Electra’s dictionary; ‘Part 2 Film Noir ‘Drama at Lincoln Center’ (jm muse chronicles)





The concert was delayed twenty minutes and excuses made

and covers have to —it seems—remain  

they called it robbery which Jörn claimed to be an eye witness as a cover to explain why he ran after him and with the stir of another new conductor upset among ticket holders, keeping the status quo seems more important than calling attention to what really happened

they told everyone there and the news station that the person was taken to police custody after statements were hastily taken

but as I sat there still stunned on the floor after, I felt like I was still watching Jörn; like a trapeze artist, fly off the gallery and then do an Olympic sprint through the lobby after the mystery man

And for awhile I just sat there somewhat stunned thinking

So why should danger bring me to think about another image from another scene of danger and of running and ..... a pirate and a boat....?

unfinished business .....

as I let Frank pull me up from the floor



It does not register with me at first ....


  ....no, not at first

as it all happens so fast that it feels

events pull you in under its current and makes you part of its drama

At first I watch from the floor as Frank runs back over to me and helps me up

but I hear someone call to me and am surprised to hear such a familiar voice say in its familiar Dutch accent,

“Zo—are you da show stopper of da evening, da dawn ov legend?”

I turn,
“Wow, twice within six months—“

“Seven,” he corrects raising a silver brow at me and as far away as he is tall seems to shrink the surroundings as he shortens the distance between us with an ironic smirk

“Hello, Willem,” I say and notice he is much more neatly attired than last time

“I am to be your escort tonight,” and with exaggeration he offers me his arm

So, no, among other things, it does not register with me at first either about the six giant men who came from six different  directions from behind me as I stood up and ....as I watch Jörn jog back over

 —not even that most of the six were blond and the ones who were not, one had a shaved head and the other indistinct, which would tell me nothing except to leave me with more reasons to question —who is Jörn really connected with .... ?


Jörn comes over,
“are you all right?” he asks me with concern

“Who was that?” I ask him

But I see Jörn and Willem exchange glances, but then Jörn glances at Frank and then back to me and shrugs at me as he says,
“some guys who went to grab a woman’s phone—“ but now his eyes look at me dead-on to say something else to me and he says with just his mouth to me ‘later’  and raises pale brows

Jörn waits for Frank to leave before he goes on to say now,

“Ok, from this point on....” and Jörn looks from me to everyone else standing near by, “I’m not going to let these guys lose sight of you,” Jörn motions to the six big heavies with a kind of snap of his fingers as he says something in rapid fire Swedish that is beyond my current level of comprehension

“Body guards?” I get a chill that makes me queasy

He shrugs,
“we can’t let it leak to the press that anything —uh—political.... is going on—so, the show must go on. I will have you escorted to your seat and Willem will soon join you  —I’ll see you after the concert, duva,” and without warning presses his mouth across my lips, “you’ll wait with Willem,” he tells me

And of all people I would least expect, it is Andreas who comes walking over

“Andreas?” I watch him walk towards me

He smiles,
“are you ok?”

“Oh—well....” as I’m not sure what to say I wait for him

“I heard all the commotion ....” he smiles but glances around and we both see Jörn and Willem head towards the auditorium but I notice Jörn turn to see Andreas as they both acknowledge each other with a nod, “I’m here with Madison,” he adds and it is only because of the way he seems to hide a blush that it occurs to me that this must be the name of his girlfriend; his ex Juilliard instructor

I look around for her

“She’s waiting at our seats —I just came to bring you....” he looks around and it is just a small mannerism about him so much like his father that tells me

And so I follow Andreas up and down hallways

He says,
“are you all right?” As we stand just outside the seating area and as it is time the concert begins, all I can do is nod as I study him a bit longer and I meet his eyes.

I say,
“so how much do you know?”

I see how his mouth tenses to hide a smile but then he just winks at me

*************

As I sit among the audience I am aware of the inconspicuous six men and —the others across the way on the other side of the platformed stage

and once the performance has begun I think about what Jörn once told me —how his spy work keeps his mind sharp for the music

or was it the other way around?

And as I watch him among the orchestra with his cello, his timing so perfect..... his moves so graceful .... you would not think he just intercepted a perpetrator and I wonder how disciplined must he be to focus so well? It is almost hypnotic to watch the way his bow glides and sweeps, as if an extension of himself, and how to listen and watch him is to fall under his spell and I almost don’t even notice when Willem joins me to sit down next to me

**************


It is after the concert that first Willem brings me to a small room downstairs by the lobby.

When we go inside there is Jörn with the six men and..... the man who threw me down!

I gasp loudly as I enter the room as I was under the impression he was at police head quarters

What is going on....?

“Duva! Come here,” Jörn waves at me from behind a table where he sits facing the man .... who I notice is handcuffed behind his back

I walk around and glance at the person awkwardly cuffed to the chair

He could be anyone

I don’t recognize anything about the person and I wonder now about the other one.... the one who did look familiar

and it occurs to me to know from where

I walk over to Jörn and he talks to me as if there is no one else there. He reaches for me and asks in my ear,
“are you all right?”

I look now into his eyes and wonder as I fall into them, what is it about him that makes me ....

“Yes,” I say

“Do you recognize this man?” Jörn asks me loud enough for everyone

“No,” I say but I feel him touch me under my coat out of sight of anyone there

“Henrik—“ Jörn waves to one of the giants “ta bort honom!” and points to the handcuffed person

After they go Jörn talks to the remaining five with Willem and as I try to listen they mostly go over details of what they saw from where they stood and what they heard others say

But I don’t want to hear any more .... and mostly I find I am more overwhelmed with the slow dawning that Jörn is not just some mere peon on the scale of his espionage work as it clearly is obvious everyone this evening seem to ....work for him

the strange dawning of this thought of him ....this image I get.... not unlike the vampire pirate

Instead.... only — as some dark ruler of an underworld.... of spy games

All the way on the ride from Lincoln Center I see over and over the image of Jörn jumping from the gallery and am so lost in thought that when he says,

“duva....?”

to indicate the cab is stopped at our building that I return to my surroundings

As we go up he asks calmly,

“are you still angry at me about this morning?”

“This morning?” I ask

He looks at me with a kind of guilty expression that confuses me as he indicates with a nod

“This morning....?” I whisper again to myself as the elevator stops at his floor and as we walk out, he presses his hand to my waist to urge me along to his door as I am distracted and try to think— this morning?

“You don’t remember our.... discussion this morning?” he gives me a doubtful smile which

 ..... then makes me laugh.

“Yes!” I say because it is something in his smile that reminds me but I say, “was that only this morning? Oh, your piano arrived,” I say as we walk in and it is obvious but I say it anyway

“Yes, I see,” he says thoughtfully looking at it as we walk in

But then he stops and looks at me with such distraction that I stare at him a long moment. What does it mean ....

but instead he unbuttons my coat and takes my coat from me. I watch him go to hang it in his coat closet and then remove his and do the same

He hesitates but then says,

“they’ll be coming back here.....” he watches me and walks over, “it’s going to be a long night....” but he leads me out through the passage between his door to the penthouse. He presses the code and we walk through

I go along because I know there is more than he is able to tell me. I decide to wait before asking him anything

We go to the office of what had once been Ethan’s.

As we enter, it is obvious Jörn has been using it as his own for quite awhile. And it makes me wonder how many trips he has taken during the time we have been up north.

The dark wood paneled walls, although still polished, seem as if..... to have a fresher patina —that seems born of a new era but also I see a tack board with scraps of notes and information next to printouts of people’s pictures

I also notice more equipment than would have previously never been in technology and more monitors and mysterious devices

The four club chairs that face the heavy cherry wood desk have neat stacks of envelopes on the tables beside them

“Would you mind doing me a favor?” Jörn asks me looking around at each chair as if he is imagining the person they represent and then looks at me

“Ok?” I say

“Would you mind making coffee?”

*******

What unfinished business?

Because I do fall asleep waiting for his evening meeting with his guests to end but find I wake up and it is the middle of the night.


