Demeter at the gates of Hades, amidst a windstorm of sand and billowing hooded cape of aubergine, falls down upon the entrance door
Our gods are immortal. Their fables misconstrued but they endure the lower minded replicas of them who run around for a time on the game board
The stories have many turns and many many reinventions
Quite by accident, to my surprise, I recently discovered that I still think in Dutch.
You know, it triggered a domino effect in my mind when this realization tripped up upon me as I was in the process of looking for that touchstone; keystone ….of humankind
you know that part of our evolutionary history where we sat upon a precipice. The species were hunted. But that changed. And then there was time for wars. But what happened in between. What about the status quo quietly puttering on the edge of society which cradled them in the means to survive.
In all this to of course find my need for answers. Why I’m different. Who did I come from. What mystery do I need to find? What of those people I never got to know but I am a scion of; I’d really like to know ….who they were
So I found myself deep in piles of handwritten notes— the Charlemagne age, the Romans, the Greeks, the Celts/Gauls, the Minoans, the Vinčas and naturally I had to search out movies next— keep in mind Quest for Fire was my favorite film when I was eighteen, so it’s all about the wonder of the caveman walls and those notes they left behind
my fascination (via Elan’s past life with Vikings) with Frisians after extensive studies of the Scandinavians dragged me further towards others of the Germanic common lines, beyond the Jutes, Angles and Saxons because of the dark horse of a mystery that is my other half of mixed but old aristocracy (on the wrong side)
That was how I stumbled on Redbad and went in search of what films might be on him; so engrossed in the pagan scenes it was fifteen minutes in that I realized it was all in Dutch. But I’ve not been around any Dutch people for years. How can it be possible to immediately know the words
I had a moment of pause as I thought about language. How so many words all originated from the same place. I thought of Proto/Indo/European (PIE) and how they are all connected.
And that DNA memory theory again
What if it is as part of the human dna as the genes like thst sleeping dragon still in the blood even as so many revolutions have past. Wasn’t it Socrates who said we are all re-membering? That we already contained all our knowledge but we go through life trying to recall it from past lives.
you know it was the most strangest of things, yesterday that I saw —it was something almost mythical.
right after the storm, the snow is all powder white, it crunches quietly because the sky is full of snow
so it was this way, a bare skeletal tree at first caught my eye
then suddenly the sounds of wild ravens hawking loudly
when I got to the house there it was! Covered in black ravens, dozens!!! A yellow house covered in ravens all flying around —then up in the trees behind in the bare branches —all filled with ravens.
They circled me as I walked by the house and shouted at me flapping their wings
and I wondered walking away—why is it only thst one house?
at the time, I did not write about fg, it was one of those things that was going on when I was rushing to get everything done with that hairpin exactness that forces you to make it to work o time when balancing a custody demand and a job that required you to be there when the everyone was sleeping.
but looking back, I can say that, in all of my life i have never known those moments which, even during the time, felt like it was straight out of a movie. have you ever had moments like that? when someone you met is this fabulous larger than life artist who makes you feel like you are the most beautiful person in the world. I guess that is what is was about him, and it was not at first. at first i had no intention of even liking him, i thought he was a brat. a very goodlooking brat.
do you know what it was that made me fall in love with him? it should not be such a shock when i say. and i do recall the moment exactly and where we were standing. there was another artist there too; the other one who worked with us for the night crew with the same first name so i called them their names 'squared' as a joke over the PA each night and they liked to compete
but the moment was when fg took out his sketchbook, that was the moment. we three stood by the checkout counter after close. the place was empty except for us until three in the morning. and like all of us there, all artists, all with our mediums so it was expected there would be things to see.
i have looked at a lot of people's work. i have grown up around artists. i have lived in a family of artists and heard the criticisms of works, viewed friends of friends and art college students. but there was a moment and i guess he might have sensed it because before that i really had no time for the brat, but then he slapped down the sketch book. i have never seen anything like that sketch book. i would give anything to see it again. the work was unlike anything i have ever seen. the faces were Picasso weird. the shading so Chagall the images were so complex and involved that each page pulled me further and further through his visual journey. and there was the second named squared loudly sighing in annoyance at me because he knew there was no competition after this.
if ever there was a place to hide a thought, it is here and because those things that matter
often get over looked i guess in my most quiet of whispers years later i may speak of things that got quickly swept under the carpet. fg was mine and if he is the worst than it cannot be so bad but he was such a bad boy that i tried my best to avoid the hurricane.
did i call him another name i forget, but looking back, the sweetest memory i have of him was a sunny day when.... it was all by the by but he pulled me aside and showed me a memory box he had just finished. it had all of his youth and family memorabilia. he was always such an artist, the work was exquisite, the sanding of the wood, the connecting of the sides so perfect, so very beautiful but he said, "do you see what's preserved in there forever with my life?" he pointed inside past the sealed-up glass. it was a photo of me he stole from my jewelry box. there it was glued closed in his beautiful life memory box and .... i was then with his best friend. he was that way, so very Romeo. so very much the heritage of his background, he was so alive with creating, and beauty and passion and being in the moment and he jabbed me to the heart. how could he do that. but it is one of those moments in life that i dont know whatever it was
i met him soon after my mother died. just weeks after her husband and my horrible ruin of loss of custody in court. i was a wreck and there he was looking at me like i was some ....what did he always call me, he would sing the Miss America song when i showed up; i was Miss America to him --but it was not about fucking, it was this other thing that was between us. it was this kind of honesty. it was this secret but it was also more, it was that we could create together, we could come alive when we were together.
was it the art? or the emotions we shared because.... we talked a lot; we shared real life things that were happening and we became closer than any other lover i have ever known
the last time i saw him was at the ruin of .... what became of chris and me. or what we had once been called at the art warehouse, the 'chris and electra show' the ugly soap opera that was our life for awhile but before that it was another show; my scandalous life with one of many mad artists who have made my life so crazy....but fg —i always knew he would ....not be able to forget me
the odd incongruence
of a shatter of golden ochre autumn leaves
upon a near foot of white snow
illuminated under the lamppost
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.”
….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
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
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
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
