Electra’s dictionary; Regret (noir; jm muse chronicles)

 

“Down the way, the road’s divided

Paint me the places you’ve seen

Those who know what I don’t know

Refer to the yellow, red and green

Maybe he’s caught in the legend

Maybe he’s caught in the mood

Maybe these maps and legends

Have been misunderstood ....”

                                                                — song lyrics to ‘Maps and Legends’ by R.E.M.

https://youtu.be/kXVeHjj_odw

“What fosters hope?” Jörn asks me 

His question at first baffles me

it is when I find him staring out the window into the blackness of the night

having only just now entered the room

I had bad dreams

it was a marathon of dreams, as it were; 

like several at once ....overlapping each other and mixing .... as if my mind was split in several sections 

then images spliced.... then as if they were copied and pasted 

a jumble of angst ridden images

and parts repeating .... during it I knew why. They made sense. But I became aware it was too much to let my conscious self keep that door open wide. There were parts from childhood... and parts from .... those other memories .... as I write of them here and share and I guess I take for granted .... woven through these scenes  ..... Those dreams —the ones that make me wonder about the immortal soul; those  emotional images that I can’t reconcile but have imposed themself for so long now in my life most especially during troubled times and through very deep sleep. This time they all wove together with these other ones about what I’ve been writing lately about as —they have lately reared into my thoughts from events; my current regrets that haunt me .... now so much .... things like the unavoidable.... inevitable .... entangling sorrow

“Love,” Jörn says academically answering his own question

and his one word holds me there 

as if I never heard the word before; indeed it sounds foreign .... coming from him

is it because I never heard him say the word before?

Or is it how .... he says it

He holds the sheers by one finger as he stands by the window thoughtfully .... he’s been lost in thought. So now as he says it....

     ....well, I see the artist that he is; the musician .... and I see his introspective mood; the same look of mood as I have seen whenever I watch him at his piano doing his composing. Working through a puzzle ....it is like; how he goes over and over a sequence ....the short brackets of movement in threes. And then he goes back over them to play them all in sequences ....together; repeating themes, what seems has become the soundtrack of us

and as I am caught there looking at him my own thoughts are still tangled in the chaotic place I woke from

“You were dreaming,” he says this now, “I heard you.”

But my mind is incoherent of the meanings behind what he’s saying 

as if I need to translate —caught between the worlds 

and any or all of what to deduct from his topic of conversation 

“I’m sorry —what?” I say suddenly overwhelmed as I fear I must have missed something rather important and have to go to sit down on the couch, “what time is it?” I say this even as I wear a watch and realize it is still the middle of the night. But I didn’t hear music. No that is not what woke me this time. He was not playing his piano

I had spoken to Gerald earlier

     as I have been troubled 

some by these dreams —but it occurs to me now that instead of ‘those’ dreams being the cause of the disturbance I have been feeling.... instead, they seem to intervene and recall me back to safety these last several times. And in fact, I realize, they always did.... they present themselves during troubled times, I have said.... but they are not the cause of what troubles, no—but they are more like a raft over troubled waters that act to pull me out as ....I feel I’m drowning 

they may be sad but only for the way it ends up but .... not the other parts .... instead they are —

“Love,” he says again and lets go of the curtain sheer and as he turns to look at me

I look at him now. Without my usual masks of defense shields because at this moment I don’t feel afraid to search his face for answers. And his gaze back at me is open and direct. But he says nothing more. It is just his eyes.

Then he moves over to look at the pages of his sheet music with all his scribbled notes of writing and as he does this he says to me, 

“you know, the reason I rework the opera—duva.... is because I am trying to —recreate ....the memory.... the dove,” he sighs pausing just a moment —then, with a quick, heavy impatience as he taps a stack of sheet paper to make them neatly line up together; it is one of his odd habits, and again, hastily, without pausing he continues, “I’ve been having them too, you know that, I’ve told you this before—it is what prompts the musical scores, my inspiration I guess, you could say, and I realized, you see— it is love; that is what has been —that nagging —that haunting—I mean why —?— but then, I realize! isn’t that really the basis of —well ....all masterpieces.... why they stand out in our memory; their brilliance.... All the great works....” and he draws his brows and shakes his head then picks up a sheet of his music to correct one of his notes and says to me with the need of driving his point, “what fosters hope.... this is what has been the missing element —no, not missing, I just did not really think about it as I’ve been so frustrated trying to get it all right....”his face lights now because by saying this now he seems to understand it. Now

And here he stops

Oh. Yes. I do get it. I get what he means

But then....

Oh.... I think.... 

oh.... and let out a breath .... suddenly .... maybe disappointed 

I shake my head and go back to my own troubled thoughts; the dreams and my earlier conversation —

“I spoke to Gerald earlier today,” I blurt out suddenly 

“I know,” he says

“You know?” and look at him behind my hands as I press into the tension in my forehead 

He walks over,

“yes,” he says and smiles as looks at me

I make a gesture; getting annoyed so he smiles again,

“I called him too....” he waits to watch my expression, “that’s when he told me he’d spoken to you earlier.”

“Oh.... so why didn’t you say anything about it before?”

He shrugs,

“we were both busy talking about other things. Remember? You. Me. About that shipment you know about now.... For you the photographer about the penthouse and the budget cuts you have to do because of —“

“Oh—Ilya, yes....” I realize he’s right and mumble, “the pandemic has taken over everything.... well....” I start to focus now as the fogginess of my mind clears a little. Maybe that is what caused the dreams, I start to realize.... feeling trapped and impotent, caught in such limbo 

I think again about what he said when I walked into the room

What fosters hope.... ?

And I think again now .... of what he is saying 

I look up at him ....  it was something that Gerald said to me on the phone .... how —being at— well what he called ‘ground zero’ .... seeing things first hand, not read as some words across media sources. The front lines 

He said,

“after people have faced death some people choose to pretend it didn’t happen, they need the security of some safe return to their version of reality.”

I remember reading somewhere once that often as a reaction to being through something violent and life changing event some people become excessively extravagant and spend excess amounts of money  —Louise Bryant, I think it was, who spent lots of money on clothes and shoes after her life had been dramatically endangered during her experiences in the Russian revolution 

Because now I think I do understand what maybe I had not before 

“Sometimes, you know, when you meet again— ‘unfinished business’ does not have to mean disaster,” Gerald said to me before, “sometimes it is to heal.”

So I remember this now as I look over at Jörn as he is still busy tapping his papers in that absently nervous way he does

“Is that what it was he felt when he first saw her, Jörn—after the dove flew away?” I ask him

He looks quizzically at me not getting my meaning 

But instead I ask,

“what did you talk about with Gerald?”

But he is still thinking about what I first asked 

he blinks in a way that seems to pull him back to the present,

“I asked him if he’d known of people who meet again in order to —fix a mistake.”

chased by demons; Brave noir World, a pirate’s hoard (jm chronicles)

 

my mood has been  ....odd

as the strangeness of recent has heavily hung 

and especially from the past week

sometimes it seems that I have arrived at some alien world and in another time apart from time altogether; people talk about a “new norm” but I don’t think the meaning they first thought that meant is ....what will be what anyone was or has been expecting. And ....I suppose it is just that I can feel these things. It is hard not to absorb the climate of this hardly brave but —is— definitely a most strange new world’s current atmosphere .... as I quietly internalize from a corner within 

For yet, as well, particular to me and .... my life....even so.... more recent old personal matters in my life come to ghoulishly haunt me 

with the same old teeth and claws bared

and I suppose I often must say through the dictionary ....to, I guess, acknowledge through codes what seems to never otherwise get to be expressed overtly; this little voice must stay quiet; always remain .... silent.... unnoticed and unseen 

So inward, as always, I go to retreat....

