thoughts and asides; a passing note on the dictionary:

I am not who I was when this chronicle began, as though delivered; it shifted and I shifted

after years of scrapping it; the problems, the blocks I stumbled over —and realize it is because of the antagonist.... that is why this version of my dictionary —the analogy I define myself—works....the levels —Inferno-to-Purgatory-to-Paradiso ....and past....it is shifting; the apparatus is evolving  ....to be defined onto another level, a higher next level evolved.....which I could not reach until —challenged.... to see past

Noir hide of confession (jmmusechron/e.d.)

 

The countdown to 0-eight-hundred hour seems to stretch. as if in some eternal loop, like a lapsing of time and, with it, mounting, comes agonizing tension

I sit sipping the coffee Jörn made me— still steaming, too hot to drink. And with the binoculars fixed to me, I peer out through the trees from the safe screen of the hide watching the stillness of the back of the barn house. 

The sun has long made its presence in the sky —but nothing seems to be happening; no movement anywhere that I can see —not within or without 

.... and the excruciating minutes that barely move each time I glance down at my phone to check the time

I’m no good at this sort of thing. I don’t do anxiety at all well

and each time I get up to pace, I feel sick and just go back to the spot on the floor where I’ve found it is the best vantage point to see what is going on; best spot, low to the floor for the angle it provides and I am there half-sat but with legs and feet ready to spring 

the waiting is so maddening 

and as I have no experience with ambushes —or war tactics .... I have no idea what to expect —and feel uncomfortably ready to vomit ....and just hope Jörn knows what he’s doing ....

 and ....feel myself filled with fears and worry .... 

only now .... does it strike me that this is the first time I am really confronted with the thought of.... what if something happened to him?

what if something happens to him....

and how did I seem always to never have had to actually consider this.... ?

always before there was .... the excuse ....the screen of his spy world mystery; the mystery of knowing what he was up to.... and safe in not knowing ....and then, of course —the times too busy being angry at him. the excuse....

guarding emotions

but what would I do....?

In that suspension of time that takes forever as I wait.... these sudden thoughts consume me.... 

And remember —was it almost a year ago now—?— there was the time I saw him hang from the helicopter —but it seemed surreal through the surveillance monitors ....like watching some special effects action film 

And so....

       .... it makes me wonder about him —now as I sit there.... 

and think about what he said in the truck —that things “usually” go as planned.... 

.... and.... it makes me wonder things.... and wonder too, like— if he’s ever been shot

His mystery —and his scars ....I never have asked him as they seem as subjects closed —as is the poker face he keeps and.... as unknown territory like so many other things about him. Things I wish I could know. wish he would say.... so many things behind that beautiful mask he wears.... of what lays behind....

so the thought grips me now as the nausea sweeps like a wave over me —what if he’s shot.... ?

—or worse .... or else, what if he’s horribly —maimed?

 ....and alone with my thoughts as I am ....here in my hide ....

for the first time confess to myself things I never have allowed myself

 ....like 

those things I never told him. those things.... and not wanting to, my eyes blur and I find myself whispering things .... 

whispering promises....to some silent ....beyond ....

and feel myself seem to step out of myself, as if watching from outside of myself, like I have so often watched in dreams .... watching the shore, waiting .... watching the sun in the sky and .... with it that feeling of ....dread .... 

and again think. things I never told him. never got to say. things I never even said out loud to myself —as if by not—that made it safe. safer.... and yet knowing it wouldn’t matter, I’d still —feel— this. even if the worst occurred....

killed or ....maimed.... but, I know with all that my soul does know about life. about meaning. about existence that.... that even if maimed ....or even death— that it wouldn’t change anything ....of what I feel; it would survive....even life times 

but I suppose it was wrong to suppose that he ever would ....that to him—it would be this way; that he would—could.... no, I was wrong to believe he might

but now gripped with this feeling of dread I reproach myself.... should I ....have said? and now, possibly too late—it ....was pride making me pretend that I don’t care .... pretending I don’t care .... that much. but —does he? maybe not and maybe it’s better not to say unless he does care about me, then the moment lost

No. I don’t know.... and....

why would I matter to him? to him ....I am irrelevant; easily forgotten ....more interested in his espionage, and then, there is his opera, when he gets a free moment 

....he has no time for anything else—he’s a spy—a hacker, like he told me—all he cares about are his spy games, his capers, cracking his safes and codes. And I am i anything more to him than just a code to him? no, I am nothing to him—anyway —and now that game is up, isn’t it? .... I’m nothing, nobody ....now —and no, I could not imagine he would ever consider giving his heart ....and to me....? never, I know better and I should never expect he would. of course I know. who am I anyway.... just a curiosity .... a passing curiosity

and now as I wonder, staring through the lenses focused at the landscape with a sinking faith.... 

and I wonder ....maybe

....he must have been hurt long ago.... found other means to fill what replaces the need of such things.... of course, I’m nobody, nothing to him....

but still....  

what if he should be shot ....?! 

what if....? because, I’d regret it....I know.... even still. even ....if he does not.... I mean, if I never had the chance to....

And watching the lawn, waiting tensely, my thoughts keep wandering into these places I’ve avoided wandering into; wondering all these things I never let myself before .... how many loves has he known? but then, what opportunities has he had to really find someone who was actually capable to know what is hidden within his soul.... so busy spying ....undercover;  traveling around the globe; new philharmonic symphonies, playing concerts; consumed in his opera ....that no one but he knows what it means

 —and so, I wonder—did anyone really ever come close to seeing past the façade? in his alienated world of spies and shallow concert hall acquaintances —was there really ever an opportunity for the chance for him to stumble upon someone capable of decoding him? —anyone either deep or clever enough to know there was even something buried there? 

and ....as this new turn of anguish and self-deprecating torment takes hold of me—I suddenly jump at something I see—there!!—moving in the trees!

I adjust the lens to sharpen the sight—yes! My heart lunges before it pounds like drums in my head as I see, like apparitions move! —the first shadow of change —from the woods—they are there! like an invasion of a small army!—all dressed fully in black! I have to force myself to catch my breath, feeling my pulse become erratic before it rushes too fast, sweeping that strange amphetamine wave over me....

as I watch them start to crawl slowly through the trees, and move across the lawn, holding their weapons ready; like spider legs, closing in; surrounding in a circle towards the barn house.... 

*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.”