Elan/ somewhere in time

It was as if time had frozen for her; Elan was so still for fear of moving to cause anymore noise to reveal what could be amiss behind the shut market stall. What felt an eternity of time was no more than half the time it takes to run to the shoreline from there. But also time froze in her mind even as it was time was still continuing in reality. 

After awhile she moved slowly, testing her limbs as she trembled. Tested her ability to soundly move well enough to disengage what was left of the dead weight upon her. By sheer will, eyes closed, she released the weight soundlessly and forced herself to move away quick, to search for the objects she had dropped during their scuffle….then to get her mind focused on what to do next. 

The sun would not be rising for awhile. She could tell by the moon. Her plan had been to change her clothes into the disguise she had now stuffed in her travel bag that had a long strap. That had been what she had first meant to do. Until the noise had awoken Gwydion. It occurred to her that now was the time to change her clothes. 

She had repaired enough of Gwydion’s trousers to fashion herself a similar kind, and once free of her long robes and the trousers secure, she slipped on one of Gwydion’s old shirts she had recently helped herself to and had altered to fit herself and on went the black overcoat robe and having watched him enough, knew how to mock the movements of a Druid in meditational prayer.

She tested herself now. She started to walk the width of the shut up market stall. But then she tripped and she let out a cry.

When she turned she saw someone come through the drape by the stall door. It let in the moon’s light and illuminated a giant burly man carrying an ax, hair like a white horse’s mane and a thick beard.

He stared at her and took in the scene

Elan had the sense she had seen him somewhere before 

“Wat is der bard? Bist ferwûne? kom! gau! foardat jo fûn wurde! Ik bin Willem!”

Elan/intro to An Alternate Story; port of Le Havre

The Market Stall

At first Elan stood there with a kind of horror looking at Gwydion ….it was an accident. But who’d believe her?

They had a struggle. He had caught her trying to escape and things got messy. They were by all his potions. It was the middle of the night. 

She had planned it; things packed; traveling light and it was a full moon with just enough clouds for cover. Only….something unexpected happened. There were sounds coming from the harbor that were loud and carried across the market stalls and things happened fast. 

Gwydion, her Druid stepfather awoke and lit a candle illuminating her plot to escape. He caught her by her long dark woad mixed with indigo blue robe. And as they struggled, she fought with the might of desperation to be free of him; if not for herself than she told herself to fight for her mother whose fate he had doomed by her own eyes. 

It was the kick. Part caught in the robe but twice as hard of a kick which sent them both flying into the table with all the glass potions and she fell forward onto him, and they fell backward with him below her, her robe caught and forcing the doomed impact to the Druid. 

And afterward…. she stared a long time wondering what to do no longer seeing the shrouded prone shadowy outline of her nemesis 

* yes, update of Druid’s name is now to be canon to the story loge (Gwydion)

I think in my case the personality of INFJ came about as a reaction to experiences 

I think I went inward 

I don’t think I was like that at first 

Electra’s dictionary Noir/a coffee déjà vu

I suppose I must have got lost in thought staring into the vastness of the street, how fast things move— don’t they?

why must they?

Josef shocks me out of my fugue by appearing suddenly next to me. The Viking ambush again. But he holds a cup of coffee and offers it to me,

“sorry, it’s not instant, he’s dragged out the French press, but there’s honey in it, you see I remembered—and some of the almond milk I saw in there, but—no, Jörn made it for you.”

I don’t look at him right away. I feel guilty and smile and take the cup…. Folkmoot ….? I get that feeling again …. Like that time—the first time in Jörn’s kitchen; he handed me the cup and ….I felt it…. that sense of an overlay of ….lives…. Josef ….he was there —then ….that’s what ….it was that day at the barn house—I forgot I saw it then too

I shudder but manage to suppress it and sip the coffee and look up at Josef 

“We never had that conversation,” he tells me in that wise old voice which he exaggerates because he can’t resist the drama 

“Which one?” I ask him

“You have been angry at me,” he says this as if no time passed since he’d last said it

Had I forgotten? 

His eyes, when his twinkle, are not the same as Jörn’s —Josef has a more Father Christmas about his whereas Jörn’s twinkle is always —well, noir ….

“Because you pretended to like me and it was just to get me legally hitched to your son for your opera house,” I tell him this without any drama at all. I state it because this is what happened. 

I hear Jörn laugh from the coffee pot as he brings two more cups over to the table; he places one in front of Josef who has settled himself at —the head of the rectangular table. Of course. Folkmoot, I think ….

But blurt,

“Jörn, did Gerald tell you I was back?” turning to Jörn as he—presumptuously— sits beside me on the kitchen bench that parallels the full length picture window 

But now it is Josef who laughs and says,

“you think he needs a psychic to tell him you’re back when he’s an international spy?”

