smears on a caveman wall

I imagine a ‘cave’; like the camouflaged hunter’s hide.

the elephants running.the mammoths, the dinosaurs.and watch as they run across the visage, through the gape of the cave, hidden within a grassy bluff. it is something like being stunned.how long have I been running in all that.and think of the hides on the hunter’s property I’d come to see so often i no longer noticed.hide in a green box to shoot at unsuspecting sweet deer. all the snakes live in those; just revenge I like to think to unsuspecting little feds.yes—where are they all running to and how far away is mars because it seems I’m there instead of here.it is a monk’s cell, really and ….from here it seems more possible to think….for so long it has been a marathon of running. only now I can see who I am 

but where do I fit ….out there? the elephants ….the zebras ….

the smears on a caveman wall? 

the drive in the rain

For awhile they just drove in silence through the city street as the rain came down across the glass of the car’s windshield. She didn’t mind the silence. With him. And now as this thought struck her, she realized that she never minded in the past ….she remembered now. How sometimes when they met at the swings they would just be together in silence. 

Even with all his rage, all his wild tirades of violent outbursts —as she’d seen one during one of his fights all those years ago. 

She glanced at him now. Looked up at him furtively as he drove to ….see if it was still there…. still there in his face ….it was a sort of sulky expression he would get when he was in one of his moods.

“So how’s America?” Greg suddenly interrupted her thoughts, “everything you wanted and dreamed?”

She felt as if cold water hit her in the face, how he said it. 

She had to recover. She just watched the buildings he drove past as the rain glistened and washed at the gray, dreary night lit by lamp posts and street lights that reflected off the wet roads. 

He turned and looked at her, 

“….Miss Pim….”

Her face was on fire. The way he said it. He said it exactly how …. and the burning of her cheeks felt like a forest fire through to her extremities. She stared straight ahead at the road not to reveal how this affected her, then turned slightly away to look out the window.

“Do you want a coffee? I know a place near here,” he suddenly changed his tone.

“Only if you promise to behave or you may have detention,” but she said this so softly that he almost hadn’t caught what she said 

It took a minute. Then he laughed. 

“Miss Pim…. so what is your name—I think by now I should call you that —although I like Miss Pim.”

“Diandra.”

she just blurted it out.

He glanced at her as he turned down a street and raised a brow to consider 

“But —Miss Pim still works—“ but as she said that he caught hold of her hand and lay his over hers and pressed hers flat into the seat just the same way as he had once done. 

He parked the car that way and then with the rain coming down he said,

“it’s not the cleanest nor the safest place at this hour, but they have good coffee, Miss Diandra Pim but I’m afraid I still can’t promise you good behavior, but I’ll do my best.”

the slap

She takes walks down to the university park each day and stands by the river to watch how it flows. Each day she goes there with the brim of her hat that hides her face and her slim and narrow silhouette often framed in a trench coat and her eyes lowered before her. 

He watches her. 

And finally it is this one day he decides to approach her.

“Hello, I’m Madds—I am a professor over here at the university here…. I’ve noticed you often come here.”

His accent….was Norwegian 

But she was not glad of his interruption. It upset her tranquility and the peace she believed she could depend on here. 

She stood up from where where had been kneeling—looking closely into the water …. so closely 

She stared up at him but she was impaired by the sun as it hung over him. Only this gave Madds the advantage to see her without her ability to see him. He was momentary stuck by something in her face that stopped his brain from functioning for a moment. Then the light shifted. She moved her head. She turned away from his view. She diminished before him with all force of intention, like some practiced charm she had perfected. 

Only, he reached for her 

as he said,

“no!”

An impulsive move.

 And one that might done a great deal of harm 

     had it not been for the sudden shocking appearance of an enormous terrier thst would have—at thst very moment—knocked her right into the river

and you may wonder

was that her original intention to be there? ….just so….and the peaceful interruption 

          Tug!— at just the right moment —as though a reflex by the gods! he caught her ….when all it was had been the impertinent move to touch this perfect stranger….and will her from the place of oblivion; blurry; invisible ….behind the intentional visual din of attire….

the hat flew off!!!

“Oh!” she hid her face behind her hands as she watched him retrieve it. He wore a gray suit. He was neatly groomed. He wore clothes like a model but dark haired with interesting hazel eyes 

“I was wondering if I could ask you to join me for coffee? Or a drink? You see—I have a proposition.”

It was not a choice that her hand swept up and hit his face. It did it on its own accord. And afterward—her hand smarted badly. But she wasn’t sorry.

She stood there staring at him. Too stunned to move away. 

They both looked at each other.

Then suddenly— he laughed 

this connects somehow/missing link notes

How should I portray him on the artist’s stage?

as, artist to sketchbook; as artist to clipboard; as artist’s allegorical journal ….how Charlotte would see ….this(not Emily)….through the dream-mind of Austen but with the haunting desperation of Anaïs

or Anna Freud ….

   no through Grecian imagery and archetypes perhaps would best make sense, all things considered 

but through this artist’s prism of our times to— ‘continue the conversation ….’ left on caveman wall; swept through the doors of the underground subway those lose pages from ….what was it? those words; those dripping elusive words written on the humid fog of a train window 

beyond tethers & chains past the bunny slopes ropes

as an artist and a writer, how is it that I avoid looking at some harsh truths …. I do really wonder. I believe this is the missing link in my brain.i know this sounds ridiculous; like satire, but i know I avoid harsh truths but I know most people do. But —me….? I should know better. The real problem is, to look at the truths would disarm me to the point of a kind of self extinction. I could not mentally handle the truths. I know this. I’m not an idiot. I am consciously aware this is the crux of the reason behind why I do this. why should, for instance, why—should I avoid the sleeping monster in my closet that only awoke by some unexpected Heathcliff that for the longest time knew what it was but that was not the cause of whatever drew me.so, unexpected but how to look at the restless need to reach inside the closet because the monster is not really such a monster but maybe a bit of a beast.the weird contradictions of me and experiences that left some nasty scars has me wondering what it is I am so most afraid in there to have to keep on avoiding—is it hypocrisy?or is it only that silly thing no one should ever believe in—Stockholm syndrome trust?what a most erotic and dangerous monster

prayer to the master

tonight I find myself within the chambers of SansinGaulf —remember him, my readers? 

