Alpha cats; Electra’s dictionary

Because it has been so hot, the workers have been leaving early but most of the rooftop ‘patio’ is done. Just some finishing touches

I ordered some patio furniture because it seems Hanna likes to hangout there with some friends she has made. It seems she is in no hurry to move back in the brownstone with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend

and so I suspect her mother is a bit jealous

It seems too that Hanna has taken over the kitchen. There are crates of bottled spring water and tortilla chips are bursting from everywhere. Ilya did not seem pleased about this at first but Hanna has a way with getting around people; somehow she arranged backstage passes for a rock concert Ilya is going to

“How did you do that?” I asked Hanna earlier today

And she just shrugged,
“I asked some guy I know and he handed them over.”

Well, she’s beautiful so, it’s really no wonder. So now Ilya is in the palm of Hanna’s hand and wrapped around her finger; she has a Jedi charm

But later after Hanna has disappeared with her friends I find Lisa out on the patio roof! By now the workers have left for the day,

But Lisa ? —which surprises me as I had not realized she had found her way over to my penthouse —no, I’m not exactly angry.... not exactly perturbed either.... well.... only—maybe that isn’t totally altogether true

It’s hard to say what game is up with her

She is sitting at the table under the umbrella drinking what looks like a whiskey sour and I suspect not her first one

Did she ask someone on the staff for it before they left for the day or help herself to the liquor cabinet? I suspect the former as it looks professionally done


so I walk over deciding there’s no point avoiding the Trojan horse and go right over to the table where she sits. I just pull out a chair, and sit down curiously with a bottle of water. She is clearly miffed about something. The sun is still a bit strong overhead but the heat is not as bad under the umbrella


“I don’t smoke,” she says but then proceeds to light up, “do you? You must to stay so skinny,” she adds —making me flinch— and after affectively  igniting her torch, she reaches into her huge bag to put on lipstick

dramatically opening her compact to perform the transformation —then blots her lips together with such odd exaggeration

“No, actually,” I say watching her with covert fascination

She opens the cigarette box again and lifts one to offer me

I decline

“No, I don’t smoke,” I repeat

and I guess I watch her with some confusion

“Oh come on!” she pushes it towards me and then leaves it there as if it can tempt me

She takes a deep inhale and sits back in the chair and looks up at the sky as she exhales with a long drawn out breath

“It’s this country, does it ever get to you?” she asks so bluntly and looks me dead in the eyes with a sharp iceblue gaze.

“Yes, all the time,” I say but then wonder if she’s been reading my blog.

But then she asks,
“How do you stay so skinny? I thought for sure you were a smoker,” she sweeps me frankly with her gaze head to foot

“I can’t gain weight,” I tell her “and I have trouble with handling stress.”

“That’s interesting, how is that? I’ve never heard of such a thing. How much do you weigh? Like 45 kilograms?” But I’m not sure how much that is and just shake my head

“What are you —like a size 00?”

I should be used to this by now; that look I get from most members of my gender and these types of remarks that leave emotional scars for days; sometimes I don’t want to step out the door; you would think there would be more solidarity among my gender but it isn’t that way, I wish I knew why

I force a shrug,
“it’s an inconvenience in a lot of ways.”

“How’s that?” she blows in my face

 “Stores never have anything in my size so I have to buy everything on line.”

“What about Forever 21 or teen shops?” Her expression is not even teasing, she is actually serious

Whatever

“You think I look ridiculous with him, don’t you?” I only say this because she has pushed my limit with her last remark

She drags more on the cigarette and considers still sizing me up

Eventually she says,
“you can never be too rich or too thin.”

As if....

Then adds,
“we may still have some of Hanna’s clothes from when she was.... ten.... How tall —are—you?” she looks at me

I shake my head holding in rage,
“I don’t know how you measure in your country but not that minuscule, actually I’m 5’4”!” I say with indignation

.... ok, almost—I round up, but who’s measuring

What is she drinking anyway? I wonder and ask her,
“and how tall are you are you—six foot?”

“Hmm!” she laughs, “touché!” and still looks at me, “you look taller from a distance actually,” she tells me

I then reach for her bag on the floor and

 ....hold it up to myself,

“is that why you thought I could fit into your handbag?” I ask

She nearly chokes on the cigarette and I have to hand her my water

“You knew what I said?” she asks shocked with tears streaming down her face from coughing

I smile,
“I’m still learning but I have picked up a few words,” I say

Again more sizing up,

“I can see why Jörn likes you.... he likes little things....that fit into his compartments neatly like careful neat rows.... little things he can push around because— it makes him feel important —and ....if I were to be honest I would grudgingly admit.... that you don’t actually look too ridiculous with him ....which may be why I think I hate you for that,” I notice she is not just a bit tipsy and notice too the human flaw exposed now in her eyes. No doubt the drink has brought out more truth than she might have allowed otherwise,

“Yes I have Lorenzo ....but, Jörn —“ she sighs with defeat and another shrug, “I am still possessive of— you know—and I don’t like sharing.” And adds after a pause, “....him, I mean.... he is not easy to let go of.”

(....I guess that is what you and his mother have in common....only I would not say that out loud.)

It is a very uncomfortable moment and pause in a remarkably uncomfortable conversation

“But if I were to be honest ....yet again —I would also admit.... very grudgingly.... that I .... never saw him look at me —or anyone.... the way that he looks at you.... I have never seen that look ever on him. There is something very different in him that I.... well, I guess it disturbs me. It is over ten years now since we were together but I always felt —you know.... if I wanted him back I could....” she stamps out the butt into something she uses as an ashtray that looks like the cap to a beverage bottle. After watching the smoke diminish she says, with a brittle tone,

“No you don’t look ridiculous with him; he —on the other hand....I think looks like a pedophile with you.”

“But—you do know that ....I am older than him?” I ask

Her mouth drops open

Impulsively, I reach for her glass and take a deep long swallow. It is a strong drink. Which I find I really need after this conversation. More whiskey than sour which makes me cough. It also makes me bold

I say, and clearly the drink has detonated the filter of polite conversation,
“you know, to be honest, I’m used to women hating me....that is— unless they want to sleep with me. It would be nice for once to meet a woman who knew how to be strong enough in herself to know how to be a true friend and a real person to another woman who didn’t find every other woman some kind of threat.”

“Unfortunately, to me you are quite a threat so, I don’t think there is hope for that here. But I think it’s primal to women to be threatened by every other woman.”

“You could be right. Our gender has not really evolved despite what the hashtags say,” I don’t ask but finish her drink for her and get up and leave her there

vamp-pirate, Queen of drag; Lavender Film Noir; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

Of course I cannot go back to Jörn’s place, my head is not able to face his family

And knowing that Hanna will be staying at the penthouse in the bedroom that faces south I take another way to the master suite that faces north

I shut the door of the bedroom and lean against it shaking. I sink down onto the floor thinking ....

how much of all of this did Jörn know before we ever met? How can I trust him? am I everyone’s pawn?

It is my sense of trust that causes me to stumble; my lack of better judgment; mistrust. I wonder in this swirling panic : How did I think I could trust Jörn...?

Why —why did I ever trust Jörn....? why???

When I need no one ...

have I just been dazzled by those pirate eyes; those haunting eyes that pull me within their private den. Like the priestess Elan?

Should I question .... the parallels ....and patterns; and behold the codes

The parallel lives.... what do they mean ?

but then what about the haunting dreams that —is real, or, no, I mean ....

that is something—yes.... ? Or am I certifiably out of my mind which .... I have often come to wonder especially these days

Only maybe this is somehow part of some larger picture that I don’t quite understand....yet

I remind myself now: I don’t need anybody

As it’s always been just.... the celf.... just me and the celf and so it shouldn’t change now just because ....

I force away those other things. Those .... things of curious and compelling mystery that have kept me up so many nights. Like his haunting music. His fascinating mind and mystique. Those nights awake to his pounding the piano keys ....Watching his shadows on the wall .... the wild madness of his passion and

those unspoken things between us in the dark. When we come together. How I always turn to him in sleep; and always wake up wrapped around and pressed against his hips; even the first night when I first slept next to him; he broke all my codes .... never trust; never let anyone in. Especially not .... in sleep; the most personal space of all.

He got inside the walls. How? I don’t know why; as if he’d already been

have I betrayed myself.... by trusting him? why did I — what made me trust him?


I walk through the master suite to the washroom. Shut the door. Lock it. Lean against it and .... sink down.... and tell myself again: Nobody owns me.... I belong to me....

I remind myself now why that was always the policy.... never trust, don’t let anyone in, I am mine

my own Frankenstein

.... freak that I am, and ....

I really don’t care that nobody understands,

I like it better this way

I am not made to fit a standard,

so ....fuck it

And yet, here I am putting things together thinking-/he set me up

and what a disappointing mistake....

