conversation, ymddiddan/Electra’s dictionary

   

There is this sense always when you turn back the pages of a lifetime and it feels as if that lifetime has remained preserved; frozen as it was

That life. That relationship. Those people you were. 

To me, it is like you could see them there still; your ghosts haunting the hallways of scenes from that life. There they are still lurking in the shadows of rooms where the dust glistens like pixie dust and romanticizes forgotten pain 

“Do you know where I am right now?” Bran. His voice. Alive. It reaches me through that audible organ my phone is pressed to; ageless and ….still belonging to that ‘her’ that ‘“Beth” who is what?’  

But in slow motion I only comprehend the meaning as I am myself in this strange bedroom that I have only learned to occupy as mine of Sunny’s hunting lodge. No the bedroom is not strange. Just strange as in I am its stranger; new and not mine and I am not its 

I belong to me. I am mine. 

or am I? I look around me and wonder how to mesh the celves ….how to become its whole; how to find perspective with this voice that belongs to a man who once broke my heart 

“Cardiff?” I ask him. And I fear the very strangeness of my voice gives me away

“Well…. I mean—where I am sitting….calling you from….” and that lilting of his accent befuddles my mind playing tricks with how it causes me to feel

I only realize when I exhale I’ve been holding my breath and need to breathe and must stop to inhale deeply as I pull the phone away a moment so as not to give myself away 

I cannot find any answer though to what he has said and feel too dizzy to think 

“I used to call you from my car outside, remember? I showed you ….”

“The same car?” I ask because I remember it from our trip when we drove from Paris to Rouen 

“No—that one had a sad demise,” he says with a kind of heavy nostalgia

“So the same house then….” I say because ….because ….it was that life that won over me 

“Well….it’s ….a lot different now—added on….” he says and I note he refrains from any pronoun 

“How is Clare?” I ask as I put my mind on the frank reality of the present 

“She’s ….she’s….” he sighs heavily 

“And the child …? Should be —what eight right now, I guess?”

“Please Beth….” unexpected is the heavy sorrow in his deep voice, “you’ve been on my mind so much lately,” he says with a sigh of defeat 

“Have you been reading my blog?”

“Do you think I ever stopped?” he asks

“I don’t know. How would I know?” I ask him. But then ask, “why did you call?”

He does not answer right away. But hear him moving around in his car. In my mind he is still in that old faded blue car with the mis-folded old maps stuck in the visors. 

After a moment he says,

“I’ve needed to hear your voice again. Maybe it was that recording. Or….maybe ….I just wanted that glimpse back of feeling ….anything.”

“It’s been eight years….” and I regret how cold my voice says this 

“I deserve that,” he says 

“No—no—I’m sorry….I ….have wondered about you. I just felt it was best to leave you in peace.”

“Peace. Is that what you call this?”

“I don’t know….but still, I mean—I left Chris ages ago and even that life feels it belonged to someone else.”

“I’ve been replaced by a Viking,” his laugh is forced 

“Not replaced —another who is otherwise engaged so to speak; unofficially still with his partner.”

“What happened with the other one?” he asks trying to seem casual 

“Who? Eliot? The step cousin of my illegitimate father and his ridiculous ideas….?”

“Nicholas? The archeologist researcher, professor?”

“Nigel—oh, he was just ….that was….I don’t know; his DNA memory theory was really why but he—was….I think he was my rebound ….from you,” and only as I say this do I realize what that was, “why did you really call me, Bran? Don’t tell me it was to give me lessons in Welsh.”

“But….it would be a good excuse,” he says 

  

 

I remember crosses, fields, they went on and on, rolling green and hills, hammers. The hills turned into rocky paths. And the drumming. They shook the trees and the ground ….I would stare into the distance and see ….they littered the road everywhere and the acrid scent that blew across and stayed inside your breath and taste ….I remember her; she was apart from the rest of us but…. when she had something to say, she would come and find us. She told me about the man who would come. First one and then I would never see him again. She said they would come and I would go. With them. 

 c'est moi qui ai été aveugle

 Il me voit

captured fleeting freedom

 

Electra’s dictionary noir;a voice from the past/Beth who is What

 

“Does Sunny get deliveries from anywhere?” Jörn suddenly asks me, looking up from his phone

“Is that Willem?”

“He came by boat,” he says simply 

“He’s here?” I ask and jump to get up but Jörn puts his hand on me, “not here, he’s docked….”

“Chesapeake?” 

Jörn nods.

“On your boat?”

“Duva….” he looks at me in irritation 

“Oh—no, that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

Jörn does not answer that, instead he says,

“He’s on a shipping cruiser….”

“Oh—deliveries? Well…. the US postal service comes with packages by truck if it doesn’t fit in a mailbox.”

Jörn looks back at his phone and taps into it

“Why?” I ask 

Only as he is intent on texting to Willem he is distracted and doesn’t answer so I think about this and come to some logical conclusions why Willem would consider the need to know this and realize they are working out how to move Jörn 

“There’s usually delivery around noon,” I say but then ….I realize they would have the intel or the means of things like this  

“When are you leaving?” I ask with a heavy feeling in my chest 

Jörn looks up from his phone briefly. He looks at me steadily before he says,

“tomorrow….”

