the return of gamine

 

the freedom of hacking off pandemic hair— 

  shackles of weight released; like some rediscovery of artifacts found at an archeological excavation, long lost in antiquity

  so it begins again….  

        with this electra; reinvented 

searching….electra

 

Stepping back as the projectors eye 

I have thought over and over again lately why; what is this I so madly work at; like some marble sculpture that I never stop refining as it grows like vines new insights and it often feels like I am this student letting my story guide me as they come to me through those strange currencies ….does this babble help me figure it all out? I don’t think it was ever a choice to be this dharma philosopher caught up in this saga 

it just keeps ….evolving, going, and this won’t let me go, and look at me and the lengths it’s physically driven me to…. and all for…..this need to …. 

and just searching —in search of answers to the meaning of life, invested years of my life searching, writing, researching and ….still I want to know more —when I’m ‘supposed’ to be slowing down—as if? but I can’t —why does it chase me to keep at it, it is so a part of me I wonder…. and of which I am so entangled in. and maybe it is just that. (the lost Celf in search of the meaning of ‘Self’?)

 it is me and I am it and without it. I never was ….but no—it never really was about me, not as the body of its meaning, just the apparatus to perform this mad life I live ….it was always about ….meaning ….but no, it is even more than this too because it chases me, like I am its slave to ….create this or —no, it feels it is more I am merely its messenger and so what then is the message? humanity ….oh—so would you say it’s the eleventh hour? like I have any voice to speak (talk about voice, mermaid ….) and did our Greek masters think they needed to voice ….? (but I’m nobody, a mute mermaid) (shut tf up, do I care what anyone thinks anymore knowing the stupid things they think about?)(Don’t judge,bitch)

—should I question why? yes—because if I expect to sell it it requires me to question but to sell it requires to forget why and sell it to the lowest common denominator. should I judge? well, the Vikings would not require me to whore —why question why ….because I’m like some mad scientist riding a blind horse at full speed with no reigns I sometimes think—and purely because it feels “it must be” 

 

sometimes it happens upon waking, an elusive sense of…. having been with; other times ….it is the sense of a presence as close as a whisper 

 

💐🎭

  ….J'aimerais être là,:(

sick and tired of everything; notes à un étranger*

 

somewhere in the crowd 

tente ta chance

that’s all I ask of you honey.                 d.

*that’s been decoded🔍🦇

 throwing myself into script as it gets me out of here e.d., adjusting location —it actually makes better sense in Stockholm…. but first it opens in Amsterdam —now so much adjusting 

I have met my destiny in quite a similar way; Noir/a short

Still standing in the hallway 

he says,

“we have a little time before they get here.”

I must have missed his meaning, my mind caught up in the spy games and ….the smörgås 

“Jörn,” I say now, hesitating over exactly what we are playing at, “we are —for the benefit of your parents—pretending we are ok —which right there is loaded with oxymorons and— the spy convention part, what do you want me to do? not sure, where do I come in there?—pass out party favors, is that my role? but I know —I think ….with Stina —why do you what me to be pretending I’m— pretending…. what am I pretending?—no don’t tell me, I know this one… uhhh—hmmm. No—I actually have no idea what —or actually why either so….?”

He hushes me and pulls me from the hallway looking around, ducking past a doorway as we hear Stina’s voice echoing down the hall followed by her shrill laugh 

“Look, first, erm—about my agent status —Mama thinks —or was lead to believe…. I mean—that—” he starts to say something somewhat awkwardly but stops abruptly changing his mind 

“She doesn’t know what—?” only I forget to ask because it only now occurs to me to wonder where we are standing, “Jörn—what is this?” I ask him in a whisper looking around as their voices are now right outside 

“It’s the linen closet,” he tells me in a low voice, but then after a moment the voices fade down the opposite direction and casually with a shrug he says in a low voice, “she’s with Marcus; he’s her director—among other things….”

And after their voices disappear, I sigh with relief and reach for the door knob, but he stops me,

“In a hurry?” 

“A hurry?” I repeat

“We have some time, Hello Kitty….”