“I’m an ‘intelligence decipherer’ not a spy, papa —is that what you went by?” Jörn replies 

Josef laughs,

“I’m a respectable symphony conductor, that’s what it says on my tax papers….pass the socker.”

Electra’s dictionary noir/Vad är det här för sorts kaffe?

….but no I am not ready for this 

      still spinning from ….everything 

          But I don’t have the energy to fight two Vikings so, I step away and let them pass and by now even Josef knows the layout ….so we go without saying to the kitchen where I was making myself coffee 

I look at it and walk away and go to the window instead. I sit in the window seat and just stare out into the vast abyss of the city but I do hear Jörn exclaim over my coffee. I hear his indignant Swedish gasp and say,

“Vad är det här för sorts kaffe? Jag kom hit i tid, hon dricker snabbkaffe – hon har verkligen sjunkit ihop, stackars duva!”

It just sounds like a scene from Fanny and Alexander to me so I just sit there staring as I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. I put my head into the glass and close my eyes listening to Josef and Jörn bicker 

and …. just whisper to myself, “tack så mycket….”

Electra’s dictionary Noir/ let sleeping bats lay

Electra’s dictionary Noir 

It seems as though I confuse Dream with day dream because I am sure that the light flares that stain my eyes are real and alive and glowing bats 

I sit bolt upright in bed in a sudden cold sweat staring at the walls as ….the dream image ….fades and subsides ….into shadows ….shadows with wings 

What is that? I find I wonder as I follow the winged black shadows that infest my night walls —as I feel the floors vibrate 

I get up and walk to the window that overlooks the city street from the vast distance above. The window is old with the French door arches that reach up to the ceiling. There are two sets of these that are covered in heavy mauve velvet drapery; I pull these back along with the Belgium antique lace curtain sheers 

The moving lights come from the cars and trucks but what causes the bat effect? It must be something else down there, I think, and move closer to the glass to look down. 

It is not possible to see the cars, they are dots from here and the dashes are trucks 

I open the window a crack to look out. There is a small ledge; a very narrow balcony not really meant for standing, but I can open the window enough and lean out

But the air is damp chill and now so is the bedroom …. but …. 

No I do not imagine music —I hear it and it strangely catches me for a moment as I had not expected it. And not ready for it. 

I go back to the bed 

I want to hide. From games. I just want real ….

    The shadows that move like bats mix with the music and I say to myself —not ready; not now—and maybe never 

I get up and shut the window and find my silk blindfold to shut it out

****

It is some time after eight in the morning when I hear a sound I don’t recognize 

I go from the kitchen where I am making coffee to find where the sound is coming from; I’d thought it was my phone but I don’t have a tone like what this is. I go through the lounge area and down the long hall to the entrance and slowly realize the penthouse has a doorbell! I’ve never known cause for it until this moment. 

It is still going too ….it is not a classic doorbell sound, you see, this has a techy sound amplified to sound like Tibetan percussion. I knew about the peephole in the door; again, never had much need for it as no one has access to the penthouse unless it’s someone like Illya 

I carefully lean to peek through it

“Shit!” I whisper aloud and jump back —there’s a mirror by the door and I look like I just rolled out of bed, I fix my hair and straighten my shirt and jeans

“Duvan?” I hear through the door 

Josef 

I take a deep breath and open the door 

“Josef?”

He also looks slightly like he rolled out of bed but chipper and healthy despite that in his Nordic blue bathrobe—he’s holding something in his hand which now appears to be a measuring cup 

“Urm—“ he says

“What’s going on?” I ask him

He raises the cup,

“could we borrow a cup of honey?”

“You came up to the penthouse to borrow a cup of honey?”

“Elsa is making honey cakes,” he tells me

But it is an obvious lie and I try not to laugh —and then what? 

The elevator opens and —Jörn sweeps out,

“Papa! I said to leave it! Why must you always interfere? I was giving her time!”

“And you think serenading her through a soundproof floor will conjure her passion?” Josef turns to Jörn 

soul/searching….

the original meaning of the emotional term “depression” involved the disconnection; the absence of feeling; connection to; 

so the absence of any emotional connection to …. anything 

an emptiness —anomie 

    and I realize this is what I am experiencing 

           as …. I’m searching how to navigate through this terrifying chasm 

Electra’s dictionary Noir

Electra’s dictionary Noir

What I love about New York City is how you can be among a crowd and be anonymous; you can dress outrageous and no one will notice; you can walk for endless miles and forget even that those androids buzzing by are actually humans 

The penthouse has become my fortress. It seems. I hadn’t realized until the urge and the need of it compelled me to get away from all the things that are cold and unfamiliar that too lately became my life. 

