il semble que nous soyons toujours télépathes!

peut-être qu'il a trouvé la légende

https://youtu.be/kXVeHjj_odw

e.d. Noir (jmmusechron….?)

And when I do report to Stina, I leave the grounds and take a long walk to the next road out that leads to a pasture and then the bee farm 

she asks me without further ado when I make our weekly call,

“so have you anything to report?”

“I do actually….” I tell her but wait as I watch a nearby car drive away, “I was doing some cleaning up in the attic area and—“

“—yes?”

“I came across some interesting things ….some boxes which —well, among some valuable pieces from Africa and Iran—“

“Iran?”

“I found some old files of….documents and ….transcripts….”

“Go on.”

“Apparently he was an interrogator during his time with the FBI—“

“We are well aware of his agent background,” she sounds impatient now

“—from the Cold War,” I continue as if I did not hear her tone 

“What sort of files did you find?”

“It looked like —files of things like roughly drawn maps or….I don’t know, like those football strategy plans —I hardly can decipher their meanings, but—“

“He’s after Retnuh Nivek, you do realize—and he may be setting us up because he thinks we know his whereabouts,” she coolly says 

“Do you!?!”

“He has an old score with him and ….”

“So that’s why….” I shake my head 

“You’re his bait. He’s a hunter, remember? He can’t resist. His finding you on that road was no accident ….or that convenient old school chum stalker of yours  who he set up ….”

“Shit….” I stand in the middle of the dirt road pacing its width frantically 

“Calm down—we have not left you there on your own, haven’t you noticed the drones around?” But my mind is swimming and I have no time to process her words before she switches approach to ask, “have you seen any new people around then?”

The qualms I felt in divulging his life details seem to fly out of my thoughts now and I answer her, 

“Well….” I take a long breath to calm myself 

“You have…. you know, Jörn is concerned for you….” she says in such a way as to shake my wits even more into ….putting my faith once again in ….what I’d come to feel a lost cause 

“How would you know?”

“He thinks you are being watched—and it could be possible that Sunny is just an innocent bystander,” she seems to coax me

“You don’t believe that though, actually, do you?”

“Who is it then?” she asks 

“It’s a man ….he came by with the boys—“

“The boys?”

“Oh…. the Amish boys.”

“What….Amish—?” she pauses as it seems she think “oh…. they are known as Pennsylvania Dutch, are they not?”

I laugh,

“well…. did you have to Google that? They live among themselves. It’s a separate culture ….they did not approve of such things as electricity back around the turn of the last century….”

“And what’s it to do with Sunny….?”

“He’s quite —connected among their community, particularly the Prince family, I guess they are the family he never got to have as an agent….There’s a driver who—you know they don’t drive cars—so—“

“You think their hired driver does more than push the pedal to the metal….” with her usual finesse of using American expressions with slightly off Swedish intonation, she finishes my sentence for me 

Thoughts of the Legend; Electra Noir(jmmusechron?continued….)

 ~That fine line between autobiography & fiction~

I think often of my relatives who are no longer here. There are none left alive, I was the youngest of the lot and well…. what of the siblings ….? 

left better unsaid (plural for the ones of the illegitimate connection; only one have I met and he did not know of our connection)

but alas, yes, I am redeemed of my Persephone returned from Hades 

But I think of them because I try to understand what the sum of their lives meaning was in order to decide if ….mine has any 

it seems more important lately to me 

picking up these fragments …. as if staring into tea leaves for clues 

when maybe …. there is none 

I suppose this is the deep terror I hide from —that there is no meaning at all and everything I believe in all mere delusion ….but then, what of those messages and visions that came to actually be after all? 

So I look at their old yellowed photos …. all that is left ….but what would there be of me ….then…. anyway….? My mother always said “you can’t take it with you,” and she meant the material objects we cleave to

but what of archeologists and their treasures?

but then ….what would the aliens care of Earth’s history ….perhaps they’d care? or respect the inhabiters who once rented Earth  ….or not

again I search for meaning; puzzle it out like a blind eye staring at a Magic Eye picture —what is there?

