9 January 2019; touch on discussionof motif; a short from Electra’s dictionary; epiphanies

I meet Jörn before his performance

He paces the hallway and then motions for me to follow him. So I do

“Is this a coat closet?” I ask him

“Nobody’s using it right now,” he says but smiles like a vampire who’s hungry for blood, “don’t worry, I’m not going to ravish you here....”

only he does not keep that promise

So, Eliot was right, but it was a public rehearsal—which I have never seen before.... a somewhat informal performance and a bird’s eye view of professional musicians

and so then.... it occurs to me as I watch him from the balcony that.... I am ascending to hell but I am looking down from the balcony

If Nigel was Beatrice then Jörn is Virgil; my guide through Hell

7 January 2019; Electra’s dictionary; sketching out the concepts to explain the indie project

It is such a surprise when someone from my staff tells me that Eliot is at the door

I’d gone out walking earlier and then it became so cold out that I turned and came home intending to write but then Eliot drops by unexpected

I’ve not heard from him in months.... not since Nigel and I....

He walks in as if he was only here yesterday and kisses me hello

“So, have you been avoiding me?” he asks

He sits down without waiting for an invitation and when Iyla comes over asking if we want coffee, Eliot says,
“Yes.”

Should I still be surprised at his presumptuous actions?

I don’t sit. I go over to the window and look out

“Don’t worry, I’m not a spy for Nigel,” he says

I don’t believe him though

“So.... what brings you here?”

“Well, I was wondering if you had been giving any thought lately about the film....“

I study him

I have such a hard time taking him seriously. The fact is: I don’t actually like his style of film making. It actually irritates me.... so, how do I tell him ‘no thank you’ ?

At this Jörn calls me .... I recognize his ring so I go over to my bag that is laying by the sofa.

“Jörn?” I answer the call

“Come meet me here....” he says in that voice

“You mean at Lincoln Center?”

I hear him laugh,
“no, I mean the Taj Mahal—where else, min lilla duva?”

“What time?” I ask and feel Eliot watching me. I turn my back

“I’ll give you time to get ready and send a car for you around seven, how is that?”

After I hang up with him I look at Eliot as Iyla brings the coffee

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask him now because I find myself a bit thrown off. It seems to be Jörn’s way with me, I seem to forget whatever I am doing

Eliot stares at me and it starts to make me uncomfortable

“Who was that?” Eliot asks me, “I know it wasn’t Chris—because you never look like that when.... wait—it’s the bloke from the lobby, isn’t it?”

“‘Bloke’?” I ask

“The big Swede from that day....”

“Why would you say that?” I ask him

Eliot just watches me,
“it was that look you had that day.... it was something—weird about that—and you have the same look now.”

“What look?”

He shrugs,
“like .... you just saw a ghost —rather sort of spooky—he’s kind of —not quite.... there was something berserker about him; sort of daft—it’s him isn’t it? Are you seeing your neighbor now? Isn’t that like incest? Or fraternization?”

“What?!” ....because I don’t know what else to say.... it’s not his business! And I do not need him to go tell Nigel....

“No! Don’t tell me, you are!” he starts laughing, “it’s written all over you....”

“What is? What are you even talking about?”

I drink coffee and don’t bother answering him in any more detail

“So why are you going to Lincoln Center?” he asks me

I shrug,
“oh just to go to a concert.”

“Since when are you into chamber music?”

“You didn’t think I liked classical music?” I ask

“Well, to actually go to a concert—but I am pretty sure there’re not doing one —aren’t they in rehearsals?”

“How would you know that?” I ask him

“I actually overheard a conversation on the way over on the train —what is it, Scheherazade?”

Eliot is an actor. I often forget this. Not really a good actor. So, why does he always fool me?

I start to think now about what this is about so finally I say,
“you saw me with him, didn’t you?” because I remember one day I thought I saw Eliot across the street when Jørn and I were leaving the building together but then I forgot all about it

“Well—yes....”

“It was that day—“ and remember it now as the evening of the first concert with him. So I look directly at him, “did Nigel put you up to this?”

