a side walk street side story

 

“But why would someone smell like play-dough —like—all the time???” she implored her friend 

they stood by their espressos perched upon the high gloss dark wood counter at the local bookshop. They came after school, as they did nearly every day, on their way home after classes; pretending to be more than sixteen 

Their voices traveled upstairs to the second story of the local bookshop, the second floor of two more—plus the attic and the weird cellar downstairs 

The interiors of the shop were reminiscent of bygone years. Faun de Roet had to wonder how it was possible to maintain such quality furnishings considering the decline of bookstore shoppers. But this had been a question she had been meaning to ask Mr. Bishop ….not expecting his sudden death. She had only just met the Bishops at the beginning of the summer and ….well, after their short but wonderful acquaintance Mr. Bishop took ill.

It seemed only natural to step in and run the shop considering all her years as a bookstore manager 

Faun stood puzzled a moment still hearing the girls chatter 

“Maybe he works at a toy store after school,” the other girl suggested 

“But like—all the time? I mean, come on Jess, that’s just weird in that gross and icky way.”

“You don’t have to kiss him—“

“Omg—shut up, I’m gonna gag, you just made me spill coffee on me!”

Faun heard someone behind her and turned around fast. She had an armload of books she was working on putting away but her sudden move caused her to drop most of them right on the feet of her intruder.

When she looked up she saw him bending down to help her as he said,

“here, let me help you.”

By just a few words she realized he was English. And as she studied his face she searched it, assuming he must be a son or relative of the Bishops 

“Thank you,” she said accepting his help as he handed her the books from the floor

“No, I should be thanking you,” he said

“Why?”

“For stepping in and running things during —all this—I mean, you must have your own life to see to?” he spoke so softly. Some of his words she had trouble with understanding; his accent, it was so ….lilting, like poetry, every word he spoke fell like drops of pearls but —she had trouble understanding. 

“Oh….” was all she could think to reply but then suddenly without knowing she would she said, “are you the son—or you’re—no the solicitor….?”

“Neither—I’m —not really exactly related, well more like the step nephew but, yes, I am here to manage the properties and his legal matters as he has left for Aunt Fiona,” he explained. There was an odd sheepish expression on his face just then. But quick as a wink it disappeared. 

She liked his face. There was something open about his expression and he had a gentle demeanor. He was warm colored; eyes and hair like a walk in a forest

 and yet to him having learned of her name before seeing her thought she had eyes much like a doe caught by surprise and the sense of autumn leaves 

“So—what will happen to the shop?” Faun asked in a hushed tone and quickly glanced around to be sure her voice had not carried 

“Ahh…that is a complicated question ….” the sheepish expression returned —there!—an instant! then was gone, “that is—actually—what I erm—meant to—had—hoped to tell—ask—talk to you about.”

But his accent rendered most of that incomprehensible to her. She only got the part he said “to you about”

She felt oddly self conscious 

“You came to talk to me?” 

She had a moment to take him in fully. Dressed somewhat conservatively in a shirt and cardigan, with the predictable khaki trousers and such —yet, not; he wore unusual shoes and she picked up on a scent he wore; some earthy spice (cologne or hair product or body wash?) ...age? not too young, not too old, a bit wise and still wondering 

“You’re busy,” he said it like a question and also like a stated fact 

“Well, the sign says we close at six and—“

He pulled out his phone,

“ah—time to usher out the riffraff,” he glanced back up at her as he slipped his phone back where it had been in his pocket before saying, “shall I lend a hand? You see, there’s some sticky things which needs being seen to and I don’t know who else to ask. Aunt Fiona is —understandably still beside herself.”

“Oh—if I can help….? Of course!”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

Electra’s dictionary and film noir(jmmusechronCont)/ of spies like us

Spy in the house of love

“So is it like I am under house arrest?” I ask from the deep plum couch that has sucked me under its spell 

He stands by the window in silhouette watching the water, and in the evening light I see how the gold still shimmers in his hair 

“Hmm….” he is lost in thought. Slowly he seems to drag himself to the present as he turns to look at me

There….it always causes such a stir both in my mind and ….within that place they call the solar plexus….it had been so long since I saw him until now….I forgot what this does to me. What he does to me. I once read somewhere that if someone makes you feel this way ….the butterflies and sweaty palms ….to run. To get away. That this person is wrong for you. It was Cosmopolitan magazine. Some article ….and there was a quiz involved, I think 

I don’t want to feel this way. 

I look away. I get up and walk around. I want to vomit. 

How does he show up in my life as he pleases?