I think it is the disappointment I have felt from people I thought I knew; friends who are frauds and their empty words and empty promises, their fake claims of forever 

I write of this again and again here because I wonder how it all came about ….but no, I think I know why —I think most never expect to be called out whether or not they are true because ….they perhaps have a larger cache of frauds —I mean ….friends and relatives 

it seems it is because I lead a bastard’s life with a bastard’s fortune and it sets you down a solitary path and because the black sheep title forms one’s self image to be somewhat rogue ….feral 

I avoid thinking too deeply of the ironies of how my daughter’s father’s family proved themselves to be the shams they are without my needing to, and now she sees what the impact of their manipulations did to her mother and I would rather have not had to be the example and left only with their scars to paper my fortress walls 

these walls that hold up my spine like a stiff upper lip 

I look at the business card Stina gave me and wonder 

DNA memory …. and some dig in Wales…. does it mean anything? ultimately ….? does it matter to those long lost Welsh and Frankish ancestors who had thought to reclaim their royal legacy? 

what is the point but for the distraction from —that terror of nothingness….

should I dive once more into that beguiling search ….?

 https://youtu.be/lf6vCjtaV1k

 

Et je vois que tu es toujours là.  cela signifie-t-il que vous vous en souciez ? montre-moi

peacefrog, peach and cherry/jordgubbe

 

Dictionary, diary

There are these moments in the midst of crisis when sometimes the mind wanders off—only after that breaking point of the mind when there has been no relief from the crisis — it’s had enough, I guess, so it takes a holiday without any consultation to rational; it occurred during my assault I recall; I thought of others going about as though everything was all right —and you wonder how they can but…. that is life and the world is big —yes it has happened to me time and again ….fear is so exhausting and then there you are in a mental Disneyland as the shit goes down ….the mind is weird ….and it occurred to me the other day that it seems so silly —as far as the drama of events in my own life ….so it occurred to me that, my life—now has come to feel as though the creator of my life has lost the plot, so is just making up all sorts of shit just to ….what? I really don’t know ….watch that boat adrift as the bombs go off and spin on that mad tea cup ride 

more thoughts of the legend; reflections

 

I always knew there was something “emotionally” wrong with my mother.

unhinged. 

I knew her differently than others in my family. Looking back now, I understand why her bond with me was bittersweet. I looked like the man she loved and lost and I was the daily reminder that she was marked in her husband’s eyes as his whore to abuse behind closed doors.

I watched from the crack of my mother’s closet door. I watched scenes that marked ….into the eggshell of my mind….I saw that vile little evil man 

but also, I saw her manic highs

I saw her lows

her lows made her cruel ….usually most to me

but I understood

I was willing to be thst for her

I listened 

I told her how much I adored her

I forgave her everything 

She was not diagnosed manic depressive

it was a secret that I saw but she hid well…. but she was quite mad…. quite mad…. and with a husband prone to violent behavior to members of his household—the exception the molesting daughter of his blood and sickness; behind closed doors were two plus one lunatics we all lived …. in that yellow house 

I reacted to her mood swings. I bore the swings. I was depressed when she hurt my feelings with her shunning and spiteful words…. that was why the self harm began, you see; her rejection made me wish to die when she shut me out and would ignore me for days; weeks…. And later years ….why do females in my family hurt me so ….the men not as much, just the one—my personal Hitler 

I had been misdiagnosed years ago for clinical depression —they were wrong. I just needed to heal. But some things you don’t heal from. It is up to the individual to figure out how to survive and build their armor and maybe one day triumph 

It is not depression when you hurt or grieve. Those emotions are correct to feel. They should be experienced, not masked by chemicals society enforces 

we should accept differences of others ….accept and appreciate their unique perspectives 

How boring if everything was straight up and down 

 

I feel a sense of tremendous gratitude. 

There is light in the universe. There is beauty, and joy after all. 

alas the struggle to be understood and heard has touched me gently to walk in good faith and shift my onward path

Alas, alas ….all is indeed glorious 

 

 https://youtu.be/qanqpSHoTv0

e.d., and that piece of me does break and disintegrate when I realize with that kind of grief —there is no going back once the jab has gone too deep. it could have; had it been retracted at the time but it was let 

pour toi; grenouille de paix 2

 

Electra’s dictionary; a voice to be heard; Beth pwy yw beth a phryd

 

Electra, 

this morning’s dreams mix with real everyday incidents. So, I relive the scene later when 

Sunny calls out in alarm—in painful, physical urgency and then I recall —oh, I knew this would happen; we know how it goes 

later ….

—here I stop to reflect upon how strange some things shift and alters things —of people and—of the importance of some things…. such things like a nearby neighbor who is moving away, so suddenly my presence to Sunny here becomes more required ….and think about how that fits in with what Stina is asking me to do…. I mean, if what she said is true —it makes me wonder how it is that he suddenly appeared on that road to rescue me from the last stalker I just had to escape from 

But…. my brain gets so muddled over this double double triple agent spy stuff, so  instead, my thoughts choose to turn to write instead about my  ‘Persephone’…. and how that heavy weight which had pressed so hard upon my heart that I could not ever inhale all the way ….the adjustment to lightness with full lungs now alters my perceptive view through the kaleidoscope that I see looking at me in the mirror 

And even Bran ….he calls me again today ….he says he doesn’t like,

“that nobody cares if you’re alive? Really Beth?”

