*a footnote in a dictionary of synonyms & symbols

is it for money that an artist is driven to work ....?

but I cannot speak for all artists. and everyone is different. all artists are different.

of course there are many artists whose interest and only aim is to satisfy the current trends. whose purpose to work is to produce what will be a sure sell. (But will be forgotten in less than five years)

I don’t care to judge them, I don’t like to judge. I just don’t look at their work. it bores me

I am just not one of those 

like I have said, Van Gogh is a word in my dictionary; he stands for something symbolic to me

he did what he did; his style was unheard of and thought primitive and without talent. but a great artist expresses moods, emotions, and so many infinite things without a single word. To only see unmixed colors, the visible brush stroke, the crudeness of the thickness of paint you can see is raised right off the canvas as if smeared by a palette knife and it is as if you could touch it just to look at it there on the museum wall; you’d know what it feels like. It looks still wet as if he stands right over your shoulder as though he just painted it. ~It is not my style, but when I saw his works up close, I felt personally touched by them and —moved. This was the thrill I felt standing in that museum in Amsterdam.

today when we look at Starry Night, it is impossible not to feel the magic of the stars and even be in his moment; it is universal; it is infinite  

So, you see, he stands for something to me; call it my poetic license 

in his times he was not respected. he was not in fashion; not trendy. he was thought of as a bum. People wondered why didn’t stop wasting his time 

some may have wondered why he even kept at it

in our ‘modern’ times he is seen as a kind of icon which would be ironic to him. But I think, like Kurt Cobain, it would have appalled him to have become a trend

as Cocteau said, about the nightmare for an artist is to be admired through being misunderstood 

only, I think in Van Gogh’s case, he reset the bar on what is classic

why did Van Gogh keep painting? .... it was his tenuous grip, I think.... on life. I think it was all he really had. his love. his validation. to remind him he existed .... and even though he saw what Rembrandt painted and knew he did not paint the way Rembrandt did, I believe he felt that what he himself was painting came from something true within him and this drove him because it was his own personal expression, his language and it expressed what his soul ached to express. 

I think in this way he was a poet but then, aren’t all artists really? 

what is my passion for the humanities, where does that come from?— the arts; visual, literature, the performing arts (i.e. Sophocles, Shakespeare —another two who carried a conversation), a commentary about life (maybe cautionary) to be continued on .... they are the humanists who document history through all the common emotions with their reactions to life and the times they lived in. They tell a truer history than the events, I feel. They don’t lie or bend facts. I think when Socrates came around to “practice the arts” at the end of his life he saw this.... I feel the arts are the only true reality that can be depended on

I guess I am quite quirky and have been long resolved to accept this, I don’t really know what drives me unless it is my own tenuous grip and still —it is more than this, like a faith and a loyalty to remain attuned to the conversation 

even as I may not seem at the moment to have the means, the power, nor the backing to create what I envision, given these times such as they are, I can’t stop envisioning; it is just who I am, I regret to say. why do I do it? I don’t know. I have always thought in scenes where I tuck my most coveted secrets. screaming undercover of alluring diversions. but still they will not bend to adjust to the fashion, they simply cannot on principle —because that is not where the ideas are born from 

....but I promise, it will be very very pretty, like a film noir* (with the secrets blaring and all neatly spelled backwards to release the demons to the light and they will know)

Film Noir short scene/rude noir awakening after dawn (e.d.noirjmmusechron)

In the night I find it astounding that he can sleep. I lay there for the rest of most of the night apprehensive of the coming day thinking .....and sleep eludes

And find that his slumber is now most inconveniently frustrating as I am now suddenly nagged about things he said ....

and those other disturbing questions.... what has he really been up to these last several months—and more? ....where did he actually go between here before he went to Sweden weeks ago? where did —they—think he was? ....and were they right? And then the other unexpected, most odd, surprise  —how and what does he know about my old diaries....? I threw them away so long ago.... 

then thinking again of what Willem said on the phone recently—what was it again? ....he said.... he knew Jörn for years from working with him on cases—what cases? and that other odd thing Willem told me, how Jörn insisted he be put on the case when he saw my picture. And why did Willem tell me that? 

