upon some paths today

 

happened upon some deer in a nearby field before the rest of herd took off

 

How my dna memory theory ties to my dictionary; Electra’s dictionary

 

When I was first researching the man who was my illegitimate father, for the longest time, all I ever knew at first about him was what I could find mentioned in history books and periodicals; his political career overshadowed sadly by how the press slammed him and how the government dubbed him intensely as notorious and how he has so often been extremely, and intricately maliciously documented 

But I knew also of his work before he went into politics, his work as a leader in his community as a reverend and later, his well known speeches that laid the groundwork for labor laws and workers rights, what he did in congress; his speeches can still be found all over YouTube and the internet. Of course I knew that he was the forefather of the civil rights movement

But I never suspected the dark roots went beyond his notoriety  never thought there could be much more worth looking into beyond the early struggles of his father’s early life as a young man struggling to find his own way. A way that…. lead back from the tobacco plantation of Virginia; a half breed whose mother was a Cherokee squaw concubine of a decorated confederate general whose father was a powerful plantation owner and slave owner. The general died on the battlefield and the pregnant squaw was tossed but was taken in by the man who became his step father and married the squaw and was by then a freed slave who brought him up as his own among the sons and daughters who later came to the freed slave and squaw

When the man I refer to here as Ethan Rhys-Jones had reached the height of his success in congress, those southern roots found him and, according to what he wrote in his auto biography, had been approached to visit the historical site that had been his family lineage by someone in the city’s political seat. They had wanted to celebrate an historical 

date and have him publicly appear. He had replied simply “no thanks, I have no wish to ever step foot on that plaque of land.”

I’d always sensed there was some mystery within my blood. Some strange attraction to things I could have had no knowledge of but innately have always felt just as I had felt about Native American things.

So one day recently, around when I had Covid in 2020, I got curious and it was soon after my dna test results came that I decided to do some of my own detective work wondering what might be found in public records. I started with the gravesite which I’d found in an old photograph and it lead me on a shocking path first to the founding of the colonization of Virginia and all the way back over the ocean to King James and on and on the name traced further and deeper, connecting like dots of a tapestry puzzle and all connected to political powers and historical aristocracy going as far back to the Franks and the Normans of Brittany

My fascination with dna memory theory all come from things along this path that has lead me through my story ….I believe I am made of all things and contain all peoples 

a nobody’s reign

 

Besides the Greeks and ancient history, I am fascinated by the Renaissance and medieval history; particularly the people who have shaped western literature and culture 

Chaucer’s sister-in-law was Katherine Swynford, who was the mistress of John of Gaunt; and of their illegitimate line came Henry VIII

It is not the crowns and the powers and the glories I am drawn to dig through in my personal studies

It is the frailties of the people that lure me in—that an unassuming peasant girl from Belgium, reared in a nunnery ….could turn the head of someone who had then been the most powerful man of those times and then bear the illegitimate lineage that would one day change the future course of a foreign nation and challenge the Vatican itself 

It is this …. I spend hours in wistful thoughts within my cells ….I cling to

why? 

We forget what power each and everyone of us have if we are willing to take that high flung risk of chance 

a nobody peasant girl from nowhere whose bloodline became majestic and somehow still flows on

Peux tu voir?

 à quel point elle se cache dans la fiction pour enterrer tous les aveux de ses peurs réelles

Driving DC noir (jmmusechroncontinues)

 

I head down the corridor, ignoring that feeling of deception I cannot get rid of in my gut…. 

And walk to the elevator which I’d not seen before when I’d gone up the stairs from the street. I realize now why Jörn said to go this way for when I get out, alone —as the building seems to be empty of nearly everyone, save a few walking towards the exits—that, these doors lead out the opposite side of the building and I am now standing facing another street, not looking in the direction of the water. It is a few minutes I am standing there and begin to worry as I look around watching delivery vans go by. The others who leave the building hardly seem to notice me.

I get a chill as I stand there waiting and consider if maybe perhaps I had better order an actual Uber but I am too worried to, thinking something might have happened to Jörn. 

I walk down to the corner and look down the next street and reach inside my bag for my phone, but suddenly I see the white Volvo peeling down the street and as it swerves, it comes to a screeching stop. The passenger door swings open,

“Get in!” he says

And it is the urgency in his command which I don’t bother to question and then, I am hardly in the seat with the door not even closed when he accelerates at full speed down the narrow street

“Fuck! What’s going on?” I grab onto the dashboard by the glove compartment 

“Put your seatbelt on, we have to get to DC!” he shouts as he looks at me, “we have a problem—!”

And as I turn to look behind us, I see a delivery van is not far behind, much too close, in fact!—also driving at full speed….

“Get down!” Jörn shoves my head down as the windshield shatters with a round of popping sounds and, delayed, it occurs to me —we’re being shot at

    

Electra’s dictionary pulp noir/ Dr. Evans’ office visit part 3 (jmmusechroncontinues)

 

The momentary confusion that I feel in coming out of the hypnosis that I realize had been prompted ….by design…. from the old recording of Dr.Rothschild’s that she had obviously kept ….now sends, in a flurry of thoughts 

that sense of feeling cornered ….

and from that triggered thought I find I land upon others ….such as

I have gone from that sense of being stranded and living in one prison —the underground bunker in the Adirondaks ….to that other prison —of my high school stalker and do now find myself forced to live out yet another sentence as where I find myself as the companion/groundskeeper of a supposed retired spy but forced to report back as his spy because …..why? this part has me rather stupefied as I sit there in that foggy aftermath of that blankness which comes when you know your brain has been prodded whilst under some form of a tranquilizer —how induced, I am not fully sure

befuddled ….I look up at Jörn assuming, he is why I feel this way

 ….as I watch him…. peeling off fake press-on manicured nails 

I hear the sound of them hitting the porcelain sink of the lavatory as he has left the door open and from the psychiatrist’s couch I am still sitting on, I have a perfect view of the lavatory’s interior 

I feel entranced to watch him; perhaps it is the after-affects of the hypnosis ….so…. fascinating really ….he’s so methodically professional —now as I watch him removing his make-up. The glasses now removed, does one eye at a time; he uses some sort of white cream, so fastidiously neat and orderly, almost like a surgeon, so careful and practiced. And then it is the lipstick, off it comes, leaving not even a stain of any residue; then washes his face with a foaming cleaner, scrubbing up to his hairline and then the hair itself; under the faucet, washes out the setting and then in a blink, it is tightly tied back…. he is himself again completely transformed before my very eyes!

I get up and walk to the lavatory doorway,

“Jörn, what is going on?”

“Not here,” he whispers and presses an index finger to his mouth and implores me with his eyes but looks at the time of his watch which he now reaches for from inside a gym bag which had been stowed in a cabinet under the sink, “although, I think everyone has gone,” he says, as he puts the watch on his wrist and deftly secures it as he moves back into the psychiatrist’s office from the lavatory to open the door a crack that leads back out to the main office and listens 

“Yes, Melina has left—she’s always the last to go,” he tells me

I realize she was the receptionist behind the sliding glass from before

“Are you —like—working here?” I ask

He looks at me conspiringly as he shuts the door again,

“Candy Bergen is Dr. Evans assistant —until ….her return from the UK—she’s guest lecturing at the university discussing theories and how it links to archeological evidence—“

“What!?”

Jörn studies me through narrowed eyes and then shakes his head,

“let’s go,” he says and points back to the lavatory, “you go through to the other door —it leads to the office building’s corridor which leads to the elevator. Go downstairs to the ground floor and if you see anyone on the way out, and if they ask —say you are waiting for an Uber ride.”

“Where are you—“ I start to say, but as I watch what he does I realize the answer as he takes the gym-bag, now containing all of Candy Bergen’s disguise, and now fully changed into blue jeans and a gray and white pinstriped t-shirt and gym shoes as he climbs on the counter of the sink to the window above 

“Oh my god, what are you doing?!” I ask him, “are you jumping or do you think you’re Spider-Man and going to scale the wall?”