Those silences you fall into —you know them? he hears all those things I silently say.within my inner chambers.to go past but are caught in the snare of the boring same old threats that kept the progress of the journey former road blocked time and again 

no.i just sit in his chamber with its lush celestial, cobalt blue velvets. I don’t talk. I don’t even look at him. but I feel his gaze upon me. his ever patient gaze that never looks away.and indulges me from afar, as I well know but —I’ve run out of the energy to ….believe—?or the faith of it….possibly; I’m not sure at all….but in Sansingaulf’s chamber ….we are away from the world for awhile.So I don’t want words about the very things I want to escape from.the fierce snd terrible pain of life that is really more Hell than what thereafter may afford I’ve awaken to understand ….anymore….

“What am I do—“

I start to say 

“No—be silent and say not those thoughts aloud that will only foul your thoughts down directions we’ve come too far to be destroyed by,” Sansingaulf rises from his marble throne and walks over to me, 

but I look away…. my thoughts ….

“my daughter,” he says unexpectedly 

   perhaps unfair …. he saved her from the trap when her wing was caught ….

“don’t give up,” he says 

my thoughts 

    my silent reply—he cannot censure my thoughts 

    “it matters because there is a reason you were saved ….I have a soft spot for you, call it ….you can still have everything ….my daughter ….”

just remember those immortal words spoken by Tom Hanks:

“There’s no crying in baseball!”

sweetie; darling~still hyperventilating incessantly 

Tonight

tonight like a nocturnal, feral cat I walk the late night streets, I pass a bum along my path crossing the river’s bridge; arguing with what’s inside his fist. I step aside him by the curb and suddenly he sees me and for a moment and —seems to come to his senses as he apologizes to me.but it does not matter to me as long as he keeps his hands away from me, I walk by and continue down the road ….i don’t care anymore.I’m sick of the feeling I am caged ….and so I wander aimlessly thinking about dumb things about the world I can’t do anything about. sad things. so the sadness takes over and I walk and I walk and ….then I think about all those people ….i knew —was with …. and as I walk, I know I’d never turn back for anybody I ever was with and foolishly hung up on ….they just weren’t good enough really. I’d rather have more living space than be cramped by some dumb guy who could not appreciate me because they were just that shallow ….and I realize I’d never be able to just go walk in the middle of the night alone when I was involved with them….yeah it gets lonely but it’s even more lonely when you’re married to or just with the wrong guy and you know it; which was always the case for me…. it’s such a pretty night. All the stars are out 

surreal 

from the way she walks, her clothes and the way she wears her hair; the hats that hide her face; the coats that swallow her…. everything says: please don’t look at me; please go away; please don’t come near…. because they look; they take and grab and invade at every turn 

celves to self and Celf~it is just as wrong to ignore emotions as it is to be governed by them; they are meant as clues and markers on the journey; to be examined; to gauge the process; to be the teacher; but never to be the ruler nor the demon to fight

Spencer’s

this is so stupid to mention, but in keeping with talking about society and what you’re unconsciously projecting 

I got the strangest look from a man who watched me go past him into Spencer’s. why am I laughing about this? this is wrong, it’s too idiotic but no! he actually stopped in his tracks and watched me go into Spencer’s. 

so what? i mean, what was he thinking?see what I mean? they sell other things in there. it’s in a family mall. they also have lava lamps. 

notes

 I don’t know; I suppose I find myself disturbed. As I look at life, whilst doing my research …. I am researching all the impactful writers, thinkers, artists, and philosophers of a wide span of eras …. perhaps I too look to this work I have decided to spend my creative time on as it goes with my interest in understanding meaning ….

purpose ….ive been so engrossed in this research that I am even dreaming g in it now —I guess I go all the way when I do what I do …. you know it was like that for me in theatre…. I was so into my character —on stage I forgot to be shy and it was magic to become another’s journey; feel their sorrow and wish to convince everyone of how I see her…. I loved being on stage. So writing became that extension for me but —what I was thinking about was something else 

That Keats and Shelly —who were my original heroes from ninth grade English lit; hardly fifteen—ripe for their plucking ….but to find they died so young—that they had tragic lives. But sadder is Shelly in a way because of the way he sank into sexual filth. I got sad as I researched all this…. their competition with Mary Shelly and all that about females are brainless; meant to be brainless; property —how could Mary Shelly create Frankenstein ? No, it had to be a man who wrote it. Because—guess what? We are back there now. Women are just brainless property still so how do I feel about that? I shun the world. I really don’t like people. 

The French Revolution writers —the idyllic fantasy to free humans from chains; free their minds —remove them from their rulers and all that 

well…. It would be nice but seems like utopia; really though, it is not like all of them went to extremes in thought but it seems naive as look at what became of industrialism and upon whose shoulders do they drain the lives 

But look at naturalism as they saw it —there is something I must have not seen until now and that is what disturbs me. You see? They were —Coleridge too, they lost their heads in a wild fantasy when they should have been more industrial so— there we have William Morris who was the success story but he had a few lucky breaks; still, he was not a miserly person at all and wrote the book that inspired Lord of the Rings for Tolkien. 