“You did block him on your phone....” is all Eliot says to that with a shrug

I feel angry

I try not to say something. I tell myself that nothing I say will be good and the consequences even less good. I just breath hard because I feel like a dragon ready to spit fire at him

Finally I think of something to say,
“Are you spying for him now? Is this about your silly little film or about Nigel?”

“I was here for selfish reasons actually—was hoping you were not actually shagging the Swede so that I might have another go with you!” and he actually laughs

Why do I keep him around? I always thought he was comic relief but right now it feels more like he’s inspiration for target practice

“Look, I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” he stands up, “do you want me to go?”

“I don’t know....” I say and sigh sadly shaking my head, “because I don’t really know what to make of you and I never have. I am so used to people leeching on me that I don’t even notice it happening ....you want something.... of course you do; everybody always wants something from me.... it’s plain; obvious, I mean, isn’t that what was always behind your interest in me?”

“Probably—at first; but I always thought you were cute,” he shrugs, “and I’ve never had an original idea in my life so I thought I could use your ....story because—of our family connection....”

I sigh heavily. No, this does not surprise me.... I finish the coffee,
“I need to get ready so, why don’t you go now? Not to be rude —but I will say this: I will think about the film idea but only because you’ve admitted you don’t have the ability of an original thought—because maybe you can leave the thinking to me. Only the real problem is, I don’t know if I can trust you so— I need to think and —right now get ready for the symphony, all right?”

Electra’s dictionary & film noir; Notes to a stranger

2 January 2019 Electra's dictionary and film noir

There is a sense when you walk into Jörn’s place; a sense of walking into a cocoon as if descending beneath the earth

Even though there are windows. As if it is an alternate underworld with its own atmosphere

“Oh the quiet?” Jörn smiles looking up from making coffee using a French press, “I had all the walls soundproof insulated because of my playing...,” he shrugs casually and pours us coffee in the open plan kitchen. Everything is white, immaculate or of a natural, pale wood tone, “I did it when I first got the place.”

“Really?—so you can play as loud as you want all hours of the night if you feel like it?”

“Yes. And do. That is why I did that. Sometimes in the middle of the night.... when I cannot sleep....” he shrugs, “I always have been this way. I did it last night when you were asleep, did you hear?”

I think as he watches me.... but it was a dream.... I thought

“It was one the things my wife could not stand about me,” he smiles like a lecherous vampire; the kind that wraps you in and keeps you willingly there.

“Wait....” I say, “I heard you at the piano....? Or was that part of....” but then I remember my dream suddenly.... because it was so strange. I remember music.

.... I remember it was like some Bela Lugosi scene only —it was some place outside ....with the moon. It was such a strange dream. Yes, it was an early or ....late sky; a pale light ....outside—somewhere....cold with snow and something else that was odd. A fire pit of some kind. Like a kind of forge. And everything was gray. The sky and the frozen ground.... all the same

This makes me shudder now

He’s watching me in a strange way. He turns his head to look down at me and studies me, his head to one side,

“does my playing disturb your sleep?” 

His question baffles me. I almost don’t comprehend his words. It seems almost like another language. And it is as if instead I heard him say something else —that makes no sense.... I try almost to hear —that instead.... he hands me coffee

And as I take the coffee....I know. It feels....like a flashback —I take it from him.... and our hands briefly touch.... yes it feels— like we have done this so many times before

The fire pit....

I look up at him now and remember the question,

“no.... it does not disturb....” I say this even as a warm shudder rushes through me

I think too of last night with him.... and how sometimes in sleep....we join.... it happens in sleep....it’s happened before—and it seems to mix with dreams. And scenes of memories like a movie I don’t know why I see. But he feels, every time, more and more ....like part of ....my self; part of a subconsciousness; shared....

Does his playing disturb....?

Yes, I remember him getting up in the night and watching his shadows on the wall. As if I expected him to....

“Your face reminds me of those Russian princesses,” he says this thoughtfully and walks over, “you have those cheekbones....” he rubs his thumbs across this part of my face and then holds my face in his hands, “you have such a different kind of beauty,” he stares at me; whispers, “and such juxtaposition....your eyes are dark mahogany flames but your skin is like snow. You look like your father, I see that as ....I’ve been looking things up about him....”

I know he is also bemused by something as well as I am about him.

