a departure from Electra

 

Chapter 1 /depature

It was clear she had no idea what she was doing. And it was also clear she had no idea where she was going. Pretty much, everything she owned was in these two suitcases and the stack of Amazon boxes that reached her hip.

You know those mornings you wake up from fifteen minutes of sleep? Your eyes feel like glass cutting into your eye balls. At once wired and exhausted. 

It was all so sudden. The lawyer showed up and said it was time to vacate and there was no time to organize a plan. It was a week of arranging guests for the funeral and the service and then packing up belongings to send to Goodwill. How sad to handle the objects that once meant something to this old man she only got to know the last six months of his life. He had not really mentioned where he would have wanted these material things of his to go, and some of the priceless objects were from all over the world but his more personal belongings of clothing, pots and pans, the worn out furniture … 

So like a zombie living off the charge of caffeine she had attacked the overwhelming task of organizing things to be ready for pick up for whomever might be taking it. Needless to say it was a surprise to hear the lawyer tell her to stick around once the private reading of the will to the family was over. She sat outside the old mansion on top of the Amazon boxes and stared stupefied at the dusty ground outside by the cue of cars parked out front. 

Chapter 2/leaving a town called Electra

By appearances, it was hard to guess her age, and even if you tried, you’d be wrong. Not even once you started talking to her could you guess because of her laugh and her choices in conversation. In this moment she was dressed in casual cut off denim shorts which she wore with a salmon colored tshirt with short sleeves. She wore black Keen hiker sandals. Her hair was an unusual iridescent shade somewhere between brick and saffron that glowed in the artificial lighting of the two story Barnes and Noble bookstore. She had a copy of the Dharma Bums under her arm while she stood in the travel section squinting through her somewhat nerdy framed glasses trying to read the map she had slightly open so as not to have to refold it again. 

She had no idea what she was looking at. Not even sure if the part she was looking at was anywhere near where she was. Upset, clearly, as she was unconscious that the hair she had pulled behind her ear to better see was twisted around the bar of her glasses and sticking up in a rather comical manner. Not that she seemed to care.

And so unconscious she was being watched until for whatever reason, a movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye and caused her to look up. 

That was when she first noticed him. 

He was standing adjacent in another part of the travel section with a book open. And was not hiding the fact he was looking at her. 

For just a moment she forgot about being lost. And forgot about the fact that she had to trust the mechanic she was towed to and left at early that morning. That was just across the street from a bookstore, conveniently as —she’d been there now six hours. The book store staff kept giving her suspicious looks every time they walked by her, which did not help her feeling of unease about her whole situation. 

Who was this guy staring at her? And why was he? 

He was actually not creepy which was what had her a bit curious. Did he think he knew her and was trying to place her face? 

He was kind of oddly dressed. Too neat. He wore a crisp grayish blue tshirt and khakis with somewhat odd looking running shoes she had never seen on anyone. Yet he was actually cute, maybe too young for her, though, thirties? A kind of scruffy but not quite-a-beard outlined his face and the same brownish shade as his well groomed hair beneath a kind of fedora and —was that a brief case?

She had not meant to appear interested in him but he had made her curious to have kept her gaze on him long enough to, perhaps, give that impression. Which, to her horror, being rather painfully shy, she soon realized when he started to walk over, picking up his brief case.

“You dropped this,” he said bending down and handed her the folded printout from the mechanic which must have fallen out of her back pocket 

“Oh….” she said staring at him, realizing he was English; the accent. Which explained his odd appearance. And, again, for another slightly too long moment, she stared at him because of his eyes. There was something unusual about them which caught her and kept her awkwardly staring at them.

He indicated the map she was looking at with a kind of head gesture,

“road traveling?”

“Uh….” she looked down at the map, “do you happen know the name of this town?”

“It’s Electra,” he said and smiled  and looked more curiously at with a kind of chuckle asked her, “are you lost?”

“Yes. Actually.”

He reached for her map,

“no, you’re on the wrong part—where are you intending to go?”

Shaking her head she looked up at him.

Only now did he realize her eyes looked tired and bloodshot.

