hitting the wall Noir(Electra’s dictionary)

Even as, it is not a common occurrence, as it happens, because as I have known of other things ....when I saw him ....again it took me by surprise as I don’t think I really believed I really ever would —not here, not now and ....I don’t think I really believed it at the time. And— he was not who I would have ever imagined despite those dreams of the boat and ....the way he stared back at me in dreams with ....such eyes ..... those dreams ....which came at intervals throughout my life. I don’t really know when they began as they seemed to always be a part of my subconscious and yet I willed them away each time. They always scared me somehow 

So, it was 

no, not the first day I saw him....  when I realized because I was not willing to .... 

****

but it was long before that day in the elevator. 

I made the connection to the dreams only ....reluctantly and I think only did I when it nagged at my thoughts out of context of the day; just coming to my thoughts and ....haunted. He haunted me. Seeing his eyes again but, not dreaming, and in the present, even as there is such a sense of having always expected him that only in retrospect did it come to be apparent to me ....and then all the rest made sense 

even as ....it is quite impossible —how? 

....and the wondering over why and why now ....wondering even after all this time —what does he mean to me?

.....In the dungeon, now, I write these thoughts .... but more to stop them.... I do not want to let thoughts grip hold of me; grip hold of the emptiness and cause me to long for his touch—these thoughts I write 

as I sit in the dungeon watching the monitors survey the barn house 

I knew there had been hidden cameras in the house but the monitors never showed anything, that is, not until Jörn told me to get into the surveillance program in his computer in the cage, which now I have access to

I suppose before there had not been any purpose to spy on ourselves 

There are several of them there that come and go. Jörn also has access to viewing so he can watch what I can see on the monitors the same way he watches me in the dungeon. And by now I have become used to knowing they are there, far removed in the underground and removed now too by so many weeks so that it is something surreal to watch the house thus removed and so remote —and the odd angles make the colorless viewing seem less like real-time and more like a film 

What are they doing in there? What are they looking for?

I become more anxious now to get out of here. The thaw has finally come up in the mountains and I long so much to be outside again, long to hike and be among trees, breathe fresh air 

****

It is later when.....

 I go back down to the deep underground, where lately I go a lot to the gym as it is a good way to force discipline ....away from thoughts or —exhaust thoughts and to keep from climbing the walls or from slamming my head up against them 

I throw myself into an ambitious work out to force away thoughts and stopping only to take a short breath....

I don’t know what causes me to look at a section of the the dark gray painted wall that in the odd light looks cracked. I go over to it. No, that is not a natural crack, i decide as —I can tell— I mean, by now, I have become accustomed to these hidden doorways down here but even still.... this one is quite different yet.... I get this odd feeling

I look around me thinking  ..... and spinning around me looking at all the work out equipment thinking as my eyes peel all the surfaces .... there! I spot an Allen key!  —at the foot of a wall of weights and walk over .... there! —beside it a watch. I pick it up to study it. What’s it doing there? I’ve never seen it before, yet.... there’s something somehow familiar about it. It’s an unusual watch that —yes.... it looks like it is made of platinum by the way it glows in the light. I turn it over. On the back of the watch there is an engraving; a kind of indentation like —the shape of a keyhole? beside the insignia ....that I know —yes! from the pendant that he made me.... the tiny platinum safe with the dangling key that I have not taken off since that day.... The key?

The chain is long enough to see if it fits the tiny keyhole

And yet, all I do is just touch it to it and I jump! just as—a red light suddenly glows in the watch face but it is not this which causes me to jump but the loud click I hear from behind me that causes me to start

I spin around fast and bolt right towards the crack as —much more clear now it is revealed.... cracks wide now and comes apart .... I lean into the wall and push against the crack to open it wide and .... it gives away—yes— like another doorway..... another passage is revealed as a light clicks on as it opens

It is hard not to stand there with my jaw wide open staring at what illuminates within 

“Oh my god,” I say out loud to the otherwise empty room, “the safe and the table!” 