I think it’s about what I should decide I’d rather focus on and what the message is I am conveying…. is that my role then? i don’t care, i think i need it to be said and maybe that’s the only reason; who cares who reads it?someone has to write this; like why hasn’t anyone done it?

I found him!

   

Was actually so easy to find. I was not even looking for him 

 

it helped so much and was so nice to feel your faith in me—and cannot deny it’s true, as I know I did for you; itgot me through so much.so don’t go;for I still need it so

life is fluid; it alters and shifts what looks like today will be so completely altered along the winds the future changes the reality of the ephemeral now

~and there is forgiveness ….it is ok to believe in the soul’s redemption because it is what is actually required 

exploring more current day art forms as sources

Shashi Kapoor 

in Heat and Dust —it is one scene, and it is only because of how he touches her

*literary aside notes (for my reference)

such an unexpected subtle shock of surprise (he is more erotic than if it were explicit;so hot)

 Ég sakna nærveru þinnar. dagurinn er svo rólegur án þín.

a very literary note;an aside for the margins

On a post-it writes

“he puts me in chains and makes me endure hours of torture upon my sex with constant onslaught of a soft mouth ….how do I confess this?” 

—found in the translations letters of ancestor 

*frame story/subStory

margin notes

not to give away my new writing work, but I need to work out a few thoughts here. I can only say that as I research this —vaguely, I’m looking at how western movements of thought have influenced human lives especially seen through art —I thought it was a trilogy but it’s growing legs and to wrestle the beast I write now a tiny anecdote of a side thought

consider the actors of Shakespeare time. Of Sophocles time. Of Oscar Wilde’s time and consider all those immortal works and their muses or those that portrayed them on stage or sat at salons for paintings 

To read Forster or Jane Austen as a nerd girl and then see Hugh Grant, Julian Sand, Colin Firth, these lovely men embody characters …. and I have to consider our time and era and what one we are—or were in—QE2? the knights and dames and our a.s.byat 

i don’t know.i suppose it is a stunned feeling;watching the car thst hit you drive away as you fall down feeling sense;half alive. I keep thinking about that phone call last year which got me out of where I was; what if I’d missed the call?what if—and ….i only had seconds to understand what was going to be my escape hatch out 

I’d waited a year or more for that call but no, I was obligated where I was when they called a year before over a car—if Uhtred could give a year to king Alfred for a coat of armor —what for a car?what torture is worth anything except that was a necessary asset.how else could I have driven away from there in the middle of nowhere?was not as if there was a bus.why would I gamble on chances?this I relive over and over.but no, they all got me out of where I had to leave.there were never any other choices.but I hate when people say I’m a survivor as if what —if I’d not been —a tycoon would have saved me?or I roll over and die in front of an oncoming car?I don’t see that I ever had choices but to be sharp and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. I guess I am good at that. this is what I find so weird is the combat isn’t coming at me and I am still waiting in the corner to be hit. reliving is an understatement.i am trying to learn how to walk for the very first time without having to duck for cover and I really find it unwise to stop ducking anyway. so the calm confuses me.and noise.ive studied human behavior, so i am aware this fits the description. it takes no genius to calculate the events and time span to consider how long before ….the reliving all in splices stops—but then, i am an anomaly according to my mysterious Dr. Rothschild I have written here about. she has a different name in real life.and I was her case study—so there’s a peer reviewed case about me in some journal over how I survived complex early on abuse/physical/emotional/sexual perpetual-over-time and walked away.i don’t care about statistics as it’s all predetermined in my mind —by them. what do they know but i do read their studies and I have a degree. Dr.Freud I really like him because he was literate and had imagination—wasn’t it all basically theory?what did Dr.Rothschild decide about me in the end well—the anomaly. She had no explanation why I keep getting up after and won’t back down 

they say you re-live your trauma. over and over. so how long before it finally goes away?but which one?there have been so many back to back.

when does it stop?when does the warmth and safety ever come 

god only knows what I’d be without you 

oh knight at arms, today blue sky

There is such agony within the emptiness. It is necessary to identify those things we have learned that truly matter; the elevation of how far we have come; evolved, not repeated the same mistakes

I think repression is the root of all evil.upon realizing this, it occurs to me that I’ve really never been interested in perpetuating negative cycles of mal intended games played through forms of mental abuse —to me an enlightening discovery as it simply means I see it was just a kind of a blindness I’d not examined.  

Therefore it can be better understood why physical forms of confinement or chains; ties etc. that becomes a fetish is adapted as it creates a venue for the expression to be exhibited through a decoy channel hidden as a subterranean ‘acceptable’; but as an act of perversion; like an eccentric or secret social deviant 

after 16 hours it has stopped snowing. how quaint to find myself atop the northest pole without having to move 

Maverick 

enigmatic 

what does it mean to be a deviant 

 <<so what hemisphere are you on?>> he asked her

But she was still in that state 

<<you can’t know that. I keep my lives totally separate>>

<<why did you come over here to the Internet cafe—don’t you have those over there?>>

<<over here?—like, yours?no, I’ll forget this conversation in the morning. I don’t want to know where you are—ok? Oh—because the downloads are better—duh!>>

She would not have remembered any of this had it not been for the several incessant sounds of alerts ringing in her head like mass bells 

 

And it was only because he caught her in a mood—a very bad day and a few slugs of cheap vodka so,

in front of the webcam she shot her bright teal lace panties then opened her legs and looked into the cam,

<<let me be the object of your desire>> and fell flat on her face from the last shot hitting her just then

arching her back sharing an unintentional view of a nether factor realized and faced around

<<just joking>>

and fell flat on her face again 

Internet cafe story continues

The Internet Cafe was on the ‘other side’ of the northern hemisphere; she had taken the Broadband Cable Jet across which happened to be—at that time—during her coffee break at work 

Anyway she got back in time but —there’s always that second lag between time zones and your virtual self isn’t quite honed to you.