****

As Jörn has been away a few days now —on one of his usual secret missions

and at first I go to my studio—the old gutted farmhouse but then.... find disturbing things there and.... spend a few days not even knowing what I do

as I don’t really feel in the right mood to paint

Instead I just stare at the pirate in my painting and .... hear that sea 

hear it crashing .... the waves.... and think about the dreams .... like those that first came through; like the sounds of the drumming, the horses hooves beating and trampling the earth

I look up at him and see from the dream

consider him.... and look at the boats on the shore and what else has to go there.... fix the foam and the swords, the shadows .... as I see the scene alive from dream before me; and as always my works have their own life; they tell me what to put, what to write; they speak their own life to me, like I’m just the vehicle, the medium 

I look too at something folded in my hand 

 .... as I have found more strange things like some evidence Jörn has left uncharacteristically around.... 

and so disturbs my contemplation.... 

and as I know I am not meant to ask him questions, 

this one sided double wall, 

only ....I do wish he was more forthcoming

there is so much I wish he would say.... so much about him I want to know ....beyond that stare

and now....

what he has left neatly folded together under a large can of plaster I spotted sticking out as it was wedged in an out of the way wall shelf ....

It is so baffling to me.... 

Which is why, instead, I now find the farmhouse oppressive with whatever mysteries it keeps me from 

I go to the sauna —the separate little shed, that is actually cool because it is well insulated from outside and also because it is without any heating by the wood burning stove because it has been too hot. 

That now makes it seem almost more like an outer space ship or more like a space waiting station, sitting in the backyard, overlooking the forest beyond; especially as the interior, with its minimalist starkness and pale wood ....it stands in dramatic contrast viewing the jungle of trees it presides over

I look at the papers in my hand: one pink, one green and one white ....trying to figure out what he is up to  because—

it is more perplexing receipts .... dated over a week; one seems to be for a shipping cruiser— ? another for jet fuel? and the third—

But I get interrupted by a sudden burst which causes me to start 

and nearly jump out of my skin!

“Why have you had your phone turned off?!!” he nearly shouts this at me

“Jörn! My god, you scared me!” I gasp at him trying to catch my breath as I jump to my feet

He is holding my phone and waving it at me as if to demand an answer 

I notice he’s gotten some sun and he’s wearing his running shoes but his jeans have smears and some mud, or grease, like his shirt

“I’ve been calling you since yesterday—I thought something happened to you!” Now he does shout at me

“Chris started harassing me again,” I turn my back as I explain 

“Chris? Did he come here?” Jörn starts to look around, ”has he been here?”

“No— he’s now in Michigan! ....actually—“ I almost laugh now

“Michigan, I thought you said he lives in New York?” Jörn tries to make sense of what I’m saying 

“ —ha—!” I force a laugh at that, “yes, he’s visiting there —and! Ha! guess who he’s staying with—? You won’t believe this! the other ex! Crazy, right? like— what are the two of them up to—? Right? you know, one Butchers and the other is just Lew-d—Chris started sending me texts at two in the morning Monday night! Two in the morning! a fucking barrage of them! —they didn’t stop! which is why I turned my phone off —you see? This is normal for him; it’s how he gets—he just doesn’t stop, he’s relentless!”

I can hear in Jörn’s voice he’s irritated as he asks me,

“Why don’t you just block him?” 

“Because I don’t trust him, you know? I need to know what he’s up to because —he’s there, you see? and staying where my daughter is—! it’s just madness! Isn’t it? And—you know, I had this feeling— I suspected ....back in May I mean.... you know—that Chris was behind what happened with my daughter —her letter to me— remember? especially when he admitted to me that he had been talking to her— you know? he is like that.... sneaky and manipulating and ....people don’t even realize he’s wrapping them up— he’s a gaslighting professional nightmare....“ but I lose steam exhausted of it then and just suddenly don’t have the energy to go on and stop talking— giving up because .... it’s just not worth it anymore 

yeah.... I stop and give up my tirade defeated .... because it’s done isn’t it? I’m done, anyway— as by now it is a dead horse 

and I won’t beat that dead horse anymore; those 

because ....I think I have finally learned not to give it power, not anymore—especially not to him .... I long ago walked away, didn’t I?  just let it swing there over my head like old broken Christmas lights ....and really there is nothing more to lose, is there? they’ve already taken everything 

“Why don’t you just divorce him already?” Jörn asks me in a tone revealing he is tired of it too

“....yes I am done with it.....I had enough— with all of it actually.... them—! ....all of them....You know.... “ and I say as I think this, “sometimes people just choose to blame others for everything instead of facing their own truths— have you ever noticed that? They look for scapegoats all the time— that is their pattern all their life and —I guess I am tired of taking that role for everyone— finally .... you know, they don’t realize that they are the toxic ones —and not the ones who they accuse others for being —but, whatever.... never mind.... I wasn’t even going to tell you about this garbage but — since you asked so....” 

and then I look down at what I dropped,

“Actually, wait— Jörn, I have a question for you—“ and now I pick up the receipts I dropped, “why are you shipping gold to Sweden?”

But he just stands there looking at me blankly ....

I think a bit surprised. It occurs to me I actually caught him off guard 

“And quite a lot, I must add!” I look again at the receipt

I notice he runs his hand through his hair now as he thinks ....before he reaches for the receipts to grab from me 

and then quickly with a glibness he says,

“I buy gold all the time— sometimes that’s how I get paid —do you think I’d just keep it laying around?”

Vampire opera noir reprise

As I watch the shadows on the wall like some scene from a Bela Lugosi film, the music seems to call to me and I get up pulled by the haunting sounds of his music

and at first I am stopped to watch him from the gallery landing outside the bedroom that in profile overlooks Jörn at his piano in the center of the living room that is all open, like some great hall in a Norman castle with the backdrop of the dark and dense forest beyond the barn house great window

this combination of the heavy ominous music; slammed hard on the deep low range with the peddle pressed to echo vibrato in contrast to the light and tinkling of high range; like a bird in flight

I watch .... and closer still .... to catch it all

like every second of my life, this need to record, verbatim diary

as close to accurate my documented proofs of memories; existence --

I press my phone

to record .... and close up to his face

and move....

                      am moved--

thus moved

to stop


and sit transfixed to every detail of him; no I'd never tire of his face, no matter how old he got; this time not to go too soon. So moved by his music I hardly notice as I record him that his face is wet with tears and it is only this that induces me to rush down the stairs but have to pause because of how well he plays this sequence and caught there

Jörn clears his throat when he realizes I'm there and seems to shrug but I see this way he wipes the evidence of what I saw was there

"Did I wake you?" and his voice is more dry than usual. Instead of saying anything, I go to him and move between him and the piano and wrap around him to kiss his face and feel the texture of his hair against my lips

"I don't mind. That part is new isn't it?" I say "I love it, it's so beautiful," and then move to sit beside him

"Here--" he says and puts one arm around me, he reaches for my hands, "I'll teach it to you.... like this...." he says and then he says, "we've not done this in awhile...." and because I have missed this I let him show me

And for a long while we play the way we used to when we first met, the way he kissed me as he did this, and reminding how with his touch and his music he could possess my soul with the passion and depth of his emotion and how willingly I forget myself in it. And so he does, right there at his piano do to my body what he accomplishes with his notes, wrapped around his hips

and later after we realize we never ate and are starving with hunger,  we share and devour a bowl of pesto and pasta before we return from the kitchen back to his piano again


But then, as we sit at the piano, Jörn stops playing as if becoming tired of playing and turns suddenly to me



“Your mother never mentioned Ethan Rhys Jones again after—?”

His non-sequitorial question causes me to sharply stare at him, my mind going blank for a moment.

but then, thoughts come

 as if willed on their own

it causes a course of thoughts and I am sat by his side but suddenly transferred as if by a flying carpet back to our little kitchen in Amsterdam, to our flat across from Amstel Park that lays parallel to Europa Boulevard. If any place in the world conjures feelings of home, it will always pull me there

and for a long moment I let myself be indulged with this

.... and the day

   that day

the very first time she said his name to me

I don’t know if there was a part of me that already knew —knew this moment would press indelibly inside my mind; that afternoon. I remember all of that moment. Drinking tea with her, a Sunday, it was, and I faced the window when on clear days I could see the hotel Okura, past the Rei.

Finally I blink and realize I got lost there

I look up at Jörn and study his expression. It is the surprise of such a strange yet deep look of —concern? or is it worry? No, I can’t at all discern what the look there on his face actually means, and I feel compelled to touch him, wanting to smooth it away,

“I was fifteen— no, sorry, sixteen....” I have to stop to calculate and take another moment to sort through a mental stack of playing cards whose suits all seem out of order.... and I try to sort them so many years now they have long reshuffled

it hurts my head to think. I have to rub the tension in between my brows as I feel the start of a migraine. I take a conscious deep breath.