He holds back a laugh and says into my ear,

“there’s a fire-escape on the other side of this wall,” and before I can respond to this, he kisses my neck behind my ear and bites my ear lobe as he says, “I’ve parked down the alley, look for a white Volvo, it’ll have an Uber sign,” then leaves a wet trail with his tongue right before he jumps out the window 

“Shit….” I say a bit dazed to the empty room as I stare at the window 

Vakna/Electra’s dictionary; dreams everlasting Noir(jmmuschron)

 

I watch the swirls. They move into their vortex center, as it seems I dream. I do not want to be here. If I could be anywhere in this universe, it would not be here….and this I think as I sink into that deep abyss; feel it suck me in, pull me down….and drain me….within its swirls ….there I go into the downward spiral 

My safe place ….it was a cool and shaded pond, in a canopy of trees; their heavily leafed branches throwing cool comfort in a shadowy paradise, with their textured limbs of bark and moss…. I lay within a small boat that would rock from the intrusion of encroaching animal visitors, who were never aware of my presence 

I knew that pond so well, knew the perimeter of its curves and the stretching tree roots that reached around ….and there I’d dream laying on the bottom of my little boat, looking up at the cover of green foliage, like a ceiling in some fairy’s kingdom; a kelpie’s ring to lore 

I do not know why I went there, how I could recall the scent of the moss, the ripple sounds of fish who’d jump, the flapping wings of geese, the hoots of doves and later….owls as the sun went down ….but I’d dream of him as I lay there in my kelpie’s kingdom; the boy who came from far across the field who I’d never see again 

It was so vague at first when Dr. Rothschild first began those sessions with me. Those details of landscapes…. of anguish….of hopes…. of dreams…. but I’d first seen him there, he’d been hiding in the night ….his language somehow a bit different, his cloth colors, his eyes, his manner, the shape of his jaw and skull along his brows and each time the lull of Dr. Rothschild’s voice recalled him more and more….

And like that image in the water; reflection or a-telling….soon would dissipate and be replaced like the ripples erasing off a chalk board or like a stage curtain or silken veils; like sails that recast entire new scenes 

What had Dr. Evans found in Powys?

I heard myself say 

In sleepy thoughts as I leaned back into the deep seat, stretching out as if still there in my boat, looking up at those branches and leaves

 ….but now it comes back to me as I lay there losing track of now—confusing time; which present ….am I ….at? as I hear Bran’s voice in my mind ….our last conversation as I’d asked him what he’d thought of all this and DNA memory theory —as it was to do with me 

“Do I think you are ….gymraeg …. “ and then, to himself, “ydw i'n meddwl eich bod chi'n gymraeg…. “ and he sighed heavily before he said, “your complexion—no, it is not…. felynddu—eh, that is, well, not that is always the case but, the true—Cymry ….go iawn, eh….more swarthy than your cool color ….you have perhaps that other mix from the other parts ….and it could be from your other aboriginal roots of the Americas, or no ….it seems to me it may —yes, perhaps ….be from the Northman….Brittany which ….I can see is also there, you are so many things Beth….who is what?” and here he’d done that deep chuckle 

Beth who is what 

….

“Duva….?” and again I hear that music ….it takes over from Dr.Rothschild’s hypnotic tone

recall yet another scene ….upon scenes—a stormy New York City night upon a darkened stage ….when we’d lost power and ….somewhere in the crowd….that night when we performed soon after I’d first met Josef and Elsa

….and long, lovely arms ….they carried and wrapped around me; the Vampire Waltz ….as ….the music spins me within the spell of ….the brilliance of vampire eyes; their power of kryptonite —dispels and overcasts all ….that ever was —and conquers all….of me 

“What did she find in Powys?” I say as I open my eyes and see Jörn looking back at me as he snaps his fingers,

“Vakna!”

an artist lives by shadows & illusions/delusions

 

Electra’s dictionary; a lost legend/Dr. Evans’ office visit part 2

“Do you really mean to go through with this?” I look up into the light glints of kryptonite 

They glance up at the camera,

“of course it is your choice….”

is this the dark ages, I find I wonder ….?

a time when there can be no Renaissance nor evolution 

and no new faith to strive for ….enlightenment 

apathy seems to have sunk into my pores 

it seems that it is possible to become desensitized to the witnessing of horrors and living in dangerous times 

the true meaning of depression is the absence of emotion; a disconnection to meaning 

recession and the great depreciation; the more things change the more things stay the same 

I stare at the wall to the right of the camera and notice more of those odd swirl designs that remind me of Celtic symbols. I lean back against the leather sofa but I whisper,

“you just want to search for more codes…..”

That sound he makes in his throat I recognize; I know every tone he never needs to annunciate just by his subtle inflections…. how easily I’ve fallen for every minute suggestion; of eyes, of voice, of touch and ….scent …. they put me under 

“You are free to go,” that seductive voice now does say to me

I look back up and past the lenses disguised by artful design; I search…. so very desperately ….for meaning 

do I imagine that I hear his music playing? do I imagine I hear him say “min lilla duva….” 

as the lab coated blond walks to the desk and then…. I hear a click…. the room is filled with the voice of Dr. Rothschild ….and I remember in rewind…. 

“Go to your safe place….” 

I remember ….

She says,

“tell me what you see….”

And I hear my own voice fill the room as I watch the swirls on the wall that repeat the pattern of the carpet …. woven in my mind ….and draw me down inside them like a spell 

I am drifting aimlessly on a raft in an endless ocean. I am drifting to nowhere with no connection to anything 

I am drowning in nothingness 

I see the stars in the sky, some five pointed and some six; I see hammers and the crucifixes which mark souls lost in time 

I hear my voice say

“I am in a green and shaded grove….that is the last time I saw him….”

Electra’s dictionary/ notes of a stranger poker faced pulp noir (jmmusechron)

After a moment, I walk back to the monitor and look at her on the screen

“Dr. Evans, tell me—what do you mean in your reference to DNA—are you speaking of —that is, have you breached into confidential information like—my recent DNA test or—“

<<“No— I’m not referring directly to —to that kind of information…. but not excluding the findings it might have brought to light….”>>

and here I see her stand up and walk around the wing chair and lean on the back of it looking directly into the camera as though staring straight at me and ….there is something of that old woman from the waiting room in her gaze at me….which causes me to shudder. 

She continues….

<<“but the theory Dr. Rothschild was so involved in proving…. how memories can be handed down through one’s DNA; ‘DNA Memory Theory’, I know you refer to it often in your writing,”>> she says

“You read my blog….”

<<“Someone mentioned your blog to me recently, that is how I found you—“>>

“Someone? —you mean Stina….”

<<“—who?”>>

“Who mentioned me? —how I got your card? Like you don’t know!”

<<“My business card? No— I wouldn’t know about that— I heard of you through my associate —who will be conducting the study with you during my absence —oh! I’m running out of time, I’m the guest lecturer—but—I hope you won’t mind—my associate….uh—I assume you are open minded —uh, as—many of my patients deal with emotional issues to do with gender ambiguity—have undergone ….procedures and— oh! I’m being called I must go—I hope you decide to….well, it’s up to you…. but I do hope you decide to —because I feel that you have as much to gain from this experience as—we—do….”>> at which point the zoom freezes and then she disappears 

When the dark haired man in the lab coat reappears from the door he vacated he looks at me a moment and waits with a kind and patient smile

“You are waiting for me to decide —or not— to go forward with —Dr. Evans’ experiment,” I watch his expression as I say it

He shrugs,

“you can always come back—you can think it over.”

“How long have you been Dr. Evans’ assistant?” I ask

“Oh,” he looks surprised and his face flushes slightly, “I’m not Dr. Evans’ assistant—I’m a nurse on staff here; all I’d be doing here today is—if you decide to go through with the experiment —would be to administer the ….shot—that is, with your permission—her assistant is Dr. Bergen who has years of research and work exploring the mind and human behavior and ….that is who would be….conducting the experiment….”

“A shot!” I feel alarmed and go back to the leather couch to sit down, that lightheaded feeling having returned and to myself I repeat, “conducting the experiment….” I look up from the spot on the floor I had been momentarily mesmerized by; the abstract design in the carpet reminding me of those strange symbols from Celtic designs, “are you familiar with the research?”

Again, his face is brightened as he flushes and shakes his head, “I’ve not been present yet for one of Dr. Evans’ experiments—but I’ve read some of the logs she keeps. It’s similar to treatments for recovering from dependencies—they do hypnosis—it’s quite effective….” he stops to consider and inches back a few steps, “if you would prefer….”

“What is the shot?” I suddenly ask

Again a bright flush,

“….uh—a barbiturate—ah, a kind of anesthetic—“

“What kind?”

“Umm….it’s in the family of sodium pentothal —it’s a similar—”

I laugh nervously,

“‘truth serum’? Isn’t that illegal—?—unconventional!—“ I laugh again 

“Well, I’m sure it’s not illegal or—“

“They gave that to spies during the Cold War right before giving the lethal injection,” I nervously say this wondering as I look around the office what I might be getting caught up in

“You know—maybe Dr. Bergen would be better qualified to explain, I’ll just—let me just….” then disappears behind that door 

A moment later it opens but whoever I might have been expecting ….I have no idea

Tall, slim and also wearing a white lab coat over a fitted red dress and wearing high heels, this Dr. Bergen’s face turns from the door, at first hidden under a well made up face of perfectly applied lipstick with sweeping blond tresses that reach the broad shoulders of the lab coat, now turns, a face somewhat more obscured with stylishly studious framed glasses and artfully elegantly made up pale colored eyes….

I gasp.

There is no mistaking ….

“Greta?!” 

I say this more in a gasp that is impossible to stop

“Dr. Bergen!” and glances nervously at some spot on the wall ….