It was hours later before it occurred to her to check her messages. The In Real Life work hours sucked the most, and it’s mostly because people don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. Well, Roux thought, anyway—and she was the worst example of this exact thing, she knew.

They had to watch a boring lecture. On video! So what was the point? And then after, the discussion—in a circle like the ‘Round Table’ concept —and? Everyone is texting each other and no one says a word out loud.

It could be about that they record the meetings. And everyone is encrypted —or whatever they call it.

But it gave her such a headache! People can still get in your bubble without actually being in your physical bubble which —big brother counts on.

So, after downloading her daily stats she went home and ate a burrito and reached for her laptop to write, remembering what she meant to put down —and there was his message —this is not a Pipe man/guy/person/entity who was on the other side of the hemisphere and she ….had his pipe. That’s how this all started with them. That pipe 

virtual life—part of that other story

<<I like to visit your place in your head>>  he said 

<<but that’s not a real place>>

She had gone home with his pipe, as he’d asked and things got complicated ….

I find I start to reach a sense of acceptance; I watch the snow come down and I find I surrender …. I have let out my rage.so this is fine. I am reconciled to the whole of it all.and I think I was a damn good knight 

thoughts while waiting for the epic last winter storm

my latest obsession has been cooking.as it is practical why not make it entertaining and educational.i feel like going backward in time starting with Julia Child’s recipes and then move on to medieval cooking recipes I’ve read about 

Byronic rain

And as they watched the rain pour down over the glass of the windshield that faced the swings he said,

“you don’t remember where we would meet….” 

and even though the tone of his words did not suggest any question—it was

but he was looking directly at the swings when he said it 

it is so interesting the things that people say in opposition to their very own thoughts. Because she had heard some things about him. Things from those of whom didn’t know what their real story was…. now such old ….history —what became….? well—she heard he had a trail of quite a checkered way—which not only had given her pause but made her feel such a strong sense of —what was it exactly? not guilt; for there had only been his own bad behavior but —no, more like unfinished business with a vague sense of —bad timing 

She watched the rain come down. The swirls over the windshield made such mesmerizing designs. Like ginkgo biloba leaves swirling down

It swept down in the most interesting layers.

So what really made her decide to RSVP back to the wedding invite?

She was looking at the swings. 

“Uhh—vaguely—wasn’t it….” she feigned an heir of unabashed awkward forgetfulness “….?” as she stared right at the swings. scratching her head. Very convincing too.

“I really wish I remembered ….myself,” Greg said and after a moment of an intended and imposed pregnant pause—he simply added, “….Miss Pim.”

It is possible that it was the nice glow from the nearby safety lights. What do they call them in England? She hardly had an idea of the term in her country but it was a useful thought to —

And at the same moment both said: 

“—did you really believe I’d come back?”

“—why did you really return Miss Pim?”

Sharply her head shot towards him.

He watched her face for the impact. 

“Yes.”

“I…. guess if…. I were willing to be honest with myself I’d say—well to answer your question…. I was hoping to ….find ….out…. whatever might ….have —become ….of you….”

Roux goes to the Internet Cafe (yet another story)

 

Roux found her way to the Internet Cafe with the help of google maps. So it was up three floors and then several more horizontal escalators later, but because the canopy with the name of the cafe written on it was hidden under a heavy oak tree she couldn’t find it when she looked along the long display of store fronts in front of her. The tree she did see as it left an impression on her. Was it a real tree, she wondered? And looked up in search of sources of photosynthesis. Someone just then at top speed ran right into her and knocked her heavy bag right off her shoulder, sending her off balance so that she fell to the ground. 

Whoever it was who slammed into her kept running leaving Roux in a heap on the cement ground.

But that was when she saw the sign:

“Welcome to the Internet Cafe!”

Oh. She saw it now— that she was beneath the branches of the oak tree looking up.

Rubbing her bruised knee she got up from the ground, as nobody bothered to stop to ask what she was doing on the ground, thank god, as maybe that would be worse. She swung her heavy bag back onto her shoulder and walked right to the door of Internet Cafe, swinging it open.

The atmosphere inside was cooler, slightly darker too, with only the slightest hint of music which came from someone playing lightly on a piano. There were interesting neon signs on the walls of each section, and recognizing her favorite genres, Roux headed in the direction of the dark purple and green lava lamps and the koi pools where the music hushed out to silence along the rows of personal booths. Roux found a spot in the corner by the window that overlooked the path to the entrance with a view of the oak tree. From this angle she noticed someone had cut initials into the trunk of the tree. 

Then pulled her laptop from her bag and plugged in immediately as this had just given her an idea for something she was writing. 

She was about four paragraphs into her writing when a sudden message appeared on her screen

<<hi—can you do me a favor?>>

Roux stared at her computer screen and this new odd message from —? After a moment another message came

<<I was just sitting at that terminal and I think I left my pipe behind>>

At that terminal …. oh—it was a messaging platform through the Internet Cafe she realized looking closer at the pink bubble that the message came in which matched the paper napkins on the table and had the letters Internet Cafe written in tiny letters 

In search of —this pipe, Roux looked around at the objects on the table; there was a fake crystal vase with a fake black rose, a fake crystal votive with a lit red candle, a bottle of soy sauce, a bottle of agave, a little crystal holder with packets of sugar, fake sugar, and set of salt and pepper shakers and a shaker with parmesan cheese— concluding her search, she believed, Roux was about to reply that she didn’t see it there—when her shoe came in contact with something on the floor.

She bent down to look at what it was, twisting her body to peak under the table, reaching…. she felt the smooth bowl of a wood pipe under her fingers and grasped it in her fingers.