“Well…. I’m working for Sunny, he’d start to wonder if he didn’t see me for a few days….”

“Honestly Beth….” he stops to edit his thoughts; I hear his mind shifting the course, “I was surprised about—your ‘Persephone’” Bran says 

“Oh….”

“I remember how close you were so….but you are talking again?”

“It’s ….been a long several years,” I say and sit down, as I have been pacing 

“So, how is that going?” he asks

“You know…. if someone wanted to see in actual life ~inheritance over environment~ study —she and I are living proof that—as much as they tried to turn her into one of them and not be like her mother….it failed. Even her sexual identity label is like her mom’s but her generation are comfortably out.”

“Hmm, I never doubted your attraction to me, Beth—did you?”Bran asks me

“To you? Of course not, but you are the exception —you’re deep —and sensitive—and….you’re —nurturing….”

“I’m nurturing? I don’t think Clare would agree,” he says and then he says, “well….you always brought that out in me, you have that way—it makes men want to protect you—“

“Protect me-!?”

“—take care of you,” he amends

“What!?—why? I don’t need that from anyone!” I feel defensive, “I can take care of myself!”

And at this moment I get a text from Stina:

<have you called Dr. Evans office yet?>

I ignore her message and walk to the window to watch a herd of deer playing in the near field. Two with massive antlers stop to look directly at me from the field as I listen to …..Bran’s lilting voice that ….throws its sheepish warm coat from across the sea…. and for a split moment in time ….I am perched in an alternate time ~Beth pwy yw beth a phryd~

“Well….” he concedes but he says, “to your credit, I don’t blame you for all that armor you wear—I think if anyone deserved to hate men for everything that happened to you, I wouldn’t have blamed you for completely turning off men. I really couldn’t blame you, I would have had I been you,” he says

“Yes—well—but the alternative wasn’t much better so—there is a fine line within that gauge of yin-yang on the dial between male and female ….and I gave up fine tuning my definition and —realize ….it’s more to my liking avoiding most humans altogether —unless they prove they have something worth my time to interact with —on any level.”

“And where do I fit in?” he asks 

“….you never had to doubt….but there is only one of you, isn’t there? And ….you disappeared. And…. you’re an artist so…. that is under the umbrella of my orientation—oh! Bran, I have to go—” I say when from downstairs I hear my name being called

“Beth—don’t hang up—wait, ….can I call you again?”

I hesitate

He says,

“I can’t not have you in my life….it’s so good to hear your voice.”

identity and sex e.d.

 

I don’t understand why I should feel like this…. everything is falling down like cards; false faces everywhere ….they turn pixel on me…. all of them

I wonder if my blood is real ….is there any left and what does it really say about who I am ….

then the terror or post apocalyptic life isn’t fertile ground to grow and 

I am in the mist of this sense of being desperately deplete and grip for distraction taping into my saved google notes which labels me

“demisexual”

it is a term …. as though it is a neurosis horrifies me and then

“demiromantic” hitched on ….

my sexual identity confusion is, I never could relate to other women. I never could follow their conversation. I never felt like one of them. They talk about such shallow things all day, it puts my brain to putty to be around them.

It is more complicated but this begins some of my struggle to find who I am because if I can’t relate to my own gender then how can I be one of them?

I find males attractive but only if they do not look anything like the men who warped me and are not too masculine and have a sensitivity or femininity but they cannot be women either because of what my sister did to me—I can never be sexually attracted to a woman …. but they are always attracted to me because they say I am the boyfriend they always wanted — they are disgusting 

I am feminine, yes—but with a masculine mind; but only intellectually, not as far as progenitive; I’d never want their anatomy but I like to borrow it when I’m in the mood and ….if they actually really connect to me, otherwise I am too bored to care. I find these men who have stalked me are vile animals. I am tits and cunt to them but I don’t see this when I look at myself ….yet when I have sex it is clearly the other who is the man and I am glad of my gender at that moment ….but I am not a pussy; I am not a cunt; I will not be reduced to this if you get me in bed and many have tried but not one fit me right because they never measured up

I don’t need a man to tell me I’m this or that but I would love one who could know how to be my friend and my lover at the same time 

 vampyren som guide genom helvetet;  Jag är glad att du fortfarande är där.  du ser mig åtminstone📌

 This spot reminds me of Hylas and the Nymphs by Waterhouse every day I walk by it

Electra’s dictionary, noir/I am me I am mine prt3;what I believe in

More thoughts of the legend 

I talk about Truth quite a lot on here. I reflect upon it. But truth is subjective to the consciousness it occupies 

so how is it possible to rise above subjectivity?

