where the catacombs go; e.d.&mynoirmuse

“The days are bright and filled with pain

Enclose me in your gentle rain

The time you ran was too insane

We'll meet again, we'll meet again....” 

                                                           —lyrics Jim Morrison ‘the Crystal Ship’

https://youtu.be/rbulIrN4scs

It is no wonder I never noticed the other entrances, designed this way, obviously with the intention to be invisible to anyone who did not know where they exist. Besides that the lighting is not so good in the distillery dungeon, there really are no visible clues nor signs that would reveal that they are there nor hints where they hide. As well, there is no consistency to the underground’s structure of cellar floors and walls, curving around in a tomb-like catacomb maze; nothing to suggest there are underlying secret passageways; hidden openings; secret latches disguised by bricks, camouflaged cracks in the walls; no trace at all of any entrances to secret tunnels.

And after the phone call that abruptly ended, leaving me with more questions.... and the vodka for company ....I spend a few hours reading through Jörn’s emails....  

Where he explains about and exactly where the tunnels go.....some go on for miles....

and lead to exits above ground that then lead to roads and highways through a cover of woods and forrest —yet .... to my amazement ! other shorter tunnels lead simply to parts something like ordinary rooms of a kind of house. And I discover from this, sleeping chambers with en suites —a sauna— and—guess what else? a gym that would not be hard to imagine who thought of this addition so— a complete underground bunker dwelling that only makes sense seen this way through these complexities of blueprints that read somewhat like maps 

But it is the discovery of the en suites in the blueprints which has me quickly quite interested and suddenly find myself avidly and aggressively searching for the way in and after some time of studying all of these I take to search to explore to find these nether regions. 

It seems this more domestic part of the underground is west of the stairs where I remember Jörn had been trapped with the bats when I had found him compromisingly dressed in drag. And, according to the blueprints, there is a shallow man-made pond outside above, sealed by plexiglass beneath the pond to let in daylight and solar heat, serving too as a kind of skylight.... wow, daylight; it’s been so long 

It is tricky to find the brick that hides a coded keypad to the doorway down and after the frustrating search for the opening and several rereads of the map, and, about an hour later, take my phone with me to open the email and save myself the trouble, it finally reveals itself. And while it would not win awards for interior decorating for any home magazine, it has a certain charm that I think would have appealed to Tolkien, with its rounded interior walls that look like white stucco but are smooth and reflects the daylight and the wide round bed of the first chamber neatly situated right under the skylight. Here the quiet takes on the peacefulness of a monastery and it seems to be somehow heated from beneath the floor.

Because I am curious, I search for the other chambers that seem to let out from here; another bedroom, this one with bunk beds and then a kind of old library or den with vintage leather bound books, a pool table and an ancient looking pinball machine and a jukebox with very outdated music ....Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes and the Beatles ‘Help’ 

yeah .... I get the ‘Help’ 

But it is the bathtub that captures my undivided attention as all the taps actually work and after a rinse of it, is clean enough to use and don’t waste too much time before trying it out discovering that here too there had been particular attention to detail; I find bath oils infused with patchouli, bergamot, eucalyptus and lily of the valley that —are not vintage but like the honey and cacau, obviously are rather newer additions 

Still, I go back up to hunt through Cabaret shipments in search of fresh clothes to ad hoc my current lacking wardrobe, although most articles I find are not exactly my personal taste, I raid the shipment boxes on the conveyor belt for whatever I may improvise.

And long soaking in a sunken tub made of cement but surprisingly smooth inside, it is quite sometime later before I leave it, glad to be clean and human again and wrapped in a boudoir burgundy velvet robe. The round bed, an interesting place to throw myself upon, looking up at the odd glow through the plexiglass, when shocking the silence all around the hobbit tomb, my now fully charged phone alerts a call 

“Hello?” I sit up

“I shouldn’t have left you there,” he says, and his bewildering, tactile voice pervades me

“Jörn....” 

and then nothing else seems to follow but a very long and tense agitated pause; just strained dead silence follows. I hear him awkwardly clear his throat.... and ....it dimly starts to occur to me that he is trying to apologize. 

Without the presence of him and just the sound of his voice —after so many weeks, the effect it leaves on me washes over like an avalanche I could not have prepared for 

“Duva?”

But I don’t know what to say

“Are you there?” he asks 

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me?” and again, it washes over me and yet it is also what I hear in it, something different I never heard and am not prepared for

“I heard you,” I say

“—it just sounded like the call got dropped....” he curses under his breath to himself in Swedish ....but I find I am shaken by something even there in this that I can hear that I never have; it is something in the subtle nuance of his tone and he says it again, “I shouldn’t have left you there....”

more thoughts from the dungeon

this lengthy un-wellness that drags on and on gets to the mind.... is it just what this sickness does to the cells and emotions? I wonder has it reshaped the dna in those ways for the future archeologists to hypothesize about 

what do you think the world will look like —if ever let from the cage? 

I have found that lately I have long wondered over. 

will I recognize civilization well enough to want to dare ever rejoin it .... whatever would induce me to 

This world; once did I long to see more of it but weary now of things long lost and things transpired

The world and the madness of its inhabitants has lately made no sense to me

I just don’t know

Only, there must still be things left to believe

....and dare 

if only to know

as ever was before does it now remain emphatically yes, ever, more still....

 

for all that I am

Noir cave reflection/e.d.&muse

“Someone’s coming, we have to end the call,” Willem says and the call suddenly ends

and for awhile it seems I just sit there in the desk chair in some kind of stunned state of mind ....still holding the phone a long time later. still staring at nothing but thoughts inward. Alone, can at times, be a sentence but then, there is one advantage as it has often the benefit of removing  all the superfluous distractions that come with noise 

and at the moment, even if overwhelmed in chaotic thoughts, am aware there seems to be a bigger picture .... that I never saw with new factors I had not considered at all and blow my mind, what comes now as after shock of what Willem implied —my grandfather? 

And after quite awhile I do get up from the chair but it seems a task I force myself to do ....my world again seems to be crumbling.... these cave walls....

in a daze walk through the isles of the conveyor belts. The winding machinery, follow the curving isles that have now become familiar, to find some small corner to hide from spying eyes.... and again, not for the first time wonder —who is there to trust. Those rose colored glasses, blinders long peeled away and swapped by a sharp shooter’s optic lens

.... long past naïve, like some tarnished fairy tale 

My grandfather ...? Did he hire Willem ....? —to protect me from my father

and as I reflect am drawn back to the cage

I find my eyes are drawn to stare now at all the places where I last saw Jörn.... and can conjure him in my mind to see him standing there .... there—looking at the monitors, analyzing documents, pacing from the cage and back to the conveyor belts 

and as I search those empty spaces now I find it makes me sad

I go back to the under part of the stairs and consider my cardboard bed a moment as if to hide away from spying eyes

but then unlatch the hidden doorway and go back down slowly and let myself take it all in again now thoughtfully as I weigh it with the perspective of what Willem said

....it does explain what Jörn has been up to on all those long jogs 

and what seemed like hours of disappearing ....clearly he has been very busy.... I think as I stop to look at the golf cart thoughtfully ....

So it occurs to me to wonder if this must mean that the octopus arms all connect to the same center somehow? —secret doors? secret walls? secret stairs ....

I would suspect as this section of the limb would not really require a golf cart 

And now decide to understand the layout of what is here and walk around it now

It is all neatly laid out with a practical use of space, I discover, and find another doorway at the bend of grocery isles that leads to a small kitchen area for cooking and washing, with table and chairs. 

I had not noticed this before. 

And, locating tea bags, a cup and a kettle.... sit down with a cup of tea and .... reflecting, think of Jörn.... 

it seems ever since he has crossed my path I am being forced to look deeply at all my own truths.... and I wonder if it is maybe because he is the only one who has ever truly seen me 

 

a lapse of thought in a passing moment 

 

dictionary ....do we sometimes hang from a thread of a threadbare rope by just one desperate thought? 

