the father of thought

“mass action is the most powerful force on earth. As long as it’s within the law, it’s not wrong; if the law is wrong, change the law” — Adam Clayton Powell Jr.

Anomie; (jm muse chronicles Noir) Electra’s dictionary vol.2

the atmosphere of —the world and even more especially ....amongst communities has begun to make me feel like I am suffocating.... the oppression ....I feel like I need to run and never stop, just never ever stop; such a desperate need, this feeling, to get out of here.... but I know there is nowhere to go; yet still — there is such a desperate need to run

********


it is soon after he starts the shower


“Where did you go?” I ask Jörn

“Where?”

“Where have you been?” I rephrase

but he gets a call just then

“I have to take this,” he tells me; he shuts off the shower and gives me ‘that look’ which by now I recognize to mean it is about business; his spy work.

he answers the call with a quick,

“—hold on a minute,” and a glance at me

I can hear the male voice with a hard to place accent say from his phone in English,

“I am sorry to have to call you but something has come up—“

Jörn goes downstairs and I watch him from the gallery as he walks through the house. I watch him as he goes outside, through the two story window and walk from the back patio of the house go down the path towards the farmhouse

and after he goes I decide to return to the shower

When he returns from his call, I have already by then dried off and found a simple white t-shirt to wear over a pair of drawstring yoga pants and, as I see his face now in the fading light, I can see the tension in his expression and, as well, his closed demeanor that implies he is not able to say what the call was about

so instead I decide to ask,

“how serious were you about going somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I need to get out of here.”

“But you always say that after you have only been somewhere for just more than a few months.”

“I have been in New York for almost two years now ....what about Maine? I know Portland is not exactly a big city but it is like the furthest edge out of this country before the Atlantic Ocean and —still close to Canada for— whatever it is you do there ....in case Amsterdam isn’t in the cards, I mean.”

“Does this have anything to do with this?”

Jörn holds up the letter.... I realize he found in the farmhouse where I must have left it

“—this sudden need to run away .... is this why you have been acting so strange?”

And when I don’t answer he says, almost apologetically

“I didn’t know what it was— as it was not addressed to anyone and wasn’t signed. I found it in the farmhouse and ....well,  thought it was something I left, otherwise I would not have ....it is from your daughter, I assume?”

“No it —was not even addressed nor signed....” I whisper and sink down to the nearest level place to sit which.... is the foot of the staircase

I feel myself go sick inside and along with it, the weird sensation in my head

“You read it?”

“.... I just.... skimmed through it—until I realized what it was....”

“Shit....” I whisper to myself

“At least she contacted you,” Jörn says

“It was a ‘fuck-you’ letter, Jörn....” I say with resignation and defeat; “a ‘fuck-you-mom letter’....” I say plainly, “meant to coincide with Mother’s Day —poetic, right? —for added punch.... I didn’t get the mail for a week so.... I guess I dodged that poison arrow ....”

“Did you answer it?” he asks me

I cannot look at him. And look away and say more to myself,

“.... ja ....”

and slowly exhale.

As I feel his eyes on me I realize he wants to know. And I guess that surprises me, somehow,

as it is a strange thought to me

that he ....


would want to know


I look at his eyes. I try to read them for judgement

and as I do I force myself to raise up my chin as if I don’t care what he thinks.... only I do.... I care more than he could know

....if his judgement is as harsh as hers; only —I pretend not to care and that it does not matter what he thinks

I see he still waits to know

“It was not —like hers.... what I wrote.... I .... did not let myself reply ....with raw emotion ....I ....thanked her for her honesty and told her that I respected whatever her wishes were to have me or not in her life, I ....was diplomatic—“ the words rush out to sound brave but i hear my voice crack at the end and stop myself in time. I say, “maybe.... I think I have to put it behind me.... I think it’s time.... that I need to move on.... from my past....all of it....”

“She may come around—“

“It—does not seem that way to me, Jörn,” I tell him honestly, “I do know her.... and I can read between her lines. She —my daughter—holds grudges ....forever, she does not ....forgive, it is her way. I am history to her.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, “you’re her mother.”

I shake my head, and after a pause to collect myself I say,
“I can’t keep waiting for her forever.... so.... I know ....I must figure out a way ....past this....”

