oude vriend, who do you think hired me to protect you?” 

the scene continues/the phone call

“You can fucking lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think— skit! Duva! Herregud! are you that fucking obtuse?”

Jörn!

... I was really expecting Willem  

so, for a drunk-ish moment I am misfiring 

I have to say out loud,

“Jörn?” into the phone 

 just to be sure as .... it’s been awhile ....since ....I have actually heard —much— from him 

as if at all, but who’s keeping track? 

“I thought you were Willem,” I say .... because I am not prepared for ....Jörn —and stall for words of what to even say 

I sink into the desk seat still feeling the affects of that proof .... and have to unzip my hoodie feeling suddenly feverish .... sorry now for my cloudy ability to ....

“I see you’ve found the vodka,” I hear him say, and so it is his voice into my ear that seems to bewilder the senses with its distinct, dry potency 

much like slow-mo, I look up at the cameras and realize I’m under his microscope 

more tunnel vision (e.d.&jmChr)

 

It seems the tunnels go like the arms of an octopus with the distillery catacombs as its center, and as I look at the first diagram in Jörn’s email, at this odd underground labyrinth it seems to be much more then just some prohibitionist’s wild idea

and because I’m too dizzy with hunger to really have the mental ability to figure this all out just now, I search instead for which of the octopus arms is where I might find some kind of bunker’s rations ..... 

of all ironies it turns out the hidden latch to that one is located right under the stairs where I have been sleeping.... and as I search for the opening and latch I find it, just at shoulder level for me, feel the metal ring hidden in the molded curve of the under part of the step and —when it’s pulled it reveals ..... yet another staircase.... down

All pristine white; like descending through the gates of heaven from a dungeon 

And then it is like entering a kind of warehouse but the walls are concave, like a tunnel but wide, wide enough to ....fit golf carts ..... because I see one down here parked in a far corner and —it looks suspiciously new but, in contrast, the “fall out shelter” signs do not ....I would hazard to guess 1950s, possibly? ....which could have been when the architect did some of his own home DIY updates 

but interrupting my curiosity I suddenly notice an entire shelf of jars of clover honey and—beneath, an entire shelf of containers of powdered cacau—hmm .....but too hungry to care to process the meaning.... then see popcorn cornels and then, among this, notice other selections; rice, quinoa .... and it only begins slightly dimly to register that these items seem suspiciously hand-picked and as if tailored to my personal favorites: unsweetened sunflower seed butter.... wasabi.... ginger tea, almond milk.... but in the end, just opt for the trail mix, as it requires far less prep time. 

And then it is when I am halfway through a package of tortilla chips that I start to notice other interesting things ....as I walk through the mini grocer isles and, glad now, having had something to coat my stomach as I notice bottles of liquor; distillery indeed— as I notice now, Swedish imported vodka, of course.... “yeah, very funny, Jörn,” I say this out loud in irritation 

but then—

drinking alone — ? never good, I think to myself—and stop to consider ....

but then, I think the situation calls for it....

But, no glasses ....but do I care? and sit myself down on the concrete floor with one of the bottles

and after two and a half swigs .... maybe more, not sure exactly

appreciate the architecture of the ceiling and slide down to look up at it ....introspectively philosophical.... which, actually, in the end, allowed for the voice of reason —as I’d completely forgotten about my phone when I started to wonder again ....when it occurred to me ....that I wanted to look up how much this stuff cost by the volume? —and thought then of Google 

Although, find it is far harder to go back up the stairs then it was to go down, forcing slightly more sober thoughts to illuminate 

and when I reach the desk to grab my phone to find the email with the phone number to dial —before I even have to, my phone comes alive with an incoming call ....by the number 

Jörn’s email

 

Only, I must not be thinking right, I find this makes almost no sense to me ....and now sitting here in the chair staring at the screen I think I must have confused some words .... for awhile I cannot seem to sort it out.... maybe I must have misread the letters and seen the wrong words.... as my head is so cloudy it seems ever harder to focus and try to think through cottonball brain morass to decipher his meaning .... it seems he implies Jörn may be with him .... 

I drop my face into my hands and lean forward closing my eyes, what does this mean....?

Jörn is on a mission with him.... 

