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?

Lately I have been thinking about ‘Voice’ and how any of us of whom walk this earth has any. 

As an artist.

As a thinker.

As a citizen of this planet …. And The Love Letter We Leave Behind ….

it feels like 

        there is something important to preserve that —may be is becoming lost. Is this the role I should take then. 

There is so much futility. I don’t wish to add more to the heap. But still—no….it feels lazy to shrug it all off ….not my problem, not my generation, not my place, not my role; and it could be true. But I ….can’t. It seems I just can’t. It seems I am unable to sleep at night because I am haunted by the sense….I just did not play my part as I should have, and it won’t shut up so it could be it’s just a mental dysfunction I have…. DNA memory from dear old dad. Believing I needed to make an impact on humanity. I ….could have just inherited the delusion and it’s time to snuff it out….but….it seems wrong;a waste; an irresponsible attitude after everything —all the shit of the past.maybe I’ve been aware all this would happen and would have to first ….before I gave my voice 

24 Janusry 2025/Jm muse chron

Today I get a message from Josef asking me if I could remember to pack up some things he forgot to bring 

That is more than just one message; there are several in just that humble seemingly innocent request. 

I see it come up but I walk across the room. I think again of Manhattan —how long has it been …. 

The penthouse renovations would have been completed six months ago. Ilya has her hands full with three kids now. But all the carpentry and some interior details took the longest to complete. Historians had to be consulted to match colors and fixtures with the era 

So…. with the shadow Interpol director pretending to retire and wasn’t it Jörn who claimed he was his cover? Which poker face is not bluffing? They play off each other don’t they ….the sun on the longhouse from the dream ….i remember now.  The Folkmoot ….

It is usually only the boat and the hut from those dreams but ….there was the voyage and the stop at the ….island 

Everything though feels different now in such a way that lifts me and bathes everything in a brighter light…. I’ve been sketching again, and painted twelve hours straight on the mural …. I am me again or is it that I feel accepted fully for me? What peace this allows. Such flow of inspiration is renewed

e.d.& film noir/JMmuse/Thoughts before sleep

 

My thoughts are so wild after. It is hard to sleep. How does Jörn always immediately pass out after? —when I wish for just a little more of closeness after. It leaves me empty sometimes like tonight. Perhaps it was how much he stole out of me. I find …. I feel sort of used and it makes me sad. 

So I think afterwards as I listen to the sounds of him sleeping beside me. So strange to sleep beside someone again. After so long. I didn’t think I could again. But it was harder to stay awake the first night back with him. It’s always been so easy with him. I fit into the crook of his shoulder and his warm scent fills my dreams —and keeps the nightmares away I have found. There was only one other man I slept well with but …. he is long behind now, I suppose, as it is best.

Actions speak louder than words and those memories with him have a scar…. I do not want more of those. As he ultimately 

never made the time for me in his life

And then there was Jörn who began a new chapter in my life—is it because whatever how it occurred here was someone who finally noticed I existed 

That I exist. To feel at last significant is a new awareness. A new realization. So I suppose at last I am fulfilled and this is new; I must adjust—dare I say happy? Yes. I am 

 we begin to prepare for return to Manhattan I have started to realize

I am coming out of a thaw —Jörn has helped, but also time here in the mountains has healed me 

I begin to feel I am preparing to return back to ….the world ?

Perhaps soon—not yet…. I am liking these quiet times alone with Jörn. Our private covent just me and him —nobody else around ….for now 

I get sleepy now ….

Audio_01_24_2025_00_04_53.mp3



Of dungeons and bats noir cell

“Is that a new tie?” I say to him and walk over 

It is of shades of Nordic sea blues like a watercolor. Like his eyes. Like his kryptonite eyes that own me. I reach to touch it. The silk is like butter to touch….

in a strange sudden instant from his neck —like a flash of light 

he shocks me 

    he has pulled me into his tie like a trap and I 

am bound 

And looking at me,

“I think you actually do crave attention ….” he says 

    he looks at me as I am straight from the shower and —the towel all warm at my feet with my wrists caught in silk 

Suddenly and again I am reminded of dungeons and bats when 

He says as he looks at my body up and down with approval then— he mostly carries me but with a ….drag,

“why waste that beautiful body when,” and here he pauses because it is just that savage look that obliterates civilized thought  “—I can do this ….?”

the inflection of motion considerably spellbinding 

plus à dire plus tard

More ….from the walls that whispers

I say to him,

“you know, when you have a punisher— you know more about them than they do about you…. when he stood there—I mean….with the Bally belt…. the rage —you can sense it even befire it is there. You know it is coming. You know thst it is better barefoot to run—the prick of fear in the sweat gland —the warning to run!