I feel myself begin to fall apart,  like swirling in the sinking labyrinthine spiral of weeping through the waters of Lethe I start to cry

How long is mercury retrograde? I wonder, as my mind feels like an atom bomb ready to go off


In the hysteria of emotions I think: Unfinished business —lesson missed; the Viking was sent to destroy me again. I think over everything that just happened with Willem and am so heavily sunk in this morass I decide to fill the water in the tub....the need to....wash....to be clean; find safety in

myself.

It is about an hour later when I hear the sound of the doorknob being turned and jolt up,  reaching for my glasses. I watch Jörn walk right in.

How —the fuck— dare he and how—the fuck— did he? When I locked it?

I don’t notice what he’s wearing, I’m too angry and shout at him

“I locked the door! Do you mind?!”

“Did you really think you could lock me out?”

It is only now that I notice

~He is dressed in drag~

He wears a satin black kimono that reaches above his knees, his long, and quite beautiful legs are clad in black fishnet stockings. And only now I notice he is wearing kohl around his eyes and something iridescent on his lids that makes him look even more like a vampire-pirate

“I read you like this,” he says with a lecherous smile in an exaggerated seductive tone as he kneels down next to me beside the bathtub ....he leans on the ledge of the bathtub and starts to wash me like a geisha

I jolt back stunned and am caught up in staring at him and it makes me think again of how he likes to dress me up, like the night of the opera

He does not make a pretty transgender but that does not detract from the erotic impact that.... it has on me; I dare not say exactly how it is intensely disturbing nor dare admit how arousing. I dare not

“You —do this —to—distract from —the fact that....”I seem to forget what I mean to say

“What?” he is nearly laughing at me but holds it back as he leans closer in this way so that his hair seductively falls loose. He looks directly into me as if blatantly reading my mind. He reaches to put his fingers in my hair and takes hold of my face,

“You don’t trust me because of what Willem said—you think I have been setting you up.”

“Well haven’t you?”

I watch the black kimono fall open as he intentionally leans in this way and he watches me with a smile,
“do you really believe that, or are you so used to taking flight, min lilla duva?”

“This is a slutty trick, Jörn....” but my anger has somehow become deflected, “you want some hidden code from me— and—you think I have some buried secret— like —I am —like —a buried treasure ....for the pirate to mark with a big X crossed—“

“Where?” he asks and puts his hand into the water and touches me, “here?”

“You —can’t do that ....so ....easily,” only, sadly,  that is not accurate but I look right at his eyes and don’t blink and firmly repeat, “you can’t.”

“No?”

“I —mean....you expect me to —to.... trust—“ I stop what I am saying as he distracts, no, not his fingers, instead it is the opening of the kimono and what it reveals, “....that isn’t fair,” I stammer and say, too weakly to be convincing, “it is so ....low....”

“Is this low enough?” he asks but he means something else

“Seriously....”

“Ask yourself....min lilla duva, what do I have to gain from ....decoding you?” and now everything he says takes on double entendres

“Stop confusing me,” I touch him, reaching for him with my hand to lay upon him

because he is so far away I use my left to grip hold of him by the kimono to pull him into the water with me

but he laughs

“No, I don’t think so!” and hauls me from the water like a sack of swords, kicking wide the bathroom door and on the way out he bites my neck and says into my ear,

"Låt mig vara din lesbiska älskare,” and laughs

but I don’t know what it means

It is later— after—


I do not realize that we hold hands and it only occurs to me now when I feel his long fingers stroke across my knuckles with their long sweeps. I do not realize it.... because his touch has become—or always was—is —subconscious to me.... as if he has become—is—a part of me.... his touch..... somehow anticipated.... these hands and fingers that know me intimately, do I trust?

“Where did you get these?” I ask him, touching him through the fishnets

“An ex lover left them,” he shrugs with levity, but I don’t really believe him

Electra’s dictionary; Kingpins Noir; meeting up with Willem


The part of the penthouse that holds most of Ethan Rhys-Jones’ artifacts and historical documents faces west, and thus by early evening the twilight lends a noir tone.

Since Ilya has been seeing to the historical authenticity, she kept to the style he had arranged the room; the pictures on the walls, the Art Deco bar, the draperies and the select bottles of liquor hold accurately true to how it was during Ethan’s lifetime and during his occupation of the dwelling

It is situated on the other side of the kitchens that lays center and central to the penthouse for the convenience of the functioning of entertaining the household needs as well as for both business and casual guests; and opposite to the bedrooms which are situated east and somewhat out of the way which is why it is convenient to set this area apart or as the historical museum that Joanie and Johnny have encouraged us to open to the public by appointment

The restoration only required the careful preservation of the leather seating and the polishing of the wood paneling and furniture. Most everything else had been already well preserved

I only ever went in there a few times. I saved those moments for when I most wanted to feel his presence and limited myself these visits in order to allow it to hold its sacredness for me

Certainly I’d never sat at the massive cherry-wood desk where upon entering the room I now find Jörn is comfortably seated and looking like he has assumed full possession of. As I have said, the power that my biological father once held politically in his life was something of the ‘Gotham’ quality as his influence often tugged on characters of the social underworld of his society

The word “kingpin” always comes to mind in connection to my biological father but the kind that defends the underdogs; in the underworld that the chess pieces move around; a bad cat for the little people by a big cat with an iron fist and a voice that bellowed and bounced like an organ echoing in a medieval cathedral drawing the crowd into his fold

And now looking at Jörn assuming his seat behind that massive desk that word rings true again and then it only now occurs to me that there are similarities between the men besides the physical stature and commanding broad shoulders

“There is someone here to see you who has come a long way and has been waiting patiently,” Jörn says now

And out of the shadows of one corner of the room I see the big, tall Dutchman from an evening long forgotten from my past

“Wassenaar,” now somewhat stooped and with faded and less hair the sunk jowls emphasis the characteristics Dutch features of a knotty nose and ironic half grin along with the accent pronounced firmly in one word. I am transferred back through time

I take a moment to arrive presently in time, straight-jacketed and seatbelted I hold firm to adjust the monocles of what is left of my sensibilities

My mouth goes dry and so I cough

“What was the name of that hangout your American friends liked to frequent?” he turns his head to one side as he studies me

“The Dugout,” I say and then it comes clearly again

“Rum and coke!” he says loudly smirking at me

It makes me laugh because I’d quite forgotten I used to drink that.

We had sat at the bar when I went up to get one to bring back to the table where my friends sat when he intercepted my intentions with his paying for it in exchange for his conversation. Yes, how well I do recall that day. He’d taken out his wallet to pay and then pulled out his business card

“Back then I used to pose as a journalist as my cover,” he reminds me

It is now that he turns and makes a grand show of taking ice from a bucket with tongs, pours rum from a handy bottle and then coke from another

He hands it to me as I cough again

“To old memories and old friends,” he says and reaches for a glass with an amber liquor to clink with the one he handed me

Switching gears from the place I’d left my mind on the tile of the bathroom floor, changed quickly into the houndstooth sheath that still lay across my bedroom chair when Jörn pulled me, then pushed me to change both clothing and state of mind

I take the cue to follow his lead and imbibe in the vice at hand

I go to the burgundy leather chair on the left that faces the desk where Jörn presides

The first Tape; Pandora’s box; Electra’s dictionary

Dr. Rothschild’s tapes



Come back.... come back....


the words drift slowly through....in waves

“Come back.... come back....”

She had been away a long time. Her presence arrived with the scent of patchouli. Pat. I idolized her. Who would arrive like a silent film star in and out of our world. The center of every drama of our family because of her mysterious background which, in hindsight, was so similar to mine; bastard of a French soldier who rejected her, and abused by her stepfather, physically and more.... and all the trouble she got into, often landing in jail, and, sadly, often overdosing. Her birthday was close to mine, September 11 and she was the only one in our family the most like me; my tall and lanky beautiful fashion model cousin, older by about 18 years. She always would call me ‘kid’

It was her voice that day that had called me out of the fog I was caught inside. In some kind of shock, some form of PTSD like a stunned trance that I still remember to this day. The way it felt. Between the worlds. Conversations came in muffled tone and static, and everything was warped and blurry. I always feared I might be caught in that between worlds again after.... the inability to move of my free will, the strangeness of total despair

To always fear to be again stuck there .... stuck with me forever after. And so after days or weeks lost and locked in that frozen inner chamber she pulled me back into the world

She said looking into my face,
“us Virgos need to stick together,” and smiled at me when I opened my eyes. She was the only adult I felt safe with


Her appearances were so rare that I felt honored she was there for me

She was the only one who could have recalled me from that dark chamber .... it was after the beating with the belt the time that went too far.