“Baltimore?” he suggested

Adamantly, she shook her head,

“definitely not!”

“Then, DC?”

Again, she shook her head. But at that moment her phone rang.

Realizing it was the mechanic she looked at him holding up one finger,

“it’s the mechanic,” so as not to seem rude as she answered.

As he watched her, she listened to the voice of the mechanic,

“you fixed the what? …..” and listened again, “what is that? ….ok….so…. Uh huh…. um…. so then—I can drive it?” And uncomfortable now, she looked back up at him as he stood there watching her, her face turning the same shade as her hair, “….I’m not sure what that means,” she was saying.

“Here,” the man standing there with the English accent now said, cutting in, “let me take this—“

“Huh?” but she let him

For a moment she watches and listens as he talks to the mechanic discussing motor parts she never heard of. He now says,

“and how much? No— I don’t think so….” covering the speaking part he looked at her, “is this the place across the street?”

“Yeah,” she says

“Let’s go,” he says

Electra’s dictionary reincarnates

Break the Mold Media; Electra’s dictionary reincarnates

At your screen it says:

Start: “click here”

Drawing of hands tapping text into a phone and some of the words can be seen

A voice over says as she taps into a phone screen:

Do past and present lives overlap?

I would not have thought so had it not been for dreams I have had which shown of things that turned out to be found at archeological sites 

But some dreans are not dreams

Some dreams can take over your life

—//-

Sound of hands type as a fade into an animation drawing of a computer screen with a man’s hands typing at a key board.

The drawing of the desk is a messy surface covered with details of the person whose desk it is faded behind and too blurry here to see

What is dimly visible in the shadowy room is a half empty cigarette box, matchbook left open, crumpled post-it papers, several soda-pop bottles with most of it drank, a coffee cup with a molding substance crud-ding it, and a half eaten pizza slice

at the top of the screen, the company logo that reads: Break the Mold Media

—just out of view of the drawing’s image— A desk phone suddenly loudly rings 

 

using poetic language is one form to hide within codes but I can also see how it may be possible to use the genre of fantasy fiction to do this too

 

the surgical prod into the infection …. begins here

what I came out of six months ago—did my head in and in such ways that perhaps was my most damaging of all experiences 

partly for the length of time I endured it and much because the person(s) was/were a part of my past and used this/these things cruelly and sadistically ….what I could not clearly see was it was because of their jealousy and so used their will to exact revenge when they might have instead chosen to rise above and be ….better humans 

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”—*

despite my combat instincts I ….I realize am often hampered out of my strange consideration to be polite 

my downfall 

that seems the weakness I have often let destroy me

call it karmic politeness

I fear if I turn down a kindness generously offered …. will smack me later in the ass

*quoted, of course, from Tennessee Williams’ play, “A Streetcar Named Desire” as said by Blanche DuBois

Next scene

 

When I shut off the water, I find a bamboo towel neatly folded on a clear bench and wonder if that had been there before. I walk across towards the round bed in search of my discarded clothes on the floor which…. are no longer there

but instead, I find neatly folded on the bed, khaki shorts and a striped navy blue and white t-shirt and a folded piece of paper with something stapling it shut; like a cuff link or a small tie pin—stuck through it. Outside the fold, in familiar writing is written ‘note from a stranger’ 

I pull the metal piece out, now with more interest, realize it is like an earring post with what appears to be a diamond

     ‘Put this on and I can always find you~meet me downstairs outside, I’ll bring you in the atv~’

I go to the nearest mirror above the clam shaped Bakelite dresser and put it on and

as there’s nothing else to wear, I slip on the shorts and t-shirt and   stepping into my sandals, grab my bag, head straight down with hair still dripping head out

e.d. Noir fortress(jmmuse)

 

Thoughts flow clearest best when the present is possible to be drowned

running motors; howling winds; raging storms; brutal workouts; crashing water….

it seems hard to reach that temple inside

there was such peace within the cool stone interiors of the cathedrals 

I recall the serenity —but not from their priests

because rituals are excuses to —avoid—and the serenity I also did find amongst the Druid groves 

and perhaps it was even stronger amongst those woods and forest floors where the dark green moss grew by the kelpies’ ponds

rituals are incantations to keep minds from questioning ….how often I have used this to keep going in the face of despair 

….how long have I been sunk within that morass 

    like I’m waiting ….still…. when is it time to give up that ghost? I wonder

E.d.noir(jmmusechron) sometimes when I’m walking …..

