The Voyeur; jm muse chronicles

at first it was his walk ....and then it was his eyes

I think of this now watching him from the balcony. He sits among the orchestra but I only notice him. Tonight it is the cello so I wonder who is ill or gone away I think I like the way he plays this more; how he holds it like a lover, especially for Eroica; I am his voyeur. I watch his fingers and even from up in the balcony, I see the way he lays his fingers.... for one so tall and physically strong, to see the shocking gentleness in the way he touches, I find, leaves me stunned by this devastation

It is by the end that he glances up from his bow to look at me and I realize he always knew I was there even as I never said I was going to be here tonight

When he stands at the end with the other musicians to bow out he turns to me in a subtle way and does his last bow to me and with the smallest inclination of his head infers to meet him where we always meet backstage

[and so.... must go for now ~perhaps more of this later]

somewhere in the crowd; the rush for the man with the vampire eyes

Overwhelmed by the need to see Jörn I return to the city on impulse to make it in time for this evening’s performance ....

I stop by the penthouse and rush to change clothes

tonight it is Beethoven’s Eroica

and as I search the closet for something to wear, in a mad dash, I reach for the houndstooth sheath from Ann Taylor from that day a million years ago it now feels .... and don’t even hesitate to consider and step into the bow tie velvet ballet pumps

I grab a cab to Lincoln Center

I am still zipping up the back of the dress on the ride to the Philharmonic

Peace Frog*; Electra’s dictionary

Of misplaced keys; a celf locked out



somewhere at the core of me it feels some chain has broken

there is this quiet whisper there

and all the color gone gray

the inner chamber echoes empty sounds

     .....so
    what is there to do but

spend the afternoon in deep communion with an unlikely friend 

*Peace Frog is a reference to the song by The Doors

today

reflecting on dna memories

Sometimes when I’m walking or hiking .... I start to be aware of memories that come from the landscape and the feel of the earth under me. If I carry something heavy I feel it more. I feel the swing in my hips as I move over miles with the heat of the sun

my foot as it lands on the ground

the first memories of the pirate came in such a way

like footsteps over layers of time

The Vampire as guide through hell; the fine line of artist and madness

‘Your words have made my heart so eager for the journey that I’ve returned to my first intent....

‘Set out then, for one will prompts us both.You are my leader, you are my lord and master,’I said to him, and when he moved ahead I entered on the deep and savage way.’

—(Beatrice to Dante from Inferno; the Divine Comedy) ~Dante Alighieri


“Tell me about your old psychiatrist that you used to go to. What was her name?” Jörn asks me this but as I read his eyes I know he already knows the answer to this

“Dr. Rothschild,” I say watching his eyes and wait before I say, “....no relation to the Rothschilds, you know, that old American family dynasty....”

“Are you sure?” his look is almost bored and yet one brow asks the question

It is already too much

I think about that and remind myself to breathe

so I say,
“What about her? She was my shrink years ago....”

but she was much more than that

 I just....but I corner on him instead

“Can I ask you about your ‘second job’, as you like to call it—?”

“You can ask me anything you want to,” he says

I watch his eyes though

I say,
“no, not anything....because I know you have your boundaries— I have stumbled into ....and around some.... “

such as Lisa

and what else is twisted up in his Raoul conscience

“I said you could ask....” he replies

“How often do you hop in and out of vans masquerading as laundry delivery?”

Jörn smiles,
“all in a day’s work, my dove....” but he seems lost in thought,

“I’m asking you about your old psychiatrist because I realized some time ago that your ex lover—who, are you aware? —first heard of you through her. A former assistant to Dr. Risa Rothschild, as he was then —Doctor— Dr Nigel Atherton.... but who ....has since lost his license to practice psychiatry....” his expression tells me he knows exactly how Nigel lost his license

“Yes,” I look back at him and nod.

So, Jörn has done his homework.

And evaded my question.

“Jörn, I’m sorry—but,” I can’t let him drop it, “I’m curious....how much of a spy are you? Or am I not allowed to know this answer?”

“I said you may ask.....” he chuckles in an endearing way, “You know more than you should as it is.... “ he reaches to caress my face, his thumb brushes across my cheek as he studies me,

“Most people in my life don’t know any of this about me. Certainly no previous lover was ever privy to this about me,” he says

“I’m so privileged! Oh, come on— your father knows and I’m sure your wife and your whole family knows, so don’t act like it’s not common knowledge!”

“She doesn’t know. They don’t either.”

The levity of his voice stills my thoughts

I study his face

“....no....” I stare at him, “she doesn’t know? Andreas ..... doesn’t?”

“Andreas doesn’t know. Nor does Hanna.... My father only knows because he is close friends with the man who first got me .... to work for them....you know—my parents were against my working in this branch of —ahem-government ....international intelligence .... work..... but —they are sworn in secrecy—how much involved am I? I am so used to it that it’s not even work to me, min duva—it’s been so many years and become second nature to me. I just have a restless mind. I get myself in trouble if I don’t keep myself busy,” he laughs it off, “You know about secret lives, don’t you? Double lives. But well, over time you don’t really think about it. Like checking emails every day.... which is why it was so easy to stumble across all about you after.... I got curious about whose mail kept getting put in my post box.”

