Electra ….
in Milan Kundera’s world Tomas would say that I am an amalgamation of Sabina and Tereza
and then Kundera would stand up and cry “blasphemy!”
but then sit down and later quietly agree
But then he’d create a character who mocks him and myself as she says,
“I’m a monster outside of my world of kitsch.”
West Side Story
that is what Norma would say of them. She would sit with me and ….calm me ….
I do not know why I was there. There are some dark pages ….and often it happened at night —when I was sleeping. They’d move me. It was confusing. The worst pain I recall that devestated me was ….no, I’m not ready to go there ….
Looking back I understand it
I was to go with him and I didn’t understand why I was being sent away. It was something I’d done. By mistake. What I’d revealed about the time when we went by boat to the restaurant ….i fucked up. It was me. Do you see? I was bad. And then ….in retrospect we do understand the motives; the spy equipment I found…. her husband was leaking secrets about conversations of my biological dad with the home phone number. Phone calls I remember. I remember every Thursday was the day. He’d call me. Then talk to my mother. And all this was connected to timing and details of things that were part of evidence used against him….
Those things you remember out of sequence. I’d hide in my mother’s closet—Florida days. She knew I hid there. It was like a room! I’d sit below her dresses by the boxes of beautiful designer shoes. Everything smelled so good in there, even her shoes. I loved to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. It was the one place he’d never find me. The last place he’d look. The one place I could relax and make the stomachs go away.
It was one of many times she talked to me through the door…. her way of allowing me to be there if I was quiet
but this was one bad time.it was after a very bad beating I got.they were getting worse and it did feel he meant to kill me but she was drinking ….she didn’t do that. Not in any overt way. But this time —she had a glass of wine and it was in a beautiful glass. She had the bottle too. And she dumped more into the glass….she said to me, “don’t plan on getting a college degree— you can kiss your dreams goodbye—don’t worry, I’ll keep you as my lapdog….” and the said nothing more and emptied her glass in two gulps.
I never saw her that way ever. That was the only time. But now. Only now. Do I know what she meant.
I know there is much more through that door I heard. Those are the horrors of my dreams
earlier in the diary pages of the dictionary :
I realize now that I blocked these memories. You see? Firstly, I was told they never happened; secondly, it was painful of the loss of it and agony to dream of it and know it was —not real?or not meant to be for me ….that family we were to have ….been; the three of us….the sand, the sea, the sea weed, shells on the shore, sea salt air and falling asleep
the fear that I should have created such an amazing dream of my own …. I did think I was insane then. As a child —I thought it was possible I was mad —so I had to stop thinking ever again about ….him …. the one in that voice read me those brear rabbit stories
I had to forget. Had to. Or go mad for sure
She …. would play the Jamaican tin drum music for hours ….when it was just me and her at home
The secret was real. And it was dangerous. Who I am was dangerous then and could still be so; the secret is real. I heard about when they caught a photo of them together. It was going to be front page. Imagine? Who he was! But he called the editor of the paper and had words. He could do that. He did. Many times my mother almost got caught with him in a photo but he knew all the right people. But there is one detail that I recall which —is too specific to have dreamed myself. It was something he said to me and not just once…. He said, “do you know how amazing your mother is? Do you have any idea how fabulous a woman she is and that I adore more than any other!” And I remember thinking as a child “wow—that other dad doesn’t talk about her that way at all ….” And I suppose it is his fault I’ve always been searching for that ….
I think once I blocked it and it was buried deep things thst later came never added up because I stopped remembering they ever happened
But now I do the rewind back —there’s a story there
a story I forgot —what is it ….is it my story ? my story —my story —that one we cannot tell …..
She’s standing there….see….waiting still there, little fool, someone hit her in the head with a ball
There were other signs too but so much happened. So much was going on. And even now …..it is too much to take under the microscope of thought as I feel the mind’s defense start to build its fuzzy walls within my thoughts
How little my inner routine changes even with the Swedish headquarters
I try to paint in the studio Jörn built for me next to the sauna but my mind is so restless.