It is possible to find solitude in a New York crowd. 

It seems natural to return to Ethan Rhys Jones’ last address; never mind it is partially a museum. And even that has become familiar to me; you don’t realize until you miss something what things mean to you

I like the connection to my father; I suppose this is why I return. It removes that sense of feeling lost

I do stop to see Gerald. He has been busy—back from Tibet and his (with Kaylee) twins with them. We have tea before his client comes, so I go to the Met to look at art

I spend hours there, getting lost then in thought ….

Later….

The bath is bigger than I had remembered. I keep floating up when I fill it ….there is an knack to staying wedged if it’s not too high …. it is one of those original antique ones ….I watch the city lights move across the walls and think I hear music —until I realize it is my own mind creating it 

What do I hear? What do I play …. some theme to some mystery drama perhaps 

I get out and let the water, walk naked through to the bedroom dripping and throw myself on the bed. And again watch the city lights 

I have been doing the books for the artist, having altered my title to ‘privileged character’ —instead of that notion of bimbo and doing the website too for the penthouse’s museum. It takes up most of the morning and the replies to emails takes up the afternoon. So a long walk to Gerald’s was in order, and a good excuse to be re-inspired artistically. Of course, I made sure to stop to see Edward Burn Jones’ The Lovesong, and why I got lost in thought for hours 

And late returning in the dark

I think about that painting as I lay in bed watching the lights move across the walls…. those lights that turn into bats that fly across the room….it puts me to sleep 

Bran/Beth Studio thoughts

It has occurred to me, as often I know I have said; but then I forget…. but I desperately need my walls. Whatever the form they may take; mural or physical large work …. or even a heavy knife 

I start to open the large pre-stretched canvases that are sealed in protective wrappings and for hours I stare at them. I am thinking. About so much. And I do not have words for my thoughts lately. 

I feel like a bumper car stuck in a corner at the fair. I think about this. And the still life’s or scenes in my head to paint as I can see them. And even as I see them. Watch them. My inner eye is turned elsewhere 

So I don’t even see the blank canvases anymore. 

I sit on the floor of this fresh new art studio he has built just for me. I think. And wonder

 ….

So many things form your mind. Some things you accept but others you do not. 

What am I doing here? I wonder ….to find out our ‘WhatIf’ story after? ….we closed that book so long ago

Do I really matter to him? I wonder. Actually matter

Notes of a Notebook

 

inset is my favorite Rossetti drawing, torn off a psychology book that wasn’t as good as its cover. This notebook was given to me by the office staff manager st “Pearle(Art Supplies” in East Meadow, NY), the Waterhouse to the left and my mangas have been stuck on there for years—since I took it home; and it has traveled everywhere with me, starting with NY, then MI, Oregon, MD and back to NY….and I just can’t stop staring at the stars 

*Another personal note on PRB

So upon considering why I had first been pulled under the poetry of the PreRaphaelites, the tragic loss I’d suffered, I could never fully embrace Dante Gabriel Rossetti —even as he was the driving force of the brotherhood I was disturbed by his sense of ethics. Especially as it felt to me hypocritical of what he claimed for their vision as artists, but deep down —a poet who digs up his wife’s grave to retrieve his poetry which he claimed he wrote for her….coupled with stealing William Morris’ wife around this time just is not garden variety immorality but something near a supreme sense of self importance and it comes across in his art 

while I love his use of red and his earliest drawings of Elizabeth Siddal, I find his inability to get his perspective right (Ecce Ancilla Domini to name one instance) gives me motion sickness —but his peer John Everett Millais was a most brilliant member; his work has always been among my favorites, especially ‘the Order of Release’ which I had framed and always hung everywhere I lived but got lost somewhere in the ruins I long left

Branded; howl at the moon

….and so, it is a long time that I stare at the wall. I sit down on the floor and look up 

 and I think about his words how does he do this to me? just when I think ….no, I was just dreaming…. he proves himself ….and another one of his—some kind of mind blower moments and, me, like a moth to a flame …. like a magnetic pull to him his strange innate proclivities are at the exact polar place of all mine that in the middle it is like some exact balance 

I almost fall off the earth and it seems there is …. I stare at the wall and think I think about all the paintings he has put there…. and his quiet …. silent …. way ….of reading me —memorizing my in between the lines that I only attest to as poetry but still my utmost ethically true ….but there he follows ….behind the doorways and I guess if it is worth the tedious but intended misdirections to him then I am more than glad to entertain whatever ideas he has in mind 

So I sit on the floor and think— they are all elan …. the same story…. I look at the celves and think about the fossil I found that day After awhile I get up 

with oils you are part chemist

 

You have to wait days till it dries to see how it sets. But do you see the gloss of the water? That is the difference of oil and acrylic and the scale of detail and how different oils will change this; but you have to be patient and wait and look at it

I had an art professor at school who forbid short handled paint brushes 

He made us stand several feet away from our work. And squint to obscure our eyes. 