I look in the same direction, now noticing a camera 

“Candy….” ‘they’ say, as to —correct— and clarify; the tall, blond…. clearly trans with ….a slight Northern European accent only noticeable by the inflection of consonants and syllables, “you Americans insist on titles of formalities despite your revolutions….” says with a casual chide but—the eyes glare a kind of silent command

I stare…. aware my mouth has dropped open from the gasp —in need of oxygen 

“Ohhh….my….” I cannot breathe…. and for a few dizzying seconds, I hyperventilate …. “God!” I say…. because I cannot ask what I want to ask but…. anyway stumble with my wits…. breathlessly under my breath I mumble, “what-are-you….doing….” but stop my next choice in words completely dumbfounded 

‘They’ say,

“I am here to conduct the experiment—with your permission of course—in the absence of Dr. Evans.”

“….why?” as I just stare…. at this dazzling tall blond standing in front of me 

and aware of the camera clearly watching the both of us, am forced to forgo any real questions I’d prefer to ask….as I consider ….

consider…..

Stina’s insistence …. the old woman in the waiting room…. the references to Dr. Rothschild by Dr. Evans….

“Am I really to undergo hypnosis?” I ask —as— this seems the most logical choice of questions to put forward 

They look at me….oh those beguiling kryptonite eyes how they do hypnotize 

“I am a qualified doctor of mental behavioral studies….” and ….as I hear ‘them’ say this…. I suddenly remember that detail—a card never once fully played until now 

(edited)Electra’s dictionary noir/face value; Dr.Evans part 1

As the driver goes down the intricate streets within Chestertown, and then navigates along the roads that face into Chesapeake Bay, I am struck by the cluster and beauty of colorful sail boats that line the way and fill all the nearby marinas with their elegance and grace with the water reflecting the sails and the sky. And then it is the chaotic sounds of seagulls flying above which ….tugs in that certain place deep within me

oh no…. I feel it

what is it…. and I think, ‘here we are again….’ as I feel something nearly hypnotic throwing its heavy, cloudy spell thickly in my mind ….that heavy and strange fatigue holds its grip, like a straight jacket ….upon somewhere intangible within and causes that sense of feeling  lethargically drunk, dulling my focus 

“This is it,” the driver tells me

“Ohhh….” as I force myself to move, unbuckle the seatbelt, feel for my handbag ….but I seem to move in slow motion as I pull it to my shoulder and reach for the door latch when the car stops ….

The building has a shop below, like all the attached buildings that line a pretty red-brick paved villege street; flowers grow from outdoor window planters and artful displays of flower beds group cheek by jowl, and so I stand there holding the business card with the doctor’s name and the number clearly printed on it. Still I hesitate, even as I see which door would lead to the walk-up above 

I turn mesmerized back to stare towards the bay …. feeling ….that sense ….of being transported somewhere else in my mind ….to another fishing villege ….some Northern European long forgotten place ….recalling the memory from the cry of the seagulls ….when I got lost as a child and wandered away from my mother ….

It is while I sit in the small quaint psychiciatrist’s waiting room that I find my thoughts go down a tangent …..looking around at the patients waiting there, the ad-hoc receptionist’s cubicle, partitioned by a wall divider with its sliding glass window-door—appearing newly devised, with its freshly beveled glass and slick, new painted molding; a partition which would be meant to protect the office staff from air-born breath of Covid, no doubt about that, reflecting our modern new normal lives. And as I look around at this kind of frozen, snapshot in time ….look around at these people sitting here with me, some in masks; this waiting station on the walking plank of life…. 

when suddenly my phone alerts this odd trigger….

I don’t know why—why should it alert some forgotten person I once knew but now only know on Facebook ….someone I once thought myself in love with ….so very long ago and….. because it is his birthday 

Why must it now send me down that old broken path? I wonder as I feel that sick twitch within my gut as I recall the silly girl I was ….like those terrible days when he broke my heart —or so I had believed 

Because it occurs to me that now I don’t care at all ….and I suppose if he had really mattered, it would now and I consider now with this occurrence of thought, how I was so mistaken 

to think ….the world of him. 

He had been so wicked to me; he played me along that deceptive path when I was twenty one. What an idiot I was, I think now, such a waste of emotion; I wasted weeks, months, years on that fool who I now feel nothing for now and….truth be told— I really saw for who he was rather long ago, so why do I have him still hanging there to pollute my walls?

Impulsively I unfriend him…. and ….in doing so, find this strange hysteria rise in me. Why ever did I have him in my friends ….? but…. as I sit there waiting I …..start to reconsider another I see in that category of ‘friends’, another who I had once believed myself in love with

and no—this is not the first time I knew myself to be such an idiot when it has come to light that ….I have given more power to ‘ideas’ of a love ….when it had all really been in my own mind…. made it up but ….and believed it with all my heart; what ever made me do that…. ?

But no, I do know….it was to fill the void 

that bereft emptiness ….where Electra came from ….the fatherless Electra, longing for a kind of love I would never get to know. A habit left over from a child’s mind, I made this up to ….fill the void; create what was otherwise lacking; a need from that starved place within. But they  weren’t real, only stood for something; I deceived myself. And their ultimate rejection of me assuring me that I would always believe I was not good enough; not pretty enough; not lovable and not desirable ….not feminine enough …. and not worthy of love

and in tandem I start looking through my Facebook friends, finding each of these other similar faces of a past; road signs ….leading back to —my own delusion….they were none of them who I made them out to be; I created all of them

….and I find myself unfriending each! one by one….

almost like a frenzy until ….I put my finger over the place where I may delete my page…. I hover there…. fakebook of frauds that are a portrait gallery of shams; people I don’t even like and —I hardly bother to read what they show off about with their peanut gallery of likes

hover …. finger poised ….and in the end just decide to deactivate my page and delete the app from my phone 

How many times does nonsense invade my thoughts with irritating trite phone alerts to interrupt my peace?

I toss my phone into my bag as if it is a hand grenade, a viper….a rotting rabid rat I resent 

Then look around the room

I see an elderly woman looking at me. She sits closest to the receptionist in a chair next to her knitting bag. She had been knitting baby booties when I’d first come in. Rainbow booties. The bright pride colors like a brilliant prism spilling from her fingers. How oddly she looks ….at me….how oddly she looks ….wearing a kind of shawl, like a throwback from the old world ….someone you’d see in a photo arriving by boat at Ellis Island ….in her dark clothes, the long skirt and worn old shoes, her heavily golden-ringed, gnarled, arthritic hands ….

how oddly she looks….at me ….now instead of knitting, shuffling cards ….but she watches me

as if she can read my thoughts as she sits beside another woman who talks to her. She shuffles them without looking. They are playing cards. I hear her say,

“Jack of clubs, queen of spades ….” but she does not look at them. She is looking right at me

I get such a chill

I can see from where I am that each time she calls a card….she names them correctly ….without looking at them

I hear her say to the woman,

“tell your husband to stop taking those pills from the specialist but see an eye doctor….”

This shocks me and I stare at her. She shuffles more cards and puts two more down,

“Queen of hearts, ace of diamonds …..”

I look away and decide to tune her out

When the next patient is called, I see it is the woman the old woman had been talking to and when she goes through the door, the elderly woman gets up and moves towards me slowly, her eyes on me, she sits down next to me

Immediately I recoil

“Do not be afraid of me,” she says in a surprising clear voice. She places her hand on me and looks into my eyes, “you are from the other side,” she says

I look around the room to see if anyone is aware of what she is saying, but no one seems to take any notice of her. I get a chill.

“They were not right for you,” she says now

“What?” I say in a dry whisper, as it seems I’ve lost my voice

She points to my bag and I realize she must be indicating my phone

“Your old beaus ….”

“I don’t think you know what you are talking about—are you like a fortune teller? Are you charging people?” I almost laugh but it’s a trigger response because I feel myself having gone cold

“You were right to get rid of all those pretenders. Social media is a trap. A wasteland to waste time and steal lives—but I don’t have to tell you that. You know you don’t need it —but you try to fit into this world ….but you are from the other side.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” I say this as I feel a dizziness sweep over me

“You already know this….you are older than me….” she tells me as she grips my hand, “you are older than all of us and….so wise….no man will ever be as wise —you will always know more and ….that is why,” she says, staring into my eyes, hers having that strange gray frame around the iris, “yr wyt yn ddoeth….” she says

“What?” I ask

“Yr wyt yn ddoeth,” she says again and says, “I was your daughter once….I knew we’d meet again, but I am here to tell you—never doubt your way ….always remember—they need you more but only know once you’ve gone. I’m glad your Persephone is back.”

Suddenly the receptionist slides open her window, standing up she shouts, 

“Mrs. Evans! We’ve told you to stop bothering people in the waiting room!”