“….you know when it it coming. You know the signs as it is building. It is present in the walls. As they shake. When he walks. It is present in his tone between the walls. It is ….present in my abdomen …. the sick feeling—the taste of fear….

“But you know him…. You study him. You watch. You stay up all night. You listen for everything. Every grunt. Every tv show choice ….every fake friendly phone call he makes ….the creek of the stair ….the footsteps …. 

“you ….are. Ready!” and even now hold my breath 

wait ….the tink of his tobacco pipe hitting the ashtray ….calling the dog to his side ….

and the fear ….tastes like what you vomit up medicine with the metal shavings from your last tooth filling but with acid not crunch 

“You know your punisher and I saw him as weak —does that surprise, Jörn? I was so beyond caring of self that to test it I set off his rage by tendering the right button. Why? Was I just a masochist ….? well—a martyr —I did it to stop him hurting her—I let it be me instead ….the actual scapegoat 

“I had a power over him ….but I never enjoyed it.” 

gaps of mental proportions/ed noir jm chron

I walk the width of the room,

“….when we say ‘edit and go back….’ you know….my grandfather —“ I stop and just feel caught here somehow 

I walk the length of the room and the fugue within stirs —I am so dizzy always when this whirlpool unravels ….

I have to lean against the wall to steady the world 

    When parts of a memory 

      have been erased …..

    other memories …. are there but …. you know when you find the source of a pain it ….stuns 

Those little things. Those ties. You know—from the loose ends which had become undone 

You start to realize why 

    why did my grandfather take such an interest in me? Why did he hire detectives …. it is so strange to imagine what it must have felt for him….he was so unassuming —was my grandfather. But he was the silent power behind everything; even grandma—who was the spine of the Sunshines; after her that line was gone but now I realize why and for what reason people did and acted upon things and then behaved ….badly 

Aloud I say to Jörn with a heavy sigh,

“we lived in Halesite —a villege on Long Island when we got the news he passed away—my grandfather lived to be old like my aunt and the other grand dad ….but when he died—?that really is when the devil’s true face appeared and guess about when that happened?”

Jörn looks at me,

“about after you left Bard….”

I meet his eyes. 

Jörn says,

“your protector was gone.”

Noir jm chronicles…. The tape continues

The tape continues ….

“…. Jamaica …. we lived at the Half Moon Resort …. her best friend’s dad owned it, Jacques Cousteau was a friend and regular drop in— among others, and provided the perfect cover for everyone ….that was the period— interlude which determined everyone’s fate …. I should have been too young to remember that time but …. there are those odd things …. you know…. those strange images that come back to haunt you ….when you can’t sleep …. in your dreams …. how could I remember where from? I remember when Mattie ran me into the wire fence that day in Montego Bay…. that image of the pattern of the fence stapled into my mental vision for hours ….  like a beehive pattern ….on my leg….the shock of so much bright blood….she screamed….we went into a voo-doo shop—there were so many around. I remember the faces—the dark masks ….but we always went to this one specific shop with the lady who told fortunes ….Mattie knew her; they were friends ….there was an old man there too with a gold front tooth. He made faces to make me forget about the blood. The voo-doo  lady washed the blood off me

The voo-doo dolls hung from strings across the hut. It had a thatched roof—the smell of the hay I still remember —and the dung from the mule outside. 

There were the dolls with the strings. Made from dried gourd husks—they had painted faces like the fortune tellers. When you pull the strings the head spins 

The fortune teller lady liked me. She seemed to believe I was ordained with special powers.