“What did you mean the other day when you told me that I looked familiar to you when you first saw me?”

He tries to find words. I watch him draw his brows together and he begins to smile but it’s an awkward smile, he shrugs,

“like from a dream. Or a story.... that feels more like an old memory—blurry but real....and it is only real because of the strange emotions—emotions....? Is that what I mean....?” he looks into my eyes again and still holds my face in his hands and shakes his head,”I knew what your voice would sound like before you even spoke— at first I was going to ignore how curious it made me—but then I saw you again and.... this time your eyes briefly met me—“

I suddenly remember this now. It was a day with Nigel.... the day with Eliot.... I only saw Jörn in passing as we were in the lobby and he stepped out of the elevator. He seemed to be laughing to himself as he looked over at us and I remember feeling almost insulted by his expression of superior disdain and wondering what it meant. And why it bothered me

We both are at that moment together right now as we both think of this day in the lobby

I remember how my heart jolted when I saw him—and it was irrational to me ....I remember thinking. And strange too I was attracted to his insulting grin as he stared at me with those pirate’s undead eyes that burned like sparks of lightning.

He says now to me,

“I was reading the part again in your blog—the entry about when you had been approached by an investigator back in The Hague—and something about that really sticks out in my mind....”

“Why?” I ask why ....but I am really wondering how far back he has read. So many of my entries are meant to just analyze through streams of consciousness; so I find myself quite disconcerted

“Because —you said you had something happen to you.... some mystery about how your arm became suddenly paralyzed....?”

It is how he says this that makes me shudder now but I nod.

“Your legal father—“ but he stops himself when he sees me shudder again. He is analyzing my expression far closer than makes me feel comfortable. Instead he says, “he traveled for his business— did you say that one day he left suddenly on a mysterious business trip after —“

I interrupt him,

“the blood test —yes. I know what you’re thinking....”

Jörn sighs,

“your father’s business had to have been a cover operative and things don’t make sense about what happened after your return to the US. Why your assault was never reported and you were never taken to see a doctor....”

I pull away, I go to sit at the table and set down the coffee cup.

I don’t like these things about my past. I hate remembering them. I cover my face inside my hands. Close my eyes.

At first I feel him just watch me for awhile. After a couple of minutes he sits down too across from me at the table

“So you think you are piecing together clues,” I say now. “What is that about? Do you think there’s an old Cold War political plot?” I force a laugh

“No, min lilla duva, I think that your legal father was trying to have you murdered— what was the cause of the paralysis? Did they ever discover the reason? Some kind of virus was it? But then the doctor discovered you had a spinal injury from childhood....”

“Jörn—even if there is some kind of mystery there, do you really think it has any baring on the present?” I ask

“You say you are interested in learning about the purpose of each of our lives; existentialism; purpose and Truth; what your project you say is all about,” he continues holding me caught in his accuracy, “your blog ....you as you write you are delving through and searching for purposes of ones meaning or the significance of an individual’s individual identity.... why these differences in all of us have purpose—isn’t that what you said the other night?”

....the champagne on New Years.... I forgot about this conversation—evidently I became philosophical about myself and isn’t that always awkward the next day?

“The only way to look at truth, my tragic Electra, is by acknowledging the whole truth about who you are—do you understand the necessity of acknowledgement? Otherwise you are not really wholly conscious, are you? So how can any personal discovery hold merit as a Truth?”

“Ok—yes,” I hear his words but he misses something else, “how do I do that now when these crimes are too late to be put to justice—for this purpose of acknowledgment??”

“But is that not the whole purpose of your ‘dictionary’—defining, you are defining, yes? That is your proof that you search for. The one that gives you permission. You are caught in your own shackles and will run out of air unless you give the mermaid back her voice.”

“Only there is no way I can tell my story..... not here. Not in this country. You understand that don’t you? I mean why.... why I still have to keep my real identity secret.”

He does not respond right away but seems instead to search my face before he says,

“you are an artist haunted by a past and the only way to be released is through your work expression. Your work is necessary not for commercial success so much as the need to express this as an artist’s right for existence. The irony of notoriety and the need to be recognized....” he chuckles like it is a personal inside joke. He shrugs, “you need to get this out.....maybe you should do it in Stockholm....” then says in his language, as if only for himself:

“gör en svensk film. Det skulle vara en psykologisk thriller. Kallar det en modern Electra. Vad sägs om en ordlista på svenska? Kalla det konst.”