But at this moment the door to the doctor’s inner office opens and my name is called by a tall dark-haired man in a white lab coat 

When I reach the door he says,

“don’t mind her, she’s harmless—she’s a bit senile, she’s Dr. Evans’ great aunt,” he tells me, and shuts the door behind us. As we walk down the hallway he says, “I hope she didn’t bother you,” as he leads me into an office and shuts the door behind us

“Oh—I ….” but I am still a bit shaken by her words that still echo in my head. My throat having gone dry, I cough

“Do you need some water?” he hands me a bottle of mineral water, “please sit down,” he indicates the dark brown leather sofa that faces the deeply stained wood desk as he walks across the room to the front of the desk. He goes to the computer monitor and turns it around so the screen faces outward, “I must apologize —uh—Dr.Evans is unable to be here physically, so, she’s doing your meeting through Zoom—“

“What? But—“

“Oh don’t worry, it’s preliminary —here, she’s joining now,” he taps the screen

<<“Hello!”>> she says from the wide screen 

I try to figure out where she’s sitting but the background is dark and she is, by contrast, bright in her lab coat and sitting with her legs crossed from what appears as a wing chair 

<<“so wonderful to see you, I’m sorry it’s not in person! And this meeting I have so long anticipated that I didn’t want to cancel when I was suddenly called away!”>>

The lab coated man now disappears behind another door 

“Ohhh….” I say not knowing what else to say 

<<“You see, I should tell you…. your background brings to mind for me an old case study I remember going back a decade —no, it’s been longer; more perhaps like two. It was when I was first doing my internship at the Stonybrook University hospital in New York ….under Dr. Risa Rothschild. She —had a case she was working on ….under the title “the complex Electra case”….”>>

She has my attention and I stare back at her

She says,

<<“you spent a number of years in New York too….”>>and keeps her eyes on me

“So why am I really here?” I ask her suspecting there is more going on here than what appears at face value

<<“I am sure you have gathered it is not as my patient but for —research,”>> she says

“Research? Whose?” I ask

<<“I would say it is mutual research…. wouldn’t you….? Research, like having to do with DNA …. and possibilities that, perhaps we retain more than is currently understood  among modern medicine…. And ….I know you have been regressed ….”>>

As it does not come out as a question I suspect she does know more about the research Dr. Rothschild had begun ….but all I say in response to this is,

“you knew my doctor. Dr. Rothschild.”

<<“Yes. I worked closely on many of her…. research cases….and…. since she passed away, I have continued to contribute to her work…. you know…. I have actually been searching for you for years….you don’t seem surprised—so may I ask ….would you mind if we did some experiments ….and begin today? I am anxious to get going on this research and continue the studies Dr. Rothschild began….I think you are the Electra I’ve been looking for….I’ve read your….writings…. So— my today assistant has agreed to begin conducting, that is….if you don’t mind—“>>

“Your assistant?” and I point, assuming, to the now existed door where the lab-coated man vacated 

But she continues, 

<<“it’s ….unconventional…. As was Dr. Rothschild’s studies were, so….I don’t know if —you’d still feel like being a part of such….a study….”>>

“Regression….” I say under my breath and whisper, “shit….” knowing myself, that if I think too much, I’d only back out and ….haven’t I always wished we had continued this years ago? So ….why delay further exploring ….that intangible mystery which has, these many years, haunted my thoughts 

“I need a moment….” I say and walk to the window to step out of her view and for a moment let my mind wander to consider ….as I stare at the boats on the water ….the seagulls hovering above 

Electra’s dictionary Noir (jmmusechronwillcontinue)The Ride to see Dr. Evans

 

On the long Uber ride to Dr.Evan’s office my thoughts reflect upon the day before as I go to Chestertown, and watch scenery roll by

I had managed to get hold of Bran, thinking he would be the most obvious source to begin

“what’s so important—are you in trouble?” is the first thing he says, “it sounded urgent when you said you needed to talk before Friday.”

“No—yes—I mean….it’s to do with….the things going on here—but no, to do with….”

“Beth, is this wise—? You mean all the espionage? What have you gotten yourself involved with?”

“No, I just—wanted to pick your brain about some ….Welsh history—and I can’t really avoid being involved —at this point, it seems I’m in too deep but—do you know anything about some recent archeological excavation in Powys?”

He then had let out a frustrated and slightly annoyed long breath,

“Christ….” he says under his breath 

“It’s important, Bran. Whatever you can tell me, or whatever you may know ….perhaps even if you know details of political schemes or —I don’t know, something worth being interesting to —I guess people of ….what? What would this have to do with me, I wonder….?” but I say the last part more to myself 

“Ethan Rhys-Jones….” he says this thoughtfully and I hear then another reluctant sigh before he says, “I don’t like this, Beth, I think your Viking boyfriend has caught you in some fishnet of —concocts of designs.”

“It’s not Jörn, it is to do with Sunny, it seems.”

“Are you sure? Certainly, Jörn or whatever you call him —has smoked you out of the shadows and caused this sudden interest that has all those dusty retired spies with files turning their magnifying glass upon you—do you really want me to help you get deeper embroiled—I’d rather not, if I have a choice.”

“So you won’t offer me any insight then?”

“When is your meeting—you said it’s a Dr. Evans?”

“Yes. It’s tomorrow….”

Another pause with a suppressed sigh,

“well…. there was a finding —a very recent finding ….I believe it was back in 2020–erhm—Covid delayed it I believe, but there was a dig, a big finding, in fact—they found the remains a —medieval castle —in Welshpool, I’m sure that is the site your Dr.Evans would have been involved in—it was all over Welsh news, you can imagine.”

“Oh…. wow….I ….didn’t hear about this—but I guess with everything happening with Covid it wasn’t something any of us was thinking about….”

“No—well….so…. does this help?”

“What do you know about the dig? Do you remember anything or —any interesting particulars?”

“Ermm….well, let me try to remember—I’ve not really been reading up in such matters myself but ehm….actually—here, I’ll just check right now, as we’re talking….” and I hear him moving objects and the beep of a computer. After a moment of waiting he says, “oh, that’s right—that was interesting —yes, it was a few ….rather curious artifacts and so among them they found an English coin from King Henry VIII’s time—“

“Henry VIII….odd—what would—why would—?”

“Yeah, I know—exactly….do you know your history—? he was of Welsh lineage…. not something we are proud of but, I don’t think in this period any associations with him was common though nor encouraged but, it is curious….look, Beth, I don’t like your getting deeper caught up in all this….”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice, Bran—I mean—I had nowhere to go and my only way to get away from my high school stalker was….Sunny—where was everyone else? And where are they now….?”

My subtle hint at him I allow him to swallow —because it is true, isn’t it? However Sunny’s part is in involving me, there seems no warrior out there but my own coat of armor once again 

“What do you know of Powys—? —or any intrigue that might involve a sudden immigration of a family to America in the 1600’s?” I ask

Here he laughs deeply,

“that could fill a library, Beth—you would have the basis for a television series to stream for years on all the Welsh tribal wars that began before documented time….but….Powys and Gwynedd….going back before Llewelyn the Great ….ach…. before even his father ….that other ‘great’ ….the father of the medieval conflicts — going far into the realms of antiquity was our last actual king, long, long even before —even— the tenth century when there were no more kings to unite the tribes —“ a sudden heavy sigh, and pause in thought…. then, “to but start you off on the scope of the subject ….so now then the 1600’s—? well, consider this for the weight of things: the Welsh are proud of their ….long memories….and don’t make shy of the pride of it.”

Noir/Electra’s Dictionary & stranger notes; legendary lexicon of digressive internet babble Part 1

 [prelude to Dr. Evans continued]

After deliberating for a few more days over the business card Stina handed to me—days of wondering why she would insist upon my calling to go see this doctor 

which ….then lead to a sudden (few) call(s) to Stina over this

which —in the end, forced me to have to leave a voice mail after …. a series of hang ups 

which was actually prompted by a nasty text from her telling me to either text her what this was about or leave a voice message as she did not “appreciate all the calls” —and—if I’d “butt dialed” her number ….she would block my number hence forth unless ….

I say in my voice message to her,

<<“if this is a rouse and you are really suggesting that I am mentally and emotionally unbalanced and need to see a shrink at the insistence of the Interpol ‘bureau’ I don’t remember signing up for —then I hereby resign my commission!”>>

In which she called me back rather quickly after I left the message 

“You really can be such an annoying brat,” she tells me with her condescending Swedish superior airs that I’ve noted come native to some 

“Well thank you so much,” I say, “I guess it takes one to know one….”

Her silence punctuates loudly over the line. As well as her slow but significant indrawn breath as she slowly says,

“mental stability aside —as the jury is still out on your somewhat undefined legendary lexicon of digressive internet babble —which explores some dubious introspections of extra sensory perceptions and memories from alleged previous histories ….” here a notable intake of breath when she requires coming up for air, “as a matter of fact it is research! For whom you might ask? Well possibly for both of us! I am not required to order you to seek mental help —but what this is for is to investigate both for the benefit of international interest as—well as your own.”

“Oh that clears everything up for me, thanks! International interest? Ha! Whatever…. a dig in Wales hardly warrants that!”

