Driving DC concluded; Pulp noir(jmmusechron)/Electra’s dictionary **

 

It is later, at headquarters when I don’t want to think about what just happened—I find myself in an office that faces away from the congestion, overshadowed by some trees that camouflage the reality of the surroundings.

There is not much to look at in the room, only a plain office desk made of mystery wood and stained to look lustrous, but exhibiting no unique individuality of the nature of tree texture which I find I prefer somehow. Prefer it because there is no need to lament the fallen sacrifice of that glorious vegetation. 

I avoid thoughts of Jörn, thoughts of the danger of what occurred during the chase and his estimated …. choice to play with my life —speaking of sacrifices ….I feel so angry….angry at mankind, angry on an unreasonable scale at a species and gender too that I’d rather not deeply reflect upon…. I have learned through personal experimentation that it is not realistic to counter what you feel; you cannot annihilate what you feel—the result, instead, is you bury it, but when you bury it, it’s just covered up, poking internally like a thorn in your side and reminds you whenever you try to move about 

So I acknowledge this. As I look at the fake wood of the desk, try to name the mix of colors that I recognize went into the stain’s hue….alizarin crimson….as I cling to this ….because it is one of the two of my favorite colors ….especially Windsor and Newton’s….and pulls me temporarily down an avenue of release ….away from the rawness of the savagery of my own anger 

yes I grab onto this fabrication ….thinking of tubes of it….squeezing it out and how it glosses and shines as it catches the light still so pure on my imagined pallet ….why ruin it? poised over it as I know in time it will not stay thus, the air has already contaminated ….its existence to remain ….so

Out the window something distracts me….a movement of a bird ….

then….no, it’s not a bird, too jerky in motion, not the natural kind anyway; drone ….’a little bird told me….’ 

again, I am wrong, I’m being paranoid —just a helicopter descending as now I can feel the nearby vibration shaking the building 

and look away….I had shut the abrasive overhead light off with its LED migraine caresses so the grey of the carpet and walls are subdued in a lush of FBI shadow I prefer to be cloaked under

Desk, chairs, a cabinet discreetly in one corner, the other, corner window and steel sills with pulled up blinds

There is a knock at the door that is startling though expected that comes just a second before the door opens 

“Are you all right?”

“How dare you!” I say, not a shout but still spat, despite my intentions to not expose my emotions

Jörn looks at me, now changed into a dark blue business suit, superbly, expertly cut to outline his every angle to advantage 

“Do you keep a wardrobe here?” I ask because he only just looks at me

“I understand you’re angry,” he says as he carefully walks towards me

I turn away from those eyes,

“angry….” I say but the laugh I attempt never is conjured and I get up and kick the desk chair….and we both watch it ungracefully topple in an awkward tumble, landing wheels up, one hitting the wall and spinning 

I look at Jörn again now….he glances from the chair to me with one brow now cocked thoughtfully and —a stiffness around his mouth that holds back a desire to —laugh? that his eyes betray revealed by a twinkle he attempts to hide by looking down quickly 

“What is it with your kind that just decide what will happen without asking first? How dare you decide for me?”

“My kind?” again that raised eyebrow 

“Your—species!—breed!—gender!—type!—controlling, bossy, assuming, superior—“

“Now you’re just rattling off adjectives in tandem that challenge my grasp of your language as you do tend to morph their meanings….Duva—look—“

“No, you look! You can’t just pop in and out of my life and think it’s ok to play craps with it! Being shot at on the highway—“

“Now that wasn’t my fault—“

“But telling me to stay in the car when YOU get out and leave me there as bait —WAS!—“

He shrugs grudgingly but there’s no remorse,

“it was well calculated, you were never in any actual danger, duva—“

“Says who? According to who? Whose calculations? Not mine —from where I was sitting!”

“Duva—“

“Don’t ‘Duva’ me, fuck you! How dare you play with my life—my safety—my needs—what about what I want, what about my fucking opinions of what I want to happen or —DO!? I have to get back to the lodge—Sunny’s going to wonder, don’t you even see that much? Deciding for me when—you’ve put my—my—fucking —cover—at risk!!—jeez!….I want out of all this! I want to get out of here—away from you and away from your species telling me how to live my life—“

“You mean gender, right—? I’m pretty good with English but like I say, you can be challenging!” and he laughs at me

“Fuck you, Jörn!” I snap and then under my breath, “translate that!”

There is a pregnant pause

Then within the silence he says,

“Jag älskar dig….” 

and his voice has gone dry ….that it cracks

It touches some unknown nerve within me

At first I don’t understand. I hear instead his tone. It has been awhile since I thought of the phrase. Especially connected to him. But….slowly it registers.