Only I don’t know what he is saying only that I sense ....as I always have: language is a good place to hide

a dictionary

4 January 2019 Dear Me, notes to a stranger

When I open my mouth to speak no sound is heard

People say ‘you can never really run away...’ or ‘you can never go home again...’

Maybe this is why I am lost

I search for identity. I search for myself .... only I am not really looking for myself

not exactly

It is meaning I search for. As in....regards to purpose. As in the individual’s purpose. So in searching for ‘myself’ it is more that I am searching for a personal brand of purpose as relevant meaning ....for some greater whole; universe.

Does that mean I am some kind of zealot? That I am deluded in thinking that there is any purpose for our universe? Any purpose to our universe?

The universal consciousness....  well, I don’t really care if anyone considers me deluded this way. For me, it is more necessary to search for this Essential Truth

Whether I make sense to anyone.... I have only become tired of searching for proof

Because I cannot quit myself, can I? I cannot escape my own thoughts. I have done exercises where I change my way of thinking or changed my narrow opinions of some matters I fall into being blind about as I know I am not perfect.... I do know that—but after sifting through the debris of my mind over years of discussion with all walks of life, studies through research and my own travels which this last few years I have done a lot of

....well, I have found that one cannot escape oneself nor one’s essential truths

They just haunt you

And chase you down..... to be true to the Self is .... the actual teacher. It is so easy to believe that the Self are the negative criticisms you find yourself guilty of

I call my alter ego Electra

Because at the center of my madness

....yes my madness..... because I realize that this chaos I live within is a kind of madness

I cannot live without my madness.... you see, the center is my father’s rejection of me from my earliest life memory. It devastated me as a child

It influenced my understanding of my own importance to the opposite gender. It was like having been told my own gender was not acceptably up to my father’s standards.... it’s an innate sense all the way inside of my own personal self value. I did not adequately measure up to my father, in my mind and so I felt emasculated of my feminine gender

and to compound this was the Oedipal secret that I am unable to speak of

Except here

through suggestion. The riddles. The themes. The themes.... which are the hints of codes to follow

It is a dictionary I write. A dictionary that lists my versions of meanings of words. My invented codes that let me hide my clues kept only for me.

Or the very very clever

I dare you

It is such a heavy .....shame—so Electra bears it

As I run away from Chris, my estranged husband to people that reflect with fun house mirrors warped reflections back to me

“Mirrors should reflect before throwing back images,” Cocteau said, and forgive me for loosely quoting him this way.... he also said, “there is nothing worse to a poet to be admired through being misunderstood....” his tragedy of a poet

I did not feel seen by Chris. I felt invisible to him. I don’t know why unless it was that I felt he did not hear ....what my heart was asking him for

It was to be acknowledged and to have this reinforced by expressing to me his acceptance —for all that I am.

To heal the rejection

It was wrong to need this from him. I suppose. But it was what I needed

You cannot run away from your essential self. This I have found. Even if I have tried the Pavlov conditioning to convince myself that my sense of gender is good enough for the opposite gender for which I long for.... I will never believe it

Electra’s dictionary is code for Oedipal’s dictionary, as in accordance with Heraclitus

When I look up at Jörn I see he has been reading this.....

He says,

“Your voice is lost here.... but maybe it’s the language.”

Existentialism and tragedy in modern day Acts; Electra’s dictionary

“I don’t ever like New Year’s,” I tell Jörn now, because I’m nervous about the staff’s party “I never like to go out for it....so I never do— everyone is always drunk....”

“Well, now you don’t have to go out,” he says

“Very funny!” I laugh at him, because he’s making fun of me—“yes, because it’s right here.... but now everyone will be drunk in my place and I won’t be able to escape them!”


“So maybe we can escape before midnight, min lilla duva, and we go to my place and let the staff take care of it. It was for them, they wanted it....”

“And now they’ve invited people from The Met! What the fuck? So, don’t let this go to your head but I’m actually glad you’re ....here....”

