26 January 2019; dreams everlasting

 ....  he always showers after a run. He is like me this way; the neurotic hygiene obsession— in this way we are the same as it is an intimate quirk of mine or it’s not ever going to happen; to let someone that close, skin to skin....  for all his earthiness.... he is always clean.... everywhere.... and smells so good; and he says,

“I won’t be long, min lilla duva....”

I watch him walk towards the bathroom as he strips off his clothes; he peels off the long sleeves of the black Henley that still clings to his back muscles that flex with every movement he does....

the sinewy of his back and arms hypnotize me

It is when I fall asleep waiting for him

 a pathway has opened up. A passage through

This time I don’t run away,

I don’t run away anymore.... and only now I realize it has always been here where I seem to always be running back to

always running back to him....

 in those shadowy unnameable dreams.

And only now do I know.... this is what I have been hiding from. Deep within my consciousness, this person’s memories, this ancient pain that can haunt a soul. Part of a repeated theme and pattern

.... the heavy sorrow

and the dream of the pirate on the boat.

The frozen land and that unreasonable fear of the Nordic sea. And only now do i know that I have been visiting him all these years

he has been there, somewhere buried in my mind.  Haunting in my dreams.... and pulling me back to him; like the mermaid on the rock who traded her voice and dug out her guts

....I waited for him, and fell asleep

I dreamed of the enclosed hut with the fire pit, now cold and dark; I dreamed of the animal hides stacked on the floor; his familiar scent captured in the warmth of the furs that I bury my face into and watch the white of them turn blood red as I become colder and colder.... and recall that I feel such agony of longing and such sadness knowing that I am leaving him.... the pirate from the boat with the vampire eyes; how I love those eyes, with their ferocious beauty, like storms across the frozen Nordic sea

and slip into horrors, I am gone through the passage....

Time shifts; it overlaps. And runs in parallels as it rewinds and replays and plays its haunting symphony from out of time because time is not real; what ever was always is, it says in dreams. The pain never goes away, it never leaves; its memory indelible on the spine; it hits, it beats, it whips, it cuts, it tears into my flesh; it gapes apart these open wounds. There is no safety. No safety from the pain. As flesh tears away, as flesh is torn apart, as beauty is destroyed.... knowing I am leaving him as in slow measures blades carelessly carve, irrelevant of the girl’s torture as it licks into flesh; whip or bow or blade, the blood lets cascade in the laughing teeth as another takes a life cheaply. Sharply, deeply, through a passage, and through a glass starkly; the mortal blow is cast upon some cavity of an unborn child womb cocoon and doom is cast too long to last

The sadness of his vampire eyes the last time he looked....

I wake up screaming, still feeling the blade and the dead born in a flood

This time it was too real

“Wake up! Min lilla duva.... just a dream.... it’s just a dream! Wake up, min lilla duva!”

The strangeness of seeing him takes awhile to understand. He leans over me with dripping hair. It rains on me as he shakes me awake, falling in long blond streams around his face as he shakes me. It is a while before I stop confusing him with the dream, awhile before I realize she is not me. That girl is not me. She is not me. Is she....? Why should I ....?

Still

It is only because I wish never to go back to that place; not to that moment .... not want to see the disappointment there in the horror of his undead eyes that rain

I close my eyes and wrap around his neck, put my face into the pulse and tell myself: this is real.... he is real. I am here, this is now. But I am .... not sure I can believe it; I need to know

“I heard you screaming—“ he starts to say but then I am kissing his mouth, kissing him hard and throwing him back against the bed but he pulls his mouth from me and turns me over him as he moves over me to look into my face, he presses me into the bed looking wildly into my eyes, and says in a whisper in my ear, “you were having the dream.... I thought someone was here! you sounded like someone was murdering you—min Gud, shit! Was it so real?”

But I don’t want to go back there.

Instead of answering him I reach for him and pull him down to kiss him and he relents when I wrap my legs around his hips and cling to him as he says, “slow your breathing.... breath slower,” and says, “sshhhh....here, let me get dry, I’m soaking you, I just ran out when I heard you screaming....”

“Please no, Jörn....”

