Electra’s dictionary and film noir/the fence

I feel his eyes upon me as I watch the water from the flat. I have been so long lost in thought. And lost. Jörn walks over to me 

He turns me to him and takes my face into his hands and holds me there to look at me,

“where have you been?” he asks me

“I have been lost,” I say to him looking up at him; and his hands as he holds me there ….holds me…. as if …. together; he holds me together ….I half want to burst like a glass Christmas ball into a thousand tiny pieces in his hands

His eyes look with their purity of the unforgiving kryptonite that always demands truth and sincerity ….even as they do not always deliver the same in kind 

And here is the crux of it all —what is there at all in life if it is not real ….

I say to him,

“I have to confess a terrible truth I’ve discovered lately, and that is,I don’t care what happens to me, so, tell me—why do you?”

only he does not answer, instead he does something that almost embarrasses me ….he bends down and kneels at my feet, he removes the shoes I wear carefully one by one; each buckle he undoes carefully as if I am made of glass. Then he kisses my feet; first the left one and then the right one. 

And it is because,you see, I feel so broken inside…. so empty of having felt much kindness for so long from anyone that I don’t know how to feel any more so that it is easier to block what this does to me ….that it moves me because —it scares me. Then he stands up and returns to holding my face, but I drop my eyes,

“no, look at me, duva, you are precious to me, do not ever doubt it,” and then lifts me. He brings me to where he has drawn a bath and he says now to me, “let me wash you,” he puts me down by the now full tub and shuts it off, “I want to heal you….”

****

There is an unexpected wilderness, a strangely kind of otherworldly beautiful patch of land on the southern fringe of Delaware where the line meets Maryland; Strawberry Lane 

There is this beautiful old dead tree that is sadly graceful which I find myself inspired to sit under

“my dad named the road,” he tells me 

I am on the fence between the worlds and I don’t know how I came to be here on this road. Some goes to the north and to the east and another west. Each time what i think I find I can believe

 seems to, I find, 

turns to be, 

is more delusion

*^*

I do not regret having depth capacity for emotion or I’d not be an artist, but I regret those who were incapable of sustaining by their own personal defeats 

****

And with my eyes closed I lay in the bath and I hear him say,

“you are my muse,” he says before he goes 

It is only moments later when I hear the opening notes of “the dove in flight”