dictionary, dearest

he knows my ways,  it is like our own choreography. it is intuitive with him; we move so easily together …. sometimes I think —this is why— this is what makes sense…. no words needed, I think, I feel, I breathe him.i am content within his arms….how much I’ve missed this ….but no, I can never tell him, must not ever say ….but now—right now….i know peace 

JM muse chron/Electra’s dictionary and film noir “I don’t exist”

“Try to remember the sequence of events….” 

we are ….we are —where? I’ve not been sleeping —there seems to be some kind of ….ominous warning comes lately to me whenever I sleep 

I am half mad lately. Such weird things in the dreams thst I just can’t will myself back into sleep 

“What happened first?” 

Oh….  it is Jörn’s voice.

It is present. I am confused. 

“What?” I say 

“The time with the ….the time you had your first episode as a child,” he says now with a soft and most reluctant sigh

but even thst feels ….

    as if it belongs to some other life …. who was that little girl? where did she go? no, she just disappeared, don’t think about her anymore …. sometimes I know it is wrong. We ought to honor her. But she just couldn’t stay. And was just not tough enough. I guess we don’t like her for that. But we keep the guard anyhow. 

“What time?—oh—the buckle scar?— I was five …. “ unconsciously I put up my hand to where it hit and wonder why it matters to Jörn to ask me this—is it twisted in the codes of the hidden medallion?

Jörn walks back and worth in front of me.

He says,

“Duva ….” and it is his voice 

You see. It catches me off guard. He kneels down to where I am sat watching the black forest night view behind the piano. I watch into the void through thst two story plate glass window. Even as I know what he plays…. as he stops and steps away …. I still see the shadows on the wall of those bats as I hear hear him play those familiar keys 

   it lulls my mind back ….

          there

His voice is up against my ear but I am drowning because I know what he is going to say,

“think….when did he stop coming? Before or after the incident?”

it is like a rush of golden white light.

“After.”

And the clear. The clouds break away.

He says,

“but not right away,”

“No…. no…. It was much later ….it was because of what happened ….”

but I cannot speak. I try. I go cold. 

He says,

“that’s enough for now….” he lifts me and carries me from the floor 

press the button and hesitate

 

….i wasn’t like them…. !   I was nothing like them! I never understood how I landed there. They talked about the most mind numbing things ….

Neimen Marcus ….Macys…. white sales; pot roast recipes, latkas and dry cleaning 

when engrossed in politics I was…. equality…. Philosophy…. spirituality ….they thought I was some kind of freak at home and ….you know, that just …. made no sense in …. the living room after some …person—cousin?—‘s …. bar mitzvah and slouched into the velvet seat of the chair cringing ….dying….aunt ida—someone ….they were speaking alien to me

fish market remarks 

my mind on weird concepts of humanity

where did that even come from ….?

“….DNA memory” 

  [voice in background]Dr Rothschild said

all day ….unaccounted time*

the tape rolls ….

“ ….there was always this very wild side to my nature….to me

    I could not contain it.i could not deny it. and it got me in trouble so often….” 

The tumbling emotions crash; (jmmuse)

“There’s always been rumor I exist,” I shrug now after a deep breath. 

Identity?

I get up and walk around the room….strange to be back here again ….back at the barn house in our old bedroom. 

“You get used to hiding ….” I glance up at Jörn sideways to see if he is looking at me and he is 

I turn my back a bit. Take a deep breath ….

“one day —I was a teenager in Holland ….it was this one day in Amsterdam. I stepped away from my family —the Calvestraat…. I got approached by an Italian fashion photographer —well known then, he gave me his card and said they were searching for a new face— he told me he could make me famous—that I had an itgirl face and that I would be the next face of Clinique ….” I laugh now 

shrug

“It is just as well but ….of course it was forbidden!” 

The card shredded up. I could never stand out. It was law. I am nobody. I don’t exist. 

It is hard to always process the road blocks intentionally put in my may to destroy me ….it can make me crazy if I let myself really comprehend the masterminds involved 

You learn to hide ….all the very things I desired were roadblocks against me. I didn’t understand as a young person. I blamed myself. I never knew what it was; why …. it was me; something cursed ….i just didn’t get it until the sessions with Dr. Rothschild ….

“No RADA for me,” I say laughing at myself 

Electra’s dictionary JM muse chronicles; Cover her face

“It was when I came across an old photo of him,” Jörn tells me, “without the mustache as when he was at university ….I got chills….you are the spit of him.”

“So?”

“The signature hair cut,” he says looking at me, “whose idea?”

I smile up at him and shrug,

“so what of it?” 

Because I know what he is saying,

“she used to tweeze my eye brows. Remove the arch….yes….but could you blame her?”

“Identity,” Jörn says like a headmaster reminder for a quiz 

I shut him out. I squeeze my eyes tight. I cover my ears and my eyes….let the weight of my hair tumble forward ….

“I learned how to hide in plain sight….” I say 

But add,

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. She did what she had to do…. I don’t exist. I don’t matter ….”

The lost tape; Electra’s dictionary, film noir (jmmuse)The newly found Dr. Rothschild Tape

 

‘The ladies on the bus all gossiped. They worked at the homes of the folks where the bus stopped at. The bus stop on the street with the yellow house and the dog that always bit me and chewed up my toys as my ‘father’ said, “good dog!” would stop at the house next door. Anna-Marie lived on the corner, the Poland’s next door; Mimi, Marc and David— and the bus stopped right at the very spot the Poland’s left their trash cans ….one day I kicked a can but didn’t realize till it flew up in the air that —it had remnants of cheap beer….till it emptied upon me….i stank of it after and had to vomit…. men covered in green tattoos always stepped off the bus….one man I saw from mommy’s window every day….a damp cigar hanging always from his loose lips….but this day ….i got on with Annie. I trusted her. She was different from ….Mattie….who said things she thought I was too young to understand, as if I were even deaf….those ladies worked as maids on the blocks by where we lived ….pastel painted Miami homes….i got on the bus with Annie. She took my hand, we took seats behind the driver on the left…. ‘is that the little princess of the cats? She got no place now, pass for white anyhow with that creamy skin….pass for white, but she ain’t nothing but a mulatto and will never belong anywhere—wrong side of the blanket, too bad as that king didn’t do nothing for us folk, we still serving the master and she jus bastard pass for white trash….” 

but what did it mean? 

Why did she hate me? 

How did she know me….know who I was ….when nobody at home ever even saw me ….or knew I was even there ….i was invisible ….after he never ….came to see me again.’