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

 

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

do not let go

 

ever more still 

as was before 

so does it now remain

 

He says to me,

“if it were possible to hop a magic carpet ride to —somewhere —some other time .... not in the virus time—what would you do?”

“In a world with no borders?” I say out loud and he nods,

“you mean where would I go, I think—don’t you?”

quiet noir noël

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

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

somewhere that matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh!” I jump 

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

He says,

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

 

the armor has become so heavy, all the crumbs blew away 

            and it is just so dark upon this solitary path  .... 

the burden is so heavy 

         

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

 

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

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

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

the codes.... 

backward 

numbers, 

backward 

letters....

reflection 

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

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

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

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

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