And now cannot fall back to sleep ....especially as now I can’t stop thinking of all the wild events of the evening —actually, from start to finish


I go to the window that looks out over the street and then sit in the wing chair by it and stare at the grand piano that just this morning arrived. It looks like the other one back at the Barn house but this one is older with a deeper gloss. I pull my legs up and consider the events as I write into my phone


Because now I think about the oddness of bumping into Gerald. Although, not so odd, really, because he lives by the Met and ..... but I think about our conversation

What was it that made Gerald suddenly change his mind?

Jörn finds me writing into my phone

“You can’t sleep either?” I ask him. He answers with a distracted shrug and a half kind of smile at me as I watch him walk over to the ‘new’ piano —which is an old piano, actually. A restored Steinway rescued from sea damage from Hurricane Sandy, and which is why the restoration company wants Jörn’s review

He wears just the black trousers of his suit, with just the sinewy of muscle to fill out the rest.

I watch him go to the piano. And watch him move. I like the way his hair falls loose in the light

He walks around the piano deep in thought,

“So, the guy, you wanted to know?” his fingers begin with a strong intro, “he works with that terrorist group I told you about awhile back,” but he says this casually as if discussing the dry cleaning as he is listening to each piano key with careful calculation

“What terrorist group?” I ask alarmed

“The one I told you about. I said someone you once knew had connections with ....”

“Retnuh Nivek....” I whisper somehow remembering the conversation

I realize what he plays is from his opera. This is the newer version which I recognize .... his revision has a more sinister quality I have noticed

“Come here,” he says and he moves to pull me to sit within his long legs.

He takes my hands and lays them on the keys and slides his fingers through mine— in that way that he does; that we do; a kind of repertoire we have and always do with a slow deliberation, like a lover’s conversation and is always erotic

We play some chords together and it begins the way it usually does until .... something in the chords change, his fingers over mine .... he presses and as I move to change the chord to one of our habit, he places my fingers differently .... my fingers stumble and the chord is off; he presses my fingers back in place to do it again and this time the right hand responds

only it is the third repeat of this that I begin to feel ill

a heat and a pain .... I pull my hand free and realize my hand has gone all sweaty

“I’m going to be sick!” I say and push away from him towards the bathroom to vomit





Electra’s dictionary, Film Noir; part 1: Drama at Lincoln Center (jm muse chronicles)

As there is time after the piano is delivered I head over to the Met

it is the only refuge in the city that still feels most like home

I don’t know if it is the art or the history but I tend to favor certain parts and avoid others. There is a part that is like their catacombs; a kind of warehouse of hidden works that are not displayed but rather just tucked away and stored. An entire secret and very different museum —within a very public one.

Maybe I identify

I like to go there and see the unknown and ignored lost voices; anonymous and unheard of

.... those lost and forgotten unsung souls of unknown artists that nobody ever knew

 but

whose works are worth the muse


which makes me think about Jörn and I suppose I never have stopped to consider his effect on me and even more, those things about him that makes him my perfect muse

like those things about himself that he never says

Those things about himself that he never shares


Even as I joke about his being something of a Spock. But I know he isn’t. Not really. I also know that the art that he creates, his work, could not be as passionate if human emotion was an alien concept to him. I have seen and been inside the den within; it’s there inside his eyes, that place I recognize and know because I recognize all his masks

in many ways he is my mirror

sometimes the self can only be recognized by one upon it best reflects; that sees past the smoke and mirrors who can throw a better and more kinder light, because I see it in the way he pounds the piano keys that he is his own worst critic and should try to dare to dream a little more and be a lot more kinder to himself. Andreas says his father could never write the opera until he met me but it was not me who gave him the idea nor the composition .... there is something unspoken between us. A communication and conversation never said out loud .... and we seem always to say —without ever having to utter the words. But more than anything I do long to hear his words

Because reflections also illuminate as to shed light on .... what was always there

I think it has something to do with something beyond what he may show the world that I can see in him....the energy of him and ....it is so easy for me to believe in all that he is and all that he can be, with all his bluster I don’t think he was ever as convinced no matter how good he is at convincing everyone that he has a kind of brilliance which is more than playing a government spy and more than a member of an orchestra.

I think again of my favorite quote by Cocteau, “mirrors should reflect before throwing back images” and I think too of his Orpheus and —think of Muses

as I walk through the museum passages

And as well, I think of the language of artists and their stories like Elan, washed away in the sand and so many histories of trials and tribulations.... lost in the sand; like the pictures found on caveman walls with their stories and meanings left behind ....like lost messages in bottles never found

It is awhile that I walk around and then after I head out I hear someone calling my name which always gives me such a start

but it turns out to be Gerald and he runs over to me, bundled up in his navy blue pea coat he pulls me away from a throng of tourists

“I knew I’d bump into you somehow,” he tells me with concern but looks me over, “wow, nice dress! —you look gorgeous, are you going out?”

“Just to Lincoln Center for Jörn’s concert,” I say and have to close my coat against the damp chill and so stop to button with a shudder against the wind

“Yes.... right.... Jörn....” he studies me in such a way that unnerves me

“Actually, I should head over,” I tell him with concern and take out my phone to see the time

He notices my shoes, I see because he stares and smiles when he says,
“let’s grab a cab, do you mind if I just tag along? I’ll cover the ride....” because it is a long walk

This makes me look sharply at him,
“did you have a dream?”

He does not have to say because his eyes reply with such vocabulary as to give me another chill

“What was it?” I ask

But he sees a taxi and rushes to the curb to wave it down

On the way he still looks at me,
“are those Prada?” he still looks at my shoes as if hypnotized

“E-Bay,” I tell him, “fifty dollars never worn —so? What is it?”

“I am worried about your safety,” he says oddly and with a distracted expression he stares through to the front of the cab, “what is it — do you know? I mean about what he is doing....” but remembers to drop his voice and glances subversively at the back of the driver’s head.

He says in a lowered tone that is almost a whisper,

“is there some information he is trying to get out of you?”

Gerald never brings anything up unless there is some important significance

I have to think. Of course I think about the safe back at the farmhouse

“Hmm.... why?” I ask

“You know how I told you that the reason souls return to each other in another life has to do with unresolved business ....?”

This makes me have to turn away not wanting him to examine my reaction.... as I think carefully .... yes, because I had thought about this as well quite a lot lately

Gerald says,
“I was thinking the other day how it isn’t so surprising that in this incarnation his other line of work —“ and he stops without saying to indicate his meaning and continues, “and before..... the parallels of lives are usually obvious in their meanings but hopefully in each new experience we evolve ....”

When we reach our destination there is still an hour to kill so we go to the cafe to talk

“There is some information he seems to need,” I admit drinking hot chai but take out my compact to check my lipstick

“Why?” he watches me

“It’s to do with his.... work....” I look from my lips to his face and then go back to my lips once more before I shut the compact

“I know you can’t tell me,” he says

I look carefully at him and then hold my hands over the cup for the heat which I do because I am always freezing,
“are you saying I am in danger from Jörn?”

He thinks for a moment and scratches his head through his thick hair that is a bit rumpled,

“well, I thought so at first —until....”

“Until....?”

“Until just now..... “ he looks at me again and seems uncomfortable suddenly as he studies me without wanting to seem like he is studying me

I take my phone out again to check the time

He says,
“is this information something you are reluctant to share with him?”

“Oh. No. Reluctant? Well.... I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember what he wants to know?”

“Right.”

“You mean, it’s something you just can’t think of now or —“

“It’s.... buried memory....” I look at him.

“Repressed memory ....” he says and nods.

I take out my compact again

and add more lipstick ....only it’s the lights —isn’t it?

I use the paper napkin and blot ....

I finally say,
“well, it isn’t like something I have not thought about. I mean— I don’t think I should say what it is about. It’s .... well, I guess political—? no, more it’s — hmm, I don’t really know but....”

“It’s something you saw?”

“No. Not like I witnessed some heist or something—“

“Yet he was a Viking in his past life,” Gerald says it as if it is a basic fact and hardly notices the shocked reaction of a nun sitting nearby that I see reflected in my mirror

I consider .... maybe it’s the color ..... and wonder if I brought another lipstick only .... I notice something else reflected in the compact mirror

There is someone across the way who I see using opera glasses and looking right at me

“Maybe we should go,” I say now and consider what’s left in my cup as I am starting to feel uneasy. And check the time

“Let me walk you to the entrance,” Gerald says, “how long are you going to be in town?”

