I confess, Electra—you know, as i’ve not been here long and i really don’t know too many people so…. now strongly sense that one has ….inappropriate ideas about me
Today as I meditate, I think of Garbo. I see her image in my mind’s eye; recall the image from how I saw it as a young girl ….the mystery as seen through a black and white Warhol. and it turns into impressionist style —just bold black and white ….symbolic frozen in my minds eye
I see her as the 100 years of my Solitude
repeated ….where will I be at that age
will I be
what about that bridge
When we get into the penthouse, Andreas says,
“What do you mean?”
Only I’m in search of food and head blindly through the darkened halls straight for the kitchens, snd I remember the way as if through muscle memory
only once at the kitchens does any source of light provide. When I open the huge double door stainless steel refrigerator large enough to contain enough food for a small army and ….
“well….” as I look inside the fridge …. “hmm….” And start checking dates ….carrots still somewhat firm …. feta; is that yogurt? the spinach may still be ok but then find some stuffed grape leaves and happily find a spot to devour them
“So?” he says
“So….?” I say
“And….”
“And….?”
“About his silences leaving so many scenarios?”
“Oh.well—that he is living not just a double life but a triple quadruple life. Not is he fucking someone but how many and what kind so what purpose do I even serve in his life? Back scrubber as he has a good laugh at my expense fucking every Tom Dick and Harry, so—then maybe I’m irrelevant and ….I don’t like that feeling, Andreas. It makes me want to ….behave like a terrible brat but—I’m better than that so, I come to my penthouse, you see?”
next scene with Andreas:
We find our way through the fire-escape off Jörn’s floor. The way to the penthouse’s secret other entrance via the fire escape
Andreas says in a tone of question
“you are angry at my father….”
but I only glance up at him and keep what I’m doing. He watches me and tries to read me, I feel it
But then I say
“There is so much he does not tell me, Andreas ….I don’t mean about the spy stuff. And when there is so much room for silence ….the mind fills in ….MANY…. scenarios ….”
Electra, dearest….it occurs ….that broken button ….? well ….the wires seems have all fried too ….i can’t ….do it any more ….those two yellow lines do not run down my back.actually.the mat that says ‘welcome’ too….is not me….to wipe your feet upon…. these shoulders hold armory centuries old but are actually too small for so much weight
to shrug off all that I have given to everyone I have loved ….fuck you Baaaa Hummmmfuckingbug,isweartofuckinggod.look at the smith& Wesson pointed into my blue blood vein and laugh at the things I don’t understand and somehow wish I did ….. I will not be that broken sparrow ….though broken my fingers be….fuckeverybody we are mightier than they will ever be; don’t they envy us?
they compartmentalize ….emotion. here is Cleaner; Whore; ASS; Emotional Couch; Fearsome boss; Loathsome parent etc etc …. trainers, loafers, slippers, uncomfortable serious shoes ….etc
with that panic button now broken as the winds blow away all the dust the mind clears. and so realize I am; channel all that anger into
another level of being …..electra&celves
I have decided to take a vacation from giving a shit.
not consciously decided; as it seems my reflex to care is worn.the.fuck.out.As in no more anxiety, no more caring if any threat made to me might be carried through. oh, go ahead. I don’t care. it’s all already happened.
the panic button is permanently broken
should I buy a new one?
And as I find myself blankly staring at Elsa with, no idea how to respond to that, I sort of just stammer there frozen, “uh….yeah….” on the spot.
Déjà vu.
How does she always do this to me?
I turn to Jörn for help but he seems slightly terrified of his mother at the moment judging by the look on his face,
“mamma!”
But she turns her icy gaze at him with her perfectly arched brows that could shoot an apple off your head and slice it with their precision,
“ja, Jörn? har du något att säga?”
but I don’t don’t know what it means
But Jörn replies in English,
“really?”
“‘Really’ —vad?” And shoots more arrows
“‘Nice of you to rejoin the party’? Would you say you rolled out the red carpet in the past?”
“What are you talking about? I brought a gift for her that time when you were —“
“I think your presentation might have been lacking that time too,” but he says this under his breath
Oh right, the perfume. Which she opened on the spot. She thought I needed a shower as I recall,
“oh the Hamptons!” I say foolishly as it suddenly vividly dawns.
That was the day when we were hiding from Stina and the Swedish intelligence director guy; what was his name? I think it was Marcus ….but now I am here in Jörn’s New York City apartment which ….
“Has anyone seen Ilya or the penthouse lately?” I blurt out before considering who I’m addressing. Must be concussed
“Coffee?” Jörn suddenly says and looks at me
Josef clears his throat loudly and everyone looks at him. When I look at him he gives me a wink, but not within Elsa’s view and gestures for me to go to the kitchen with Jörn with two jerks of his head in both directions respectively
I don’t need coercion to get out of her line of fire and walk straight for the kitchen.
“What are you doing? Have you forgotten where I keep the coffee?”
As I’m opening cabinets and searching his refrigerator,
“no I’m starving, I don’t remember when I last ate but ….” most of what I find seem more Ikea than what I know ….”what is this?” I ask pulling a bowl from a shelf
“Mamma’s saffron batter,” he says
No idea what that means, so I put it back,
“maybe Ilya has stocked the penthouse fridge,” I say and start to head out towards the direction out
“Wait, where’re you going?” Jörn grabs my shoulder and stops me, turns me around
“Wha—excuse me? I am not obligated to—“
“Duvan!” but it is Hanna now, “I’m so glad to see you—I wanted to tell you news with Eric and I!”