 

It is time to return to my post. These intervals in between are not permanent. 

Where is Jörn? But the time on my phone alarms me. 

Only once I turn on the shower heads do I realize the walls they stream from are glass and I can see the world outside; like standing in some waterfall of the fjords and looking down at passing memories of sailing boats through water valleys that lead out to more lost memories 

and this is when I realize that I dreamed. It is what woke me. I was walking and carrying something heavy on my back. Following ….behind 

I was watching a sunrise 

It was the drumming that woke me like a warning. A drumming that vibrated the ground 

where were we going? there was a feeling of such dread as I looked upon the worn and trodden path that recalled me to faces and snatches of emotions, like memories ….kept somewhere deep in the treasure chest recesses ….and squeezed my throat painfully as it blended with the rotten smell of blood on the air 

how becomes born the contradictions in a self & identity as a lie

consider…..

        those human errors. Some truths cannot be altered with white lies

and it is hard to adopt the expected persona of someone else’s unspoken white lie 

that is required to be assumed 

by that living lie

living among those living the white lies —that allow them to continue living the lives ….of a living lie

one learns to interpret what is required by…. the subtleties of tones; of moods…. and learns how to read minds by every foot fall and breath ….the raised voices, the nuances restrained by the tension expressed in swallowed sighs 

but the words actually spoken tell nothing of truths

those words are gibberish and mean nothing at all

keys to electra, encore

 

my mother had a wicked, somewhat sadistic sense of humor 

as a kid I was tested to be allergic to wheat after returning from a school field trip where the youth hostile we stayed at was directly next to a wheat farm in England and I came back violently ill. She was very much involved in astrology and so she got a big laugh at me and said, “you’re allergic to yourself!” —you see, because the symbol for Virgo is harvest and wheat. Years later right before I moved out, one day it was this time when I was desperate to get to work or I’d lose my job. We’d had a very big snow storm and a tree had fallen on top of my car from all the snow. So manic was I digging it out and wrestling this tree as —I’ve always been this size and could have used some help

she took pictures 

I’m a masochist and desperately loved her till the end and still do which should explain so much of my complexities psychologically —what good writing it provides though, hmm? 

flight as game/homage to Jack London 

“look at that beauty!” 

a lovely chase across a meadow 

humans turn so fast. 

cornered

“stop playing games!” said the hunter to the fox 

assateague island, couldn’t drag me away

 This is the island of the wild horses where getting lucky enough for a glimpse of one is all by chance. This is a rare occasion 

pour toi, parce que tu décodes mes symboles et que tu es toujours là

et apparaît toujours dans mes heures les plus sombres….

                    

 

 

as the blue notes echo on….

he stops me after awhile and pulls up my chin to look at him and looks down into my face, drawing back my hair,

“du är vacker….  Jag har saknat ditt ansikte….” and drags me off the floor from where I worship, his fingers touching my lips, “such a mouth you have….”

“What did I reveal to you back in the office? I don’t remember any of it….” I say looking up at him

But instead he lifts me and takes me across to the other side where there is the other twin dome which beneath it lays a wide round bed with white satin sheets 

“It looks like a huge clam,” I say as he sets me down upon it, “it’s like an Art Deco, Fred Astaire film set,” I say as I look around at the curved custom made furniture that seems made out of Bakelite or lucite, “so what did I say? Did I reveal more fascinating lockletter codes?”

But instead he says, 

“you said enough ….but let’s not talk about it tonight…. tyst nu, min prinsessa...min drottning….“ and moves over me, “you are wearing too many clothes…. and….it has been such a long day—and ….has been far too long….don’t you agree, duva? I will tell you tomorrow,” he looks down at me, and decisively, not bothering with buttons, peels off everything at once in two abrupt and swift separate tugs, and tosses both tops and bottoms to the floor, “but now, be quiet and open your legs.”

