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

keys to electra, encore

 

my mother had a wicked, somewhat sadistic sense of humor 

as a kid I was tested to be allergic to wheat after returning from a school field trip where the youth hostile we stayed at was directly next to a wheat farm in England and I came back violently ill. She was very much involved in astrology and so she got a big laugh at me and said, “you’re allergic to yourself!” —you see, because the symbol for Virgo is harvest and wheat. Years later right before I moved out, one day it was this time when I was desperate to get to work or I’d lose my job. We’d had a very big snow storm and a tree had fallen on top of my car from all the snow. So manic was I digging it out and wrestling this tree as —I’ve always been this size and could have used some help

she took pictures 

I’m a masochist and desperately loved her till the end and still do which should explain so much of my complexities psychologically —what good writing it provides though, hmm?