She was the realest person I have ever known. I used to wish she were my mother

It was a huge secret what happened to me that day. I missed six weeks of school but no one brought me to see any doctor. I remember the presence of my grandparents and the tones of concern that bumped around where I lay in stillness looking at nothing and watching the lights and shadows move across the ceiling and walls

There were times I wanted to snap out of it and had tried to but I couldn’t. It seemed something within me refused to admit access; something beyond me

I didn’t trust anyone. I didn’t trust my mother’s touch, I knew she wanted to send me away

Pat recalled me like an angel from the depths of despair and always thereafter that is what she was to me

even after her last overdose that took her from this life from me, she became a persona I assumed in order to keep her with me. In order to face a world I was always terrified of

I meet Jörn’s wife; smörgås in family drama

“Hon är så liten! Du kan lägga henne i din väska som en liten hund,” she says when she sees me walk in

Lisa —at his place—when I come in after a long day with the construction people at the penthouse; mostly incomprehensible discussions about floor plans and phone calls with warehouses for more fixtures that lead to mostly being put on hold for collective hours of my life

my least favorite way to spend a day

But I don’t have a clue what she has just said only that it makes Jörn irritated

“What?” I look over at Jörn as I put down my bag by the door and walk into the living room where everyone is standing around drinking wine

but I am still thinking about the construction progress back at the penthouse and if/when I should mention to Jörn that it is safe for me to return

I try to quickly size up his wife as her eyes sweep me over. She has her arm woven through another dark man (I find out later he is her Italian photographer boyfriend) and her other through Andreas.

I cannot read her —except to say she has a strangely familiar face and her eyes lock onto me

Jörn seems disconcerted by whatever she said and Jörn’s mother bursts out laughing

“Mamma....!” Andreas pulls himself free of her

She is very tall and she wears her platinum hair lank, pulled to one side. She wears solid black, head to foot; a clingy jersey halter with palazzo trousers, spiked heels and dramatic red lipstick

She walks right over and goes to shake my hand, her grip sends sparks of pain through my fingers and I have to hold back a cry,

“Hello, I’m Lisa,” she says

“Hej,” I say and return the handshake

“Your hands!” she exclaims

“Ohhh,” I attempt to disengage self-consciously

“They are so small and so soft! What do you do to keep them so smooth? Certainly Jörn has not got you doing his washing up!”

“Lisa....” Jörn says this softly like a warning

I look up at him and meet his eyes but he shakes his head and steps between us; he takes my hand from her and replaces it with his.

“Hanna!” Jörn waves to the tall girl who steps from the washroom now

I had expected someone who looked like a fashion model because she has just signed a contract with a top modeling agency but the girl I see who walks over is dressed more like someone from a rock band wearing a white torn t-shirt with something spray painted on it over a leather mini skirt

When she comes over she is nearly a foot taller than me with an interesting piercing through her ear.

She looks like Jörn, more than Andreas does who resembles his grandfather more —it makes me stare

Jörn introduces us

“Can I call you ‘Duvan’?” she asks me and smiles taking me off guard and because I don’t know how to reply, she says, “my father calls you by that name and now I see why. You are not what I expected!”

“No?” I ask and look up at Jörn but he’s looking at what she is wearing and he doesn’t seem pleased

“What is this tattoo?” he asks her taking hold of her arm

“It’s my band’s logo,” she says and adds more in Swedish that sounds something like, “snälla sluta,” then glances at me as if for help

I look at the tattoo because it’s unusual; it’s a weird purple creature that looks like an alien cartoon character with a smug expression

“Does your agency know you have this on you?” Jörn asks in a kind of reprimand

“Jörn,” I say looking at him and make a sound in my throat so that he meets my eyes. I shake my head but say, “do you know how many fashion models I see walking past me every day down fifth avenue with tattoos?” I look back at Hanna and she smiles at me but I ask, “so, you are in a band?”

I hear Jörn make a disapproving sound when I say this but this only makes Hanna’s eyes flash with rebellion and she swings her long ash blonde hair back

“Yes, in fact we just finished our first demo,” she smiles

“So you are another musician,” I say

Hanna says,
“would you like to hear one of our songs?” but she doesn’t wait for me to reply but takes a firm grip of my wrist and begins to pull me across the way and towards the room that is usually Andreas’

I’ve only ever seen in from a crack of his doorway

She has me suddenly in her custody and I get to see his room.

Mostly calm, somber colors of deep burgundy and brown and dark wood minimalist furniture with portraits of classical musicians on the walls but at the center —an air mattress which  has an explosion of bright colors of clothes, shoes,and on top an empty suitcase and a pile of cosmetics

She digs inside a huge messenger bag and pulls out her phone,
“it’s too bad you didn’t join us at the Hamptons, last week, we had such a great party for Midsummer,” she goes through her phone quickly in search of things and mumbles something in irritation when she sees a message but she finds the song and puts it on. It’s very loud, heavy metal and somehow it does not surprise me

Andreas comes in and seems annoyed, he mumbles things in a pent in rage but most of all I get is,

“det ser ut som din resväska slängde upp!”

“Andreas, speak English, don’t be rude to Duvan,” Hanna puts her phone in my hand and says, “look, you can see us performing at a club,” she stands behind me to point to which one is she

“You play the drums?”

“That was when our drummer was out with a broken arm. I go between keyboard and guitar but I love the electric violin—look —you see here? That’s my boyfriend Erik,” she tells me

“Hanna, will you at least clean up your clothes from everywhere?” Andreas asks her

“I was looking for my converter, I think I lost mine—can I borrow yours?” she asks him and then leaves her phone with me and goes over to the air mattress and starts randomly shoving clothes back into her suitcase

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” I ask her, I put her phone on top of the messenger bag. “I thought your father said you and your mother were staying somewhere.”

“My mother’s boyfriend’s place—yes, it’s a brownstone on the upper West side but they’re having a big party and I don’t really like Lorenzo’s New York friends. They’re so obnoxious so, I’m crashing here for a few days—“

“One!” Andreas says

“The party is all weekend—“

“We said one night—“

“Do you want to stay at the penthouse?” I ask

They both shut up and look at me

I shrug,
“it’s bigger ....”

Jörn must have heard from outside the door because now he says,
“what’s this about?”

I say,
“the work is completed, I was actually going to tell you, Jörn....the interiors —they are all done and are just going to start work outside with the patio soon but —it’s quiet at night after they go so.... I mean it is especially good timing I mean with your family....”
I say and meet his eyes

He flinches and looks quickly away to the disaster all over the air mattress

“Hanna!” he says under his breath indicating the mess


And now she looks at me and says,
“actually—yes—Duvan, can I stay at your place—would that be all right?”

Jörn’s shocked expression looking at me now leaves me wondering if he thinks I’m conspiring with his daughter —why do I feel guilty?

“Wait. Let’s just think —let’s talk about this—“ Jörn takes me by the wrist and pulls me out into the corridor away from being heard and studies me

“What?” I ask him

“No—I .... why are you offering Hanna a room at the penthouse?”

“Because you have a full house.... the penthouse has more room. I was just trying to return the favor as you’ve been letting me stay here all this time and....”

He keeps his eyes on me and searches my eyes. After a long silence we get interrupted by Josef who walks towards us,

“we have all decided we should go out for dinner as I don’t think any of us are in the mood to fix something here.”

I look at Jörn but I can see he isn’t in the mood to go out. He seems put out by the idea and says,
“I have a concert tomorrow....”

“In the evening,” Josef chides him

“Well, there’s rehearsal ....and were we not going to go over my recent music for the opera in the morning? Tobias at the opera house was letting us use
Kungens hall,”Jörn says

Josef looks at him and shakes his head,
“why are you such an old man?”

Josef sticks his head into Andreas‘s bedroom,
“is anyone hungry to go out to eat?”

Andreas and Hanna bolt out the door,
“starving!” Hanna says

“Me too,” Andreas agrees

“Then why don’t you go out, we would rather stay in tonight,” Jörn says which makes me look sharply at him

Josef catches my eye and winks at me with a smile as he reaches to affectionately put his arm around Hanna,
“this will give me a chance to catch up with my granddaughter —away from the disapproving eye of her father,” he chuckles

Truth; one cannot escape one’s essential self: The artist exposing a celf

Something I have been hiding....

I am to see another surgeon in a few days. I have been running out of .... belief

there have been so many ....