But then, he only allowed primary color paint as we had to create every nuance of hue from this 

The point was, well, a painter is not an illustrator so the long handle is old school meant to not fall under the photographer syndrome of duplication 

it all matters

why the need of romantic tragic poets?

I never write about Pete. As it is still too horrible even now. 

I mean, I still strain to— still struggle to — find the words. but I still can’t. 

The shift that spring loaded me out — the final departure through and the trail of breadcrumbs where I trod past that elfin grot down the hallways of mirrors and rhyme …. 

It was the boy on the motor bike who got killed. No, I never say; never write if it, never speak of it, never could—not ever but he is a love story I never told anyone because it only happened the night before he died but it didn’t happen; he wanted it to but —I was with the captain of the rugby team who was an egoist. There was jealousy. They raced across the busy road instead of using the underpass meant for bikes; it was a dare ….one did not make it 

I relived that scene a million times …. I know I was on suicide watch there by the faculty as some kind of Ophelia but ….they saved me ….i walked through that doorway and never looked back 

more about La Belle*

When I’d first read the Keats poem my thoughts veered into another direction. Because I really thought—personally I really thought ….the ‘knight’ was a metaphor 

so I thought ….Keats was using this as a way to describe himself as a fallen knight not as an actual knight —but one held up by armor. As though he battled in that great Arthur code of love as an honorable knight and was pierced in the battle. some hint as to where and when I first put on the armor and how the concept arrived to me (and indication of what an impact this poem had on me and remains)

*footnote

clear other hints

‘wight’ which could suggest a kind of ghostly human

the withered sedge on the lake and the squirrels full granary— a squirrel as it prepares for winter; the harvest being done, no birds sing—they have flown for the winter; are woeful and impending deathlike references 

  ….how could I not have fallen in love with Keats by his tragic heartbreak?

to note of codes

The most important hint that his poem was speaking in poetic language is the reference to the lily—the lily on thy brow 

and then the rose 

the lily indicates the knight is still a young man —but fast wither….means dying untimely in youth 

the rose indicates in the language of poetry, the heart and love or in this case, a broken heart 

Of course ~Wordsworth —as his name would suggest, requires an entire code book 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci is a word in my dictionary

It all really began for me with this one poem—this whole secret language that evoked a doorway to a realm that I forever was a citizen of 

This one poem by Keats in my tenth grade English Literature class as I was desperately searching for meaning those words pulled me under his spell 

But then there was this …. which is my favorite painting Waterhouse’s style is often grouped with PreRaphaelite~his style and principles would be of the genre but he was not in the ‘Brotherhood’ 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

Here is the Poem that inspired the painting 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake, 
  And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full, 
  And the harvest's done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery's child; 
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing 
  A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head, 
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love, 
  And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
  I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed 
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried—"La belle Dame sans merci 
  Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here 
  On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here 
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

 

today’s progress

removed other ships, then filled in the ocean to make perspective make better sense—shoreline foam by sand will be added when I start the green hues (the planned finer details mentioned will occur down the road; laying out the field)

I am the waves when I paint the water; I flow and move inside the currents. I want to be the water, and flow on and on, and move upon the waves and crash upon the shore 

that is what I feel
 when I paint this and what I feel when I look into the water —is this why I paint water so much ….i don’t know, it is more the magic of the scrying that is the actual destination 

would you like to know my thoughts ….? They are not like ordinary thoughts at all but they are much happier than the other things out there 

yes, I’ve changed this

there will be detail added to this section

 

working on the massive ocean system; dark blues

finally back in the groove, and hitting the areas I’ve ached to work on—see how much more detail I can do over with six feet of canvas—

 

working out the nuances of the pallet

sometimes this is the best way to test and document

…. now for color mixing madness, I’ll update here

 

now ready for oils; the Vampire and the Dove

 

threading created unplanned texture 

color matching

blending to hide the damage repair and prepare for covering the canvases in oil painting which was planned work on the detail and shading 

And now ready for oils

 

 

of poets and language

The first time I had ever heard of ‘the PreRaphaelites’ was in my 10th grade English Literature class. 

I remember the moment vividly. It was a morning class. And I was quite sad. A friend at school had just been killed on his motor bike and we were close

English literature had always been a balm for emotional pain for me in the past 

it was the picture of a painting in the text book we were reading from. ‘The Beguiling of Merlin’ …by Edward Burn-Jones; I was utterly compelled to the page —especially as I had just bought a novel with this exact painting on the cover. Part of why I bought the book. 