But how did I have the key, or did he just say that? Safes, locks and keys, codes and hidden doorways, hidden rooms and secret compartments.... when I should sleep keeps me awake .... 

until....

****

I don’t remember falling asleep 

It is some time after dawn and morning arrives. And still caught in a Cold War dream, I am startled awake with a sharp nudge then a shake, and a hot cup of coffee thrust at me before I am even sat up 

Jörn says, 

“here, I made this for you,” and then softens his tone, “it’s how you like it—with honey,” and smiles as if this is just a normal day at the office

I sit up as I notice he is already showered and crisply dressed as I take the cup from him

“I brought you a change of clothes,” he says, “some more suitable things. I asked Ilya to send some of your clothes —I sent a note to her with the Cabaret shipping address when I sent her the key— as I was aware you’ve been pilfering the Cabaret shipments,” he points towards some blurry beyond as I reach for my glasses, still emerging from the depths of morass

“The key....” I say remembering what kept me up all night, “how did you get it?—Jörn, I don’t understand—“

“Duva— I have to go, the SWAT team is five minutes away—it’s showtime,” and turns to leave but then suddenly turns back to me and leans to press his mouth across mine, “remember: no matter what, stay up here and do not leave, yes? —drink the coffee—I’ll text you in a bit....”

And then watch him disappear out the hobbit door

 a fyddai môr-leidr yn dod o hyd i drysor?

ac ydy, mae'n grypt

a fy ngeiriadur yw fy nghaer

dyma'r unig le i guddio sêff

efallai aros i gael ei ddatgloi

beth aeth ar goll y tu mewn

the JM muse chronicles film noir scene continues.... with a slight touch of royal drama

Even as I stare into the blackness of that blank canvas beyond the hide’s window, it seems I see other things. It is a narrow cot. Close pressed alongside him, his fingers woven through mine as— his breathing evens ....in the darkness of the space we share and the heat still between us

It seems I am split between two lives, overlaid as if I have been exactly here with him ....before  

so many times .... 

and it plays with my mind

It seems to even question it now is so long old and merely irrelevant. As too many times I have felt  that sense confirmed

....too many times I have felt that chill with him—especially when we come together, I feel it in his body— and those things he never says, those things he never tells me. I feel it. And often it feels I feel him within me, feel his thoughts, and even know ....I feel him .... even from far away, I feel.... when he is thinking of me

And even after so much time of him away— it is instant as soon as he is near, even when I try to resist ....and even when my mind doesn’t want to trust him.... there is something inside  me that just never doubts. 

Even if I won’t say

But now I do say this instead in the dark, as I lay next to him, having already, to him —exposed all anyway, as I look out at that darkness outside the wall of window into the night,

“Jörn.... on your computer ....” but half lose my nerve and have to stop

A moment goes by where nothing is said. Does he know? ....what I’m about to ask him....?

I turn on my side to look at him, half his face in shadow, lit dimly by the candle.... yet I stare into his face.... as I know it by now so well, every line, every crease, the long bridge of his nose, the outline of his mouth, the slant of his haunting eyes....

I dig my fingers into the silk of his hair to pull it back where it has fallen long across his brow, moving over him slightly to look into his eyes,

“you know, when you told me....when you gave me your password to ....get into those files to —download for you?” I stop there afraid to say more as I stare into his eyes searching 

He just stares back at me. Calm. But his eyes penetrate through me. And still.... gives nothing away

“Well, I saw some things....” I say now. 

It is awhile before I realize I hold my breath. I keep staring into the icy steel, like double edged swords of heat and danger, warmth and ferocity 

And still he doesn’t say anything. He just looks back at me, steady and calm.

“Jörn....!” I nearly gasp from holding my breath with fear, “....you know what I saw....”