 

this one seems to hang me like a noose to acknowledge 

 

it is not so much the differences that separate but the destitute of ever knowing acceptance. I wish I understood why the safe choices in life never seemed to be choices I could sustain and why they did not seem to fit nor apply

and I so do wish, as I often have so desperately at times wished it so —to be the kind of someone that could 

have I wished for too, for that rare unknown; to be fully understood and utterly accepted at least by one such someone and this clause does hang the balance as it is not possible to occupy a life unwilling to be faithful to this essential truth.... clearly, dictionary, it does seem this life’s lesson~to endeavor to learn to relinquish the need, with it all needs and accept with grace to aspire to find the power in order to do so 

The noir call scene continued ....

 

“How did Willem know about what number to call?” I force out the question fast not wanting to be intimidated and hoping to get some answers now 

“How did Willem know....?” Jörn repeats 

“How is he involved?” I ask

“Duva....” but here in just two syllables I hear it —Jörn’s voice changes —it is in the silence that I hear it somehow, I don’t know how but it seems I ....feel....hear....like I can hear his thoughts somehow—without uttering a sound but it is there and there—again even in the subtle way he clears his throat as if to stall, too, for thought ....yes, and even though I know I hear it— I ignore it.... don’t trust it or somehow ....it is just doubt 

and then he says,

“‘how is he involved’—duva, ask yourself....” 

and it is there again ....in his silence 

He sighs,

“he is here if you would like to ask him.....”

And I hear Willem’s voice in the background say something 

“He’s there? where are you exactly?” I ask

But now it is Willem who I hear,

“hi, old friend,” he says in his heavy Dutch accent, “it’s Wil, glad you called the number —we were starting to worry.”

“Can you tell me what is going on?” I ask him

“They want the code, what do you think?” Willem says simply 

“The guy in the ski mask?”

“You mean one of the guys,” Willem corrects me, “they are still there. They’ve surrounded the house. They’ve been watching. They had been watching you for days so ....they knew that you were there ....maybe they think you are hiding somewhere if not in the barn-house maybe in one of the other buildings. We’ve seen from the cameras. They have been camping there for days. These people don’t give up when they know they are on to something,” he says.

“On to something?” I ask, “you mean on to me?—is that what you mean?”

“You have the code. They know that.”

“How do they know that?” I ask, “I didn’t know I had the code— not really! I don’t understand how they could know that—I mean until recently I .... but I don’t know it! I swear, I don’t know! But —if they believe I know it—Willem, what will they do?”

“Don’t ask that question, I don’t think you want to know how they get this stuff out of people— we won’t let it happen, ja? ....but until one of us can get there you are safe where you are— there is no record of the underground base—nobody would know its existence — which is why it is important you stay there. Not that you could leave in that snow storm.”

—Snow storm? What is happening on the surface?—

“Until one if you gets here?” I ask, “where are you guys? You said in your email that Jörn has been detained—what did you mean ‘detained’?”

“It’s to do with —some government policies ....they don’t approve of some —well, certain things; you know red tape and so ....”

“Is that why he hasn’t tried to call or reach me?”

“If they knew he was in touch with you they .... he is trying to protect you —but they would go after you too, which is why he wants them to think things have ended with you —they took his mobile to check for your calls —“

“To check for —my— calls? They? Who is they? This is who—government? Whose?  or —who are we talking about? —you can’t tell me they think I’m involved in international espionage or —Willem— are you both being held in some kind of governmental custody or whatever they call it? I mean—and if Jörn hasn’t got his phone, how is he watching the cameras?”

Willem laughs,

“you really have no idea about his work, do you? You want to know what is going on. I don’t blame you as you are somewhat now at the center of things .... look, what you need to know is—this goes back to a long time ago—I mean years ago....”

“You mean when I first met you in The Hague....?”

“I mean the Cold War. Your father— well, one of them—well , actually, both....”

“Both....” I repeat in a daze as something he said triggers something else in my memory,

“Willem— when we first met I was still in high school but you seemed to know details unrelated to any of this; things about me and my family, my grandfather.... why?”

“mijn oude vriend, who do you think hired me to protect you?” 

the scene continues/the phone call

“You can fucking lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think— skit! Duva! Herregud! are you that fucking obtuse?”

Jörn!

... I was really expecting Willem  

so, for a drunk-ish moment I am misfiring 

I have to say out loud,

“Jörn?” into the phone 

 just to be sure as .... it’s been awhile ....since ....I have actually heard —much— from him 

as if at all, but who’s keeping track? 

“I thought you were Willem,” I say .... because I am not prepared for ....Jörn —and stall for words of what to even say 

I sink into the desk seat still feeling the affects of that proof .... and have to unzip my hoodie feeling suddenly feverish .... sorry now for my cloudy ability to ....

“I see you’ve found the vodka,” I hear him say, and so it is his voice into my ear that seems to bewilder the senses with its distinct, dry potency 

much like slow-mo, I look up at the cameras and realize I’m under his microscope 

more tunnel vision (e.d.&jmChr)

 

It seems the tunnels go like the arms of an octopus with the distillery catacombs as its center, and as I look at the first diagram in Jörn’s email, at this odd underground labyrinth it seems to be much more then just some prohibitionist’s wild idea

and because I’m too dizzy with hunger to really have the mental ability to figure this all out just now, I search instead for which of the octopus arms is where I might find some kind of bunker’s rations ..... 

of all ironies it turns out the hidden latch to that one is located right under the stairs where I have been sleeping.... and as I search for the opening and latch I find it, just at shoulder level for me, feel the metal ring hidden in the molded curve of the under part of the step and —when it’s pulled it reveals ..... yet another staircase.... down

All pristine white; like descending through the gates of heaven from a dungeon 

And then it is like entering a kind of warehouse but the walls are concave, like a tunnel but wide, wide enough to ....fit golf carts ..... because I see one down here parked in a far corner and —it looks suspiciously new but, in contrast, the “fall out shelter” signs do not ....I would hazard to guess 1950s, possibly? ....which could have been when the architect did some of his own home DIY updates 

but interrupting my curiosity I suddenly notice an entire shelf of jars of clover honey and—beneath, an entire shelf of containers of powdered cacau—hmm .....but too hungry to care to process the meaning.... then see popcorn cornels and then, among this, notice other selections; rice, quinoa .... and it only begins slightly dimly to register that these items seem suspiciously hand-picked and as if tailored to my personal favorites: unsweetened sunflower seed butter.... wasabi.... ginger tea, almond milk.... but in the end, just opt for the trail mix, as it requires far less prep time. 

And then it is when I am halfway through a package of tortilla chips that I start to notice other interesting things ....as I walk through the mini grocer isles and, glad now, having had something to coat my stomach as I notice bottles of liquor; distillery indeed— as I notice now, Swedish imported vodka, of course.... “yeah, very funny, Jörn,” I say this out loud in irritation 

but then—

drinking alone — ? never good, I think to myself—and stop to consider ....

but then, I think the situation calls for it....

But, no glasses ....but do I care? and sit myself down on the concrete floor with one of the bottles

and after two and a half swigs .... maybe more, not sure exactly

appreciate the architecture of the ceiling and slide down to look up at it ....introspectively philosophical.... which, actually, in the end, allowed for the voice of reason —as I’d completely forgotten about my phone when I started to wonder again ....when it occurred to me ....that I wanted to look up how much this stuff cost by the volume? —and thought then of Google 

Although, find it is far harder to go back up the stairs then it was to go down, forcing slightly more sober thoughts to illuminate 

and when I reach the desk to grab my phone to find the email with the phone number to dial —before I even have to, my phone comes alive with an incoming call ....by the number 

Jörn’s email

 

Only, I must not be thinking right, I find this makes almost no sense to me ....and now sitting here in the chair staring at the screen I think I must have confused some words .... for awhile I cannot seem to sort it out.... maybe I must have misread the letters and seen the wrong words.... as my head is so cloudy it seems ever harder to focus and try to think through cottonball brain morass to decipher his meaning .... it seems he implies Jörn may be with him .... 

I drop my face into my hands and lean forward closing my eyes, what does this mean....?

Jörn is on a mission with him.... 