“Oh please—!” Jörn seems suddenly enraged
“Pappa! You have no business trying to—“
“What am I trying to do, Hanna? Stop you from making a huge mistake—“
I manage to slip past without them being aware, not realizing Andreas was watching from the other room and walks over to me.
“Ambush,” I say looking up at him
“If you really want to get out of here for a few minutes, I wouldn’t mind seeing the penthouse again, but don’t you need a key?”
“No, it has the combination code, remember? Let’s go,” I say
(or—Like ships in the night)
and every day she sat on the train and watched the scenery pass her by….
she promised herself that if today he was at the window going the other way…. well, this time…. this time she would wave
sometimes he sat in the opposite direction, and how strange to be always on the same schedule. but just going the other way
and as her thoughts revolved, the scenery flowed by her, and as she daydreamed out the window, she saw the families through their windows in the apartment buildings as the train went by. And ….it gave her such a strange feeling to see, in parallel, lives and families —all doing in unison; the exact same things. Preparing breakfast for the children; variations of the dynamics but …. mostly far too similar. And it made her feel so insignificant. So utterly invisible. Like one of a million ants building their hills over and over and never ever seen nor noticed
She got lost in thought and suddenly very sad. She wanted to open the window and fly out…. she was disappearing ….
her eyes blurred and she blinked
but that was when the other train was going by …..
and ….she’d missed him entirely
and her mood sank deeper. Well that was just the day, it seemed to her. Starting with the step into the puddle right as she set off, soaking her boot right through. happy day.
she turned her glance to the annoying ads inside the train and noticed some unkind graffiti ….
and reached and took out her phone to find her eBook….re-reading 100 Years of Solitude….
She got to the part where the phrase is repeated “he stood before a firing squad….”
And still it boggles her mind
“Excuse me, hey—“
someone said stepping close to her seat and made her have to look up
It was him
“Is this seat taken?” he smiled at her knowingly
“Um….” but struck dumb, she only stared at his eyes —which were quite nice now that she could see them up close ….as she moved over making room on the seat for him
“You know, it took awhile —but I finally worked out the train time….you always go ….”
it has been about purpose
and it has been about truth
it has been about a message that can only be told by the mouth of an artist
so now older, wiser, an apocalyptic world ….a Florence Nightengale? seriously? Tank Girl maybe but that sharp turn of the bus sent us all somewhere ….else
and maybe we are back in the ‘90’s at a vegetarian health food store and she meets him that way
no Covid
no trump cards, no 911
I do not need, do not want …. for anything ….this
has been a format of recording through allegory and codes and I have been a prisoner in an internet cell as I have been in life as neither worlds ever touch and the world out there does not know me and one day I shall evaporate and no one will notice
there she goes
I am me I am mine
dictionary….perhaps VW suggested in A Room of One’s Own the artist’s need for creative space by giving her a room and yet it is more than just the physical space in which to write
there must also be the freedom to think your own thoughts privately
the constant invasion forces all glimpses of wonder
to hide dormant lest it be trod more thoroughly upon
And when I am brave enough to face Jörn’s living room who would I expect to give the warmest greeting?
“So nice of you to drop in and rejoin the party!”it is Elsa of course
….and as my thoughts wander they go to him, and what I know of him is that he would never say if something were the matter.he would give the impression of having his world in control.he would not tell me.he cannot be weak;what he thinks is weak;to show it….especially to me.never.but it is what you do after you recover from your moments of weakness that are what count.but —if it is his pride, then his war is within ….and myself be silent; because, as always, I know he will emerge more powerful in his contrition.yet,id never waver
it occurs to me as I am sat on tender hooks brooding —my thoughts travel back to reflect….I’ve not wasted my time, I realize—since I left Berkley Michigan in 2017 because I realize would have been waiting all this time for Persephone and not living a life….yes I have been running like mad but —not blindly at all;I’ve come far
onward we go and travel past anything that ever mattered, like how you watch the waters of Lethe as you view from above.
they flow down with the rush of water and dissolve; the lost celves that just ….were not good enough and test ourcelves with the blade to not flinch at all when it bites you
when I was a girl and was interested in educating myself a little more about things like what men like to do with women —I remember I got the best information from this one unlikely book. it is significant but perhaps funny as an anecdote about me.
I came about it from a girl in my class at the American School of The Hague. French class, she slipped it to me right under Ms Bartoff’s pointed wicked nose —ironically ….
and so that summer was what followed this book. should I say the title? no, I don’t think so, it’s just too….it’s a romance novel you see ….so anyway it was called Sweet Savage Love —I seemed caught most on the savage word and that was just the start of my awakening
but no, anyway — I adored this writer’s style and I was 13 and to be honest, one of the best in the genre as she uses four syllable words. Despite the trash reputation it was the gateway to Anaïs Nin, of course, and I should mention Colette as she figured prominently too; later more for the poet sense there was Vita and her Orlando and the mysteries of the Bloomsbury Set; to be among them ….and my highly imaginative neurotic-a mind ….
I only thought this just now because it was for one silly, dumb sentimental reason. The author dedicated the novel to C.E.
I was 13. For years I imagined this mysterious man who was C.E. convinced it really was the protagonist and I just wanted him to be real. To her. I guess.
Lit nerdy girls are weird ….of course I found out who it was. And there was a story there actually. Just not as good as mine, sadly.