He shakes his head and asks, waving the letter,
“If I hadn’t found this, when were you going to tell me—? or were you?—is this why you have not let me near you?”



while in pursuit of meaning

Oregon— 4 September 2017

I have walked along the railroad tracks and laid across the highways’ double yellow lines and see the broken roads that chased me. I look at them and the broken sky and the clear and tainted clouds that hang and hover to keep me half alive; this is not me and never was; but the scars leave their marks to claim. They costume me their monster

3 September 2017

E.d Noir & Muse (the following scene E.d. jm muse chronicles vol2)

Ode to towers and cages of gild 

but before they leave us, still in their masks, ‘Smulagan’ stops by the door and turns to me suddenly. He glances up at Jörn with a sly sneer and takes out his phone,

“just so you know, Ms Lewis,” he says before he turns his phone to me, “aiding and abetting is still considered a criminal offense. And what that means is, if you knowingly perpetrate such an act, that is also considered a crime. While your boyfriend here would get diplomatic immunity, you would not—“

“That’s not true,” Jörn interrupts, “you don’t even know what you are talking about, the only reason you are here is because Stina is using you for her own advantages—“

“My advantages—“ she interrupts and finishes her sentence in a round of machine gun Swedish I completely miss

and Smulagan shows me his phone

It is a photo of someone in the focal point at some airport— that could be any airport; with the row of monitors showing flights behind, not many, but at least several random people,

“this was taken twenty-one hours ago, can you honestly tell me you don’t know this guy?”

I look at the center figure he indicates ....

Well.... he’s tall

.... the person in the photo is hard to distinguish as far as any other obvious physical features

between the face mask and....

—the Texan cowboy hat

—which is not odd in itself as I have seen Texans at airports from across the boarding lines as those hats are hard to miss

no, it is another giveaway that Smulagan would never notice.... on the surface, appropriately blendable, as he does wear very forgettable and worn-out khaki cargos, like millions of American travelers would (but Jörn would never), the Texan in the ten-gallon hat is also wearing a Jane’s Addiction T-shirt that, yes, this particular design does only depict skulls so, it’s easy to overlook, but.... I think, no self-respecting rodeo goer would ever be caught dead listening to James Addiction—especially if he is sporting a hat like this (and pretty sure would never be caught wearing that T-shirt to a Texas rodeo without a serious riot with gunshots).

I laugh inappropriately because it is too hilarious and look at Smulagan as I laugh,

“who is that?” I say still laughing unable to control the comedy of it

He looks at me,

“don’t be a smart ass. Just answer my question.”

I don’t laugh now because there is something about Smulagan that reminds me of too many others like himself I have known by how dirty they play with what they call justice

“Yes,” I say boldly looking into his eyes, “I don’t know that guy,” I say.

*********

It is later, after they leave, when Jörn asks me, seemingly out of nowhere,

“what other city would you consider?”

“Consider about what?”

“To live; relocate —if you had any choice?”

he just looks at me

“.... any choice? At all? Like in the entire world?” I ask him

He shrugs and waits with the slightest quirk to his brow

“Is this for hypothetical —like ‘as if’ kind of thing? Like the ideal paradise? Where you’d maybe film an epic drama?” I laugh and he laughs too but he paces back and forth impatiently now, so I say, “you know the answer would always be Amsterdam —because I’m attached to it as where I grew up but I don’t think you mean it that way. How do you mean it?” I ask him

“I’ve actually been thinking about my opera .... “ he keeps his back turned to me as he says this, “before the virus hit the world, I was starting to think of —yes, a stage .... or stages .... each stage would represent a different ‘stage’.... each a different ..... level, as you would say— but filming the opera .... that way, from this angle .... and with the series of the scenes fully sketched .... as doing an opera with an audience is not even realistic right now, I have started to consider searching around for some place to do this,” he paces as he talks

“So you are asking what city —as in to search for theatre space?” I ask

He shrugs,

“well, unless productions open soon, so—Amsterdam?— could work,” he says

Then he says,

“I sometimes think i only want it to be performed for— I mean.... it’s so personal to me.... it feels almost uncomfortable to just put out there.... which is why I make up excuses — “ he faces me now and looks at me, “you know why, don’t you?” but he only just looks at me. His eyes just look at me. Sometimes he is so unreadable. He says, “sometimes i think.... it is only meant to be performed for a certain few and I don’t even care about the cost of it because it means more to me as a work —then some kind of profit.”