After a long pause as I consider what may prompt Jörn to ask I decide he must have a reason to ask, and.... since the hike with him I have felt .... something within me towards Jörn has altered

only what, I cannot quite fathom

only that.... it feels

    as if.... some gateway has opened.... up

my heart even rushes, skipping a beat and.... have to cup my hands to stop myself from the vertigo of hyperventilating ....that lightheaded feeling; blind faith

“I was always writing, even back then....” I begin, not looking at him, “you know, scripts and plays.... I was big into Oscar Wilde in those days ....and —Woody Allen....” I laugh at myself, “but I remember I was writing a story that I had been reciting to her this one afternoon.... “ I get a sick feeling, “well, it was about this bastard princess....” I shake my head and stop talking. I find I can’t breath. I turn to the piano keys and lay my fingers down.... touch the keys.... let it go .... and play some familiar chords

but Jörn watches me. I feel it, don’t have to look up. Then I do look up at him.... and see .... his eyes are patient.... he seems in no hurry to press me. He just watches me.... and again, there is something so different there now in his eyes; soft now, gray overcast the hint of glitter in the dim light

Another deep breath before I press on,

“looking back now.... “ I shake my head and shrug, “it blows my mind how thick I can be about recognizing the obvious.... well.... I remember she said the oddest thing....”

“Why—what was it?” and only now Jörn seems to rush me

I look down at the floor to avoid the distraction of his eyes now needing to figure something about this out.... even as knowing it will always allude me and is for naught

“Well— you know, she really wanted me to pursue painting, not writing. She seemed to think that I would be the artist she and my grandfather never got to be, so she was always nagging me about my sketch book, actually grading me weekly and criticizing every miscalculated mark of perspective and not spending enough time at it. So— it was a sudden turn when she said to me something that afternoon....” I stop and try to remember how she said it.... but it has been so many years now.... “she told me she wanted me to write a new story.... because she said I was gifted and reminded her of someone she once knew, and....she wanted it to be about him....”  I play the Beethoven chord three times. Stop. I look up at Jörn and without realizing my intent to, I reach for his hand .... and hold it tight; grip; cling.... even as I don’t want to, I seem to keep talking, “she started to tell me about this man.... she said ....she wanted me to know who he was; a great man who had been wrongly maligned by .... the press, the government,” I shrug hopelessly lost in the memory of that talk as I remember the way she seemed to trap me in conversation ....and I grip his hand.... but realize what I do in that instant— and let go; ashamed. I look quickly away. But I go on, “it seemed hours went by— she’d even shut the kitchen door so as not to be overheard, which was weird, that door was never shut. But.... then —he— came in....”

“Your —“

“Father— or who I thought was....”

“Was this before or after the biology blood test assignment?” Jörn asks with a more mild tone as if only saying this as a prompt of encouragement

“Yes,” I say because I know he already knows. So I say, “he said, ‘are you talking about Jamaica?’”

"Jamaica?" Jörn asks

"Oh, that's where we lived my first year after I was born," I explain

"The island? Why there?"

"Because that's where my mother's best friend Barbara DeLisser was; her family owned the resort the Half Moon in those days, the playground of the jet setters my mother used to run with. That's how she became friends with people like Adolfo and Jacques Cousteau.... we lived there-- you know? I remember it--they say we don't remember early years but.... I do-- isn't that strange? I remember the soft feel of the sand ....and the voodoo shops with the faces and ....the steel drums...."

And I put my fingers back on the keys.... then the black keys.... that were always the trickiest part; their strange dissonance ....the motion sickness

I pull back.... Still— determined to face the music,

“The next day he was off to Barcelona ....” and look up at Jörn before putting the sequence together .... turn and play almost one bar

then have to get up and walk away

"Please play something else Jörn!" I go to the two story window to look out into the blackness of the forest

But I hear the bench scrape as he gets up and turn to watch him as he goes to get something by his sound equipment and realize it is a disc

"Here, before I forget," he comes toward me but then stops himself and walks deliberately towards the widescreen monitor to switch it on

he says,

"Before my father disowns me for being so forgetful about this-- you know, he called again, before to remind me! And-- he was being oddly mysterious about it ....so I know as much about what this is as you do and only then cryptically said he's 'already put it in the right hands' which he actually seemed to giggle after he said it!" Jörn laughs, "so, I'm curious...." he says before returning to the computer by his equipment to insert it


It is only once it begins that I realize what it is Joseph has asked Jörn to give me.... it is an edited version of all the recordings and footage I sent to him of Jörn at his piano of his opera but remastered with himself on cello with Elsa's vocals and his two grandchildren on clarinet and electric violin

Inquiry averted~the spy is ambushed (jm muse noir)

”...I think it’s because I’m clumsy
I try not to talk too loud
Maybe it’s because I’m crazy
I try not to act too proud

They only hit until you cry
After that you don’t ask why

You just don’t argue anymore
You just don’t argue anymore
You just don’t argue anymore...”

—Suzanne Vega; lyrics from song “Luka”

   




He says that I said other things after.... Sometimes it has happened when I forget things ....after ....when something happens that—well—I don’t know exactly.... something triggers an episode.... Sometimes. And those sometimes .... it seems like a curtain gets drawn over my mind

and with it the sense that ....

well.... I am not sure

I just know I never know what I have lost when it happens. It has only happened a few times .... well, that I know about. And it feels after like a vacancy .... replaces an episode of time and has erased the memory and leaving a residue of a kind of euphoria and a strange foggy lightheadedness and along with it a heavy fatigue

....like an exhaustion of emotions spent like a rubber band snapped across the room, then leaving a feeling like being somewhat drunk yet as if something .... has been released or purged

only.... to be honest, as we document time for this very reason....

you see


....I suppose it is the something that always later I find that I .... deeply fear,

suspecting I must have betrayed .... the Celf



But at first I don’t think about it because the euphoria is so strong it overcomes everything else

in retrospect I know it is the release that brings on the giddiness

****

It seems only like a moment is passed when I feel I blacked out

“Oh the heat,” I say as rub my eyes from behind my glasses and then look up at him

We are in the car now

but I don’t remember getting there. This occurs to me slowly as he seems to be staring at me so strangely.

I have never seen the look on his face before like that .... he is leaned over me in the front seat and only now moves over slightly closer to his side behind the wheel but his right hand is still gripping my upper arm while he lets go of my other arm with his left

His look is so strange! His eyes are so wild! The way he stares at me almost concerns me something is wrong

“I’m ok,” I tell him and try to laugh but I’m still dizzy, “it’s the heat,” I say

“Drink the water,” he says oddly, like a command, and pushes it in front of me with serious urgency and that spooky look still in his eyes as he watches me

“What happened?” he whispers this carefully as he studies me

“I guess I blacked out,” I say and feel abashed at all the attention he’s making of it

He shakes his head,
“....so you don’t remember what you just said?”

“The Beethoven thing, yes—I can play it for you when we get back!” I suddenly become excited with the thought

Still he stares at me as if I now have two heads

I decide to take his advice and drink the water

He starts the car but still stares at me before reaching to reverse he wipes his face with the back of his arm and it occurs to me by this motion he does that it was damp. But it does not seem like with sweat. In fact.... it is this which is the strangeness of his expression because I realize .... I have never seen him cry

“Jörn....?” I look at him


But he turns his face away now from me as if to look out the side rear view mirror as he reverses the car and clears his throat

“Are you ok?” I ask him

“Ja.... you said you’re hungry? I don’t think you’re feeling up to cooking—“

“Yes, I’d love to cook!” I say as the euphoria starts to hit and the surge of energy with it —and I suddenly feel quite creative as I begin to suggest ingredients that I recall are lying around, back at the house

but he’s only paying half attention to this as he continues to give me side long glances as he takes the road back to the barn house

only after we pull up the drive I lose my balance getting out and he runs over to me which makes me laugh,

“I just got dizzy, I’m not about to faint or anything! It’s not like I’m glass!” I laugh at him

only he still looks strangely at me and he says seriously,

“I don’t want you falling down on the driveway and cracking your head open and then having to take you to ER, I’d rather we skip that—put you arm around my neck,” he says this also like a command and I only do this because I start to feel he may be right as the horizon begins to swerve a little

When he kicks open the door and brings me in I say,

“can we play the Beethoven piece? Let’s sit at your piano! I’m in the mood to play,” I suggest; thrilled with the idea

“No— we’re not playing right now, duva—I don’t think you’re feeling well,” he says, “I have a better idea let’s go upstairs....” and he kicks the door closed and on the way he suggests, “I’ll draw you a bath and maybe I should make you dinner,” he says

No, it isn’t like it is out of character for him to say this but I find it unexpected because of the stress behind his tone which is why I move my arms closer around his neck and adjust myself and wrap my legs around his waist,

“I like the bath idea,” I say into his ear, “but only if you join me.”

