using poetic language is one form to hide within codes but I can also see how it may be possible to use the genre of fantasy fiction to do this too

 

the surgical prod into the infection …. begins here

what I came out of six months ago—did my head in and in such ways that perhaps was my most damaging of all experiences 

partly for the length of time I endured it and much because the person(s) was/were a part of my past and used this/these things cruelly and sadistically ….what I could not clearly see was it was because of their jealousy and so used their will to exact revenge when they might have instead chosen to rise above and be ….better humans 

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”—*

despite my combat instincts I ….I realize am often hampered out of my strange consideration to be polite 

my downfall 

that seems the weakness I have often let destroy me

call it karmic politeness

I fear if I turn down a kindness generously offered …. will smack me later in the ass

*quoted, of course, from Tennessee Williams’ play, “A Streetcar Named Desire” as said by Blanche DuBois

Next scene

 

When I shut off the water, I find a bamboo towel neatly folded on a clear bench and wonder if that had been there before. I walk across towards the round bed in search of my discarded clothes on the floor which…. are no longer there

but instead, I find neatly folded on the bed, khaki shorts and a striped navy blue and white t-shirt and a folded piece of paper with something stapling it shut; like a cuff link or a small tie pin—stuck through it. Outside the fold, in familiar writing is written ‘note from a stranger’ 

I pull the metal piece out, now with more interest, realize it is like an earring post with what appears to be a diamond

     ‘Put this on and I can always find you~meet me downstairs outside, I’ll bring you in the atv~’

I go to the nearest mirror above the clam shaped Bakelite dresser and put it on and

as there’s nothing else to wear, I slip on the shorts and t-shirt and   stepping into my sandals, grab my bag, head straight down with hair still dripping head out

e.d. Noir fortress(jmmuse)

 

Thoughts flow clearest best when the present is possible to be drowned

running motors; howling winds; raging storms; brutal workouts; crashing water….

it seems hard to reach that temple inside

there was such peace within the cool stone interiors of the cathedrals 

I recall the serenity —but not from their priests

because rituals are excuses to —avoid—and the serenity I also did find amongst the Druid groves 

and perhaps it was even stronger amongst those woods and forest floors where the dark green moss grew by the kelpies’ ponds

rituals are incantations to keep minds from questioning ….how often I have used this to keep going in the face of despair 

….how long have I been sunk within that morass 

    like I’m waiting ….still…. when is it time to give up that ghost? I wonder

E.d.noir(jmmusechron) sometimes when I’m walking …..

 

It is time to return to my post. These intervals in between are not permanent. 

Where is Jörn? But the time on my phone alarms me. 

Only once I turn on the shower heads do I realize the walls they stream from are glass and I can see the world outside; like standing in some waterfall of the fjords and looking down at passing memories of sailing boats through water valleys that lead out to more lost memories 

and this is when I realize that I dreamed. It is what woke me. I was walking and carrying something heavy on my back. Following ….behind 

I was watching a sunrise 

It was the drumming that woke me like a warning. A drumming that vibrated the ground 

where were we going? there was a feeling of such dread as I looked upon the worn and trodden path that recalled me to faces and snatches of emotions, like memories ….kept somewhere deep in the treasure chest recesses ….and squeezed my throat painfully as it blended with the rotten smell of blood on the air 

how becomes born the contradictions in a self & identity as a lie

consider…..

        those human errors. Some truths cannot be altered with white lies

and it is hard to adopt the expected persona of someone else’s unspoken white lie 

that is required to be assumed 

by that living lie

living among those living the white lies —that allow them to continue living the lives ….of a living lie

one learns to interpret what is required by…. the subtleties of tones; of moods…. and learns how to read minds by every foot fall and breath ….the raised voices, the nuances restrained by the tension expressed in swallowed sighs 

but the words actually spoken tell nothing of truths

those words are gibberish and mean nothing at all

thoughts between….the pages today

so often I brood about and then, reflect here: 

why do I continue with this ….