“Was this what you were going to tell me —before?” I ask

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says

“In the farmhouse— right before your phone —does your phone tell you every time someone comes to the door?” I suddenly ask

“Can we talk about this later?” he asks me and starts up the stairs, “I’m going to shower,” he says

 just like that

 .... didn’t I just cover for him?

Still, who can be sure who that guy was in the Jane’s Addiction t-shirt but still .... anyway

But then, he bellows from upstairs

“Are you coming?”

I turn to the window instead to look for deer in the woods through the trees from the giant window

he walks out to the gallery ledge now without a shirt and says down to me,

“just thinking—you could use a shower considering how old that paint looks on you.”

I sit down on the floor in front of the window and a few minutes later I shout up at him without turning,

“I just lied for you, didn’t I?”

I think he must not have heard me —until I feel him right behind me as he gets onto the floor and cages me inside his long limbs and says something into my ear

“What does that mean?” I ask him but he ignores my question and says, “I know what is bothering you. This is about identity, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to find out who you really are, this is what has made you so strange lately.”

“What do you mean? What —“ I try to turn turn to see his face but he keeps me there like that.

I start to panic,

“what do you know? You know who comes to the door —what else do you know?” I ask

He says into my ear,

“you won’t find your answer that way, for one thing you need a genetic male to find your answer because, as you know, Ethan never took a dna test.”

I cover my face,

“how dare you invade me!” 

I elbow him hard yet he still fights me 

and says, 

“none of his sons would ever agree to one, so you won’t find out that way either.”

“I know!” I say and try to elbow him again but he has me in a vice which only enrages me to the point of breaking —because he thinks he knows better than me what is good for me? but he doesn’t know; what does he know? nobody could ever know

“But, duva, you know who you are,” he says into my ear, “you don’t need—“

“How do you know? I want to know what it was that was so horrible about me to not be wanted, that is what I need, but you don’t understand that and nobody can but I guess I will never know why.”

“Is it worth tormenting yourself over your whole life?” he asks me

“That was never my choice to make. Do you not see this? All my mistakes —my daughter— the duplicitous deceptions of both my husbands is because —“

“Feral....” he says

“It is not an attractive word,” I admit, “not exactly suitable.”

“Suitable for what? Me? I’m a smuggler and a bandit!” he teases me

Because he relaxes his arms I turn to look at him

“be careful, Jörn, or you may admit you actually have feelings for me.”

At first he seems surprised at what I say. Maybe even stunned. But then he smiles,

“I could say the same about you— or have you never considered that?”

But then, I am now surprised,

“is that true?”

He inclines his head,

“you never say....”

then a silence falls between us which leaves me in a quandary of ....some kind of guilt but no, more than that... that I am stupefied by,

I say,

“what? You mean— have I ....no....I mean—you think —I’m— unfeeling?”

He shakes his head slowly and tries to read my eyes

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying?”

“That.... I guess—we’re not that different. Just different reasons for it, maybe but, no, you never say how you feel, which is refreshing in a lot of ways because I have known some hysterical women and even with your closet of skeletons .... you don’t demand ,” he says

“What don’t I demand?”

“You never demand,” he says

“I see....” I say

but, no, I have no idea what he means

He says,

“But sometimes, maybe you should....is all I’m saying.”



E.d Noir & muse

life


At what point does a person realize they are at a crisis point? I mean when what there is to compare otherwise is a scale somewhere else? .... how’s —now— to admit it then, dictionary —and I swear to you I am not kidding


now


it seems all paths collide

I cannot write what I mean but you know, dictionary ...what I cannot say, I fear I’m falling through the cracks and the pieces are going to disappear


so where do I hide?

my apocalypse really hit so long ago I’m out of ammo watching the world melt because people are still mean even now in all of this....dictionary so what can I do with Art to save the world? Because that is how you change it. Not by screaming at them or scolding but by inspiring them, entreating them through beauty

What do we remember of the Greeks?


