Alpha cats; Electra’s dictionary

Because it has been so hot, the workers have been leaving early but most of the rooftop ‘patio’ is done. Just some finishing touches

I ordered some patio furniture because it seems Hanna likes to hangout there with some friends she has made. It seems she is in no hurry to move back in the brownstone with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend

and so I suspect her mother is a bit jealous

It seems too that Hanna has taken over the kitchen. There are crates of bottled spring water and tortilla chips are bursting from everywhere. Ilya did not seem pleased about this at first but Hanna has a way with getting around people; somehow she arranged backstage passes for a rock concert Ilya is going to

“How did you do that?” I asked Hanna earlier today

And she just shrugged,
“I asked some guy I know and he handed them over.”

Well, she’s beautiful so, it’s really no wonder. So now Ilya is in the palm of Hanna’s hand and wrapped around her finger; she has a Jedi charm

But later after Hanna has disappeared with her friends I find Lisa out on the patio roof! By now the workers have left for the day,

But Lisa ? —which surprises me as I had not realized she had found her way over to my penthouse —no, I’m not exactly angry.... not exactly perturbed either.... well.... only—maybe that isn’t totally altogether true

It’s hard to say what game is up with her

She is sitting at the table under the umbrella drinking what looks like a whiskey sour and I suspect not her first one

Did she ask someone on the staff for it before they left for the day or help herself to the liquor cabinet? I suspect the former as it looks professionally done


so I walk over deciding there’s no point avoiding the Trojan horse and go right over to the table where she sits. I just pull out a chair, and sit down curiously with a bottle of water. She is clearly miffed about something. The sun is still a bit strong overhead but the heat is not as bad under the umbrella


“I don’t smoke,” she says but then proceeds to light up, “do you? You must to stay so skinny,” she adds —making me flinch— and after affectively  igniting her torch, she reaches into her huge bag to put on lipstick

dramatically opening her compact to perform the transformation —then blots her lips together with such odd exaggeration

“No, actually,” I say watching her with covert fascination

She opens the cigarette box again and lifts one to offer me

I decline

“No, I don’t smoke,” I repeat

and I guess I watch her with some confusion

“Oh come on!” she pushes it towards me and then leaves it there as if it can tempt me

She takes a deep inhale and sits back in the chair and looks up at the sky as she exhales with a long drawn out breath

“It’s this country, does it ever get to you?” she asks so bluntly and looks me dead in the eyes with a sharp iceblue gaze.

“Yes, all the time,” I say but then wonder if she’s been reading my blog.

But then she asks,
“How do you stay so skinny? I thought for sure you were a smoker,” she sweeps me frankly with her gaze head to foot

“I can’t gain weight,” I tell her “and I have trouble with handling stress.”

“That’s interesting, how is that? I’ve never heard of such a thing. How much do you weigh? Like 45 kilograms?” But I’m not sure how much that is and just shake my head

“What are you —like a size 00?”

I should be used to this by now; that look I get from most members of my gender and these types of remarks that leave emotional scars for days; sometimes I don’t want to step out the door; you would think there would be more solidarity among my gender but it isn’t that way, I wish I knew why

I force a shrug,
“it’s an inconvenience in a lot of ways.”

“How’s that?” she blows in my face

 “Stores never have anything in my size so I have to buy everything on line.”

“What about Forever 21 or teen shops?” Her expression is not even teasing, she is actually serious

Whatever

“You think I look ridiculous with him, don’t you?” I only say this because she has pushed my limit with her last remark

She drags more on the cigarette and considers still sizing me up

Eventually she says,
“you can never be too rich or too thin.”

As if....

Then adds,
“we may still have some of Hanna’s clothes from when she was.... ten.... How tall —are—you?” she looks at me

I shake my head holding in rage,
“I don’t know how you measure in your country but not that minuscule, actually I’m 5’4”!” I say with indignation

.... ok, almost—I round up, but who’s measuring

What is she drinking anyway? I wonder and ask her,
“and how tall are you are you—six foot?”

