The man with the vampire eyes(jmmusechron)

As one door closes another opens

I have known people in my life, who at the time felt so necessary and looking back at those people as I recall them —those that now …. I can almost hardly remember anything about them; not even the places we shared and what lesson I can glean from this is about the power that I conjured and gave away; and how the mother of invention is only conceived as necessary 

the power was always there. in me

the inventor invents as necessary 

faith is a power within and 

as Charlotte held the torch for me, dear reader, I draw strength from you

and this I think as Jörn pulls up to the structure ….as it seems almost like something from some other world 

He stops the Volvo before a monolithic silo that appears to be three stories high

It is still blazing hot even with the sun going down, and the dimming light reflects off the metal of the structure, dwarfing the stables and barn beside it

We get out and I turn to look up at him,

“what is this?” I start to laugh but it’s too hot and I stop and then, as he pulls off his shirt, over ripples of sinewy muscle my laugh caught and I look within those vampire eyes ….and I realize ….no, he is not one of those, I know within myself ….no, he is bonded to me, imprinted upon my soul itself which I have always known since I first ever saw him in my feverish and strange dreams 

No….he is a part of me no matter how at times he enrages me

 

Life is so strange/no drama please

since arriving as a former ex-pat  to my country of birth, my track record for living at any one address has averaged 2.3 years and a time in any part of the land mass 

the irony of this is the one only exception, which was Cedarhurst New York, known for the orthodox community 

my daughter was nine months old when we arrived and was five when I moved out. It was only several feet from the train tracks and about a mile from JFK. Between the half hourly invasion of train arrivals at the station, at 6AM and 6PM was the concord and then of course was the traffic of the regular overhead planes. 

The motion of such shook the walls and made dust of them on the hard wood floors

My husband was transferred from his job in Ann Arbor to work at the World Trade Center. During our years there my parents passed away six weeks apart, I was divorced and lost custody and felt the vibrations of the collapse of the Twin Towers just a half hour from our apartment building. Then it was quiet with no trains and no planes

My ex-husband had left the building. And during those years at that address were other things too. My ex-husband interviewed my second husband for a job, only weeks before I met him at my night warehouse manager job at Pearl Art Supplies where I trained him to count miniature architectural objects, like fake plastic trees until 3AM 

I didn’t know about his previous job interview. 

I still average 2.3

Life is so strange. Don’t you think? 

(….thoughts to be continued at my next work break)

More thoughts today of the legend as Project; clipboard notes

years ago when I first began this ongoing story of mine, told as diary and story merged together with fiction and autobiography confused into one, it was during my years growing up in the Netherlands and I would dream out the windows of trains through the cities and trams through Utrecht, The Hague and Amsterdam, and inspired by how the tram underpass went right into Central Station I would imagine James Bond scenes….

part of the stories took on the literary poetry of my favorite authors but mixed with this was one movie star icon—Garbo— I guess I recognized a sort of kinship for the way she averted the world. I’d see those long range angled photos of her taken by the paparazzi, kind of fuzzy, so far in the distance, though it was unmistakably her; she was always so obscure and well hidden, yet glamorous in her mystery; shrouded under a hat with upturned coat collar. 

Then later in my life when I was a bit older, was the other I felt closely identified with for her manner of method of thoughts blended with scenes; Anaïs Nin whose perspectives on life and the world felt so much like my own. 

And so, as my story evolved over the years, as a dyslexic who thinks in picture, well, it always seemed my story had to be a film ….told with her voice like a diary but with the narrator, like Garbo, always obscured 



sage

 

Something fundamental changes within once one has passed through the chamber of life. At birth it is usually quickly forgotten as one encounters so many impressions in which to adjust and understand. If again, though, if it should happen ….there is no question, no doubt….it was real and impossible to be convinced otherwise no matter how the evangelists may preach and debate with their semantics and ignorant witch-hunting dogma 

yes, one is forever changed. It is confusing and overwhelming and so profound and imbues every thought and act thenceforth….and makes impossible to ever blindly ever again follow the scriptures that do not ring true to what you yourself have seen

this too has set me on my solitary path and as I find myself  now falling into deep thought, I forced myself to remember ….what came after for me. I was only 18 when it happened and violence which proceeded it sets it in a different light than had it occurred in an operating theatre or some other way because of the plain fact I’d not known my life would be in danger until the horrific moments before and that they were horrific ….well, in parallel it was traumatic 

I never talked about it. I had no one to turn to; no bosom friend, no faithful relative upon whose shoulder I could weep so…. those days after the event, which too I kept to myself out of fear…. much of it is like a dark cave within me….a cave I don’t think I ever crawled out of…. and I have thought of those moments after; those hours after…. days….weeks and then months ….they are blurry, like going under the water in the ocean and looking up above at the surface—sounds muted….senses muted…. life muted…. Looking back, I know I was all alone and as I reflect on this now, you know, the terror never leaves….never….but I became my own crutch, my own shoulder and counsel that I clearly realize was all that I had and all I ever had ….save what saved me that day….what saved me that day….? but there is no doubt. just the whys. why….and I am all these years later wondering how I got up off the floor that day; how I faced the world ….how I squared my shoulders and stayed so quiet about an event that altered me forever and would always set me apart from everyone I would know and keep me removed and a bit numb but also ….cause me to feel everything so deeply; life; love; every moment and every tragedy I witnessed and heard of…. it did not make me a philosopher as—I already had such a mind…. 