“You mean your pirate to make your escape?”

“No, because you do this kind of thing all the time—you’re used to being with this kind of crowd....you know, the Philharmonic, Lincoln Center type people ....”

He is standing before the mirror putting on a tie, and while he’s listening to me he is also also, I notice with amusement, admiring himself.... he can be a bit vain .... (he looks good in a tie, especially Nordic blue ones)

“I don’t notice those people. I mostly ignore everyone,” he reaches for his jacket and puts it on. He had a performance tonight and the party has begun without us

“But aren’t you the host?” Jörn asks me

“No, I don’t think anyone thinks that.... I’m like the custodian—right?”

“When are you changing?” he asks me with an odd impatience as his vampire eyes sweep me

“Changing?” I look at my reflection ....

“You can’t wear jeans, min lilla duva....”

(How does he know?)(is there a rule book?)

“Oh.... am I wearing jeans?” because I am not in the mood to care. “Hmmm.... well, they’re here so it’s too late,” and I start to go

“No, no— you aren’t going to face the Metropolitan museum in jeans on New Year’s Eve,” he pulls me back easily by my arm and drags me to the closet; rifles through saying, “take those off!”

So he pulls out the black one. It’s still his favorite. But slowly he he removes everything else I had on under what I wore. We hear the clatter of dishes in the next room. He takes everything off and slips the black dress over my head,
“simplify things for later—at midnight ....”

He says,
“sit down, where’s your make up?”

He picks dark red lipstick but keeps my face pale.

He says,
“I suggest one glass of champagne downed immediately and the rest will go fine....min lilla duva.”

We walk in together and everybody looks at us.... and start taking pictures and he hands me champagne

The staff have evidently taken over
—everywhere —because the furniture has been all rearranged so I trip over unexpected furniture as I meet someone from the New York Times. And festive decorations hang everywhere like an explosion of Gatsby glitter —but instead it’s 2019

30 December 2018; Scandinavian Noir

Jörn goes for a run every morning when it is still dark out —I don’t understand why he would go out in the dark, but he says it is the best time to go—because the streets are quiet....which I do understand as I like going on trail hikes for the same reason. Still a wet and dark chilly run in the morning.... bears some insight into this musician’s extreme measures of discipline


“I have to ask you about something....” he says last night to me.... after

(....he seems insatiable, and when I tell him that but he claims it’s my fault) 

“you write about knowing me before....”

I feel my face burn but look at Jörn,
“yes, it must seem strange to you that I should write about this—is that what you think?” I look up at him but it is hard to see his features in the dark

I watch and see how he is lost in thought a moment and .... how he is self distracted ....in his thoughts. I need to see his face then— because we are in the dark so I sit up and move into his lap —I look at his face 

and he studies me now,
“I got the strangest feeling the first time I saw you—I thought maybe I had seen you in a magazine or— I don’t exactly know what I’m trying to say but.... it is such a strange feeling that you remind me of someone.... that I can’t remember or almost—but it was even before that. When I saw you in passing that made me wonder about who you were....”

to say that he trespasses when he looks into my eyes.... more than anyone ever has .... well

So I think about what Gerald said to me on the phone as Jörn suddenly now asks me about the staff, seemingly to change the subject

“Oh, they want to be more functional—actually they came up with an interesting idea,” I start to say now as I look at him

I forget what I’m about to say. Instead I just look at him.

“What?” he asks and his eyes meet me

I am still at a loss.... the strange light from outside the windows that play on his face, I get distracted looking at him, you see.... the strange plains of his face that are so ....distinctive that I feel something trigger inside— again I think about what Gerald said about ‘unfinished business’

I say,
“Ohhhh, the staff— they are part of the stipulation of inheriting the property. They were worried I was going to fire them but I can’t really, my lawyers explained it to me....”

I realize my words come out vague

“....so....?” he waits for me to continue and seems curious

“They want to open it to the public and also have a Christmas party.... so we have chosen New Years..... I think I told you?”

He smiles down at me and stares into me
“.... you might have....not about opening it to the public I don’t think....”