“Hmm!” she laughs, “touché!” and still looks at me, “you look taller from a distance actually,” she tells me

I then reach for her bag on the floor and

 ....hold it up to myself,

“is that why you thought I could fit into your handbag?” I ask

She nearly chokes on the cigarette and I have to hand her my water

“You knew what I said?” she asks shocked with tears streaming down her face from coughing

I smile,
“I’m still learning but I have picked up a few words,” I say

Again more sizing up,

“I can see why Jörn likes you.... he likes little things....that fit into his compartments neatly like careful neat rows.... little things he can push around because— it makes him feel important —and ....if I were to be honest I would grudgingly admit.... that you don’t actually look too ridiculous with him ....which may be why I think I hate you for that,” I notice she is not just a bit tipsy and notice too the human flaw exposed now in her eyes. No doubt the drink has brought out more truth than she might have allowed otherwise,

“Yes I have Lorenzo ....but, Jörn —“ she sighs with defeat and another shrug, “I am still possessive of— you know—and I don’t like sharing.” And adds after a pause, “....him, I mean.... he is not easy to let go of.”

(....I guess that is what you and his mother have in common....only I would not say that out loud.)

It is a very uncomfortable moment and pause in a remarkably uncomfortable conversation

“But if I were to be honest ....yet again —I would also admit.... very grudgingly.... that I .... never saw him look at me —or anyone.... the way that he looks at you.... I have never seen that look ever on him. There is something very different in him that I.... well, I guess it disturbs me. It is over ten years now since we were together but I always felt —you know.... if I wanted him back I could....” she stamps out the butt into something she uses as an ashtray that looks like the cap to a beverage bottle. After watching the smoke diminish she says, with a brittle tone,

“No you don’t look ridiculous with him; he —on the other hand....I think looks like a pedophile with you.”

“But—you do know that ....I am older than him?” I ask

Her mouth drops open

Impulsively, I reach for her glass and take a deep long swallow. It is a strong drink. Which I find I really need after this conversation. More whiskey than sour which makes me cough. It also makes me bold

I say, and clearly the drink has detonated the filter of polite conversation,
“you know, to be honest, I’m used to women hating me....that is— unless they want to sleep with me. It would be nice for once to meet a woman who knew how to be strong enough in herself to know how to be a true friend and a real person to another woman who didn’t find every other woman some kind of threat.”

“Unfortunately, to me you are quite a threat so, I don’t think there is hope for that here. But I think it’s primal to women to be threatened by every other woman.”

“You could be right. Our gender has not really evolved despite what the hashtags say,” I don’t ask but finish her drink for her and get up and leave her there

vamp-pirate, Queen of drag; Lavender Film Noir; Electra’s dictionary (jm muse chronicles)

Of course I cannot go back to Jörn’s place, my head is not able to face his family

And knowing that Hanna will be staying at the penthouse in the bedroom that faces south I take another way to the master suite that faces north

I shut the door of the bedroom and lean against it shaking. I sink down onto the floor thinking ....

how much of all of this did Jörn know before we ever met? How can I trust him? am I everyone’s pawn?

It is my sense of trust that causes me to stumble; my lack of better judgment; mistrust. I wonder in this swirling panic : How did I think I could trust Jörn...?

Why —why did I ever trust Jörn....? why???

When I need no one ...

have I just been dazzled by those pirate eyes; those haunting eyes that pull me within their private den. Like the priestess Elan?

Should I question .... the parallels ....and patterns; and behold the codes

The parallel lives.... what do they mean ?

but then what about the haunting dreams that —is real, or, no, I mean ....

that is something—yes.... ? Or am I certifiably out of my mind which .... I have often come to wonder especially these days

Only maybe this is somehow part of some larger picture that I don’t quite understand....yet

I remind myself now: I don’t need anybody

As it’s always been just.... the celf.... just me and the celf and so it shouldn’t change now just because ....

I force away those other things. Those .... things of curious and compelling mystery that have kept me up so many nights. Like his haunting music. His fascinating mind and mystique. Those nights awake to his pounding the piano keys ....Watching his shadows on the wall .... the wild madness of his passion and

those unspoken things between us in the dark. When we come together. How I always turn to him in sleep; and always wake up wrapped around and pressed against his hips; even the first night when I first slept next to him; he broke all my codes .... never trust; never let anyone in. Especially not .... in sleep; the most personal space of all.