It is not possible 

so I can only reflect. Observe —do my Scientific Method and log it in my fleeting writing, sometimes in a blog; observations from my lens and see how my warped vision alters it

I don’t claim to be omniscient and proclaim a Truth

I just try to ….humanize it

I —think— emotions. 

Intellectualize it. Likely I am a form of autism as dyslexics are connected so, while I am a sensitive empath and psychically connected to visions that come to me, I recognize that my truth is a truth but it is not the utter truth 

but that is not our role

that is what I believe —our truths matter as much as the utter truth does but the two should never be confused or claim one ultimate victory 

I think my mission here was to learn how to feel. It seems I split off as a child, that’s how the text books would label it 

but that was my lesson ….that was chosen for this life’s journey. To catalogue emotions; to study emotions. To step inside them; immerse…. take it on at full force…. and to turn it into a universal image; Art in order to call minds to a higher consciousness 

To call to minds 

   in order to ignite a butterfly effect 

so where does ego come in? I think that is the Very riddle locked up in the celves/Celf

Those cells inside; those rooms 

so within this vast pool of knowledge I’ve acquired of human emotions ….trauma; fear; every form of heartbreak and loss; shame; humiliation; torture; pain; terror….terror…destitute….a  fleeting glimpse at ego; idolization; everybody’s unicorn; mistaken identity; infatuation; lust; confusion of sexual identity; gender…. 

but ….no joy

that part I missed somehow and ….I think it must be my cross to bear

the gods were jealous of me ….or who knows, I am Aphrodite; not Electra and this journey is ….designed to ….fail unless ….I find that one possibility that purity does exist in humankind ….that pure of heart

so far…. no joy, and I was their champion 

whom they destroyed

we all have a mission; we use me as the apparatus so there I am:

I think of Dante’s tree….I am caught around the trunk and limbs with barbed wire; how does a tough outer shell protect the ‘fragile eggshell mind’* within the broken soul? how does she avoid those that promise but ….then only to find that all they ever wanted was base possession and are not deep enough for more and this is the flaw in my mission; I believed. Is it a want or a need? When does the want become the need? when does the need become wont. 

Someone once told me I should have been catholic because she thought I was the most devout person she knew—she being catholic. She said it maliciously and I think about that label of stoic but no…. they are wrong …. And that is the sad riddle of the celves ….and there seems no legend can find it on the map 

*******

I find the sudden desperate need to —what?

find that desperate faith somewhere in someone —perhaps and, reach with one moment of hesitation and give up to this human weakness when ….I see Bran’s call up on my phone screen. That barbed wire, they never let me go….

“Cloak and dagger, espionage—how did you get caught up in all of this?” Bran who is almost actually scolding when I answer

“You don’t remember? It was always in the background of my life—the assault, and who was behind that? Hired hit man —the years under that man’s thumb who controlled all our lives ….”

“Your father.”

“He was not my father.”

“You got your dna test results ….I read that in your…. so, the sins of the fathers…. born is Electra …. morning becomes her…. but you are my Beth….”

“Bran….” to my ears I hear warning and defense ….but also longing ….and the memory of seaweed arms….and harden myself against this; I know how to pull the portcullis better than anyone; I am me, I am mine, and nothing comes in, nobody trespasses ….that is the code 

so

“And the killer is still out there? The one who assaulted you at Bard and left you with a life sentence of degenerative pain….”

“Uhh—I….don’t know, they don’t tell me, but he’s some known terrorist they seem to be in a cat and mouse game with —all these years….he walks free….”

“How are you?” he asks

I hear concern in his voice; I don’t believe what I hear; never again and choose not to hear what he asks

“I’m so sick of ….controllers—men…. I’m sorry you don’t want to hear this….”

“It’s —fine, I deserve to hear this,” he says

“You mean because you recognize this in yourself? —do…. I think they just look at me and they see ‘target’ ….sitting doe sitting duck….and they build their deceptions carefully hiding their own interests and watch the exit door is in view—“

“Christ, Beth—what have you been through….”he says with regret and ….I almost go back to ‘our’ place in my mind ….it’s there watching me from the box I hid it in

But I babble on ignoring this and so glad of an excuse to ….have someone just listen—he was always my best listener…. “so they know how to back out—they watch thst exit and then tell you how to be. how to feel. perform, and stop trying to see. you. But what about the needs of myself —no, there is no self, we know…..I mean, don’t you dare make a suggestion, a request —a desire…. why should you want or need or ask…. just sit there and be quiet….how dare I think I have any rights at all.”