….and so it is later watching the stars through the ceiling with him, tracing the muscles of his body with my finger tips ….and I  know ….I could never want anyone but him

~blue memoir perverse~ vampire waltz vault noir (e.d.jmmusechron;)

 

“Three stories?”Jörn looks doubtfully at me looking up at the structure, “more like six—it must be the height of all the trees confusing your judgement,” and as he says this, he starts walking towards it, carelessly dragging the jacket and button down shirt that he had impatiently dragged over his head now drags over the grass 

“Where are you….?” I start to say

He stops and looks at me, over his shoulder —and with a teasing sort of smirk, lit by that challenging twinkle in his eyes —and then, before facing back towards it, he tosses his head at me, like an off handed command to follow, as he heads right towards the silo 

And because I’m curious, I follow cautiously behind him, totally not sure I want to see 

I had not noticed there are windows, albeit placed discreetly in such ways as to make them blend into the surface of it and as he leads the way, I notice a laid out stone path; a walkway that is cleverly also well disguised from the entrance towards the buildings, where he parked the Volvo. The path leads to the side and as I follow him there, I realize there is a twin silo that was hidden from the side we walked up from; just the same and just as high; two silver towers stood beside what would appear to anyone else as an abandoned barn and stables, presiding over what is visibly an overgrown, defunct and unplowed farm 

As I recognize the line of trees and how the sun dips in its descent as the other side of Sunny’s hunting grounds, I become somewhat intrigued, as I see Jörn head right up to the side of it, and reach a door —and standing there, punch a code into a keypad

Again that challenging look at me, and with a wink, he pushes the door open and goes right in, leaving the door open

I don’t know what I’d expected going inside, and at first I try to get my bearings as my eyes adjust to the surrounding darkness, so I don’t notice where Jörn has gone. I swivel around in a circle to take it all in, within the dim lighting ….dim lighting —which comes only from the concave windows letting in the early evening light 

I realize it is furnished like an entranceway; like some grand circular hallway with staircases on two sides and a large marble console below a gilt mirror. It’s almost hilarious, the attention to detail —as if to model this after some old mansion, as everything has been obviously custom built made as it had to be as it follows the circular shape in a concave interior. It is like walking into a warped M. C. Escher drawing, or like an Alice in Wonderland reality 

The acoustics create an echo as every footstep carries upward to bounce in a strange surround sound and I suppose, so distracted am I that I don’t notice anything —but what I am caught by to look at, as though engulfed and entranced in this kind of warped space, that the music which comes, seems to happen of it’s own will

I suspect it must have been the strange acoustics which disorient my ability to immediately recognize ….the opera

“Coming, duva?” he says above the recording of his pounding keys….

I follow the trail of his discarded jacket, shirt and tie as he stands in just the suit trousers with his bare back to me, looking at me over his shoulder by a doorway and as that now becomes the brightest light source, it draws me naturally to go towards the glow

and only once past the doorway, do I realize, when it closes and we ascend, we have walked inside a lift; half circular, like a crescent with the widest part glass, and only as I feel us moving upwards, do I realize it is a concave picture window, showing the world outside as the drama of his opera follows 

so strangely hypnotized, I watch the scenery as we ascend 

When we reach the top, the door of the lift retreats and opens under a dome of light filtered from outside. Directly beneath the dome stands a black grand piano 

I don’t even have to ask 

….but I look at him….with just his index finger he motions to me —but still—I stare at the piano as I go, without noticing that we now stand just outside the lift but are now enveloped inside an elaborate master suite which takes up the complete width of the top of the tower. The ceiling, a complete dome with a full uninterrupted skylight, exposing the sky above, so that the iridescent shade of the white of the walls is almost blinding 

“Perhaps this is better,” Jörn says and flips a switch

I watch as the dome seems to shift, like a prism, filtering out the glare, the tone now takes on a more lavender iridescence, bathing the room in a dreamy tone of mother-of-pearl mauve 

“Sometimes I think you just want to be on stage all the time,” I say

He shrugs,

“bath or shower?” then walks across the wide space and turns a chrome crank and from four heads, showers water, “no? Not feeling it?” but he keeps it on and goes to the clear tub that had been screened off by floor-length sheers and then starts the bath, “patchouli or lily-of-the-valley?” 

