mapping a legend

 

The first time I visited England I was six. It was a family summer vacation. My mother’s husband (aka ‘Hitler’) bragged about our summer holidays but it was part of his work; he sold travel ad space to travel agents so, this was homework to an obsessed shallow man. He imagined himself to be Onassis one day so he was all about the bling before that was a word 

I had lived the first year of my life on the island of Jamaica because my mother left her husband ….there was question of whose I was ….for good reason; but the story held ….after the one year away from America living at her best friend’s holiday resort hotel. 

They used to tell me their wild stories. I heard about the two gorgeous blonds dazzling the jet setters; movie stars, authors, billionaires, you name it. My mother was not wasting her time on just anyone and her best friend? Let’s call her Barbie for this; she was the equal in looks to my mother so, I imagine they were a force to contend with. My mother was very charming. And she was smart. Too smart for her own good in those days. 

Anyway…. that is how we lived that odd life we did and how and why money got blown away ….gosh could they do it up …. my mother had to have the best 

I’d watch it all from the walk in closet floor through a crack in my mother’s walk in closet; my secret room ….I heard more than she knew 

Anyway ….

I never felt I fit there. In that family. They were all crazy. My sister who molested her sister, the dad who whipped the daughter with his Baly belt “which one, sweetie….” no he called me something else —one was bastard 

My mind often took off and I saw things nobody else did 

they thought it was odd how it came true and I was always right  

But the moment we landed at  Heathrow Airport ….the voices all around, the manners ….then once out in the open windowed drive…. the scent on the air….I’d been here before….I turned to look for things I knew….the slope of the land and ….the color of the horses     

 

I remember crosses, fields, they went on and on, rolling green and hills, hammers. The hills turned into rocky paths. And the drumming. They shook the trees and the ground ….I would stare into the distance and see ….they littered the road everywhere and the acrid scent that blew across and stayed inside your breath and taste ….I remember her; she was apart from the rest of us but…. when she had something to say, she would come and find us. She told me about the man who would come. First one and then I would never see him again. She said they would come and I would go. With them. 

 c'est moi qui ai été aveugle

 Il me voit

thoughts of legend 

I have been aware of a sense of bereft 

and the cheapness of life. this precious time we spend in the flesh. this precious time we spend with each other 

through time as it is marked by those who left us their accounts of life …. 

what does it mean ….?

there has always been war….savagery….horrors ….unspeakable cruelties 

I was thinking about the discussion/debate with Finland and Sweden over NATO and you know…. I was thinking that how as far back as history as we know it is marked there has always been pacts with tribes, cultures, nations, countries ….The Franks, Burgundians 

they say necessity is the mother of invention …. I suppose it’s necessary to edit as you go —things change; times changes realities 

relatively speaking but I believe at times such as these, it is always better to find strength in numbers and only burn those bridges that connect you to the enemy breathing over your shoulder and adjust your autonomy when it is safe to otherwise there is nothing but principle but also, it may be time to alter one’s perceptions of self in the grand scheme of life and humanity 

I was thinking about Jim Morrison today too—such extreme thought swings perhaps but ….not really; he was a clever political animal; the son of a military man and he witnessed the Vietnam war as a young rebel voicing out 

he was deep down a philosopher and a poet but such a humanitarian which comes out vibrantly through his poetry 

it is always his poetry I most adore about him. his style influenced me. he was a literary scholar and a graduate but he chose to break rules consciously aware 

but what I thought about him today was …. when those of us who first followed him in the mysterious glow of his disappearance 

we believed he was alive; that his death was a hoax. Like his idol Arthur Rimbaud; so, we believed Mojo Risen had sneaked away escaping attention from a prying world ….and as long as he walked the earth …. we had faith …. we cheered him as the poet who got away from the devil of the commercial society that ruined him even as he sought it; he thought he could conquer the world

I don’t know why I write this 

it’s just words …. am I a fascination? only that? a fetish ….I always hoped one would really see me ….see me….to be understood and adored for that is more important than to be cared for only to be whored and who ever loves an old whore or are they expected to quietly expire like those yellowed photos of a pin-up girl…. Jim Morrison once said something similar to that…. 

but he did actually die in Paris of an accidental overdose much like that Uma Thurman scene in Pulp Fiction because he didn’t know it was heroine he’d inhaled; he hated heroine ….why did I think of this today? ….the tragedy of a poet ….did I ever write here how I discovered my biological lineage connects to medieval and ancient French aristocracy….I know it sounds outrageous but it is documented and I realize…. so it seems I contain nearly every nation in my dna  

dna memory ….? what about that ….am I just haunted?

captured fleeting freedom

 

Electra’s dictionary noir;a voice from the past/Beth who is What

 

“Does Sunny get deliveries from anywhere?” Jörn suddenly asks me, looking up from his phone

“Is that Willem?”

“He came by boat,” he says simply 

“He’s here?” I ask and jump to get up but Jörn puts his hand on me, “not here, he’s docked….”

“Chesapeake?” 

Jörn nods.

“On your boat?”

“Duva….” he looks at me in irritation 

“Oh—no, that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

Jörn does not answer that, instead he says,

“He’s on a shipping cruiser….”

“Oh—deliveries? Well…. the US postal service comes with packages by truck if it doesn’t fit in a mailbox.”

Jörn looks back at his phone and taps into it

“Why?” I ask 

Only as he is intent on texting to Willem he is distracted and doesn’t answer so I think about this and come to some logical conclusions why Willem would consider the need to know this and realize they are working out how to move Jörn 

“There’s usually delivery around noon,” I say but then ….I realize they would have the intel or the means of things like this  

“When are you leaving?” I ask with a heavy feeling in my chest 

Jörn looks up from his phone briefly. He looks at me steadily before he says,

“tomorrow….”

“Just like that? Where are you going?”

“Is there anyway you could get away without calling attention to your not being there?”

“Tomorrow —? Like afternoon you mean, is that when?” I ask, “yes, he won’t be around during that time and I can find a good explanation ….you mean to—say goodbye ….”

I return from the hide back at the house and feel disturbed 

even as I know these are different circumstances—

why is it that people in my life continually drop in and out of my life at their own convenience? ….No one is ever really there completely one hundred percent. There is always their own agenda which hardly includes me beyond —whatever fascination (fetish?) they have for me

and it makes me wonder 

So disturbed ….I pace with my arms folded as I silently yell at the walls ….silent ….always silent 

what does a voice mean when whatever you once had to say seems ….lost completely in the noise 

In effort to put my mind somewhere else I turn to read the latest of the war— and pick up my phone which I’ve kept on silent since I left the hide ….just wanting to be alone with my own thoughts 

….and drawn back to my phone as it is my only connection to the internet as such and …. see a message through messenger from someone I have not seen or heard from in over eight years 

<<how are you?>>

I tap it to open it and stop….

“No,” I say aloud to the empty room

I put my phone down and cover my face 

The tone of a call comes through voice call. 

I hesitate as it tones three times ….and then, tap the call

“Your Welsh needs serious help….Beth,” the familiar lilting voice says

“Bran….?”