“Your Viking?”

“I don’t want to talk about it….” I say, “he is just one of dozens, I mean, don’t you remember? Or no, people choose how to recall details and they edit out their own guilt.”

“I’m sorry Beth….” he says suddenly 

And I stop babbling madly 

He says it again 

“You should know…. they didn’t win over you….I’m so sorry Beth….”

*JDMorrison 

electra, ce monde te tue

 https://youtu.be/XTtopI620ZU

 People suck

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me ,I am mine Prt2

“Did anyone see you get out of the postal vehicle?” Stina asks me from the front seat, in her usual no-nonsense tone that always gets my back up 

“I don’t think so, Willem pulled up beside a dumpster and —you know, I was….careful. I’m not an idiot,” the last part I say defensively 

“Good. You seem to be a natural at this.”

I never know with her if she really means anything she says. But I am so lost in my brooding thoughts of ….well; is it anger —or pain?

I think about getting lost somewhere where no one will ever find me. Just ghosting everyone and everything ….as if I could but still…. I think about it…. and I’ve done it before  

even as the things you run away from still haunt at you, pressing the eject button that gets you out the emergency exit is very freeing 

I like feeling free. The illusion of freedom is so thrilling to me; no strings, no one to check in with, no one who would notice that you are alive or dead 

just go. because people and myself are not natural companions and only because I forget not to trust; I start to believe them…. and nobody ever tells the truth ….wrap you in and I suppose part of it must be the challenge of whether or not they can crack you like a safe; conquer you…. 

it isn’t that I don’t believe in love.

so what do I believe in?

“What if I told you I know a doctor who is working on DNA memory theory and is actually in the area?” Stina suddenly says 

“What?” I sit up right and for the moment forget my brooding 

“Yes. She’s got her own practice as a psychiatrist but she has devoted years of work researching this very subject. Her name is Dr. Rachel Evans. Her practice is in Chesterton,” Stina goes on to say in a strangely friendly tone 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know this is a subject that interests you. You’ve written about this, haven’t you?”

“Great, so you are reading my blog now—I can’t imagine why unless you want something from me.”

“Are you interested in talking with this person?” Stina asks me

“In exchange for what?” I ask, “because I thought originally you just wanted me to spy on Jörn and ….well, you know more about his whereabouts these days than I do.”

“So—in exchange ….I would like you to find out more about Sunny.”

“Sunny?”

“Yes. We have suspicions he is not as retired as he pretends to be—possible links with not just what happened on January 6 but possible covert operations to undermine more than one country’s government dealings….”

I think even if she said he was a little green man I would be too numb to care 

I don’t answer and lean my head against the window 

I feel so trapped. So isolated and stranded. But mostly so sick of believing people who deceive me

“Dr. Evans is expecting your call,” Stina tells me, “she also happened to be a part of a recent excavation in an area in Great Britain known as Powys.”

I see her look at me in the rear view mirror 

I think about ….how there really is not that much to excite me or challenge me lately 

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Just—pay attention to who he meets with, who comes by. I want you to just watch for things. And check in with me once a week.”

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me, I am mine

 

I stand at the shipping launch as I watch the large cruiser slowly diminish into the distance; lost upon the horizon 

and I feel as if I have seen this scene so many times 

repeated 

over and over

the landscape alters in dreams. the lands change replaced and overlaid with patch worked memories and dreams from …. so many of the celves 

I feel so empty inside …. I am lost upon the horizon 

Do I know the uniformed postal worker with the odd accent stands nearby? as I say aloud to myself,

“….how will I get back?”

But what do I mean? from that lost horizon ….? or from some long lost land….

“Your ride is here,” the postal worker says with his Dutch accent that only I can hear him say as amongst the activity, there is noise of the water; of the motors all around; of voices making static on the wind…. and the wind itself ….which carries the sounds away, far away from the maddening crowd 

I turn and see a black car with an Uber sign in the window of the back passenger side and I see the familiar figure of Stina step out of the car and walk over

I look at Willem as Stina nears us, she calls my name and says,

“you ordered a ride?”

“Did I?” I say still obtuse to no one in particular but …. perhaps to myself 

Willem walks casually near me back in the direction of the postal van and says,

“you should go with her. She’ll bring you back. I will text you later; we can’t talk here— don’t look at me as I walk away….”