I have known some soul sucking jobs. lately I don’t know who I am. or who I had to become. you don’t think about how much you will have to give up. but then…. I was not in a position to bargain. who I had to become. you know, I do know how to do what I have to do to survive. I know how to turn the mind off. how to exist like a machine. how not to feel. it is only that after time the exhaustion breaks you down and ….I think that is what I am coming out of—the ptsd is the term for—raw emotions that blast you with no warning ….and it is sheer white terror
no you don’t count on the reengaging back to time and ….time has shown us a world we have become a stranger to as the world has become …. So.Strange.
it is the purging i have been long from.and as I go deep sea dives within the celves ….looking back on recent timelines to consider choices…. the Adirondaks should have been my sanctuary had not the pandemic hit just upon arrival. and then having covid long before anyone knew what to do. terrified there in the middle of snowstorms, stranded, alone there among strange strangers who never came out to say hello ….yes, the pin ball is done
thoughts begin to flow…..
and again find— I am myself ….and I watch the gate as the celves find spirit and soul ….whatever my voice, though it be a whisper, it Must Be
centering….a few days off to find myself and keep everyone the fuck away…. thoughts seem to actually crystallize as I reflect
so, the longest relationship I had was with ex Chris from 2003 until 2015. And what is strange is that he is from generation X and after so many years of Nintendo and being his twin among his pals with the fist greetings upon entering ….I don’t fit with my generation anymore. they bore the fuck out of me and they can’t keep up with me ….
purpose —why am I here….sometimes as spirit it seems I feel so much of everything —and everyone around me
but anyway, what did the grunge generation think?
we were so naive ….but then ….what —the fuck—if…. anyway? I mean, hey, today I got mistaken for a high school kid by a sheriff as I was walking—so, I guess maybe youth is in the beholder or I am a charmed fairy after all
and as I have washed away the mud and blood from the chain mail I find I can again take its weight and fits again anew like a second skin
i begin to be aware that i am coming out of something. as if the swelling within the cerebral membrane is beginning to go down allowing proper thought to flow as it once ….once had…. do you see the celves go down the drain? they are like colors of artist’s paint that mix in the swirls as they spiral away
I do believe I have lived before. but a long time ago. I do not feel I knew this earth since…. but I know I was a healer by strange instincts I have ….yes, to survive….but scents I am drawn to and always just when it is I am deplete ….so, I think the choice was to accomplish what this muffled voice has been choking to speak to a chaotic void
it is the thrill.
To just Take Off
that moment when everything I have been doing is boxed, sealed and packed. all I no longer want in my life neatly trashed to be forgotten.
there is nothing more thrilling than the independence high of an open road ahead and feeling the master of your own life
I think that is what I have become addicted to. a blank tablet and the tantalizing possibilities of any possibility
& just create another ….celf
that nobody knows
(another aspect and hint about the Electra theme and patterns)
I remember as a child standing by the bedroom door after I got one of the beatings. Of course I did not know about biology or whose I was back then —or what that meant, but ….to me I thought he was my father. So I would wait at the door after each time he hurt me for him to say he was sorry and say that loved me….”
I look up at Jörn as I say this,
“I thought each time that he intended to just ….throw me away ….so, maybe now you may understand what my anxiety is about….” I don’t say
He comes up from behind me and leans into me then, drapes his long arms around before he says in a deep whisper into my ear,
“I will never abandon you….”
(don’t you see him as a spy?)
He says to me,
“I do see you.”
I am by his window looking out.
The distance between us feels infinite
it seems
and the energy it takes for faith far less so
I don’t believe him. He only shows me what he decides to let me see. And I wonder if then he can only see as much of me as he feels in the mood to bother and try. it makes me wonder who I have been in love with—he gives as much as he is inclined and then he retracts as if everything between us never was and so I am the idiot ….but then that means he too is another fraud….
“Duva….”he walks over to me and pulls my face up to look at him taking my chin in his grip, “I am your father figure,” he whispers into my ear
I say,
“no! a father—? someone to raise me up high and be my cheer-leader, daddy, no, you lock me out —you don’t allow me near you—how can you see me?” and move away but he pulls me back as I fight him, “how can you see me when you are pretending and playing your games? I’m not at your disposal—“
“Duva—“
“You don’t see me, you stopped looking.”
“I never stopped,” he says
“You don’t even read my words anymore,” I say
“How would you know?”
but what I wish I could really understand is—what is it he is afraid of….? what I would see if he showed me his whole self —or of how he would feel showing it?
tequila remarks seem to come across as good advice, and I think considering the one dispensing, what it does to the brain is worth the delusions
which —one— is full of shit/or do I seem blonde to you? I liked you better at hello
what is this madness? this need for flight. such a desire to want to run and never stop.but so tired of running.the knight wants to lay down his sword.only ….we’re caught in this web….the labyrinthine spiral
Terry is one of those science genius types and from the moment I met him I felt like I knew him —already….before? He had waved to me from the distance at first but —I maintained it instead and —I can be quite aloof; but one day he reversed as I was walking up the drive
Mary was the same, actually, she ambushed me from the road and well, you know I tried to blend with the trees but, there were none around just then and she said,
“I’m impressed how diligently you walk every day….”