“He doesn’t know,” I tell him

As we walk in the direction of where everyone is now heading, he lightly touches my shoulder through my coat to hold back a moment,

“listen— just make sure that whatever it is he is trying to find out ....make sure it is for the right reasons and —not for some prize in diplomacy.”

“Some prize?” I stare at him. Why would he use that word ....?

“Or ....I mean—for some political coup....”

We agree to meet to talk and as we part ways I head to the entrance and towards where I usually go only I realize that I drank tea and won’t make it through the whole concert without going to pee first

I get a bit lost looking where to go and find myself in an unfamiliar part but there is at least a nice bathroom with decent lighting

“Oh there you are,” it is Frank, I bump into as I leave the restroom, Frank, who is a guard who works there and usually helps me find my seat, “Jörn said to find you because you haven’t been answering your texts.”

“I haven’t?” I take out my phone and notice a lot of texts I missed, “I guess I hit the silence button.”

I check my coat and take the ticket for it. We have reached the main lobby and as we head through there is a loud shout suddenly. It sounds like someone shouts, “look out!” but then there is a burst of commotion

“What’s going in?” I ask Frank only as I ask somebody starts running towards me. And I realize it is the guy with the opera glass!  —but not in time ....to avoid —because I am thrown onto the ground as in confusion another runs after as somebody screams

What makes me turn my head then? Because I see someone in the far corner quietly watching me and ....I get such a queer feeling I have seen him before. Along with this a feeling I don’t like.

I start to bolt out of pure instinct despite Frank telling me to stay still. Never mind that Prada’s are not the best for running. It is something almost surreal to notice someone jump from the next level from the wide grand staircase off the gallery down what would seem a whole flight

it is even more surreal to realize that it is Jörn as he comes running towards me but as he reaches me he says,
“don’t move, stay here!” before he peels off after the last guy who ran past as I watch Jörn sprint across the lobby with everyone watching too; the crowd parts like the Red Sea so that it is possible to watch the chase continue

It all happens so fast and so surreal that I just stand there watching as he tackles the guy to the floor ....

back in NY, Rushing off to concert Noir/Electra’s dictionary (jmmusechron) 22 Jan 2020

“So how long do you think you have to be here for?” I ask him

as I watch him prepare to leave for Lincoln Center.

“You mean the philharmonic?” he asks, but talking to his reflection in the mirror

“Yes. Isn’t that why we came back?”

“Oh, that reminds me, uh— “ he tears himself away from his reflection, “can you be here for ....the piano delivery....?”

“Piano....? ....you’re having it brought back here.... so you plan to stay?”

“It’s a different piano,” he shrugs this off as he shakes his head irrelevantly and then nervously goes through his routine again; pockets, time and ....reflection— but asks, looking at himself, “can you? One o’clock?” he asks

“A different piano?” I ask but ....he’s still doing that
“Why a different piano, Jörn? Where do you get the money from?”

“It is not my piano,” he says to himself in the mirror to me and still without turning away

“No? So, you’re renting it?”

“It’s kind of like an AirBnB kind of thing,” he tells me abstractly , “so, you’ll be here?”

“Like, you get their piano and they get....?”

“A review of how their piano performs— so, one o’clock—can you be here?” he asks

“You’re doing a review?”

“Duva!” he suddenly is enraged and turns as he shouts at me, “can you just answer my question!”

“Yes!” I shout back at him and walk away

I start towards the front door of his apartment and stop by the door

then go blank .... and realize something as I stare at the floor

I turn back away from the door to head back in for my phone as I hear him shouting my name

we literally collide into each other and I’m momentarily pinned to the partition between the rooms thrown against it. Which could have hurt if he had not stopped the impact taking the force of it as he asks,

“Are you ok?”

only I give him a dirty look

“I’m sorry,” but he still holds my arm and now looks at it as he runs his finger tip over my skin and too closely he studies a scar. I watch his eyes as he glances away from it to me to read my eyes; I see the question

“Ok,” I say and stare into his eyes. Slowly I say, “you’ll be late.... I’ll be here for the piano....”

but now I see he feels guilty

He starts to say something but changes his mind and says,
“thank you,” but still he holds my arm

“You’ll be late,” I say

He hesitates and studies me,
“I don’t know how long we will be here for, to answer your question, and.... I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Ok....” I say and sigh but then I say, “what about the table? Isn’t it still back there?”

“Table?”

“Yes. And the safe.”

He looks away and lets go my arm,
“you saw the table....” he thinks now as he says this, “the night you and Andreas were getting high in the farmhouse —that was ....the night of the news— my opera—I completely forgot.... well, they both weigh a ton —they would have to bull doze the house to get it, I had them build a concrete inner wall so.... I’m not worried and I installed alarms and cameras in there.”

No wonder he knew what we were up to

“They.... Jörn.... it’s not just the orchestra you’re here for, is it?” I ask

Jörn checks his watch,
“can we talk about this later?” he starts to reach for his coat and cello but on his way he stops and comes back to me as if to embrace me but stops himself and says first, “will you come tonight?”

He asks now .... even as I have gone to every one of his performances. I wonder if he knows why .... why it is that I go ....?

he says,

“....please,”  as he pulls me to him and goes to kiss me

I say,
“yes,” because he waits to hear. And as he goes I remember something else, “when is Hanna coming back?”

“I’m not sure, why?”

“Well, she has some groupies that show up now and I don’t know who they are, but they’re always camped around the lobby downstairs, haven’t you noticed?”

Jörn sighs,
“I’m aware, the doormen mentioned....I’ll find out what’s going on—” he starts for the door but stops as he passes me and says, “will you wear the houndstooth dress?”

the vampire waltz through hell on the deep and savage path; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

****The Next Level Introduction and Opening Scene (note footnote below):

“Wrap me up in always

Drag me in with maybes....

“Breathing underwater

And living under glass....

“The secrets of your dreams ....

“is not quite what it seems

To appear to disappear 

Your darkest fears

I believe in never 

I believe in all the way

But belief is not to notice 

Belief is just some faith

And faith can help you to escape....”

from the Smashing Pumpkins song  https://youtu.be/xzZh4fdaUpk  ‘Thru the Eyes of Ruby’ written by Billy Corgan from the album ‘Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness’

The Next Level

As we launch into another level  within the passages of a mind and past the stages and murals of a dictionary to sketch a casual outline of introduction 

We enter Here

There was something that always used to happen in my psycho therapy sessions. I would be saying something and then suddenly I would go blank. I would completely forget what I just said and what we were talking about. And when she pressed me to continue after reminding me what was said, I would suddenly begin to tremble so uncontrollably that my jaw would almost dislocate. Sometimes this still happens if I am somehow put into a sense of the danger 

Lately it has been happening and more than once or twice 

it is when my mind goes blank that is disturbing to me because I can feel myself doing this; feel the folds wrap around and pull me away as if jettisoned ....it has been years since this has happened and since seeing my sister again after over a decade and my nephew’s suicide, it seems to have brought things up; those long buried dysfunctional road signs.... I had forgotten the fog ..... until this had returned in happening; it is a pressure on the top of the skull and a fog pressing in against the thoughts; like thick cotton balls pressing into the skull

it is what Dr. Rothschild told me was my built-in self-defense mechanism 

It has not been writer’s block that has kept me from my words in my dictionary

it is these thick cotton balls 

against my skull 

and the trembling.... and the return of the anxiety attacks I thought I outgrew. But they are back and taken a firm hold of me

....which is why I knew I needed  to paint again

 —besides the tactile need I have as an artist to physically immerse into my work, it releases the boundaries that keep me straightjacked within my self imprisonments 