Then he walks to the van

I turn to Stina,

“oh—yes, I’m ….who the ride is for….” and I am so numb inside that I just walk straight to the Uber car with no emotion and feel so exhausted when I slide into the back seat…..

Electra’s dictionary/“Operation delivery ‘going postal’” Noir

 

Operation delivery ‘going postal’” goes perfectly without a single hitch, as it is Willem who arrives driving the delivery van, as I had half expected it would be. As expected, Sunny is not present during the ‘pickup service’. So, from the nearby cluster of thick shrubs, Jörn is camouflaged by the thickly leaved trees as Willem opens the back of the van to remove a large box of wild deer feed at the moment Jörn climbs in. Willem neatly shuts the back and carries the box of deer feed to the spot where Sunny has in past requested his packages to be placed 

I casually walk up the long drive that leads to the dirt road and walk to the end of it where the postal van is waiting to pick me up so that I may say my goodbyes to Jörn. 

The ride to Chesapeake Bay’s ship launch is heavily silent though as Willem drives and Jörn and I sit in the back on the floor surrounded with shipping boxes, all of which are actually empty 

I feel as though someone should say something but it seems none of us find something relevant and worth saying but then, they have their top secret world and who am I in all of the grand scheme of things? 

“Will you report to Stina?” Jörn asks suddenly over the hum of the van as he looks up from the cover of the floor to watch the sky through the cargo window 

“Is this really what you choose to talk about right now when I don’t even know when I’ll see you again?”

“He’s right,” Willem says from the front, “you should. This way if anything—“ he stops whatever he was about to say and pauses as though to reconsider his words, “I would also feel better having someone or some way we can reach you. We don’t feel it is safe for you with that maniac still out on the loose too and Sunny….he’s retired and not up on ….how things work these days….”

“Why would you need to reach me?” I ask and watch Jörn for any sign of emotion 

He glances up at me and raises one brow. Then keeps his eyes steady on me; they are shadowed and still gray overcast and reveal nothing 

I look away

“Duva….” he touches my hand and then takes it in his. But I don’t look at him. There have been so many stretches of silences between us and I just don’t know if he leaves me with any possibility of believing in ….anything. More softly and just audible to me, he says again, “duva….” and weaves his long fingers through mine 

“The last time you just ….there was nothing; no communication from you—nothing! I mean, I do understand you’re in deep cover but, Jörn, already the ties between us have been so sketchy at best but ….mostly frayed at the rope’s end ….” the last part of what I say comes out tense but my eyes tear and I look away 

We reach the bay and there is the shifting of props —he changes clothes putting on a US  naval military disguise but is set to climb into a box large enough to contain him. I realize the plan is to have Willem cart him to the ship in the box using a hand truck but the rest I have not enough to understand more of their plan 

“So this is it?” I look at him as he is about to climb in it

Willem says from the front,

“I’ll let you talk in private,” he gets out

But then not much is said beyond,

“you’ll hear from me ….I promise….”

“You said that last time,” I look up at him and search his eyes, then I say, “be careful,” and grip his hand tight, “please….”

conversation, ymddiddan/Electra’s dictionary

   

There is this sense always when you turn back the pages of a lifetime and it feels as if that lifetime has remained preserved; frozen as it was

That life. That relationship. Those people you were. 

To me, it is like you could see them there still; your ghosts haunting the hallways of scenes from that life. There they are still lurking in the shadows of rooms where the dust glistens like pixie dust and romanticizes forgotten pain 

“Do you know where I am right now?” Bran. His voice. Alive. It reaches me through that audible organ my phone is pressed to; ageless and ….still belonging to that ‘her’ that ‘“Beth” who is what?’  

But in slow motion I only comprehend the meaning as I am myself in this strange bedroom that I have only learned to occupy as mine of Sunny’s hunting lodge. No the bedroom is not strange. Just strange as in I am its stranger; new and not mine and I am not its 

I belong to me. I am mine. 

or am I? I look around me and wonder how to mesh the celves ….how to become its whole; how to find perspective with this voice that belongs to a man who once broke my heart 

“Cardiff?” I ask him. And I fear the very strangeness of my voice gives me away

“Well…. I mean—where I am sitting….calling you from….” and that lilting of his accent befuddles my mind playing tricks with how it causes me to feel

I only realize when I exhale I’ve been holding my breath and need to breathe and must stop to inhale deeply as I pull the phone away a moment so as not to give myself away 

I cannot find any answer though to what he has said and feel too dizzy to think 

“I used to call you from my car outside, remember? I showed you ….”