so as I reflect upon this and life….again and again like I do today ….  I wonder about every step I have walked away on that solitary path with only this allegorical sheet of paper blowing through a subway to land on someone’s lap with my words 

do I touch you? 

is this why?

or just the impression which I leave, is it just art on the cave wall, like a museum gallery ….but only to be found by chance

Electra’s dictionary/surprising message(jmmusechron)

 

Something for which I will never understand, is how I have witnessed an attitude from some —either in my past or those in passing ….as though they own a piece of you, or all of you because they open a door, say hello or insist upon some tiny generous act of such which was never asked for 

independence is like oxygen to me and I see now —this— has been what keeps me on this solitary path and ….really separates me from the stereotype of my gender ….so much so to the extent that I really do wish to be called some other gender ….yes, I would chat with you, I would enjoy the hours in discussion only though if it is understood we begin as equals ….until you prove yourself not up to par ; then I would grow bored I am sure

and I see now this is what feels most threatening to that mighty gender or those posing as such but thank god I am older now to look at the generation I’ve been among and can laugh at them all now for their lazy minds and sloth like energy to prove them able to keep up with the will and conversation which I enjoy to challenge 

oh how they bore me

I see an interesting email,

“Oh my god!” I say aloud, “someone is interested in my project!”

It is on the way back from headquarters, but now with it all catching up with me, feeling sick in the car —the tension sets off the spinal pain and causes the inflammation ….from the stress of day, all the switching gears of events which began in the psychiatrist’s office, then the ordeal of being shot at 

….and the other part I have not written about —what happened on the highway when Jörn got out

to chase them I’d thought but…. that’s not what happened. What happened was—the one chasing us got in through the backseat door ….and holding a weapon attempted to kidnap me which is exactly what Jörn was banking on….calculated risk so he says

I look up now from the email and glance at Jörn’s profile

“You’re still angry,” Jörn says now as he drives 

“Can we not talk about this anymore today?—my head is going to explode,” I put my head down between my legs feeling unwell but I say, noticing a shard of glass on the floor, “the windshield is fixed….”

I hear Jörn’s casual grunt,

“while you were giving the statement.”

“So I’m going back to Sunny’s—what’ll I tell him?”

“He’s been unaware you were gone,” Jörn says, “he had a health emergency while you were at Dr. Evens, he’ll return by tomorrow noon, likely….so….”

But I notice we are still en route towards the lodge yet,

“this is not the way….” I say as I realize

“No…. there is an adjacent property which ….” that pause I know

“Let me guess, Airbnb?”

And I hear that chuckle

hollow streaming

 

what a world we live in now, I don’t understand it as it seems we have wandered past the idylls of an optimism once sung about that had inspired me as an artist to wish for that new renaissance 

years ago, it was the time when I met the woman seer; the psychic I have written here about before who told me all those things that wound up happening ….she knew of all the things that happened in my childhood, then about the other violence I had known …. she told me of the losses and of the heartbreak I would know as a mother, and my ability to know of things before they happened and the wisdom that came with this…. she told me that of love it would not come easy to me; I would not be seen for myself ….not really but she said that much later, in my life, that through my written words I would one day be seen and only then truly loved…. I think she only said this to give me faith to carry on and that was very kind of her, don’t you think, my lovely followers I am so grateful for?…. do you know how often I have wished she had been wrong?

I don’t know where we are going, Electra but I do wonder if we are ripe for an alien nation 

DC headquarters scene continues

 

“How dare you tell me this now!” is what comes out of my mouth 

and I run up to him to slap his face—but he stops me by grabbing my wrist 

….and then we are eye to eye looking at each other and I search his for ….truth ….I look deep within their beauty and keep myself from falling in….into them,

“controlling …. I feel like I wait my whole life for my fate to be decided and years wasted wondering if any of it has meant anything ….if I have….or was it all just a game to fill in your time while you keep searching for some better elusive prize….“ I say and look at his hand wrapped around my wrist, “do you think I’ll wait forever for you—what if we don’t have forever?”

He loosens his grip on my wrist and brings it down to weave his long fingers through mine and uses our hands to push me too him, pulling my arm this way behind me and pressing our fists into the small of my back

“Did you mean that?” I ask 

But his eyes tell me. The poker face dropped…. and his eyes are so beautiful when they are vulnerable, until now I don’t think I ever saw this quite ….so

“Yes,” he says 

Another knock jolts the moment as the door bursts open and Stina enters,

“we need to get your statement!” she says and slams a recording device on the desk and with a curious glance at the toppled chair she hauls it up in one motion