He got inside the walls. How? I don’t know why; as if he’d already been

have I betrayed myself.... by trusting him? why did I — what made me trust him?


I walk through the master suite to the washroom. Shut the door. Lock it. Lean against it and .... sink down.... and tell myself again: Nobody owns me.... I belong to me....

I remind myself now why that was always the policy.... never trust, don’t let anyone in, I am mine

my own Frankenstein

.... freak that I am, and ....

I really don’t care that nobody understands,

I like it better this way

I am not made to fit a standard,

so ....fuck it

And yet, here I am putting things together thinking-/he set me up

and what a disappointing mistake....

I feel myself begin to fall apart,  like swirling in the sinking labyrinthine spiral of weeping through the waters of Lethe I start to cry

How long is mercury retrograde? I wonder, as my mind feels like an atom bomb ready to go off


In the hysteria of emotions I think: Unfinished business —lesson missed; the Viking was sent to destroy me again. I think over everything that just happened with Willem and am so heavily sunk in this morass I decide to fill the water in the tub....the need to....wash....to be clean; find safety in

myself.

It is about an hour later when I hear the sound of the doorknob being turned and jolt up,  reaching for my glasses. I watch Jörn walk right in.

How —the fuck— dare he and how—the fuck— did he? When I locked it?

I don’t notice what he’s wearing, I’m too angry and shout at him

“I locked the door! Do you mind?!”

“Did you really think you could lock me out?”

It is only now that I notice

~He is dressed in drag~

He wears a satin black kimono that reaches above his knees, his long, and quite beautiful legs are clad in black fishnet stockings. And only now I notice he is wearing kohl around his eyes and something iridescent on his lids that makes him look even more like a vampire-pirate

“I read you like this,” he says with a lecherous smile in an exaggerated seductive tone as he kneels down next to me beside the bathtub ....he leans on the ledge of the bathtub and starts to wash me like a geisha

I jolt back stunned and am caught up in staring at him and it makes me think again of how he likes to dress me up, like the night of the opera

He does not make a pretty transgender but that does not detract from the erotic impact that.... it has on me; I dare not say exactly how it is intensely disturbing nor dare admit how arousing. I dare not

“You —do this —to—distract from —the fact that....”I seem to forget what I mean to say

“What?” he is nearly laughing at me but holds it back as he leans closer in this way so that his hair seductively falls loose. He looks directly into me as if blatantly reading my mind. He reaches to put his fingers in my hair and takes hold of my face,

“You don’t trust me because of what Willem said—you think I have been setting you up.”

“Well haven’t you?”

I watch the black kimono fall open as he intentionally leans in this way and he watches me with a smile,
“do you really believe that, or are you so used to taking flight, min lilla duva?”

“This is a slutty trick, Jörn....” but my anger has somehow become deflected, “you want some hidden code from me— and—you think I have some buried secret— like —I am —like —a buried treasure ....for the pirate to mark with a big X crossed—“

“Where?” he asks and puts his hand into the water and touches me, “here?”

“You —can’t do that ....so ....easily,” only, sadly,  that is not accurate but I look right at his eyes and don’t blink and firmly repeat, “you can’t.”

“No?”

“I —mean....you expect me to —to.... trust—“ I stop what I am saying as he distracts, no, not his fingers, instead it is the opening of the kimono and what it reveals, “....that isn’t fair,” I stammer and say, too weakly to be convincing, “it is so ....low....”

“Is this low enough?” he asks but he means something else

“Seriously....”

“Ask yourself....min lilla duva, what do I have to gain from ....decoding you?” and now everything he says takes on double entendres

“Stop confusing me,” I touch him, reaching for him with my hand to lay upon him

because he is so far away I use my left to grip hold of him by the kimono to pull him into the water with me

but he laughs

“No, I don’t think so!” and hauls me from the water like a sack of swords, kicking wide the bathroom door and on the way out he bites my neck and says into my ear,

"Låt mig vara din lesbiska älskare,” and laughs

but I don’t know what it means

It is later— after—


I do not realize that we hold hands and it only occurs to me now when I feel his long fingers stroke across my knuckles with their long sweeps. I do not realize it.... because his touch has become—or always was—is —subconscious to me.... as if he has become—is—a part of me.... his touch..... somehow anticipated.... these hands and fingers that know me intimately, do I trust?