Backstory of how the spy fiction plot came about (truth is stranger than fiction)/weaving in the Plot with the purpose

 foundations behind the seeming fiction 

Part of the benefit of moving away from the US was that it allowed a great distance between my grandfather and us, which worked for the benefit of my mother’s husband. While things were never safe in that household for myself, my grandfather’s presence in my life had given me protection as up until our move away, he was a constant presence in our life back in Florida where I was born and where we lived until the move away; he came often to visit during the week and could be relied upon to always arrive every Sunday, like clockwork with a paper bag filled with bagels, lox and cream cheese and whitefish. He was always there, safe and reassuring and no doubt why I became a huge fan of old black and white movies as I spent every Sunday afternoon watching them with him on television and listening to him tell me stories of old New York. Looking back, I see he was the real presence of a father figure. And I always thought he was that for all of us in, what once had been, a very big family with extended members always showing up, arriving from their New York lives for visits.

I only realized more recently that he did not really take such a personal interest in all the family, nor all his grandchildren. Indeed, not to my sister and not to his grandson who was my aunt’s son. Only looking back now it seems clear that his two favorites had been Pat and myself. I think his particular affinity came from the fact of our sullied birth; the two bastards lacking a father. Either ignored or mistreated by the legal stand-ins. But I was ignorant of all this during the time he was alive. Pat who had been my idol of whom I had emulated as a young girl; the hippie who overdosed, older than me by a generation. Her own father had been a French soldier who disappeared after the war and whom never would choose to recognize her even after she found him in France. 

I suppose my grandfather feared I would suffer her fate, but soon after Pat died, just a few months after our grandmother had who had served as the family back bone and matriarch, these events which, looking back, I see, are what set into motion the desire for some break from that life we lived in that neat, shuttered, yellow house in Miami. And only now older have I really appreciated the way he singled me out as his favorite after Pat was gone because I never saw this until years after his death. 

I only half believed Willem when he said he worked for the CID that day he bumped into me at the bar in the Netherlands, producing that business card for me to hold onto— that is, until he mentioned my grandfather. It was by the second rum and coke when he said my grandfather would not approve of me drinking, and maybe that was when I started to believe him and bothered to hear what he was saying. The fact that he knew details; not just about who my grandfather was, where he lived, was from, his first, last and middle name .... but he knew about the shouting in the flat where we lived in Amsterdam; he knew how I’d often run away down the street to the local hotels to hide, finding my way to the bars inside to find someone to talk to and feel safe for awhile. I think what made me really believe Willem was not when he said I should call the number on the card if I was ever in danger at home but the fact that one day my mother told me someone came to our flat to warn my ‘father’ that what he yelled could be heard through the floor and .... with a warning, left his card

I had known my grandfather had a tendency to hire detectives; he had done it with both his wild daughters and enabled Pat to find her biological father. He was a very clever man, well educated and inspired me to learn world history as he said if we don’t know of our past, we ignorantly repeat it. He kept up with news and the world and would quiz me like a stern headmaster, sending my letters back airmail often with my misspells circled in red, which I did not much like at the time (a dyslexic’s shame) but, at least he paid attention to me and cared.

There were many strange and mysterious occurrences over those years too; the uniformed police who often would stop me on my way walking home after my journey from school to question me, asking about my ‘spy father’ .... followed home often from my wayward flights escaping home life..... Did I believe Willem was hired to watch me? ....I never forgot him and I kept his card, though I never dared call. But then, I didn’t have to. The shouting stopped. Leaving only the uncomfortable veiled threats of my ‘father’ but now said in lowered tones. 