The actual truth was …. understood now in retrospect; Mattie was hired by Ethan 

and on the island he was well known. But it was also a secret who hired her. And all the way until that fateful-from-the-door of-the-closet drunken revelation, it had been under the guise “the help” —the hired at home maids— had been employed by my grandfather…. in due course, they disappeared 

I spent hours spinning that head in the stroller to stay awake as Mattie wheeled me to be sure that she would not again run me into another wire fence  ….but the medallion ….why do I remember that in connection to that time —I was too young to know what it was. It looked like those giant sun-mirror boho faces with the golden rays hung on everyone’s walls back then ….it was the heat of the sun and the gleam caught on the sand….” 

 

The dove

She writes …..

    I look upon it all as would a monk in meditation 

        the cells we live inside 

                  the Cell

                             I ask —facing the light as daily I do need to know; what for ….and the silent answer loud is in reply …. You are upon it ! ….the words echo ever after ….worry not nuntius 

JM Chronicles Film Noir/Pirating the Dove

Between the sheets 

“But how could it have worked?” Jörn asks me Sunday while the pale early light began to proclaim a dove colored dawn. I am still warm and we are still close, pressed, connected to him after the nice way he woke me

“How what?” I ask with sleepy head 

“You say the three of you ….”

he prompts …. 

I ….slowly breathe and close him out ….slowly withdraw into myself like a turtle 

In my mind ….we are on the beach …. but why is Jörn suggesting ….why ….I detach from his body; like a cork it makes a sound. I turn my back to him and look toward the view from this window ….this window pulls my thoughts towards the ocean because I can see it is somewhere beyond this window in my mind’s eye. This way faces the ocean ….

“He was a politician ….” Jörn says coaxing me to talk as he contemplates. And as I say nothing , he says, “Duva?”

I just look up at him. I don’t know what he expects me to tell him. And as he looks back at me I think again about the barn house. How it reminded me ….coming up the walk. I saw something. Maybe it was the light. How the sun shone off the snow on the roof in that way ….it was Josef—an image but it was not how he looks now and I think I only know it is him because of how it feels ….it is often said we reincarnate in groups, not always but it is common to bump into more than one again 

Because of the buffer of this thought I ask,

“what?”

“He was too famous, how could it have worked?” Jörn turns me so my body faces him again, and prompts again, “a religious man and the social reaction had he married your mother!” 

So I think about the smeden and I think about lifetimes and how some seek power while others seek love or wisdom 

I say,

“I was a child, Jörn. I heard the plans, yes. What was he thinking? I know he loved her—I think he wasn’t thinking when it came to her. Do you know my mother was upset he only wrote two sentences about her in his autobiography!” [was not as if he’d broadcast after all the avoided headlines but my mother wanted —acknowledgment….]

“He put her in there….” Jörn seems to say more to himself 

“But she got her own paragraph….” I sigh now as I tell him that ….because I am remembering him the way I knew him. I know what he wanted could have worked had what happened later not had happened; my error that destroyed the dream. 

….finally I decide to say,

“Jamaica ….” I just look back up at Jörn and shrug, “how could it have worked? Where would we have lived? To escape the spotlight…. just off on his boat….bye bye USA; five minutes, just zip off.we did that all the time. He did! You should know about that as a Viking,” I half tease him but shrug, “he was very grand.”

“How did they meet?” he pulls me back to him and draws the sheets over me with him, confining me within his warm cave 

“At a party in Greenwich Villege—I’ve told you this story! She was just twenty one and she never heard of him!”

“Tell me again,” he says

“It was thrown by a mutual friend. Someone she knew from Pratt….” I recall the story as it’s legendary to me how my mother first told me. “So when he arrived everyone rushed to meet him except my mother. Which is the reason he walked right over to her! She said he wore this big black coat that she said was red satin inside and he wore it like a cape— and he swept it open wide when he walked towards her and bowed!”

“So she did talk to you about him ….?”

No….

Strange.

Here I must pause 

I almost laugh ….look at Jörn slowly as I carefully start to say ….

“It was years later, Jörn ….we were in Amsterdam, I must have been about fifteen…? We were talking about something else ….” I go a bit blank for a moment ….i only feel myself sitting there in our Dutch kitchen 

now I say more to myself,

“I was telling her about a story …. she finds out she is the illegitimate daughter of a Russian king ….stories ….one I was writing ….and one I had read ….” I get chills but just hold my breath till it goes away. 