<<I believe I found your pipe>>

an Update

 

https://youtu.be/qVpBx-8yCb0?si=Bu_3VjUB1NJm9NVa

for you x

 

https://youtu.be/VFCCvaghUnU?si=DXEXwe7moc9rnsLG

 

taking blog down/hacked

dear readers, I do believe that 

my blog has been hacked —and as I wrote: I will be taking my blog down 

I’m considering that for publishing reasons I would rather be sure I’ve got my Copyright protected 

so it’s staying up. I’m cautious of the recent hacking going on with my blog and am paranoid of things I say now so I have reconsidered how I henceforth will be treating my blog

My “voice” and tone may seem not as candor 

Best Friends

 

 en ég myndi ekki mótmæla því ef hann iðraðist

a poet in exile

naked face, no glamor; I’ve no interest to impress 

writers notes today

awhile back I referred to an existential crisis 

                                                                 well, I was referring to something that has come upon me. It is a kind of balance that has been disturbed in a way but it is, for my own experience about my Fundamentals. 

the values

personal values that for me must work with what I produce in life. How I mean ….for instance, I quit jobs that went against my personal ethics —this is my example to explain what I’m having trouble trying to say here.

So, I walked away from opportunities because I hated myself doing the jobs 

only it’s never been choice as much absolute need. my ex friend from the book shops once told me I was more devout than her most religious catholic priest because of the extremes that I went to not go that way. 

I don’t know what that is about me. But as a writer and artist it makes sense if you knew me. I am this through and through. I live the artist’s mind every moment I breathe. I digest life as seen through my dark framed glasses. Through my glass darkly 

So my existential crisis is to do with —how to continue in a world I grow further from 

I am organic. not digital. I touch. I feel through all my senses. I am very touch sensitive and everything is more intense to me 

I suppose this is why I need armor —

but the way to live a life not focused on what our society judges as success 

verses that I as an artist have always lived by my creed. 

And : To give back to society a positive or nothing else if it can only be instead a negative 

I can’t do jobs I know are in, my ethical sense,bad for society, it is not in my nature. It is counter productive to joining the planet, is my view. So, if I’m not benefitting I must find how I must —is how I think of society in general. Is that very socialistic? or utopian? 

so you see each step I took I did this at places I went to. I searched for what was needed most and put myself there. 

I was influenced by people like William Morris. His books are not as known as his art. But yes, clearly his art —I reveal how my mind is going 

But whether or not I am understood by my contemporaries —my worth is gauged this way for me. Not by the material monies because when you die it’s not yours—am I earning my soul’s worth here? am I positively effecting the souls I touch? And the ones who burn me, do I turn poisonous too—or let it roll right off my back knowing I am more pure and they cannot trample my journey 

The existential crisis I refer to is about this realization— and here is why I feel as a social commentator —I find myself owing a debt I must repay from the minds I have been prepared for battle by—like a social responsibility but more the agony of the world —where my people came from —my nomadic soul 

requires something to be left here I guess that is not for me but for — the ongoing conversation 

imagine being there now with all the republican campaigning for fascism and all those loaded rifles ? I got out in time 

from the journey, oh the places we have gone

my pilgrimage 

This is why I hike 

I never use a filter, I wait for when the light is right 

 

 

 

 ....these fleeting thoughts as I pass through the end of one stage and turn

there is awareness over how voices I’ve listened to before were harmful. They wanted things from me as they opened their hands and offered me their veiled gifts

I see I have turned the corner and learned how to keep going on calloused soled feet that gained their rites of passage at last

they will no longer chain me down

I walked away at last

      I didn’t know I had instilled the callus as shield with the rubber exterior that bounces and deflects what once I had no defense against.... oh those flesh eating parasites.... goodbye. I don’t care anymore. No I’m not an asshole, I’ve just gone hard inside from the callus of experiences of a journey you will never know. If that makes me cold, so be it, but the world was always cold on this path when faces sneered and turned away in narrow judgement

I find warmth in places I’d never have expected .... New York which once had been my punisher comes now to rescue me as if the ghost of my father carries me to his historical monument. I stand at his statue on this city’s street and humble myself at his feet knowing awe stumbling to it by sheer accident.... my father

“What is it?” he asks me as I watch absently squirrels gathering their acorns. Sit on the wood floor with legs up against me, my head against the wall. “You’re so quiet these last few days...”

His hands run up my arms as he sits behind me. He pulls me to him sitting behind me

“I think that I realize now that identity.... is a riddle about the measure of being different.... and I don’t know why the relevance of this has left me so empty lately. The shift of meaning seems to appear to me more about the emotions that drive us; the desperate ones.... What is voice?”

what is voice

when I can only whisper, no one hears, that is apocalyptic emptiness 

Northport memories

I used to love to drive out to the waterfront in Northport in my old Hyundai hatchback on an early spring day . 

You know, there was still that nip in the air and the trees all still bear. But the air was so crisp. I’d whizz along the snaking 25-A and make that sharp left down that quaint little road that descended all the way down to the water. 

I’d dream of those dockside houses with their odd garages. The bricks of the road. The cats that tiptoed across the sidewalk like ballerinas.

Down down to the water.

My escape. 

Sometimes after work, sometimes from buttercup lane where my parents lived five minutes away off of 25-a and cherry lane and just past where my equestrian trainer’s house was.

Northport was so nice and sleepy with its tram tracks on the street where Jack Kerouac lived. I used to sit on the curb out there and stare up at his window imagining ….what he saw. With a tuna fish salad sandwich walk along the tram tracks to the path that lead to the long dock.

The Northport New York yachts under a setting sun were often my best company.

John and I lived between a cemetery and a biker’s dive. Our last place together. 