The bugged phones at home; what was that about? The spy equipment I found in desk drawers; the papers in briefcases hidden in locked filing cabinets .... do I think he was a spy? Probably. A lot over the years that turned up supports the likeliness and the sudden exodus he left the Netherlands around the time of my assault  ....who I am, not just to acknowledge but to bring home a point; has something to do with a high profile person considered by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the world when he was alive, and he was but, I believe with all that I have learned of him, for good. Sure he had his weaknesses and his slightly wicked ways, but he was a good man who got in the way of a dominant political mindset he meant to liberate and they took him down with his vices to set back and disarm all his causes



More Thoughts of the Legend; an awakening

upon thoughts of identity, as in coming to terms with who you are, ‘knowing who you are’ and having the courage to acknowledge who you are and then accepting this to wear upon your sleeve in how one presents themself truthfully to the world they encounter 

this one aspect which goes with my exploration of a purpose in life that I suppose somehow I have found I feel obligated to serve; why I ever wound up with this so called ‘gift’ (or curse) of this obscure art of communication through artistic expression seems to place me on a personal platform compels me each day to search deeply to look inward at a massive collection of intentional research and experience that never felt like a choice but a mission ..... presses me to I guess underline what comes in those rare moments of epiphanies

to abandon this philosophical project to understand purpose would be like wastefully tossing away time labored over doing this and .... conclusions I reach ....just in the off chance these words blow across that allegorical subway floor like a leaf of paper from a notebook just into the right hands of a fellow traveler ..... I never had lofty ideas for myself, never wanted grandeur or fame because I saw what all that did to someone I .... am connected to but could never claim to be—not publicly anyway. that too was never my point

still, the things that went with all of that are part of why this Pandora’s box became this identity to do this so only for this reason do I mention it. to have to grow up being a secret.... it is so hard to feel one has the right to feel. to speak. to stand up .... for the self. no matter the horrors and injustices .... to live like someone erased; invisible; inconsequential 

why should that leaf from a notebook fall into the hand of some other lost soul? one example comes to me; it is because of what impact she did, and it was the very words of Charlotte Brontë, years even after her life ended. I think often what would have happened had she never written them, what if I never saw them .... it was her actual words that reached me when I read them that struck deep into my soul and saved me at the right time in my life when I needed saving. They could have been written by me as she said things I felt. though long gone as she was she is so vital for all that she stood for and this is what gave me courage not to lay down on that highway to wait for a truck like I had on that road on Bard campus days after my assault knowing who had been behind it 

but not knowing why 

well, no truck came that night. I did walk back watching the dawn come up. I did that night after night but I guess someone was watching over me 

the other day just upon waking, in between sleep and awake my mother came to me to explain and as wild as that may seem ..... I fully understood what I had been unable to before 

I don’t think that came from inside me, it came from somewhere else because I never understood it all and somehow now I can —even as I have said I forgave her, I guess a part of me still deeply hurt for what had always felt like her choice to abandon me to the cruelty I endured by her husband as she stood there silently allowing it all, turning a blind eye and then later cutting me out of their lives; holidays, her illness, even telephone calls ....shut out 

why? 

So, you see, when I woke up completely after that conversation between sleep and awake 

the fact that I understood it all .... maybe I feel it requires me to .... integrate this into .... whatever this exploration for the understanding of purpose, self, acknowledgement 

You see, it was not so much what she said to me .... you see, it was like I stepped into her shoes. I felt it from inside her. It made me understand what she really felt .... how? I don’t know. But we had a kind of telepathy when she was alive so, there is not the slightest doubt to me she felt it necessary I ought to know 

and I suppose I could list all her reasons but .... I think perhaps I would rather say about it that .... she grew up in different times and the choices she had to make in life are not how we live now.... so..... that is what I woke up to .... finally 

I think she was giving me permission to acknowledge who I really am 

and maybe I will burn all my words one day.... disappear erased from invisible , who knows.... blow away ....but this mission keeps calling me back

 

choices in shop windows 

she opened her diary to an old page, flipped the pages back to read, the ink was smeared in places and she read to herself the old words there. 