I think again about my dream of Amsterdam .... I think about the Dutch windmill builder who made the safe and wonder if these things are related 

I find in a quick instant I get lost in memories I’d not thought of for a long time during my years in the Netherlands ....such odd things .... like.... the time I’d mistakingly got caught in a violent crowd that turned out, to my misfortune, to be an anti-American demonstration, or when I would be followed by uniformed policemen and all the police would ever ask was if my father was working for the CIA, only, it was never really said like a question 

.... and the first time meeting Willem at the Dugout bar in The Hague when he told me he worked for Dutch intelligence and I didn’t believe him until he told me things about my family —my grandfather .....he could not otherwise have known and ..... so many other strange occurrences during the years I was there. It was the Cold War back then 

but.... why does it feel there is something I am missing about this.... something I knew ....some things I knew ....

and like those other things forgotten .... like where those crumbs were leading away from 

With sudden urgency I search back for Jörn’s emails and find the ten he sent. Willem said instructions .... 

I find the first one he sent:

Duva—    

When you charge your phone call the number below, it is a secure line.

Stay where you are.

I’m going to send you some useful and important information about the bunker such as where you will find food and supplies. My following emails will have a map of each tunnel and where they lead and the things I need you to do.

There is a phone charger in the mini bar drawer

Call the number when it’s charged

—J

   ....I read it a few times as its meanings gradually takes hold. 

I get up from the chair and find my dead phone on the desk by the invoices of the last orders I’d done, where it’s been since I got down here. 

I go to the ‘mini bar’ with its unassuming factory chrome and bolts that blend with the cage decor that I hardly ever noticed it before camouflaged as it is

I find the phone charger buried among some interesting and very old looking tools but waste no time plugging my phone in and then remember what he said about food and go back to the emails 

Willem’s reply; e.d/noir

 

I find Willem’s reply buried between spam and almost scroll right past it

He writes:

I was surprised to see your email as we were not sure if there was a problem with the internet. 

Let me assume your reference of a mutual acquaintance is who I think and say that he has been just as concerned you have not followed the instructions in his emails to you. He has been detained.

If you have been concerned—the number is a safe line to call. 

Please remain where you are, don’t be creative,

Wil

he comes to me in dream (e.d., muse/noir/jmchronicles)

 

“can you give me sanctuary

I must find a place to hide

a place for me to hide

can you find me soft asylum

I can't make it anymore

the man is at the door....”

 —the Soft Parade ‘Doors’ song lyrics by Jim Morrison 

and I guess it is about meaning and life’s meaning 

what all philosophers and poets search to find and while the philosopher may need to have answers, 

well, for the poet ....like the artist, it is about another quest 

that it should follow me here to my dungeon .... in my search for higher knowledge and purification on a project begun long, long ago even begun before ever leaving the step of my high school

but now, it seems I’m lost, and with it any belief and faith there is any point to what I do or ever believed and have fallen into a pit

dictionary, these writings on the wall 

never have I felt so empty 

***

it must be so long resisting sleep, it seems I sink deeper into subconsciousness and deeper under into ....like here, within my corner of the world to hide in a separate peace 

in exhausted sleep in dream.... 

I see the hut and I am there again.... how many nights of this memory have I dreamed? the smeden and the forge, his back bare and slick ....in dream have seen replayed to me; have stared and watched .... watched the muscles of his back and how they hypnotize.... his fingers, their skill.... the way he moves ....his rhythm and timing as he hammers the blade, the force of the sound that he makes as the metal hits, the gold of his hair alive in the light of the forge 

and the shapes of the shadows on the wall ....

until what seems peaceful, steady, un-quiet becomes the silent forbidding dread when a shadow falls across the threshold that swings an ax with a bloodcurdling battle cry 

It is when in my dream I hear, 

“duva!” and suddenly wake up 

and sit bolt upright

 —but— upon waking.... realizing he’s not there 

....then, become aware that I feel exhausted and unwell and— as I attempt it, find it difficult to stand up, as, somehow I feel more exhausted now then before .... and wonder again, still confused, how many days has it been.... ? —so long preoccupied with anxiety and pacing the perimeter of the dungeon floor —but now suddenly, painfully, my stomach starts to growl as I manage to finally get up from the cardboard ‘bed’. The room starts to spin around me; I take a moment and grip the staircase above to steady me and then manage to stumble to the cage to ....check for emails

 

Noir symbolic dream

 

And so, when I do fall asleep .... I have such disturbing dreams 

.....dictionary I write for the clarity over what my subconscious is telling me .... as I feel the need to sort this out and so I come return to the cage and sit at the desk to write....

I dreamed I was back in Amsterdam but I woke up in Anne Frank’s house .... I am running from Hitler and the halls are winding reaching the hidden stairs in time behind the bookcase .... then I am running through the canal streets and I suddenly trip on the uneven bricks and fall down .... 

my first thoughts were of numbers 

I see numbers before my eyes in shapes 

But there was another part that I remember upon waking ....what is it? ....they turn inside out and Hitler with the interrogation light shouts, “what? are you stupid? niggerbastard can’t even read? I said read it back to me!” .... I wake up here

the numbers mean something .... they go inside out .... I don’t see numbers ....they keep moving all the time and when they stop they stand upside down and change again .... it is the feel of numbers  and the muscle memory of what they feel like to write that is reliable but six and nine are always hard to get right 

but all through the dream —I hear the the Beethoven chord .... the notes on the sheet music dance off the page but fingers know what to do .... how many times?

the first number is three ....

Next scene: hidden clues, hidden themes; the Beatrice/Virgil duality dichotomy; noir muse

 

‘Willem’ I begin the email.... but then already stuck....

hmmm....

‘I’m not sure if you have lately been in contact with ....’ 

I stop—No. Delete .....but then I put it back....

‘I’m not sure if you have lately been in contact with’ ....

with....?

‘a mutual acquaintance’ ....I tell myself that I should think like spies think, and I remind myself who knows who might intercept the email

“but under current circumstances, well, I’m in an awkward situation and wonder if I might have the opportunity to get your impression of an extremely serious and pressing problem I’m having. 

‘I would be so grateful to hear back by your earliest convenience ....’

and send it.There. Safe and no details ....

then cross my arms in front of me onto the desk and put my head down wondering how do I always end up in disastrous situations? 

.... but then become aware Jörn might be looking at me. from his spy glass.... 

and think of ..... vampire eyes

sometimes teal, sometimes slate, but always kryptonite; I start to fall asleep in the chair staring at the floor to wait for Willem’s reply 

but who knows when Willem will decide to read his emails? I don’t even know what time zone he might be in

so I make myself stand up from the desk to walk around, maybe I need to clear my head I think now, glancing up at the cameras as I pass them

and idly think about my chances of reaching the sauna from here, dreaming of the shower 

and then get an image of myself here stuck in a secret underground in the middle of the mountainous wilderness with a guy in a ski mask and who would ever find me?

....so what are the chances he’s still there, I wonder? —50/50? (how long have I been down here— ?I’ve lost track ?)

....is it worth the risk....? But who am I kidding, not exactly good odds up against a man built like a bull dozer because, despite my roar, unfortunately, I’ve never appeared physically threatening as..... my best offense is to play possum; clearly, I need a body guard 

And, judging by the monitors, I’m guessing there is two more feet of snow since I came down here through the shaft and before that there was already a lot— and based on what the weather report predicts there will be even more soon .... guessing ideas of going it on foot would be a bad choice as it has dipped well below zero (Fahrenheit) quite a lot all week and I don’t think my clogs would get me through the snow drifts 

I leave the cage part wishing for some privacy from the omnipresent voyeur cameras but who knows where else he puts them

And go to the part that is below the staircase where there is an alcove made by the shape of the stairs above it.... i sit down below on the floor where I have made a kind of bed out of broken down cardboard boxes and it is also the warmest spot because a furnace is behind it so a nice spot for a nap as ....maybe then I would know what to do and think better if I did that 

but instead of sleep my tired mind returns to thoughts of Jörn and then .... I think of that day at Lincoln Center —rushing to see him.... to watch him perform ....and find now.... I long for that moment back 

noir; someone to count on (jm muse chronicles, Electra’s dictionary)

 Climbing cave walls ....

even as I know eventually I will start to get weak without anything to eat

.... I pace the dungeon thinking.... and stopping to consider trying to be objective of it all .... between the spy games and my own mission in life .... my own mission....do I even still believe in that anymore ....I stop and sit down on a stack of boxes and reflect on life; wasting life ....was Elan’s life wasted? because it is easier to be objective here.... about that life

....and wonder because maybe it could shed some light on this one 

so was her lesson she had to learn ....? not to trust? I mean,

after all ....?

my thoughts go back to Jörn and his email 

that I only read as far as the subject line —to inform me that besides not having the use of my mobile phone, the landline is off limits 

as hours pass I realize that avoiding his emails are as intrusive as opening them ....for thoughts of him ....although I have done reasonably well so far ....I jump from thoughts about the ski masked guy walking through the barn house watching for the phone light to go on and wondering who he actually is? hired mercenary or.....? But I guess more importantly, what specifically he may be after —I mean, I guess the code—right? but didn’t Jörn crack it? Were the contents examined? what was in the drumtable/safe?