“It is not so much the dig itself, Ms Rhys-Jones, but—“ she stops short to suddenly check herself and…. I hear a moment’s thoughtful hesitation perhaps intentional …? “Has Jörn not….well, he’s not had time has he….? Hmm—you know, after Retnuh Nivek’s escape from the Adirondak underground incident when the codes you had buried proved useful in the old mill maker’s letter lock safe…. it came to light that you might have tripped open another Pandora’s box.”

I half suppress a gasp —a bit too late,

“w-what are you talking about?”  as I think back to those days underground….especially when I thought Jörn had left me there. I had the feeling ….I spoke quite a lot in my unconscious state and that—along with that sense that every room in every part of that property had hidden microphones recording every moment 

“Jörn believes there are other codes.”

“Codes!?! You mean —in me?”

“Or things you’ve forgotten you know which —not only may be relevant to whatever Sunny is trying to smoke out of you.”

“So this doctor is part of intelligence?”

“This doctor happens to have faith that you are in the process of solving a mystery which on one hand connects you to a historical past but—on the other ….also has key elements connected to ties to political secrets relevant to the current world wide crisis….”

“Shut the fuck up,” I laugh because I really needed to let off the tension and enjoy this for her twisted humor

In fact —cannot stop laughing

“I’m serious,” she says when I guess she realizes I think she’s teasing me 

Then I seem to fall into a daze…. and just stare dumbly at a ground hog outside ….on its way to the nearby pond —carrying something in its mouth ….I almost forget she’s still there

Until

“Hello?” she says 

“Oh….!” and start to shake off the daze 

I arrange an Uber to take me to Dr. Evan’s office

Electra’s dictionary noir/Prelude to ‘Dr. Evans’(jmmusechroncont)

 

I have known men; lovers who have said to me, “you are the strongest person I’ve ever known,” and they did not mean physically; for in that I am feeble; and they ask, “how do you keep going?” and so, gone on to ask, “why do you?”

And while I hear their admiration in their tone, I have felt the kick within my gut —which I know they had not consciously given to me 

would they have me quit my life, I’ve wondered; do they feel my life thus far was not at all worth living for?

But I would not let myself ever prod deeper in that question I’ve asked myself 

because I know I would fear the answer 

and then ….I’d give up

has it been worth it….

as they say it I suppose I feel such disappointment in that very vague sense 

because ….this is a very lonely road to travel so long alone with those long spent lovers behind who had not lived up to their might and promise 

And still I do not look too deeply ….but I find the whispered hidden question of my own begin to infiltrate my faith onward 

why…. why indeed 

“I think it is that you are just too stubborn to give up,” is Jackson’s theory 

I think often of that girl’s memories; the landscapes as she walked; the man from her own land she left behind; the horizon she gazed off to ….and the man on the boat as the wind and the water whipped back his hair; that frozen, ice cold island; that hut

her life had such few options as a female ….to choose a life as female seems to double every single challenge without succumbing fully to submission for the ‘stronger’ sex 

Those memories of that life which seemed to re-emerge in my mind during my illness with mononucleosis during a deep fever and it was after those dreams had begun to come to me that I found myself in Dr. Rothschild’s office 

A psychiatrist soon to retire with un-conservative curiosities to try out some of her own experiments with minds as her need to conform seemed no longer necessary in her profession; female or not, she had reached the top of her own field and for this she had gained my respect and—another reason too; she was not willing to go along the views blindly of her status que peers 

When she regressed me…. it opened up further that channel to scenes that belonged to a mind not akin to my present life 

She opened a doorway that —up until that point in my life…. I had intentionally been hiding from ….but seemed to somehow plague my deepest subconsciousness 

Sometimes when I’m walking ….it is something about the swing and rhythm of my hips as I walk; I can feel the weight of such heavy baggage on my back weighing me down ….and my eyes shift to the horizon as though I still search for that ship long sailed ….away 

and I tell myself ….I missed the boat 

e.d. Noir (jmmusechron….?)

And when I do report to Stina, I leave the grounds and take a long walk to the next road out that leads to a pasture and then the bee farm 

she asks me without further ado when I make our weekly call,

“so have you anything to report?”

“I do actually….” I tell her but wait as I watch a nearby car drive away, “I was doing some cleaning up in the attic area and—“

“—yes?”

“I came across some interesting things ….some boxes which —well, among some valuable pieces from Africa and Iran—“

“Iran?”

“I found some old files of….documents and ….transcripts….”

“Go on.”

“Apparently he was an interrogator during his time with the FBI—“

“We are well aware of his agent background,” she sounds impatient now

“—from the Cold War,” I continue as if I did not hear her tone 

“What sort of files did you find?”

“It looked like —files of things like roughly drawn maps or….I don’t know, like those football strategy plans —I hardly can decipher their meanings, but—“

“He’s after Retnuh Nivek, you do realize—and he may be setting us up because he thinks we know his whereabouts,” she coolly says 

“Do you!?!”

“He has an old score with him and ….”

“So that’s why….” I shake my head 

“You’re his bait. He’s a hunter, remember? He can’t resist. His finding you on that road was no accident ….or that convenient old school chum stalker of yours  who he set up ….”

“Shit….” I stand in the middle of the dirt road pacing its width frantically 

“Calm down—we have not left you there on your own, haven’t you noticed the drones around?” But my mind is swimming and I have no time to process her words before she switches approach to ask, “have you seen any new people around then?”

The qualms I felt in divulging his life details seem to fly out of my thoughts now and I answer her, 

“Well….” I take a long breath to calm myself 

“You have…. you know, Jörn is concerned for you….” she says in such a way as to shake my wits even more into ….putting my faith once again in ….what I’d come to feel a lost cause 

“How would you know?”

“He thinks you are being watched—and it could be possible that Sunny is just an innocent bystander,” she seems to coax me

“You don’t believe that though, actually, do you?”

“Who is it then?” she asks 

“It’s a man ….he came by with the boys—“

“The boys?”

“Oh…. the Amish boys.”

“What….Amish—?” she pauses as it seems she think “oh…. they are known as Pennsylvania Dutch, are they not?”

I laugh,

“well…. did you have to Google that? They live among themselves. It’s a separate culture ….they did not approve of such things as electricity back around the turn of the last century….”

“And what’s it to do with Sunny….?”

“He’s quite —connected among their community, particularly the Prince family, I guess they are the family he never got to have as an agent….There’s a driver who—you know they don’t drive cars—so—“

“You think their hired driver does more than push the pedal to the metal….” with her usual finesse of using American expressions with slightly off Swedish intonation, she finishes my sentence for me 

Et je vois que tu es toujours là.  cela signifie-t-il que vous vous en souciez ? montre-moi

more thoughts of the legend; reflections

 

I always knew there was something “emotionally” wrong with my mother.

unhinged. 

I knew her differently than others in my family. Looking back now, I understand why her bond with me was bittersweet. I looked like the man she loved and lost and I was the daily reminder that she was marked in her husband’s eyes as his whore to abuse behind closed doors.

I watched from the crack of my mother’s closet door. I watched scenes that marked ….into the eggshell of my mind….I saw that vile little evil man 

but also, I saw her manic highs

I saw her lows

her lows made her cruel ….usually most to me

but I understood

I was willing to be thst for her

I listened 

I told her how much I adored her

I forgave her everything 

She was not diagnosed manic depressive

it was a secret that I saw but she hid well…. but she was quite mad…. quite mad…. and with a husband prone to violent behavior to members of his household—the exception the molesting daughter of his blood and sickness; behind closed doors were two plus one lunatics we all lived …. in that yellow house 

I reacted to her mood swings. I bore the swings. I was depressed when she hurt my feelings with her shunning and spiteful words…. that was why the self harm began, you see; her rejection made me wish to die when she shut me out and would ignore me for days; weeks…. And later years ….why do females in my family hurt me so ….the men not as much, just the one—my personal Hitler 

I had been misdiagnosed years ago for clinical depression —they were wrong. I just needed to heal. But some things you don’t heal from. It is up to the individual to figure out how to survive and build their armor and maybe one day triumph 

It is not depression when you hurt or grieve. Those emotions are correct to feel. They should be experienced, not masked by chemicals society enforces 

we should accept differences of others ….accept and appreciate their unique perspectives 

How boring if everything was straight up and down 

pour toi; grenouille de paix 2

 

 vampyren som guide genom helvetet;  Jag är glad att du fortfarande är där.  du ser mig åtminstone📌

 This spot reminds me of Hylas and the Nymphs by Waterhouse every day I walk by it

Electra’s dictionary, noir/I am me I am mine prt3;what I believe in

More thoughts of the legend 

I talk about Truth quite a lot on here. I reflect upon it. But truth is subjective to the consciousness it occupies 

so how is it possible to rise above subjectivity?