The symbolisms of pictures are ways to hide within designs and illusions 

....become clear and present; 

it is where I live

I know that the story has lead its way up here and lead us intentionally here —and like my methods of trusting blind direction in how I work both visually and poetically 

as directed from the center 

because that is the madness which cuts the path from its obscure source

As part of the maze; this labyrinthian spiral to the lost center of Celf; as the dictionary moves into the deeper cross section of cerebral passages through the Waters of Lethe, I find I keep reflecting on the summer and the year after which started to change things .... the year after my freshman year of high school as it occurs to me how this subtle change was an indication to ..... how everything that happened and.... was all part of the dominos crashing down like a henge of stones

the story levels as symbols and symbols of levels of walls

Like BC and AD, the dawn before the assault and the dawn after .... were night and day; it changed me drastically in how I looked and dressed, my mannerisms, my shame and the way I guarded my body and my sex 

that was what he wanted; to ruin me. 

before it happened, even as I was always shy, there had been offers; a part in Swan Lake, modeling, literary publishing 

He wanted to shut me away not to outshine her so he taught me a lesson in humility to know my place

On the other side of the wall —his side; we see her as the hated bastard of a notorious man and a constant reminder of his wife’s infidelity .... 

only back then I did not know this was what I was and until years later, 

but I did know that I did not deserve to be there; in his house, or wearing new clothes, breathing, no basic right to eat food, nor taking up space 

my intuition also heightened after the experience

 .... what Retnuh Nevek said to me about my father during the night of horror 

I knew 

I think it was my pride that forced me into the silence I withdrew into for months after

months. years. and always 

And people never question what they can’t see..... withdrawn to the silence of shadows, this dawn was not meant to ever see the light of day, was never meant to be seen nor heard and so, eventually it became the ammunition and safety that I chose to remain within because I built inside a fortress  nobody could get in made of murals and smoke and mirrors. This wall, though it is invisible, is as impenetrable as steel; it is invincible 

****************************************

Opening Scene of The Next Level; View from a Window

the NY view never changes; like those endless streams of red and glaring white lights of vehicles that sliver through the streets; that inconspicuous snake-in-the-garden; the vertebra of an endless spine that builds with the bones upon which it destroys to support a self serving system. And so in parallel, I think of a snake.... another snake ....a snake in the grass with her demon flesh; one that it seems should not get away. I watch with my views, I watch a view and see the frauds pretending as everyone pretends along because those they enlist are afraid to say what they think and are afraid to think for themself; like the secret handshake which I never got; nor the accent

their smiles are as sincere as their inflicted contracts of catch phrases, hurled as small talk that is their self appointed right to threaten  you with

still, obviously, it is me who is the freak ..... I pace back and forth as if I feel the venom that eats at me

I can accept that I am a freak 

“What are you talking about?” Jörn asks

“Did I say that out loud?” 

“You mean about last night?” he asks, “yes, actually, you’re right —you are a freak,” and laughs 

He wears running clothes that make him look like a ninja as he stands by the sound equipment listening with the headphones on.... or so I thought 

He puts them down and walks over to me ....it is strange to be back here— especially now as we are finally alone for the first time in months it seems —yes, it is months, actually 

Everyone has left now; that is, Josef and Elsa returned home and joined the rest of the family for Christmas 

he is more relaxed with everyone gone I have noticed.... he is not as quick out of bed 

And Andreas ....spent Christmas with —his ex instructor ....that seems to be signaling that things are more serious than we realized between them as she has now left her husband 

“The age difference!” Jörn says now

“It’s about what ours is,” I point out; he gives me a sharp look and then goes back to his sound mixing and then I think he has dropped it when suddenly minutes later he counters,

“but you’re not my instructor!”

in its own odd way, makes me think about something his mother said to me .... it was at the airport just before they left.....

but he —interrupting my thoughts— adds,

“but then you look fourteen.”

“Great—ja jag är den ultimata femme fatalen, tack så mycket—at least we’ve moved on from the toy-poodle-handbag-accessory and preteen-fashion-remarks-committee.”

he doesn’t hear me, not even paying attention as he goes to look over some sheet music. I watch him write down some notes and then walk over to the window to absently think —but then pace back again to where he began 

I ask, because I’ve been wondering this,

“does it ever bother you how fucked up the world is?” 

“Why do you think I’m a spy?”

“I thought you said you don’t call yourself that.”

“No, but you do,” he says, back to scribbling notes, “why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?”

“I thought the reason you’re a spy is because you like picking things apart and decoding riddles.... Jörn—do you think, ever— as artists.... like, as you write your opera —you speak from the human soul or heart? Like —to the humanity of your audience.... ? —and not just —this—way, but also through what you try to convey when you are performing?” I search his eyes to see what he really thinks behind the dazzle of slate kryptonite

“You are such an idealist,” he says simply and then he gets distracted “.... but you just made me think of something,” he says now stopping what he’s writing and mumbles.... “undermedvetna social skuld .... han skuld....” his expression changes as he sinks into thought. 

And after some reflection he says, in English but, still mostly to himself, “the dove.... she is his penance —for his savagery as a warrior.... his guilt ....over what he did to her family.... the responsibility —you have just given me an idea.... it totally changes the tone but it makes sense, the battlefields and the awkwardness of plunder; like an embarrassment of riches....” the intensity of his look increases as he stares at me with a kind of enigmatic wonder 

“What?”

“I know how to end the opera .....” he runs his fingers through his hair wildly in a manic kind of way before he says, “now I have to rework .... the entire opera....” but then laughs with a kind of euphoric madness as he grabs hold my face, and with an exaggerated, intended, loud smack, kisses my mouth, “you are a genius, duva,” and then leaps to his cello, grabbing his bow, pen and blank sheet music pad

****pardon errors; some I corrected but as I am dyslexic, I don’t always notice ‘auto-correct’ often changes words and tenses which can severely mislead my intended meanings. And I know I have a tendency to leave out words or repeat words as dyslexics do because the letters are always moving, I don’t see what I write 

To Persephone in the voice of Demeter

I do not understand your silence

 nor your rage

    please come back to me, 

the earth is dying without you

Sleeve detail

finally got to the sleeve

The Vampire Pirate starts to emerge

.... and already my ex John is asking me if he can buy my painting and it’s nowhere near done

far from fully painted

far from fully painted or even outlined; I obsess about details and paint all over at once

reflections in a scrying pool 2; it evolves

It begins to reveal itself

2:15 PM

First layer of paint begins

Think of this as a pause between seasons in my journal writing

 ~even as I know the plot line .... as sometimes I go within myself for awhile, go inside the crypt 

~to continue it, because the dictionary goes on and 

we are hung by a thread with a cliffhanger because ..... it is

a dare from an echo

wishing for reflection 

only if it is actually heard 

31 December 2019 thus far today

at 12:34 ....

day 2; rough sketch

May need four more panels and a very big wall

‘the pirate and the dove’ begins today

my present studio

starting to sketch the piece onto two canvas panels

My mother’s old easle 

starting this piece from the bottom

missing summer hikes

(embracing the inner grinch)

one of a few snakes I have caught on video

Where does a person go to find peace when everything everywhere reminds you of what you have lost or never had

also from this summer; an insomniac playing with the animation loop

plays and ....keys

but before we go he draws me back as I stand to sit with him,

inside long legs in front of the piano, he stretches.... we sit at the keys, 

he lays his fingers over mine and lightly guides me to play chords ....

something he likes to do but we have not done for awhile ....not since we came here, I realize ....and as always it turns into this.... his mouth along my neck as together we play the keys; the way his fingertips touch and press into my fingers on the keys

it is some familiar arrangement we always play; a pattern, like a language between us and as always, it turns into something else, like how he puts his mouth along my neck from behind me and finds the place to sink his teeth

By design or by arrangement....?

woven thoughts in a wormhole fabric of time

I meet Gandalf on the mountain top; and as we fall, on the way down, with the Balrog raging below, his venomous steam of poison spitting up at us, and as we descend into Moria—Gandalf asks me,

“what would you say was your greatest sin in your lifetime?”

I reply, without hesitation,

“naïveté .... what was yours?”

“Faith in humanity....” and adds, “but not faith in the Hobbits....”

and as we fall I find I have a moment to wonder: 

how many lifetimes for the pirate to arrive on time?

The next scene; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

Jörn’s parents are well into their second or third round of “skål!” over akvavit as Andreas and I return

“Are you all right?!” —Josef rushes over, when no sooner inside —I do walk head first into a wall.... Maybe it is the shock of warm air from the cold  —as Jörn pulls me from the wall by the arm as I’m about to hit it again

“Oh—whoa!” I say and notice he gives me a disapproving look sniffing my hair

“We need to talk,” he tells me and leads me to a quiet part of the kitchen. But first he looks at me and takes hold of my face to look at him; he shakes his head at me and smiles but asks, “are you comprehensive?”