He adjusts his grip on me as he reaches the top step and walks into the bedroom

“You sit here while I get the bath ready,” and he goes to set me down on the white, plush fake-fur, chair by the table, where I keep my things but I don’t let go,

and I say,
“stay here with me,” into his ear and press and mold myself against him firmly below his waist intentionally to change his mind and kiss his neck and ear

instead he sits in the chair with me on his lap to catch his breath and —giving up ....with just the slightest resistance

and because he looks worried and also because of what it seemed I saw before; the dampness on his face in the car that looked like tears I feel more worried for him than about myself

“I’m sorry,” I say to him and study his face now

I run my fingers over the angles of his face beginning from his brows to smooth the tension away and ending down to his jaw to kiss his mouth, letting loose, his hair to feel it with my fingers

“What are you sorry about?” he asks me looking at me

“Because we were having such a nice day and now I’ve ruined it.”

He smiles,
“you didn’t ruin it.... I asked you too many questions. It’s my fault. I should apologize. Let me make you dinner,” he says anxiously as if he feels guilty and moves as if to get up but I hold him down by gripping the back of the chair

“We can do it together,” I say but make no move to remove myself from his hips. Instead I press harder into him and feel that wild euphoria soar again and the wildness causes me to impulsively reach for something on the table from my makeup bag; I select a silver-color, crayon eye-pencil and decide it would be fun to outline his eyes in it

“What are you doing?” he asks as I start drawing on him

“I knew this would go well with your eyes!” and laugh because he can’t move and is forced to endure my whim as I do a good job of it beginning with the mysterious upward slant of his eyes and ending at the razor sharp edges by the bridge of his nose exaggerating the angle. Then find myself mesmerized by the effect

“When did you remember the notes of your composition?” he asks as if in surrender letting out a sigh and finally relaxing under me

I study my artistry but say,
“as we were talking. Weird, right? But I think it’s been coming to me in my dreams recently —I don’t know why it just suddenly popped out like that while we were talking!”

Only I see the way his kryptonite eyes narrow as he looks at me. I take a brush to smear the silver line into a smudge

Again he looks guilty I notice which oddly disturbs me

but then decide to consider lipstick shades

maybe just lip pencil; mauve or burgundy? but change my mind when I reach his lips and kiss him instead

“So have you made my eyes less evil looking now?” he breathes the question lasciviously into my ear and as I sense he has succumbed to my persuasion

“Why would you say they are evil?”

“Vampire?”

So I laugh,
“that’s not how I mean it about you—but.... I guess you never read ‘the Vampire Lastat’,” and laugh again, “so you have been reading ‘the dictionary’? A spy’s work is never done.... I mean it as ‘immortal’ and almost supernatural.... and beautiful,” and kiss his mouth some more, moving my hands to pull off his shirt

Fundamental keys; noir

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say

I get up from the tree and start going back down the path. And keep going.

It seems the heat has caught up with me; I go too fast and yet still I go. Just go. Want to get back, now, so, I focus on the sound of the ground under my feet

and ignore the dizziness that overcomes me—

just focus on the sound when my shoe hits the ground

...only it can’t override nor drown that I hear him call to me and have to run suddenly

I don’t think I can run faster than him, I just want to run 

but I don’t plan what I will do when he catches up

so when he does and pulls me to stop, we collide —which knocks the wind out of me

and notice stars cover my vision as I fall down

Like a split/that I don’t care, even as I hear his voice raised at me in alarm— I hardly notice as I try to breath

hear him tell me what to do

hear him tell me.

I just look at him then as that part follows instructions to do what he says. And do, just do and seem not to panic. Seem not to. Must never; never show ....and hold onto the walls

It seems I breath easy again and then he says,
“why did you take off like that?”

I shake my head,
“I told you, I’m hungry....” I stare into his eyes

He shakes his head,
“I don’t think that’s it.”

I push against him to stand up and get dizzy and fall against him,
“see, I’m hungry....” I say even as it isn’t really what I think but it’s not his business; he has no right, so I can say what ever I want to because I don’t want him in my head. He has no right. How dare he? How dare he.... he thinks he knows? He doesn’t know. He can’t know. How dare he think so? How dare he. Fuck him, how dare he....

“Why won’t you answer the question?” he asks

“What question?”

“That I just asked you.”

“What was it? The one about my mother and how I was invisible to her and would float in and out of existence?” I laugh, “I don’t know what you mean—“ I push him away, “it’s hot, can we go? You must be hungry too—let’s go make dinner—there’s broccoli—let’s make couscous—“

“The Little Mermaid....” he says it flat and his eyes watch my eyes and it is how sharp their edge can reach deep inside that cuts me right open and I feel my head go light as it hits my solar plexus

I run out of breath

One cannot escape one’s personal fundamental truth

“The original story did not end happy.... “ I say for any excuse to say anything except what it is he fishes for because it is my personal right. I can defend it. I will defend it. And nothing else matters.

Still. I realize as my mind begins to clear that he will not give up —not now; I think this now— this actually makes it worse—shit, what have I done?.... think....fuck, what now

“That disc your father gave you—“

He shakes his head and turns my face to him and forces me to look at him. Again the stare. I  turn my head; he pulls it back.

I look away with my eyes

“Look at me,” he says

“Please, can we go?” I ask him as a chill passes through me

I hear him say softly under his breath,

“‘I won’t come out, you must come in to me....’”

I feel another chill and look at him now. I shake my head,

“no....” I say but it comes out too small. As if I cannot speak. I say instead, “I told you the code was written backwards ....it wouldn’t have opened the safe.... I spelled the codes backwards.”

He draws his brows,
“you remembered the codes?”

“They’re all backwards,” I say and close my eyes as I play the piece in my mind ....right hand; thumb, middle finger, pinkie ....Beethoven ....left hand.... thumb ....as I fall down he catches me before I hit the ground 

Electra’s dictionary Level 2: a mutated voice; Noir, the passage through silence (jm muse chronicles)

We decide to hike the nearby trail because there has been some relief from the heat due to the rain

rain is beautiful when it’s like this —if it wasn’t for the lightning; how much I do love getting soaked ....and the sound of rain when it comes down hard as if it can drown out all the bad in the world ....and I can lose myself in it

It has been 93F/33C and I feel glad for the break to get out in this especially because I want to avoid thinking about my daughter’s birthday

by afternoon it is clear for awhile to hike, the ground hardly damp at all

He says suddenly as we walk through the woods,

“You once said that you used to think that you were invisible —unless your mother saw you....” Jörn looks at me strangely

“Why do you say this?” I ask him

“You’ve been so distant lately,” he says

“but I can say the same about you,” I stop to look at him because it is true as it has bothered me —only I’d never say unless he said it first

“There is just a lot going on —you know, that I can’t talk about with ....”he shrugs as he considers and looks into the trees momentarily distracted in this

“The world?” I say to finish his sentence

“I was going to say ‘work’ but, yes, the world.... politics —” he grimaces with a note of frustrated disgust and then he looks at me now and reaches to brush an insect off my face that just landed there but then says, “oh I forgot —that reminds me; I was supposed to give you something that my father gave me for you when I saw him—“

“W-wait—what? When you saw him....?” I stare at him directly to ask the question without words and dare him with my eyes meeting the kryptonite sharply. To say. And look boldly at him. And his eyes tell me. He does not look away and does not deny what I imply, and I take a deep breath to say, “so they were right....” and I think about Smulagan and that day and even as I knew this anyway but —he never said after and so now letting out the deep breath I say with calm resignation, “well.... I guess I knew I was ....lying ....for you....” and look down as now I stop to consider,

then say,

“so ....what is it he gave you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s something on a disc that he seemed to think you would want and I keep forgetting to give it to you,” he tells me and takes my hand impulsively to pull me along in another direction, “so remind me when we get back because he keeps asking me if I gave it to you.”

but then we hear sounds in the leaves; that sound— as they rustle as if in haste something goes. We stop to be quiet to listen and we wait ....and watch for wild life

suddenly when he starts to go towards it I pull him back

“Wait—!“ I say like he’s crazy

“Shh....!” he is annoyed “oh, you just scared it away!” he exclaims in disappointment as we hear something take off

“It could be a skunk, don’t you smell that?” I ask him

but instead it is a redfox that we now see leap off into and out of the path with some kind of prey and Jörn laughs at me saying, “in daylight?” after it’s gone because I jumped as it came out of the brush

and makes it worse by running a branch up my arm so that I let out a scream as it felt like a spider crawling up my skin

“That’s not funny,” I say

But he laughs anyway

“Why did you think you were invisible?” he asks after we walk on

“I have been distant you say ....and you ask this.... how does that follow?”

