You know when all guns are not firing. When you start to spin out. Like a spacecraft you watch falling out of orbit with Houston.
There it goes spinning. 5 o’clock news. Breaking story. From every angle. They got it. There you are on the evening news.
When did I start to think of it as “the catacombs”? Was it something that came to me out of the blue or was it something he said?
No, it was how it felt.
You know, I always have found myself at old cemeteries. Most places I’ve ever lived, I’ve somehow found myself at the local’s historical cemetery. And it is not my intentional course to decide upon; it seems always, I stumble there on a lark. It seems, unconsciously, I find the spine of some lost most trodden path by instinct of landscape; architecture; and the ruse and fall of the sun across the visage. The strangest cemetery I ever saw was in Colton New York because it was perhaps a disjointed mix of history with war mixed with layers of Puritan history. So many mentions of young soldiers died in battle from this tiny forgotten town spanning the country’s fight for independence, Native American conflicts, the American Civil War world wars, Korean War, Vietnam and all the way through known skirmishes.
It boggles my mind how such a lost, forgotten town with one shop and a closed gas station was so connected to their country’s history. Like an unsung hero.
Like a sleeping vampire.
Walk past the headstones. Stop and read. Look at the whole family layout and see all the names of all the descendants. And realize all the streets are named after most of them.
The ground is so hard to walk over; the trees’ roots have always upturned the once more gentle climb up the path around the cemetery isles. I suppose this is why so few would like to bother. And, to be honest, bothering usually left me feeling more desolate than victorious but I’d like to say, in retrospect, it’s put into perspective how dramatic do realities shift. Just takes a war. A mad ruler. A natural disaster. A horrific tragedy.
Yet, strangely, in the end, I found I did often feel most in tune in those place —with the balance of life; and then leaving there, rejoining the town I found myself in —they felt like the real ghosts to me, somehow
And it always left me to think. And think as such thoughts and curiosities as these is exactly why I hear a distant drummer they don’t
Perhaps this is why only Jörn does understand me— perhaps he is the yin to my yang; what I’d instinctively found my way to by the magnetic north pull ….it is electric isn’t it? or an energy like how brainwaves act
Moving so much, I’ve found it part of the natural course to investigate such places.
It gives a sense of who the origins were, even without the churches no longer there, although some still are in places, like one I found completely hidden in a spot in tiny Sudlersville Delaware
I think of this now as I walk away from Jörn’s cage with the monitors, down the winding halls that evoke memories of ….what feels like ‘capers’ when compared to over a thousand years of ….searching?
Because I think of Gerald too. Of how Jörn first behaved when I’d introduced him to Gerald years ago.
I know Jörn’s emotions now were ….deeper than he said at the time. Looking back, as I’ve done often enough recently— with new filters to re-interpret how I first noted events
His initial wont of denial to concepts of reincarnation. His claiming to be rational
But then —what of his opera? Duva…. his dove —or little penguin; whatever he calls me by in his language —no, it was the turtle dove! Because of the color against the frozen snow caught his eye….and then —she —who was Elan ….appeared with a decanter to retrieve water from the river but to him it seemed she changed from the turtle dove to her
I wonder now suddenly if this was how he first believed he might bring her back?
But what of his opera? He has said nothing of it for years now.
I stop to think, turning down a corridor two after from where Jörn’s gym is—where the encounter with Retnuh Nivek occured; swiftly I go past there and see how the path opens and veers. From back away, it appears to end but now it is clear; it is an optical illusion. Then to the left the path splits. Right at the center between the fork is a dome of light above and an odd kind of mosaic or pattern on the ground arranged and fitted, pieces of stone, metals and gems form odd looking abstracts. I find myself staring at the patterns and the pretty gems that twinkle in the grey cement.
How weird.
But I keep going as there is a curious draft coming from further up the way. Now the hallway seems to shift to glass; ground, ceiling walls all glass and shaped like a tunnel. But now I can see why it is glass—there seems to be some sort of interior lab.
I take more turns through and find keypadlocked doors and past that a —gate? It is unlocked
Strange greenish light comes from somewhere and I go to look for the source, it is past the gate. There is a doorway.
From the hallway where I stand, it looks like some old museum. There is art on the walls and ornate fixtures that I can get a glimpse of from where I stand.
I wonder why Jörn never told me about any of this. But also, I wonder how I overlooked this before—unless it really was the optical illusion—why would I have bothered to question it, back then, as I was too busy trying to escape my nemesis
That Jörn omitted telling me …. which is clearly a common occurrence about how he does or does not communicate
This angry thought makes me decide to ignore my trepidation and just go in
Once past the dimly lit walls of art; all oil portraits of people dressed in wealthy attire spanning many centuries. In the dark, it’s hard to truly appreciate their craftsmanship, but to my best ability the works could easily compete with Holbein, Rembrandt, and Di Vinci which is why I get caught for awhile staring at them
Eventually I get past two more halls and find a series of foyers —about six on each side. As I walk past the foyers I notice they all have the same dome lights to illuminate within. When I reach the end of this hallway I decide to look in the foyer to the right; the last foyer —just because it is the last one.
By now my eyes are well adjusted to the dim light. Within the foyer I see it is circular. And the walls are paneled in a dark cherry wood with square like frames with golden nobs at the center, like drawer fobs.
Curious
I walk all around. The floor is gritty but it’s not dirt. Indeed it looks like unpolished marble. Marble? Also weird.
I walk all around the circle and notice an alcove in the circular wall. Within the alcove is a sculpted piece of art that looks like it is made of some kind of metal of a woman that reminds me the pose of Nike of Samothrace; Winged Victory—but this is metal and she has her head; and while she has wings she holds a bow and arrow with the bow pulled ready to let fly the arrow which points above, heavenly
I don’t know why but something about the piece holds me captive. I stand there a long while just staring at it with total wonder
After awhile it is fatigue which forces me to decide to turn back and as I start to reach the doorway out of the foyer, something above the doorway catches my eye.
I look up.
Engraved in the cherry wood ornate paneled wall above are carved letters that spell out in archaic lettering : Milstrum
And it only takes about five more seconds for me to start to suspect where I am
I take a careful backward step and look around. Again, I decide to walk to the right to study walls filled with the square frames all with golden nobs and stop at the row closest to the end where I walk. I look at the highly cherry wood polished square frame that is eye level to me. Now I notice something I couldn’t have seen from where I was. All the frames have lettering. And when I look up I see spelled out to me “Andreas”
I take a deep breath
I move to the frame beside this one. This spells out Hanna.
I start to feel my palms sweat. And then that telling chill.
Another deep breath….. I look at the next name on the frame beside that one ….
No comments:
Post a Comment