And then wondering who I could ....trust?

well, maybe I don’t exactly need to trust —just an ally would be nice ....but even for this, who I could I even think of now— the police ....? That question boggles the mind there in itself and with society as it is.... the dungeon feels suddenly cozy ....

When it seems the walls mock and judge from staring so long at their empty, expressionless surfaces, my thoughts go in random places my exhausted brain seems to fall back into ....from exhausted thoughts and the sterility of my surroundings ..... to something far from here ..... like those hazy and deep thoughts of ....Elan and the smeden and the cost of a lifetime

they seem to haunt the shadows ....the odd shapes of the shadows made by assembly line orders of boxes that follow hidden turns which give the basement that feeling of catacombs and tombs ....andI then think of bog people 

....the smeden ultimately is the cause of Elan’s life time’s end for her —even though inadvertently because he should not have left her there....

I turn to the screen with the email —still unopened .... and see now Jörn has sent another .... this subject line only says, “Important” all in caps 

but I ignore it like the other....

and try to think instead, who do I know that I could even consider telling I am in danger and need help? So I turn to names through my contacts available through chats and look at names of people I know from my life’s collection of work and school .... as I wonder what I’d say? “hey, what’s up? Um, yeah, there’s a guy with a ski mask after me because I have some secret code....can you pop over and get me, I’m in the secret distillery basement.”

And remain still frozen, poised over the keyboard ....searching names ....going through my entire catalogue of life events right from ....the names on the list and the dim memories they evoke

I look over my last messaging conversations with “people” and as it’s not something I do, and —the list is short; names of people I know or knew once; but of anyone of substance seems to be few and far between and wonder the purpose of having such a forum and ....look again 

at the chat conversation; just the one that is, 

not surprisingly, from my very long ago—first boy friend who has always remained well in touch yet, despite he has always proved reliable in a jam, but—I x out rereading his last chat message and.... keep looking....Jackson....? my UN friend from high school ....I start with a ‘hello’ seeing he’s on

He sends me back a message: 

<hey, red!>

So I reply: <can I ask you something?>

I begin this way still trying to work out how exactly to phrase this .... thinking, as he would be accustomed to serious and potentially dangerous problems as he has shared his Iraq stories with me and so, I think, who better?

so I think it over watching for his reply considering how I might word it ....

someone to count on I think as I wait and as I wait my thoughts go back to Elan’s life....

But.....The smeden ....

would he have been someone for her to count on ....?

was she wrong to trust the smeden ....? 

I don’t know why I ask myself this now .... I mean.... 

of all times —now....why should I only understand it all, now, because, after all, I mean, was it really his fault ....? It seems I see it another way from here

Jackson replies: 

<sure, first—what are you wearing?;)>

I change my mind. I click out of the conversation and stand up to randomly kick something ....who to ask, who to ask.... and pace the cage 

I glance at the screen when I see another instant message pop up from yet another yellowed photo from the social album.... with a message that sadly echoes the last non-related one ....I move the curser to click off social media, then move to log out, sign off and get up to pace back to the cage doorway to stare at the conveyor belt .... 

perspectives .... things you see and different when you look another way

And look up again by the shaft I came through remembering that first day I discovered it down here ....I look up at the guillotine door at the top of the staircase; the pantry false wall.... and think

suddenly....Willem! 

Why didn’t I think of him before?

I move back to the computer to my emails....there are about ten more emails from Jörn all in caps 

but I cover them with my hand not wanting to read what they say and start an email for Willem....

Noir Terror/Does the individual still matter if there is no one to acknowledge your existence? (edjmmusechron)

….to fall out of existence, to not exist; unknown, forgotten or never even seen and not ever again to be known any existence of ....well.... 

in here, in this dungeon that is both a prison and a fortress —how long before someone would search for me ? ….this thought causes that panic button reaction into motion 

I fear a moment of horror to have to face —when there is nothing else left ….and no hope to have to accept ~this is all there is 

to be remembered or gone with no trace, wiped as if that identity never was, that fabric and skeletal frame thar hangs a self .... like it never was and will never be remembered ….

Does the individual still matter if there is no one to acknowledge your existence?

No. you know, without the daylight it gets confusing what time or even what day it is —not that time has ever made sense to me 

and ....if not any familiar connection.... what is left....? to hang a self 

this invisible self 

....a dictionary 

Noir Cell for Celves (edjmmusechron)

And for awhile I sit there still ….I don’t know if it is the surreal reality of some conjured serendipity from a wearied, warped lens of some sleeping monster that causes time to feel so still and so frozen and it makes me shiver as if cold through to my bones and…. I think of Jörn just watching me from a surveillance camera from some other part of the world —like I’m a goldfish in a glass bowl

But I ache to know, what is the world doing out there? I get up and pace to the other side of the cage, searching what I see around me and as covertly as possible, I glance around looking at all the angles where I think I have worked out where the cameras are hidden.... as I know he’s watching me .... and so what does that mean? is it just part of his spy work? or does that mean that he cares or .… how can I not be cynical? My track record with people is just not great—present situation a great example; see what happens? I land in a dungeon 

And —where is he? where is he now .... ? —now—as I sink and steep inside my tunnel vision and feel the walls contour and feel suffocated and squeezed airtight shut within these walls ....

like a padded cell, I think, trapped in a cell …. for celves 

do you hear the best when the noise sounds out all reason? 

if this is Paradiso why does the staircase goes down?

Noir ‘Signs & Messages’ (edjmmusechron)

I spend awhile reviewing the monitors panning the property from the cameras angles I never knew there were cameras hidden. Which leads me to reconsider closer the depths of Jörn’s dedication to what he does 

For awhile I am fixed on the spot standing there staring at the phone on the desk and consider what to do. 

after awhile I sit down at the desk and do the same when I become aware of feeling faint from the exhaustion of hours of anxiety .... I don’t even know what is going on in the world .... in a world that every five minutes something catastrophic happens simultaneously with another and the loss of connection to this world by means of cellular technology can set a tailspin into making one believe one can be jettisoned out of the solar system without this power line connection 

and then I look around at my surroundings .... deep in the quiet catacombs, this dungeon cave .... how long can a human last without nourishment? What if I never leave here? I lean onto the desk and fold my arms and put my head down inside.... and after awhile sit back into the chair and look up at the computer screen that is open to my email page

It is then I see my email refresh right in front of me. There is a new email 

It is from Jörn....

and before I decide whether to ignore it or not I see the subject say: DON’T USE THE PHONE! He’ll know you’re there!!!



From a Noir Dungeon (edjmmusechron)

 

The mind gets up to such strange things alone with just ones own thoughts. At first, it seems sound. As the hours pass, though, the thoughts turn to questions. Then to doubts. Then to thoughts that travel past where the edges of the map don’t continue, 

where you fall off the edge of the globe that is without dimension and flat—where there be dragons 

It seems soundproof inside the underground, no sounds seem to penetrate the farmhouse floors and so, not possible to know what is happening. 

I did not go right away to the cage where the computers are with the cameras and the internet, being too scared to move a muscle or make even the slightest sound. 