well, there was a moment in my mind of suddenly being trapped in a Jane Austin novel ….two professional who bought the farm
and right at the end of the drive. In fact, they are like the actual gatekeepers as you cannot reach the grounds unless you pass their land and drive upon their drive/road; weirdly but it seems, that they seem to have a desire to adopt me !! which is overwhelmingly sweet. In fact, as I guess —his career in healthcare caused him to remark on my behalf to well —we won’t say ….so—no, perhaps a Dickens novel? Brontë? Anyone? more like Du Maurier, perhaps….so dare I say, breaking out in hives, they have a son who’s about 36 they want me to meet but what is fascinating more is that not only do they know Bard college and are (foolishly) impressed with me —hmm, well, there it is; but that I suspect they have a romantic concept of me seen from the lens of their professional worlds
She is a published author too. I have actually felt as if they may be my fairy god parents appointed by my heavenly angels
….she says,
“Oh you must do it!”
as I blather about a lost dream to create this into …. what ….? a “work” on film
She studied with Lee Strasberg. She has connections with film production crew. Our interest and connections are rather uncanny —and again I have to wonder
so he is the nerd and clever scientist and ….I suspect if they knew who my real father was they’d …. begin a campaign
and as I start to prepare to go, I get the strangest impression that nobody here wants me to go
I have lived so many places ….seven—just in the last five years —joking the other day, what does Terry say to me—I’m Forest Gump!
I say laughing,
“oh you mean, because instead of running, I hike everywhere I go? Oregon, there she is, Michigan, Catskills, Adirondaks and —yo—there she is again in dumbfuckville!”
But “no,” he says, “you are this free spirit artist who doesn’t talk about it you do it—you live your life with all of your passion … like Forrest —and dharma across the continent, I’m envious of you, as a matter of fact,” he tells me
“Blah blah ….”
at last I start to see —oh, there I am, in the rear-view ….I forgot she was there
(written earlier)
I watch the sun rise through the morning fog as I write this ….what a journey it has been.what the fuck was it all for. for the last five years I have been running away. it is possible to get used to that hysteria. the gears ….spin and spin….so exhausted of it all. so done. with the hysteria.it’s done. no more. no more invasions. no more ass holes no more stab in the back friends….it’s time to crawl back to ….life
foreshadow for a scene….
I know that I have said that I have come to realize that it is actually our proclivities which draw us towards our missions in life
Those things the religious often requires us to repent
those are the very things we are called upon to examine
our darkness ….
because only through it
will we ever see the light
within our darkest truths
the crux of what defines us
is directly at the source of what we really need
and who we really are
the taboo of it would not be so fearful once it is understood why it is there
and does not necessarily require us to remove its power
because not all strong powers are fiercely bad; some strong powers are just fiercely a force to be reckoned with
to be reckoned with
I reckon
….and why not with pleasure? as experience is about experience— not only through pain do we grow; there is that fine line between pleasure and pain and I do think for some of us the fascination is the answer to an age old call that roots for release
but we must not forget that, we grow too
when we get to heal
….but there is a hidden riddle in this and yes, it has to do with healing and the soul
and so I then reckon, why must ‘to be reckoned with’ be…. something void of pleasure and serenity once —that is, it is —arrived at serene; only once slaked of the lovers grip; to arrive through experience cannot be an intellectual journey
~only after —in retrospect, do we have that as a memory~
***but some of those very powerful forces to be reckoned with— are actually just the other end of your own magnetic field ….finding its natural attraction, like that compass and —something about what is known as True North
But whatever Jörn was about to say is upstaged by a sudden interruption of more familiar voices entering the apartment in an excited rush and —in a heated argument that…. is making my head pound as their language is not kind to migraines
“Oh!” I gasp and cover my ears and eyes, “why does my head still hurt?”
“Don’t touch the stitches!” Jörn says as he rushes towards me from the window where he had been pacing to but almost defeating the purpose, I’d hazard to guess, he calls out loudly in operatic tenor,
“snälla håll nere rösten!”
and this rings and seems to echo in revolutions
“What do you mean stitches?” I am horrified now as I look up at him
But he is too busy looking at the back of my head and pulling away my hair in the exact spot that has been pounding and—
“ouwh! fuck!” I say and reach back to feel what he is looking at—but—he slaps my hand away! with a sort of reprimand —I can only guess— as it’s in his language and I cannot spell what he just said; still, the tone says everything, doesn’t it? As I suddenly feel like I’m ten
“Your hands are dirty!” he says in English
“I’ve been unconscious—“ I start to get up to wash my hands but he pushes me back
“You shouldn’t be walking around —the doctor said,” he tells me and then he looks at me in —that way— which makes me think I’m risking being put over his knee with a spanking if I don’t get back in bed
So I give him a look displaying my surrender because I ….actually don’t care enough anyway
I get back in bed and crawl under the covers as suddenly it feels like I ran a marathon
Electra between
When I was a little girl I had this nightmare. It was that the end of the world was coming and the planet was being blown up. My father arrived with a spaceship to save his special little girl. But he only had room for one.
And as I watched them leave in my dream I had this feeling that I wished so much to be the one special little girl to someone ….so there would be room
And so, because —with the staggered television sounds snd a piece of a conversation that belongs to…. ? …. oh, it’s too involved to quite wrap my head around just yet….
my head is so foggy, I sit up and put my head in my hands
I don’t know what I was expecting but I think it was that when I pulled my hands away from my eyes I would see something …. like a miserable container interior or—the drear of farmland and Sunny’s lodge
….or, the Adirondaks even….
like the bunker underground I was buried in for so long ….my god was that, like— only just a little over a year ago? No…. then it was the high school stalker ….Shit— how many nightmares can you list off in ten seconds that have happened in my most recent life? ….but….