‘he said to me, “I can’t offer you romance but I would like you to be by my side, I need you to be the mother of my child and be what I need you to be, although I don’t love you and never will, will you marry me?”

she turned the page and then another. and another and another....why did she? she thought as she read each yellowed smeared page, why didn’t she keep to the bargain, be what he needed? She found more pages that came after years and more years, the risks, the safe choices and the words of despair swam before her eyes from other years, more and more words, faith given and chances taken of another 

the oppression of the room drew her out into the night. she drove aimlessly for hours finding herself walking past shop windows and looking in at scenes displayed then wandered down a side street of houses. And as she passed the houses, she saw scenes of families within, laughing families and living rooms warm and snug filled with life and, eventually, wandered back to the street where her car was parked but stopped and turned to look at the nearest shop window and walked over to it to look inside

she found it beautiful, like a painting, it had a glowing fireplace lit behind by an electric light. There was no one in this window, it lay there like a promise and she pressed her forehead to the glass seeing herself there surrounded in what wasn’t there

then walked back to her car

she returned home and found other diaries and one by one she burned them and then walked to her window and looked out into the night and caught sight of a young girl looking in, and so because the girl looked so lost she went outside to find her but when she got outside there was no one there so she went back inside

when she went back in she saw a message on her phone from a name off those burnt pages. it said ‘it wasn’t great but it wasn’t always bad even if we nearly killed each other, there’s safety in the devil you know’

the weight of life pressed heavy on her shoulders of things remembered and family lost and ugly scenes that weren’t there swam before her eyes

she went back to stare outside the window and the lost girl reappeared ....and stared back at her 

https://youtu.be/cqZc7ZQURMs

 

 https://youtu.be/g1OcnH1RyMg

From the novel A Spy in the House of Love, by Anaïs Nin

“She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.”

—-Anaïs Nin

A hacker’s companion (jmmuse&e.d.noir)

 

I receive a message from Jörn but it is not through the usual means. Instead it comes to me through the Cabaret website in the ‘chat room’ that was set up during the contest from the launching of “Party in My Closet” which has taken on a life of its own

I have glossed over possible reasons for weeks about why shipping had stopped, using excuses it is due to bad winter weather but not wanting to destroy Cabaret’s recent success I had managed to get some distributors to agree temporarily to ship some orders direct. Even as my mind has not really been focused on Cabaret; besides being distracted for obvious reasons, my personal commitment to it has felt impaired by conflicting thoughts of where I truly stand with Jörn

yet I have found any excuse that provides some way to keep myself occupied with some illusion of normalcy which requires that I not look too deeply as to why I may chose any task as long as it seems to provide something, however menial, that is somehow necessary in some way, which is why I have continued to keep up with things going on at Cabaret, checking in every morning and going over orders and sales, reading through emails from customers 

Jörn appears in the chat room messaging platform that only automatically pops up on my screen if someone directly addresses me through my username which is ‘Le Chevalier’ ....and I only realize it must be him when I see the username ‘GretaWearsFishnets’

as I am half asleep at the desk I bolt awake at the appearance of it and glance self-consciously at the cameras 

The message in the dialogue bubble reads:

<I have a new # to give you>

At first I have to wonder over the possibilities this could be someone else in his spy world either trying to trap me or just some wild coincidence —but I don’t think much is known elsewhere of his fishnets or his Greta cover 

Still I hesitate as how to reply....    and —as I was about to ask if it was him and actually start to but— then backspace realizing how idiotic that is ....and then his message comes with just a phone number to call 

I reach for my mobil and start to tap it in when a call immediately comes in with the number 

his voice lowered, comes in crisp and dry, 

“it will be safer to talk now,” is the first thing he says; I notice he sounds different now; less tense and exhausted 

“Where are you?”

“I ....Duva —I still can’t say. It’s better the less you know—but first, Willem said you tried to call a few times last night. What was it? Is something wrong?”