Even as I tremble and cannot stop. I have known this kind of fear before. Too often. I’ve been here before in my mind and well recognize this kind of fear ....you would think I would be accustomed by now

It seems that even the tiniest sound I make is amplified in the hollowed catacomb-like cellar-basement ....I hardly let myself move for hours. And after awhile the shaking gets painful.... and with it, that slippery slope, my mind sinks deep to; those monster dark places I’ve known before when living in fear ....and hiding

but after what had to be hours of shaking, I become aware of pain and it is the pain that prompts me to move

Remembering a bottle of ibuprofen in a drawer by the computer I usually use as I work on orders, I force myself to move from the cramped position huddled inside the box on the conveyor belt when I landed there through the trapdoor shaft. 

For hours I had gone over thoughts.... reminded myself that I never knew this basement even existed and thus knew it was well hidden

 ....but then debate with myself with the question —would the intruder think to look in the farmhouse? If so, was it possible to hear if someone was under the ground floor? As I never had the opportunity yet to test this as I was always either alone here anyway or Jörn was with me, so knowing if sounds are audible had not been witnessed yet for myself and I didn’t know if Jörn had ever been there without my awareness when I was in the farmhouse painting. 

Still, as it was so very quiet down here, like a tomb that it was at times quite eerie, I might believe that indeed it must be soundproof —but, the memory of the disguised person wearing the full face mask and how threatening his appearance was left me with a sense of extreme trepidation on whether or not to depend on the assumption 

With my phone now dead there was also the attraction to be drawn to tempt it in order to try and reach someone for help using the business line Jörn installed for Cabaret or his other work—and by way of the internet, I thought it worth the chance if I was careful not to make a sound. I climb out of the box carefully and lower myself from the conveyor belt. 

I go to the gated caged part taking care of every step, minding where I step and keeping every step silent. First to the drawer where the ibuprofen is. It is when I glance up noticing the cameras while swallowing them down that I think of Jörn’s surveillance network. The few times he had been here with me doing work, I had watched him fiddle with the computer programs that alters the monitor to show angles of other live cameras from wherever he had it wired to. And because I had seen him do this before, I switch on the surveillance monitors .... and realize it is already angled and running .... not that this should surprise me as he had recently mentioned this to me a few times but I had not really paid much attention. 

So.... logic would tell me.... as it may be viewed here on this screen, no doubt, wherever Jörn is, so too could Jörn view....

and considering my anger at Jörn, did this make me feel better?

.... the jury is still out on this, I decide 

sometimes the ropes you reach for in the darkness you only know are there when you feel that rope pull you back to solid ground

when you know they are really there 

Solo Noir/basic survival & the importance of relevance (edjmmusechron)

 

I guess world events of recent are keeping the spies of the world busy; Jörn has been away  —he has hardly, if at all, contacted me, and his old excuses seem empty these days.... so maybe it is time for some honesty with myself: I have been fooling myself; believing more can come of things and ....due to my feral instincts, instead of waiting for the inevitable, I now consider possible places to start another chapter. so caught up in thoughts I must not have been as observant as I should have been and making scenarios of plans in my mind, thinking of what or where to go next as.... even I know things are not stable anywhere 

still.... how can it all just be his stressful job? a spy openly after something he believes I have— never mind that he has never promised anything nor even suggested there ever could be a promise....so perhaps it is I am just not relevant to him 

....which is what was going on in my mind and why I was not as observant as I might have been. It was on my way to the bedroom in search of my phone to look something up about possible destinations to move to, and after I find my phone where I left it beside the bed, I leave the bedroom and head to the stairs to go back to the kitchen where I left the laptop to do some work on the computer—I’m not sure if it was the oddness of the sound that caught my attention.... the trash bins outside.... as it is not the day for it. It seemed to carry oddly an irregular tone. 

And just stepping outside the bedroom door I hear it and freeze stock-still.

And then, it was just by chance that I see! — something catches my eye— it was the shocking sudden image as it was reflected off the glass of the barn’s wall-sized window plate .... I see someone in plain sight outside on the grounds by the house! It is someone there or —is it just shadows I see moving....? no, I look more carefully at it as it moves slowly—yes, a man that is!.... it is now more clear as the clouds shift revealing from shadow, an actual image reflected on the glass quite sharp, a darkly clothed figure. I reach for my phone, take a shot of the reflection.... then pull close to view him; heavy set, muscular. And now notice my phone only has 5% charge ....with fingers now trembling, enlarge more, he’s wearing a mask; a full-faced one, not the friendly kind —and dressed completely in black—and drawing a dramatic, if not stunning contrast against the white outside from the fresh foot of snow from the recent storm ....and lending a very clear and a very present, uneasy awareness of the very deserted stillness ....which surrounds the vicinity. In situations like this, a drawback to living in the rural mountains 

I force myself into action when it occurs to me he is on his way to the patio door! time to move and fast! 

I go down the steps, taking extreme care to stay hidden from the window’s line of view and hide behind pieces of furniture as I make my way in the direction of the kitchen. 

I reach the pantry just as I hear the side door click and then slide open, and blocking out the pounding of my pulse in my head, manage to quietly unlatch the trap door and make it through, quickly closing it to fast, bolt it and jump through 

I land in a box on the conveyor belt as I feel my phone vibrating

 —and then it goes dead .... 

drawn from darkness

 

I was surprised to see this, as I didn’t realize I had a better photo of it as, like all my drawings and paintings as well as all my books; it is stored away in a garage in Michigan 

I drew this during a 48 hour blackout in the dark when I was living in Cedarhurst NY and if you look closely you can see that the date on there coincides with that well known black out

 

we call them “the arts” but it really is our diary .... our hope, our book of days .... and the love letter we leave behind  

 

my silence, dictionary; the air has grown as brutal chill as the horizon. how fast into the dark ages from medieval.... we go in search of light 

do not let go

 

ever more still 

as was before 

so does it now remain

quiet noir noël

I think as I walk to the sauna through the little narrow pathway through the shrubs, it is the other way to get there from the part of the hill before it slopes down to the farmhouse

We have spent so very little time in here since last year, it only now even occurs to me. But suddenly it felt that I longed so much to be .... here

somewhere that matters

....somewhere I belong.... and it can be such a desperate ache ....to belong somewhere ....

but I only thought of the sauna because of how ....and only now realize once again — how yes.... how much like it feels like .... the place in the dream

but with the cold dead wood in the stove the place has a chill to it of another haunting image 

only it seems it does not cause me to want to go; I want instead to connect ....to feel.... to connect a feeling to that part of me ....that long got left as roadkill 

It seems our minds have been elsewhere instead of coming here to enjoy it, I think..... and sit on the wood bench that looks out into the trees

and I don’t know where I go in my head but it seems far enough away that I don’t even hear when the door opens 

“I can get a fire going,” I had not seen him come in 

“Oh!” I jump 

He follows my gaze in the direction of the view but it is not the view that I think we are both looking at. I mean— or is he? I’m not. 

He says,

“we should spend Jul night in here and just a fire....” but it is there in his voice that tells me.... he remembers it this way too and says against my ear, “celebrate like pagans.”

 

the armor is so heavy

all the crumbs blew away 

[a short]Film Noir soliloquy: of Encrypted Notes to Celf & statistical anomalies

 

it occurs to me as I hear the chords play.... I think of this now as I write this....

it is later when I find myself staring out the window .... 

watch, like a synchronized ballet.... reflection like mirror in the water.... reversed

the codes.... 

backward 

numbers, 

backward 

letters....

reflection 

He has figured me out.... we knew that though, didn’t we? ....well, no, there are still a few loose canons out there he doesn’t know about..... but.... still.... I suppose them being safely away in Sweden made me stop thinking about that old safe and drum table ....

I’ve been hiding in the mountains .... and closing out the world to retreat from society hoping to find inner peace through monk like meditations vomited into prose to catalogue my mysterious journey all spoken in code through symbolic meaning 

so.... because he broke one code does that mean I am defeated? It is just one code, after all and he had already, I just chose to ignore it. I mean, without the confirmation of opening it.... well, it was all hypothesis ....you know? Don’t confirm or deny ....

but now he has the safe and table. But where has he put it? Did he ship it here? 

has he already opened it and not said? ....what is in that safe anyway? 