Now—alas …. it looks like, i have succeeded in losing my mind, bravo, as I am hallucinating or actually having a very lucid dream— unless, who knows, by some lucky twist of fate, I am …. fucking saved from that slow suicide that has been my life as my —magic pumpkin could have arrived in time, thank god, to get me the fuck out of there—as if—at last, and …. nice dream
To be back here
Because as I look around my surroundings —my grogginess wears away
as again I sharply notice …. those very signature things …. it is that strange otherworldly quality I remember …. somewhat majestic, only actually sexy, yet in a sort of clinical yet most un-dreamlike way as
….everything is white, minimalistic
—then I am startled with —!
“ni två är som två bortskämda brats, jag kunde höra er i korridoren!” A familiar high shouting voice now says. I hear a door slam.
Then another familiar, yet slightly shrill operatic voice says,
“vet du vad den där ungen — din pappa — gör? brat är det rätta ordet, han beter sig som om han var tio med den där överprissatta hörapparaten. visste du att den höjer och sänker volymen?”
What is going on? I am so confused, I find, as I slowly start to realize this weird dream—isn’t one, and I appear to be back in Manhattan in Jörn’s apartment and in his bedroom
I hear him now say,
“hur mår patienten?”
And it is Josef’s familiar voice who replies,
“Jag kollade på henne innan men hon var fortfarande inte vaken. har hon hjärnskakning? det är inte säkert att låta henne sova.”
“Jag ska gå och träffa henne nu,” I hear Jörn then say and then hear footfalls of steps near.
A moment later I hear a tap and look up and see Jörn in the doorway of his bedroom
“How are you feeling?” he says before I have a chance to get a good look at him
I force myself to sit up and prop myself to the headboard and look at him
And as I look at him ….I say,
“what am I doing here?” only now I see he carries his big cello.
I see him set it down now as he sees me looking. He walks across the room and draws open the window sheers and looks at the street below for one moment before he turns to me
and yes….he is beautiful …. sleek golden hair tied back in a knot, a Nordic god….and immaculate as always, I notice as…. he wears his symphony clothes ….?
“Are you playing back at the philharmonic?” I ask even as I realize I’ve not allowed him the chance to answer my other question
He raises one finger to start to say something but then changes his mind and walks over to me instead and….
Only, it is his eyes ….those ageless, timeless, immortal vampire eyes that dazzle as deadly as kryptonite with their strange northern lights glow and
it is déjà vu …. because how many times have I looked up at him from this exact place on his ….bed ….but it has not been for ….so long that ….we have been here ….and …. I am so confused and ….
it seems to fuck with my emotions ….
He comes to me in dream …. that tenuous grasping of an energy through the currency.
it comes in waves, even as sounds are muffled and my senses are confused or ….are they dulled? only, I get such a sense that he is—with me— somehow;
or so it does seem only this thought gets mixed up with a seeming unrelated sound of a helicopter and the smell of the sea…. even as I had been dreaming of a lovely winter’s lake that was frozen with a dove flying in the distance, and through the mist came a man on a white horse …. and the distinct scent of citrus-ginger and leather, like Boss cologne as I seem to be lifted and weightless
And because my eye lids feel too heavy from whatever that strange smell was and the bump before that…. I can’t seem to connect thoughts
And perhaps it is later when I hear a high pitched operatic voice bouncing off some wall in the distance with a cello, piano and violin in the background but again fall into a thick cloud of strange dreams.
Strange dreams indeed, because now as I become aware that I am awake and look around, I still think I am dreaming. Because I know the scene well. But it does not fit my present. Of what I thought my present was. Is. Is?
The door ajar. Sounds carry. Loud sounds.
First loud. Then soft. Then loud. Very loud. Too loud. It’s annoying. It’s a tv commercial. Then it’s something else—a movie, I know the voices —or—
It gets too loud!
But then I hear a very strangely familiar voice shriek,
“om du inte slutar använda din nya hörapparat för att styra tv-volymen så tar jag den där stora hammaren och det kommer att vara slutet på din nya leksak, jag lovar dig att Josef!”
e.d. Noir
And so I think
What I most liked about him was not his typical Nordic characteristics, it is a funny thing because I had not thought to consider this somehow till now ….not the pretty nose, nor the baby blue eyes you commonly see—and why do I think of Jörn now when it feels as if I walk the plank ….of life….to jump into the deep watery depths of foul play that is the story of my life ….I think of Jörn with his slanted vampire eyes, ageless and tattooed on my soul with all the changing colors of the sky and with it all the moods ….how is it I still can long for him ….I wonder ….my vampire is not a pretty boy unless ….he’s in that mood
Whatever made me think such random thoughts? ….strange…. I think —until …. I realize …..
It seems….ohhhh ….I start to lose consciousness ….even as I hear ….as though after; delayed —the sound of something hitting….. that— I realize, was the impact of something hitting my head from behind
and all goes black
right before my hand slams down and randomly turns on the Volvo excavator ….
the lost pages
I feel must be a reflection of all that falseness from people I have known
why did I have to be so different? too complicated, too sensitive, too deep, too twisted…. I was not made for this surreal world with all its insincerity…. all I wanted was to be accepted and seen for myself…. I should not believe people
shallow people with empty, trite darkness
And in that frozen state within the container so contained ….waiting for my sad fate
my thoughts frantically scurry for something firm to grasp, to hold to, to have any faith in….but
since the death of my best friend, I realize, I have had so many false friends in my life
And as I split off from life and present my thoughts I think
for awhile it had felt as though there had been someone looking out for me ….and it had really felt as if he were there…. as if he really saw me; read my every word and saw between ….and i believed
Those moments move in slow mo as we are stopped and nothing happens….I watch the hands on my watch move as my thoughts go madly and wildly in circles; dangling between logic and panic
And I brood inwardly with anxiety, fingers at the ready to start the Volvo engine
and poised there in mid space my mind disengages from my physical moment ….and sink into deep space thought….