I’d go at high speed over the railroad tracks and do a wheelie right into the drive and more often than not he was standing with a crossbow aimed at a squirrel 

Miss Pim/fleeting thought; intro of a Short

Brenda would often wonder what Greg would turn out like once he’d grown up…. but she always found it so impossible. 

He had always been such a dark horse. 

It felt unreal he should be only about a yard away when so many years had now passed. She had sensed him, she realized, even before she came to this spot. It seemed she always could sense him. When he was near, when he was about to do something reckless, when he was thinking of her; she could feel it, it always seemed. 

“Are you—?” she began ….

But just then a sudden downpour of rain fell upon them without warning and….

   whatever she was about to say —was eclipsed 

“This way!!!” he said and reached without hesitation and pulled her under his arm and then he half dragged her in a direction towards some parked cars

And it was not until later that she would reflect upon the ease of which his familiarity felt by just that presumed touch —almost like a reactor waking and returning to that place of self-aware

Miss Pim/Another, another story

Returning to the old school brought up old memories again 

It had been when Brenda had been student teaching. Before she had decided to become a student counselor. She had been forced to study abroad due to her family’s circumstances at the time; her father was an American diplomat and he had been caught up in politics that forced caution. So she had to remain near her father for protection by the secret service as she attended university.

But how she wound up doing her internship at a school deep in the center of a society beyond her experience; the English Midlands; was quite the mystery. Then—just on her way to her higher degrees in what later became her field due to ….an encounter with one particular student. 

He was a boy at the school who was always getting into fights even though he was a very bright student. And she had become somehow drawn into the case. They wanted to take him up on charges over something —only, what was it, again? She didn’t remember….one day she decided instead of forcing a confrontation with him about the incidences that had everyone so upset about, she shared with him some drawings she had been working on for an idea for a comic book. And somehow it took another turn 

How old would he be now? She wondered. 

What was his name again? 

Brenda was only back in the area because an old friend of hers from school was getting married and she had heard the old headmaster of the school was retiring. There was some event being made of it which she had found by chance when she was reading about local news. 

She found herself going back to some old familiar places and outside the school down the road was one spot of particular memory.  

It was a grey, wintry day but Brenda’s eyes swept the vista and they fell, by memory, to the very spot of the swings …. there….there it was…. 

and, 

“there,” she said aloud 

But then there was a sound, like a scrape of a shoe behind her before,

“I knew somehow that you would be back….”

the voice —was ….

“Greg….” she turned around 

“Miss Pim.”

tango for tea

 

on the stripped to cement floor of the penthouse living room and my old quilt as the magic carpet beneath us, as if this is so natural to sit here with him. so natural that I can stretch myself to reach my toes to him ….after years 

no place now to even hide but the shadows of the room that keep us under the illusion of safety until I think— of the glare of the morning

he suddenly says

“I have discovered something about you I never knew,” he tells me now with that impossible lilt from his native land that dusts everything with magic 

“What?” I ask and start to feel the color rise to my face 

He reaches across the floor beside me where lies my mobil. He taps it,

“when you got up before ….you really should put a passcode on your phone tsk tsk .”

I reach for my phone but look at him, I just keep my hand there

“I’ll keep that in mind —while you’re here.”

But he is just watching me,

“I always had the feeling. But—now it’s confirmed—so—that website—you’re not as —vanilla as you liked to pretend in —the past?”

“Did I ever pretend that?” I ask but no, I’m already standing up and grabbing my phone and wondering 

“You’re angry.”

He says that. 

I think I’m meant to ask:

“what are you playing at?”

But, instead, I look at him and slowly so as to seem quite bored with the game, walk in the direction towards the kitchen

do I know the answer to that? and the reply that is in the no reply

He follows me 

and as he does so I say, waving my hand in the direction of New York City,

“and while all that is at my feet….” and here I stop to peer out at the city street of the city that never sleeps, “it could be on the other side of the universe for all the good of its charms —when I can’t even afford a hot dog off the corner stand,” I say

But then I say,

“maybe I didn’t have the vocabulary to speak of more complex flavors like black sabbath raspberry ginger snaps so you only heard vanilla —but I don’t remember you complaining of me that time in the telephone booth, but I guess you forgot about that?”

where are the dreams from wherein we first were sprung 

when you consider an existential crisis I am not sure that covers it

so odd thing~

weird.concerning yet another cryptic encounter.i am only putting it in here as —call it backstory, it was when i was in Maryland this one day I went out hiking. Well, I don’t have any idea why but this woman approached me. She just walked up to me as I was getting into my car, I was eating a protein bar and she asked me what kind it was. 

I guess I didn’t want to be rude, stuck in the door of my car— in ninety degree Fahrenheit Maryland summer weather, after a hike thirsty snd starving but ok…. She said they were camping there and she waved to her husband who was a retired police detective I think out of DC and huh but then somehow she seemed to want to know all about me. Unless it was just two curmudgeons who try to solve mysteries when they camp—who knows 

Is this odd? 

These things happen to me. Usually men but like I’ve said not always just men. What was I doing that made her want to know about me? Hiking clothes and a very boring four door car. my protein bar? But she started with, “are you local?” 

That is the wrong question for me to squirm out of.

when I got to the part of where I grew up well there we go —it gets even more weird. She tells me they had moved to the Netherlands the year I started at Bard 

I don’t know —this is something I might make up in a story but i …. 

And during this whole conversation in my head I’m asking myself “what does this woman want?” because ….it feels like there is something. I did get to meet the husband as he was packing things up, and the dog who was very friendly for a huge dog …. And I even remember saying to him, “sorry I don’t mean to steal your wife from what you guys are doing!”

But he looked straight at me dead on —yes, I saw the cop stare—

But then he cracked a sudden Clint Eastwood grin that actually chilled me as he said,

“go right ahead! It’s usually me getting into a long winded conversation, I’m enjoying this.”

as I’m still stuck inside the door 

and I’m still wondering —what does she want?