Electra’s dictionary; notes and stranger notes (jm noir chronicles)

 

In any culture it seems it is our stories that define us. The bards and their harps, the folklore, the ancient myths and ....stories told in sand ....sometimes around a fire 

*****

Jörn has spent months rewriting certain parts of the music. I like to watch him when he is deep at his work. I get the best studies of his expressions in the spot that I watch from above by the second floor gallery sometimes with sketch pad, sometimes with phone, pressing play where closeups are a useful tool, as well as my noir footage 

today as I watch him he throws his pencil down from the music paper .... 

he goes from notes to keys as he plays and then he records this in notes.... still in his running clothes, he had returned from this morning’s run with a surge of music as soon as he sat down; not even stopping to drink water nor to shower; still at it an hour later ....he is caught in this one part 

It is the part of the opera that Jörn has described to me. it is across from a watering spot where he has brought a horse he purchased with the sale of some swords when he first sees her

the part when the dove appears to him and then magically it turns into her

but the fear of him startles her and she is speechless with fright

he bends over the water and makes a ripple that reaches her.... and then she bends to reply, doing this back to him as they watch each other across the water

But she has come there to fill a jug with water to bring back to her father at the market place stall where her father is selling herbs and healing the sick so she then returns to her task. He follows her to the marketplace 

by now I have gone down to the kitchen to cut up an apple and quietly observe him from the butcher block table I chop the apple on. 

His spending more time around has me wondering if this has as much to do with the repossessions of the safe and twin table and the association of Nivek Retnuh or ....maybe it is just the opera after all? 

I study him thoughtfully.... then notice his hair has also gotten long ....

the ends need a trim and so impulsively I reach for the gardening shears.... but as I watch, now suddenly in a violent motion he tears the music paper out of the notebook, balls it into a crumple and then savagely throws it like a javelin with some Swedish curse

I go over to the window where he’s thrown it to and pick it up unfolding it

“It’s shit, toss it in the fireplace,” he waves with a sweeping angry gesture and points to the fireplace with a pissed-off commanding glance at me 

“Hmmm....” I look it over as if I can actually read the symbols dancing about my dyslexic haze, still I pretend as I like to collect his scrawls and then walk over and put the crumpled sheet down on the piano surface and say, “hold still!”

“What are you doing with those?” Jörn glares at the gardening shears with a horrified look 

“Don’t move!” and climb on him to stop him from moving 

“I wish you wouldn’t walk around holding those that way,” and grabs for it

“No, really, hold still,” I take out the tie, “you can trust me, I’ve been doing this for years—“

“Not to me!” he protests even as I get the part that was bothering me in a clean cut.... which he hears and suddenly decides to stay still as he says under his breath, “should I point out that I am already feeling slightly bitchie?” and the humor of his tone is meant as a warning 

“Two seconds and it will be over,” I say and swing around, getting off. 

Impressed the shears are freshly sharpened. The neat flutters fall down like little feathers 

“I really don’t recall making this appointment, never mind, it’s getting all over the floor, duva, can you stop now?”

“The floor is slate, not Persian carpet .... you should let me do this for you, this is going to look so much better than who ever it is usually does it—no, don’t move, this part is tricky—“ as having worked around him, am back to the front, getting back on 

“Tricky—“ he repeats in a hiss under his breath ....after a moment, “will be if you ever get away with it if I don’t agree with your artistic vision.”

“There. Fixed,” I let him go and get off as to my amazement the shears made short work of it; a quick glance over, then touching the fresh ends to watch how they fall in a more natural angle that sharpens his bone structure—go get the broom, “you can look now....”

which he wastes no time in doing. He is by the entrance hallway mirror in a few strides as I’m sweeping up the hair dust into the bin and walk by him to throw it away

He’s still at the mirror inspecting himself with an odd, slightly indignant twitch in my direction as I notice him straighten up and look himself over thoughtfully but still with a slightly dubious expression as he brushes imaginary hair off his shirt 

And as I go to the sink I watch him 

I think of the wave in the water ....

    then see it as if in front of me

I get a sick feeling, standing there. But it is not so much sick as it is the kind of motion sickness.... this only happens when ....those things which happen and have happened that I never write much about as they are quite strange; I get a strange feeling. That kind

I consider this.... water .... the water hole .... reflection in the water and watch it like a movie of daylight sky .... reflects ....like a mirror on the water .... watch it 

I don’t even notice he is back at the piano with new enthusiasm .... suddenly a wild burst of vigor which seems to nearly explode from his fingers as he pounds madly the keys ....his hair in the light hypnotizes me, like the sand on the beach on one of those stops ....those nights under the bright stars with their legends and stories 

Suddenly he bursts through my thoughts and says,

“come here!” like some kind of order —I want to call him Henry the eighth or something but stop myself because —I see that wildness in his eyes ....and it is threatening to erupt ....and just go

he indicates the bench hastily between slamming the chords with one hand still in pace and I sit there fast where he has made a quick place for me. He pulls me inside his arms and plays over me,

“I want you to play this exactly this way!!” he nearly shouts this

I watch his fingers pushing down over mine, he places them and we play it together a few times. Then he says he will do something around me but to keep doing these chords as he showed me 

I get confused the first two times and apologize when he gets irritated but he insists and we do it again and after the fourth time I hear .... what he was trying to do 

with the layers of sounds; the first set is one, the other reflection .... reversed notes .... then played back and the strange blending sound made together ....then the left hand.... 

Like a chill ....I feel something seem to touch the top of my spine 

Screen time with Josef

 

....I am feeling quite foolish and also quite at something of a loss .... as I am staring at the monitor and hearing a disembodied voice in excited chatter

I have taken the “call” in the kitchen where Jörn set it up before taking off for one of his jogging meetings and leaving me in at a disadvantage wondering what I’m doing 

“We have been busy with keeping up with regulations,” Josef says vaguely, “as nobody quite understands —but it’s rather serious here at the moment ....so I am sorry I have taken longer for our chat,” he is saying as he seems to be moving around as he says this

but hazards of ADHD, I don’t comprehend quite what I’m looking at; there seems to be too much going on and adding to the oddity, I am using Jörn’s laptop that normally, he never lets me near. Besides that —I avoid doing this kind of thing 

and it seems Josef has walked away from his side of the camera.... and find ....I can’t understand what’s going on—

and no idea what or —why ? ....but what I am looking at?

Never mind the point, where exactly is this? But, really, I feel like I want to indulge him because it seems, in a funny way, rather sweet, isn’t it? I mean, I have missed him being around.  And he really seems so intent on showing me something

“Well, I can come here because, as you see, the place is empty— not including the phantoms and the ghosts—a meter and a half! I tell them to keep their distance too!” he is saying, as he chuckles loudly, “really, I think this is the safest place to be—no one has been here for months—I mean, if you don’t count Hamlet,” and here he laughs again

I catch a shadowy glimpse of him and then.... he disappears again —submerging into the darkness —then he reappears, reminding me of a kind of Houdini act, even as his voice continues on, talking away as with a lot of activity on his side of the screen. In fact, quite a lot of movement and sounds of bleeps, gashes of music, levers and switches being hit, echoing, clanging, his footsteps, props being moved.... and then! A bright white flash of light pops on; a round spotlight appears first alone in the blackness before more lights follow in a kind of picture spectrum of colors and all the time he is still talking from somewhere. It is only now when he adjusts the light then when I realize I am looking at a platformed stage. Oh.... then it occurs to me this must be the opera house as the focus is now clearer in the light

“....this is the orchestra pit,” he is saying as now a focused light appears he must be controlling and waves the light about like it is a pointer device as he now adds a sudden blast of some recorded music—yes! that I recognize! 

“Oh that’s....!” I start to say and move closer to the screen more curious and —now thinking I am starting to make sense of what this is about and maybe ....where this is going 

“Yes, it’s Jörn’s piece — actually, as a matter of fact, from that night,” he remarks with a kind of giggle as he adds, “I think we recorded that crack of lighting, if you listen....” he says all this from the reaches beyond as he has not returned to the camera’s angle

but I am wondering why he is showing me. Well, I mean, it is interesting. I’m entertained.  A good distraction. As it has been such a dreary wet day I think  ....as more lights come on and then go off, changing the atmosphere .... 