This was the class that opened my eyes to the vague sense that humans on earth have always been telling an ongoing story through the arts. Each movement. Each era 

The reason I found myself further still pulled into wanting to know more beyond their flooding of senses through aesthetic intense use of color and imagery 

What I loved was that the emphasis was not on the classical expectation of creating art. 

They were rebels. I loved that. I identified with the resentment of having my pencil removed from my fingers by my mother to correct my artistic errors; I didn’t want shadows; I wanted bold lines and my own interpretation of style that was not dependent on “realism”

It was the class that weeks earlier had introduced me to the romantic poets (the language of poetry with their codes)so by now I already loved Keats from my favorite poem. That they depict poems or works of literature in their work thrilled me to distraction 

 

apocalyptic miss

 

ce monde dans lequel je t'ai laissé entrer

où êtes-vous allé? 

toi qui n'étais jamais là

Est-ce que tout cela n'était vraiment qu'un jeu ?

 

 

 

thoughts of Bran….before I fall asleep 

       we reminisce about Rouen over dinner and talk of going to Bathe next weekend; although not part of my exploration I do not mind him as my personal guide to anywhere although just staying home with him would be lovely ….

He said, holding me captive,

 “I am your purpose, never forget that.”

Table manners with Bran part 1

We sit at the table. I let him decide for me what to order and then he looks at me and stares. It makes me self-conscious so I look away and notice the decor and design of the restaurant. It is a kind of modern bistro with dark midnight blue/black interiors; with candles and bud vases on the intimately placed small round tables and dark linen table clothes. 

“I wanted to take you out, your first night here— I thought before we think about all the details ….” he was saying 

I turn my eyes back to him now 

“Yes,” I say and smile “because I know we will get into it as it’s what we do, isn’t it —but I like seeing what is here—I love the atmosphere,” I was saying 

“Good— because I was thinking maybe we can continue with your history research ….. and choose a different city to explore every weekend….we can drive it and ….” he stops himself and smiles at me, “how do you still look so young—?—you nonsmoking vegan,” he laughs at me, “who still has boys asking her out—it makes me want to ask you this ….” he leans over and says it in my ear 

Bran& Beth/interruptions & instructions

 

It is the sound of a young male voice calling from somewhere far away that causes Bran to suddenly let go 

“Ioan,” he says simply looking regretfully down at me but letting go and stepping back anticipating the appearance of his young son Ioan. I get a glimpse of him and then he looks back at me awkwardly. I see instantly he looks more like Clare, but he stares a bit longer than I expect him to before he does a funny wave before he and his father talk.

“I should get changed,” I say as I start to walk past them to go inside 

Bran calls out,

“go through the bedroom door, it’s unlocked.”

But until he said that I hadn’t realized there was a door that led out to the garden from the bedroom. From outside I had assumed it went somewhere else. There is a pebbled paved walkway through the garden, and it leads to the little patios that I now see one is by the bedroom with chairs and a table which I had noticed but glossed over. 

The door is unlocked, and it is a sliding door which on the inside was covered by long draperies that go all the way across but mesh off to the sides and one side was hiding the door which going back in, I have to move aside

only once I am back in the bedroom do I realize why Bran wanted me to go this way— he managed to slip a surprise for me across the bed. There’s a note attached to a pretty white dress with eyelet and little white satin bows 

I look at the note which says,

‘~Wear this for me tonight x’

ces choses que je me demande

 Qui veux-tu à tes côtés quand ton monde s'effondre ? Avec qui vas-tu célébrer le fait d'être là pour toi ?

Bran & Beth/his garden

“But, before we go, there’s something I want you to see,” Bran says

He shows me his garden. He takes my hand. 

We go through the terrace door which is just through the dining room, and it is like stepping into a sanctuary. He holds my hand and absently our fingers twist and weave….and it is so natural with him, we do this without knowing we do until when I almost trip over a garden tool, his hand grips mine tight…. It catches me. 

We are in his garden ….at last and this caught off moment brings us to the immediate present….how strange to be in his garden after so much time has passed….. I think this caught in his poet’s eyes ….see the Hamilton roses 

“Beth,” he says and puts his hands on me; they lay upon my shoulders and he slowly draws me to him but holds me in front of him, “I’m sorry ….for all the wasted years,” he says now

“No—“

“Yes,” he says but stops any more of my words with his mouth; without foreplay of warning his kiss possesses immediately 

Wuffis; Bran & Beth/starting to break the ice

“That dog missing an eye or that cat missing an ear, I always felt I’d be better off giving an animal like that a home,” Bran says to me now when he finds me with ‘Wuffis’ the said dog with, while not a missing eye but a blind eye. 