“Because you’ve been talking in your sleep again,” he says as we go up a small hill as I stop to take a picture of the trees and how the sun light looks through the branches ....and the leaves; the lush, deep, dark, forest, green

“Have I?oh God—!what do I say?!” feeling my skin burn with embarrassment

He shakes his head,
“I can’t understand it— it comes out like mumbles. It sounds like ‘remus’ ....You did it more when we first came up here, though. And when you were ill, when your fever went up.”

We get to a clearing up at the peak that overlooks a nice view. There are trees with thick trunks and long, heavy branches and now I go over to one and touch the coarse texture with my hands and decide to sit down upon its thick roots and lean in to and against it. I always feel such peace around old trees. They are so very old, aren’t they? they always seem so wise to me; like vampires; such ancient souls to look up to

“Remus,” he says again and sits down next to me as I feel him look at me in that way.... that way that he does .... like when he tries to solve things, dissecting my brain methodically as if he has diagrams with the parts he thinks he’s got already figured out

“Tell me, Jörn, is this out of spy fascination or is it something else? Is it just some weird proclivity of yours to need to figure me out? Or is it that it bothers you that the safe is now back in your country?”

“Yes it bothers me! It’s not their case!” he says suddenly fired up

I pull back suddenly and look at him,
“well, even I can see it involves international intelligence, how can you say that like that?”

He doesn’t answer at first but seems almost to twitch in irritation about it with a scowl, then after a moment he says,
“it was my case and —I was close to —figuring something out! ....and now they have something —they— can never figure out.”

“Don’t you think that is what they would prefer?” I ask him and look at him but then get caught and then lost in his eyes; caught between what I see and what is behind that bewitching stare

“Remus.... duva.... ? what does ‘remus’ mean?” he persists as if he already knows

but my stomach growls

“Are you hungry?” I ask glad to change the subject, “it’s getting late,” I start to get up but he stops me

“That’s what you’re saying—isn’t it....?” and studies my eyes

“Well if you already knew ....” I shrug giving up and let him pull me back. I look back at him, “ok, what? Since you know. What....?”

He thinks about it and says it again to himself but then I am annoyed now and look at the view instead until finally I say,

“you know .... I told you ....once before.”

“The story ....” he says now as he remembers, “he would read to you ....during your secret visits with him,” and he smiles as he figures it out as it seems to always give him that sense of accomplishment when a pin drops into place

I don’t deny it and just keep watching the horizon as I wonder what he will decide to conclude about it

“Uncle Remus....” he chuckles to himself and shakes his head, “she told you he wasn’t real— that it never happened .... after.... when he stopped coming....”

“The year before he died....” I fill in the rest

“He was ill,” he says thoughtfully, “yes.... was that— before or after ....your visit that time with your mother to Sweden?” he suddenly asks

I hadn’t expected him to say that

so why do I get such a chill?

“What?” I ask confused at his reasoning

“You said the book he gave you disappeared too after.... “ but now as he stares at me I see he has that moment of an epiphany and

 ....my mouth goes dry

I reach for the water bottle to drink and turn away from his penetrating stare; like blinding gestapo, interrogation lights that turn a different, more brilliant hue in the sunlight

“What other stories did he read to you?”

I shrug and drink some more water and shake my head

but he reaches now for me with his hand and with such a gentle caress—along with his voice that has softened to a kind of purr

“is that when you left her in there?” he asks

a little noir

“We are so serious,” he says to me suddenly

and then I feel myself blush when he says something into my ear and I think that he is just kidding ....

“give me five minutes,” he says

“No—wait....” but I shake my head and look away as I try not to laugh —but laugh anyway and have to cover my face as I mumble, “no way.... you are crazy, I don’t know if I am emotionally stable enough to handle that right now—“

“Five minutes,” he says but now he thinks it is funny because he sees me blush, “it’s not like it’s anything new,” he laughs wickedly

“No—gosh, is this your idea of a welcome home?”

Noir/Of guides as light (Electra’s dictionary, JM muse chronicles) 9 Jun 2020

I watch the moon. it is where I find my peace….

—Electra

*****

“How old were you when you first realized that you were psychic?” Jörn asks me when he finds me staring at the moon

“I don’t think I’m psychic,” I say caught by surprise by his sudden appearance as he got another phone call and my thoughts became so still and so dark

“Well, since I have known you I have heard you say things ....and write about them too —before they happened....” he looks at me with a strange expression; as if — no, I don’t understand his look....”It seems sometimes like madness or jibberish —like you are still dreaming or lost in thought,” he says, “but then a day later it happens....” he watches my eyes as he says this as if looking for the answer  and he shudders suddenly

“Am I so creepy, Jörn?” I suddenly chuckle at him ....but, he is right. It is just not something I mention to anyone.

He still looks intently into me with his brows creased and that stare he does

“You surprise me, Jörn. You who are so logical and rational asking about this,” I say

“I went to your psychic friend didn’t I?” he asks me “why do you say it’s such a surprise? Because I’m Swedish?”

I laugh at him,
“yes.”

“We invented paganism—“ he says

“No, you didn’t,” I laugh some more, “tell that to the Druids!”

“So....?” he shrugs at me and sits beside me on the deck where I watch the moon

“It is more like .... I get visions, it isn’t like ‘all knowing of things’ although .... I feel a lot of it in here,” I take his hand and place it on my abdomen, “I can feel it— people too; I feel beneath their surface when they are in front of me physically .... how old? Always. It’s always been a part of me and I thought everyone was like this. I used to answer people’s thoughts until I realized people resent it so I learned not to keep doing that ....”

“So, your dreams about ....”

“Oh. You mean—“ but I stop to look into him and have to pull back and take his hand where it lays still against me. I take his hand but watch his eyes as I do and touch along the length of his fingers to press his fingertips against my lips and close my eyes as I recall the dream and put my forehead then into his hand and against my cheek then open my eyes. “Yes.... it was like that when I saw you the first time. The feeling connected instantly to the dream. But why do you ask me now after all this time? You never ask me things like this.”

He puts his fingers through mine as he leans against the outside wall of the house where we sit and looks up at the moon and finally says,

“just because I don’t talk about things does not mean I don’t think them. Or feel them. And these are such strange times .... duva.... those things you think about .... and write about .... maybe I should tell you that —I’m glad you do. And maybe I need that about you.”

in search of dawn

it is the silence within the darkness.

it has no name.

it is a lost memory

  when hopelessness washes across the sand and pulls the wreckage’s skeletal frame, she calls to father to an empty horizon like a reflex that grasps to a sinking ship

we bid her safe passage to that underworld —sometimes his voice says her name and recalls her to herself again and illuminates his constant presence at her side he says, “it was true and real, so hold what you remember me and know I just ran out of time but I watch over you” he shows her his own faults and asks for her forgiveness .... this is how her story is not like Persephone who took the poison seeds

she says to him:

I cannot see beyond this darkness

but sadly he only says, “that is why you’re dawn, it is up to you to find the light”

the father of thought

“mass action is the most powerful force on earth. As long as it’s within the law, it’s not wrong; if the law is wrong, change the law” — Adam Clayton Powell Jr.