“Where did you get these?” I ask him, touching him through the fishnets

“An ex lover left them,” he shrugs with levity, but I don’t really believe him

Electra’s dictionary; Kingpins Noir; meeting up with Willem


The part of the penthouse that holds most of Ethan Rhys-Jones’ artifacts and historical documents faces west, and thus by early evening the twilight lends a noir tone.

Since Ilya has been seeing to the historical authenticity, she kept to the style he had arranged the room; the pictures on the walls, the Art Deco bar, the draperies and the select bottles of liquor hold accurately true to how it was during Ethan’s lifetime and during his occupation of the dwelling

It is situated on the other side of the kitchens that lays center and central to the penthouse for the convenience of the functioning of entertaining the household needs as well as for both business and casual guests; and opposite to the bedrooms which are situated east and somewhat out of the way which is why it is convenient to set this area apart or as the historical museum that Joanie and Johnny have encouraged us to open to the public by appointment

The restoration only required the careful preservation of the leather seating and the polishing of the wood paneling and furniture. Most everything else had been already well preserved

I only ever went in there a few times. I saved those moments for when I most wanted to feel his presence and limited myself these visits in order to allow it to hold its sacredness for me

Certainly I’d never sat at the massive cherry-wood desk where upon entering the room I now find Jörn is comfortably seated and looking like he has assumed full possession of. As I have said, the power that my biological father once held politically in his life was something of the ‘Gotham’ quality as his influence often tugged on characters of the social underworld of his society

The word “kingpin” always comes to mind in connection to my biological father but the kind that defends the underdogs; in the underworld that the chess pieces move around; a bad cat for the little people by a big cat with an iron fist and a voice that bellowed and bounced like an organ echoing in a medieval cathedral drawing the crowd into his fold

And now looking at Jörn assuming his seat behind that massive desk that word rings true again and then it only now occurs to me that there are similarities between the men besides the physical stature and commanding broad shoulders

“There is someone here to see you who has come a long way and has been waiting patiently,” Jörn says now

And out of the shadows of one corner of the room I see the big, tall Dutchman from an evening long forgotten from my past

“Wassenaar,” now somewhat stooped and with faded and less hair the sunk jowls emphasis the characteristics Dutch features of a knotty nose and ironic half grin along with the accent pronounced firmly in one word. I am transferred back through time

I take a moment to arrive presently in time, straight-jacketed and seatbelted I hold firm to adjust the monocles of what is left of my sensibilities

My mouth goes dry and so I cough

“What was the name of that hangout your American friends liked to frequent?” he turns his head to one side as he studies me

“The Dugout,” I say and then it comes clearly again

“Rum and coke!” he says loudly smirking at me

It makes me laugh because I’d quite forgotten I used to drink that.

We had sat at the bar when I went up to get one to bring back to the table where my friends sat when he intercepted my intentions with his paying for it in exchange for his conversation. Yes, how well I do recall that day. He’d taken out his wallet to pay and then pulled out his business card

“Back then I used to pose as a journalist as my cover,” he reminds me

It is now that he turns and makes a grand show of taking ice from a bucket with tongs, pours rum from a handy bottle and then coke from another

He hands it to me as I cough again

“To old memories and old friends,” he says and reaches for a glass with an amber liquor to clink with the one he handed me

Switching gears from the place I’d left my mind on the tile of the bathroom floor, changed quickly into the houndstooth sheath that still lay across my bedroom chair when Jörn pulled me, then pushed me to change both clothing and state of mind

I take the cue to follow his lead and imbibe in the vice at hand

I go to the burgundy leather chair on the left that faces the desk where Jörn presides

The first Tape; Pandora’s box; Electra’s dictionary

Dr. Rothschild’s tapes



Come back.... come back....


the words drift slowly through....in waves

“Come back.... come back....”