And I start to think about how different life is without all those people who are now gone. When you have no one left, you look at life differently
I reevaluate purpose whilst in a semi trapped and contained
and when you are no one to anyone and you have no one, the fears of abandonment are long realized so…. behind the anxiety itself comes the sheer panic having to be contained and knowing nobody is there to care to look for you
and suffocate ….in a container
when I loath being contained at all
has kept me in this hirghtened state of terror mixed with panic because I am used to flight and running for freedom
I have not been able to; instead trapped …. I look at the interior walls and …. my body wants to jump out of my fucking skin
I hate being contained. I need space. I need freedom. I need to walk and pace and do physical things and …. this place is driving me crazy ….and the fear is …. what if nobody ever finds me…..?
We must have reached some kind of rest area for trucks, I think, for I feel us slow down and drive past other loud motors. I start to nervously play with the excavator’s functions as I crash course attempt to teach myself how to turn an excavator on (pun not intended) whilst I feel us slowing to a stop to park
My fingers shake as I try to focus on what’s in front of me, silently telling myself that the plan was to somehow go Terminator on who ever I was being held captive by—-and why don’t I remember the moments before it happened ….? Although, I suspect strongly I had to have been hiking locally….so, how many semis do I see tearing through the dirt roads? Quite a lot, come to think of it ….
and wait—yes….it was ….a loud semi —I remember now, and I moved towards the ditch to let it pass me, and ….someone must have jumped out of the back of the truck as it was about to pass me —because I saw a flash of bright blue and red nylon; the kind of accent detail you see on athletic track suit clothes, as it seems, yes, now I remember —there had been a very sickening kind of taste —or smell ….just before things flatlined in my awareness and …..then I—awoke in here…..
I feel a jolt.
Oh my god.
It’s working! I feel the excavator spasm awake but just at the exact moment I hear the universal sound of a mobile ringtone….!
I reverse what I just did on the excavator so it shuts down quietly as the mobil alert drowns out any noise before the call is answered
“Yes, everything is on plan, not one hitch….” I hear the voice of the driver
And it is now that I recognize the person’s voice as belonging to Deiter
~the truck interior container scene continues~
When there is mostly dim shadow and nothing to look out at, thoughts always seem to go inward, especially without the distraction of a mobil device
….and so I think over and over about the day’s details for possible missed clues and when I have exhausted these thoughts of any possible enlightenment
defeated, I think about the larger picture ….of my life
….and to say ‘larger picture’ seems like an extreme exaggeration
So in this dim darkness going inward, I ask myself those tough questions —those reflecting upon life questions but then, really that is nothing new so I think suddenly …..no, none of those questions ever tell me anything and in the event I am out of time because of whatever fate awaits me when the truck stops …. what is it that I think really really matters in life and in the world ….. and thoughts arrive with a most simple answer ….love….and so I think of my daughter
And in the dimness of the truck interior I look out into the shadows. And I think, why am I so far away from her? Even as I know why; these years….
and it seems as if I feel like how I used to imagine it felt to be the lady the magician saws apart ….
like I feel I am all apart; all in pieces ….not whole
and…. I think of love ….that other kind of love ….and it seems it has taken me all my life to arrive at the obvious conclusion to what really really matters ….and what I have somehow never allowed myself …. but somehow, it seems I cannot let myself put it off anymore because it occurs to me at this very moment …. how desperately I need it ….god willing it is not too late
I seem to forget what I do for hours as I stare into the dimness of the truck interior listening to the hum of the wheels as they spin
It is when I start to become lulled back into a daze from the motion of the truck that my mind starts to relax and I think for awhile I might have fallen asleep.
Until somehow something awakens my awareness. Perhaps hours passed because there is a sense that …. it is much later and yet I feel rather well rested; my thoughts almost clearer than they have ever been ….with a feeling of heaviness about life and time
I reach to touch the stud in my ear ….it is the one Jörn gave me ….when he said that as long as I wore this he would always be able to find me
it was that day in the silo …. And now I feel that old familiar ….rush
stare at the container wall seeing scenes in my mind real and imagined; past, present and future…. and think of immediate defense tactics for as soon as the truck stops and the back opens up….
and in between such panicked plans I
silently brood upon the ‘bigger’ picture of life and ….the ‘meaning of it all’
and without my phone for baring of place and immediate events I feel like Dr.Who jettisoned through space
as the Mack truck goes barreling through the great mystery road that is on the other side of the truck container unit and ….I look at my watch ….as I notice how daylight is noticeably dimming
the glow in the dark hands of my watch tells me that it is a little after half past six…. Oh where are we going, I wonder …..
I lean back in the seat and try to access my situation…. I mean, I should be a lot more upset about my circumstances, you’d think…. but maybe…. I guess I am actually getting used to trauma
just take it under my chin
hardly notice it ….but really, where the fuck am I going?