I get the feeling he is aware of what his son does in the farmhouse

I clear my head and look directly at him
“Yes....” then ask, “they are going to do your opera? —Andreas told me what has been going on, so.... Jörn, does this mean you are leaving—going ....to do your opera in Stockholm....?” and so now I realize it is what I have feared about this because ....then he would go —and events have a way of changing everything so I turn my eyes from his as he searches me

He says,
“I still have to finish it but.... and it would not be right away ....but that doesn’t mean—“ but we get interrupted by Josef who comes over with a glass for me to toast with them and insists

So I do not get to know what Jörn was about to say and find I brood about it

I don’t remember much about the dinner only that there was salmon and leek soup ....the colors distracting me ....along with all my fears

to see them all happy and me an outsider .... I find that I cannot look at Jörn all night because I fear I would burst into tears  ....but still I rationalize with myself that .... maybe this is why I came into his life; he had to write his opera so now.... it will end because I served my purpose

these emotions I could not work out before, I suppose, along with the sense of losing him to a world that I am not a part of; his world that I do not belong ....and find I wonder what it even was he sought in me ....as his lover.... I mean, I never really fit his life, did I? a feral vagabond

and it makes me wonder about the notion of purpose; “to be or not to be”

It is later once everyone has gone to bed and all the bedroom doors are shut that I find him at his piano. He plays lightly and thoughtfully and the sounds that bounce from the walls are light, like waterfalls and does not disturb the night sounds of the house even as music is like white-noise to his family as they fall asleep to Wagner

Jörn looks at me and spontaneously asks me,
“Of all writers, who would you say was your most influential?”

“As a writer particularly? Not as an artist? F. Scott Fitzgerald—why—which opera composer most influenced you?” I walk over to him and lean across the piano to watch his long fingers

“F. Scott Fitzgerald —? I did not expect you would say that....” he looks oddly at me and I see the creases deepen as he seems to read significance. At first he seems distracted by this and he goes back to playing the same troubling part of his opera but then he gets frustrated and moves to punch the keys but restrains himself because everyone is sleeping

He sighs,
“my biggest influence—? Not opera, but—Johan Helmich Roman; baroque.... and not just because he was from Sweden, his style has influenced the way I write.... I haven’t many opera favorites, to be honest, that is why I wanted to compose my own,” now he laughs as he looks at me and says in a low whisper, “I had to listen to my mother’s operas growing up and all my life, they drove me crazy! .... Saturday mornings, glasses breaking everywhere, her singing even before the sun came up....”

it is something about his smile. and his laugh.... the way it changes his serious features.... I move to him and touch his face, across his cheekbones and along the bridge of his long nose and look into his eyes

“Can you tell me now? We are alone .... when do you go? Or what is happening?” I ask him and move to sit on the floor by his feet but he reaches for me

“I told you, I still have to finish it ....and .... there are other things,” he says, “the case is at a delicate point and I would have had to delay it even if my opera was completed.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” I say but.... I hear something else he doesn’t say in his voice or, rather how, whatever it is, it leaves me with some sense of relief

because no, we never say and I often fear to know ....if he does

I move down to the floor

“What are you doing?” he asks me

“I think my earring fell .... “ I say but he laughs as I unbutton his jeans

but stops laughing soon after

“Duva, as much as I like to perform publicly, I’d rather not give someone like my son or my mother this kind of shock so.... what about the sauna?”

3 December 2019/Electra’s dictionary Lite mer smörgås familjedrama (edjmmusechron)

The stillness up here, especially when it snows, makes you believe that the madness of the world is far, far away, and in that sense is why, I suppose, I was drawn to coming out here.

And so, as I step away from the discussion amongst the musicians that I find I quite enjoy, even as I am always completely lost within it, I know they discuss the next proceedings of Jörn’s work, and ....the emotions in connection to all of what that entails, I find, I can’t work out because I want success for him and all that it may entail.... but mostly, it also terrifies me

It is their world .... and I am not really in their world, am I? and I serve no part in it. This I know and have never fooled myself about

So I walk to the stables to spend some time with Choklad and reflect upon what it is ....that I search for. to achieve ....this obsession to write this and the purpose behind it. And as I brush Choklad down, this I think about —it is about vindication, I think— and justice, I suppose ....I think I am searching for some means to release me by my methods of allegory

Only what does that prove?

This was never meant as some excuse to whine about some pathetic individual who gets used as a hockey puck all her miserable life because I never liked those kinds of stories

only, how is it possible to have vindication in a fucked up world?

for all my need to escape into illusion, deep down, I am a realist

the illusions are symbols, like props or archetypes and meant only to represent for my own internal intellectual discussion .... to make sense of it all; to find the order within all this chaos I got born into and have been manipulated by

I guess it really is peace I search for up here in the mountains and the more I stay here the more I realize that I never belonged in all the places I have been. Is there something to the theory of DNA memory? That I should instinctively feel drawn to the mountains the way the Welsh found their defense against the English armies by disappearing into the mountains as they were a nomadic tribal people

These random thoughts I get lost in until I hear the scrape of a shoe and look up from brushing

It is Andreas and for just a second I stare at him forgetting where I am and who he is

“I meant to thank you,” he says now as he leans on the door ledge of the stall

I keep brushing but look at him. He is nice on the eyes and I realize that he is far from a boy as I consider things about him and his recent circumstances. His hair is darker than his father and his eyes a different shade but some features are strongly like Jörn and again it makes me think about DNA and about the existence of one’s soul and how the two are woven together ..... and wonder about random and purpose

“I mean, for not telling my dad and letting me handle it,” he explains

I smile,
“people in my life tend to tell me their secrets and maybe that’s because they know I have too many worse ones of my own to catch them out, so to speak.... but, no problem, you’re welcome ....inga problem, du är välkommen—I didn’t say that right, did I?” I ask him

He hides a smile and a laugh

“Your grandmother has started ‘total immersion’ with me....” I laugh, “maybe it’s a good method to avoid actually having to talk to me!”

“No, she likes you,” he laughs, “she didn’t at first but....”

“So what changed it?” I ask

“My father— they are a very serious family— we are, I mean; our music is,” he shrugs, “but what it really is, I think anyway.... is that you have changed him,” he says profoundly

“—I— have? how do you mean that?”

“He is more —focused especially about this opera that he has always talked about writing —he would usually get fed up with it though and throw it away after a week or a month and he was usually always ....angry .... constantly just —always shouting or picking on everyone about things. I mean, I love my dad and he’s great to talk to about most things —he’s just .... like—nicer since he met you. And there was always this expectation that my parents would get back together but they’re.... better off this way.”

“That is quite mature,” I say 

“I don’t really think he was ever in love with her,” he says as I put down the brush

“It’s getting colder,” I say and pat Choklad on the head and head to step out of the stall

“You know?” he opens the door to help me through as the hinges are rough to open. “They never seemed really like—I mean, you’ve seen my grandparents but my parents are more like how my sister and I are, not —“ he waves his arms in a grand gesture that looks like a love heart

“Is that how you feel about your instructor?” I ask as we walk out and Choklad turns to give me a goodbye nudge with his head over the door

He seems a bit awkward with my question and instead he says,
“I think they see how he has changed too. Especially with the work. He’s never produced so much before and I think they gave up he would ever write it. It was what he studied to do, he wanted to be a composure and they were going to create their own opera house and perform his works but it never came about and then he moved around playing for different orchestras then we —me and my dad— came to New York and....” he stops at the pathway that leads not to the barn house but instead to the old defunct farmhouse, “do you want to come in here—have you looked inside here yet?” he asks me

I look up the hill to the barn house with all the lights and see indistinct outlines of all of them inside

“I guess they’re quite involved still, aren’t they?” I say vaguely

“They’re waiting for a phone call,” he says as we walk the path to the farmhouse

“Are they? I don’t know about this. What is the phone call about?”