“The same car?” I ask because I remember it from our trip when we drove from Paris to Rouen 

“No—that one had a sad demise,” he says with a kind of heavy nostalgia

“So the same house then….” I say because ….because ….it was that life that won over me 

“Well….it’s ….a lot different now—added on….” he says and I note he refrains from any pronoun 

“How is Clare?” I ask as I put my mind on the frank reality of the present 

“She’s ….she’s….” he sighs heavily 

“And the child …? Should be —what eight right now, I guess?”

“Please Beth….” unexpected is the heavy sorrow in his deep voice, “you’ve been on my mind so much lately,” he says with a sigh of defeat 

“Have you been reading my blog?”

“Do you think I ever stopped?” he asks

“I don’t know. How would I know?” I ask him. But then ask, “why did you call?”

He does not answer right away. But hear him moving around in his car. In my mind he is still in that old faded blue car with the mis-folded old maps stuck in the visors. 

After a moment he says,

“I’ve needed to hear your voice again. Maybe it was that recording. Or….maybe ….I just wanted that glimpse back of feeling ….anything.”

“It’s been eight years….” and I regret how cold my voice says this 

“I deserve that,” he says 

“No—no—I’m sorry….I ….have wondered about you. I just felt it was best to leave you in peace.”

“Peace. Is that what you call this?”

“I don’t know….but still, I mean—I left Chris ages ago and even that life feels it belonged to someone else.”

“I’ve been replaced by a Viking,” his laugh is forced 

“Not replaced —another who is otherwise engaged so to speak; unofficially still with his partner.”

“What happened with the other one?” he asks trying to seem casual 

“Who? Eliot? The step cousin of my illegitimate father and his ridiculous ideas….?”

“Nicholas? The archeologist researcher, professor?”

“Nigel—oh, he was just ….that was….I don’t know; his DNA memory theory was really why but he—was….I think he was my rebound ….from you,” and only as I say this do I realize what that was, “why did you really call me, Bran? Don’t tell me it was to give me lessons in Welsh.”

“But….it would be a good excuse,” he says 

  

mapping a legend

 

The first time I visited England I was six. It was a family summer vacation. My mother’s husband (aka ‘Hitler’) bragged about our summer holidays but it was part of his work; he sold travel ad space to travel agents so, this was homework to an obsessed shallow man. He imagined himself to be Onassis one day so he was all about the bling before that was a word 

I had lived the first year of my life on the island of Jamaica because my mother left her husband ….there was question of whose I was ….for good reason; but the story held ….after the one year away from America living at her best friend’s holiday resort hotel. 

They used to tell me their wild stories. I heard about the two gorgeous blonds dazzling the jet setters; movie stars, authors, billionaires, you name it. My mother was not wasting her time on just anyone and her best friend? Let’s call her Barbie for this; she was the equal in looks to my mother so, I imagine they were a force to contend with. My mother was very charming. And she was smart. Too smart for her own good in those days. 

Anyway…. that is how we lived that odd life we did and how and why money got blown away ….gosh could they do it up …. my mother had to have the best 

I’d watch it all from the walk in closet floor through a crack in my mother’s walk in closet; my secret room ….I heard more than she knew 

Anyway ….

I never felt I fit there. In that family. They were all crazy. My sister who molested her sister, the dad who whipped the daughter with his Baly belt “which one, sweetie….” no he called me something else —one was bastard 

My mind often took off and I saw things nobody else did 

they thought it was odd how it came true and I was always right  

But the moment we landed at  Heathrow Airport ….the voices all around, the manners ….then once out in the open windowed drive…. the scent on the air….I’d been here before….I turned to look for things I knew….the slope of the land and ….the color of the horses     

 

I remember crosses, fields, they went on and on, rolling green and hills, hammers. The hills turned into rocky paths. And the drumming. They shook the trees and the ground ….I would stare into the distance and see ….they littered the road everywhere and the acrid scent that blew across and stayed inside your breath and taste ….I remember her; she was apart from the rest of us but…. when she had something to say, she would come and find us. She told me about the man who would come. First one and then I would never see him again. She said they would come and I would go. With them. 

 c'est moi qui ai été aveugle

 Il me voit

thoughts of legend 

I have been aware of a sense of bereft 

and the cheapness of life. this precious time we spend in the flesh. this precious time we spend with each other 

through time as it is marked by those who left us their accounts of life …. 

what does it mean ….?