“Ok,” he says and laughs when I move my mouth down his wet body as I touch him with my hands to smell and taste him and put my mouth on him for the need of something real and of the flesh .... and this overwhelms everything along with the wanting that always comes as soon as he is near. The need to have him becomes everything; a kind of painful throbbing that is so urgent like some savage, desperate confirmation of life. He smells like pine and I put my mouth on him and feel his fingers in my hair as he cups my skull to him, “det är för mycket,” he says and stops me, pushing me back against the pillow on the side where he sleeps, pushes me hard into the sheets as he moves over me and deeply into me and it is only the brutality of his motions that takes away the nightmare

notes to a celf in a dictionary; Thoughts of the legend & the loss of all

What do you do when you have lost everything....?  Do I mean the homeless person who walks the streets daily because there is no where to go? do you feel for this person and can you put yourself in this person’s skin?

there is a terrible isolation to be deplete

I will not put my meaning clear; I will speak in symbols. because it is all I am able to say. but I speak of society and not really in the political sense. no. I mean it in the actual sense.

where do you go to find understanding and compassion, when there is no one who can relate, when you find yourself flung on the street and there is only street and black ahead?

Let’s think about our sad Viking with the vampire eyes because it is easier to talk of him. Let us consider a warrior who is used to cold and violence and has lived by the seat of his pants without ever stopping to feel. Because if you stop to feel.... you will crumble down. What he might have seen before he found his Siberian princess with the mahogany eyes, no doubt something turns you this way.

To consider this one aspect to know a moment’s joy from a bleak horizon —now the dead girl is left in her pirate’s arms.

If he was too late then the heavy loss would burn his soul alive .... how did he get through another day?

who would understand the loss of all and where do you find such society? The awkwardness of shame keep people away and make friends into spiteful fiends as they look for excuses to avoid you

what society is there when dragged out from Hell and you are left with your guts ripped out

the Vampire Waltz; Piano Noir

I watch Jörn after we leave Gerald’s. While we walk together and in pace, it seems he is a million miles away or lifetimes..... he is silent all the way back to our building

I know he is disturbed and hardly looks at me. I would almost think he could not stand the sight of me if it were not for the way he suddenly grips my hand when I stumble and how he reaches to wrap me in his arms, within his long, wool coat when we wait to cross the street and watch the street light and the crowds.

I see his troubled creases between his pale brows reflected back from store windows.

There are moments when I physically hurt from some inexplicable pain within my heart. It makes my lungs hurt. Like a smothered scream

I don’t know what this is but he is right. About the emotions. It is too real to be able to ignore.... but it is madness

madness to think .... how our dreams link up

it is terrible too.... terrible because this is not like some movie or romantic novel. This is too real to dismiss

I realize the pain is .... coming from a life once experienced .... by someone— or someones

and for them this was a great tragedy. This makes me sad. So sad. So sad to know that such a great passion was .... snuffed out .... before it was ready to let go

the girl who could not leave her lover’s dwelling and held on to life, for once more to glimpse at him.... for the smeden who felt his love pass as he held her in his arms

I feel this when we are stopped in front of some store window. But we do not look at the objects in it; we hardly notice what we look at. I just see his image lit on the glass of the window. Despair—and I wonder at how troubled he looks there.

Back at Gerald’s when he spoke.... when he leaned into his arms as he sat there with his face in his hands.... I heard him weep; a stifled and muffled sound in his hands and constricted in his throat so as not to let us hear

He is mostly a rational man. While artistically creative as a musician, there is always a mathematical mind to a musician that holds firmly to structure and logic. But .... he is so deeply human. He hides this about himself but it is there always lurking in his music, in his love making....and in those vampire eyes

His vampire eyes.... those electric, undead pirate gems that sparkle like midnight frost

And still he grips my hand

and

even suddenly ....grips hold my skull stopping on a street corner and covers my mouth in a devouring kiss, mindless of the city rushing by.

And I forget too. I forget everything

When we return to our building he pulls me in the direction of his entrance and away from my penthouse side. He does not even look at the doorman. He doesn’t look at anyone just straight ahead. But when we go back to his place he says,

“I need to go for a run, min lilla duva,” and flings off his coat to quickly change

“Now?!?” I ask him as I stare at him, imploring him, feeling my emotions rise wildly

He kisses the top of my head like I am a child and mumbles something in his language but says to me,

“here, I’ll draw you a bath—and I will be back before the water is cooled, I promise, I just need to clear my head....”

He has his own mind, I will say about him, he decides and he is not one to relent and I watch him and follow him as he goes through to the en suit bathroom in his bedroom ....I listen as he starts the bath for me and sit on the edge of his bed

My mind is swimming in chaos

He puts on his running shoes and ties them sitting down on the armchair in his bedroom.... long arms and legs ....long fingers that tie decisively before he gets up to reach for a hoodie, zipping up and tying back his hair

I look up at him

“Jörn....?”