Since Jörn says I need to expose myself more as an artist and when I write....

as an artist

he says that the best art is born of heartbreak and pain

How can I find these words....?

so.... you see, there is so much I hold inside and so.... physically to immerse myself with a physical medium like visual art

tactile

as a dyslexic— I suppose I am exposing myself now, aren’t I? is this what Jörn meant I should do— and why do I need to please him?

no, I respect his opinion, that is why

You see, dyslexics think in pictures —not actual words ....at least the kind I am— so.... painting has been my place to say something that I’ve not yet found the words to mean the thoughts and feelings

my writing lately .... since I’ve not been able to paint nor draw nor even scribble even a list of words.... onto a sheet of paper

there is a kind of.... disjointed and —even a paralysis in the synapse .... do we want to get analytical here....? well— perhaps it is time

to come clean about why I ever developed this style of expression.... I’ve researched a great deal as it is a kind of nervous obsession of mine to have to plunder deeply into any subject that captures my attention and, well, I’ve discovered from years of reading on these subjects that a lot of data points to a connection between my form of a dyslexic is actually a form of autism

Dr. Rothschild helped me to understand how I became this awkward individual that I am; how a dyslexic should become someone, for instance, who reads all the time

it is quite crazy, actually—because dyslexics don’t actually read. No, we translate everything as we go into pictures because we don’t actually see the words. They move around and turn inside out, go upside down and distract.... as it turns out, I am also hyperactive and have attention deficit disorder so I never keep still, I make people crazy because I am always moving around and tapping things; I hardly pay attention yet I understand everything being said but I’m also thinking a million different thoughts that keep me otherwise occupied

Dr. Rothschild told me that the reason, according to her background knowledge and her assessment of me —she said since the brain does not fully develop until after infancy and even then not fully till about 20– the physical abuse I received as a child, as it was a regular and daily practice— it caused the chemistry of my brain to develop differently. So, my synapses are off. Brain chemistry also impacts emotions besides everything else

I have understood this from my years of work with her in our sessions; she was possibly my most influential role model besides my writing teachers at school and Dr. de Wit, my philosophy teacher

I learned to draw before I talked, you see.... they thought I was a mute because I did not speak a word until I was about three .... and then a full sentence all at once

My grandfather and mother were both amazing artists and I’d spend hours of my time beside them watching and learning and having my pencil removed from my fingers to be corrected over and over

always.... of course, my perspective was off and— I visually cannot see depth so, my depth perception is never even there in any of my work; sometimes in graphite I am a bit better as it then becomes more of a sculptor to me and I work better with clay but I like pictures

I don’t actually think I like shadows because of how they remind me of darkness. Unfortunately, I trip a lot because I don’t notice important things like steps or curbs, tend to walk into walls too, oddly, but I think that is more about that I’m usually deep in thought

I have just demonstrated here how much of a person with ADD I am, so, there it is.... thank goodness this is a diary format and not an actual novel but the point I am reaching to define is


without the physical immersion with paint to express

I have become disjointed

my writing is disjointed and my thoughts are as well; but we adapt, don’t we? What else is there to do but work with the things you have but it’s created more roadblocks.... and already this road is paved on breadcrumbs long ago scattered

these abbreviations of words strung together

without punctuation

sometimes even without rhythm

reason?

well, the codes have become all that has remained

Remember “wave girl” my painting of the mermaid with legs who has dug out her guts with the overwhelming wave that washes over her; drowning her

Do you know how often I stared at that painting after I lost custody of my daughter.... after my parents died and never offered me a word of closure.... if you look closely you can see the Goddess within her as she is bent over

and a dragon in the sky

these are symbols and they are the diary; the dictionary.... faith; purpose.... worship and even more than all these things  —assuagement

just like the girl painting her toe nails, which I never could finish as I ran out of white oil paint—her finger is a different color but that was part of the painting’s meaning; it was irony and s personal joke to me. Symbolic because as she tries to perfect her grooming, her skin’s color remains unfinished

every painting I have ever done is —to me— something deeper

the hours spent mixing the colors and waiting for the layers to dry; making the brushstrokes disappear and the balance of holding your breath to get it the way you see it.... sometimes you are the passenger as it creates itself for you

like the horse in the water

it “appeared” to me

so.... they are all pilgrimages to me

I destroyed my last mural before it was complete as my hands had begun to fail

no longer able to hold a brush.....

when though does the bough break?

I accept these lessons of loss but you see, my last mural was of Demeter mourning the loss of   Persephone

It was eight feet long and four feet high and I gessoed it for a week before I started, using an entire bucket

I think of Renoir and Matisse, both artists hampered physically by their health; both challenged and so, I know that an artist is and must be.... an artist is not an occupation nor a degree —one is born an artist; it is how we think and see life; how we experience it and interpret it and it is inconsequential whether or not it is considered valid or relevant by the art critics

An artist cannot stop being an artist if this is who they really are even if the ability to perform the conventional work has been interrupted

but the need to express it becomes a kind of madness if it must be contained only within the cerebral concept

It must be ..... or go mad

which, lately, I truly fear has occurred and taken a firm hold .... a madness that destroys itself as it caves within its own walls

How is this for honesty? am I exposing myself enough for Jörn, or must I create a symphony?

I fear the surgeon may not be encouraging and so, what then —what.... if I cannot even switch on a light switch .... use am I at all

Some unfinished business; Past and Present overlap

There is such a need to run away

but I have come to see

I’m running from something inside of me

——————————————

Quick notes from intermission:


Jörn says that I don’t expose enough of myself in my writing; that I hold back....maybe he thinks I am a coward....

my time away from Jörn I think about things he says, sometimes too bluntly but often things he says cut right to the crux with terrifying precision and so, therefore, hurt

sometimes it is too much so I have to run away but away

I have dreams of Raoul

   and dreams of [being] Elan

Gerald says it is unfinished business between soulmates who reincarnate —and meet again....  I don’t know what I think unless maybe Jörn does carry some guilt only I don’t understand what it means in connection to ....myself —or Elan, unless it is I am too obtuse, once again, to see the obvious

But the strange reoccurrence of these dreams seems to be more haunting when I am away from him

It becomes a kind of panic
————————————————

It is crowded when I get backstage by our usual spot and I think it is someone’s birthday

I consider hiding in some corner .....and texting Jörn

because I don’t like crowds .... and I’m not so good with people because I can’t fake smiles or make up mindless conversations —it gives me anxiety and so ....

 I start to search for the washrooms to hide but then I stumble and slam right into someone head first —and yes, very hard

I realize it is Jörn by his gutted exclamation of pain

He steadies me as our collision nearly sends me to the floor, taking me by the shoulders and extracting me from his abdomen, “I knew you’d come tonight.”

“All these people!” I say

He looks around us and then pulls me to come with him

The Voyeur; jm muse chronicles

at first it was his walk ....and then it was his eyes

I think of this now watching him from the balcony. He sits among the orchestra but I only notice him. Tonight it is the cello so I wonder who is ill or gone away I think I like the way he plays this more; how he holds it like a lover, especially for Eroica; I am his voyeur. I watch his fingers and even from up in the balcony, I see the way he lays his fingers.... for one so tall and physically strong, to see the shocking gentleness in the way he touches, I find, leaves me stunned by this devastation

It is by the end that he glances up from his bow to look at me and I realize he always knew I was there even as I never said I was going to be here tonight

When he stands at the end with the other musicians to bow out he turns to me in a subtle way and does his last bow to me and with the smallest inclination of his head infers to meet him where we always meet backstage

[and so.... must go for now ~perhaps more of this later]

somewhere in the crowd; the rush for the man with the vampire eyes

Overwhelmed by the need to see Jörn I return to the city on impulse to make it in time for this evening’s performance ....

I stop by the penthouse and rush to change clothes

tonight it is Beethoven’s Eroica

and as I search the closet for something to wear, in a mad dash, I reach for the houndstooth sheath from Ann Taylor from that day a million years ago it now feels .... and don’t even hesitate to consider and step into the bow tie velvet ballet pumps

I grab a cab to Lincoln Center

I am still zipping up the back of the dress on the ride to the Philharmonic

Peace Frog*; Electra’s dictionary

Of misplaced keys; a celf locked out



somewhere at the core of me it feels some chain has broken

there is this quiet whisper there

and all the color gone gray

the inner chamber echoes empty sounds

     .....so
    what is there to do but

spend the afternoon in deep communion with an unlikely friend 

*Peace Frog is a reference to the song by The Doors

today

reflecting on dna memories

Sometimes when I’m walking or hiking .... I start to be aware of memories that come from the landscape and the feel of the earth under me. If I carry something heavy I feel it more. I feel the swing in my hips as I move over miles with the heat of the sun

my foot as it lands on the ground

the first memories of the pirate came in such a way

like footsteps over layers of time

The Vampire as guide through hell; the fine line of artist and madness

‘Your words have made my heart so eager for the journey that I’ve returned to my first intent....

‘Set out then, for one will prompts us both.You are my leader, you are my lord and master,’I said to him, and when he moved ahead I entered on the deep and savage way.’

—(Beatrice to Dante from Inferno; the Divine Comedy) ~Dante Alighieri


“Tell me about your old psychiatrist that you used to go to. What was her name?” Jörn asks me this but as I read his eyes I know he already knows the answer to this

“Dr. Rothschild,” I say watching his eyes and wait before I say, “....no relation to the Rothschilds, you know, that old American family dynasty....”