Anomie; (jm muse chronicles Noir) Electra’s dictionary vol.2

the atmosphere of —the world and even more especially ....amongst communities has begun to make me feel like I am suffocating.... the oppression ....I feel like I need to run and never stop, just never ever stop; such a desperate need, this feeling, to get out of here.... but I know there is nowhere to go; yet still — there is such a desperate need to run

********


it is soon after he starts the shower


“Where did you go?” I ask Jörn

“Where?”

“Where have you been?” I rephrase

but he gets a call just then

“I have to take this,” he tells me; he shuts off the shower and gives me ‘that look’ which by now I recognize to mean it is about business; his spy work.

he answers the call with a quick,

“—hold on a minute,” and a glance at me

I can hear the male voice with a hard to place accent say from his phone in English,

“I am sorry to have to call you but something has come up—“

Jörn goes downstairs and I watch him from the gallery as he walks through the house. I watch him as he goes outside, through the two story window and walk from the back patio of the house go down the path towards the farmhouse

and after he goes I decide to return to the shower

When he returns from his call, I have already by then dried off and found a simple white t-shirt to wear over a pair of drawstring yoga pants and, as I see his face now in the fading light, I can see the tension in his expression and, as well, his closed demeanor that implies he is not able to say what the call was about

so instead I decide to ask,

“how serious were you about going somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I need to get out of here.”

“But you always say that after you have only been somewhere for just more than a few months.”

“I have been in New York for almost two years now ....what about Maine? I know Portland is not exactly a big city but it is like the furthest edge out of this country before the Atlantic Ocean and —still close to Canada for— whatever it is you do there ....in case Amsterdam isn’t in the cards, I mean.”

“Does this have anything to do with this?”

Jörn holds up the letter.... I realize he found in the farmhouse where I must have left it

“—this sudden need to run away .... is this why you have been acting so strange?”

And when I don’t answer he says, almost apologetically

“I didn’t know what it was— as it was not addressed to anyone and wasn’t signed. I found it in the farmhouse and ....well,  thought it was something I left, otherwise I would not have ....it is from your daughter, I assume?”

“No it —was not even addressed nor signed....” I whisper and sink down to the nearest level place to sit which.... is the foot of the staircase

I feel myself go sick inside and along with it, the weird sensation in my head

“You read it?”

“.... I just.... skimmed through it—until I realized what it was....”

“Shit....” I whisper to myself

“At least she contacted you,” Jörn says

“It was a ‘fuck-you’ letter, Jörn....” I say with resignation and defeat; “a ‘fuck-you-mom letter’....” I say plainly, “meant to coincide with Mother’s Day —poetic, right? —for added punch.... I didn’t get the mail for a week so.... I guess I dodged that poison arrow ....”

“Did you answer it?” he asks me

I cannot look at him. And look away and say more to myself,

“.... ja ....”

and slowly exhale.

As I feel his eyes on me I realize he wants to know. And I guess that surprises me, somehow,

as it is a strange thought to me

that he ....


would want to know


I look at his eyes. I try to read them for judgement

and as I do I force myself to raise up my chin as if I don’t care what he thinks.... only I do.... I care more than he could know

....if his judgement is as harsh as hers; only —I pretend not to care and that it does not matter what he thinks

I see he still waits to know

“It was not —like hers.... what I wrote.... I .... did not let myself reply ....with raw emotion ....I ....thanked her for her honesty and told her that I respected whatever her wishes were to have me or not in her life, I ....was diplomatic—“ the words rush out to sound brave but i hear my voice crack at the end and stop myself in time. I say, “maybe.... I think I have to put it behind me.... I think it’s time.... that I need to move on.... from my past....all of it....”

“She may come around—“

“It—does not seem that way to me, Jörn,” I tell him honestly, “I do know her.... and I can read between her lines. She —my daughter—holds grudges ....forever, she does not ....forgive, it is her way. I am history to her.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, “you’re her mother.”

I shake my head, and after a pause to collect myself I say,
“I can’t keep waiting for her forever.... so.... I know ....I must figure out a way ....past this....”

He shakes his head and asks, waving the letter,
“If I hadn’t found this, when were you going to tell me—? or were you?—is this why you have not let me near you?”



while in pursuit of meaning

Oregon— 4 September 2017

I have walked along the railroad tracks and laid across the highways’ double yellow lines and see the broken roads that chased me. I look at them and the broken sky and the clear and tainted clouds that hang and hover to keep me half alive; this is not me and never was; but the scars leave their marks to claim. They costume me their monster

3 September 2017

E.d Noir & Muse (the following scene E.d. jm muse chronicles vol2)

Ode to towers and cages of gild 

but before they leave us, still in their masks, ‘Smulagan’ stops by the door and turns to me suddenly. He glances up at Jörn with a sly sneer and takes out his phone,

“just so you know, Ms Lewis,” he says before he turns his phone to me, “aiding and abetting is still considered a criminal offense. And what that means is, if you knowingly perpetrate such an act, that is also considered a crime. While your boyfriend here would get diplomatic immunity, you would not—“

“That’s not true,” Jörn interrupts, “you don’t even know what you are talking about, the only reason you are here is because Stina is using you for her own advantages—“

“My advantages—“ she interrupts and finishes her sentence in a round of machine gun Swedish I completely miss

and Smulagan shows me his phone

It is a photo of someone in the focal point at some airport— that could be any airport; with the row of monitors showing flights behind, not many, but at least several random people,

“this was taken twenty-one hours ago, can you honestly tell me you don’t know this guy?”

I look at the center figure he indicates ....

Well.... he’s tall

.... the person in the photo is hard to distinguish as far as any other obvious physical features

between the face mask and....

—the Texan cowboy hat

—which is not odd in itself as I have seen Texans at airports from across the boarding lines as those hats are hard to miss

no, it is another giveaway that Smulagan would never notice.... on the surface, appropriately blendable, as he does wear very forgettable and worn-out khaki cargos, like millions of American travelers would (but Jörn would never), the Texan in the ten-gallon hat is also wearing a Jane’s Addiction T-shirt that, yes, this particular design does only depict skulls so, it’s easy to overlook, but.... I think, no self-respecting rodeo goer would ever be caught dead listening to James Addiction—especially if he is sporting a hat like this (and pretty sure would never be caught wearing that T-shirt to a Texas rodeo without a serious riot with gunshots).

I laugh inappropriately because it is too hilarious and look at Smulagan as I laugh,

“who is that?” I say still laughing unable to control the comedy of it

He looks at me,

“don’t be a smart ass. Just answer my question.”

I don’t laugh now because there is something about Smulagan that reminds me of too many others like himself I have known by how dirty they play with what they call justice

“Yes,” I say boldly looking into his eyes, “I don’t know that guy,” I say.

*********

It is later, after they leave, when Jörn asks me, seemingly out of nowhere,

“what other city would you consider?”

“Consider about what?”

“To live; relocate —if you had any choice?”

he just looks at me

“.... any choice? At all? Like in the entire world?” I ask him

He shrugs and waits with the slightest quirk to his brow

“Is this for hypothetical —like ‘as if’ kind of thing? Like the ideal paradise? Where you’d maybe film an epic drama?” I laugh and he laughs too but he paces back and forth impatiently now, so I say, “you know the answer would always be Amsterdam —because I’m attached to it as where I grew up but I don’t think you mean it that way. How do you mean it?” I ask him

“I’ve actually been thinking about my opera .... “ he keeps his back turned to me as he says this, “before the virus hit the world, I was starting to think of —yes, a stage .... or stages .... each stage would represent a different ‘stage’.... each a different ..... level, as you would say— but filming the opera .... that way, from this angle .... and with the series of the scenes fully sketched .... as doing an opera with an audience is not even realistic right now, I have started to consider searching around for some place to do this,” he paces as he talks

“So you are asking what city —as in to search for theatre space?” I ask

He shrugs,

“well, unless productions open soon, so—Amsterdam?— could work,” he says

Then he says,

“I sometimes think i only want it to be performed for— I mean.... it’s so personal to me.... it feels almost uncomfortable to just put out there.... which is why I make up excuses — “ he faces me now and looks at me, “you know why, don’t you?” but he only just looks at me. His eyes just look at me. Sometimes he is so unreadable. He says, “sometimes i think.... it is only meant to be performed for a certain few and I don’t even care about the cost of it because it means more to me as a work —then some kind of profit.”

