Electra’s dictionary, noir/I am me I am mine prt3;what I believe in

More thoughts of the legend 

I talk about Truth quite a lot on here. I reflect upon it. But truth is subjective to the consciousness it occupies 

so how is it possible to rise above subjectivity?

It is not possible 

so I can only reflect. Observe —do my Scientific Method and log it in my fleeting writing, sometimes in a blog; observations from my lens and see how my warped vision alters it

I don’t claim to be omniscient and proclaim a Truth

I just try to ….humanize it

I —think— emotions. 

Intellectualize it. Likely I am a form of autism as dyslexics are connected so, while I am a sensitive empath and psychically connected to visions that come to me, I recognize that my truth is a truth but it is not the utter truth 

but that is not our role

that is what I believe —our truths matter as much as the utter truth does but the two should never be confused or claim one ultimate victory 

I think my mission here was to learn how to feel. It seems I split off as a child, that’s how the text books would label it 

but that was my lesson ….that was chosen for this life’s journey. To catalogue emotions; to study emotions. To step inside them; immerse…. take it on at full force…. and to turn it into a universal image; Art in order to call minds to a higher consciousness 

To call to minds 

   in order to ignite a butterfly effect 

so where does ego come in? I think that is the Very riddle locked up in the celves/Celf

Those cells inside; those rooms 

so within this vast pool of knowledge I’ve acquired of human emotions ….trauma; fear; every form of heartbreak and loss; shame; humiliation; torture; pain; terror….terror…destitute….a  fleeting glimpse at ego; idolization; everybody’s unicorn; mistaken identity; infatuation; lust; confusion of sexual identity; gender…. 

but ….no joy

that part I missed somehow and ….I think it must be my cross to bear

the gods were jealous of me ….or who knows, I am Aphrodite; not Electra and this journey is ….designed to ….fail unless ….I find that one possibility that purity does exist in humankind ….that pure of heart

so far…. no joy, and I was their champion 

whom they destroyed

we all have a mission; we use me as the apparatus so there I am:

I think of Dante’s tree….I am caught around the trunk and limbs with barbed wire; how does a tough outer shell protect the ‘fragile eggshell mind’* within the broken soul? how does she avoid those that promise but ….then only to find that all they ever wanted was base possession and are not deep enough for more and this is the flaw in my mission; I believed. Is it a want or a need? When does the want become the need? when does the need become wont. 

Someone once told me I should have been catholic because she thought I was the most devout person she knew—she being catholic. She said it maliciously and I think about that label of stoic but no…. they are wrong …. And that is the sad riddle of the celves ….and there seems no legend can find it on the map 

*******

I find the sudden desperate need to —what?

find that desperate faith somewhere in someone —perhaps and, reach with one moment of hesitation and give up to this human weakness when ….I see Bran’s call up on my phone screen. That barbed wire, they never let me go….

“Cloak and dagger, espionage—how did you get caught up in all of this?” Bran who is almost actually scolding when I answer

“You don’t remember? It was always in the background of my life—the assault, and who was behind that? Hired hit man —the years under that man’s thumb who controlled all our lives ….”

“Your father.”

“He was not my father.”

“You got your dna test results ….I read that in your…. so, the sins of the fathers…. born is Electra …. morning becomes her…. but you are my Beth….”

“Bran….” to my ears I hear warning and defense ….but also longing ….and the memory of seaweed arms….and harden myself against this; I know how to pull the portcullis better than anyone; I am me, I am mine, and nothing comes in, nobody trespasses ….that is the code 

so

“And the killer is still out there? The one who assaulted you at Bard and left you with a life sentence of degenerative pain….”

“Uhh—I….don’t know, they don’t tell me, but he’s some known terrorist they seem to be in a cat and mouse game with —all these years….he walks free….”

“How are you?” he asks

I hear concern in his voice; I don’t believe what I hear; never again and choose not to hear what he asks

“I’m so sick of ….controllers—men…. I’m sorry you don’t want to hear this….”