He looks at me

“I’ll be right back, I swear....” he stares into my eyes and forces a smile, “come—”  he pulls me to the bathroom, to the bath, “I’ll be back before you even get out....” he starts to take my clothes off me, each layer he peels away before I ever have a say

“....but I need to talk, Jörn.... you can’t just go!” I say and my eyes sting as my throat catches

“I’ll be right back....”

......

Awhile must have passed and it is when I am aware of music playing that I realize the water has cooled

Awhile

staring into the still, clear water

I hear a piano playing.... and realize where I am. Realize this is a sound proofed apartment....

I get out of the water and reach for what is handy. It turns out to be his black kimono from his transvestite night with me. I pull it on over damp skin and it hangs long past my knees when it was much more short on him, the sleeves fall long past my hands.

I walk towards the music as I tie the robe around my waist and follow the music .... it makes my heart pound

there is something about him that .... goes to my head

it goes to my heart.... he disturbs me deeply.... he does not even have to be in front of me, it can be the scent of him or his voice.... his passion

He plays a piece I recognize—it was something he played before. It.... was the piece he had been working on.... he said.... it has that strange Transylvanian feel; a haunting

I hear him step on the bar with his foot as he plays.... the madness of the way he pounds the keys make the music bounce from the walls

when I see him sitting there, his hair has come loose from the tie and tosses madly as he plays .... it is beautiful—his music is so beautiful

still in his running clothes; except for his feet which are bare. I like his feet.... they are like his hands; works of art; like every angle of every bone; like every feature of his face; especially the irregular ones.... especially

so I go to him because

....his music is beautiful

He stops playing and looks at me.... so I go over to him

.... I move between the piano and go in between his long legs and he sits back and lets me, opening his arms as I face him sitting on the bench with him, I wrap my legs around his hips and look up into the shadows of his vampire eyes

“I wrote that .... for you....I recorded it— I recorded overdubs with the cello and piano and double bass....for you, min lilla duva,” he turns his head to the side to stare into my eyes. He holds one entire side of my face in his one hand; forehead to chin and digs long fingers into my hair, “did you enjoy your bath?”

I smile at him

He says,

“was the water still warm?” and smiles back at me

“It was—” but I don’t get to finish as he starts kissing me, pulling my legs tighter around his hips and separating the opening of the kimono, he runs his hands up my arms and stands up with me wrapped around him and still kissing me, pressing himself —there— to me; he presses himself to me and holds me snug to him; pressing into my nexus

He says breathless into my ear,

“I want you to hear it....” he takes me with him to where he has his music recorded; he does this with no effort with me in his arms and he says, “min lilla duva.... you’re so thin, I could crush you....” and breathes into my hair; he whispers, “hold onto my neck....” he puts his music on and as it begins he brings me back with him to the piano and sits to play with the music

It is like being in his very own symphony

to know that he plays every single instrument I hear

it is like crawling into his very core ....to be that close

to someone .... mind and soul ....and body.... and body

I think about something Gerald said, how people “reincarnate in clusters....”

I squeeze my eyes shut because I don’t want to think about that ....

his music is so beautiful—so intense, so deep and passionate; yet so fierce

He stops playing and lets the recording take over as he stands with me again but detangles me from his hips,

“dance with me....” he says into my ear

“I don’t really know how to waltz,” I say to him as he slides me down the length of his body. The kimono falls open. I land upon his feet lightly as he guides me down. It is the gray shadows in the Nordic blue of his eyes that dance and draw me into their glimmering den.

He takes my right hand and draws it up with his, but he is such a long way up; he puts his other hand on my waist and stares into me.

He possesses with his eyes

and this is how we begin to waltz to his private orchestra

he conducts all; me and the music, all layered in webs of notes, and I, like a prow, am cast balanced on his feet

....it is his music, the abandonment of his notes that weave their magic; how forlornly they are strung together and ....hold me; the devastating remorse

and it makes me think of the smeden ....with the undead eyes staring at the empty body of his love in his arms.... it makes me think of mourning.... his grief.... I realize his music.... this is about grief

and so now I realize ....

He needs her forgiveness; it is his soul that does

.... and I wonder is it because he feels he let her down in the other life that in this one he needs to make it right? So.... does he need to do this to free his soul?