I am so sick and tired of being upended by people and situations that I never brought on myself, I just stood too close to the view of the twisted perceiver—whoa!!! The truck takes a hard turn ….. ok…. Shit! As I am nearly thrown out of the carriage
It startes me and I start to wonder ….chance ….and events
Maybe I’m looking at everything wrong ….I grip the steering wheel of the excavator and glance around into the dimming interior ….and I start to think about the last time something like this happened
Do I think Stina is behind this? Maybe it was time, maybe she saw something was about to go down and ….or….
looking back now, it is hard to remember all the little details ….as my phone was separated from me at the time
but it seemed such an enormously long while that the truck drove as the pace it was at and all without incident
I suppose too that during that time I was lulled into a hypnotic feeling of focused calm as I reflected intently ….upon truly everything …. the immediate situation I found myself in…. the state of the world and things going on in countries everywhere…. Sunny and the life I have been living underground—no, I meant undercover as ….as….
Beth who is what yet again ….what am I, who am I ….and what the fuck am I doing here?
I thought about the neighbors, the author/actor who ….
and how or why do I find myself again in danger and there seeming no way out….?
Yes I think about this, I remember this part well, thoughts going in circles as I martyred myself with unkind words aloud over how sad my life turned out and angry at…. oh…. but it no longer seems worth it you see….you know….anymore….as the truck rolled on….and I thought: this is a professional driver , not a regular criminal, exactly, because I can feel the attention he takes as he rounds the curves….yes, he…. as I heard a cough earlier on …. And so I think…. Was he hired only to transport ….? Or does he even know I am in here? ….scream? I decide against this based on a strong hunch
Instead I just play with the Volvo buttons snd levers as I look for how to start the engine
….as it slowly comes to me that where I am is in motion, I force my mind backwards to try and recall what I last remember ….as I look around the interior of the truck’s unit, which is mostly empty
in fact, I realize that it was this fact that caused me to wake out of the sleepy fog I somehow got put under ….put under…. ? for now, as the truck takes a turn, I am thrown across the floor of the truck’s studio sized container unit like a pinball and have to reach my arms out and search for something stable to hold onto —as I’m jettisoned and rolled around, and no, I don’t really need to search, though, as I collide into the answer; the only other object in the truck’s container unit besides me, I now am struck against as I encounter it—a Volvo excavator
should I wonder? But no, out in the middle of farmland and rural country, these really are everywhere. I don’t question. Instead, I grab hold of a part of the step up to the door to stabilize myself and wait for the truck to return to its normal speed on the highway. When it does I haul myself up to the carriage of it and climb inside it, anchoring myself into the seat. I look around inside it trying to figure out if it could be useful if I found out how to start it and managed to…. specifically as a defense or way to get out of here
It is on my way back from a walk when someone drives up alongside me and —for just a flash of an instant I think it’s someone I know….only I don’t get to find out
as it seems either something hits me on the head, or I trip over a rock in the road ….and it is only later when I start to wake from a foggy dream that I realize I am in the back of an empty moving-truck that feels is going at full speed and, without windows for baring— I have no idea where I was going or what time of day
Electra’s search for peace found in pieces;thoughts along the journey at the bend
the dialogue within my head has been paused. it seems. like a submarine that sinks down into fathomless depth to avoid
the pause of ….the flow of the flow of streams of consciousness ….it is because I am guarded; it is to go into stealth all my truths because I find that where I am now I cannot be myself. So it is not possible to toggle between the artist me and this other me, who isn’t me at all, but has to be this me now because —it is a role ….in order to survive. No I cannot speak my political leanings, I cannot defend even my views….whether it be for humanity or not
but I don’t know how to be fake. how to exist. that way. day to day.
but it happens another way too—the gray seeps in ….and creates a plastic; empty; fake feeling ….in the end
and it is like being the sock instead of the foot; stretched out, empty and misshapen
I start to suspect that this might be the storm blowing itself out and that I am about to be —I believe—recalled back to the Celf again
but only if I get all the pieces right
I have been so shattered. I don’t know where my head has been since…. since ….so, normally I’d think it interesting that my neighbor —who I join in the horse stable to brush down horses with —is also a writer (and screenplay editor)
And as we brush horses, we talk lightly. For I seem unable to access …. my ….self…. I feel mostly a zombie and so cold ….inside ….I am so cold inside
But somehow, I do not know how, but between her and her husband, they convince me to do things before I realize what I say —because, later in the week, I find myself with her, walking through, again —the nearby historic town of Chestertown and ….finding myself actually charmed ….
is it that I find comfort in the evidence of historical past…. or is the comfort because it vaguely reminds me of Holland with its connection to an historical past, with its medieval buildings lining the streets …. and so, is it for the false comfort of that sense (illusion) of (false) stability ….or just my belief it is evidence of humanity?
Mary talks to me of her published book as we walk the ancient brick street that are awkward and uneven from hundreds of years of shifting….
and so it turns out she studied at the Lee Stasberg school in New York …. uncanny! …. I studied at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York and at HB Studio in New York…. We have both been moving around the country and while I spent years in Michigan, she was across the lake in Chicago ….and the oddest sense I feel like I know her husband from some foggy forgotten time
So what am I writing about? As my mind flew out the window as she drove…. she kept trying to inspire me with ideas (like trying to revive a corpse I feel)
“you need to write and sell it—then you can get a lovely little place in Chestertown….”
I felt as if cotton wool was over my ears and emotions ….last year….?