“Ohhh—well, you know, he was famous.... they think people would like to see some old photographs and some famous documents that once changed history,” I shrug as I say this and look towards the window and the night’s skyline

“The way it was explained to me by my inheritance lawyers Johnny and his wife Joanie— the penthouse is treated like an estate. Some peculiar New York law that most people would never have heard of but it dates back to the turn of the last century as the penthouse is part of a greater property that has remained in the family since that time.”

So as I pause in thought now, I think about how below that window I look at, there is the city’s ever-present, segmented snake of cars 

that... as night descends the eyes of the serpent awaken

“The father you did not know,” he states this thoughtfully

“Not per se.... but his presence loomed heavy in the background all my life—I imagine much like your own father.”

“My father?” he smiles and looks at me oddly as if trying to imagine something. 

“Well, you mentioned that it was expected you would go into the family profession so— I thought your father must have had a very strong looming presence for you growing up....”

He does not answer that. He just stares at me silently a moment. After awhile he says instead,

“does it bother you when I speak of my son and my....daughter?”

“No, why should it?”

“I just thought it might seem in bad taste to you,” he shrugs

“Bad taste? Because you’re married still? But so am I.”

“No, it’s not that I mean because I know how you feel about.... your own daughter....”

“Oh....” So, I freeze

“When you write it helps you .... it is like a kind of hypnosis that you may not realize— unravels your subconscious....but I have begun to notice that it is not just a drama you are writing about your life — it’s a mystery. You don’t realize this, perhaps? I have started to realize you are trying to unlock a hidden crime that maybe you yourself are not even aware of but I have begun to piece together the clues....”

a ghost of Xmas present; Jörn

A few moments this Christmas evening to write (Jörn is practicing the next symphony in the dining room; we are at his place and it inspires me to write)

These things about him I think about and.... they fill my mind. Like a flood.

I think about how it is to go to Lincoln Center and ....how I like to watch him from the balcony.... to watch his face.... as he becomes immersed one with himself into his instrument.... like an intimate love scene.... the strange expressions that cross the severity of cheekbone ....somewhere here is the part of the Transylvania vampire .... but then he element of rogue in the deeply brooding, pale Nordic brow like that of a dormant warrior caged in the 21st century

His music moves me

I fear he has planned it this way—I am put at a disadvantage by being sat among a crowd to play voyeur like an orgy of spies

It disturbs me how beautiful I find him because he disturbs me deeply
Tonight at his place (his son has gone out)

Jörn says,
“come here....” his long legs are stretched out long across the length of the white leather couch and —it is the subtle smile that just touches his lips

Since it has only been a month since we have known each other, we did not get ridiculous about the holidays.... without planning to, it seems we’ve chosen to spend it with each other
When I come to him he opens long arms

.... and for all his vampire coolness, Jörn can be so warm .... at least to me... as I am starting to see that he is much different to everyone else.... like I am starting to understand that nobody else sees this side that he shows me....

And his passion.... which is to me as unexpected as I.... can feel the soul inside the vampire

How is it possible for only one month of knowing him to feel what I feel? .... like his skin; the texture of it ....everywhere on him. Across his shoulders

He says to me,
“kiss me and stop writing and put down your phone.”

So I crawl up his body and straddle him and do what he says

17 December 2018; Electra’s dictionary; the vampire chronicles of Jörn

We leave the Met heading back to the apartment building —as: soon he has to meet with the Orchestra for tonight’s performance of Handel’s Messiah

He holds my hand as we walk; automatically going to the outside of me.... his unconscious primal instincts

Everywhere we go his hands absently reach to touch me ....

Jörn says,

“you’ve been living Upstate and —before that Michigan and Oregon?—you should know I have been stalking you—“ his eyes look at me and tease me; he laughs, “I mean on Instagram—you take a lot of pictures hiking—But now you are here? Because of what? You just found out your father had a secret inheritance for you?“

“Is that what the doormen told you? Do they stand around gossiping all day?” this just pops out of my mouth—maybe quick defense. But I’m not really miffed. Just always surprised to be such a subject of talk.

I have always had people talking about me, I don’t quite know why they care....

He shrugs as if to say I’m right.