She had been away a long time. Her presence arrived with the scent of patchouli. Pat. I idolized her. Who would arrive like a silent film star in and out of our world. The center of every drama of our family because of her mysterious background which, in hindsight, was so similar to mine; bastard of a French soldier who rejected her, and abused by her stepfather, physically and more.... and all the trouble she got into, often landing in jail, and, sadly, often overdosing. Her birthday was close to mine, September 11 and she was the only one in our family the most like me; my tall and lanky beautiful fashion model cousin, older by about 18 years. She always would call me ‘kid’

It was her voice that day that had called me out of the fog I was caught inside. In some kind of shock, some form of PTSD like a stunned trance that I still remember to this day. The way it felt. Between the worlds. Conversations came in muffled tone and static, and everything was warped and blurry. I always feared I might be caught in that between worlds again after.... the inability to move of my free will, the strangeness of total despair

To always fear to be again stuck there .... stuck with me forever after. And so after days or weeks lost and locked in that frozen inner chamber she pulled me back into the world

She said looking into my face,
“us Virgos need to stick together,” and smiled at me when I opened my eyes. She was the only adult I felt safe with


Her appearances were so rare that I felt honored she was there for me

She was the only one who could have recalled me from that dark chamber .... it was after the beating with the belt the time that went too far.

She was the realest person I have ever known. I used to wish she were my mother

It was a huge secret what happened to me that day. I missed six weeks of school but no one brought me to see any doctor. I remember the presence of my grandparents and the tones of concern that bumped around where I lay in stillness looking at nothing and watching the lights and shadows move across the ceiling and walls

There were times I wanted to snap out of it and had tried to but I couldn’t. It seemed something within me refused to admit access; something beyond me

I didn’t trust anyone. I didn’t trust my mother’s touch, I knew she wanted to send me away

Pat recalled me like an angel from the depths of despair and always thereafter that is what she was to me

even after her last overdose that took her from this life from me, she became a persona I assumed in order to keep her with me. In order to face a world I was always terrified of

I meet Jörn’s wife; smörgås in family drama

“Hon är så liten! Du kan lägga henne i din väska som en liten hund,” she says when she sees me walk in

Lisa —at his place—when I come in after a long day with the construction people at the penthouse; mostly incomprehensible discussions about floor plans and phone calls with warehouses for more fixtures that lead to mostly being put on hold for collective hours of my life

my least favorite way to spend a day

But I don’t have a clue what she has just said only that it makes Jörn irritated

“What?” I look over at Jörn as I put down my bag by the door and walk into the living room where everyone is standing around drinking wine

but I am still thinking about the construction progress back at the penthouse and if/when I should mention to Jörn that it is safe for me to return

I try to quickly size up his wife as her eyes sweep me over. She has her arm woven through another dark man (I find out later he is her Italian photographer boyfriend) and her other through Andreas.

I cannot read her —except to say she has a strangely familiar face and her eyes lock onto me

Jörn seems disconcerted by whatever she said and Jörn’s mother bursts out laughing

“Mamma....!” Andreas pulls himself free of her

She is very tall and she wears her platinum hair lank, pulled to one side. She wears solid black, head to foot; a clingy jersey halter with palazzo trousers, spiked heels and dramatic red lipstick

She walks right over and goes to shake my hand, her grip sends sparks of pain through my fingers and I have to hold back a cry,

“Hello, I’m Lisa,” she says

“Hej,” I say and return the handshake

“Your hands!” she exclaims

“Ohhh,” I attempt to disengage self-consciously

“They are so small and so soft! What do you do to keep them so smooth? Certainly Jörn has not got you doing his washing up!”

“Lisa....” Jörn says this softly like a warning

I look up at him and meet his eyes but he shakes his head and steps between us; he takes my hand from her and replaces it with his.

“Hanna!” Jörn waves to the tall girl who steps from the washroom now

I had expected someone who looked like a fashion model because she has just signed a contract with a top modeling agency but the girl I see who walks over is dressed more like someone from a rock band wearing a white torn t-shirt with something spray painted on it over a leather mini skirt

When she comes over she is nearly a foot taller than me with an interesting piercing through her ear.