I’d have agreed with her ….
and yet I find I think of Jörn …. for the first time
….and later again and again ….like a sleeping dragon who dreams,
and dreams it feels things ….and then dreams to hide ….and then things seem to ….begin to ….seep through a little
you know….
since he left on the last mission —it feels like a lifetime ago
and now for the first time in weeks
I let myself go to thoughts I’ve avoided and ….
I think of Jörn ….
with a kind of shock it occurs to me that, for now, it does seem the sun continues to conspire with the earth to keep us on track. so stunned am I to see the first withered leaf and the scent clung to the dampness of the air
the world continues to spin
but its warmth evades me ….oh for that vampire waltz embrace now, on the flight of his winged feet
Goodbye, Mark, my big bro
He was in my study hall class my first year of high school. It was a Wednesday, that first day of school and study hall was my first class in high school.
I picked the only vacant seat. I sat down to study the schedule that I had handed to me by the study hall teacher. It was confusing. There were four columns; ABCD. Four days to stand for the days of the week. Wednesday would always be the day they let the students out early so the faculty could having meetings and every class was shortened by fifteen minutes
Wednesday the first day of school was an A day. Thursday would be B day this week and Friday C day, which meant that the following week would begin with D day.
First hour A day study hall…. ground floor, room 104
Second hour….Earth Science room 303….third floor
Third hour—French, room 103, first floor….fourth hour English Lit, 302, third floor….
“Where’s your locker? You look lost,” he said
I look up at the student to my right. Bright blue/green eyes and massive curly golden brown hair and unruly lashes
“I’m Mark, by the way,” he said “you look like a ‘real’ person,” and we became instant best friends
I say I don’t want attention
then I say I want to be seen. do I contradict myself. a long time ago, a psychic had told me that one day I would be seen and appreciated for my true self, a transforming love. she said I would write something and that as the only way
Yes I have known joy
for Jörn I am grateful
I am grateful for having known the joy of his absolute love and loyalty
and to know that I do not walk alone and
I never thought I could say this about anyone. It has been so long since I ….knew what it felt like —even if he is far away on a mission
There are times when Jörn and I are apart for long lengths of time ….that I …. I miss Jörn so much….that I print out his picture to feel as though he is with me, conjured ….because being so far from him hurts now in a physical way I cannot bear
but, you seee….you know, I never can admit it to myself….I stand in front of the mirror and I just see ….reflect….reflection….in reverse; so there is Electra….who is what….’he is going to hurt you,’ I say this out loud to that celf….looking back at me. we never say ….aloud just what the celves hide ….’they always do….and why do you let them….? don’t let them in….’
and so I have that Celf to blame for needing to; like a shard in a broken mirror glass; one Celf within so many others….this one contains the most sacred emotions that can only survive under lock and key….in a secret vault in a cave hidden by a forest
If I could be anywhere right now, where would I be….
I stop as I write this and wistfully reach out from my inner scope and ….wonder. What about right now? I suppose here is where I am and there are such worse places to be. I have known of some of those. I ask that infinite elusive mind ….out there….why is it so much harder now to read the world news when it seems to summon up the faith has become another sort of elusive.
I think about Jörn and his work, and I think, even to him, it has become just work but….not just….
anymore
The youth are angry at their elders. They blame them for the current state of the world. Inundated with plastic waste and spoiled resources running thin; like the air they took for granted
and then take their anger out on anyone older than 28 when they face off from the vantage of their jobs which gives them the power to steal them blind and know how to get away with it
Oh dear, Electra ….what is it for
If I could be anywhere right now it would be ….in a lovely garden that kept the fury of the world out …. would you come with me there? would you enter my sanctuary where we can forget malice and spite, the wars, the economy and that yawning promise of doom….would you enter my garden ….push down my walls and erect a pillar to stake and claim its safety….?
All day locked in thought. Thoughts. And look upon the steps and roads, how they link and seem to go somewhere if seen from altered points of view, and yet go nowhere just the same, but even nowhere is somewhere. Isn’t it
well I don’t know
but it has to be a somewhere
and how I mean this is, in relation to that realization of, those things in life I once thought I had wanted
I’d been on paths
they took me somewhere
but then I wound up nowhere
anyway ….and I wonder, would it have mattered if I’d just stood still
didn’t go anywhere, if I stayed right where I started
it has been this sprint through life
of wasted time; wasting time
but I’d not have known unless I tried it so…. was it wasted? ….well…. sometimes I think so
even as I know, it would have driven me mad to not have known had I not tried
those roads
that wanderlust in me
I was so restless …. I never could stand still …. I couldn’t stand it, standing still…. wherever did it get me
but I know I would not want to go back to most of the places I ran away from —all the places I ran from, I don’t regret leaving where I ran from yet, there remains one place I left that I did not want to go, never wanted to leave —yet I never could go back to
I think there is an uneasiness inside me, I imagine it was because I’d been uprooted before I understood where I’d been born and adapted another country’s ways that was never meant to be mine. And I look at this world with its wars. And the peoples who flee. Refugees, homeless and cast out or —killed
I don’t understand this human experience. This kind of ownership of a land.
we are all people. And everyone is walled up
I don’t understand
I am disappointed, I guess. Those peaceful people ….now seem so prejudice to me….no little China? No little Italy? Says one place. Fighting Hitlers and killing for false claims for a new evil painted another shade of white but black or white or red or yellow, I can’t even eat meat, so what is wrong with me?—clearly I don’t belong here, I am the little prince with my rose in delusions
I guess this is why I say I don’t like people, nobody is willing to tolerate, they only impose and dictate and listen to themselves and agree with their own echoes