And as we waltz to the abandonment of his notes with his eyes looking into me, we seem to spin in slow motion, as though spiraling through walls that melt out of time....as though finding something so long lost and I think of a boat and of the chill water.... of the man on the boat with undead tragic eyes that mirror the dark and deep blue sea,

It makes me remember his eyes that first time he looked at me, how they seemed to burn like a brand to scorch my soul

“What happened to you at your college, min lilla duva? The attacker,” he says this now in a kind of lulling coax while still dancing

but I shake my head,

“no, not tonight....”

“I want to know .... I would like you to tell me why nobody did anything about what happened....”

I just say,

“you know why.”

the psychic visit continued of the JM muse ‘vampire’ chronicles

“I remember the fear the most and this is what lingers most of all from the dream,” I say

It seems everyone is silent now because to process all of this seems impossible

“My big question to you— well, it’s really to both you guys is.... “ Gerald sits yoga style in the arm chair as he speaks, leaning forward, “well let me just start by prefixing all that with this: something has reached its zenith in either one or both your lives which .... for what ever reason, all the energies are lined up— if you could picture an energy force like a football game where all the key team players are set up, so you see the goal is right there and now the shot comes.... well, Jörn , you asked before if I think these are past life memories so, I should answer your question....

“In all my experiences with people I have met where they believe this is true — certain things seem to always be the big tip off of if this is the case. Like in my case when I went to Thailand and met Haley— other people I have known all experience this typical aspect in the initial meeting. First it’s the eyes. The instant recognition. The other key factor is— not to sound sappy — there’s a kind of overwhelming sexual attraction. It’s not the kind where it’s like teenage hormonal infatuation — this is more like the covenant or worship that in this dimension can only be translated sexually but it’s being directed from —actually— the solar plexus. Which I consider the seat of the soul. The sexual energy that happens is just the expression that is best communicated through physical connection but it’s .... actually doing something more. You know about Plato’s description of the Higher Self? While the soul continues to exist after death and in between life, as we get born our minds in physical form cannot comprehend so many lifetimes. It would be too much. So there’s a part of us that holds all those memories of other lifetime’s of emotions and memories.... this super consciousness.... almost like the super ego in psychology.....how all that manifests itself is this sexual energy because the mind and body can understand it through this sexual level of consciousness.... have I lost you or am I sounding like a complete guru weirdo?”

I smile and look at Jörn. He seems tense I notice.... his brows drawn.

He seems uncomfortable and stretches but stands up. He walks to the window and looks down below at the street. From there we watch him as he leans on the window frame.

He turns from the window and walks over,
“if it were not for these crazy dreams I would think you were nuts right now but —“ he hits his chest hard, “but these emotions I get from the dreams— I watch her die and it’s .... terrible! It’s so real to me that it —it’s too hard to sleep after. I can’t sleep after. I have to get up and play my music for a few hours until I can stop thinking about it.”

“So— can you describe for us —or is it too much right now?”

“You mean tell you how she dies?” he glances at me when he says this

“Yes. What happens?” Gerald asks

Jörn sits down and leans over, he runs a hand through his hair and studies the rug under his feet. He sighs quietly and slowly breathes in. He says,
“I am returning from a boat and I start to run for— it’s like how she described— a kind of hut and I run there somehow knowing.... I dread as I run because— I feel it....” Jörn lays his hand flat on his heart

“When I get to the hut I see her.... “ his voice actually cracks as he says this. He stops talking and shakes his head looking down. He covers his eyes and face. After a long pause he says, “this reaction I feel inside myself.... it’s too real to be just a dream.... “

“So you watch her die?”

“Yes.”

“Is there blood?”

“Yes....” he sighs, “when I go to take her in my arms .... I feel her pass away because she waited for me to come, she knew I’d come.... but I was too late.”

Gerald looks at me,
“didn’t you tell me that you were assaulted when youwere 18?”

I nod.

“Do I remember this right— were you left for dead?”

I nod.

Part 1 the psychic visit of the JM muse chronicles

When we go to meet with Gerald we visit him at his apartment; a modest walk up by the Metropolitan Museum. He has a lot of earthy rugs everywhere and a lot of tones of orange and red and there are a variety of plants everywhere in gorgeous earthenware pots. I notice hand made pottery is also everywhere.