The oppression of feeling trapped makes me need to move around and pace and so I get up, dropping the towel and reach for the closest article of clothing I randomly spot, one of Jörn’s white button down linen oxfords and pull it around me like a robe

I leave his bedroom to walk around the living room. I circle the piano and look at it before I go to sit down at it. I lay my fingers on the keys and try to remember the Beethoven piece I once played that won me a first prize award when I was eight. A short lived glory. That got shut in a drawer.

Silenced. Stay in the shadows, dawn of shadows—

And I think of those sessions with Dr. Rothschild. The hypnosis and later the regressions..... Those sessions were around the time that I had mono .... and it occurs to me—those first floods of the dreams of the the boat. I think of Jörn’s recording with Gerald and how he described the hysteria of battle sounding like Carmina Burana.....

notes

keys

symbols.

         Rest

                 Silence

Like maps with a legend key



I lightly play the beginning of my piece as my fingers recall .... quietly they follow the pattern like a whisper from a closet

then stop

he walks towards me

“What was that?” he asks me

I don’t say

“Why do you want to know about Dr. Rothschild?”

“Because I found some old tapes among Nigel Atherton’s artifacts. Are you aware she would tape your sessions?”

But I have to think about all this....

How much does he know?

“When? —where, Jörn? Where were you? Please strop giving me half the story and tell me what are you talking about? You patronize me this way, you know that? It’s insulting! Do you think I’m an idiot and can’t handle your espionage secrets? You ask all the questions and I’m supposed to answer them but you never finish answering mine— Yes I knew Dr. Rothschild was doing a study on me.... she said I was a miracle case because I am— or was —the only known case she ever heard of who.....survived....” I stop myself from saying more

I stare at him afraid I have said more than I should have

His look is enigmatic

“Why were you there?” I ask him ”Where were they?”

“At his office. I did some excavating of my own you might say—I found them in the office safe next to some old fossils....”

“The safe?”

But he keeps the poker face now.

“Maybe you are not aware of your ex lover’s darker sides?”

I think. And yes.... there was all that about him losing his license, but that was years ago. His involvement with my old acquaintance Leighton —who had been a patient of his at the psychiatric hospital

....physician heal thyself

talk about patterns —

and especially with me ....and my blindness about trusting all the wrong people

I go to the window and lean my head into the glass

“I have her tapes here,” he tells me

“You stole them?”

“They were not his in the first place, he took them after she passed away and no one was sure how they had disappeared.”

“He told me she bequeathed all her case studies to him!”

“Does that really sound likely?” he laughs at me, “do you believe any doctor would —or could even do that without a lawsuit?”

“I never thought of that....”
shit.... I really can be pretty dense ....
fucking obtuse.... “fucking idiot!” I say the rest aloud in a whisper to myself and slam my head on the window

“Stop,” he says this calmly and pulls me away from the window

“Do you want to listen to the tapes?” he asks me and waves me to where he has them by his sound equipment where he usually does all his sound mixing

“Now? Why?”

Film noir, Falling through the cracks; of the JM muse chronicles

she could see the street outside the kitchen window and she saw what wasn’t there


The Sunwitch’s face shone and laughed a wicked laugh


but her scream was always silent in nightmare real or fake


Once upon a time there lived a child who lived inside a yellow house with neat hedges and an iron door

that as soon as you walked behind, it was another world

On this side of the doorway the mailman didn’t go

On this side lived the man with the wooden valet which displayed his prized leather belts


Everything was different on this side of the door and the walls caved and warped

There were two mothers who stood in the same body

One wore the pretty yellow dress and smelled like sunshine, the other shook the child and told the child she wished she’d never been born, her nails scratching

then left the child in scorn


One day the child found a doorway to go through and came upon other places and other realities

This was where she hid the real story

In this place she found a pen that was a magic wand and all she had to do was write a dream and go walk right into it

one day she never left

she left a secret pathway back behind hidden in riddles, but one day something blew away all the riddles and they got scattered everywhere leaving lost the pathway back. sometimes it bothered her. sometimes she was glad she would never have to go back

If you bang your head hard enough you could still hear her voice. sometimes it was necessary to know she still existed. because without her it could not feed the magic into the wand

some betrayals are worse than others

“What happened to you that day?” Jörn asks me as I am still sat stunned and dripping by the writing desk in front of his laptop ....still staring at Nigel’s email

He puts a towel around me and the gesture takes me back to the pirate on the boat and it makes me stare at him

“What?” I ask because his voice sounds far away

“What you said....It was not clear,” he kneels down to me to look at me

“What —I’m sorry—not....?”

“Which time did you disassociate?” he asks

The metallic taste is in my mouth and I shake my head, “Jörn....”

“Because it sounded like you confused the two incidents—the belting and —the assault.”

I think about his question but I’m somewhere else. I want to answer him only

there is the need to lean against the wall inside

and

if I let him in

..... only

we need this wall. it’s absolute. no compromises.

not ever, there was another way once

and I consider my words to him carefully

“Is that your word for it?” I ask him “Maybe both,” I say

“What would be your word?” he asks

“dictionary,” I say

But he pulls my face up to him and forces me to look into his eyes. He stares in there. I watch what I see reflected inside his blue prisms as they laser through me, probing and tripping past; unfairly he trips past

“I think you saw something you shouldn’t have,” he says this gently and waits as he watches the meaning unfold in me

“His desk.” I say because it triggers it “He kept papers and I would ....play with his answering machine....”

The vampire eyes with their den inside throws its cape around .... hides

“You read something. You saw things, didn’t you?”

and holds me back from the edge.

 I have begun to realize he sees things I have missed....

The dictionary