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