He stops by the door,
“my dad doesn’t know about this so you would not know. They have been submitting his music to —I don’t know his exact title but this is someone who everyone back home in the ‘classical music world’ knows. He’s someone who could put my father’s opera into production which would be —well.... a big deal.”

“And that’s who’s calling?”

“Ja— yeah,” he digs into his pocket

“Oh no! Please don’t tell me you’ve started smoking,” I say with concern as he cups his hands to light.

He looks at me and smiles. Because it is dark I can’t see but he offers it to me, and waits with a patient smile; the scent reaches me,

“don’t tell my dad, and no I don’t do this all the time, it’s just been a stressful few weeks.”

“Oh more smörgås family drama, great— your dad would not be happy with me for encouraging this,” I tell him, “where did you get it from all the way out here?”

“I have a friend who goes to the university around here,” he says and still offers it to me

“Sheesh.... really, Andreas, I think you would regret giving me that as I have a tendency to talk too much when under the influence. I didn’t think Swedish people did that.”

He laughs,
“you mean because it’s illegal in our country?”

“It’s still illegal here for most  —how old are you again?” I ask but because I notice it’s starting to ash I reach for it but laugh, “no.... I can’t. You really don’t want to see me like that and—“ I look up at the house, “we still have to go back up there .... how would that look? My God, knowing me, I’d probably walk into a wall and act like an idiot,” I hand it to him

“They’re going to be awhile,” he takes out his phone, “farmor is going to message me when they get the call but he’s on vacation in Hawaii and it’s still early there,” and smiles at me. “Well, you don’t have to so— do you mind if I ask you something about your dad? You know, the statue one...” his speech is already different as his question is also more uncharacteristically bold and without waiting for my reply he says, “I thought you said nobody knows who he is anymore.”

“Well, he’s not relevant, I think I said—anymore.”

“Somebody played him in a show I was watching at— my friend’s....” and he uses the joint to indicate which friend, “a recent show —that guy from that big movie a few years ago was in it,” his words become more lazy as he slips into his own accent

“Oh,” I say even as I have no idea what any of that means except that somebody played him in a show, and start to shiver now from the cold

“Let’s go in here,” he notices I’m cold and opens the farmhouse door

It’s an empty and gutted house but the lights go on when he flips a switch

He sits down on a big square box like thing made of wood that is shoved randomly in a spot by the window

“So, is it true that your nephew committed suicide?” he asks me

He says it in such a way that— instead of it seeming impertinent or invasive, comes out more like a coaxing invitation to talk about it

“Oh.... yes.... “

“When was this?”

“The ides of March, actually,” I say and look around the empty gutted interiors

“So, nine months ago.... how old was he?” but the genuine concern in his question is honest

“Your age,” I sigh heavily

“So about your daughter’s age?” he asks

I walk over to him, “ok, give it here,” I say now and meet eyes that have now become somewhat pink around the Mediterranean blue of them

“Förlåt!” he says, “I have made you upset!”

“No.....” I shake my head, “it’s really ok....” but his line of questions make me sad

“Here,” he lights it

It is a solid two to four minutes before I realize I have been staring at nothing. Or maybe it is five. It could be ten, possibly

“What were we just talking about?” he asks me

“No idea,” I lie

but I still stare at nothing. It could be another five minutes. And after that I do forget

“I really hope this wears off before we have to face anyone,” I finally say

“Here—“ he says, “it’s going to go out....”

“No, I’m good,” I say becoming nervous, “your dad’s going to kill me, what am I doing....?”

“It’s not your weed,” he says, and presses it to my mouth, “it’s going out—“

“Well.... oh—gosh ....”

Possibly fifteen minutes.... no idea

“He says usually it’s Hanna,” I say

“What is?”

“The trouble maker,” and I start to laugh and then he laughs —and it is about another four minutes or more of forgetting why we are laughing “....so.... yeah.... he’s going to kill me.”

“I wonder why it’s illegal,” he says dully staring at a spot on the floor

“Because nobody would ever get anything done if they were like this all the time,” I say even as that is not true in all cases; such as a compulsive need to suddenly dance or excessive exercising like doing sit ups on a filthy gutted floor

“I wouldn’t do that,” he tells me, “I’m pretty sure I saw a mouse.”

“Ok....” and as I get up I start to notice what he’s sitting on, “what is that?”

“I don’t know, my dad said it’s some kind of safe....”

I look around the room and notice something else,
“do you know anything about that table?”

But then I hear someone’s phone getting a call

“That’s yours,” Andreas says

“Oh!” I say, “where is it coming from?”

I look at Andreas as he points to me,
“your pocket.”

“Huh!” he is correct and I discover the source and take it out of my pocket. I look at it and look at Andreas.... “it’s your dad....” and watch it continue to do that wondering what to do

“You should answer it,” Andreas suggests

I keep looking at it though, and whisper,
“oh my God, he’s going to kill me.... I’m corrupting his son in the farmhouse.”

“If you don’t answer he’ll just start to worry something’s wrong and come looking,” he says now

“Shit!” I say and quickly answer

“Duva?”

“Yeah....” I say

“Where are you?” Jörn’s voice over the phone seems extra loud somehow

“Um.... I’m —I’m just—uh.... was in the stables ....”

“Why do you sound like that?” he asks

“Like what? It’s cold—I got cold so we came to warm up in the farmhouse, I mean—Andreas....” I say and look at Andreas now who is shaking his head and laughing at me

“What’s so funny?” Jörn asks me, “what are you doing in the farmhouse? Ok, never mind, can you both come back to the house? Mamma has just cooked us some big celebration dinner as —there is something important that I want to tell you face to face and she’ll be angry if the dinner gets cold....”

“Shit..... like right now?” I ask

video ‘gray socks’, a chat with an ex

duel not duel

a break with some nonsense between the definitions

a dictionary that begs to define; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

‘My life has been extraordinary
Blessed and cursed and won
Time heals, but I’m forever broken
By and by the way’*


https://youtu.be/bHR0MBF-AZc



I get up in the night to vomit from pain and sit on the floor of the shower with the water hitting me


And then lay there on the floor and think of Elan and of her pain .... and how she died, I think of her blood and of her torture ....

so much like mine —like the hours i spent in that dorm room at Bard as he beat me

and it makes me think of parallels of lives

their importance in their present meaning

 .... like the vampire pirate in whose arms she died who was there too late .... and understand too how this could leave a soul with a heavy burden of responsibility  ....I think these thoughts

as I try not to feel this

inflammation of scar tissue on spine; in all fingers/joints

pain that could be best described as

a hot iron migraine felt throughout your body, with a pulse-pounding punch administered with sadistic tenacity .... by its ever-present perpetrator that still beats

a week of illness; it is what I usually hide; especially here in my writing because I resent what it has done to me from something I never asked for but am left with its consequences .... my rage?


and  there-after for days ....once it finishes its meticulous, abusive course, it leaves me utterly ruined; like some sloth; just useless and exhausted

after these episodes I always notice that pain burns calories

but it also consumes muscle and leaves me just weak and thin

whatever brings it on is its own choice and after time, you learn its pattern; it has its signals

ironically, the best thing for my condition is extreme, vigorous exercise, but only if I am strong enough to stand

Sometimes I understand when I am deep within this personal hell .....

I know that at the center of all my madness has been this .... self.... manifested actuality

A manifested self just from what you learn to have to become to make a compromise within the self: to endure

Sometimes just from physical pain and that is itself another lesson, under fire

..... because certain levels I have learned to not feel and maybe it has made me stronger .... but .... I wonder really —is that strong? to not feel? .... unless it is the tragedy to give up feeling

and it has somehow dehumanized a certain level of my self ; that is, maybe callus .... it has caused a separation within ; pain—what it has done to my mind I can never fully say; pain has been my most familiar constant and rooted me deep within into and within myself ..... this place within

And I think about Dr. Rothschild statistics and how she said most don’t live past 20 and how I was a trail blazer on her statistical chart; a ‘miracle case’ she said, which was the only reason she took on a new case as she was retiring to devote to her studies of this—and, she was curious about my famous biological father; quick to notice my obvious resemblance to him.