But I walk over to the piano instead. sit down at it. I look at the keys remembering. I stare at the keys as if they are ghosts….because I see our hands…. and remember 

and remember….

codes

I look up at him with alarm 

He looks at me thoughtfully and sighs. Then goes to shut off the shower first, then the bath. He walks over to me in his personally tailored, well-cut trousers which emphasize all his advantages with tasteful ….discretion 

and so walks towards me with a sigh of resignation and stops right behind me then leans over me. He takes my hands in his and places them on the keys. Then in this way, we start to play ….the opening notes of his opera which he joins with the recording that plays through hidden speakers ….but it is how he touches me…. how the lightness of his fingers ….touch mine

and like a master, he does not miss a beat as he caresses my fingers with every struck note. He presses his mouth to my neck and climbs onto the piano seat behind me ….so that I am wrapped in his arms as he cloaks me within his notes, 

surround ….soundly

….until someone’s phone sharply interrupts ….

“ohhh!” 

—is ….that ….me….? 

as I seem to fall off the bench onto the floor

“Duva….?” 

“Your phone—“

“—don’t bother,” he says quietly and reaches to pull me up

“….the codes, Jörn—in the office before….”

“No, min lilla duva, don’t bother….” 

And his voice cracks as it did before in the headquarters office as he says now,

“don’t you know me by now?” 

like it did when he said….that age old phrase….and moves to pull me up, 

“don’t sit on the floor, come here,” he says

but I don’t move because my head is caught up in such memories ….I feel dizzy with it and his music ….and the habit of always having him so firmly deep inside of me, so impossible to ever ….want to let go

and being with him again makes me breathless, 

“my lord and master,” and from the floor move to my knees facing him and stare up at him but then put my face into his lap where the tailor’s discreet cut draws me and ….feel him through the fabric first with my kiss —and then my hands and close my eyes ….to just feel him and the warmth of him through the fabric as …. and until ….I am reassured ….he burns for me….

and he says something but I don’t know what it is, or whether he pulls me or pushes me or draws me or caresses —or if I imagine the grand piano vibrates with the notes he plays 

I only feel for him and only know that I feel ….want to feel him, need to, need to have him and feel him against my lips, as it seems it has been forever since ….because I need him, need to feel him, need to taste him and have him….

weekending

 

The man with the vampire eyes(jmmusechron)

As one door closes another opens

I have known people in my life, who at the time felt so necessary and looking back at those people as I recall them —those that now …. I can almost hardly remember anything about them; not even the places we shared and what lesson I can glean from this is about the power that I conjured and gave away; and how the mother of invention is only conceived as necessary 

the power was always there. in me

the inventor invents as necessary 

faith is a power within and 

as Charlotte held the torch for me, dear reader, I draw strength from you

and this I think as Jörn pulls up to the structure ….as it seems almost like something from some other world 

He stops the Volvo before a monolithic silo that appears to be three stories high

It is still blazing hot even with the sun going down, and the dimming light reflects off the metal of the structure, dwarfing the stables and barn beside it

We get out and I turn to look up at him,

“what is this?” I start to laugh but it’s too hot and I stop and then, as he pulls off his shirt, over ripples of sinewy muscle my laugh caught and I look within those vampire eyes ….and I realize ….no, he is not one of those, I know within myself ….no, he is bonded to me, imprinted upon my soul itself which I have always known since I first ever saw him in my feverish and strange dreams 

No….he is a part of me no matter how at times he enrages me

More thoughts today of the legend as Project; clipboard notes

years ago when I first began this ongoing story of mine, told as diary and story merged together with fiction and autobiography confused into one, it was during my years growing up in the Netherlands and I would dream out the windows of trains through the cities and trams through Utrecht, The Hague and Amsterdam, and inspired by how the tram underpass went right into Central Station I would imagine James Bond scenes….

part of the stories took on the literary poetry of my favorite authors but mixed with this was one movie star icon—Garbo— I guess I recognized a sort of kinship for the way she averted the world. I’d see those long range angled photos of her taken by the paparazzi, kind of fuzzy, so far in the distance, though it was unmistakably her; she was always so obscure and well hidden, yet glamorous in her mystery; shrouded under a hat with upturned coat collar. 