Gerald is what anyone would call a nerd and he often calls himself this too, so I am not insulting him by saying this. I am also one myself so I cannot judge against this in anyone. I knew him years ago during my bookstore days, those days when people met at Borders on a Saturday night for coffee and  to watch some grunge band that would be playing live at the cafe

Back in those days when I was knee deep in Virginia Woolf and Baudelaire he did the occult section and he was going for his doctors degree in religious studies and metaphysics. You would not think it to look at him; he goes to the gym and has neatly cut brown hair and wears square black framed glasses —the same kind as me actually. He wears a very ordinary dark blue knit pullover with Levis and thick brown socks. You would not think he was a New Age Medium.

So we take off our shoes and come in

He offers us herbal tea and after making quite a ceremony of preparing it in front of us, we are only too glad to agree. He asks us if we prefer music and samples a few as he invites us to sit down

The sofas are grouped in two areas and both spots have book cases filled with books with tables. He selects some background music and begins lighting candles

He does all this as if it is simple as going to have your taxes done —only no, but that’s not really all that simple then

But, anyway, in all this time Gerald is looking at the both of us and staring, at times, at Jörn .... he seems very focused as he studies both of us

“So tell me about these dreams....” Gerald says casually folding his arms and leaning back on the armchair he sits in

Jörn looks at me awkwardly and nervously pushes up the sleeves of his thick gray sweater

“I told him about your dreams,”  I say by way of explanation as I look at Jörn’s eyes as he now looks away


....and then he looks back at me. He keeps looking into me.... he stares into my eyes but says aloud to Gerald,

“the dreams began after the first time I saw her in the lobby—no! It was before that....” he mumbles under his breath in Swedish as he thinks; drops his eyes and turns to Gerald,”they started when I began reading her blog. I had not seen her yet —did she tell you? I kept getting her mail. The damn postal person kept fucking up and so— I got curious —I don’t know—and looked her up —so I found her blog. There was her picture at the profile part and that’s when I saw her. It’s an odd picture as she is obscured. Like one who is hiding .... like the shadow of her too on the blog page. But.... the dreams .... like when they first began they were first just these chilling shadows —“ he stops and shudders, then continues, “then I saw her in the lobby that day talking to these two irritating English guys and this time I could see her eyes clearly.... it was like seeing—a ghost or.... that night I have the dream again.... this time....I see her in the dark.... obscured. The first time. Just her eyes glowing....afraid.... but this time I see her eyes —wide and scared and then always someone comes and she screams....”

Gerald looks at me,
“Are you ok?”

I feel strange. I say,
“I didn’t know that.... he didn’t tell me this.”

Gerald takes a long sip from his cup,
“usually when I get a strong feel this way about a person it turns out that a very important turning point is in the process of occurring. Usually. But in this case we have three people with similar dreams. Did Dawn tell you that I had a dream about you and I called her out of the blue—we haven’t talked since—what? Five years?”

“At least,” I say

“We’ll text sometimes—but you know how it is, she was living in Michigan for like the last ten years and.... now she’s back and — I think there’s something significant about.... why all this —and the timing —or really more while for me it’s a strong hunch but that it feels like a memory to you guys ....”

“Is that what it is then?” Jörn asks with a self conscious shrug. “Are you suggesting we knew each other from a past life?”

“Before I answer that, tell me —where you are in your spiritual belief system? Are you religious?”

He smiles,
“I’m Swedish.... we are not big on religion and for the most part I agree with that .... but.... however—there are some things I feel that I suppose you would call spiritual speculations.... about things. I mean—you know what I mean, I think?”

16 January 2019.... hauntings of a pirate

I have always known something deep within myself. Always been aware of ..... looking for someone—it never has made any sense to me but the dream

.... you see the dream? Where I go through a pathway.... I have dreamed this dream all my life. The first time I saw him.... I knew

.... it’s been he who I’ve been searching for from my dream..... I knew he was here

and I knew why

the beautiful haunting of his vampire eyes....

12 January 2019 Film Noir; the beautiful haunting of his vampire eyes (edjmmusechron)

Last night in sleep I recall somehow in the experience ....the realization of ....the knowledge I have been re-living the same dream. Flashing images that unfold like scenes and plays like familiar, long distant landscapes that trigger thoughts, like memories that hurt. Sometimes different. Sometimes the same.

…. I see his face; long and sharp as he emerges to me from shadow …. a bearded blonde warrior who ….looks like Jörn. 