So why did I survive.... and how....? My theory is —my madness. And complete disregard of normalcy. Adaptation and the survival of the fittest


If I am a masochist, I had to be in order to survive and there is a certain madness there.... this is a tiny clue that I only give away because .... I’m tired of keeping it to myself


So because I can’t withdraw into Ethan’s penthouse with one of my usual creative excuses

that I would normally find to disguise my invalidity ....

and shame.... not meant to be public to anyone but me and why i never allow people too close to see me like this and loath myself because ....now he has seen me at my worst

The night Jörn told me about the table from e-Bay, he later had told me about finding other things my sister sold, not just on e-Bay but through Christie’s —which came up in all his searches, he shows me screen shots of old transactions all from around the time of our parents deaths and .... I recognize all the items....

My mother’s jewelry, which would have put Elizabeth Taylor to shame, original oil paintings from our trips to France and Italy, marble pieces and a nineteenth century secretary and so many other things I recognize that had been in the family generations

.... and I think about this now.... how odd it was that Jörn looked at me —so

before he said,
“so there were no wills.....”

rhetorical

intentionally

to beg the question

And so I then said,
“well, she would argue that if I wasn’t considered his blood I could not claim his inheritance —but....” and I forced a laugh to say, “some of that had belonged to our mother’s mother or handed down by her father, my grandfather.”

“So she sold things that should have been yours by right?” Jörn pressed the question and I did notice a very biased note of hidden anger in his voice and then he asks me, “why didn’t you fight for any of it?”

“When were kids she kicked me in the crotch with her brand new Danish clogs and when I defended myself by punching her, I got caught by my dad and guess what happened after that? Yes, I got the belt. I was told never to lay a hand on my sister again not even to defend myself .... and that was the last time I defended myself,” I shrug and say, “you don’t really want to know .... because then you will understand how someone becomes feral and I think it isn’t exactly a nice wholesome image.”

I wish I could cut that out of me. These things. These shitty things. I wish that didn’t happen. Those things. I hate these things about me. Does it make me a better artist? It just makes me another fucked up artist

I needed to get away. from there. I want to be hidden. in these  mountains. For awhile. I still wish I could run and never stop. I know I will never be free

He says the demon is inside me

Jörn says,
“I know what ever you have so deeply buried it .... is about some kind of shame, duva.... you don’t want me to know what it is but I think I already know. But I know you think I would look at you some different way if you told me what it is.... you seem unable to.... I don’t know, maybe accept or forgive yourself or —maybe it’s more your feeling of being defiled ....”

His choice of word shocks me as he hits a nerve with sharp precision

“I think you figured out some of it, Jörn.... but not all of it. That time you said it to me .... the night, you know, with the fishnets.... you were right but that isn’t all of it....” but I stop myself and ask, “how do you know you wouldn’t think differently of me?”

I decide it’s best not to look at him at this point and keep talking,
“when we were small and she used to make me dress up as the father and play House ....at first I pretended to go along with it just because she always bullied me —so as we played her game of House with her baby dolls, the fake pots and pans and she the mom and me the dad— I came up with an idea to say I was going to go work on the car in the garage ....so, naturally, that was my way out and then I would leave and sneak away to go play with my toy car collection, but that didn’t work after awhile. It turned out since I didn’t play the way she wanted me to she ran to daddy and told on me and so I got the belt .... so I learned ....to play along....” I stop here and glance at Jörn and look away “Jörn.... but —she expected me to .... do things ....”

I don’t know how to continue. And I don’t want to. I want to stop. and wish to retrace and erase everything I have said

I take a deep breath and still without looking I plunge on

“It started when we were very young and.... there is something very deeply wrong with .... “ I shudder now and put my head into my hands and cover my face

I know he is aware of my discomfort and —without looking I can feel his

Neither of us move but he clears his throat,
“duva.... “

So I look up st him,
“so—you understand?—I mean what is behind her revenge? And.... so what if I told you that the person who left me for dead at college that night .....bragged to me that night how he’d been banging my sister too....”

I wonder if he is aware of the layers, like paint that covers up the old walls of a stage that has had plays long played out and reinvented for new scenes acted out of lies, coated over more layers, of still more layers, of hidden evils closed up inside a dictionary that begs to define

**************************************

It has been snowing a lot. It looks like winter has taken the stage as now everything is covered in white outside and it’s not seeming to go as more snow is supposed to come

He has taken to splitting wood after his morning run and sometimes I watch him from the window above from the bedroom upstairs

I worry about how he must think of me with all the chaos of my life and there is a stigma of being what I am .... but this is who I am and i cannot change who I am .... and if I am too much, so be it because I would not know how to change .... I know that he is a reasoning man; he likes to figure things out first by taking things apart and examining every detail and thinking then to use his logic to put the whole personality together, as I’m sure that is how he must work going over his top secret people on the radar portfolio cases —but in my case I suspect some parts have fallen out and long gone lost so....

I believe this is what he does as he splits wood; he works on his mental dissections. What he does when he runs. Without even realizing he does this .... I like to watch him when he is deep in thought and I suppose that is when I dissect him. I like to watch him.... it doesn’t matter what he does; he fascinates me in a way I have never known but always longed to know as an artist. Have always searched for like the dream memory and think of her pictures in the sand ....I would never tire of his face no matter how old he got

sometimes I think I must seem to him some unbelievable Candide who goes through life attracting atrocities ....because I don’t get the feeling he has encountered too manylike the like of me before and so I always fear that I overwhelm him with how deep my complicated maze does go

but then, his talent is a safe cracker

His parents will be leaving to return home soon and, strangely, I am somewhat sorry but this is a foreign concept to me that I dare not try to analyze at this time and so I think this sitting here tapping into my phone as I watch Jörn from the window .... and watch him put down the axe to take out his phone

he sends me a message!

<i want to show you something—can you come out in about fifteen minutes?>

<where?>

<come around the back behind  the garage by the shed. Give me fifteen minutes>

I check the temperature on my phone.... -4C —not as cold as the other night at least

When I go downstairs I see that his parents have gone to sleep and Andreas has shut the door of the room he’s been sleeping in

I find my boots and put on my coat, then go out through the kitchen because the door is quieter. I didn’t realize there was a shed but then, that must be where the axe is stored, I think, as a cold blast of air goes up my sleeve as I open the door. My boots sink into the snow as I walk around the garage and to the back and realize two big trees had overshadowed the shed —which is, like a double shed —like a tiny duplex house with two doors on separate sections. One that faces the back of the house and another that I only notice as I go around the back—that faces the mountains

and this is where Jörn is waiting for me, leaning against the wall

he smiles when he sees me as if he has a secret but he gestures to the sky because of the stars as he comes over to me, opening his coat to pull me inside it,

He points,
“right there is the Big Dipper—see the North Star?”

Skies and stars ....

I follow his direction and see it is visible until some clouds come and obscure

“Is this my surprise?” I ask and turn into him inside his coat looking up at his face

“No— guess what is behind this door?” and he pulls me towards it

“No idea....”

And he opens it,
“the owner is Swedish, remember? She installed a sauna —I just had to fix a few things about it before I wanted you to see it.”

“Have you known it was here all along?” I follow him inside

“Lisa said there was one here but it needed some things fixed which I did....”

It is all pale wood slats and  two long layer steps of rounded recliner areas but as I go inside with him I get the strangest chill

It is the placement of where the window is and where the wood burner is set.... and how it looks.... and reminds me of....

I look at Jörn but he moves to the fire and adjusts something

“It’s just starting to warm up,” he takes off his coat and hangs it up on a peg by the door and comes over to me, unzipping my coat and pulling it off me

“You’ve been busy!” I say as I look around, noticing a pile of neatly folded white towels ....

and placed ....

“Jörn....” I say low to myself

arranged as the sauna is..... it is exactly where the hides would have been stacked up ....in the smeden’s hut—I get another chill and look over at him as he comes back from hanging my coat

“Boots—“ he points

so I take them off as he goes back the fire and —it is like deja vu for a moment.... I see everything the way it is in my memory and I see both, together overlaid in vision ....the way he stands now before the fire as he warms up his hands, he does a motion

I watch him take off his shirt and as he stands there with his back bare in front of the fire I know ....I cannot ever doubt that I have .... “Jörn....” I whisper again as the shadows that fall into contours of the muscles of his back —flesh to life a memory the way a photo on paper emerges from chemicals, he turns now to face me,

“are you warm enough, duva?” he asks me as he opens the button of his jeans and starts to remove them, “do you like it? I’ve been getting it ready while you were ....unwell, I thought you’d like it.”

