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