“Gosh,” I say, “they’re worse then a sewing circle,” and look up at him

But then, eloquently with no words, he says with just another move of his shoulder, ‘so, is it true?’ only now adding with raised blonde eye brows. His face is so expressive, especially his eyes. I’ve never seen such fiercely piercing stormblue eyes .... with lascivious dazzle

I say,
“well.... it was supposed to go to the media circus but I got lucky as some other story was going on and ....”

“I bet. The media circus,” he laughs. “Although,” he is thinking....”in his lifetime ....who you are could have—“

“Could have caused a lot of commotion....”

His eyes meet mine as he begins to understand. He is putting together my portrait in his mind. Why I was a secret. What impact did my natural father have on society?

“You were their love child?” he asks now

“Yes.”

“But you were smuggled into the family of your mother’s husband. The one who was your legal father. And he hated you,” he continues, “and he would beat you....and call you—you wrote:  ‘bastard-nigger-baby.”

I shudder in the wind and look away

....It is all so outside his own society I realize.

And the times have changed fast these last decades —people don’t worry about the same things they used to.

But they did then

We walk on and he says,

“So you are here now; you have come back after many years. But you’re not really from here—New York City—I don’t see you as a city person, or I should say a ‘New York City person’ —maybe Amsterdam, yes.... I think you prefer nature.... don’t you?”

He is right,
“Yes, what about you?”

“I like both. Cities and countryside. But you don’t know the city, do you? you seem lost and terrified of it,” he says this with a teasing laugh at me and looks with his Vampire eyes that X-ray through me

I laugh,
“it’s all the people.... I’m pretty shy... actually.... Plus they are so gruff and confrontational that I feel like I have a negative run-in experience as soon as I step out the door.... I don’t really belong anywhere.... you know—I’m like a Jonathan Swift and a Candide in one.... I’ve accepted that I am just a misfit. Total outcast.”

He laughs,
“you’re too beautiful to be a misfit.”

“That’s what you may think.... only it’s true. You should know now before you get in any deeper.”

“What should I know?” and here he pushes me up against the side of a building and waits for me to say as he smiles at me

I falter at first—he is so physical ....so beautiful. He has pale brows and lashes. They make his eyes look so dark. His strange Nordic features set me in wonder, even his nose which is so sharp with nostrils flared.... I go to kiss his mouth and then I pull back embarrassed, “I am a total nightmare of an oddball....”

“No,” he says because I pull away and ....ignoring anyone walking past us, he pulls me back to him and kisses me as if we are back in his bedroom; it makes me think of him on stage; how he throws himself into his music, exposing his emotions with complete physical immersion .... he seems to block everything out but the moment
“you’re an oddball....?” he asks; his eyes seem to dance brightly like faceted sapphires, “so is that what it is about you....if this is what is a misfit looks like, then I guess I like that you are a misfit,” then holds my face in the palms of his hands. I am aware of how small I am next to him and I fear how ridiculous it may seem—not to people in general, just to him

his long musician’s hands have such a power to disturb me intimately. But it is not just his hands. He makes me behave so .... badly. He distracts me. All I seem capable of when he’s near me is wanting him

I think it is this way for him too .... he’s always touching me  .... absently. In public too. Just fleeting touches his hand flat against my belly

Like when we may be out standing for a moment by a store window or at a place to pay. He will put his arm around me and discreetly lay a hand pressed below my navel, then breath into my neck and cup my sex where my thigh begins
—what is more perturbing are the moments when some part of my mind feels a sense of indignation but then.... I forget and then I don’t care.... there is such an overwhelming power to him; especially his hands

“Do you really think I am bored with life?” he looks down at me

His direct non-sequitur takes my brain awhile to decode


“Yes. I do....” I whisper against his lips..... “and I think this is why you are drawn to me. Because I am nothing like anything you have ever known.”


He asks,
“would you like to come along with me when I go in to.... do my work?— or have I already bored you with my music?”

“You mean —to go with you?—again ....for the Messiah concert?”

He shrugs awkwardly,
“you don’t have to.”

It is this shrug this time that melts my heart

I mean.... his eyes....

he is a luscious demon with those eyes; they penetrate; they fuck me; his eyes fuck me....

instead of answering him, I pull him to me by the back of his head as he wears it long and tied back; I put my mouth on his and put my fingers into his hair, pulling it loose to touch it