She looks like Jörn, more than Andreas does who resembles his grandfather more —it makes me stare

Jörn introduces us

“Can I call you ‘Duvan’?” she asks me and smiles taking me off guard and because I don’t know how to reply, she says, “my father calls you by that name and now I see why. You are not what I expected!”

“No?” I ask and look up at Jörn but he’s looking at what she is wearing and he doesn’t seem pleased

“What is this tattoo?” he asks her taking hold of her arm

“It’s my band’s logo,” she says and adds more in Swedish that sounds something like, “snälla sluta,” then glances at me as if for help

I look at the tattoo because it’s unusual; it’s a weird purple creature that looks like an alien cartoon character with a smug expression

“Does your agency know you have this on you?” Jörn asks in a kind of reprimand

“Jörn,” I say looking at him and make a sound in my throat so that he meets my eyes. I shake my head but say, “do you know how many fashion models I see walking past me every day down fifth avenue with tattoos?” I look back at Hanna and she smiles at me but I ask, “so, you are in a band?”

I hear Jörn make a disapproving sound when I say this but this only makes Hanna’s eyes flash with rebellion and she swings her long ash blonde hair back

“Yes, in fact we just finished our first demo,” she smiles

“So you are another musician,” I say

Hanna says,
“would you like to hear one of our songs?” but she doesn’t wait for me to reply but takes a firm grip of my wrist and begins to pull me across the way and towards the room that is usually Andreas’

I’ve only ever seen in from a crack of his doorway

She has me suddenly in her custody and I get to see his room.

Mostly calm, somber colors of deep burgundy and brown and dark wood minimalist furniture with portraits of classical musicians on the walls but at the center —an air mattress which  has an explosion of bright colors of clothes, shoes,and on top an empty suitcase and a pile of cosmetics

She digs inside a huge messenger bag and pulls out her phone,
“it’s too bad you didn’t join us at the Hamptons, last week, we had such a great party for Midsummer,” she goes through her phone quickly in search of things and mumbles something in irritation when she sees a message but she finds the song and puts it on. It’s very loud, heavy metal and somehow it does not surprise me

Andreas comes in and seems annoyed, he mumbles things in a pent in rage but most of all I get is,

“det ser ut som din resväska slängde upp!”

“Andreas, speak English, don’t be rude to Duvan,” Hanna puts her phone in my hand and says, “look, you can see us performing at a club,” she stands behind me to point to which one is she

“You play the drums?”

“That was when our drummer was out with a broken arm. I go between keyboard and guitar but I love the electric violin—look —you see here? That’s my boyfriend Erik,” she tells me

“Hanna, will you at least clean up your clothes from everywhere?” Andreas asks her

“I was looking for my converter, I think I lost mine—can I borrow yours?” she asks him and then leaves her phone with me and goes over to the air mattress and starts randomly shoving clothes back into her suitcase

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” I ask her, I put her phone on top of the messenger bag. “I thought your father said you and your mother were staying somewhere.”

“My mother’s boyfriend’s place—yes, it’s a brownstone on the upper West side but they’re having a big party and I don’t really like Lorenzo’s New York friends. They’re so obnoxious so, I’m crashing here for a few days—“

“One!” Andreas says

“The party is all weekend—“

“We said one night—“

“Do you want to stay at the penthouse?” I ask

They both shut up and look at me

I shrug,
“it’s bigger ....”

Jörn must have heard from outside the door because now he says,
“what’s this about?”

I say,
“the work is completed, I was actually going to tell you, Jörn....the interiors —they are all done and are just going to start work outside with the patio soon but —it’s quiet at night after they go so.... I mean it is especially good timing I mean with your family....”
I say and meet his eyes

He flinches and looks quickly away to the disaster all over the air mattress

“Hanna!” he says under his breath indicating the mess


And now she looks at me and says,
“actually—yes—Duvan, can I stay at your place—would that be all right?”

Jörn’s shocked expression looking at me now leaves me wondering if he thinks I’m conspiring with his daughter —why do I feel guilty?

“Wait. Let’s just think —let’s talk about this—“ Jörn takes me by the wrist and pulls me out into the corridor away from being heard and studies me

“What?” I ask him

“No—I .... why are you offering Hanna a room at the penthouse?”