there has always been war….savagery….horrors ….unspeakable cruelties 

I was thinking about the discussion/debate with Finland and Sweden over NATO and you know…. I was thinking that how as far back as history as we know it is marked there has always been pacts with tribes, cultures, nations, countries ….The Franks, Burgundians 

they say necessity is the mother of invention …. I suppose it’s necessary to edit as you go —things change; times changes realities 

relatively speaking but I believe at times such as these, it is always better to find strength in numbers and only burn those bridges that connect you to the enemy breathing over your shoulder and adjust your autonomy when it is safe to otherwise there is nothing but principle but also, it may be time to alter one’s perceptions of self in the grand scheme of life and humanity 

I was thinking about Jim Morrison today too—such extreme thought swings perhaps but ….not really; he was a clever political animal; the son of a military man and he witnessed the Vietnam war as a young rebel voicing out 

he was deep down a philosopher and a poet but such a humanitarian which comes out vibrantly through his poetry 

it is always his poetry I most adore about him. his style influenced me. he was a literary scholar and a graduate but he chose to break rules consciously aware 

but what I thought about him today was …. when those of us who first followed him in the mysterious glow of his disappearance 

we believed he was alive; that his death was a hoax. Like his idol Arthur Rimbaud; so, we believed Mojo Risen had sneaked away escaping attention from a prying world ….and as long as he walked the earth …. we had faith …. we cheered him as the poet who got away from the devil of the commercial society that ruined him even as he sought it; he thought he could conquer the world

I don’t know why I write this 

it’s just words …. am I a fascination? only that? a fetish ….I always hoped one would really see me ….see me….to be understood and adored for that is more important than to be cared for only to be whored and who ever loves an old whore or are they expected to quietly expire like those yellowed photos of a pin-up girl…. Jim Morrison once said something similar to that…. 

but he did actually die in Paris of an accidental overdose much like that Uma Thurman scene in Pulp Fiction because he didn’t know it was heroine he’d inhaled; he hated heroine ….why did I think of this today? ….the tragedy of a poet ….did I ever write here how I discovered my biological lineage connects to medieval and ancient French aristocracy….I know it sounds outrageous but it is documented and I realize…. so it seems I contain nearly every nation in my dna  

dna memory ….? what about that ….am I just haunted?

captured fleeting freedom

 

Electra’s dictionary noir;a voice from the past/Beth who is What

 

“Does Sunny get deliveries from anywhere?” Jörn suddenly asks me, looking up from his phone

“Is that Willem?”

“He came by boat,” he says simply 

“He’s here?” I ask and jump to get up but Jörn puts his hand on me, “not here, he’s docked….”

“Chesapeake?” 

Jörn nods.

“On your boat?”

“Duva….” he looks at me in irritation 

“Oh—no, that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

Jörn does not answer that, instead he says,

“He’s on a shipping cruiser….”

“Oh—deliveries? Well…. the US postal service comes with packages by truck if it doesn’t fit in a mailbox.”

Jörn looks back at his phone and taps into it

“Why?” I ask 

Only as he is intent on texting to Willem he is distracted and doesn’t answer so I think about this and come to some logical conclusions why Willem would consider the need to know this and realize they are working out how to move Jörn 

“There’s usually delivery around noon,” I say but then ….I realize they would have the intel or the means of things like this  

“When are you leaving?” I ask with a heavy feeling in my chest 

Jörn looks up from his phone briefly. He looks at me steadily before he says,

“tomorrow….”

“Just like that? Where are you going?”

“Is there anyway you could get away without calling attention to your not being there?”

“Tomorrow —? Like afternoon you mean, is that when?” I ask, “yes, he won’t be around during that time and I can find a good explanation ….you mean to—say goodbye ….”

I return from the hide back at the house and feel disturbed 

even as I know these are different circumstances—

why is it that people in my life continually drop in and out of my life at their own convenience? ….No one is ever really there completely one hundred percent. There is always their own agenda which hardly includes me beyond —whatever fascination (fetish?) they have for me

and it makes me wonder 

So disturbed ….I pace with my arms folded as I silently yell at the walls ….silent ….always silent 

what does a voice mean when whatever you once had to say seems ….lost completely in the noise 

In effort to put my mind somewhere else I turn to read the latest of the war— and pick up my phone which I’ve kept on silent since I left the hide ….just wanting to be alone with my own thoughts 

….and drawn back to my phone as it is my only connection to the internet as such and …. see a message through messenger from someone I have not seen or heard from in over eight years 

<<how are you?>>

I tap it to open it and stop….

“No,” I say aloud to the empty room

I put my phone down and cover my face 

The tone of a call comes through voice call. 

I hesitate as it tones three times ….and then, tap the call

“Your Welsh needs serious help….Beth,” the familiar lilting voice says

“Bran….?”