After another long moment of just his silence ....with eyes ....that measure me, he makes the slightest move with his head, almost a shrug and says,

“I knew you would see things....” and now when I start by his flippancy he raises one pale brow ....and says more with just his eyes

“When you said they expected you to be ‘more east’ ....” and again I stop myself. And then feel his hand clamp around my wrist like a shackle and watch his eyes grow fierce as he moves to sit up slightly .... “Jörn.... now it seems I think I need to know— I mean— when I asked if it was Moscow— that isn’t what I saw.... but it was definitely ....more east, but slightly more ....adjacent—“ I hold my breath again when I feel his grip tighten but I say, anyway, “is that what you meant?” which comes out in a whisper

“Duva.... listen, there are some things you would have seen which I can see might give you certain cause for suspicion about what I do.... and maybe this is why you were so strange when you first saw me again.... but.... look— I will answer you honestly if you tell me exactly what you want to know because I don’t know what you saw that you are trying to ask me.”

“It was something I found.... something I accidentally clicked on—it was in one of your documents under your company —under JMSmeden.se, Stockholm, Sverige, only— it wasn’t for your platinum work, but it was ....sales of another kind.”

He lets go of my wrist and leans back against the wall and stares out into the night for a long moment. And after another thoughtful pause he looks at me,

“you saw I was selling arms to....” and only infers the rest with a slight imperceptible gesture 

“So it’s true?!” I pull back and stare at him

“I told you I’d answer you honestly so.... look, duva....I told you I wasn’t in Sweden the whole time since I’ve been away—and, no—I wasn’t. I went first somewhere else.... “

“You’re crazy! With everything that is happening, with the virus rampant—you tell me you decide now is a good time to trade in illegal weapons too? Who even has the money for that right now with the recent death tolls !?—whose side are you on?”

“No, I’m not saying that I was just in Syria—Duva, that was an old file you were looking at, that was from —it was a past cover—now going four?—five? years back—at least!”

“A cover....” I say and stop to think.... now remembering all those passports .... 

and so now take a few deep breaths....

well, seems too late —now anyway.... I think, as I take a second to reflect on this.... to decide to not be involved with a spy

A bit too late. Over two years too late. I should know better by now.... and again get that sense of having been in this moment before; déja vu ....and with a chill, see blood on those hides stacked on the floor—and such eyes staring back at me.... 

Yes, I’ve been here before ....I think; I’ve been in this moment with him before ....and yes, I know this feeling too; the danger 

“Does Willem suspect the mole too?” I ask suddenly

“Yes. We know who it is,” Jörn says calmly

“Which is why you want me to stay up here,” I say

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t why I was strange with you,” I say now to him and now look at him. He looks back at me and waits. I say, “I wasn’t ready to trust you again. That’s why.”

After some thought he nods and then asks,

“and now?” but it is something in how he says this; something.... I can taste the spray of the water and feel the lurch of a ship under me just from that glimpse of kryptonite —and with it, that unreasonable sense of knowing ....beyond all doubt —and press my mouth to his, closing my eyes and feel his mouth answer me like a seal of fate; then climb across him to wrap around his hips with a strange fear and need for suddenly remembering what is to come tomorrow ....soon after the dawn

***

it is awhile after when he says, reaching for his phone,

“there’s something I wanted to show you—remember I told you I had another angle for getting the lock-letter code for the safe? I recently found something your sister auctioned off through Christie’s for four grand that once belonged to your mother....” he shows me a picture on his phone

“That’s my mother’s antique secretary! You found it?”

“I bought it,” he shows me more pictures as he says, “you said it had a secret hidden compartment. The people who bought it from your sister said she didn’t have the key— but you did.”

“What are you talking about? The key? I never had it....”

“You didn’t know you had it. It was in a box you tossed into some dumpster where you lived with your first husband in Cedarhurst New York; a box also filled with all your old diaries ....”

the shock of all he says does not fully register as I am somehow more distracted by the photos of the antique secretary as it brings back so many memories .... of my mother 

Then I recognize where the photo was taken,

“This is the penthouse?”