“Are you sure?” his look is almost bored and yet one brow asks the question

It is already too much

I think about that and remind myself to breathe

so I say,
“What about her? She was my shrink years ago....”

but she was much more than that

 I just....but I corner on him instead

“Can I ask you about your ‘second job’, as you like to call it—?”

“You can ask me anything you want to,” he says

I watch his eyes though

I say,
“no, not anything....because I know you have your boundaries— I have stumbled into ....and around some.... “

such as Lisa

and what else is twisted up in his Raoul conscience

“I said you could ask....” he replies

“How often do you hop in and out of vans masquerading as laundry delivery?”

Jörn smiles,
“all in a day’s work, my dove....” but he seems lost in thought,

“I’m asking you about your old psychiatrist because I realized some time ago that your ex lover—who, are you aware? —first heard of you through her. A former assistant to Dr. Risa Rothschild, as he was then —Doctor— Dr Nigel Atherton.... but who ....has since lost his license to practice psychiatry....” his expression tells me he knows exactly how Nigel lost his license

“Yes,” I look back at him and nod.

So, Jörn has done his homework.

And evaded my question.

“Jörn, I’m sorry—but,” I can’t let him drop it, “I’m curious....how much of a spy are you? Or am I not allowed to know this answer?”

“I said you may ask.....” he chuckles in an endearing way, “You know more than you should as it is.... “ he reaches to caress my face, his thumb brushes across my cheek as he studies me,

“Most people in my life don’t know any of this about me. Certainly no previous lover was ever privy to this about me,” he says

“I’m so privileged! Oh, come on— your father knows and I’m sure your wife and your whole family knows, so don’t act like it’s not common knowledge!”

“She doesn’t know. They don’t either.”

The levity of his voice stills my thoughts

I study his face

“....no....” I stare at him, “she doesn’t know? Andreas ..... doesn’t?”

“Andreas doesn’t know. Nor does Hanna.... My father only knows because he is close friends with the man who first got me .... to work for them....you know—my parents were against my working in this branch of —ahem-government ....international intelligence .... work..... but —they are sworn in secrecy—how much involved am I? I am so used to it that it’s not even work to me, min duva—it’s been so many years and become second nature to me. I just have a restless mind. I get myself in trouble if I don’t keep myself busy,” he laughs it off, “You know about secret lives, don’t you? Double lives. But well, over time you don’t really think about it. Like checking emails every day.... which is why it was so easy to stumble across all about you after.... I got curious about whose mail kept getting put in my post box.”

The oppression of feeling trapped makes me need to move around and pace and so I get up, dropping the towel and reach for the closest article of clothing I randomly spot, one of Jörn’s white button down linen oxfords and pull it around me like a robe

I leave his bedroom to walk around the living room. I circle the piano and look at it before I go to sit down at it. I lay my fingers on the keys and try to remember the Beethoven piece I once played that won me a first prize award when I was eight. A short lived glory. That got shut in a drawer.

Silenced. Stay in the shadows, dawn of shadows—

And I think of those sessions with Dr. Rothschild. The hypnosis and later the regressions..... Those sessions were around the time that I had mono .... and it occurs to me—those first floods of the dreams of the the boat. I think of Jörn’s recording with Gerald and how he described the hysteria of battle sounding like Carmina Burana.....

notes

keys

symbols.

         Rest

                 Silence

Like maps with a legend key



I lightly play the beginning of my piece as my fingers recall .... quietly they follow the pattern like a whisper from a closet

then stop

he walks towards me

“What was that?” he asks me

I don’t say

“Why do you want to know about Dr. Rothschild?”

“Because I found some old tapes among Nigel Atherton’s artifacts. Are you aware she would tape your sessions?”

But I have to think about all this....

How much does he know?

“When? —where, Jörn? Where were you? Please strop giving me half the story and tell me what are you talking about? You patronize me this way, you know that? It’s insulting! Do you think I’m an idiot and can’t handle your espionage secrets? You ask all the questions and I’m supposed to answer them but you never finish answering mine— Yes I knew Dr. Rothschild was doing a study on me.... she said I was a miracle case because I am— or was —the only known case she ever heard of who.....survived....” I stop myself from saying more

I stare at him afraid I have said more than I should have

His look is enigmatic

“Why were you there?” I ask him ”Where were they?”

“At his office. I did some excavating of my own you might say—I found them in the office safe next to some old fossils....”

“The safe?”

But he keeps the poker face now.

“Maybe you are not aware of your ex lover’s darker sides?”

I think. And yes.... there was all that about him losing his license, but that was years ago. His involvement with my old acquaintance Leighton —who had been a patient of his at the psychiatric hospital

....physician heal thyself

talk about patterns —

and especially with me ....and my blindness about trusting all the wrong people

I go to the window and lean my head into the glass

“I have her tapes here,” he tells me

“You stole them?”

“They were not his in the first place, he took them after she passed away and no one was sure how they had disappeared.”

“He told me she bequeathed all her case studies to him!”

“Does that really sound likely?” he laughs at me, “do you believe any doctor would —or could even do that without a lawsuit?”

“I never thought of that....”
shit.... I really can be pretty dense ....
fucking obtuse.... “fucking idiot!” I say the rest aloud in a whisper to myself and slam my head on the window

“Stop,” he says this calmly and pulls me away from the window

“Do you want to listen to the tapes?” he asks me and waves me to where he has them by his sound equipment where he usually does all his sound mixing

“Now? Why?”

Film noir, Falling through the cracks; of the JM muse chronicles

she could see the street outside the kitchen window and she saw what wasn’t there


The Sunwitch’s face shone and laughed a wicked laugh


but her scream was always silent in nightmare real or fake


Once upon a time there lived a child who lived inside a yellow house with neat hedges and an iron door

that as soon as you walked behind, it was another world

On this side of the doorway the mailman didn’t go

On this side lived the man with the wooden valet which displayed his prized leather belts


Everything was different on this side of the door and the walls caved and warped

There were two mothers who stood in the same body

One wore the pretty yellow dress and smelled like sunshine, the other shook the child and told the child she wished she’d never been born, her nails scratching

then left the child in scorn


One day the child found a doorway to go through and came upon other places and other realities

This was where she hid the real story

In this place she found a pen that was a magic wand and all she had to do was write a dream and go walk right into it

one day she never left

she left a secret pathway back behind hidden in riddles, but one day something blew away all the riddles and they got scattered everywhere leaving lost the pathway back. sometimes it bothered her. sometimes she was glad she would never have to go back

If you bang your head hard enough you could still hear her voice. sometimes it was necessary to know she still existed. because without her it could not feed the magic into the wand

some betrayals are worse than others

“What happened to you that day?” Jörn asks me as I am still sat stunned and dripping by the writing desk in front of his laptop ....still staring at Nigel’s email

He puts a towel around me and the gesture takes me back to the pirate on the boat and it makes me stare at him

“What?” I ask because his voice sounds far away

“What you said....It was not clear,” he kneels down to me to look at me

“What —I’m sorry—not....?”

“Which time did you disassociate?” he asks

The metallic taste is in my mouth and I shake my head, “Jörn....”

“Because it sounded like you confused the two incidents—the belting and —the assault.”

I think about his question but I’m somewhere else. I want to answer him only

there is the need to lean against the wall inside

and

if I let him in

..... only

we need this wall. it’s absolute. no compromises.

not ever, there was another way once

and I consider my words to him carefully

“Is that your word for it?” I ask him “Maybe both,” I say

“What would be your word?” he asks

“dictionary,” I say

But he pulls my face up to him and forces me to look into his eyes. He stares in there. I watch what I see reflected inside his blue prisms as they laser through me, probing and tripping past; unfairly he trips past

“I think you saw something you shouldn’t have,” he says this gently and waits as he watches the meaning unfold in me

“His desk.” I say because it triggers it “He kept papers and I would ....play with his answering machine....”

The vampire eyes with their den inside throws its cape around .... hides

“You read something. You saw things, didn’t you?”

and holds me back from the edge.

 I have begun to realize he sees things I have missed....

The dictionary

Encrypted~Film noir; Jörn, god of the underworld (JM muse chronicles continue)

“Come, there’s something you need to see,” Jörn says to me biting back his fury as he stands up naked from the bathtub

without concern for dripping all over the floor tiles,

he starts towards the bathroom doorway towards the bedroom

....and as he goes, he waves at me in that way he has— like some underworld god with this assumption of control,

Still

I don’t get out ....

does he really think he can snap his fingers at me like that? Seriously.... yes, so

instead I sit there in the water

I hear him from the next room loudly clear his throat. Like some kind  of warning or command.