Finally I exhale. I smile and look up at Jörn 

“You see….? I didn’t remember by then anymore ….. but….that is when it all started to unravel ….Barcelona ….yes, that was the very first time ….after all those years she told me about him again … she said, ‘I’d be a widow now ….’ And then she said, ‘one day I’ll tell you everything….’ but of course she never did.”

“He was much older than your mother,” Jörn comments 

“He was the same age as her father —my grandfather ….” 

dearest Electra …. complex ….and dna memory 

But Jörn says to himself 

“for twenty years they kept it a secret ….”

“You don’t understand,” I try to laugh but it is forced, “it was my grandfather who was against her seeing him! Forbidden! They were a nice Jewish family from a good neighborhood in Forrest Hills— back then, it was not at all shabby and he was an accountant so they lived well but Ethan Rhys Jones was not for his daughter to marry. It was not just the racial thing but maybe it was too ….they forced her to marry someone —else— and someone they approved of ….he did actually ask my grandfather for her hand in marriage! My grandmother was outraged! —it is hard to imagine —isn’t it? Not long ago but ….so different then, their world then but ….she said that day in the kitchen….he was the love of her life.”

I shrug and look up at Jörn 

Noir Electra’s dictionary thoughts in a dictionary diary flow

 

West Side Story

       that is what Norma would say of them. She would sit with me and ….calm me ….

I do not know why I was there. There are some dark pages ….and often it happened at night —when I was sleeping. They’d move me. It was confusing. The worst pain I recall that devestated me was ….no, I’m not ready to go there ….

Looking back I understand it

I was to go with him and I didn’t understand why I was being sent away. It was something I’d done. By mistake. What I’d revealed about the time when we went by boat to the restaurant ….i fucked up. It was me. Do you see? I was bad. And then ….in retrospect we do understand the motives; the spy equipment I found…. her husband was leaking secrets about conversations of my biological dad with the home phone number. Phone calls I remember. I remember every Thursday was the day. He’d call me. Then talk to my mother. And all this was connected to timing and details of things that were part of evidence used against him…. 

Those things you remember out of sequence. I’d hide in my mother’s closet—Florida days. She knew I hid there. It was like a room! I’d sit below her dresses by the boxes of beautiful designer shoes. Everything smelled so good in there, even her shoes. I loved to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. It was the one place he’d never find me. The last place he’d look. The one place I could relax and make the stomachs go away. 

It was one of many times she talked to me through the door…. her way of allowing me to be there if I was quiet 

but this was one bad time.it was after a very bad beating I got.they were getting worse and it did feel he meant to kill me but she was drinking ….she didn’t do that. Not in any overt way. But this time —she had a glass of wine and it was in a beautiful glass. She had the bottle too. And she dumped more into the glass….she said to me, “don’t plan on getting a college degree— you can kiss your dreams goodbye—don’t worry, I’ll keep you as my lapdog….” and the said nothing more and emptied her glass in two gulps. 

I never saw her that way ever. That was the only time. But now. Only now. Do I know what she meant. 

I know there is much more through that door I heard. Those are the horrors of my dreams 

Electra’s noir pages/jmchron

earlier in the diary pages of the dictionary :

I realize now that I blocked these memories. You see? Firstly, I was told they never happened; secondly, it was painful of the loss of it and agony to dream of it and know it was —not real?or not meant to be for me ….that family we were to have ….been; the three of us….the sand, the sea, the sea weed, shells on the shore, sea salt air and falling asleep 

the fear that I should have created such an amazing dream of my own …. I did think I was insane then. As a child —I thought it was possible I was mad —so I had to stop thinking ever again about ….him …. the one in that voice read me those brear rabbit stories 

I had to forget. Had to. Or go mad for sure 

She …. would play the Jamaican tin drum music for hours ….when it was just me and her at home 

The secret was real. And it was dangerous. Who I am was dangerous then and could still be so; the secret is real. I heard about when they caught a photo of them together. It was going to be front page. Imagine? Who he was! But he called the editor of the paper and had words. He could do that. He did. Many times my mother almost got caught with him in a photo but he knew all the right people. But there is one detail that I recall which —is too specific to have dreamed myself. It was something he said to me and not just once…. He said, “do you know how amazing your mother is? Do you have any idea how fabulous a woman she is and that I adore more than any other!” And I remember thinking as a child “wow—that other dad doesn’t talk about her that way at all ….” And I suppose it is his fault I’ve always been searching for that ….