“No, you are not under arrest,” he finally says 

He looks at me closely but I am not looking back at him. but…I feel his kryptonite 

Electra’s dictionary and film noir/the fence

I feel his eyes upon me as I watch the water from the flat. I have been so long lost in thought. And lost. Jörn walks over to me 

He turns me to him and takes my face into his hands and holds me there to look at me,

“where have you been?” he asks me

“I have been lost,” I say to him looking up at him; and his hands as he holds me there ….holds me…. as if …. together; he holds me together ….I half want to burst like a glass Christmas ball into a thousand tiny pieces in his hands

His eyes look with their purity of the unforgiving kryptonite that always demands truth and sincerity ….even as they do not always deliver the same in kind 

And here is the crux of it all —what is there at all in life if it is not real ….

I say to him,

“I have to confess a terrible truth I’ve discovered lately, and that is,I don’t care what happens to me, so, tell me—why do you?”

only he does not answer, instead he does something that almost embarrasses me ….he bends down and kneels at my feet, he removes the shoes I wear carefully one by one; each buckle he undoes carefully as if I am made of glass. Then he kisses my feet; first the left one and then the right one. 

And it is because,you see, I feel so broken inside…. so empty of having felt much kindness for so long from anyone that I don’t know how to feel any more so that it is easier to block what this does to me ….that it moves me because —it scares me. Then he stands up and returns to holding my face, but I drop my eyes,

“no, look at me, duva, you are precious to me, do not ever doubt it,” and then lifts me. He brings me to where he has drawn a bath and he says now to me, “let me wash you,” he puts me down by the now full tub and shuts it off, “I want to heal you….”

****

There is an unexpected wilderness, a strangely kind of otherworldly beautiful patch of land on the southern fringe of Delaware where the line meets Maryland; Strawberry Lane 

There is this beautiful old dead tree that is sadly graceful which I find myself inspired to sit under

“my dad named the road,” he tells me 

I am on the fence between the worlds and I don’t know how I came to be here on this road. Some goes to the north and to the east and another west. Each time what i think I find I can believe

 seems to, I find, 

turns to be, 

is more delusion

*^*

I do not regret having depth capacity for emotion or I’d not be an artist, but I regret those who were incapable of sustaining by their own personal defeats 

****

And with my eyes closed I lay in the bath and I hear him say,

“you are my muse,” he says before he goes 

It is only moments later when I hear the opening notes of “the dove in flight”

JMMuse Noir (Ed)continues

And as I stare up so wistfully at that tiny phantom of a helicopter speck that is not even there

I hear Jörn make the oddest—and yet—familiar sound. Like an apologetic cough before,

“jag är ledsen, duva….”

I do turn my head quick —but!lights out!! All goes dark like dreamless sleep 

….was there a prick, a jab?I don’t know ….

Electra’s dictionary & film noir/jmmusechron;Purpose refrain

 

I have become so rather lost in thoughts. I have digressed so many times. 

as things keep interrupting my thoughts—yes, 

so I forget where threads got left hanging there

can you imagine a thought like that?yes, that is what this sort of open-knot-work has become

;some spider who gets interrupted 

and all the weave 

is fraying 

and the spider is left hanging 

I wonder if this is the lesson after all —the net cannot hold the trapeze artist. 

Only some of you will get that. 

Or caught in her own weave?

I don’t know…. 

so, it seems I get so rather lost in my thoughts on some dusty road whilst running away from constant surveillance;the suspicious eyes of a retired agent …. and only want to get

Lost ….

But actually do

and even my phone seems to be caught in Bermuda’s Triangle; a tiny wheel inside it mocks me as it spins for several long minutes where google maps is claiming to be   

so get out of the car and look around realizing there is nothing around.

but does it really matter.

I half think I purposely got myself lost here so as 

….I’d not have to go back.ever.but now it is quite terrifying to realize no one will look for me.or know I was here.or came here.or care.

Those moments when you evaluate your life. And yourself.sometimes I wonder how it felt for Moses coming down from the mountain 

There is a random old log sitting on the dusty dirt road and so I sit down on it and try and clear my thoughts. 

What have I gained from all this exploration ….have I learned?

Yes.actually. And documented it all here in code. 

And had I ever tried to go mainstream in the past it would have been a waste of time, and I always knew this but then —I guess I believe the world wasn’t ready for anything I had to say. But that was true for Socrates. But he was Socrates. But how would anyone have known of him had he never tried to argue? But he was Socrates. 

this is the debate team in my head.and so I do actually feel about to fall apart there right in the middle of that depressing dirt road when out of nowhere I hear the loudest helicopter overhead and ….speaking of spiders ….something drops down very much like one —with golden hair

“Duva—I know you said you want no part of our schemes—“ as if he was just returning from the shops, hardly taking a breath 

“I —never—actually ….said that….” I stare at him 

And then look up as I see the helicopter from the hover just suddenly takes off 

I look up at Jörn and then at the car,

“uhhh—I’m lost and I’m having car issues so….” I look back up at the now long gone helicopter