But I don’t move

except to flip water with my thumbs in the bath water

because my head feels ready to explode

would you call this anger or defense.... but maybe it is myself I am more angry at

because I remind myself: this is what happens when you lower your guard

Isn’t it so.... messy and tedious ?

getting caught up in the bullshit of

    human contact....

I swear, I think Swift had it right,

I should go off to live with horses or move to Lilliput where I get to be a giant for once

only —my internal reverie is startled to silence when he loudly raps on the doorframe with his knuckles and almost gives me a heart attack

I have to reach for my glasses to look at him

he stands there naked with a menacing look, long wet hair in mad disarray

“Whyyyy????” I ask him still not moving

He sighs,
“Lisa came with her boyfriend.... for your information,” he says flatly and looks straight into my eyes

“Who’s Lisa?” I ask

“My wife....“ he raises one threatening blond brow at me, blue eyes blazing as he says sharply, with a note of mockery, “the woman in the picture —taken by Nigel....  only that’s not what I need to show you,” he says this although calmly but —the pirate gems that burn brightly belie something far from calm and likely much more sinister

“No, wait—why.... ? is she in the Hamptons ....? with your —parents!?” I ask with surprising calm

“Lisa’s boyfriend is a fashion photographer —and— Hanna is in New York doing some modeling for him....” he says this simply as if it is no big deal

“Ohhh.... hmmm.... yes, I see.... Hanna—is—here—too....?”

“Yes, they flew in last week.”

“When were you planning on telling me this!?” I ask him now becoming enraged again

Hmmm —and, yes, that’s when I must have flooded the floor with ....an irrational gesture

Yes, I cause quite the stir

I look up at him then

The warning should have been his nostrils flaring because he just leaps at me

and then hauls me out of the tub,

and slugs me over his shoulder

water poring off me and down onto him and everywhere

He does about three long strides into the room and throws me soaking wet across the bed

then without even pausing he is already walking towards his bureau and looking for something

leaving me in the wet pond of his bed to sort out the mess he’s made of me —my hair caught in my glasses and the sheets stuck to me

but I don’t get very far fixing things before he indecently throws some photographs into my lap falling invasively into  places of me I’d rather they didn’t

“Ahhh!!! What the fuck....!?” I say peeling these off my .... skin

I want to kill him by now.... who knows where these photos have been

because they are old photos....

Old photos....

I stop my concern over decency when I start looking at the pictures.

These are very old photos. Of my father. Both.... fathers.

“This is —“ I look up at him

“Barcelona,” he finishes my thought and watches me with a nod

There are about ten of him among a suspicious group of men in business suits that do not look particularly American. And, actually, they don’t even really look all that European either

and the more I flip through the photos the more dark and interesting the characters become

and then I keep looking at photos to find that the photos of .... the man from the campaign badge are even more interesting .... among his very colorful, and global associations

“I want to show you something else, come sit over here, min lilla duva,” he pulls out a chair from behind the small writing desk that he usually keeps his laptop on which is, right now, open

I make a gesture at him indicating I object as I’m feeling like a wet envelope covered in postal stamps but he seems impatient

“You need to see this, min duva....”

I get up letting the photos drop off me and go to the desk sensing his vibe

“Read this,” he tells me

It’s a screenshot of an email and I instantly recognize the address; it’s Nigel’s

It reads:

After several sessions of putting her under I have reason to believe she has some deeply buried memories not just of early childhood traumas but also I have discovered she has buried codes—secrets—she doesn’t remember these but I am sure with more time I can get them out of her. Can you imagine? After all these years to find all the secrets have been stored away in a child’s buried memory?”

Film noir : The other woman; troubles in paradise




“I am curious about something, min lilla duva,” he looks at me where we are inside the wide sunken tub

I lean against the side that touches the wall but with my chin upon my knee because I’m concerned about.... something Nigel has just sent

It is as a photo he took from his phone

a blurry image yes but —of someone who looks a lot like Jörn.... same thick blonde hair and wears the same black blazer and.... the same shoes he wears for concerts

and this person is ....embracing a woman in the photo and so

I am troubled.... and so

as his hand reaches for me to lay along my right knee he studies me

and yes I find I am troubled too staring into the smokey shadows of those electric eyes that —have their own measure of supernatural powers

“You say that you were to be sent away when your mother told you about your real father,” he stops and watches me

“What about it?”

but then I realize now ...that I have seen this woman before!  and it occurs to me in that instant from where.....!

“Why were you not sent?”he asks

I look at him cautiously,
“why is this so important to you? Are you just curious? You know, you are as bad as Nigel who—as you know, is a doctor of psychiatry and ....he was always putting me on the couch with his laboratory rat experiments on my head..... don’t analyze me,” I say sharply and pull away

I can feel his reaction to my words because he only sits quietly

He lets it go awhile

Then he says,
“what’s bothering you? You have been very strange since.... “ he moves abruptly in the water causing waves of uproar, and it makes me look over at him, “you went to your phone right after we.... who texted you?”

I say,
“You want to know why? I got very sick. That’s why they didn’t send me away. But now you answer me please, and tell me why do you want to know these things about me?”

“What kind of sick? What happened?”

I shake my head,
“I.... it was bad—you know.... from the belting ....” I don’t look at him, “but why must you ask me these things! Why is it so necessary for you to know?” and I half shout this

I know he wants to ask more but he holds off

After some thoughts on this that I turn over and over

along with how much of my guard he requires

 I decide to just say,

“that is what the doctor in Holland years later discovered about me. That was the first damage to my spine —before my assault at college—“

“That you believe your father was behind,” he interjects

“Yes. From things that were said to me during the assault.... You see, I —guess I went into .... a kind of shock from the beating ....and also from what they were telling me ....I think it traumatized me because I just —I don’t know, I kind of just got stuck in-side....there— I couldn’t get out of it —I just seemed to.... get separated .... I don’t exactly know how to describe how, but I just kind of went into a —separate world....”

where we left her

And now I dare to meet his gaze and shrug, “so yes, I am feral you see? The wild thing who got kicked around so .... stray cat, street urchin—your parents are right. What do you want with someone like me?”

“Tell me, what do you mean your separate world?”

But I can’t take his gaze on me .... survival of the fittest

I decide to reach for my phone, “who’s this? I saw her in pictures Andreas sent from South Hampton, who is she?”

Now he gets taken aback as he sees the photo text

“Who took that picture?” he asks me

“Can you please just answer one of my questions? Who is she?”

“That’s my wife,” Jörn says with an irritated shrug

“What is she doing in the Hamptons?” I ask becoming enraged “oh let me guess, is your mother plotting to reconcile you by getting all cosy with her?”

“Who took this picture?” but he answers his own question when he takes my phone from me and hisses, “Nigel?”

   reflections in a scrying pool.... images emerge

Electra & the search for meaning in a meaningless world

Electra’s dictionary; symbolism

This painting was inspired by Van Gogh


I painted it from Chris’ left handed guitar when we were still together

I’m not sure what he’s done with it because he kept it, maybe he uses it for target practice

I called it “Van Gogh dreams in psychedelic sound” (minus one ear)

Van Gogh is a word in my dictionary

Svenska schack or Agamemnon and Electra & Echo and Narcissus hidden in Film Noir chronicles (of the JM muse) continued

something i meant to write about and never got to last week—

It was one morning, Jörn went to go shower —I noticed that he left open all his notes on his desk. Papers all spread out, his Mac left open to all his open documents

I guess I was thinking I would find more about his secret agent work or.... who knows but instead it turned out to be

his opera —

he writes the music down as he listens to his recordings and replays them so it is in layers of audio and then the sheet music but, then I discover he has notes on his computer documents that tell the story....he has the storyline mapped out in one document and then the songs and what they portray along with the actual written bars of music with words (all in Swedish)

From what I was able to translate of it using my app....

The character of his mother —or I should say portrayed by his mother.... she is the narrator sung operatically through the opera 

(along with the scenes that have sung dialogue and some action)

....but

it reads as though she appears to be God! 

—or something like it and turns the mermaid into a dove as some kind of punishment to the wolf—who isn’t really a wolf, just got turned into one by her for.... I’m not sure about that part

but it seems to appear that the dove was really at first just a wild sprite or —angel—I’m not sure ....and then God’s husband is a Demi god.... but I did not get to read beyond that as Jörn caught me, returning from his shower and ....wrapped in a towel

he is quite protective of his work, I noticed 

he says, protecting his work from my eyes,

“I’ll show you.... it’s just not ready yet....” and shut off the Mac and closed up his papers in a drawer so.... I’m full of suspense

Dear dictionary.....

It has been such an emotional time for me

   and I find it hard to center artistically.... I have been so scattered these several days—no, weeks really.... can you read between these lines? If you know the codes it all makes sense

the parallel life underlay

  this play

(as Will might say)

but, honestly, Dictionary,

I think about that thing Jörn said; how I avoid ever saying what my conflicts are —he called me a pussy, I believe, wasn’t that hat what he said ....right? And then laughed at me.