“Because you have a full house.... the penthouse has more room. I was just trying to return the favor as you’ve been letting me stay here all this time and....”

He keeps his eyes on me and searches my eyes. After a long silence we get interrupted by Josef who walks towards us,

“we have all decided we should go out for dinner as I don’t think any of us are in the mood to fix something here.”

I look at Jörn but I can see he isn’t in the mood to go out. He seems put out by the idea and says,
“I have a concert tomorrow....”

“In the evening,” Josef chides him

“Well, there’s rehearsal ....and were we not going to go over my recent music for the opera in the morning? Tobias at the opera house was letting us use
Kungens hall,”Jörn says

Josef looks at him and shakes his head,
“why are you such an old man?”

Josef sticks his head into Andreas‘s bedroom,
“is anyone hungry to go out to eat?”

Andreas and Hanna bolt out the door,
“starving!” Hanna says

“Me too,” Andreas agrees

“Then why don’t you go out, we would rather stay in tonight,” Jörn says which makes me look sharply at him

Josef catches my eye and winks at me with a smile as he reaches to affectionately put his arm around Hanna,
“this will give me a chance to catch up with my granddaughter —away from the disapproving eye of her father,” he chuckles

Truth; one cannot escape one’s essential self: The artist exposing a celf

Something I have been hiding....

I am to see another surgeon in a few days. I have been running out of .... belief

there have been so many ....



Since Jörn says I need to expose myself more as an artist and when I write....

as an artist

he says that the best art is born of heartbreak and pain

How can I find these words....?

so.... you see, there is so much I hold inside and so.... physically to immerse myself with a physical medium like visual art

tactile

as a dyslexic— I suppose I am exposing myself now, aren’t I? is this what Jörn meant I should do— and why do I need to please him?

no, I respect his opinion, that is why

You see, dyslexics think in pictures —not actual words ....at least the kind I am— so.... painting has been my place to say something that I’ve not yet found the words to mean the thoughts and feelings

my writing lately .... since I’ve not been able to paint nor draw nor even scribble even a list of words.... onto a sheet of paper

there is a kind of.... disjointed and —even a paralysis in the synapse .... do we want to get analytical here....? well— perhaps it is time

to come clean about why I ever developed this style of expression.... I’ve researched a great deal as it is a kind of nervous obsession of mine to have to plunder deeply into any subject that captures my attention and, well, I’ve discovered from years of reading on these subjects that a lot of data points to a connection between my form of a dyslexic is actually a form of autism

Dr. Rothschild helped me to understand how I became this awkward individual that I am; how a dyslexic should become someone, for instance, who reads all the time

it is quite crazy, actually—because dyslexics don’t actually read. No, we translate everything as we go into pictures because we don’t actually see the words. They move around and turn inside out, go upside down and distract.... as it turns out, I am also hyperactive and have attention deficit disorder so I never keep still, I make people crazy because I am always moving around and tapping things; I hardly pay attention yet I understand everything being said but I’m also thinking a million different thoughts that keep me otherwise occupied

Dr. Rothschild told me that the reason, according to her background knowledge and her assessment of me —she said since the brain does not fully develop until after infancy and even then not fully till about 20– the physical abuse I received as a child, as it was a regular and daily practice— it caused the chemistry of my brain to develop differently. So, my synapses are off. Brain chemistry also impacts emotions besides everything else

I have understood this from my years of work with her in our sessions; she was possibly my most influential role model besides my writing teachers at school and Dr. de Wit, my philosophy teacher

I learned to draw before I talked, you see.... they thought I was a mute because I did not speak a word until I was about three .... and then a full sentence all at once

My grandfather and mother were both amazing artists and I’d spend hours of my time beside them watching and learning and having my pencil removed from my fingers to be corrected over and over

always.... of course, my perspective was off and— I visually cannot see depth so, my depth perception is never even there in any of my work; sometimes in graphite I am a bit better as it then becomes more of a sculptor to me and I work better with clay but I like pictures

I don’t actually think I like shadows because of how they remind me of darkness. Unfortunately, I trip a lot because I don’t notice important things like steps or curbs, tend to walk into walls too, oddly, but I think that is more about that I’m usually deep in thought