I see him in the shadows; I see his eyes. His eyes are Jörn’s .... the hair longer with part of it tied with a thong, pulled back from his forehead. His face obscured. Like the shadows on the wall. The hair is longer and there is a great scar that distorts —a slash over one cheekbone, and golden facial hair that covers his jaw and chin. I recall the shadows it creates on the wall that is shadowed on smoke. And the fire pit. I recall an orange glow of metal and animal hides.... the hands are the same, elegant and strong like a craftsman; like an artist

It seems I go often there…. where is there? to visit him in sleep lately; I seem to walk through a pathway to find him.... and a feeling of seeking.... shelter. Shelter among the heap of hides

Always it seems, I watch the glowing flames and watch as metal hits metal from long arms. I realize he is a smith; smeden....

It is when we are at the Strand bookstore, when I am fishing through Anaïs Nin diaries and flipping through the purple pages that I experience a chill that floods over me. It begins with the top of my scalp and goes down my neck through my arms and spine

Jörn is a few isles away looking at something else on a table and quickly I glance at him. I don’t know if it is the words on the page or the proximity of where and how he stands there but I feel suddenly feverish.

It is something in the description of her words, something in her pace and fluidity that melds with the memory of my dream. I don’t know why. I recall his body slick with sweat as he carries the weight of metal to hammer a flat, long blade; I recall a sense of irrational lust and the memory of detail of sinewy.... the smell of the hides and the ache to have him within my sex as I watch and as those pirates eyes turn from his work to watch me

“What is it?” Jörn causes me to flinch as he is suddenly next to me and he takes the book I hold in my hands and gestures with one shake of the head towards the place to pay, “let me buy this for you—Andreas is waiting outside, I just got a text.... come....” he pulls me along, slipping his long arm around me so that I am caught up to walk along side him

We are meeting his son for lunch as Andreas has decided to find me interesting and wants to know more about who my real father was

“So he was a political leader?” Andreas asks

“In a way,” because these questions make me uncomfortable but I like his son; he’s very sweet, very charming
“I saw his statue the other day,” he tells me

Jörn looks at me with one raised, blond eye brow to tell me he is impressed. He says to Andreas,
“what made you go to that part of the city?”

“I wanted to see the statue,” he grins boyishly.... I sometimes forget how young he is. Because he looks so much like his father I often believe he’s just as wise but it’s not true; Andreas is still rather impressionable

Jörn smiles at me, with a shrug,
“he finds his civil protests interesting ....”

I nod

“But he was tall?” Andreas asks me

I nod

“But you didn’t inherit that trait,” he laughs because he likes to make fun of the fact that I can wear his sister’s defunct opera coat which is actually big on me

“Obviously,” I concede with a smile and a shrug

Later as we walk behind Andreas, Jörn, who carries my purchased book in his other hand says,
“what was it in the book that gave you such a spook?”

“Oh, you mean back at the book store?” I see his nod as blue eyes piece through me, “oh— it wasn’t the book.... it was about my dream—this one it seems I keep having.”

I see his sharp look and he says,
“I’ve heard you mumbling in your sleep. You seem to repeat something that I cannot make out. But I —haven’t told you something; I was afraid you would think this too crazy but.... no first tell me about yours....”

I feel the familiar chill along with the cold sweat that seems to erupt from my hands and through out me; I look at his eyes. I stare ....in there

I say now as I stare,
“I think it’s a memory, Jörn.... I think somehow all this time that....”

I shake my head unable to allow myself to say what I’m feeling aloud

But I see he reads me as we walk and he pulls me along and looks ahead as we cross the street, Andreas ahead as he speaks on his phone to his latest female conquest

“When I get up in the night, min lilla duva, it’s because.... lately it is because I have such a terrible dream about you,” and now he shudders

It is awhile as we walk and he says nothing more so I finally have to ask,
“what is it about?”

He becomes noticeably disturbed,
“it is a strange vision..... makes me feel so hopeless.... and I have to get up and play my music....”

“But why? What is it?”

“I don’t want to say.... it’s too morbid.... did you say your friend Gerald is a ‘seer’—a psychic?”

“In a way....”

“Do you think there’s a reason he had to tell you.... you know.... about what you told me he shared with you?”

“I don’t know.... I guess.... I mean.... yes, I think he believed this was necessary—somehow. He’s never done anything like this with me before but I do know he ..... well, has done work with people where he knows things.”

“Yes. I see. Do you think I could—we could.... not to be strange about all this but, it’s been happening a lot and now you tell me about you and your own dreams—could we meet with him possibly? I’ve been wanting to ask you....”

“But— you mean because of what you dream— what is it about?”

He shakes his head,
“I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to upset you....”

“Please—this just makes me need to know more! Tell me, Jörn....”


He glances uncomfortably at me. He says,

“it is .... your death.... “