It is not possible 

so I can only reflect. Observe —do my Scientific Method and log it in my fleeting writing, sometimes in a blog; observations from my lens and see how my warped vision alters it

I don’t claim to be omniscient and proclaim a Truth

I just try to ….humanize it

I —think— emotions. 

Intellectualize it. Likely I am a form of autism as dyslexics are connected so, while I am a sensitive empath and psychically connected to visions that come to me, I recognize that my truth is a truth but it is not the utter truth 

but that is not our role

that is what I believe —our truths matter as much as the utter truth does but the two should never be confused or claim one ultimate victory 

I think my mission here was to learn how to feel. It seems I split off as a child, that’s how the text books would label it 

but that was my lesson ….that was chosen for this life’s journey. To catalogue emotions; to study emotions. To step inside them; immerse…. take it on at full force…. and to turn it into a universal image; Art in order to call minds to a higher consciousness 

To call to minds 

   in order to ignite a butterfly effect 

so where does ego come in? I think that is the Very riddle locked up in the celves/Celf

Those cells inside; those rooms 

so within this vast pool of knowledge I’ve acquired of human emotions ….trauma; fear; every form of heartbreak and loss; shame; humiliation; torture; pain; terror….terror…destitute….a  fleeting glimpse at ego; idolization; everybody’s unicorn; mistaken identity; infatuation; lust; confusion of sexual identity; gender…. 

but ….no joy

that part I missed somehow and ….I think it must be my cross to bear

the gods were jealous of me ….or who knows, I am Aphrodite; not Electra and this journey is ….designed to ….fail unless ….I find that one possibility that purity does exist in humankind ….that pure of heart

so far…. no joy, and I was their champion 

whom they destroyed

we all have a mission; we use me as the apparatus so there I am:

I think of Dante’s tree….I am caught around the trunk and limbs with barbed wire; how does a tough outer shell protect the ‘fragile eggshell mind’* within the broken soul? how does she avoid those that promise but ….then only to find that all they ever wanted was base possession and are not deep enough for more and this is the flaw in my mission; I believed. Is it a want or a need? When does the want become the need? when does the need become wont. 

Someone once told me I should have been catholic because she thought I was the most devout person she knew—she being catholic. She said it maliciously and I think about that label of stoic but no…. they are wrong …. And that is the sad riddle of the celves ….and there seems no legend can find it on the map 

*******

I find the sudden desperate need to —what?

find that desperate faith somewhere in someone —perhaps and, reach with one moment of hesitation and give up to this human weakness when ….I see Bran’s call up on my phone screen. That barbed wire, they never let me go….

“Cloak and dagger, espionage—how did you get caught up in all of this?” Bran who is almost actually scolding when I answer

“You don’t remember? It was always in the background of my life—the assault, and who was behind that? Hired hit man —the years under that man’s thumb who controlled all our lives ….”

“Your father.”

“He was not my father.”

“You got your dna test results ….I read that in your…. so, the sins of the fathers…. born is Electra …. morning becomes her…. but you are my Beth….”

“Bran….” to my ears I hear warning and defense ….but also longing ….and the memory of seaweed arms….and harden myself against this; I know how to pull the portcullis better than anyone; I am me, I am mine, and nothing comes in, nobody trespasses ….that is the code 

so

“And the killer is still out there? The one who assaulted you at Bard and left you with a life sentence of degenerative pain….”

“Uhh—I….don’t know, they don’t tell me, but he’s some known terrorist they seem to be in a cat and mouse game with —all these years….he walks free….”

“How are you?” he asks

I hear concern in his voice; I don’t believe what I hear; never again and choose not to hear what he asks

“I’m so sick of ….controllers—men…. I’m sorry you don’t want to hear this….”

“It’s —fine, I deserve to hear this,” he says

“You mean because you recognize this in yourself? —do…. I think they just look at me and they see ‘target’ ….sitting doe sitting duck….and they build their deceptions carefully hiding their own interests and watch the exit door is in view—“

“Christ, Beth—what have you been through….”he says with regret and ….I almost go back to ‘our’ place in my mind ….it’s there watching me from the box I hid it in

But I babble on ignoring this and so glad of an excuse to ….have someone just listen—he was always my best listener…. “so they know how to back out—they watch thst exit and then tell you how to be. how to feel. perform, and stop trying to see. you. But what about the needs of myself —no, there is no self, we know…..I mean, don’t you dare make a suggestion, a request —a desire…. why should you want or need or ask…. just sit there and be quiet….how dare I think I have any rights at all.”

“Your Viking?”

“I don’t want to talk about it….” I say, “he is just one of dozens, I mean, don’t you remember? Or no, people choose how to recall details and they edit out their own guilt.”

“I’m sorry Beth….” he says suddenly 

And I stop babbling madly 

He says it again 

“You should know…. they didn’t win over you….I’m so sorry Beth….”

*JDMorrison 

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me ,I am mine Prt2

“Did anyone see you get out of the postal vehicle?” Stina asks me from the front seat, in her usual no-nonsense tone that always gets my back up 

“I don’t think so, Willem pulled up beside a dumpster and —you know, I was….careful. I’m not an idiot,” the last part I say defensively 

“Good. You seem to be a natural at this.”

I never know with her if she really means anything she says. But I am so lost in my brooding thoughts of ….well; is it anger —or pain?

I think about getting lost somewhere where no one will ever find me. Just ghosting everyone and everything ….as if I could but still…. I think about it…. and I’ve done it before  

even as the things you run away from still haunt at you, pressing the eject button that gets you out the emergency exit is very freeing 

I like feeling free. The illusion of freedom is so thrilling to me; no strings, no one to check in with, no one who would notice that you are alive or dead 

just go. because people and myself are not natural companions and only because I forget not to trust; I start to believe them…. and nobody ever tells the truth ….wrap you in and I suppose part of it must be the challenge of whether or not they can crack you like a safe; conquer you…. 

it isn’t that I don’t believe in love.

so what do I believe in?

“What if I told you I know a doctor who is working on DNA memory theory and is actually in the area?” Stina suddenly says 

“What?” I sit up right and for the moment forget my brooding 

“Yes. She’s got her own practice as a psychiatrist but she has devoted years of work researching this very subject. Her name is Dr. Rachel Evans. Her practice is in Chesterton,” Stina goes on to say in a strangely friendly tone 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know this is a subject that interests you. You’ve written about this, haven’t you?”

“Great, so you are reading my blog now—I can’t imagine why unless you want something from me.”

“Are you interested in talking with this person?” Stina asks me

“In exchange for what?” I ask, “because I thought originally you just wanted me to spy on Jörn and ….well, you know more about his whereabouts these days than I do.”

“So—in exchange ….I would like you to find out more about Sunny.”

“Sunny?”

“Yes. We have suspicions he is not as retired as he pretends to be—possible links with not just what happened on January 6 but possible covert operations to undermine more than one country’s government dealings….”

I think even if she said he was a little green man I would be too numb to care 

I don’t answer and lean my head against the window 

I feel so trapped. So isolated and stranded. But mostly so sick of believing people who deceive me

“Dr. Evans is expecting your call,” Stina tells me, “she also happened to be a part of a recent excavation in an area in Great Britain known as Powys.”

I see her look at me in the rear view mirror 

I think about ….how there really is not that much to excite me or challenge me lately 

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Just—pay attention to who he meets with, who comes by. I want you to just watch for things. And check in with me once a week.”

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me, I am mine

 

I stand at the shipping launch as I watch the large cruiser slowly diminish into the distance; lost upon the horizon 

and I feel as if I have seen this scene so many times 

repeated 

over and over

the landscape alters in dreams. the lands change replaced and overlaid with patch worked memories and dreams from …. so many of the celves 

I feel so empty inside …. I am lost upon the horizon 

Do I know the uniformed postal worker with the odd accent stands nearby? as I say aloud to myself,

“….how will I get back?”

But what do I mean? from that lost horizon ….? or from some long lost land….

“Your ride is here,” the postal worker says with his Dutch accent that only I can hear him say as amongst the activity, there is noise of the water; of the motors all around; of voices making static on the wind…. and the wind itself ….which carries the sounds away, far away from the maddening crowd 

I turn and see a black car with an Uber sign in the window of the back passenger side and I see the familiar figure of Stina step out of the car and walk over

I look at Willem as Stina nears us, she calls my name and says,

“you ordered a ride?”

“Did I?” I say still obtuse to no one in particular but …. perhaps to myself 

Willem walks casually near me back in the direction of the postal van and says,

“you should go with her. She’ll bring you back. I will text you later; we can’t talk here— don’t look at me as I walk away….”

Then he walks to the van

I turn to Stina,

“oh—yes, I’m ….who the ride is for….” and I am so numb inside that I just walk straight to the Uber car with no emotion and feel so exhausted when I slide into the back seat…..