After he walked away she insisted we should keep in touch and even as she lived on the other side of that massive bridge I thought maybe a nearish friend there could come in handy.

Well. She did text me. There had been some possibility of meeting before they left but ….

To my relief it didn’t happen but ….she seems to keep popping up. Like today 

what does she want?

at the end of the day I find 

our true north; our center 

it is well 

       ….and alas 

         always appears 

 

you see, I am not interested in shallow encounters, I am so bored of that. bored of the propositions that are designed to both impress me as well as shock me. so bored of that. you think I can’t be slutty? write slutty? you think I can’t bend in every position any sick fuck might Ai me? and look like I am enjoying it?—and yes, I could too —if it were my mood to; when I choose and —it’s boring if there’s no actual mind behind the mummery

so fucking bored 

side street baskerville a party for tea

 

But by the end of the day, Faun did not want to reflect upon the meeting with the two authorities which, mostly was tedious and all about the fact that Monsieur Pierre Reaux was not kept abreast of the ongoing details of the case. It was a wasted hour of listening to and watching him exclaim and strut over the documents and the paper trail of how Sullivan and she and third party had left him in the dust. 

It just buried Faun under more stupid nonsense. 

Sheila did not see Faun again until after closing time when she handed Faun the cash till,

“What did Inspector Clouseau have to say?—sheeze —you look like you’ve not see daylight in a year! Did you even eat anything all day?”

Faun took the till and quietly started counting the drawer down 

Sheila cleared her throat,

“hello?”

Faun looked up in mid count,

“thirty-seven….” her eyes focused on Sheila and for a second or two it seemed she seemed to go blank. Then she said, “I’m sorry …. yeah—Clouseau needs a clue—I don’t want to get into it, he’s an idiot —but, it’s just more stuff they need—paperwork—total waste of my time….sorry…. I can’t believe it’s so late—I never even saw the sun today….sorry I left you out there on the floor all day.”

“It was your day off, and I wasn’t alone, the girls took a shift today —so, the change might be off—“

Faun dropped the pennies back in the coin slot and looked at Sheila—six foot two black trans beauty wearing one of her usual imaginative ensembles, this one involving a red tartan kilt with a matching hat 

“Oh…. I didn’t realize ….” Faun again looked blank 

“Ill do the till— sweetie, why don’t you go home?”

After about a minute of considering and nervously rearranging the objects of the desk in front of her Faun sighed in defeat,

“yeah….” and stood up and reached without looking for her hand bag and coat but paused by the office door. She looked into the office and back at Sheila, “King Leopold?”

“Oh! We have him—I meant to tell you, can we drop him off tomorrow? Gary and he seemed to have hit it off—“

“So, who dropped him off? Who was the guy?”

“Guy,” Sheila said, “his name —that’s his name—“

“But—“ and yet as Faun wished to press for more info on this little mystery her phone alerted with the dismal tone of Pierre Reaux —asking her to fetch yet one more piece of paperwork —this one from Arthur’s office.

It was awhile before Faun finally arrived back at her place in the freezing cold, fumbling for her key hardly noticing any of her surroundings except for the cold and all the snow and so it was with a start that she looked up from removing her boots inside the entrance via her kitchen, by the door that she noticed ….Grant standing there looking at her —still inside the partition between her place and the other side that lead out to ….the other kitchen and —to salmon sofas

“What….” the words seemed not to come to Faun as she stared up at him 

He looked ….terrible ….it was clear he had been traveling but it was not just a look of travel weary, it was something deeper. 

He stared at her. His dark hair and face were groomed as usual but something was obviously wrong; he appeared slightly crumpled in his woolen pullover and gray trousers 

“Something’s —wrong….” Faun said it looking at him as she carefully approached him in her stocking feet 

Slowly his eyes met hers; red veined and tired but it made the green of one of them almost brilliant 

“Don’t ask me,” he said and just stared at her. His eyes took a deadly serious look. “Don’t ask,” he said again 

Faun took a step back and started to turn away,

“all ri—“ but he reached for her as she started to move away. Faun stumbled and let him steady her as she looked again up at him. She stared into his eyes and said again, “all right ….” as she took a deep breath, “would you like tea?”

a royal Reaux side street mystery

Faun arrived on foot before the sun and found her way to the cash office without having to flip any lights. She focused on the neat list in her head of all the tasks of the day…. but what about King Leopold? 

It had not crossed Faun’s mind once to believe the king could be anywhere but with Grant 

and since Grant was nowhere to be found, it seemed a moot topic until she found Sheila’s handwritten yellow post-it note laying stuck to—right on top of the shop’s electric bill: “almost forgot to tell you—Guy called saying he is dropping off King Leopold”

which threw a wrench in her plot to stay focused on her to-do list and not get distracted 

Nevermind the donation boxes of books cluttering up the path to the public bathrooms that needed to be inventoried and shelved or tossed, not a safety hazard but —by early mid- morning even this was to be evaded by a surprise policeman visit 

Sullivan and Pierre Reaux both arriving through the shop’s front doors and one glaring her down as Faun dealt with a line of people whose only literary interest was reading the price out of their expected lattes

Out of nowhere, Sheila arrived too, appearing from the stacks and saying,

“I’ll take care of the line, why don’t you take Mr and Mrs Smith over there?”

“You have great timing,” Faun looked up and without argument stepped away from the counter and headed out to the floor over to the ‘Smiths’

“Can I help you with something?” Faun glanced first at officer Sullivan and then at the French Canadian 

“Perhapz ve can ‘av a word in a more private eh—rroom, nes pas?”