He has become my friend unexpectedly as he settled himself among my shoes. He is a mutt but so cute! He is brown with floppy ears; a mix of some kind of terrier and he’s playful!

“When did you get him?” I ask 

“When I knew you were coming,” Bran says now and looks around the newly constructed bedroom where I have been hanging my dresses and folding sweaters in drawers. “How do you like it?”

I look up at him as I’m petting Wuffis—he is nuzzling my hand 

“Him?”

Bran smiles and then shakes his head,

“I mean…. here?”

But you know, I haven’t let myself think about that. I just want to take everything in; the newness of that I’m really here with him after everything…after so much that —wow it takes so much to absorb but happy —I feel happy with him only I just got here and it is tooo soon to say

I say instead,

“To be here with you knowing that — you are the kind of man who would even say that about a dog or a cat ….the rest almost doesn’t matter,” but then my stomach growled 

“Oh—that’s what I meant to tell you—I’m taking you out for dinner— dress up!”

thru ev’ry beating of events and every season

I find on my way

still there  ….

the burden of an eternal sentence of regret i do not want…. Beethoven —you understand 

   

awkward not awkward/Bran and Beth

 

 

For a moment he stands there between myself and the heap of my baggage and it isn’t awkward, it isn’t like that. It is something else. And I look inside there in search of …that familiar thing –that thing, you know, that would tell me…tells me within the moss what I …

“I haven’t forgotten about your other project,” he says instead of what we both know he was really thinking

And what we both are really thinking. I guess it may be the years; how many have gone by …too many to wish to blow any moment on something stupid or to presume some notion that –some notion that… and here I just get stuck

“my other project,” I say repeating his words

“The …about the family history you are tracing,” he hesitates

“It’s …it’s for a story I’m working on but actually, it is about another area even though the family name is Welsh somehow …it was connected to an area where the Vikings invaded, there was a family and a theory from my dream about a man from the village,” but I babble.

I babble for normalcy. To take the pressure off of our more pressing present

Only now I fear I trivialize the present by even saying this now and it confuses me as to what to do or say but mostly because of his eyes; the seaweed that wraps around and pulls, and wraps you inside its hypnotic sappy embrace of its fire-kiln, brilliant glaze.

I say,

“um.”

He looks silently at me reading my eyes. He slowly smiles,

“a man?”

I look away,

“it was…” I laugh feeling stupid as I have to tell him the rest now, “something that old psychic told me. Before the boat…. You know the life about –”

“The one from your painting, I know, and forgive me if I don’t want to make silk screens of your vampire whatever the fuck he is because—”

I reach for his hand without planning to. It was just the instinct to --and the impulse took over. And my hand melts within his large one making me aware of how much bigger his is. But his hand is warm and familiar as it closes around mine

“Anyway, it has lead me to a new story that takes place sort of connected to the industrial revolution, so it is exciting that the paint pigment comes from an old coal mine. It feels like a sign. I think the two projects can work together as I will be getting more ideas but I may want to explore other areas closer to say—where the history calls… so it’s cool, right? Win win, I do what you want for your business and I can work on my thing at the same time.”

“Would you like to see your studio?” he still holds my hand and smiles as he begins to pull me towards the hallway that leads to all the doors.

And so I let him. I like the feel of his hand on mine. Around it. It fits so well in his. And as he leads the way down the hall I do not ask myself anything about what anything means, I go blind as one about to jump

 

It is a studio. A very large and very functioning studio. He stands in the doorway and with a shake of his head urges me to walk in.

And as I walk around, I see the perfection of the layout. The area for screen printing; the area for paint mixing, deep sinks and counters. Several long work tables and sectioned cabinets for different mediums.

 

Once I have inspected everything he walks in now and goes to a door I had not noticed. It is white like the walls of the room. But he stands outside it and just opens the door by pulling the handle and uses his head to suggest I go in.

It confuses me when I go inside because it is a private apartment. Fully finished and fully furnished with a kitchen, a dining room that lets out to the back courtyard, a bedroom and private bathroom. But nothing has been used.

I feel confused and look at him,

“I don’t understand…”

He glances behind where we stand to suggest the older part of the house,

“to get the boys used to… things… and for us as well. I thought –you might enjoy a new space for us to work in together on those long project nights…” and only now does he move close and stand near enough and long enough—

 

 Or so I thought until a very loud voice shouts something I don’t understand with a great deal of vehemence

 

“Ioan,” Bran looks at me regretfully, “that’s his animal starved boy cry, I’ll bring your bags and get him sorted,”

 

he starts to go but –something surprising happens without warning; he kisses me fast on the mouth …unexpected as I realize he stops himself stunned in mid kiss and looks at me,

“I didn’t mean to assume, sor—"

But I kiss him back before he says more and I suppose it would have lasted longer if another bellow had not then occurred

 

 

Bran and Beth (new stories); alluding colors

 

 

His first question had been: can you draw me up your monthly expenses? Bran

and as it seemed not entirely out of nowhere, considering his last request of me, I had to ask,

“are you offering me a job?”