Then later in my life when I was a bit older, was the other I felt closely identified with for her manner of method of thoughts blended with scenes; Anaïs Nin whose perspectives on life and the world felt so much like my own. 

And so, as my story evolved over the years, as a dyslexic who thinks in picture, well, it always seemed my story had to be a film ….told with her voice like a diary but with the narrator, like Garbo, always obscured 



sage

 

Something fundamental changes within once one has passed through the chamber of life. At birth it is usually quickly forgotten as one encounters so many impressions in which to adjust and understand. If again, though, if it should happen ….there is no question, no doubt….it was real and impossible to be convinced otherwise no matter how the evangelists may preach and debate with their semantics and ignorant witch-hunting dogma 

yes, one is forever changed. It is confusing and overwhelming and so profound and imbues every thought and act thenceforth….and makes impossible to ever blindly ever again follow the scriptures that do not ring true to what you yourself have seen

this too has set me on my solitary path and as I find myself  now falling into deep thought, I forced myself to remember ….what came after for me. I was only 18 when it happened and violence which proceeded it sets it in a different light than had it occurred in an operating theatre or some other way because of the plain fact I’d not known my life would be in danger until the horrific moments before and that they were horrific ….well, in parallel it was traumatic 

I never talked about it. I had no one to turn to; no bosom friend, no faithful relative upon whose shoulder I could weep so…. those days after the event, which too I kept to myself out of fear…. much of it is like a dark cave within me….a cave I don’t think I ever crawled out of…. and I have thought of those moments after; those hours after…. days….weeks and then months ….they are blurry, like going under the water in the ocean and looking up above at the surface—sounds muted….senses muted…. life muted…. Looking back, I know I was all alone and as I reflect on this now, you know, the terror never leaves….never….but I became my own crutch, my own shoulder and counsel that I clearly realize was all that I had and all I ever had ….save what saved me that day….what saved me that day….? but there is no doubt. just the whys. why….and I am all these years later wondering how I got up off the floor that day; how I faced the world ….how I squared my shoulders and stayed so quiet about an event that altered me forever and would always set me apart from everyone I would know and keep me removed and a bit numb but also ….cause me to feel everything so deeply; life; love; every moment and every tragedy I witnessed and heard of…. it did not make me a philosopher as—I already had such a mind…. 

so as I reflect upon this and life….again and again like I do today ….  I wonder about every step I have walked away on that solitary path with only this allegorical sheet of paper blowing through a subway to land on someone’s lap with my words 

do I touch you? 

is this why?

or just the impression which I leave, is it just art on the cave wall, like a museum gallery ….but only to be found by chance

Electra’s dictionary/surprising message(jmmusechron)

 

Something for which I will never understand, is how I have witnessed an attitude from some —either in my past or those in passing ….as though they own a piece of you, or all of you because they open a door, say hello or insist upon some tiny generous act of such which was never asked for 

independence is like oxygen to me and I see now —this— has been what keeps me on this solitary path and ….really separates me from the stereotype of my gender ….so much so to the extent that I really do wish to be called some other gender ….yes, I would chat with you, I would enjoy the hours in discussion only though if it is understood we begin as equals ….until you prove yourself not up to par ; then I would grow bored I am sure

and I see now this is what feels most threatening to that mighty gender or those posing as such but thank god I am older now to look at the generation I’ve been among and can laugh at them all now for their lazy minds and sloth like energy to prove them able to keep up with the will and conversation which I enjoy to challenge 

oh how they bore me

I see an interesting email,

“Oh my god!” I say aloud, “someone is interested in my project!”