“Was this what you were going to tell me —before?” I ask

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says

“In the farmhouse— right before your phone —does your phone tell you every time someone comes to the door?” I suddenly ask

“Can we talk about this later?” he asks me and starts up the stairs, “I’m going to shower,” he says

 just like that

 .... didn’t I just cover for him?

Still, who can be sure who that guy was in the Jane’s Addiction t-shirt but still .... anyway

But then, he bellows from upstairs

“Are you coming?”

I turn to the window instead to look for deer in the woods through the trees from the giant window

he walks out to the gallery ledge now without a shirt and says down to me,

“just thinking—you could use a shower considering how old that paint looks on you.”

I sit down on the floor in front of the window and a few minutes later I shout up at him without turning,

“I just lied for you, didn’t I?”

I think he must not have heard me —until I feel him right behind me as he gets onto the floor and cages me inside his long limbs and says something into my ear

“What does that mean?” I ask him but he ignores my question and says, “I know what is bothering you. This is about identity, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to find out who you really are, this is what has made you so strange lately.”

“What do you mean? What —“ I try to turn turn to see his face but he keeps me there like that.

I start to panic,

“what do you know? You know who comes to the door —what else do you know?” I ask

He says into my ear,

“you won’t find your answer that way, for one thing you need a genetic male to find your answer because, as you know, Ethan never took a dna test.”

I cover my face,

“how dare you invade me!” 

I elbow him hard yet he still fights me 

and says, 

“none of his sons would ever agree to one, so you won’t find out that way either.”

“I know!” I say and try to elbow him again but he has me in a vice which only enrages me to the point of breaking —because he thinks he knows better than me what is good for me? but he doesn’t know; what does he know? nobody could ever know

“But, duva, you know who you are,” he says into my ear, “you don’t need—“

“How do you know? I want to know what it was that was so horrible about me to not be wanted, that is what I need, but you don’t understand that and nobody can but I guess I will never know why.”

“Is it worth tormenting yourself over your whole life?” he asks me

“That was never my choice to make. Do you not see this? All my mistakes —my daughter— the duplicitous deceptions of both my husbands is because —“

“Feral....” he says

“It is not an attractive word,” I admit, “not exactly suitable.”

“Suitable for what? Me? I’m a smuggler and a bandit!” he teases me

Because he relaxes his arms I turn to look at him

“be careful, Jörn, or you may admit you actually have feelings for me.”

At first he seems surprised at what I say. Maybe even stunned. But then he smiles,

“I could say the same about you— or have you never considered that?”

But then, I am now surprised,

“is that true?”

He inclines his head,

“you never say....”

then a silence falls between us which leaves me in a quandary of ....some kind of guilt but no, more than that... that I am stupefied by,

I say,

“what? You mean— have I ....no....I mean—you think —I’m— unfeeling?”

He shakes his head slowly and tries to read my eyes

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying?”

“That.... I guess—we’re not that different. Just different reasons for it, maybe but, no, you never say how you feel, which is refreshing in a lot of ways because I have known some hysterical women and even with your closet of skeletons .... you don’t demand ,” he says

“What don’t I demand?”

“You never demand,” he says

“I see....” I say

but, no, I have no idea what he means

He says,

“But sometimes, maybe you should....is all I’m saying.”



E.d Noir & muse

life


At what point does a person realize they are at a crisis point? I mean when what there is to compare otherwise is a scale somewhere else? .... how’s —now— to admit it then, dictionary —and I swear to you I am not kidding


now


it seems all paths collide

I cannot write what I mean but you know, dictionary ...what I cannot say, I fear I’m falling through the cracks and the pieces are going to disappear


so where do I hide?

my apocalypse really hit so long ago I’m out of ammo watching the world melt because people are still mean even now in all of this....dictionary so what can I do with Art to save the world? Because that is how you change it. Not by screaming at them or scolding but by inspiring them, entreating them through beauty

What do we remember of the Greeks?


****



We are still in the farmhouse ....

.... it is when Jörn starts to say something

it is something in his eyes as he looks at me ....and I don’t know why, but it almost seems he is about to say ....

well....

about to say—

no, I don’t know —it was just something in his eyes ....

only I will never know because his phone suddenly alerted and interrupted the moment

—but then he curses under his breath when he took out his phone

“Someone’s at the door at the house,” he says this with warning in a low and very serious tone.

I get a chill,

“Oh my God! Who? What do you mean?” I ask him and start to panic

“Stay calm. I need you to go to the house and answer the door,” he says this to me with his eyes dead straight and center to mine.

“Who are they?”

“It’s my watch-dogs,” he grits his teeth, “I had a feeling they saw me at the airport.”

“Your ‘watchdogs’ ? —you want me to go back to the house and answer the door for your watchdogs?” I ask

His phone makes an alert sound

“What was that?” I ask

“They just rang the doorbell— go now! Answer it— I’ll be there in five minutes —go!” and he pushes me

I have a moment where I freeze but feel the sting of Kryptonite so I bolt and head for the farmhouse door without a glance back at him as if on my way to detonate a bomb. I hear him say as I open the door,

“put the face mask on I left by the door,” with an urgent command

It’s a climb up the walk but I do my best sprint and go through the back of the house through the patio back door

It is by their second bell ring that I notice the face mask left on the console by the door. I put it on and at the same time quickly reverse my shirt and glance behind me to the back patio door I just came through.... five minutes?

As I swing open the door I am still fixing my shirt

There is a woman with a severe expression and similar attire and three men; one is clearly American but the others are not which can clearly be discerned by manner and apparel

The American flashes his badge,

“F.B.I.,” and he mumbles a name— Smulagan? Is that even a name or did he just make it up

The woman who is dark haired comes forward and introduces herself just as clearly —I don’t understand her syllables along with a Swedish accent but I recognize her from the time at the penthouse. That time she walked right by me without even acknowledging me

It seems the other two are with her and must be her heavies and again, she says names but I could not guess what she called them Sfar—nehilsin...?

They look at me after she says this and stare at my face mask

“May we come in?” she says this without a smile nor a question in her tone

I don’t really enjoy this sort of company so I hesitate and look them over,
“you are not concerned about catching germs?” because I can’t resist the question and indicate my mask

“Is someone sick here?” the woman asks me

That is when Jörn appears behind me .... but how is that possible? He didn’t come through the patio and the other door is on the other side

Jörn has a mask on I have time to notice as he says,
“yes, care to grab my test results? You can read the date plainly there,” Jörn moves uncomfortably close to them as he demonstrates, “I just picked them up at the lab,” Jörn waves the test at them and they all step back

“Henrik!” the woman shouts and snaps her fingers; oh, which one is he? but I don’t notice as face masks and gloves suddenly get passed around amongst them

Only I am still mystified over Jörn’s Houdini appearance as we go inside

Then it is all very awkward because they don’t seem comfortable suddenly

“You just came back from the lab, you say?” ‘Smulagan’ says

“Yes, it’s the one over by the airport, would you like to drive me back there? Although, knowing I’m supposed to be in quarantine I wouldn’t say that was such a good idea, in fact, I’m feeling pretty lousy so, the quicker you tell me what you are doing here the better it will be for everyone—I’m sure we all agree!” this is when Jörn seems to stumble and he leans against a chair and looks at them as he slowly sits down with impatiens holding his head.

He turns to me,

“can you get me the acetaminophen? It’s in the cabinet upstairs.”

I start to go but the woman says,

“wait! This shouldn’t take too long. Besides, it is her I would like to question.”

“Me?” I ask

I look at Jörn but he keeps his eyes neutral as he looks back at me

“Why do you want to ask me things? What things? I don’t understand what you people are doing here,” I say the last part more under my breath as I lose steam

“What is your relationship with Mr. Jörn M-m-ika—elsson,” he stumbles over the name

“How is that your business?” Jörn asks, “I mean—as you can clearly see, she’s my martial arts instructor— no, my masseuse—my handyman,” he laughs now and adds, “she does all three, she wears a lot of hats.”

Why do I get the feeling Jörn enjoys antagonizing them?