I think once I blocked it and it was buried deep things thst later came never added up because I stopped remembering they ever happened 

But now I do the rewind back —there’s a story there 

   a story I forgot —what is it ….is it my story ? my story —my story —that one we cannot tell …..

    She’s standing there….see….waiting still there, little fool, someone hit her in the head with a ball 

There were other signs too but so much happened. So much was going on. And even now …..it is too much to take under the microscope of thought as I feel the mind’s defense start to build its fuzzy walls within my thoughts 

JM Chronicles/Noir thoughts Electra’s dictionary

How little my inner routine changes even with the Swedish headquarters 

I try to paint in the studio Jörn built for me next to the sauna but my mind is so restless.

The news is horrible everywhere and all I want is to bury my head in search for something that makes any sense to me anymore. 

So after an hour holding my paintbrush and staring at nothing, I decide to walk back to the barn house. Jörn and his father have hidden away in Jörn’s office with Zoom meetings and the transferring of power from Josef to Jörn requires hours of them locked away.

Elsa has gone back to the city. She said to see Andreas perform and check in on the Swedish Opera House that is actually located not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A block or so from Gerald’s and not too far from the Plaza hotel. But when I think of present life ….

I don’t fit anywhere that makes any sense

I’m not used to family; to people noticing if I’ve stepped out or returned…. The awareness of that unknown phenomena to me (always watching but never among one; always watching from outside, the outsider; other people with other families from outside their window; like my nose up against the glass: wonder—what is that like?)I felt and noticed of the ‘familia’comfort of Jörn’s family presence. Being around them. At first it was so hard for me ….accepting thoughtful gestures even as I like to give them, accepting it is impossible to me…. I’m not used to it. I find moments when I stop and fall into thought as I try to determine if —I don’t mind if anyone notices —was she hit by a car; fall into a pit; get accosted by someone…. No, I’m not used to that 

And also, I realize something else that seems to bother me…. The real world out there? 

Real? 

I find I have trouble connecting with the electronic world. I don’t notice that people have an authentic heartbeat. 

People, I guess I find, aren’t real in the real world, 

it’s all a persona and though people are talking constantly out there through that electronic screen, no one is saying anything. They are just filling time and deluding themselves that time is endless for them and they just get a set of new hearts when they refresh their game 

and deep in such thoughts, irony! what’s worse it seems I keep hearing Link’s theme playing in my head 

but for me, it is not at all what being alive is—I cannot giggle life off in empty performance and stare at a screen and make pretend as the real game —life— is meant to be engaged in but people don’t do that much so, I find I sit and often brood ….trying to find something constructive to fill the void that’s gone missing out there 

“Duvan,” Josef has taken to calling me by Hanna’s version of her father’s name for me

and when he says it now it gives me such a start as I hadn’t seen him there

I look as he walks over to me,

“you have been angry at me,” he says and looks into my eyes with his deep Nordic blue that sees everything

9 January 2025 the scandi-UN JM Noir Chronicles; Electra’s dictionary

“No he’s not thinking of just his one term—he’s building an empire,”

     Jörn’s voice carries high up to the rafters of the barn house from below 

but I stay back by the railings 

the Swedish ‘UN’ (as I like to call them) are in privy council  

        as the American wife of my Interpol spy chief I can only reflect. And consider …. the chronicles of history and the ancient great minds of philosophers and political thinkers ….the mind reaches mostly in hope for the bestowing of some kind wisdom to be imparted ….chi-scry into the mental waters as I sit up against the corner walls by the hall where the edges meet

to come to the mountains again

now

 seems to call upon some awareness to search a higher consciousness; inches from Montreal I feel the currency from every polar direction

and more…. the moon is reaching its fullness 

the apocalyptic chasm within the human soul 

    is at war with the deception of a make believe world at the cost of everyone’s blood 

Electra’s dictionary—the tape continues

Once more into the deep morass:

I remember Norma from the Jamaica life. She always wore white and it contrasted so well with her skin. I adored her as a child. She did not visit often, always showed up at my mother’s cocktail parties with her tall, lanky blond white husband. He was ….Ethan Rhys Jone’s secret serviceman; the one who hired the big thugs that always shadowed us.