....until hmm, some image in the background is projected

“There!” he says and seems to move the focus or....? what is that? the image in the background now blown up and projected becomes more sharp 

“Oh my god....” I guess I actually gasp out loud because I realize —the image is mine. I mean— that is my painting he’s somehow projecting  ....or paintings.... why and how ....? one or two projected somehow and then overlaid —now three .... and somehow seem to take on a whole new life this way with the music, the stage and the mood

and .... 

I suddenly feel myself break into a sweat, now hyper aware as the music reaches a like a kind of level of hysteria ....or is it just me?

Gadgets indeed.... I am thinking

does it matter

 

into the stillness stare

intent and wait and strain to hear

and start to fear

that what if what I thought was there

just never was

Intermezzo noir

 

When I’ve had enough of the Caberet Headquarters dungeon; the weirdness of subterranean life, like living underground, viewing the world in cyber space I can only do that for so long .... I really don’t like that because I so detest being trapped inside. it is like torture —especially this year.... like everyone else 

so much prefer being outside; among trees and wild life .... so desperately long for the forest tree lined trails, the grass and the woods 

Likewise, the desperate need for anything tactile 

which, this year, calls for some extreme invention of ideas towards the primitive 

considering survival options for planning what to do with a long winter stretching ahead.... promising drear.... 

avoiding populous; crowds; society 

....without climbing the walls for the next six months —at least— of Adirondaks mountain-cold; caveman snow and high altitude blizzards; it fills me with dread

hopefully still containing the memory of how to use practical physical exertion skills with some prospect of discernible application

I decide, as I have always had an interest to experiment in botany.... 

to order a wide range of things to grow in doors 

Which today prompts what’s in hand upon their arrival by post —along with what I come to realize is quite an ambitious amount of terra-cotta pots.... I suppose I must have been quite bored at the time I placed the order —as I am faced with a kind of endless and involved Russian-doll task of having to unpack the daunting lot. Adrift in bubble-wrap, seeming a twisting sheet of several meters-long stream of a recycled, paper, boa constrictor, and a million environmentally-friendly (how friendly?) packing peanuts .... what the fuck was I thinking that day? At least the mess is all in the farmhouse, so Jörn won’t have any idea of the extent of my madness 

having dragged the boxes down the hill, as I couldn’t have chanced dropping them through the pantry trap door 

immediately have to go about rearranging my artist’s studio to accommodate some space. 

I always find the process of physical work to be a great device for meditation and clothed in my favorite artist smock gear of paint splattered black leggings with my paint smeared giant plaid flannel shirt—a hundred sizes too big to allow for the several layers beneath, much required in the freezing and gutted farmhouse. So, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, get to work; first sweeping away the summer debris of bugs and then set up rows of metal racks; which arrived a few days ahead, thankfully, I’ve already set up — intended for drying herbs. But then I am finding now I’m thinking of other possibilities.... Is there enough space for candle making I wonder? —as I don’t like being bored.... maybe they could be put in the Caberet catalogue ....?

The gust of cold should have alerted me,

“What is all this?”

“Uh—what?” I walk straight towards my easel and brushes, “just paint and things....gosh, that meeting ended sooner than you expected, how was it?”

Still he looks stubbornly back at the slithering Basilisk-like ‘boa constrictor’ taking over the majority of the farmhouse floor.... along with the infestation of peanuts ....and taking in the mass array of seemingly multiplying terra-cotta pots with a dubious expression

 of ....some kind that I ....don’t know how to interpret (—maybe it’s disbelief?)

 ....and decide not to 

and focus on what is in front of me as his appearance is a sexy distraction.... like how good he looks in that shade of gray with his eyes ....

“So how was it?” I ask going over to him

“What?” he says as I reach up to loosen his hair and watch it fall through my fingers,

“what is that—cedar or cloves?—you smell good....” and breathe it in

“You’re trying to distract me....” but I don’t let him finish that and kiss his mouth, “....from the fire hazard going on in here....” he mumbles anyway 

“It’s just a new project —I would have had it all done in here had you kept to your schedule—so why are you back early?”

“I just didn’t feel right about you being here without.... I just wanted to double check the security system —oh, that’s right! —there’s interesting development with the vaccine I need to act on ....” but I sense he wants to distract me from what he began to say

“What do you mean?”I ask, but kissing me back, clearly he decides, instead to continue my line of attack with marked proficiency 

“I mean, maybe you should leave this hazard in here for later and come back up the hill with me,” even as he raises me onto the nearest countertop, moving his hands up the paint splattered leggings, “but first I think I need to give you a bath—you’re so filthy!”

which is true. he’s not kidding.... as we really have to get better about cleaning this farmhouse and I think I say something like that or —maybe it was, “yeah, I feel so dirty, let’s go....” but then we don’t go right away 

next scene; Electra’s dictionary/a stairway to heaven; a denouement .... and the vampire noir (jm muse continues)

 

****

I guess, at this time it is necessary to elaborate more in detail things I have only touched upon

 —if we are ever to reach Paradiso (or do I mean Valhalla?—with Jörn as guide?)

******

the morning after.... 

I wake up hungry and go to the kitchen and start to make something for breakfast ....he has gone for his run .... in front of the stove, I find I get lost in thought and ....need to write 

because as I think about Jörn and his more lucid and sensitive moments of .... what is that? Reflection? I was going to say emotions, but is it that....? as I struggle to pinpoint if I’ve observed .... any there but.... there have been moments —like .... well.... I have seen those glimpses about him, especially engrossed in his music, or when I know he remembers and thinks about those memories that we both share.... the dreams from what I have come to accept as real; from an actual real life.... dare I say it here? and all that too about Jörn— I know he feels there is something to it there 

And even related to present life, how when something is going on —I have seen he avoids it

as I am aware he does feel deeply because— I have seen the hints of it behind his eyes.... those hints of something quite deep and intense— but he will not express this, I know I have seen it pass across his features and I have felt it from him—but something seems to always stop him from letting it; from fully feeling it.... and I think something keeps him from letting himself

it is the intensity. Only I do not believe it is as simple as ‘fear’

..... I saw it that night; it was before he left for Sweden back in September—it was that night when he found me.... outside .... the night after the zoom call with Paulina, when I found I’d faced some demons from out of the closet .... and I saw something there in his face when he found me on the ground; it was there on his face—like a window shade drawn down showing almost another face— a moment there it was; across his features, a white fear; a glimpse of worry—and I saw .... was it that he thought.... ? he had found me with the pocket knife.... and then I moved and —then it was gone; it just quickly evaporated from his face; like the shade quickly shot up.... but right before it went I saw it there clearly— I think maybe it was terror, you see, because he could not find words after as he looked at me to even express what I could see had been there just a moment before in his eyes.... 

those deeper emotions which I am certain are there but that he steers clear of. Each time I have ever asked what he feels, he refers to his music .... is that his legend? the keys.... his own keys to everything ....?

and so I have to wonder about the dreams ....with their terrors —like the music to his opera which he has mentioned before; like the battles that he has referenced....  like those shadows I have watched on the wall as he plays out scenes of a life and its purpose to compose it which seems to mean more than to share it or have it performed .... are the smeden’s swords there too in his music, I wonder?—the endless nights by the forge? ....maybe they are there too in his music.... like the beach and the stars; the moon.... and running into the waves —to drown ....the beach and the midnight sun .... it is all in his music, isn’t it? have I not heard it? I recognize it all, I realize 

and even the last memory in the hut .... with the hides turning red with blood .... as I have also known and felt ....going cold and looking up and seeing, watching me, those vampire eyes 

It cannot be that it is just to dream of —not just to haunt a soul. It must mean something more than —just this 

and his music— to him, it must mean more, the musical keys more than just keys to music— because, I think, they are more like actual keys 

these things in every day life

we walk by 

we ignore them 

don’t we laugh at strange coincidences? 

No, instead it is easier to believe what society ingrains, isn’t it? Empty material concerns which in the end mean nothing at all and .....we are all required to be part of a machine and  for whose benefit? an assigned role to live a life which blinds too many to live such empty lives. So why is the world so dissatisfied? Is anyone really alive?