Electra’s dictionary/“Operation delivery ‘going postal’” Noir

 

Operation delivery ‘going postal’” goes perfectly without a single hitch, as it is Willem who arrives driving the delivery van, as I had half expected it would be. As expected, Sunny is not present during the ‘pickup service’. So, from the nearby cluster of thick shrubs, Jörn is camouflaged by the thickly leaved trees as Willem opens the back of the van to remove a large box of wild deer feed at the moment Jörn climbs in. Willem neatly shuts the back and carries the box of deer feed to the spot where Sunny has in past requested his packages to be placed 

I casually walk up the long drive that leads to the dirt road and walk to the end of it where the postal van is waiting to pick me up so that I may say my goodbyes to Jörn. 

The ride to Chesapeake Bay’s ship launch is heavily silent though as Willem drives and Jörn and I sit in the back on the floor surrounded with shipping boxes, all of which are actually empty 

I feel as though someone should say something but it seems none of us find something relevant and worth saying but then, they have their top secret world and who am I in all of the grand scheme of things? 

“Will you report to Stina?” Jörn asks suddenly over the hum of the van as he looks up from the cover of the floor to watch the sky through the cargo window 

“Is this really what you choose to talk about right now when I don’t even know when I’ll see you again?”

“He’s right,” Willem says from the front, “you should. This way if anything—“ he stops whatever he was about to say and pauses as though to reconsider his words, “I would also feel better having someone or some way we can reach you. We don’t feel it is safe for you with that maniac still out on the loose too and Sunny….he’s retired and not up on ….how things work these days….”

“Why would you need to reach me?” I ask and watch Jörn for any sign of emotion 

He glances up at me and raises one brow. Then keeps his eyes steady on me; they are shadowed and still gray overcast and reveal nothing 

I look away

“Duva….” he touches my hand and then takes it in his. But I don’t look at him. There have been so many stretches of silences between us and I just don’t know if he leaves me with any possibility of believing in ….anything. More softly and just audible to me, he says again, “duva….” and weaves his long fingers through mine 

“The last time you just ….there was nothing; no communication from you—nothing! I mean, I do understand you’re in deep cover but, Jörn, already the ties between us have been so sketchy at best but ….mostly frayed at the rope’s end ….” the last part of what I say comes out tense but my eyes tear and I look away 

We reach the bay and there is the shifting of props —he changes clothes putting on a US  naval military disguise but is set to climb into a box large enough to contain him. I realize the plan is to have Willem cart him to the ship in the box using a hand truck but the rest I have not enough to understand more of their plan 

“So this is it?” I look at him as he is about to climb in it

Willem says from the front,

“I’ll let you talk in private,” he gets out

But then not much is said beyond,

“you’ll hear from me ….I promise….”

“You said that last time,” I look up at him and search his eyes, then I say, “be careful,” and grip his hand tight, “please….”

conversation, ymddiddan/Electra’s dictionary

   

There is this sense always when you turn back the pages of a lifetime and it feels as if that lifetime has remained preserved; frozen as it was

That life. That relationship. Those people you were. 

To me, it is like you could see them there still; your ghosts haunting the hallways of scenes from that life. There they are still lurking in the shadows of rooms where the dust glistens like pixie dust and romanticizes forgotten pain 

“Do you know where I am right now?” Bran. His voice. Alive. It reaches me through that audible organ my phone is pressed to; ageless and ….still belonging to that ‘her’ that ‘“Beth” who is what?’  

But in slow motion I only comprehend the meaning as I am myself in this strange bedroom that I have only learned to occupy as mine of Sunny’s hunting lodge. No the bedroom is not strange. Just strange as in I am its stranger; new and not mine and I am not its 

I belong to me. I am mine. 

or am I? I look around me and wonder how to mesh the celves ….how to become its whole; how to find perspective with this voice that belongs to a man who once broke my heart 

“Cardiff?” I ask him. And I fear the very strangeness of my voice gives me away

“Well…. I mean—where I am sitting….calling you from….” and that lilting of his accent befuddles my mind playing tricks with how it causes me to feel

I only realize when I exhale I’ve been holding my breath and need to breathe and must stop to inhale deeply as I pull the phone away a moment so as not to give myself away 

I cannot find any answer though to what he has said and feel too dizzy to think 

“I used to call you from my car outside, remember? I showed you ….”

“The same car?” I ask because I remember it from our trip when we drove from Paris to Rouen 

“No—that one had a sad demise,” he says with a kind of heavy nostalgia

“So the same house then….” I say because ….because ….it was that life that won over me 

“Well….it’s ….a lot different now—added on….” he says and I note he refrains from any pronoun 

“How is Clare?” I ask as I put my mind on the frank reality of the present 

“She’s ….she’s….” he sighs heavily 

“And the child …? Should be —what eight right now, I guess?”

“Please Beth….” unexpected is the heavy sorrow in his deep voice, “you’ve been on my mind so much lately,” he says with a sigh of defeat 

“Have you been reading my blog?”

“Do you think I ever stopped?” he asks

“I don’t know. How would I know?” I ask him. But then ask, “why did you call?”

He does not answer right away. But hear him moving around in his car. In my mind he is still in that old faded blue car with the mis-folded old maps stuck in the visors. 

After a moment he says,

“I’ve needed to hear your voice again. Maybe it was that recording. Or….maybe ….I just wanted that glimpse back of feeling ….anything.”

“It’s been eight years….” and I regret how cold my voice says this 

“I deserve that,” he says 

“No—no—I’m sorry….I ….have wondered about you. I just felt it was best to leave you in peace.”

“Peace. Is that what you call this?”

“I don’t know….but still, I mean—I left Chris ages ago and even that life feels it belonged to someone else.”

“I’ve been replaced by a Viking,” his laugh is forced 

“Not replaced —another who is otherwise engaged so to speak; unofficially still with his partner.”

“What happened with the other one?” he asks trying to seem casual 

“Who? Eliot? The step cousin of my illegitimate father and his ridiculous ideas….?”

“Nicholas? The archeologist researcher, professor?”

“Nigel—oh, he was just ….that was….I don’t know; his DNA memory theory was really why but he—was….I think he was my rebound ….from you,” and only as I say this do I realize what that was, “why did you really call me, Bran? Don’t tell me it was to give me lessons in Welsh.”

“But….it would be a good excuse,” he says 

  

 

I remember crosses, fields, they went on and on, rolling green and hills, hammers. The hills turned into rocky paths. And the drumming. They shook the trees and the ground ….I would stare into the distance and see ….they littered the road everywhere and the acrid scent that blew across and stayed inside your breath and taste ….I remember her; she was apart from the rest of us but…. when she had something to say, she would come and find us. She told me about the man who would come. First one and then I would never see him again. She said they would come and I would go. With them. 

 c'est moi qui ai été aveugle

 Il me voit

captured fleeting freedom

 

Electra’s dictionary noir;a voice from the past/Beth who is What

 

“Does Sunny get deliveries from anywhere?” Jörn suddenly asks me, looking up from his phone

“Is that Willem?”

“He came by boat,” he says simply 

“He’s here?” I ask and jump to get up but Jörn puts his hand on me, “not here, he’s docked….”

“Chesapeake?” 

Jörn nods.

“On your boat?”

“Duva….” he looks at me in irritation 

“Oh—no, that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

Jörn does not answer that, instead he says,

“He’s on a shipping cruiser….”

“Oh—deliveries? Well…. the US postal service comes with packages by truck if it doesn’t fit in a mailbox.”

Jörn looks back at his phone and taps into it

“Why?” I ask 

Only as he is intent on texting to Willem he is distracted and doesn’t answer so I think about this and come to some logical conclusions why Willem would consider the need to know this and realize they are working out how to move Jörn 

“There’s usually delivery around noon,” I say but then ….I realize they would have the intel or the means of things like this  

“When are you leaving?” I ask with a heavy feeling in my chest 

Jörn looks up from his phone briefly. He looks at me steadily before he says,

“tomorrow….”

“Just like that? Where are you going?”

“Is there anyway you could get away without calling attention to your not being there?”

“Tomorrow —? Like afternoon you mean, is that when?” I ask, “yes, he won’t be around during that time and I can find a good explanation ….you mean to—say goodbye ….”

I return from the hide back at the house and feel disturbed 

even as I know these are different circumstances—

why is it that people in my life continually drop in and out of my life at their own convenience? ….No one is ever really there completely one hundred percent. There is always their own agenda which hardly includes me beyond —whatever fascination (fetish?) they have for me

and it makes me wonder 

So disturbed ….I pace with my arms folded as I silently yell at the walls ….silent ….always silent 

what does a voice mean when whatever you once had to say seems ….lost completely in the noise 

In effort to put my mind somewhere else I turn to read the latest of the war— and pick up my phone which I’ve kept on silent since I left the hide ….just wanting to be alone with my own thoughts 

….and drawn back to my phone as it is my only connection to the internet as such and …. see a message through messenger from someone I have not seen or heard from in over eight years 

<<how are you?>>

I tap it to open it and stop….

“No,” I say aloud to the empty room

I put my phone down and cover my face 

The tone of a call comes through voice call. 