I think again about my dream of Amsterdam .... I think about the Dutch windmill builder who made the safe and wonder if these things are related 

I find in a quick instant I get lost in memories I’d not thought of for a long time during my years in the Netherlands ....such odd things .... like.... the time I’d mistakingly got caught in a violent crowd that turned out, to my misfortune, to be an anti-American demonstration, or when I would be followed by uniformed policemen and all the police would ever ask was if my father was working for the CIA, only, it was never really said like a question 

.... and the first time meeting Willem at the Dugout bar in The Hague when he told me he worked for Dutch intelligence and I didn’t believe him until he told me things about my family —my grandfather .....he could not otherwise have known and ..... so many other strange occurrences during the years I was there. It was the Cold War back then 

but.... why does it feel there is something I am missing about this.... something I knew ....some things I knew ....

and like those other things forgotten .... like where those crumbs were leading away from 

With sudden urgency I search back for Jörn’s emails and find the ten he sent. Willem said instructions .... 

I find the first one he sent:

Duva—    

When you charge your phone call the number below, it is a secure line.

Stay where you are.

I’m going to send you some useful and important information about the bunker such as where you will find food and supplies. My following emails will have a map of each tunnel and where they lead and the things I need you to do.

There is a phone charger in the mini bar drawer

Call the number when it’s charged

—J

   ....I read it a few times as its meanings gradually takes hold. 

I get up from the chair and find my dead phone on the desk by the invoices of the last orders I’d done, where it’s been since I got down here. 

I go to the ‘mini bar’ with its unassuming factory chrome and bolts that blend with the cage decor that I hardly ever noticed it before camouflaged as it is

I find the phone charger buried among some interesting and very old looking tools but waste no time plugging my phone in and then remember what he said about food and go back to the emails 

Willem’s reply; e.d/noir

 

I find Willem’s reply buried between spam and almost scroll right past it

He writes:

I was surprised to see your email as we were not sure if there was a problem with the internet. 

Let me assume your reference of a mutual acquaintance is who I think and say that he has been just as concerned you have not followed the instructions in his emails to you. He has been detained.

If you have been concerned—the number is a safe line to call. 

Please remain where you are, don’t be creative,

Wil

he comes to me in dream (e.d., muse/noir/jmchronicles)

 

“can you give me sanctuary

I must find a place to hide

a place for me to hide

can you find me soft asylum

I can't make it anymore

the man is at the door....”

 —the Soft Parade ‘Doors’ song lyrics by Jim Morrison 

and I guess it is about meaning and life’s meaning 

what all philosophers and poets search to find and while the philosopher may need to have answers, 

well, for the poet ....like the artist, it is about another quest 

that it should follow me here to my dungeon .... in my search for higher knowledge and purification on a project begun long, long ago even begun before ever leaving the step of my high school

but now, it seems I’m lost, and with it any belief and faith there is any point to what I do or ever believed and have fallen into a pit

dictionary, these writings on the wall 

never have I felt so empty 

***

it must be so long resisting sleep, it seems I sink deeper into subconsciousness and deeper under into ....like here, within my corner of the world to hide in a separate peace 

in exhausted sleep in dream.... 

I see the hut and I am there again.... how many nights of this memory have I dreamed? the smeden and the forge, his back bare and slick ....in dream have seen replayed to me; have stared and watched .... watched the muscles of his back and how they hypnotize.... his fingers, their skill.... the way he moves ....his rhythm and timing as he hammers the blade, the force of the sound that he makes as the metal hits, the gold of his hair alive in the light of the forge 

and the shapes of the shadows on the wall ....

until what seems peaceful, steady, un-quiet becomes the silent forbidding dread when a shadow falls across the threshold that swings an ax with a bloodcurdling battle cry 

It is when in my dream I hear, 

“duva!” and suddenly wake up 

and sit bolt upright

 —but— upon waking.... realizing he’s not there 

....then, become aware that I feel exhausted and unwell and— as I attempt it, find it difficult to stand up, as, somehow I feel more exhausted now then before .... and wonder again, still confused, how many days has it been.... ? —so long preoccupied with anxiety and pacing the perimeter of the dungeon floor —but now suddenly, painfully, my stomach starts to growl as I manage to finally get up from the cardboard ‘bed’. The room starts to spin around me; I take a moment and grip the staircase above to steady me and then manage to stumble to the cage to ....check for emails

 

Noir symbolic dream

 

And so, when I do fall asleep .... I have such disturbing dreams 

.....dictionary I write for the clarity over what my subconscious is telling me .... as I feel the need to sort this out and so I come return to the cage and sit at the desk to write....