I have just demonstrated here how much of a person with ADD I am, so, there it is.... thank goodness this is a diary format and not an actual novel but the point I am reaching to define is


without the physical immersion with paint to express

I have become disjointed

my writing is disjointed and my thoughts are as well; but we adapt, don’t we? What else is there to do but work with the things you have but it’s created more roadblocks.... and already this road is paved on breadcrumbs long ago scattered

these abbreviations of words strung together

without punctuation

sometimes even without rhythm

reason?

well, the codes have become all that has remained

Remember “wave girl” my painting of the mermaid with legs who has dug out her guts with the overwhelming wave that washes over her; drowning her

Do you know how often I stared at that painting after I lost custody of my daughter.... after my parents died and never offered me a word of closure.... if you look closely you can see the Goddess within her as she is bent over

and a dragon in the sky

these are symbols and they are the diary; the dictionary.... faith; purpose.... worship and even more than all these things  —assuagement

just like the girl painting her toe nails, which I never could finish as I ran out of white oil paint—her finger is a different color but that was part of the painting’s meaning; it was irony and s personal joke to me. Symbolic because as she tries to perfect her grooming, her skin’s color remains unfinished

every painting I have ever done is —to me— something deeper

the hours spent mixing the colors and waiting for the layers to dry; making the brushstrokes disappear and the balance of holding your breath to get it the way you see it.... sometimes you are the passenger as it creates itself for you

like the horse in the water

it “appeared” to me

so.... they are all pilgrimages to me

I destroyed my last mural before it was complete as my hands had begun to fail

no longer able to hold a brush.....

when though does the bough break?

I accept these lessons of loss but you see, my last mural was of Demeter mourning the loss of   Persephone

It was eight feet long and four feet high and I gessoed it for a week before I started, using an entire bucket

I think of Renoir and Matisse, both artists hampered physically by their health; both challenged and so, I know that an artist is and must be.... an artist is not an occupation nor a degree —one is born an artist; it is how we think and see life; how we experience it and interpret it and it is inconsequential whether or not it is considered valid or relevant by the art critics

An artist cannot stop being an artist if this is who they really are even if the ability to perform the conventional work has been interrupted

but the need to express it becomes a kind of madness if it must be contained only within the cerebral concept

It must be ..... or go mad

which, lately, I truly fear has occurred and taken a firm hold .... a madness that destroys itself as it caves within its own walls

How is this for honesty? am I exposing myself enough for Jörn, or must I create a symphony?

I fear the surgeon may not be encouraging and so, what then —what.... if I cannot even switch on a light switch .... use am I at all

Some unfinished business; Past and Present overlap

There is such a need to run away

but I have come to see

I’m running from something inside of me

——————————————

Quick notes from intermission:


Jörn says that I don’t expose enough of myself in my writing; that I hold back....maybe he thinks I am a coward....

my time away from Jörn I think about things he says, sometimes too bluntly but often things he says cut right to the crux with terrifying precision and so, therefore, hurt

sometimes it is too much so I have to run away but away

I have dreams of Raoul

   and dreams of [being] Elan

Gerald says it is unfinished business between soulmates who reincarnate —and meet again....  I don’t know what I think unless maybe Jörn does carry some guilt only I don’t understand what it means in connection to ....myself —or Elan, unless it is I am too obtuse, once again, to see the obvious

But the strange reoccurrence of these dreams seems to be more haunting when I am away from him

It becomes a kind of panic
————————————————

It is crowded when I get backstage by our usual spot and I think it is someone’s birthday

I consider hiding in some corner .....and texting Jörn

because I don’t like crowds .... and I’m not so good with people because I can’t fake smiles or make up mindless conversations —it gives me anxiety and so ....

 I start to search for the washrooms to hide but then I stumble and slam right into someone head first —and yes, very hard

I realize it is Jörn by his gutted exclamation of pain

He steadies me as our collision nearly sends me to the floor, taking me by the shoulders and extracting me from his abdomen, “I knew you’d come tonight.”

“All these people!” I say

He looks around us and then pulls me to come with him