“Just like that? Where are you going?”

“Is there anyway you could get away without calling attention to your not being there?”

“Tomorrow —? Like afternoon you mean, is that when?” I ask, “yes, he won’t be around during that time and I can find a good explanation ….you mean to—say goodbye ….”

I return from the hide back at the house and feel disturbed 

even as I know these are different circumstances—

why is it that people in my life continually drop in and out of my life at their own convenience? ….No one is ever really there completely one hundred percent. There is always their own agenda which hardly includes me beyond —whatever fascination (fetish?) they have for me

and it makes me wonder 

So disturbed ….I pace with my arms folded as I silently yell at the walls ….silent ….always silent 

what does a voice mean when whatever you once had to say seems ….lost completely in the noise 

In effort to put my mind somewhere else I turn to read the latest of the war— and pick up my phone which I’ve kept on silent since I left the hide ….just wanting to be alone with my own thoughts 

….and drawn back to my phone as it is my only connection to the internet as such and …. see a message through messenger from someone I have not seen or heard from in over eight years 

<<how are you?>>

I tap it to open it and stop….

“No,” I say aloud to the empty room

I put my phone down and cover my face 

The tone of a call comes through voice call. 

I hesitate as it tones three times ….and then, tap the call

“Your Welsh needs serious help….Beth,” the familiar lilting voice says

“Bran….?”

Electra’s dictionary Noir/Of copycats & codes(jmmusechron)

 

Jörn suddenly asks,

“so, you and your daughter are talking again?”

“Oh—you read that in my ….”

“Blog,” he finishes my thought

“Mostly just texts for now, but we have talked, yes. After all these years …. but yes…. we had a four hour phone call of us mostly talking about writing and art ….”I look outside and find myself thinking about her back in Michigan. Then after a moment lost in thought I shrug the nostalgia off, and pause before I say,“but ‘between the lines’ we tackled all the heavy shit. And—well, it is sad but it turns out it was all misunderstandings. Makes me wonder how much Chris might have poured gasoline over things to ….”

“Help turn her against you.”

I shrug and don’t look at him and ignore the heavy weight of his meaning there. I mumble to myself something 

“What did you say?” he asks leaning towards me

I shake my head,

“it’s not worth even saying ….some things ….he’s ….said to me ….recently.”

“You know he’s the narcissist,” he looks at me closely “….don’t you?”

I realize he heard me

“I don’t want to talk about him. He is one of dozens of people in my life I have needed to let go of, I guess it was some kind of overhaul I’ve been going through to edit out the toxic individuals in my life.”

“Like MM?” he raises one brow at me when I sharply look at him “speaking of …. narcissists… don’t drop the project because of….”

“Oh. You…. figured that out….so….you have been keeping up, haven’t you? I didn’t know you had the time.”

“Stake outs get pretty tedious and mind numbing when you have to wait wondering if you are about to get blown up….” he remarks casually 

“Shit—Jörn! Where—?!”

He raises his good hand and shakes his head,

“don’t ask….”

“I —see…. well, I’m glad I can provide you with some distraction….”

“Is your daughter writing with you now?”he seems genuinely interested

I laugh,

“it’s the other way around. She has a few stories and ….well, you know…. it’s what we always did together before. It’s fun. She likes a different genre so—I like her stories…. and they’re fun so ….I’ve been assisting her for ideas when she gets stuck on plot lines. It’s ….yeah…. It is actually a lot of fun,” I chuckle, “but I’ve always found her fun. I’ve missed her so much…. and I’ve really missed it. These things we used to do….” I stop to collect myself but then…. “Hard to believe it’s been so many years ….she was just out of high school then ….years. Like….over six…. It doesn’t feel like it when we talk or text or work together….so weird how even with our separation she has so many of my traits….” I laugh at the irony. 

only I am no good talking about myself. 

I never could share. never knew how. strong silent type….the growing up years of my own ….kept me there silent in the corner ….where they sat me in fears of the belt valet

you never learn how ….so instead you learn how to write in code….and become uncomfortable now when you try

“Anyway…. So…. My blog—Jörn …. I assume it’s you—I mean, you know—the blog hits….?” I ask him carefully 

But at first Jörn seems not to understand what I mean 

after a moment he smiles as he realizes my question 

“You mean—“ he hides another smile and then chuckles, “your cryptic posts ….which can seem like—are they codes ….or part of the story? yes, it was me, I got your messages—” his tone at first is teasing as he chuckles but then more searching as he now narrows his eyes on me; today more grey reflecting the day, with specks of taupe, “what was that ‘copycat’ you mentioned?”

“What? ….oh…. yeah—well, there were similar hits but —I don’t think they were you.”

“Then who was it, duva?” he meets my gaze, “you need to watch that….be careful.”

“Watch what? It’s not like I’m leaking secrets because I don’t know any!”

“Well, the copycat doesn’t know that, do they?”