“Oh did I? Gosh—my phone must have butt dialed you,” I say 

“Three times....?” he says after a slight pause 

“Why do you have a new number?”

“They took my other phone —they’re trying to search for things but I wish them luck, they won’t find anything.”

“They?”

“The government officials. They’ve been holding us....” he’s vague 

“‘Been’? Are you still there?”

“Uh— no....”

“Stina?”

“And her ensemble....” again he is vague 

“So they let you go?” I ask 

and I don’t know if I imagine it or I think I hear him hold back a laugh before he says,

“maybe not willingly.”

“Jörn— so.... ‘not willingly’ ....what does that mean?”

“Uh.... it is necessary to collect some evidence and that is just not possible while they keep us locked up, is it? They think we are linked to some activities that were perpetrated by —the clowns we have been after. Which was exactly their intention. With us locked up they are free to carry out the rest of their plans ....Duva, those things I asked you to do....”

“What things?” I ask 

“In my emails to you that I sent —remember ....? There were the ones about the underground tunnels and then the other one about— “

“Shit! Oh my god! I —I completely forgot!” and only now I turn in the swivel chair to go back to the emails, babbling excuses as I do this, “sorry, I must have been brain dead with hunger, no, I never read them through,” and apologize again but say as I search through the list of mail for this one, “are you guys like ‘on the run’ or something? Are you both fugitives wanted by Dutch and Swedish government?”

“To name two, but —I need you to do this now—I gave you instructions on where to find some documents, can you find the emails?”

“I think —yeah— here.... I just found them —here’s the one called ‘docs’ —are these emails safe?” I ask

“Duva, this is my work, I built firewalls on all our devices and networks—” he says with strained patients 

“—our....? Our?”

“Yes.... so—you see the email?”

I open it now and look at it and —force myself to focus on all the words as there are a lot of instructions. 

“Oh....” I say when I realize .... what it reads ....and still holding my phone, walk over to the tall filing cabinet by the bathroom door.... it says it is behind .... but it isn’t easy to move the cabinet, “wait, hold on, this is too heavy for me ....” I say and put down the phone to try to move it; it is far heavier than my own weight but I lean onto it anyway with all of it and manage to tilt it aside adjacently. There is a hidden little built in cabinet with a locked little metal door. I pick up the phone, “wait....” I say and go back to the email where it says where I will find the key.... it says the built in dry bar ....where the phone charger was —but under it. I have to get down onto the floor and.... cobwebs and dust I feel an envelope stuck on the underside of the unit “I just found the envelope with the keys,” I say into the phone 

“It’s the yellow one,” he says and quickly says, “don’t loose those keys! Put them back when we’re done.”

I find the one with the yellow rubber thing on it and go back to the little hidden door behind the filing cabinet and it opens,

“oh, what am I looking for?—I forgot what you said—“ and in the dim light see the little cabinet is filled with various odd things ....discs, papers, passports, metal boxes....weapons— “oh my god, there’s a gun!”

“You’re looking for a thumb drive— a flash drive; there are several in there but this one has a red piece of tape around it.... Duva? Do you see it?”

I find it,

“yes.”

He says now,

“go back over to my computer—“

“Jörn, but it never lets me on!”

“Well, in the email I tell you where you’ll find my password for it but —that will take too long so I’ll just tell you now—are you in front of it?”

“Aren’t you watching me?” 

“I’m currently walking somewhere and have to see where I’m going,” he says and then tells me the password. Then he says, “I need you to start downloading some files ....”

night terrors noir

 

It is the middle of the night .... I try the number —but he does not answer ....and lean against the wall beside the little bunk bed ....deep in the witching hours .... ever since the loss of my friend, this panic overwhelms me. I have dreams of death ....and dying.... of dying all alone ....in sleep ....and afraid to sleep ....alone and forgotten here, who would know ....? I try the number again but my fingers shake so much it takes several tries ....but he does not answer.... he does not answer ....why does he not answer?