But.... I have thought a great deal about that since he said that. It has been bothering me because I have never thought of it that way. Because then I guess I am a fraud if I’m not willing to .... you know....

 he’s right

As much as I worry he may be some evil incarnate slaughtering women and children .... but maybe only to that other life

that her

 that was me...

they say soul mates reincarnate together when they have unfinished business between them

I read this recently because I have been searching for data on others who may know these strange kinds of experiences that .... we share and I believe this is what drew us to each other. It was something we knew but didn’t know what it was we knew

 just that we knew

and with this I start to suspect.... sense .... and believe....

I think he has something to teach me. And strangely.... this I sensed about him right away.... since the first moment I saw him. And with it too —an innate faith of a kind of trust .... I feel he knows things or .... no, it is more that he has the ability to understand how I’m wired and —knows what I need to hear .... I know this only because it comes from some instinct; call it emotional intelligence. Because I think the reason the girl was drawn to him ....was because she knew he valued her and could ensure her safety. This innate sense she could be safe with him. There is something to be said about what fear can do to someone

It is this underlying sense now that I feel about Jörn that I feel ....that it cannot be explained by logic.... but I know it the same way I know why she loved him.

And how he could leave an indelible impression on her heart; on her soul; like tattooed and woven through her entire soul. Yes it is possible to imagine how this could be possible

And —in my present life these things he says and things he does I think must have significance somehow now....now in the present and it makes me think of

the mute girl inside. Mutated. How I left her behind. Even the knight walked away

only sometimes she seeps out between the cracks needing to be heard.... but she gave up her voice

and has gone deeper inside

I fear I have lost meaning as an artist .... I don’t know if I believe in hope anymore

and this worries me. And as an experiment as I document my emotions in symbol, I think I dare to find any proof that any of it matters .... what is the purpose

is there purpose after all and if not then why art

    as someone who once has defined herself through this self created reality spoken in the tongue of hidden meaning with the prop of drama to hide behind—anonymously

What is the purpose to define identity if it does not even matter? This dictionary; diary; journal is my own personal documentary on Does It Matter? Why not just keep her in there forever

because what else do you do when you are a dirty secret? You cling to the shadows because that is all you have ever known and all that was permitted.... go sit in the corner where no one can see you.... don’t outshine your sister by showing off

Sometimes I wonder why she did it.... you know, Mom.... but she told me why. She was demented as a person but I forgave her that long ago. She just loved this man who was forbidden so it was a Romeo and Juliet situation. He was forbidden. She was only 21 when they met and he was .... well, who he was. He was once written somewhere I read —as described to be at one point in his political career as the most powerful man in the world. But in that Gotham way....

They never officially ended even after their marriages and divorces and his remarriage.... she confided to me he was her big love and she never got over him. I know because that was what I did for her; I listened to her and was her shrink or her lap dog or her pin cushion or her Oedipus

So the reason I was abused at home was because I looked like this other man and I was her consolation for her not getting the man she wanted. At her whim or mood she ignored or fawned on me and dressed me like her pedigree poodle

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It is a few days later....

“Why do you hide your face, min lilla duva?” he asks as we stand outside the door of his place

I am thinking of the contractors back at the penthouse that I have to remember—they come tomorrow with some marble to install

—Johnny and Ilya convinced me of this but now I have to figure out what these guys are saying

(the construction people)

....whenever they explain their problems to me.... and it isn’t just the accent that’s the challenge as I have never actually owned property in my life so .... I don’t know anything about pipes and tubes nor tiles and flooring but I’m an artist so, I usually pick the prettiest choices and make it up as I go

“My face?” I ask him but because I seem to constantly get a stomach ache as soon as we are about to face the firing squad—I mean, his mother.... I tend to use whatever props I have handy .... hats work well.... scarves.... jackets with collars up

“Yes,” he says and decides to not open the door right away. We stand outside his door and he puts his key in his pocket. He looks at me dead on; stares

“Stop!” I say and hold my hands over my face

“This has to go,” he says and pulls off my hat, “and the glasses—why don’t you wear contacts?”

“Can I have my hat back?” I ask him, holding on to my glasses and reach to grab hold of his jacket sleeve as I say, “you need to remove this, Jörn, and can I have my hat please?” I yank at his jacket

He laughs and shakes me off like a flea ,

“no you’re not getting your hat, but no really, you need to stop hiding behind these—“ he tries to take off my glasses

“I can’t see without them so, you need to let me wear these and to answer your question— I used to have contacts ....” and I yank at his jacket and get it off one shoulder

I notice he’s smiling at me

“They’re not home....” he says

“Oh....” my stomach ache instantly goes away and he lets me take off his jacket

“So where have they gone?” I ask as he opens the door

“I’ve sent them to the Hamptons,” he tells me in that lecherous vampire way he has

“You sent them?” I follow him in

“I even ordered a car for them,” he tells me and shuts the door behind me, “they’ll be gone all week....Andreas went with them....” he holds me up against the door and smiles at me

(edited/altered again*) Part 2 next session at Gerald’s

“He signed a consent for me,” Gerald clears his throat.

“What—does—that—mean?” I ask expecting anything at this point— perhaps the ceiling to open up and Odin to come flying in

I just hold my breath

He sets down his mug and pulls himself into a full yoga pose; even his hands and fingers; he closes his eyes

He takes a few deep breaths and with his eyes closed he breaths out and says in exhale,
“we taped our last session. He wants you to hear it.”

Why do I shudder in fear?

I watch Gerald reach for his phone to find the voice memo— 

I suddenly ask now,

“How many times has he come to see you?” I ask this as I reach for the chai needing the strength suddenly “how often does he come? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Gerald looks at me in this way; you know.... like the cat who swallows the canary

and looks awkward

I sigh,
“well he admitted it to me that he has come to see you .... Gerald, you can’t say? Client/professional-confidentiality?”


“Where do you want to start?” Gerald asks me, adjusting his sitting position, “why don’t we just start the recording?”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Jörn’s voice fills the room.....

Recording: it always begins the same way, it is a kind of howling .... it howls— and rings in the air with a hammering and echoes like a chorus ....

like Carmina Burana but not as nice.... and more male vocals—mixed even with mine.

Some times I catch myself waking up with the sound in my lungs .... that’s when I get up to play.....

it’s become worse since ..... since meeting her.... min duva.....

seeing her eyes that day in the lobby..... like a turtle dove.... her eyes, those colors of the feathers and like my dream from that same night....

she tells me she dreams in color too.... I know from the other dreams.... all the blood

All the blood on my hands.... it is smeared like across my eyes, pours from my sweat into my eyes.... smeared like a giant movie screen across the wide battlefields, the rocks, the earth.... the mud..... even the ice and slush .....

this dream has always been a part of my life but I have never been able to tell anyone because..... this won’t make sense but— I feel guilty.... for something.... for things..... as though I need to —suffer somehow; martyr or do a kind of penance which I cannot explain because I’m not religious..... but I always get some all consuming heavy weight of guilt for —something— which.... I always have felt

and has made me often feel this need to sacrifice my own needs.... my own dreams and especially about happiness and part of why I felt this obligation to .... do the government work; this shame this need to give back something .... she’s told you, I assume? About my secret second job? I know since we signed the paper there that we have trust about confidentiality—and I know how to find you [here Jörn laughs and you can hear Gerald’s laugh too]....

when I saw her in the dream back in October, when these new dreams started to surface.... yes the colors.... with the dark blue robes and the red hair—I remembered something.... I was reminded of another dream or maybe really it is part of the whole dream—which isn’t really a dream —is it?

You know I never believed in any of this about reincarnation—not that I disbelieved either, I just didn’t really like thinking about that kind of thinking....

but there is as an older dream. Which is darker and what I was just describing to you.... where there is slaughter .... gruesome and —sickening—along with this a prevailing sick smell that you taste at the back of the throat— and mixed with it a wild high.... a kind of euphoric madness that I find .... where I feel most of the center of this guilt .... which often forces me to wake up.... why I need my music to .... release this

And ..... well.... [heavy sigh....]