I suddenly say,
“obviously he’s not feeling well, so, can we move this along? I met Jörn in New York, he lives in my building there. We met in the lobby over a year ago. So— is this what you wanted to know?” I ask and look at the FBI guy

“Would you say you are intimate?” he asks me

“Obviously, so does this make me a spy now?” I ask

Jörn laughs but it’s a nervous laugh

The woman and he exchange glances and she decides to ask,
“has Jörn left the country recently?”

“Which country?” I ask

She gives me a snide look,
“where do you think? Istanbul,Turkey?” but she continues, “just answer the question.”

“No, he has not, then, to answer your question.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me; studies me. Only, I’ve had a year or more of experience watching Jörn neatly compose his poker face and conjure one of his

Then she says again, watching me,
“so he had not left the country.”

I just look at her and nod

“And you are not worried about getting Corona virus?” she asks

“I gave it to him, I had it first—and you are not going to like it, so, settle in for your quarantine,” no doubt the Adrenalin was making me creative





 

Adrenalin needle of Kryptonite E.d.; Partners in crime, noir? jm muse chronicles (or ‘when the devil wears you as the mask’)

My head has been in chaos and no doubt remains

It is when you reach for the manual that is titled: Assuming the Worst Case Scenario


so,  as I write to get a grip on myself .... through the codes

this may come out half-mad or worse ....so be it within the deep morass of the waters of Lethe
~


Jörn slams through the door like an explosion

I’ve been in the farmhouse ....painting as it conveniently has become my studio

I had not expected him to return today.... so....

No. I’m not at my best....


“It smells like a party in Amsterdam,” he says

without ceremony but clearly acknowledging the obvious

That I decide to ignore only

I can’t look at him, no, because it is like I have been caught playing hooky and I would rather not appear ....

instead I shake my head ....and will the concealment that is offered behind my hair and hide....

in my defense, I have used my time well —that is, in deep meditation ....albeit, mostly meditations of rage mixed without much sleep and not much nourishment and a lot of conversations with some walls —those walls that lie and those walls that hide

for the convenience of others at the arbitrary expense of —whoever is handy

I was tempted to kick but resisted and so kicked at myself instead, within.... walls that lie, walls that hide


like the ruins you see crumbled

walls

discovered left by an ancient world with those walls that you wonder over —who built them

and why


.....I am in the Farmhouse wanting to escape my mind

like how many other times when you sit on the edge of a life event that

will alter your life forever I survey over ruins

(from the mostly gutted farmhouse) taking a break from painting



“taking a busman’s  holiday”, as my mother used to say— and wanting to avoid reality especially in all forms of news as I’ve limited myself to small doses a day now so I watch a movie adaptation of a much-loved, long- dead artist/writer’s life .... only the one playing the artist’s role overacts .... so I did get annoyed and then threw my phone onto the floor by my bag; hence the philosophical epiphany —


“You’re back,” I say not bothering to move from my view of the ceiling

As he comes over I close my eyes and hear his shoes scrape as he walks. But I keep my eyes closed and do my best to avoid looking at him because I had expected he would be away for a little longer and I was just in the middle of this mind blowing epiphany and right before he blew in through the door was just thinking  .... note to Cocteau:

there is nothing worse to an artist than unauthorized exploitation



 ....I am aware that I look like something of a disgrace.....

what am I wearing? I have a moment of dread


like strata layers of time packed in stonewalls, I brood on this....



I find I don’t remember getting dressed this morning ....never mind brushing my hair

which he pulls me up by —after I say,

“hmm.... I’m not the only one getting sloppy, cowboy —or should I say bandit....?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks standing over me but then, in demand, says,  “open your eyes!”


As luck would have it, I happened to have kept his pink invoice in my —jeans pocket oh, jeans.... I realize I’m wearing jeans—so glad I’m not in my underwear, and say,

“Ouch! let go,” as I sit up more or less faster than I would have opted to but manage to produce and hand him the invoice with all the zeros

He gives me a sly look.... as I take in his appearance as he’s been away almost a week. He has let some of his facial hair fill in,

I notice the way it outlines his mouth and chin, like a pirate ....so much like the dream

but then also observing that—he actually wears a black trench coat over dark clothes? hmm ....but then no, not really inconspicuous, I remind myself, he’s Swedish


I say to him as I look him over,
“so, are you smuggling or bootlegging?”

he goes over to where Andreas left the tin and I watch Jörn take the lighter and light it to the invoice. He walks to the sink beside me as it takes flame and drops it into the stainless steel sink and calmly lets it burn itself out without concern

So I repeat,

“you’re getting sloppy.”

He shrugs and folds his arms as he openly looks at me shaking his head

but instead he says,

“because you see an invoice ....I.... am getting sloppy?” calmly and as if indulging me, I guess? he chuckles as he looks at me with his arms folded in an exaggerated way that he usually gives Hanna —that disapproving glare lit with deadly sparks of icy steel .... well, I become curious what I’m wearing and so have to —glance down....OK, no big deal, so a black T-shirt.....

but then he— with a casual raised eye brow,

“You know, your shirt is on backwards,” he tells me

I look inside,
“no it’s not, how would you know?”

“Because it’s inside out too,” he reaches to show me

the place where they print the fabric information —is under my chin ....facing him

“Oh.... well.... oops....” I say and feel like an idiot but shrug and fold the fabric under my fingers to hide this new disclosure .... and ignore the way I can feel my face burn, and look up at him, “so, is that what your —‘case’— is....?” I ask but ....then I say, “I know you can’t tell me....”

I watch the tension leave his face and smooth over and rearrange into symmetrical plains

“No....” he says to me but his eyes say more as he reaches for my jaw to make me look at him.... and then looks ....and studies ....deeply and silently into my eyes ....as he searches

he stares into me in that Bram Stoker way,

“would it surprises you if I told you I am not worried about what you know, duva?” and still he studies my eyes thoughtfully so that I get lost almost and cannot discern this from the dream ....it is the way he stares, “.... and what will you do with this trust, min lilla duva?”

I feel such a chill

is it that it just dawns on me that he is offering to make me a partner in crime or —that he has already made the decision for me?

or.... did long ago

Electra’s dictionary; Shoots and Ladders

I go to the farmhouse where the now vacated safe and drum table were; where Andreas and I often like to go when he is here

I go because I want .... to withdraw into shadow


It is during one of those times Jörn disappears to do ....whatever he does

this time longer

which is as well

as well because .... I don’t trust myself to be around anyone right now .... I will not say what I feel

I don’t want to see anybody or talk to anybody or feel, I don’t want to feel anything


I never want to feel again

I will not say because you know ....dictionary, you know ....and I won’t traitor myself; only —if only— for the sake of some blind faith in the Celf; I can’t do what everyone else has done to her.... the crumbs have lead me back only now ....Demeter is surely broken; is this —now— the deep Waters of Lethe.... how do I navigate when all sockets are blown....

It is now as I discover Andreas has left some of his stash behind on the little ledge by where he likes to spike his blunts

I see a note attached to an Altoids tin with my name spelled out across it and under it, it says in his handwriting

‘Escape hatch/panic button—Andreas‘

I wonder how long it’s been there and if Jörn came across it. And if so what he thought —as there it remained

Jörn goes sometimes to Canada, which is closed off now, the borders you know, yet he gets through .... it makes you wonder

Escape hatch.... yes, we go through the maze and I think about the devil may care attitude of Andreas, who, for perspective, is a very respectable, brilliant, young man especially compared to a lot of his youth .... these days .... not that it feels that long ago to me .... only.... but then.... we got lost in here, didn’t we, dictionary? like Rip Van Winkle....we got lost

I pace the gutted farm house as the dimming light pulls shadows and walk to the spots where those vacated objects once sat; a Safe locked inside .... but now safely lost in anonymity .... I go back to the tin and open it. There is a tiny one-hit pipe inside with a little orange bow and I notice it is already loaded


There are worse places to exile the world from me with the way the mountains look from here, and I think it is possible to imagine a world when it was still possible to escape into the great wild ....

It is now that something catches my eye on the floor by the other doorway which leads out to the old driveway. A pink folded piece of paper

I realize it is an invoice .... for medical supplies with quite a lot of zeros at the total and Jörn’s signature

art/doc.mural; consider expansion