****



We are still in the farmhouse ....

.... it is when Jörn starts to say something

it is something in his eyes as he looks at me ....and I don’t know why, but it almost seems he is about to say ....

well....

about to say—

no, I don’t know —it was just something in his eyes ....

only I will never know because his phone suddenly alerted and interrupted the moment

—but then he curses under his breath when he took out his phone

“Someone’s at the door at the house,” he says this with warning in a low and very serious tone.

I get a chill,

“Oh my God! Who? What do you mean?” I ask him and start to panic

“Stay calm. I need you to go to the house and answer the door,” he says this to me with his eyes dead straight and center to mine.

“Who are they?”

“It’s my watch-dogs,” he grits his teeth, “I had a feeling they saw me at the airport.”

“Your ‘watchdogs’ ? —you want me to go back to the house and answer the door for your watchdogs?” I ask

His phone makes an alert sound

“What was that?” I ask

“They just rang the doorbell— go now! Answer it— I’ll be there in five minutes —go!” and he pushes me

I have a moment where I freeze but feel the sting of Kryptonite so I bolt and head for the farmhouse door without a glance back at him as if on my way to detonate a bomb. I hear him say as I open the door,

“put the face mask on I left by the door,” with an urgent command

It’s a climb up the walk but I do my best sprint and go through the back of the house through the patio back door

It is by their second bell ring that I notice the face mask left on the console by the door. I put it on and at the same time quickly reverse my shirt and glance behind me to the back patio door I just came through.... five minutes?

As I swing open the door I am still fixing my shirt

There is a woman with a severe expression and similar attire and three men; one is clearly American but the others are not which can clearly be discerned by manner and apparel

The American flashes his badge,

“F.B.I.,” and he mumbles a name— Smulagan? Is that even a name or did he just make it up

The woman who is dark haired comes forward and introduces herself just as clearly —I don’t understand her syllables along with a Swedish accent but I recognize her from the time at the penthouse. That time she walked right by me without even acknowledging me

It seems the other two are with her and must be her heavies and again, she says names but I could not guess what she called them Sfar—nehilsin...?

They look at me after she says this and stare at my face mask

“May we come in?” she says this without a smile nor a question in her tone

I don’t really enjoy this sort of company so I hesitate and look them over,
“you are not concerned about catching germs?” because I can’t resist the question and indicate my mask

“Is someone sick here?” the woman asks me

That is when Jörn appears behind me .... but how is that possible? He didn’t come through the patio and the other door is on the other side

Jörn has a mask on I have time to notice as he says,
“yes, care to grab my test results? You can read the date plainly there,” Jörn moves uncomfortably close to them as he demonstrates, “I just picked them up at the lab,” Jörn waves the test at them and they all step back

“Henrik!” the woman shouts and snaps her fingers; oh, which one is he? but I don’t notice as face masks and gloves suddenly get passed around amongst them

Only I am still mystified over Jörn’s Houdini appearance as we go inside

Then it is all very awkward because they don’t seem comfortable suddenly

“You just came back from the lab, you say?” ‘Smulagan’ says

“Yes, it’s the one over by the airport, would you like to drive me back there? Although, knowing I’m supposed to be in quarantine I wouldn’t say that was such a good idea, in fact, I’m feeling pretty lousy so, the quicker you tell me what you are doing here the better it will be for everyone—I’m sure we all agree!” this is when Jörn seems to stumble and he leans against a chair and looks at them as he slowly sits down with impatiens holding his head.

He turns to me,

“can you get me the acetaminophen? It’s in the cabinet upstairs.”

I start to go but the woman says,

“wait! This shouldn’t take too long. Besides, it is her I would like to question.”

“Me?” I ask

I look at Jörn but he keeps his eyes neutral as he looks back at me

“Why do you want to ask me things? What things? I don’t understand what you people are doing here,” I say the last part more under my breath as I lose steam

“What is your relationship with Mr. Jörn M-m-ika—elsson,” he stumbles over the name

“How is that your business?” Jörn asks, “I mean—as you can clearly see, she’s my martial arts instructor— no, my masseuse—my handyman,” he laughs now and adds, “she does all three, she wears a lot of hats.”