 

To find myself stepping back into Bran’s house again…. all these years later

How did this even come about? I even ask myself this as I stand upon the very said threshold looking in. While I may look at my surroundings, I see the bare bones of what I remember instead of what I am looking at. Because he has lead me to—not the front of the house, but off to the side because the front of the house is under some kind of remodel or construction. And while there is no time to ask about that, because I do remember him saying something about how he uses his house for his work too, as he had done in past, but back then it was this part where we walk towards. It was a kind of add on or dormer, I guess someone may call it. Back then anyway.

 

The ‘dormer’ is now actually the largest part of the home as I realized while walking down the path towards it. And notice too that now there is an entire back court yard kind of landscape with a stone table and chairs in the middle and surrounded by a garden path. To the side of the ‘dormer’ where once was just the side door has had an addition built to the side; there stands a glass green house with arched windows.

 

Once inside though I stare at the old memories.

 

I see those first.

 

But then I realize that what I am looking at is revised with similar things…. The deep and rugged settee with the scratchy wool mulberry tone upholstery is moved to a far deep corner further away now…. because now the room is much longer and much bigger by three times what it was. Now I notice there is a long hallway further down that has doorways to other rooms or ways out

I guess the need for –normal?—had me say as I stood there,

“how are Dylan and Crystal?.... sorry I forget the other one’s….”

“Ioan,” Bran says as he drops my bags into a neat pile on the floor along the path towards that hallway.

 

So the nature of why I am there…. This is the man who manages to get us credit to stay at random places  in Rouen and Paris and make a Frenchman want to buy my Wavegirl painting for his shower curtain line he never meant to have.

 

So the answer to this about how he got me there has something to do with ….Six Bells Ochre and….

     my particular use of this unique red pigment that is only found in this one place in Wales which seems essential in—the present running of Bran’s newest line

…. and what he used for the reason for the visa

 

“Do they—” I look around for teenagers or evidence of…. But Ioan would be something like twelve….?

“You don’t have to worry about them—the boys live mostly in the old part and Crys lives with her mother….”

He says all this simply. And then he walks over to me

 

We had talked about this. Some of this. But some things we didn’t really say much about… and the overwhelming emotions which surfaced after finding I had agreed to his offer… work… ? which was not complicated to do; mix colors, run the screen printer, etc. and definitely a job only I could do as it was my unique shades he was employing. And my art particularly.

It is not strangers we are stood now looking at each other. From my jet lag and over thinking nervousness all the way from the airport to here rambling on and on about stupid things that happened on the way to avoid  that realization of… life changing… what did I just get off the plane to do?

color mixing without rules

it was the funniest thing, this one day —I was mixing paint beginning with my shade of terra cotta ….i put it on the picture I was working on; it was to be a picture of a terra cotta vase in a lovely solarium gleaming in morning light in a room full of garden tools and clippings in jars growing roots and such 

so there was my shade of patina which I had toned down with—yellow ochre

I was so absorbed within the brushstrokes and …. the shading as I imagined sunlight and shadow 

   so lost in my colors 

      it is why I learned to separate days for painting and days for mixing 

 …. it was the weirdest thing ….but I watched the colors —end up ….like the other !!!! I had instinctively found my way to the color spectrum laws and demonstrated for myself how opposite colors have the other in it but inverted 

I could spend weeks doing this alone. 

Like watching how black bleeds every color as you wash it away slowly but if you add yellow to black you get green without even needing blue

about the first object

It must have been not long before we left for the Netherlands, still living in Florida. 

I was always sent to the nurse’s office at school back there. I had headaches often that caused me to vomit inconveniently during class and if it was bad enough they sent me home. 

My mother was unusual in her parenting. She was unusual in her guidance. But with her there were ulterior motives for her sometimes not so kosher actions

She did not bring me home that day to send me to bed. I think it was because her husband was home and she didn’t want him to know I was missing school as he looked for any excuse to whip me to unconsciousness.

There was a matinee theatre that played old movies I remember. I remember this well. So instead of going home and put in bed for vomiting at school, it was safer to bring me to a matinee 

And that was the event for which I found the trigger for my first object of sexual wanting. 

That day they were playing “the Way We Were” —the old movie with Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford. 