She was ….the one who looked after me when we had the secret meetings with him. I’d go with my mother in the car, we’d drive over the causeway and the smell of the ocean as that view opened up and the wind blowing through the car windows. She loved to speed. Especially on our way there to meet him at his boat 

“You will always be special to him,” Norma said leaning down to hug me when it came time to go. I hated leaving. I always felt safe with him

“Do you know why?” she asked me. Then she said, “because you are the only daughter! You’re his princess!—that makes you special to him, don’t ever forget it! But I’ll tell you a little secret—you are the most like him of all!”

“for me…. all you have to do is write 

      and know whose woman you are.” 

passing the baton to: JM chronicles/film noir

How altered I feel now. And to find myself back at the barn house again; as if nothing ever happened 

I think about the last few weeks as I stare looking across the length of the room to the window that faces the farmhouse.

But I remain where I am. Reluctant to get out of bed. 

The night of the retirement party …. feels like an eternity ago —straight from Latitude and still in my Christmas sweater, he throws me into the Swedish UN in the barn house living room. There’s Elsa dripping diamonds in her gilded gown (alliterations unintended)

well— it was Josef’s ‘retirement’ (but do we really believe he will ever retire?) as much as the passing of the baton ….everyone was there. I recognized Marcus; the director from the time in the Hamptons. Of course the usual suspects; Stina, Smulligan

I did have to work it too because Elsa, once she scared away the catering crew, wrapped an apron around me and joined the guests! It was like being back at Starbucks behind the barista machine with a massive line and my entire staff quit on me. You don’t forget how to juggle but how dare she?

Why don’t I care ….? I feel calm, so relaxed; considered and cared for and whole somehow

Andreas was there but only about ten minutes as he was rushing back to Lincoln Center.

They put a helicopter land behind the house —an interesting new feature Jörn came up with so it’s like a commute to Manhattan and the noise!

I was too busy to enjoy the party and exhausted after. But somehow it is like Jörn’s family has bonded to me now. That shut out feeling isn’t there anymore, I feel included which ….I've never felt or known before 

The last clear day I could get out before the snows hit I was on my way back to the house and my mind was on the smeden…. from the regressive memories …. the barn house from the drive up looks like a Viking longhouse and suddenly I remembered something about —that time

JM muse chron/Electra’s dictionary and film noir “I don’t exist”

“Try to remember the sequence of events….” 

we are ….we are —where? I’ve not been sleeping —there seems to be some kind of ….ominous warning comes lately to me whenever I sleep 

I am half mad lately. Such weird things in the dreams thst I just can’t will myself back into sleep 

“What happened first?” 

Oh….  it is Jörn’s voice.

It is present. I am confused. 

“What?” I say 

“The time with the ….the time you had your first episode as a child,” he says now with a soft and most reluctant sigh

but even thst feels ….

    as if it belongs to some other life …. who was that little girl? where did she go? no, she just disappeared, don’t think about her anymore …. sometimes I know it is wrong. We ought to honor her. But she just couldn’t stay. And was just not tough enough. I guess we don’t like her for that. But we keep the guard anyhow. 

“What time?—oh—the buckle scar?— I was five …. “ unconsciously I put up my hand to where it hit and wonder why it matters to Jörn to ask me this—is it twisted in the codes of the hidden medallion?

Jörn walks back and worth in front of me.

He says,

“Duva ….” and it is his voice 

You see. It catches me off guard. He kneels down to where I am sat watching the black forest night view behind the piano. I watch into the void through thst two story plate glass window. Even as I know what he plays…. as he stops and steps away …. I still see the shadows on the wall of those bats as I hear hear him play those familiar keys 

   it lulls my mind back ….

          there

His voice is up against my ear but I am drowning because I know what he is going to say,

“think….when did he stop coming? Before or after the incident?”

it is like a rush of golden white light.

“After.”

And the clear. The clouds break away.

He says,

“but not right away,”

“No…. no…. It was much later ….it was because of what happened ….”

but I cannot speak. I try. I go cold. 

