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....
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