Faun glanced at Sheila who waved with a wink and then looked over at Sullivan whose eyes looked serious 

“Great,” Faun said

An alley way called Dawn off the side street

She felt differently she realized, staring out over the street in front of her, watching the coats of snow melt under the pummel of the constant rain which replaced the days of snow storms 

She had felt differently for awhile.

The tone of life had cast a new altered scheme of shades ….and it was so gradual, this change …. it was not possible to pin point any exact moment of the shift 

but there was a shift …. 

Faun looked down at her chapped hands— now softened ….but they still slightly stung, if she noticed ….

why had she come here….? and why had Grant been able to distract her from ….distract her from what is reality. But the change began when it was still present 

   and the events —a few shocking deaths between other

events …. smeared what remained of the dreams 

What world did those dreams belong in?

Sheila had no other message from Grant— so, it seems ….he forgot her, and now having shut up this part of the house Faun turned away from the window. She kept her eyes away from the salmon colored couches and focused on the door through which would close out these recent memories ….

and once through that door….Shut….with a click….she leaned against it and stared ahead at the interior of her little kitchen ….her bald reality glared back as she wondered how it was possible that he had achieved this ability to distract her from reality —that reality ….

And now with everything back in order at the shop and the bills sorted out and replied to whatever it was that Pierre Reaux needed (copies of the mud print photos) now done 

Faun faced the empty place ignoring the mockery of cheap fixes that existed for dates and fake friends —how did he distract her from that? she slid down the door and sat on the floor ….not a flashy red carpet promise, it was just—the ease that existed when he was around; a calm in which to think and breathe— was it illusion ….?something she had conjured up and blindly had believed in—her fault—so….it should be easy to conjure again, right? for herself ….

Faun reminded herself that he would have to contact her eventually about the book shop 

wouldn’t he? 

It suddenly occurred to her why Grant was able to distract her from the brutalities of life 

No back street boy Side street mystery

It was Sheila that had kept the bookshop running when Faun was away and had volunteered to pick Faun up at the airport upon her return, whereupon using the opportunity to fill Faun in on all the latest gossip,

“Ohhh! Lenny and Lonnie broke up; newsflash,” was one of the first things that had come out of her mouth before Faun had fastened the seatbelt 

Even so….

“Wow, that’s a shocker, even for an outsider like me,” Faun was saying as Sheila pulled onto the road, the full mountain range, the now familiar backdrop, lending the moment a kind of nostalgic scene within Faun's poetic dreamy mind 

….watching those quaint and quiet familiar little road roll by with their sleepy mystery at this late hour after twelve midnight 

Faun thought about this now as she sat in the shop’s office…. weeks of figures to correct (Sheila wasn’t great with business numbers) and a head ache of deposits to go through with the bank (as money was not really Sheila’s forte either), but the shop was clean; it hadn’t burnt down; the customers were happy; the sales very good so…. 

how could Faun complain ? And it kept her busy from thinking too much about …. life 

Life …. as reminders of its ephemeral gift/lesson is only given on loan and seeing everyone again …. made her realize how time is going by— everyone looked so ….old

and she found herself often in a corner terrified with the clear reality of this…..

all holiday fun included on her overwhelming trip she had returned from but ….also …. the lack of any presence of Grant 

And as Sheila had driven Faun home from the airport, hardly taking a breath about everything Faun had missed about everyone in the neighborhood …. Faun waited 

she waited for any mention about Grant

They were all the way on the road they lived on and Faun had looked up, automatically ….to his window ….as Sheila drove past the entrance before pulling into the driveway, next to Faun’s yellow Volvo. She had noticed though ….his light was not on and the window was completely dark. 

Faun hesitated and took a moment as she reached to open the passenger side door, clearing her throat and looked over at Sheila as she also opened her door to get out

“Uh—any messages?” Faun hesitated to ask but then vaulted herself out of the seat, not wanting to appear desperate 

With her backpack and carryon, Faun had stood outside as she slammed it shut, noticing that Sheila looked at her blankly. Sheila followed her to the door

“Oh wait! That’s right!” Sheila said as Faun turned the door nib to go in—but Sheila cut in front of her, “his message! I’m supposed to check your place before I let you in when I drop you off—you meant English guy—I never remember his name, if I think of Depeche Mode, it comes to me; Grant—“

It was too cold to ask as Sheila ran in to turn lights on and check all the rooms. Faun had waited outside shivering 

When the coast was clear, Faun had to wait for her teeth to stop chattering to speak and when she finally could say something, she said,

“I don’t get the connection but—was that the only message he left?”

“You know,” Sheila had rolled her eyes, “British guy, British band—S and M —Grant ….lets play master and servant —and he looks the type,” was all she could then elaborate upon 

Cards on the table —left

She found it strange to return to the town after the holidays 

finding Christmas —cards on the table as she’d left them there before dashing off for the airport …. the reengaging was something she’d dreaded ….

like returning arriving after the party’s over

the lights all still up…. in town; winter with its whisper, frozen and all aglow; lit up huge silver bells flanking one door and glowing rather more gold in the early evening light. Where was the snow this year? you would think the mountains would be thick in white by now ….

Faun sat in her car for awhile lost.in.thought.lost

she stared at something but didn’t see as she thought about where she’d been …. she had feared returning to this quaint little town after…. after. . . . 

she closed her eyes and put her face into the car steering wheel. she concentrated on the sound of her own breathing. she reminded herself …. how to 

then sat straight up …. they have no idea …. here ….it is easy to jump through worlds once it’s become second nature…. she felt her put her arms through herself like a sweater and merge again more whole ….and Grant ….?

For awhile she just breathed as she thought about him 

she had spent the holidays with people she’d not seen for years—Faun’s checkered past? checked, yes the rest is anyone’s interpretation she often thought

     ….Grant 

they had left things so oddly