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🔍🦇