I dreamed I was back in Amsterdam but I woke up in Anne Frank’s house .... I am running from Hitler and the halls are winding reaching the hidden stairs in time behind the bookcase .... then I am running through the canal streets and I suddenly trip on the uneven bricks and fall down .... 

my first thoughts were of numbers 

I see numbers before my eyes in shapes 

But there was another part that I remember upon waking ....what is it? ....they turn inside out and Hitler with the interrogation light shouts, “what? are you stupid? niggerbastard can’t even read? I said read it back to me!” .... I wake up here

the numbers mean something .... they go inside out .... I don’t see numbers ....they keep moving all the time and when they stop they stand upside down and change again .... it is the feel of numbers  and the muscle memory of what they feel like to write that is reliable but six and nine are always hard to get right 

but all through the dream —I hear the the Beethoven chord .... the notes on the sheet music dance off the page but fingers know what to do .... how many times?

the first number is three ....

Next scene: hidden clues, hidden themes; the Beatrice/Virgil duality dichotomy; noir muse

 

‘Willem’ I begin the email.... but then already stuck....

hmmm....

‘I’m not sure if you have lately been in contact with ....’ 

I stop—No. Delete .....but then I put it back....

‘I’m not sure if you have lately been in contact with’ ....

with....?

‘a mutual acquaintance’ ....I tell myself that I should think like spies think, and I remind myself who knows who might intercept the email

“but under current circumstances, well, I’m in an awkward situation and wonder if I might have the opportunity to get your impression of an extremely serious and pressing problem I’m having. 

‘I would be so grateful to hear back by your earliest convenience ....’

and send it.There. Safe and no details ....

then cross my arms in front of me onto the desk and put my head down wondering how do I always end up in disastrous situations? 

.... but then become aware Jörn might be looking at me. from his spy glass.... 

and think of ..... vampire eyes

sometimes teal, sometimes slate, but always kryptonite; I start to fall asleep in the chair staring at the floor to wait for Willem’s reply 

but who knows when Willem will decide to read his emails? I don’t even know what time zone he might be in

so I make myself stand up from the desk to walk around, maybe I need to clear my head I think now, glancing up at the cameras as I pass them

and idly think about my chances of reaching the sauna from here, dreaming of the shower 

and then get an image of myself here stuck in a secret underground in the middle of the mountainous wilderness with a guy in a ski mask and who would ever find me?

....so what are the chances he’s still there, I wonder? —50/50? (how long have I been down here— ?I’ve lost track ?)

....is it worth the risk....? But who am I kidding, not exactly good odds up against a man built like a bull dozer because, despite my roar, unfortunately, I’ve never appeared physically threatening as..... my best offense is to play possum; clearly, I need a body guard 

And, judging by the monitors, I’m guessing there is two more feet of snow since I came down here through the shaft and before that there was already a lot— and based on what the weather report predicts there will be even more soon .... guessing ideas of going it on foot would be a bad choice as it has dipped well below zero (Fahrenheit) quite a lot all week and I don’t think my clogs would get me through the snow drifts 

I leave the cage part wishing for some privacy from the omnipresent voyeur cameras but who knows where else he puts them

And go to the part that is below the staircase where there is an alcove made by the shape of the stairs above it.... i sit down below on the floor where I have made a kind of bed out of broken down cardboard boxes and it is also the warmest spot because a furnace is behind it so a nice spot for a nap as ....maybe then I would know what to do and think better if I did that 

but instead of sleep my tired mind returns to thoughts of Jörn and then .... I think of that day at Lincoln Center —rushing to see him.... to watch him perform ....and find now.... I long for that moment back 

noir; someone to count on (jm muse chronicles, Electra’s dictionary)

 Climbing cave walls ....

even as I know eventually I will start to get weak without anything to eat

.... I pace the dungeon thinking.... and stopping to consider trying to be objective of it all .... between the spy games and my own mission in life .... my own mission....do I even still believe in that anymore ....I stop and sit down on a stack of boxes and reflect on life; wasting life ....was Elan’s life wasted? because it is easier to be objective here.... about that life

....and wonder because maybe it could shed some light on this one 

so was her lesson she had to learn ....? not to trust? I mean,

after all ....?

my thoughts go back to Jörn and his email 

that I only read as far as the subject line —to inform me that besides not having the use of my mobile phone, the landline is off limits 

as hours pass I realize that avoiding his emails are as intrusive as opening them ....for thoughts of him ....although I have done reasonably well so far ....I jump from thoughts about the ski masked guy walking through the barn house watching for the phone light to go on and wondering who he actually is? hired mercenary or.....? But I guess more importantly, what specifically he may be after —I mean, I guess the code—right? but didn’t Jörn crack it? Were the contents examined? what was in the drumtable/safe?