Why do I get the feeling Jörn enjoys antagonizing them?


I suddenly say,
“obviously he’s not feeling well, so, can we move this along? I met Jörn in New York, he lives in my building there. We met in the lobby over a year ago. So— is this what you wanted to know?” I ask and look at the FBI guy

“Would you say you are intimate?” he asks me

“Obviously, so does this make me a spy now?” I ask

Jörn laughs but it’s a nervous laugh

The woman and he exchange glances and she decides to ask,
“has Jörn left the country recently?”

“Which country?” I ask

She gives me a snide look,
“where do you think? Istanbul,Turkey?” but she continues, “just answer the question.”

“No, he has not, then, to answer your question.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me; studies me. Only, I’ve had a year or more of experience watching Jörn neatly compose his poker face and conjure one of his

Then she says again, watching me,
“so he had not left the country.”

I just look at her and nod

“And you are not worried about getting Corona virus?” she asks

“I gave it to him, I had it first—and you are not going to like it, so, settle in for your quarantine,” no doubt the Adrenalin was making me creative





 

Adrenalin needle of Kryptonite E.d.; Partners in crime, noir? jm muse chronicles (or ‘when the devil wears you as the mask’)

My head has been in chaos and no doubt remains

It is when you reach for the manual that is titled: Assuming the Worst Case Scenario


so,  as I write to get a grip on myself .... through the codes

this may come out half-mad or worse ....so be it within the deep morass of the waters of Lethe
~


Jörn slams through the door like an explosion

I’ve been in the farmhouse ....painting as it conveniently has become my studio

I had not expected him to return today.... so....

No. I’m not at my best....


“It smells like a party in Amsterdam,” he says

without ceremony but clearly acknowledging the obvious

That I decide to ignore only

I can’t look at him, no, because it is like I have been caught playing hooky and I would rather not appear ....

instead I shake my head ....and will the concealment that is offered behind my hair and hide....

in my defense, I have used my time well —that is, in deep meditation ....albeit, mostly meditations of rage mixed without much sleep and not much nourishment and a lot of conversations with some walls —those walls that lie and those walls that hide

for the convenience of others at the arbitrary expense of —whoever is handy

I was tempted to kick but resisted and so kicked at myself instead, within.... walls that lie, walls that hide


like the ruins you see crumbled

walls

discovered left by an ancient world with those walls that you wonder over —who built them

and why


.....I am in the Farmhouse wanting to escape my mind

like how many other times when you sit on the edge of a life event that

will alter your life forever I survey over ruins

(from the mostly gutted farmhouse) taking a break from painting



“taking a busman’s  holiday”, as my mother used to say— and wanting to avoid reality especially in all forms of news as I’ve limited myself to small doses a day now so I watch a movie adaptation of a much-loved, long- dead artist/writer’s life .... only the one playing the artist’s role overacts .... so I did get annoyed and then threw my phone onto the floor by my bag; hence the philosophical epiphany —


“You’re back,” I say not bothering to move from my view of the ceiling

As he comes over I close my eyes and hear his shoes scrape as he walks. But I keep my eyes closed and do my best to avoid looking at him because I had expected he would be away for a little longer and I was just in the middle of this mind blowing epiphany and right before he blew in through the door was just thinking  .... note to Cocteau:

there is nothing worse to an artist than unauthorized exploitation



 ....I am aware that I look like something of a disgrace.....

what am I wearing? I have a moment of dread


like strata layers of time packed in stonewalls, I brood on this....



I find I don’t remember getting dressed this morning ....never mind brushing my hair

which he pulls me up by —after I say,

“hmm.... I’m not the only one getting sloppy, cowboy —or should I say bandit....?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks standing over me but then, in demand, says,  “open your eyes!”


As luck would have it, I happened to have kept his pink invoice in my —jeans pocket oh, jeans.... I realize I’m wearing jeans—so glad I’m not in my underwear, and say,

“Ouch! let go,” as I sit up more or less faster than I would have opted to but manage to produce and hand him the invoice with all the zeros

He gives me a sly look.... as I take in his appearance as he’s been away almost a week. He has let some of his facial hair fill in,

I notice the way it outlines his mouth and chin, like a pirate ....so much like the dream

but then also observing that—he actually wears a black trench coat over dark clothes? hmm ....but then no, not really inconspicuous, I remind myself, he’s Swedish


I say to him as I look him over,
“so, are you smuggling or bootlegging?”

he goes over to where Andreas left the tin and I watch Jörn take the lighter and light it to the invoice. He walks to the sink beside me as it takes flame and drops it into the stainless steel sink and calmly lets it burn itself out without concern

So I repeat,

“you’re getting sloppy.”