It was a story about a smart but drab and headstrong woman who is very political and a handsome but a more conservative man who is from a better background than her, but they meet at university. Somehow by surprise I think when she is protesting somewhere years later they meet again by accident and they fall in love. But their political views or her extreme actions come between them and it is very deeply sad. 

It is this scene 

    for days and weeks after I saw it I kept thinking of it. And this scene manifested in my mind. It became some definition of a fresh new idea of …. some inexplicable emotion I was having. 

The scene is —and it’s been years since I saw this movie — I’ve not seen it since but I remember this scene so well because it was the gateway to what became the trigger to my erotica.

In this scene—fairly early in the story— they are still young and at school; he sees her on campus and i think she was organizing a protest when he stops her; i think it was even g in the scene. 

But it was this thing he did …. and it has stayed with me forever because it seemed to have embedded upon me some inexplicable trait which has the power to turn my knees to putty…. 

He ties her shoe. But it is how it happens, how he looks at her and that subtle message the move instills; even as he does bend down to the ground to do this and —that alone…. so absolutely subtle but it was the seal that marked my craving for life 

for who normally does such an act for another and who was it we were not going home for?

classic transference 

This scene replayed in my imagination for weeks and was the basis for which initiated the awakening of my sexuality  

A familiar walk down a side street

Elbow deep inside the filing cabinet including her head, she was about to call for Sheila, hoping she knew what had become of the file of the recent inventory printouts and the ones Pierre Reaux was requesting. The basement archives were always creepy to have to visit, but it’s where most of the property information was kept and with Grant nowhere around, she had to hunt through endless drawers of files. And Monsieur …. Since he could no longer freely trespass among us…. thanks to new border policies that were more insult than blow Faun thought for the French Canadian and then sighed —well, it was too bad as he kinda grew on her. He wasn’t so bad. Just annoying. Condescending. Often rude. So—what is his charm exactly? He was looking into the mystery person who was murdering the members of the Bishop family. 

He wanted the copies of another set of files that recently had gone missing as it had to do with Arthur’s older legal files and properties 

She heard a sound and assumed it was Sheila and as she turned she said, 

“Shiela, do you have any idea where or why the property lease and titles have suddenly gone missing?”

Faun said all that when she turned and saw who darkened the doorway holding an armful of files 

“Grant ….where have you been and why or how is it you ….” she lost momentum as she stammered limply, “suddenly show up now….?” as the sight of him made her aware of how starved of his very appearance she was. She fell silent and just stared at him. 

“You mean these?” as if this answer now had the more relevance —yet, he held the files in question 

“I have been overseeing since your absence because —believe it or not, our friendly Canadian pointed out awhile back that you likely needed my help whether or not you were aware I was even doing it ….so….um—how long have you been here?”

“No—I was just enjoying your rear view so—no not long….” his slow smile reminded her he was teasing her 

the master of evasions 

bran

within the darkness of brooding thoughts he calls 

“I think about you all the time….you know, you can still call me, if you ever needed to.”

the universe always feels off whenever we fall out of each others orbit

Bran/Don’t evade the question

“Don’t evade the question, Bran. Why now after so much time?”

but he doesn’t answer for awhile. 

we fall silent. 

Then he says after a long sigh,

“I don’t know.”

“Rather ….answer me this, why did you go back to Clair? Why did you really? I never asked you and you never explained it to me and at the time I just assumed you just didn’t really love me….didn’t love me enough….just didn’t love me, it was just a wild fling, then, wasn’t it?”

“No—that’s not it,” he says in that dry voice  

“Oh it doesn’t matter —only why do you worry if —I don’t matter, not enough—not to actually have you make room in your life for me….”

“It was not that—it was me….Beth, if you must know, it was because I was just a coward.”

deaf/initions lost

Those chapters that you flip through ….in a dictionary; the thumb-cuts at letters to save time; shut the dictionary—snap! Then open again …..Electra ….like Alice they recall through the pages. They do not exist. She is lost in that vast abyss of nothingness ….invisible

nobody sees her.she doesn’t exist —she slammed the door on her but they didn’t feel it….quality of life —who has the right to rob anyone of that? The will ….of the human spirit is the individual’s right to be. All stars in the galaxy.

There was this sense ….like a compass. The needle. It just wiggled there—like the Bermuda Triangle. And with it, the scent of the riding saddle from the back of the primary blue Hyundai hatchback ….his autobiography stolen from the library ….on the passenger seat…. a dizzy surreal sick waxing feeling with prickles of electric on face and hands. Sweat. Fear. Dry mouth.

Like waking up to a whole new reality that everybody has been covering up

 Who was that?

 What is that? Who is what

   —who was what?