I hesitate as it tones three times ….and then, tap the call

“Your Welsh needs serious help….Beth,” the familiar lilting voice says

“Bran….?”

Electra’s dictionary Noir/Of copycats & codes(jmmusechron)

 

Jörn suddenly asks,

“so, you and your daughter are talking again?”

“Oh—you read that in my ….”

“Blog,” he finishes my thought

“Mostly just texts for now, but we have talked, yes. After all these years …. but yes…. we had a four hour phone call of us mostly talking about writing and art ….”I look outside and find myself thinking about her back in Michigan. Then after a moment lost in thought I shrug the nostalgia off, and pause before I say,“but ‘between the lines’ we tackled all the heavy shit. And—well, it is sad but it turns out it was all misunderstandings. Makes me wonder how much Chris might have poured gasoline over things to ….”

“Help turn her against you.”

I shrug and don’t look at him and ignore the heavy weight of his meaning there. I mumble to myself something 

“What did you say?” he asks leaning towards me

I shake my head,

“it’s not worth even saying ….some things ….he’s ….said to me ….recently.”

“You know he’s the narcissist,” he looks at me closely “….don’t you?”

I realize he heard me

“I don’t want to talk about him. He is one of dozens of people in my life I have needed to let go of, I guess it was some kind of overhaul I’ve been going through to edit out the toxic individuals in my life.”

“Like MM?” he raises one brow at me when I sharply look at him “speaking of …. narcissists… don’t drop the project because of….”

“Oh. You…. figured that out….so….you have been keeping up, haven’t you? I didn’t know you had the time.”

“Stake outs get pretty tedious and mind numbing when you have to wait wondering if you are about to get blown up….” he remarks casually 

“Shit—Jörn! Where—?!”

He raises his good hand and shakes his head,

“don’t ask….”

“I —see…. well, I’m glad I can provide you with some distraction….”

“Is your daughter writing with you now?”he seems genuinely interested

I laugh,

“it’s the other way around. She has a few stories and ….well, you know…. it’s what we always did together before. It’s fun. She likes a different genre so—I like her stories…. and they’re fun so ….I’ve been assisting her for ideas when she gets stuck on plot lines. It’s ….yeah…. It is actually a lot of fun,” I chuckle, “but I’ve always found her fun. I’ve missed her so much…. and I’ve really missed it. These things we used to do….” I stop to collect myself but then…. “Hard to believe it’s been so many years ….she was just out of high school then ….years. Like….over six…. It doesn’t feel like it when we talk or text or work together….so weird how even with our separation she has so many of my traits….” I laugh at the irony. 

only I am no good talking about myself. 

I never could share. never knew how. strong silent type….the growing up years of my own ….kept me there silent in the corner ….where they sat me in fears of the belt valet

you never learn how ….so instead you learn how to write in code….and become uncomfortable now when you try

“Anyway…. So…. My blog—Jörn …. I assume it’s you—I mean, you know—the blog hits….?” I ask him carefully 

But at first Jörn seems not to understand what I mean 

after a moment he smiles as he realizes my question 

“You mean—“ he hides another smile and then chuckles, “your cryptic posts ….which can seem like—are they codes ….or part of the story? yes, it was me, I got your messages—” his tone at first is teasing as he chuckles but then more searching as he now narrows his eyes on me; today more grey reflecting the day, with specks of taupe, “what was that ‘copycat’ you mentioned?”

“What? ….oh…. yeah—well, there were similar hits but —I don’t think they were you.”

“Then who was it, duva?” he meets my gaze, “you need to watch that….be careful.”

“Watch what? It’s not like I’m leaking secrets because I don’t know any!”

“Well, the copycat doesn’t know that, do they?”

Electra’s dictionary pirate noir (jmmusechron); radio signals🎭

 

I am silent as Jörn checks his phone for messages and emails and turn away slightly so as to allow his requirement of privacy and yet, this affords me the opportunity to look again at the unopened message still causing me confusion and glance at him

The only part of the unopened message reads: <hey, I know it’s been a minute but —have you ….>

“Does Willem know your whereabouts?” I ask carefully

Jörn stops reading something on his phone to look at me,

“have you heard from him?”

“I….” 

“You have,” he reads me

“I wasn’t sure….” and sigh with resignation and move closer to where he remains propped in the corner of the hide’s wood structure 

He gives me a look and reaches his hand out and waits for me to hand him my phone 

Again I sigh with resignation but this time with a heavier sense of indecision and I still grip my phone as I hand it to him

Again that look at me with those kryptonite vampire eyes that have powers beyond my understanding and immediately I release my grip

“Why didn’t you open it?” he looks up from my phone, finger hovering over the message

“I guess I wasn’t sure….”

He nods at me thoughtfully before looking again at my phone. It is a long look he gives me,

“how….” and now he studies me more critically taking in my full appearance for the first time since I discovered him here, “how have you ….been?” and narrows his eyes on me, observing me much too closely 

“What do you mean?” I ask him

“Well, before I left here, last time, I bumped into Smulligan down at ….” he waves to indicate FBI headquarters which is not too far from where Sunny’s property is by car

“Oh? And?” I ask 

“Stina was there….” 

I look away,

“does she seriously still want me to ….”

“Stina does not give up that easily,” he chuckles to himself. But I feel his gaze remain upon me and with it, those omniscient invisible tentacles that miss nothing and after a pause he says, “you’re too thin, duva, I am concerned and ….at least if I know you are reporting back to someone I’d…. be able to focus better….”

I suddenly look at him as his remark quite surprises me

“Jörn ….” and shrug, “how am I….” I say aloud thoughtfully and look away again to consider how best to reply. Only it occurs to me that…. no one has asked me that in so long; not even the Celf. “I am ….” and get stuck on how to answer “I don’t know…. Ok, I guess…. but…. I suppose I miss some semblance of—home….you know.”

“You were ready to leave the Adirondaks,” he says 

“I know but — don’t you miss the philharmonic? Our life back there?”

He smiles and suddenly gives me an uncharacteristic playful wink and pats a spot closer next to him, and when I move closer, he pulls me inside his arms with my phone,

“I know I must reek of sweat and blood,” he says in apology as I lean against him

“It’s not so bad,” I tell him, “it’s not like I’ve never sat in a sauna with you or—other things, and I’ve missed your smell.”

“It must be love,” he teases, “you open it,” he gives me the phone and I open it with him there

<hey, I know it’s been a minute but —have you ….seen anything of moose over there?>

I glance up at Jörn now

Jörn taps my reply into my phone with my hands still holding it,

But to my surprise he taps back

<crab fishing>

I look up at him but he just looks at the phone 

It is only about forty seconds when Willem’s reply comes 

<I thought herring was on the menu>

Jörn replies 

<the red herring disagreed>

Electra’s dictionary noir/hide and seek

 

I return to the hunter’s hide with a large gallon jug of water and several basics I anticipate he could use in the small hide-out he will have to remain at until he is strong enough to move 

He is awake when I enter the small structure 

“I charged your phone,” I start to hand it to him as I kneel down but he indicates I set it next to him on the floor and as I do I set down his rucksack too that I borrowed to carry things back for him; transportable non perishable food; trail mix; protein bars and anything else of this kind that I could find, “oh—I brought you my phone booster charger so it’s ready when….”I look at him as I set it next to his phone but I see he looks tired and only slightly interested 

“Tack— thanks,” he says and looks back at me, and then says, “for everything….”

“Oh….” I move closer, “can I see?”

“You’ve never been good with blood,” he says, “all the more reason I’m grateful for what you did but—“

I sigh heavily knowing he is right,

“still, it needs to be done….” I dig more things out of his bag, “gauze, antiseptic….” I lay everything out, “oh—“ I take out a large travel mirror, “I thought you might want to inspect my work just in case, so ….” I lay the mirror next to him, “you must be starving.”

He gives me an ironic look,

“I had roast snake for breakfast actually.”

“What-the-fuck?!”

“I know how you feel about meat so, I wasn’t going to mention it,” he starts to laugh at me but the movement causes pain in the area of the wound. I stare at him imploringly. He makes a small suggestion of a shrug, “it had the audacity to pay me a visit this morning and I wasn’t that comfortable with the social call….”

I hold back the urge to retch but have to turn my face away,

“here’s a tooth brush,” I say and put this next to his phone with some toothpaste with it

I move to prepare changing the gauze and set about to cleanse the wound  

“I think you need some of this,” he reaches with his good arm for the vodka bottle, “you’ve gone a shade of green suddenly.”

“No, I—“ but as I notice the blood seeped through, though now dried, I hesitate. I don’t look at him and just reach for the bottle. And once fortified I hand it back to him and go about the work. 

He holds up the mirror and watches what I do and reaches for the vodka as I start to peel the gauze that sticks to the dried blood 

“So what is the plan?” I ask him as I start to work and wonder if I should mention the message from Willem still left unopened