It is on the way back from headquarters, but now with it all catching up with me, feeling sick in the car —the tension sets off the spinal pain and causes the inflammation ….from the stress of day, all the switching gears of events which began in the psychiatrist’s office, then the ordeal of being shot at 

….and the other part I have not written about —what happened on the highway when Jörn got out

to chase them I’d thought but…. that’s not what happened. What happened was—the one chasing us got in through the backseat door ….and holding a weapon attempted to kidnap me which is exactly what Jörn was banking on….calculated risk so he says

I look up now from the email and glance at Jörn’s profile

“You’re still angry,” Jörn says now as he drives 

“Can we not talk about this anymore today?—my head is going to explode,” I put my head down between my legs feeling unwell but I say, noticing a shard of glass on the floor, “the windshield is fixed….”

I hear Jörn’s casual grunt,

“while you were giving the statement.”

“So I’m going back to Sunny’s—what’ll I tell him?”

“He’s been unaware you were gone,” Jörn says, “he had a health emergency while you were at Dr. Evens, he’ll return by tomorrow noon, likely….so….”

But I notice we are still en route towards the lodge yet,

“this is not the way….” I say as I realize

“No…. there is an adjacent property which ….” that pause I know

“Let me guess, Airbnb?”

And I hear that chuckle

hollow streaming

 

what a world we live in now, I don’t understand it as it seems we have wandered past the idylls of an optimism once sung about that had inspired me as an artist to wish for that new renaissance 

years ago, it was the time when I met the woman seer; the psychic I have written here about before who told me all those things that wound up happening ….she knew of all the things that happened in my childhood, then about the other violence I had known …. she told me of the losses and of the heartbreak I would know as a mother, and my ability to know of things before they happened and the wisdom that came with this…. she told me that of love it would not come easy to me; I would not be seen for myself ….not really but she said that much later, in my life, that through my written words I would one day be seen and only then truly loved…. I think she only said this to give me faith to carry on and that was very kind of her, don’t you think, my lovely followers I am so grateful for?…. do you know how often I have wished she had been wrong?

I don’t know where we are going, Electra but I do wonder if we are ripe for an alien nation 

DC headquarters scene continues

 

“How dare you tell me this now!” is what comes out of my mouth 

and I run up to him to slap his face—but he stops me by grabbing my wrist 

….and then we are eye to eye looking at each other and I search his for ….truth ….I look deep within their beauty and keep myself from falling in….into them,

“controlling …. I feel like I wait my whole life for my fate to be decided and years wasted wondering if any of it has meant anything ….if I have….or was it all just a game to fill in your time while you keep searching for some better elusive prize….“ I say and look at his hand wrapped around my wrist, “do you think I’ll wait forever for you—what if we don’t have forever?”

He loosens his grip on my wrist and brings it down to weave his long fingers through mine and uses our hands to push me too him, pulling my arm this way behind me and pressing our fists into the small of my back

“Did you mean that?” I ask 

But his eyes tell me. The poker face dropped…. and his eyes are so beautiful when they are vulnerable, until now I don’t think I ever saw this quite ….so

“Yes,” he says 

Another knock jolts the moment as the door bursts open and Stina enters,

“we need to get your statement!” she says and slams a recording device on the desk and with a curious glance at the toppled chair she hauls it up in one motion 

Driving DC concluded; Pulp noir(jmmusechron)/Electra’s dictionary **

 

It is later, at headquarters when I don’t want to think about what just happened—I find myself in an office that faces away from the congestion, overshadowed by some trees that camouflage the reality of the surroundings.

There is not much to look at in the room, only a plain office desk made of mystery wood and stained to look lustrous, but exhibiting no unique individuality of the nature of tree texture which I find I prefer somehow. Prefer it because there is no need to lament the fallen sacrifice of that glorious vegetation. 