In this dream I see another warrior torturing a woman.... and when I look around myself and see heavy bags of plunder and dead children .....and this I mostly find it hurts to look at in the dreams.... I think it must be about— or connected to.... his own family, his own losses.... I don’t know—is it me? Who then is it? But I feel it. Know it. Or is it more that I can’t deny it. That I wish I could. I know from the emotions that I am responsible for what I witness ....the tortured woman .... the mother to the girl.... she wears dark blue robes like her and has the red hair and as I see her I always hear someone screaming for her mother.... and it hurts in here.... in my pulse— in my beating heart.... I hear the sound of the girl’s voice screaming.... as I watch the torture of the woman being slowly slaughtered and cannot watch it any longer with the sound of her screams ....and this is why it seems—I have to stop it.... and do with one stab into her .... to give her peace..... but I know it is my fault somehow.... and then I see a dark blue image running away into the trees..... in the distance

(*no doubt will be edited again still—the perils of writing while hiking & in public places; dictionary: excuse this maniac’s approach to a writer’s craft)

Shifting props behind scenes in a dictionary; a Tootsie kind of nightmare day

and so, because the session with Gerald is still too heavy to write about yet —you will have to forgive me, dictionary, if I opt to avoid

    upon leaving Gerald’s

but then, it becomes a Tootsie (the film) kind of day bumping into Nigel after

How he says that Jörn might be something vomited from Hell....? is that how he said it—?

I half don’t hear nor understand anything Nigel says after that. Maybe I short circuit more easily than the average person

I have a cap on how much my emotions can take before I need to run for cover

I say at such point,
“I must go,” to him

Nigel reaches for me as I get up from the table and throw my bag on to go

“I’m just worried about you,” he says to me

“Well—gosh, I don’t know what to say about that....” and I look right at him. I no longer see his lighthouse somehow though ... I mean I think I have a bad habit of self delusion—especially about men; I give them far too much credit and in hindsight I always realize I seem to fill in my fiction where they lack and credit it all not to myself

“Listen, I am sorry about how it went down between us,” I apologize because I have a moment of feeling guilt but I add, “maybe you hoped for something I’m not wired for—I don’t mind that you may be bisexual as so was I once but I was always monogamous and to simplify this for you, Nigel....” I study his eyes now that have lost their power over me and, yes, there is a sadness about this, to be sure, but not when you realize it was never based on a truth, “it’s not that I cannot be broad minded about being capable of having an open relationship but— well, you never asked me nor considered and still, as I’d have said no, anyway— it is not physically possible for me to be close to someone intimately once I don’t trust them. I just am not equipped that way....”

He stares back at me and after this moment when I see his eyes go red I decide I have to go

“But I—“ he begins

“No!” because I can feel what he’s about to say and actually run now for the door out of Starbucks only he runs after me outside and he says it anyway as I am rushing away from him

“I love you,” he says this

I cover my ears and say,
“No-no-no, stop! Please! You made a choice—do not make me the bad guy!”

“Don’t you think your Viking might just be rebound?”

“Please ....stop calling him that. He’s a musician, he’s not a fucking Viking—and you know nothing about our relationship, you have no business even going there, ok?”

“You know— I saw him leave your apartment building the other day and meet up with a woman,” Nigel tells me

“What? Have you been stalking me, Nigel? You know.... let me go, I need to go—I’ve had such a day, do you mind—?”

He grabs my hand and pulls at my phone that I have my fingers wrapped around and he says,
“please un-block me!” and he grabs my phone

I look down the street wanting to be gone from here.... I think that is the only way he’ll let me go so I say,
“Ok, fine,” and pull my phone from him. I open him in contacts and unblock him. I show him this now. Then I send him a text to prove it. I do a smile—

:)

I look at him,
“Ok?”

“Will you message me later?” he asks me

....?

I look at him and then again down the street. Later.... ? how long is later, I wonder

I sigh heavily and say,
“Ok, listen, I have some things I want to ask you about DNA memory and, how ‘bout I try and text you tomorrow?”” Yeah? Ok—so, yeah—ok?”

I dread the hug but then he does it

and then I start to run down the street and lose myself in the crowds

but I still hear him calling after me

It is after a few streets of weaving in and out of in order to feel free of him that I finally take a deep breath and slowly head back to the apartment building but finding myself taking the long way back

It is some gear shifting when I realize I have to face the Swedish chorus and....

Jörn which after everything

still, I arrive at the apartment building far quicker than I had expected to and find myself in the lobby standing by the postal boxes and staring at the very spot I saw Jörn for the very first time. I don’t know why but I am somehow frozen to stand there

It is awhile before I realize he is suddenly standing there. He makes me jump in fright

“What are you doing?” he asks me and comes over to me

“How long have you been there?” I ask him

“How long—? I just stepped out of the elevator and I saw you—what’s wrong?—where have you been? I sent you a text,” he says

I take out my phone as I had thrown it into my bag which must have muffled the sound, but the text messages opens up to my last :) to Nigel

I nervously cover it but he doesn’t notice and then I open to his

It simply says: where are you? Im starting to worry

Which makes me think of what Nigel said before. And the other thing he said. What woman?

I look up at him

He reads my eyes,
“what?” he asks

“I went to see Gerald,” I say through all the static going on

But then his phone does his mother’s operatic “Oooooh!!!!” alert tone that makes us both jump

He looks at his phone,
“Come,” he says pulling me back outside

“Where?”

“Mama.... I—“ still he drags me along skipping the necessity of explanation or invitation

“Where are we going?” I ask

and then we are walking to the corner convenience store

I look up at him and then at my wrist in his hand,
“sometimes I think you must must confuse me with your daughter!”

He lets go my wrist,
“yes, it must be the height thing, förlåt mig—I’m sorry,” and adds “actually, she’s taller than you but you are about the height she was at eleven so, you could be right.”

I realize we are here to do some grocery shopping as he’s methodically grabbing things

“Didn’t you say your parents are leaving soon?” I ask because I’m noticing that he is choosing items by the dozen or such that his mother likes; cinnamon buns, a few bags of split peas, a jar of herring and knäckebröd

He gives me a guilty look and shrugs,
“well—hmm.... as it turns out....”

“Oh no, what....?”

He nods,
“they are going to be here a bit longer....do you need anything? I don’t think you have been eating, you want ice cream?” he asks me

“Ice cream?”

I hand him a half gallon of milk

“Oh, that was the other thing, get the next size, Andreas goes through this.”

Maybe I hand over the gallon a little too hard as I get him in the stomach

We go up to pay

“Anything else?” he asks me partially sarcastic as he asks, “some Loko maybe?”

I decide to take it as a suggestion and go get some

We go up to pay and as the cashier asks if that’s all Jörn asks,
“do you have any straws?”

“We sell the reusable stainless steel ones,” he tells Jörn

“Perfect,” Jörn pays and hands it to me

Stockholm syndrome/Part 1 of the next Gerald session

I go to see Gerald; arrive just as a previous client leaves

—another wrapped in mystery— who passes quickly by me, her face, too, completely obscured and hidden by a bright magenta silk scarf wrapped around her and only visible, her smooth dark skin. She rushes by me and departs down the hall

So I hesitate outside the door

Gerald lives not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the street heading up his place always shifts my mood by association

This one like many art museums I have known, the Metropolitan is possibly my one place of refuge here in the US, like a home away from home since my life growing up in the Netherlands —where every street there is like a museum —and I think this standing there of ....how I do miss those ancient streets that have kept their gabled faces like some bridge of time that connect our present time to that Middle, medieval past

A bridge

I think this just as I go to knock on his door. But first take a breath before I do

Because time.... which is relative and a concept or perspective but really—what is time.... when a memory is forever

I believe time must play out in present and exist eternally

that repeats always in the present tense

Like my diary; my dictionary.... written in present tense; these crumbs that link my present to ....

and why I had to create my secret self; my secret world.... inside me

The veiled cocoon of misleads and false turns with the secrets folded inside the patterns

—————-

When Gerald answers he does not seem at all perturbed by his previous session, despite the evident passionate state his client left in. Instead, he is relaxed and cheerfully placid,

Today he wears, with faded jeans, what seems to be a Hawaiian shirt but I notice that there are flamingos hidden all over it like some Magic Eye optical illusion. So it makes me laugh

“Oh, the shirt? Kaylee bought it for me; most people don’t notice the flamingoes ....”

Gerald is not the Hawaiian shirt type with his wiry frame and nerd glasses but then, he wears it tucked in and buttoned up so that one can almost believe he is wearing a tie, despite the jeans juxtaposed with his neat, side parted hair and clean shaven face. And yet he exudes this Buddha serenity without the need for the costume just by his calm and collected aura

And coupled too is the scent of frankincense which hangs in the air when you step into his place and seems to wrap its own kind of hypnotic spell.

He waves me in towards the kitchen

“Chai?” he asks me

“Isn’t that intense for what I am here for?” .... shoes at the door I ask; then follow him into the kitchen

“I think we both know you are going to need it,” and already he has made it i notice as he pours from a colorful tea pot into a carnelian colored porcelain cup that sits in its own unusual saucer. He hands it to me

He pours some for himself using his usual cobalt heavy mug with its asymmetrical shape, then we sit on rug piles on the floor with just one hanging paper lamp lighting the room

I blurt unable to contain it to myself anymore

“But I don’t understand, Gerald! Why is she in love with him if he has kidnapped her and worse witnessed him kill her mother? Is it Stockholm syndrome?”