examine the purpose; examine purpose 

Electra’s dictionary has had so many evolutions ….and so many names ….to say that it arrived to me like a golden chariot to take me ….take me ….take me away 

come to my rescue 

it has been more than just a raft to let me cling to so as not to drown 

it has been that, but so much more ….and this is why I know it must always exist for me

My art was this chariot, what I could imagine and then create; sometimes with a pencil or brush, sometimes instead with words to conjure to minds the world I see, and I suppose the pencil or brush was too constrictive under my mother’s art school eye —my art could not breathe in her reality ….like my diary she found 

I saw my world clearly and it made better sense to me than the madness I was living in at home with those parents and sibling 

I could always depend on it; it was both mother and father to me and often my most dependable lover

It began with a crack ….like a whip ….and out the crack I went ….down the winding hallways to places I could fly to at will 

But it was not just words, because words are so hard for me to see 

How can I be confined to a page? when I am dyslexic? how can I be confined to a canvas? how can I be confined to a big budget studio whose sole purpose is tailoring popularity by any means necessary? 

but still I am chased to keep doing this and so then, is it only for myself?

it could be and when this thought occurs to me…. the world —my world— disappears 

the raft sinks 

the chariot disappears and I am left just an empty pumpkin shell which I try to tell myself to be satisfied with but how when I see that without it I am forced to live among a world ….that makes no sense to me. and I can’t do that ….so what do I do….? keep going ….but the question is spat from the walls about purpose 

it was the ….surprise …. of a message I got from my daughter which seemed to ….contain my answer

we have been messaging about our thoughts of today’s world and even with our years apart, it is remarkable how in-line we are to such similar views and our adaptations to reach for reason and meaning. Even when she was a little girl, before our fall out, I used to say she and I would have been friends even had she not been my daughter. and so when I told her I had no idea if I could care anymore about my art as I lost my interest to be relevant and felt I no longer had anything to say 

she wrote: <who cares if you have nothing to say? write for the fun of it>

So out if the mouths of babes but also, I know how much I must value her meaning when now my Persephone is returned to me with the burden of a world I dragged her into 

this world I don’t understand anymore but clearly never did, I suspect my actions on how to adapt to this brave new world awareness has me reflecting upon how my mother left this world and left me with just this raft and to let that go would be to make irrelevant Electra’s entire odyssey and all the blood and the sweat and ….unshed tears held in check by that shield and the knight who I could never let rest and has remained on watch at the drawbridge of the Celf ….

What is filling the minds of this world anyway 

What is Fun….I wonder? yes so—maybe that is something to figure out 

To me fun is wild beauty with no restrictions ….sometimes it is visual and spills out my fingers and often it is thoughts which gallop with images within my mind’s eye through characters I have conjured from the need of their existence to fill a void that desperately needs to be filled 

When I was eight, we were in Vienna on holiday and I became obsessed with orchestras from a statue of a well known composer. I saw in a shop window an assortment of little wooden angels all playing different instruments. I eventually had quite a collection of these little wooden figures but it began with one at a piano and the orchestra leader; they were my first two. When I had enough of them for a full orchestra, I’d spend hours playing with them and conducting my imagined music  

Is it obvious Jörn’s opera is symbolic of mine?

My years at bookstores, I’d spend hours looking through books. On breaks I would reach for art books and was drawn to the beauty of art and was excited to discover work by Alan Lee which contradicted my mother’s rules; and literature often written by controversial people because of their need to express despite the risk of danger; their need 

It has occurred to me I must need to create in some other form of medium where I do not feel confined 

where, in a way, I am the orchestra leader deciding how it goes and not too out of my depths to create and produce, 

to use words but not have to be solely dependent on visually frustrating text, not as print, sometimes spoken and mixed liberally with images ….narrative and visual almost like a silent film seen from the long range lens of A Spy

The next scene ….later