I avoid thoughts of Jörn, thoughts of the danger of what occurred during the chase and his estimated …. choice to play with my life —speaking of sacrifices ….I feel so angry….angry at mankind, angry on an unreasonable scale at a species and gender too that I’d rather not deeply reflect upon…. I have learned through personal experimentation that it is not realistic to counter what you feel; you cannot annihilate what you feel—the result, instead, is you bury it, but when you bury it, it’s just covered up, poking internally like a thorn in your side and reminds you whenever you try to move about 

So I acknowledge this. As I look at the fake wood of the desk, try to name the mix of colors that I recognize went into the stain’s hue….alizarin crimson….as I cling to this ….because it is one of the two of my favorite colors ….especially Windsor and Newton’s….and pulls me temporarily down an avenue of release ….away from the rawness of the savagery of my own anger 

yes I grab onto this fabrication ….thinking of tubes of it….squeezing it out and how it glosses and shines as it catches the light still so pure on my imagined pallet ….why ruin it? poised over it as I know in time it will not stay thus, the air has already contaminated ….its existence to remain ….so

Out the window something distracts me….a movement of a bird ….

then….no, it’s not a bird, too jerky in motion, not the natural kind anyway; drone ….’a little bird told me….’ 

again, I am wrong, I’m being paranoid —just a helicopter descending as now I can feel the nearby vibration shaking the building 

and look away….I had shut the abrasive overhead light off with its LED migraine caresses so the grey of the carpet and walls are subdued in a lush of FBI shadow I prefer to be cloaked under

Desk, chairs, a cabinet discreetly in one corner, the other, corner window and steel sills with pulled up blinds

There is a knock at the door that is startling though expected that comes just a second before the door opens 

“Are you all right?”

“How dare you!” I say, not a shout but still spat, despite my intentions to not expose my emotions

Jörn looks at me, now changed into a dark blue business suit, superbly, expertly cut to outline his every angle to advantage 

“Do you keep a wardrobe here?” I ask because he only just looks at me

“I understand you’re angry,” he says as he carefully walks towards me

I turn away from those eyes,

“angry….” I say but the laugh I attempt never is conjured and I get up and kick the desk chair….and we both watch it ungracefully topple in an awkward tumble, landing wheels up, one hitting the wall and spinning 

I look at Jörn again now….he glances from the chair to me with one brow now cocked thoughtfully and —a stiffness around his mouth that holds back a desire to —laugh? that his eyes betray revealed by a twinkle he attempts to hide by looking down quickly 

“What is it with your kind that just decide what will happen without asking first? How dare you decide for me?”

“My kind?” again that raised eyebrow 

“Your—species!—breed!—gender!—type!—controlling, bossy, assuming, superior—“

“Now you’re just rattling off adjectives in tandem that challenge my grasp of your language as you do tend to morph their meanings….Duva—look—“

“No, you look! You can’t just pop in and out of my life and think it’s ok to play craps with it! Being shot at on the highway—“

“Now that wasn’t my fault—“

“But telling me to stay in the car when YOU get out and leave me there as bait —WAS!—“

He shrugs grudgingly but there’s no remorse,

“it was well calculated, you were never in any actual danger, duva—“

“Says who? According to who? Whose calculations? Not mine —from where I was sitting!”

“Duva—“

“Don’t ‘Duva’ me, fuck you! How dare you play with my life—my safety—my needs—what about what I want, what about my fucking opinions of what I want to happen or —DO!? I have to get back to the lodge—Sunny’s going to wonder, don’t you even see that much? Deciding for me when—you’ve put my—my—fucking —cover—at risk!!—jeez!….I want out of all this! I want to get out of here—away from you and away from your species telling me how to live my life—“

“You mean gender, right—? I’m pretty good with English but like I say, you can be challenging!” and he laughs at me

“Fuck you, Jörn!” I snap and then under my breath, “translate that!”

There is a pregnant pause

Then within the silence he says,

“Jag älskar dig….” 

and his voice has gone dry ….that it cracks

It touches some unknown nerve within me

At first I don’t understand. I hear instead his tone. It has been awhile since I thought of the phrase. Especially connected to him. But….slowly it registers.

Why now? Why say this now? In an FBI setting of all places too….why now? Is it to shut me up?

I look up at his eyes. They watch me. 

“I don’t want you to go back there,” he says and ….it is the vulnerability that I hear ….and see….that disarms me

**freedom of choice among other things, hidden in my meanings I rage about here; read between all the legend lines

      

 

 

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