“I had it shipped there —last month. Last week I had the key sent to Ilya and told her where I thought the hidden compartment was —and....she just sent me this before, guess what we found?” he shows me a photo, “....your award for your piano recital with ....the title of the Beethoven piece.”

“The code.”

Personal notes from the Cell inside; shelf notes from the Celf

 

In efforts to search for truth I have found the ability to speak it most clearly through my fiction 

Part of that has to do with how dangerous truth really is

On one hand I could have decided to smile the status quo code, be a cog, and play the American dream game because I knew how, I watched a father do it every day

but one day I consciously chose to walk away because

On the other hand I could recognize the face in the mirror and not despise it and though my pockets are empty I guess it always meant more to know who I am 

I never fit the American dream, I rejected the popular crowd even in school, but then I am reasonably content to go my own way, ok with an allegiance to humanity and the humanities because that is the notion that countries are born from before they decay .... but I can see why it bothered my mother knowing that for me it just never was a choice whether to sell myself for the brass ring 

my stories have always been a part of me, woven in my own drama and all based on a part of me but it’s the allegory I speak in and if I could say it without too much compromise, I would be willing to sell a ticket for it to be heard if addressed to a theatre attuned to the subtlety 

have I just been looking in the wrong direction.... ?

too bad Van Gogh didn’t know he was already successful with empty pockets and a blind society lacking an ear

a muse before dawn (a short quickie) e.d. noir

He says to try to sleep.... 

I have tried a warm shower in the sterile ad hoc stainless steel stall (and as refreshingly cozy as a vertical cow trough)—with the soap from the trunk which afforded more luxury than the narrow shower unit did. It smells of Provence and almost makes me believe I am there with the film it leaves on my skin 

At least clean and human again 

Fixed as I am after looking for distractions in the various trunks on the floor. But they have lost their appeal and instead I stare at the blank canvas that is the hide’s wall of window; right now total black in the darkness

And because I feel like I am in a fishbowl with all the openness and the feeling of exposure, I sit on the floor with just one candle lit beside the cot where I have dragged the last trunk I inspect in order for distraction 

How long before daybreak? 

I keep looking at my phone for the time and in the end decide to use it, as I do, to write my thoughts 

....then at turns.... pace the hide in circles 

....then go to sit down again, huddled on the floor next to the cot and shiver; my hair still damp and my arms pulled out of the sweater sleeves inside the sweater and rock for warmth .... it seems forever I wait 

At some time after two I hear the sound of footsteps treading the stairs and hold my breath watching the hobbit door, pulling my knees up to my chest under the big wool sweater 

.... I don’t know who I expect but I am relieved to discover it is actually Jörn. His presence, a dark silhouette in the round doorway, but I can clearly recognize him by his distinct shoulders and slim hips that taper down to his boots

“Where are you?” he says from the doorway, closing the door and walking towards the candle 

“I’m over here,” I say, waving my hand in front of the candle, “I feel like the light might draw their notice,” and I wave out towards the trees

“No, it’s completely made of black out material, no one can see in. I’ve tested it,” he says coming over to where I am

“So, did you guys work out a plan? Have the feds contacted you?”

He clears his throat and sits down on the cot,

“come here, don’t sit in the floor,” and reaches for me saying, “yes—to answer your question. It.... has taken some convincing but—once I sent them the link to the surveillance footage from the micro cameras I installed on the surface of the fake safe .... they have come around to listening to what I have to say....” he sighs with cautious relief as I move to stand up and now drawing me to him he says, “they will have the house surrounded by o-eight hundred—Smulagan and a SWAT team— they’re asking us to wait as some of their people are still en-route.... I just am uneasy about waiting, but.... the weather being what it is—it’s been sleeting and could go on all night, well into morning,” he shrugs

“Mountain weather,” I say with a shiver and move closer into his body warmth 

“It’s not so different where I come from,” he says into the sweater and moves his hands under the wool and cotton

it has been a long time. It seems a shock to be aware just how long. I have forgotten what this feels like 

but some things come back to you fairly quick. Once reminded 

....I press my mouth against his 

and let it come back to me