The news is horrible everywhere and all I want is to bury my head in search for something that makes any sense to me anymore.
So after an hour holding my paintbrush and staring at nothing, I decide to walk back to the barn house. Jörn and his father have hidden away in Jörn’s office with Zoom meetings and the transferring of power from Josef to Jörn requires hours of them locked away.
Elsa has gone back to the city. She said to see Andreas perform and check in on the Swedish Opera House that is actually located not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A block or so from Gerald’s and not too far from the Plaza hotel. But when I think of present life ….
I don’t fit anywhere that makes any sense
I’m not used to family; to people noticing if I’ve stepped out or returned…. The awareness of that unknown phenomena to me (always watching but never among one; always watching from outside, the outsider; other people with other families from outside their window; like my nose up against the glass: wonder—what is that like?)I felt and noticed of the ‘familia’comfort of Jörn’s family presence. Being around them. At first it was so hard for me ….accepting thoughtful gestures even as I like to give them, accepting it is impossible to me…. I’m not used to it. I find moments when I stop and fall into thought as I try to determine if —I don’t mind if anyone notices —was she hit by a car; fall into a pit; get accosted by someone…. No, I’m not used to that
And also, I realize something else that seems to bother me…. The real world out there?
Real?
I find I have trouble connecting with the electronic world. I don’t notice that people have an authentic heartbeat.
People, I guess I find, aren’t real in the real world,
it’s all a persona and though people are talking constantly out there through that electronic screen, no one is saying anything. They are just filling time and deluding themselves that time is endless for them and they just get a set of new hearts when they refresh their game
and deep in such thoughts, irony! what’s worse it seems I keep hearing Link’s theme playing in my head
but for me, it is not at all what being alive is—I cannot giggle life off in empty performance and stare at a screen and make pretend as the real game —life— is meant to be engaged in but people don’t do that much so, I find I sit and often brood ….trying to find something constructive to fill the void that’s gone missing out there
“Duvan,” Josef has taken to calling me by Hanna’s version of her father’s name for me
and when he says it now it gives me such a start as I hadn’t seen him there
I look as he walks over to me,
“you have been angry at me,” he says and looks into my eyes with his deep Nordic blue that sees everything
“No he’s not thinking of just his one term—he’s building an empire,”
Jörn’s voice carries high up to the rafters of the barn house from below
but I stay back by the railings
the Swedish ‘UN’ (as I like to call them) are in privy council
as the American wife of my Interpol spy chief I can only reflect. And consider …. the chronicles of history and the ancient great minds of philosophers and political thinkers ….the mind reaches mostly in hope for the bestowing of some kind wisdom to be imparted ….chi-scry into the mental waters as I sit up against the corner walls by the hall where the edges meet
to come to the mountains again
now
seems to call upon some awareness to search a higher consciousness; inches from Montreal I feel the currency from every polar direction
and more…. the moon is reaching its fullness
the apocalyptic chasm within the human soul
is at war with the deception of a make believe world at the cost of everyone’s blood
Once more into the deep morass:
I remember Norma from the Jamaica life. She always wore white and it contrasted so well with her skin. I adored her as a child. She did not visit often, always showed up at my mother’s cocktail parties with her tall, lanky blond white husband. He was ….Ethan Rhys Jone’s secret serviceman; the one who hired the big thugs that always shadowed us.
She was ….the one who looked after me when we had the secret meetings with him. I’d go with my mother in the car, we’d drive over the causeway and the smell of the ocean as that view opened up and the wind blowing through the car windows. She loved to speed. Especially on our way there to meet him at his boat
“You will always be special to him,” Norma said leaning down to hug me when it came time to go. I hated leaving. I always felt safe with him
“Do you know why?” she asked me. Then she said, “because you are the only daughter! You’re his princess!—that makes you special to him, don’t ever forget it! But I’ll tell you a little secret—you are the most like him of all!”