He says,

“that’s enough for now….” he lifts me and carries me from the floor 

press the button and hesitate

 

….i wasn’t like them…. !   I was nothing like them! I never understood how I landed there. They talked about the most mind numbing things ….

Neimen Marcus ….Macys…. white sales; pot roast recipes, latkas and dry cleaning 

when engrossed in politics I was…. equality…. Philosophy…. spirituality ….they thought I was some kind of freak at home and ….you know, that just …. made no sense in …. the living room after some …person—cousin?—‘s …. bar mitzvah and slouched into the velvet seat of the chair cringing ….dying….aunt ida—someone ….they were speaking alien to me

fish market remarks 

my mind on weird concepts of humanity

where did that even come from ….?

“….DNA memory” 

  [voice in background]Dr Rothschild said

The tumbling emotions crash; (jmmuse)

“There’s always been rumor I exist,” I shrug now after a deep breath. 

Identity?

I get up and walk around the room….strange to be back here again ….back at the barn house in our old bedroom. 

“You get used to hiding ….” I glance up at Jörn sideways to see if he is looking at me and he is 

I turn my back a bit. Take a deep breath ….

“one day —I was a teenager in Holland ….it was this one day in Amsterdam. I stepped away from my family —the Calvestraat…. I got approached by an Italian fashion photographer —well known then, he gave me his card and said they were searching for a new face— he told me he could make me famous—that I had an itgirl face and that I would be the next face of Clinique ….” I laugh now 

shrug

“It is just as well but ….of course it was forbidden!” 

The card shredded up. I could never stand out. It was law. I am nobody. I don’t exist. 

It is hard to always process the road blocks intentionally put in my may to destroy me ….it can make me crazy if I let myself really comprehend the masterminds involved 

You learn to hide ….all the very things I desired were roadblocks against me. I didn’t understand as a young person. I blamed myself. I never knew what it was; why …. it was me; something cursed ….i just didn’t get it until the sessions with Dr. Rothschild ….

“No RADA for me,” I say laughing at myself 

Electra’s dictionary JM muse chronicles; Cover her face

“It was when I came across an old photo of him,” Jörn tells me, “without the mustache as when he was at university ….I got chills….you are the spit of him.”

“So?”

“The signature hair cut,” he says looking at me, “whose idea?”

I smile up at him and shrug,

“so what of it?” 

Because I know what he is saying,

“she used to tweeze my eye brows. Remove the arch….yes….but could you blame her?”

“Identity,” Jörn says like a headmaster reminder for a quiz 

I shut him out. I squeeze my eyes tight. I cover my ears and my eyes….let the weight of my hair tumble forward ….

“I learned how to hide in plain sight….” I say 

But add,

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. She did what she had to do…. I don’t exist. I don’t matter ….”

The lost tape; Electra’s dictionary, film noir (jmmuse)The newly found Dr. Rothschild Tape

 

‘The ladies on the bus all gossiped. They worked at the homes of the folks where the bus stopped at. The bus stop on the street with the yellow house and the dog that always bit me and chewed up my toys as my ‘father’ said, “good dog!” would stop at the house next door. Anna-Marie lived on the corner, the Poland’s next door; Mimi, Marc and David— and the bus stopped right at the very spot the Poland’s left their trash cans ….one day I kicked a can but didn’t realize till it flew up in the air that —it had remnants of cheap beer….till it emptied upon me….i stank of it after and had to vomit…. men covered in green tattoos always stepped off the bus….one man I saw from mommy’s window every day….a damp cigar hanging always from his loose lips….but this day ….i got on with Annie. I trusted her. She was different from ….Mattie….who said things she thought I was too young to understand, as if I were even deaf….those ladies worked as maids on the blocks by where we lived ….pastel painted Miami homes….i got on the bus with Annie. She took my hand, we took seats behind the driver on the left…. ‘is that the little princess of the cats? She got no place now, pass for white anyhow with that creamy skin….pass for white, but she ain’t nothing but a mulatto and will never belong anywhere—wrong side of the blanket, too bad as that king didn’t do nothing for us folk, we still serving the master and she jus bastard pass for white trash….” 

but what did it mean? 

Why did she hate me? 

How did she know me….know who I was ….when nobody at home ever even saw me ….or knew I was even there ….i was invisible ….after he never ….came to see me again.’