I move nearer to him and stare instead of answering because of the strange tricks of my mind and without thinking I say,

“I love —it,” and continue to stare at him as he kicks off his jeans to sit down naked

He smiles,
“come here,” and opens long arms

and it makes me think of the image of the beach with the full moon. I go over to him and his hands move over me, peeling off my sweater and jeans

“I don’t want it too get too hot, Jörn,” I say about the sauna, “I can’t be in extreme heat, you know, because of ....”

but he pulls me onto him to sit wrapped around him and fits me ....to him

“By the way, I don’t think any differently about you —but I can’t promise about the heat,” he says against my ear






*lyrics by Billy Corgan from the song ‘Muzzle’

a pirate’s prize

‘I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone 

To lie here and die among the sorrows 

Drift among the days

‘For everything I ever said

And everything I’ve ever done is gone

And dead

‘As all things must surely have to end

And great loves will one day have to part’*

.................................................................................

Elan on the beach washes her shame in the ocean

She learned to loath herself by the man that she called father

she goes along the shore in search of moonstones

she walks up the way to the market where people sold and traded things like silk and pottery, dried herbs and root vegetables

Elan and her father traveled with a donkey because their horses were taken when the raid happened two years before

and so they walked everywhere and packed up the donkey and went by boat to travel and trade

He was thought to be a medicine man and his herbs promised cures

they would travel by season when weather allowed it and returned to familiar ports

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time the pirate with the vampire eyes looked at her with possession 

it was her first encounter of being valued

*”Muzzle” Billy Corgan https://youtu.be/bHR0MBF-AZc

Noir haze (edjmmusechron)

“So do you want to go back to the city?” I ask him

“Eventually—yes,” he nods with an obvious shrug, “I’m a musician, you can’t expect me to perform for sheep and you know you can’t stay in hiding forever. It’s not realistic. You will crave the city again,” he says this matter of fact with a sharp look at me

“No....” I say back “I don’t know that....” and shake my head for emphasis “....!”

but he ignores this

He says,
“.... can you really see yourself blending into the mountain range?” he asks me and gestures around us

“Why not? Trees are my favorite people,” I say

He laughs and shakes his head,
“No, I can’t see that. You say this but you are an artist and you will crave things like actual culture soon enough..... and want the city again and I mean, not necessarily the city —being —New York City.”

But I don’t want to think about it right now, it feels too much

He says,
“there are other cities.”

my attention gets sidetracked by what he says.... other cities; yes..... because

each time when I decide to just pick up and go some place

there is such a thrilling rush.....

that feeling of escape

like now, when I think of it it .....to finally finally get away .... and naturally, for me it goes to ‘no place like home’ and thoughts of running back to Amsterdam..... to
finally get away from here; far far away from what has been one very long nightmare since I arrived at Bard college

He pulls up to the house and before he moves to get out I say,

“sometimes I wonder if it is only the code that you want from me.”

He shuts the car door he has just opened without getting out and as I start to get out of the car he grabs my wrist and stops me

I wiggle free from his grip by fast reflex and get out fast and rush to the house

“Wait!” he calls after me but I run inside

“Is everything ok?” Elsa says as I rush by her

“Oh, I just —“I say but hear Jörn calling me as he walks through the front door but I say to Elsa, “—yes—fine....I’m just....!” but I keep going until I reach the stairs and rush up and shut the bedroom door kicking off my boots and tossing my coat in a mad need to be free of it. I hear him come up the stairs still calling me. I run to start the water in the bathtub and shut the bathroom door

He comes right in and he seems slightly angry

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a bath,” I tell him

“Why do you say that and then take off? Is this about the other thing?”


Then I hear another voice and realize it’s Andreas asking if I’m ok.

I shut off the water and sit on the ledge and call out that I’m ok and look up at Jörn

He takes a moment to watch me and leans against the sink with his arms folded then he walks out and opens the bedroom door and calls out

“Vi kommer snart nere!”


and then shuts the door again and comes back

“I know what you’re doing!” he says looking at me with sudden awareness



*from the song ‘Muzzle’ by Billy Corgan

Noir Cruise Control (edjmmusechron) 7 November 2019

It is cold —and even when we get into the car so.... I wait for him to put on the heat and shiver as I lean sideways against the side of the seat with my legs up and my knees to my chest to huddle for warmth

I ask him now about the weird thing he just said

He takes out his phone and shows me something,
“do you know what this is?”

“It looks like musical notes,” I say

“Yes, well, obviously! Look closer, duva,” he insists

“I’m dyslexic—but— I could hazard a guess it is —what—the major and the minor piano chords? I never could read music, Jörn.”

“Exactly....” he says and smiles at me, “but you are right, that is what this is.” He puts away his phone

Suddenly he says, and very casually,
“So did you miss me?”

He can be so strange but so impossibly handsome. I move over to him and angle between the steering wheel into his lap and wrap around his hips. I press myself there to him, and loosen his hair then cover his mouth with mine,
“what do you think?”

He smiles as he glances at the side rear view to see if anyone is there.... then runs his hands up the back of me to my hips and pulls me to him with a roughly accurate motion which belies what his expression does not

“You should put your seat belt on,” but he laughs and pulls me by the hips to press me into but then he sees someone in the rear view,
“actually, you should, there’s a state trooper ....” he says now

“Oh! ....Do you know it has been a year since ....” I say as I move up to move over ....but then I stop for a moment to look at him; to look .... into that den inside his eyes, “that first day ...” and watch his eyes respond with their elusive mystery

I move to the passenger seat and say,
“but you are too rational to get caught up in things like ....”

“Things like?” he asks me but he teases me

“You know—emotions..... You don’t really ever get emotional about anything —so it seems things don’t really ....” I run out of what to say

“I don’t? You think I don’t feel things?” he asks me seriously, “you think that I don’t notice you’ve been sleeping in my bed ....?”

And still he says nothing

“Jörn.... you know, I think you are like .... you’re like Spock, I think, —I mean, sometimes a girl needs ....a clear indication .... of—some sort of....” and run out of words

“So I’m Spock and my father is Yoda— what does that make you?”

“....Barbarella,” I say

“So my mother would be....?”

“Sarah Connor—“ I shrug easily as it’s a given but see he needs a hint, “the Terminater....” and I cock an imaginary machine gun. 

we both laugh but then he shrugs with a heavy sigh,

“You really are obtuse.... you know? you don’t notice ....how I have turned my life upside down ...?” he looks at me and waves his arms, “look where we are.... why are we here? Because you wanted to get away from the city —do you know what I did just to bring you here? Why? Because of something going on in your pathological past you still won’t talk about and I have not forced out of you but you are running away from something that .... “and he looks at me in a kind of tragic way.

What is he thinking? He takes my chin in his hand thoughtfully and then drops his hand and looks suddenly away “.... which, at this point, you have to realize that.... the demon is inside you,” he says

“Yes. Well, whatever. Dr. Freud ....be that as it may.... Jörn, still.... sometimes a girl needs a more obvious sign.”

“My opera ....you know it’s because of ....we’ve talked about this.... ” he says and looks at me, “and the fact that my parents have accepted that Lisa and I are done.”

Such a brave statement and a comfortable commitment

I become aware of more than one conversation happening at the same time.

But then he asks me,

“Do you still want to know what I was doing in New Jersey?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I found the table that went to the safe —your sister sold it on e-Bay for eight hundred dollars back in 2003. Wasn’t that the year after your parents died? They died six weeks apart, right?”

“Hmmm....” I put on my seatbelt

“And there were no wills....?” He asks me

but I take that as rhetorical rather than decide to open that conversation

and now ask, “the table to the code ....?” and look at him

He says,
“The table with the code ....key  —to the safe with the code —lock,” he says

“What does that mean?” I ask him

“It means ....” he starts the car and turns in the seat to back out, “I need you to remember how to play that piece you won that award for.”