He shrugs and folds his arms as he openly looks at me shaking his head

but instead he says,

“because you see an invoice ....I.... am getting sloppy?” calmly and as if indulging me, I guess? he chuckles as he looks at me with his arms folded in an exaggerated way that he usually gives Hanna —that disapproving glare lit with deadly sparks of icy steel .... well, I become curious what I’m wearing and so have to —glance down....OK, no big deal, so a black T-shirt.....

but then he— with a casual raised eye brow,

“You know, your shirt is on backwards,” he tells me

I look inside,
“no it’s not, how would you know?”

“Because it’s inside out too,” he reaches to show me

the place where they print the fabric information —is under my chin ....facing him

“Oh.... well.... oops....” I say and feel like an idiot but shrug and fold the fabric under my fingers to hide this new disclosure .... and ignore the way I can feel my face burn, and look up at him, “so, is that what your —‘case’— is....?” I ask but ....then I say, “I know you can’t tell me....”

I watch the tension leave his face and smooth over and rearrange into symmetrical plains

“No....” he says to me but his eyes say more as he reaches for my jaw to make me look at him.... and then looks ....and studies ....deeply and silently into my eyes ....as he searches

he stares into me in that Bram Stoker way,

“would it surprises you if I told you I am not worried about what you know, duva?” and still he studies my eyes thoughtfully so that I get lost almost and cannot discern this from the dream ....it is the way he stares, “.... and what will you do with this trust, min lilla duva?”

I feel such a chill

is it that it just dawns on me that he is offering to make me a partner in crime or —that he has already made the decision for me?

or.... did long ago

Electra’s dictionary; Shoots and Ladders

I go to the farmhouse where the now vacated safe and drum table were; where Andreas and I often like to go when he is here

I go because I want .... to withdraw into shadow


It is during one of those times Jörn disappears to do ....whatever he does

this time longer

which is as well

as well because .... I don’t trust myself to be around anyone right now .... I will not say what I feel

I don’t want to see anybody or talk to anybody or feel, I don’t want to feel anything


I never want to feel again

I will not say because you know ....dictionary, you know ....and I won’t traitor myself; only —if only— for the sake of some blind faith in the Celf; I can’t do what everyone else has done to her.... the crumbs have lead me back only now ....Demeter is surely broken; is this —now— the deep Waters of Lethe.... how do I navigate when all sockets are blown....

It is now as I discover Andreas has left some of his stash behind on the little ledge by where he likes to spike his blunts

I see a note attached to an Altoids tin with my name spelled out across it and under it, it says in his handwriting

‘Escape hatch/panic button—Andreas‘

I wonder how long it’s been there and if Jörn came across it. And if so what he thought —as there it remained

Jörn goes sometimes to Canada, which is closed off now, the borders you know, yet he gets through .... it makes you wonder

Escape hatch.... yes, we go through the maze and I think about the devil may care attitude of Andreas, who, for perspective, is a very respectable, brilliant, young man especially compared to a lot of his youth .... these days .... not that it feels that long ago to me .... only.... but then.... we got lost in here, didn’t we, dictionary? like Rip Van Winkle....we got lost

I pace the gutted farm house as the dimming light pulls shadows and walk to the spots where those vacated objects once sat; a Safe locked inside .... but now safely lost in anonymity .... I go back to the tin and open it. There is a tiny one-hit pipe inside with a little orange bow and I notice it is already loaded


There are worse places to exile the world from me with the way the mountains look from here, and I think it is possible to imagine a world when it was still possible to escape into the great wild ....

It is now that something catches my eye on the floor by the other doorway which leads out to the old driveway. A pink folded piece of paper

I realize it is an invoice .... for medical supplies with quite a lot of zeros at the total and Jörn’s signature