So long ago when I first began to have the dreams —when I was going to see Dr. Rothschild. I told her about them and —she believed me. That is why she regressed me.  Did hypnosis which, she told me at the time, was frowned down upon by her profession but— as she was soon retiring to write a book on her works, she felt daring to break some rules. And.... I know, to also document 

I get a chill now and half consider calling Gerald to talk.... because ..... as I write these thoughts into my phone .... it feels like something necessary is surfacing 

but I find myself locked in a kind of wonder .... as if on the edge of some kind of epiphany 

 —if Jörn has been my Virgil, maybe it is no accident then .....is it possible too, then —that maybe I am —his— Beatrice.... ? 

to take some journey back to .... his battlefields .... and face emotions

and maybe the music is a kind of ‘bridge’ —his own need to integrate something because 

as he seems not have access to something .... that keeps him from experiencing — but the opera ....it haunts him like a tug-of-war that keeps that hold on him and pulls him back and I see how it refuses to let him go 

So now I think.... as I know I search and struggle to understand life and meaning; especially now in this nightmare of times of what feels too much in this present life as apocalyptic times. 

So ..... I guess I find I wonder.... dictionary..... what if to each other we are both guides?

who found each other for this purpose; both artists who are a bit ill equipped with expressing in the ordinary ways but to each other somehow find ways to communicate; like pictures in the sand ....and it occurs to me, as it so often has, that he understands me better than ....anyone I have ever known 

My mind goes back to that day before he left—what he had asked me that day....what was it he said?....I forget his exact words something like “How was it that I beat the odds of the statistics?”

because I had once told him what Dr. Rothschild has said (no, that was not really her name, I chose this name for a decoy to conceal who she really was as her family was also of another well known dynasty —in this country—so, for purposes here, this name characterizes and safely serves to deflect who she really was; as woven in, much of what I write is actually true)

   

when she had called me a “trailblazer mapping my own course in uncharted territory when no one else known ever had....” because around the time I went to see her there had been no known documented cases of someone who had survived to adulthood —

I mean....so again, I say this: I guess at this time it is necessary to elaborate more in detail of things I have only touched upon....

It was because, you see, I had not succumbed to the statistics — those peer reviewed, documented and charted cases of those who, to put it bluntly: beginning at an early age, those who were victims of physical and sexual abuse on a regular basis and which, oddly enough, always seemed to be the prologue to later experiences in young adult life of violence and rape, lending a checkerboard pattern of calamities throughout their short lifespan. In effect, what would tend to follow was a life of drug addictions leading to overdose, or experiences of assault or their own intended suicide. As two other ....such persons.... I have known in my family whom —I have made reference to here....

****

I am sill in the kitchen when he returns from his morning run. 

he intrepidly walks over to me and tries to be somewhat playful, not knowing how to act after last night— which, he may not realize, be that as it may, after a month of dormancy, has left me sore— and more in his favor

but still he says,

“your flaming ginger roots are growing in,” as he tries to make light conversation, “they make it look like your scalp is on fire—have you decided to stop making it that dark burgundy?” 

I am not sure whether to laugh or to be offended,

“I just haven’t been in the mood for the whole henna process.... Jörn, I’m not mad at you....” I say looking up at him, “you don’t have to act like you need to walk on egg shells....”

“No.... but I think .... I understand.... what you have been trying to say....” which does surprise me. He moves nearer to me where I am mixing a pot of porridge; today it is whole grain wheat and the warm aroma fills the kitchen. He takes a lingering reflective moment to play with my hair roots, “I don’t understand why you go through the trouble to cover it, some people would kill to have this color naturally.”

“It’s almost blonde now. I don’t see myself as a blonde.  But, the effort to bother lately doesn’t feel worth it—“

“No, it’s definitely still red— it’s  flaming!” he teasingly objects 

“—so what exactly do you understand? —what Jörn? I mean, since now you have mentioned it....?”

“You think I come and go as I please ....with no concern for you.”

“It was a month with hardly a phone call, who knows what you get up to back in Sweden with your ex there among others....”

“My ex? Duva, I wasn’t just in Sweden, I was actually on the move quite a lot, and that is why I did not have a lot of time to ....call. I’m sorry. My work gets in the way of things like this. Probably why, before we met, I had not been in any meaningful relationship for a long time.... But, listen, there is something else you should know—“ he pauses an instant to meet my eyes, “I guess you won’t be shocked to know this because of Gerald— I was being followed by—a certain demon of —your—past....”

If I was not sure whom, his tone is enough to fill in as it does not take me long to deduce

“Nevik Retnuh....?” it comes out in a rushed whisper as I shudder and stare back into his eyes

And his eyes squint a bit in reply as answer and indicates the affirmative with the slightest nod of his head and then he reaches for me as I seem to suddenly lose my balance and stumble,

imperceptibly, his touch is unobtrusively —affectionate; he grasps hold of my elbow to steady me

“Why do you think he was following —you?” I ask

“Well because.... of a certain set of things I am now again in possession of ....”

“The safe! And the table?”

He hardly moves a muscle as he looks directly into my eyes; their vampire heat seems to dance there, deep within the platinum blue with some mad and wild flame

The dizziness of fear rushes through me and I reach for the feel of the stove to right myself to gravity



Electra’s dictionary; Spy in the house of love/strip poker Noir

 

“Red follows grey across the air,

    The waves of moonlight ebb and flow

    But with the Dawn she does not go

And in the night-time she is there.

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old....” 

                         —from The Sphinx

By Oscar Wilde

—and in trying to read between the lines, sunk in the nebulous morass, later

....it is only when he is inside me that he says,

“you won’t tell me....”

he takes this moment to press this and .... to drive it in

to press the question .... 

and although I realize he is always rational, in moments like these I can feel something that he never usually exposes —but later I always forget ....this 

I suspect even as I know why now this should be true but —I suppose if it was not something I understood in myself that .... I could almost easily overlook this about him; this awareness 

but I do not answer.... partly because I am somewhat caught up.... in his motions and —partly because I use this for excuse to hide

what does his rhetorical question mean? only, this too I understand .... because there is always another conversation going on with Jörn.... the more important conversation .... the one that is never said aloud with words .... but it is always going on and is loudly somehow expressed .... in that intrinsic way .... that he has. I have found about him, it is all in his subtleties —oh, those subtleties .... how much goes on below the surface .... those mute suggestions that seem —on the surface— something that it is easy to wonder if it is something I have imagined— but .... as it is so constant about him.... I cannot make the mistake to ignore .... and so like a spy! to only wish to convey without ever having to admit anything 

again he says it,

“you won’t say....” and this time with a measured tone, coupled expertly with his calculated physical motion and with it, as well, the added touch of his mouth from behind my ear to my lips and only when he is granted the aimed response does he intensify his purpose until I am forced to answer 

“Why should I....? I don’t know what you mean....”

again —pressing— his advantage he says,

“you still don’t trust me,” but still it is not a question 

“It is not that ....” and only thus caught up within this aura he exudes, only obvious in coitus am I ever acutely aware of the rawness behind it which is easy to otherwise miss as he does not, by habit, let show

“No?” he asks

it is when I start to say, 

“you hide behind your spy persona—“ that he pushes me up against the headboard using his body to impale with the same calculations of practiced technique he does in everything— but now for his personal interest to cross examine; he  searches my eyes and it is only because I understand that hidden language of his kryptonite do I finally ..... see something unintended of a hint there exposed 

but I say,

“no —you— will not say....” only I am meaning something else and stare back at him knowing there is nothing between us —not here in this moment; as there is no way to hide myself; he knows every move to undo me—which he does.... more than once. And only after the third or forth does the resistance exhaust for me to finally say, “you refuse to acknowledge....”

“Acknowledge what?”

 “—that you need .... or even that I matter to you— to....”

a poet in a virtual world

like adverts on a train with eyes avert 

look not at the leer of the grim-reaper, casting shadows everywhere 

little lights that flicker past from some faraway train as it passes,

glimmer and ricochet the walls their whispers of hope

even though shuffled in invisible irrelevance, as thrown 

into this strange norm, what’s become the daily apathy 

here cast in a virtual overcrowded commuter train

On a virtual transit ride 

                                            ….to nowhere 

in a world unseen somewhere among the crowd lost

scrolled anonymous finds his message left on the virtual subway wall

…..and suddenly, much less alone 

so, with fingers pressed to fog a print replies her message on the wall 

in the fog