And then wondering who I could ....trust?

well, maybe I don’t exactly need to trust —just an ally would be nice ....but even for this, who I could I even think of now— the police ....? That question boggles the mind there in itself and with society as it is.... the dungeon feels suddenly cozy ....

When it seems the walls mock and judge from staring so long at their empty, expressionless surfaces, my thoughts go in random places my exhausted brain seems to fall back into ....from exhausted thoughts and the sterility of my surroundings ..... to something far from here ..... like those hazy and deep thoughts of ....Elan and the smeden and the cost of a lifetime

they seem to haunt the shadows ....the odd shapes of the shadows made by assembly line orders of boxes that follow hidden turns which give the basement that feeling of catacombs and tombs ....andI then think of bog people 

....the smeden ultimately is the cause of Elan’s life time’s end for her —even though inadvertently because he should not have left her there....

I turn to the screen with the email —still unopened .... and see now Jörn has sent another .... this subject line only says, “Important” all in caps 

but I ignore it like the other....

and try to think instead, who do I know that I could even consider telling I am in danger and need help? So I turn to names through my contacts available through chats and look at names of people I know from my life’s collection of work and school .... as I wonder what I’d say? “hey, what’s up? Um, yeah, there’s a guy with a ski mask after me because I have some secret code....can you pop over and get me, I’m in the secret distillery basement.”

And remain still frozen, poised over the keyboard ....searching names ....going through my entire catalogue of life events right from ....the names on the list and the dim memories they evoke

I look over my last messaging conversations with “people” and as it’s not something I do, and —the list is short; names of people I know or knew once; but of anyone of substance seems to be few and far between and wonder the purpose of having such a forum and ....look again 

at the chat conversation; just the one that is, 

not surprisingly, from my very long ago—first boy friend who has always remained well in touch yet, despite he has always proved reliable in a jam, but—I x out rereading his last chat message and.... keep looking....Jackson....? my UN friend from high school ....I start with a ‘hello’ seeing he’s on

He sends me back a message: 

<hey, red!>

So I reply: <can I ask you something?>

I begin this way still trying to work out how exactly to phrase this .... thinking, as he would be accustomed to serious and potentially dangerous problems as he has shared his Iraq stories with me and so, I think, who better?

so I think it over watching for his reply considering how I might word it ....

someone to count on I think as I wait and as I wait my thoughts go back to Elan’s life....

But.....The smeden ....

would he have been someone for her to count on ....?

was she wrong to trust the smeden ....? 

I don’t know why I ask myself this now .... I mean.... 

of all times —now....why should I only understand it all, now, because, after all, I mean, was it really his fault ....? It seems I see it another way from here

Jackson replies: 

<sure, first—what are you wearing?;)>

I change my mind. I click out of the conversation and stand up to randomly kick something ....who to ask, who to ask.... and pace the cage 

I glance at the screen when I see another instant message pop up from yet another yellowed photo from the social album.... with a message that sadly echoes the last non-related one ....I move the curser to click off social media, then move to log out, sign off and get up to pace back to the cage doorway to stare at the conveyor belt .... 

perspectives .... things you see and different when you look another way

And look up again by the shaft I came through remembering that first day I discovered it down here ....I look up at the guillotine door at the top of the staircase; the pantry false wall.... and think

suddenly....Willem! 

Why didn’t I think of him before?

I move back to the computer to my emails....there are about ten more emails from Jörn all in caps 

but I cover them with my hand not wanting to read what they say and start an email for Willem....

Noir Terror/Does the individual still matter if there is no one to acknowledge your existence? (edjmmusechron)

….to fall out of existence, to not exist; unknown, forgotten or never even seen and not ever again to be known any existence of ....well.... 

in here, in this dungeon that is both a prison and a fortress —how long before someone would search for me ? ….this thought causes that panic button reaction into motion 

I fear a moment of horror to have to face —when there is nothing else left ….and no hope to have to accept ~this is all there is 

to be remembered or gone with no trace, wiped as if that identity never was, that fabric and skeletal frame thar hangs a self .... like it never was and will never be remembered ….

Does the individual still matter if there is no one to acknowledge your existence?

No. you know, without the daylight it gets confusing what time or even what day it is —not that time has ever made sense to me 

and ....if not any familiar connection.... what is left....? to hang a self 

this invisible self 

....a dictionary