Why now? Why say this now? In an FBI setting of all places too….why now? Is it to shut me up?

I look up at his eyes. They watch me. 

“I don’t want you to go back there,” he says and ….it is the vulnerability that I hear ….and see….that disarms me

**freedom of choice among other things, hidden in my meanings I rage about here; read between all the legend lines

      

 

 

nobody knows we are here

sometimes, often too—it is harder to find the departure into the soft cocoon 

when like the old trigger is spring loaded and out the jetty, jettisoned it is awhile before I locate what button got tripped ….the barbed wire wrapped around my ankle ….and ohhhh I put it together how we fell through this particular rabbit hole shit, girl—we fucking know better, lose the name; like the ring that choked the forth finger of all blood supply and oxygen with his unjust suspicions and the sticky trail of empty bottles that littered that life from our dark ages —I should have put it together when came the messages in multiples and the breaches into my passwords; why do I even try to ever leave my fucking caves when the predators never give up; a cave to protect, a cave to imprison as we watch only shadows for company; we are lost and nobody will come looking for us, nobody knows we are here

upon some paths today

 

happened upon some deer in a nearby field before the rest of herd took off

 

How my dna memory theory ties to my dictionary; Electra’s dictionary

 

When I was first researching the man who was my illegitimate father, for the longest time, all I ever knew at first about him was what I could find mentioned in history books and periodicals; his political career overshadowed sadly by how the press slammed him and how the government dubbed him intensely as notorious and how he has so often been extremely, and intricately maliciously documented 

But I knew also of his work before he went into politics, his work as a leader in his community as a reverend and later, his well known speeches that laid the groundwork for labor laws and workers rights, what he did in congress; his speeches can still be found all over YouTube and the internet. Of course I knew that he was the forefather of the civil rights movement

But I never suspected the dark roots went beyond his notoriety  never thought there could be much more worth looking into beyond the early struggles of his father’s early life as a young man struggling to find his own way. A way that…. lead back from the tobacco plantation of Virginia; a half breed whose mother was a Cherokee squaw concubine of a decorated confederate general whose father was a powerful plantation owner and slave owner. The general died on the battlefield and the pregnant squaw was tossed but was taken in by the man who became his step father and married the squaw and was by then a freed slave who brought him up as his own among the sons and daughters who later came to the freed slave and squaw

When the man I refer to here as Ethan Rhys-Jones had reached the height of his success in congress, those southern roots found him and, according to what he wrote in his auto biography, had been approached to visit the historical site that had been his family lineage by someone in the city’s political seat. They had wanted to celebrate an historical 

date and have him publicly appear. He had replied simply “no thanks, I have no wish to ever step foot on that plaque of land.”

I’d always sensed there was some mystery within my blood. Some strange attraction to things I could have had no knowledge of but innately have always felt just as I had felt about Native American things.

So one day recently, around when I had Covid in 2020, I got curious and it was soon after my dna test results came that I decided to do some of my own detective work wondering what might be found in public records. I started with the gravesite which I’d found in an old photograph and it lead me on a shocking path first to the founding of the colonization of Virginia and all the way back over the ocean to King James and on and on the name traced further and deeper, connecting like dots of a tapestry puzzle and all connected to political powers and historical aristocracy going as far back to the Franks and the Normans of Brittany

My fascination with dna memory theory all come from things along this path that has lead me through my story ….I believe I am made of all things and contain all peoples 

a nobody’s reign

 

Besides the Greeks and ancient history, I am fascinated by the Renaissance and medieval history; particularly the people who have shaped western literature and culture 

Chaucer’s sister-in-law was Katherine Swynford, who was the mistress of John of Gaunt; and of their illegitimate line came Henry VIII

It is not the crowns and the powers and the glories I am drawn to dig through in my personal studies

It is the frailties of the people that lure me in—that an unassuming peasant girl from Belgium, reared in a nunnery ….could turn the head of someone who had then been the most powerful man of those times and then bear the illegitimate lineage that would one day change the future course of a foreign nation and challenge the Vatican itself 

It is this …. I spend hours in wistful thoughts within my cells ….I cling to

why? 

We forget what power each and everyone of us have if we are willing to take that high flung risk of chance 

a nobody peasant girl from nowhere whose bloodline became majestic and somehow still flows on

App life

the surreality of 2022 shoots splinters of ice to turn flesh to ribbons 

is it a dare or a roulette game,

wishing to escape and I suppose that last ditch desire to force myself to be convinced otherwise 

later….get a message; half my age, “hey beautiful—I know you don’t know me, but why don’t you come over and we can change that. Are you interested in some all night fun?”

App/a/thetic….left or right