“It’s —fine, I deserve to hear this,” he says

“You mean because you recognize this in yourself? —do…. I think they just look at me and they see ‘target’ ….sitting doe sitting duck….and they build their deceptions carefully hiding their own interests and watch the exit door is in view—“

“Christ, Beth—what have you been through….”he says with regret and ….I almost go back to ‘our’ place in my mind ….it’s there watching me from the box I hid it in

But I babble on ignoring this and so glad of an excuse to ….have someone just listen—he was always my best listener…. “so they know how to back out—they watch thst exit and then tell you how to be. how to feel. perform, and stop trying to see. you. But what about the needs of myself —no, there is no self, we know…..I mean, don’t you dare make a suggestion, a request —a desire…. why should you want or need or ask…. just sit there and be quiet….how dare I think I have any rights at all.”

“Your Viking?”

“I don’t want to talk about it….” I say, “he is just one of dozens, I mean, don’t you remember? Or no, people choose how to recall details and they edit out their own guilt.”

“I’m sorry Beth….” he says suddenly 

And I stop babbling madly 

He says it again 

“You should know…. they didn’t win over you….I’m so sorry Beth….”

*JDMorrison 

electra, ce monde te tue

 https://youtu.be/XTtopI620ZU

 People suck

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me ,I am mine Prt2

“Did anyone see you get out of the postal vehicle?” Stina asks me from the front seat, in her usual no-nonsense tone that always gets my back up 

“I don’t think so, Willem pulled up beside a dumpster and —you know, I was….careful. I’m not an idiot,” the last part I say defensively 

“Good. You seem to be a natural at this.”

I never know with her if she really means anything she says. But I am so lost in my brooding thoughts of ….well; is it anger —or pain?

I think about getting lost somewhere where no one will ever find me. Just ghosting everyone and everything ….as if I could but still…. I think about it…. and I’ve done it before  

even as the things you run away from still haunt at you, pressing the eject button that gets you out the emergency exit is very freeing 

I like feeling free. The illusion of freedom is so thrilling to me; no strings, no one to check in with, no one who would notice that you are alive or dead 

just go. because people and myself are not natural companions and only because I forget not to trust; I start to believe them…. and nobody ever tells the truth ….wrap you in and I suppose part of it must be the challenge of whether or not they can crack you like a safe; conquer you…. 

it isn’t that I don’t believe in love.

so what do I believe in?

“What if I told you I know a doctor who is working on DNA memory theory and is actually in the area?” Stina suddenly says 

“What?” I sit up right and for the moment forget my brooding 

“Yes. She’s got her own practice as a psychiatrist but she has devoted years of work researching this very subject. Her name is Dr. Rachel Evans. Her practice is in Chesterton,” Stina goes on to say in a strangely friendly tone 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know this is a subject that interests you. You’ve written about this, haven’t you?”

“Great, so you are reading my blog now—I can’t imagine why unless you want something from me.”

“Are you interested in talking with this person?” Stina asks me

“In exchange for what?” I ask, “because I thought originally you just wanted me to spy on Jörn and ….well, you know more about his whereabouts these days than I do.”

“So—in exchange ….I would like you to find out more about Sunny.”

“Sunny?”

“Yes. We have suspicions he is not as retired as he pretends to be—possible links with not just what happened on January 6 but possible covert operations to undermine more than one country’s government dealings….”

I think even if she said he was a little green man I would be too numb to care 

I don’t answer and lean my head against the window 

I feel so trapped. So isolated and stranded. But mostly so sick of believing people who deceive me

“Dr. Evans is expecting your call,” Stina tells me, “she also happened to be a part of a recent excavation in an area in Great Britain known as Powys.”

I see her look at me in the rear view mirror 

I think about ….how there really is not that much to excite me or challenge me lately 

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Just—pay attention to who he meets with, who comes by. I want you to just watch for things. And check in with me once a week.”

Electra’s dictionary noir; I am me, I am mine

 

I stand at the shipping launch as I watch the large cruiser slowly diminish into the distance; lost upon the horizon 

and I feel as if I have seen this scene so many times 

repeated 

over and over

the landscape alters in dreams. the lands change replaced and overlaid with patch worked memories and dreams from …. so many of the celves 

I feel so empty inside …. I am lost upon the horizon 

Do I know the uniformed postal worker with the odd accent stands nearby? as I say aloud to myself,

“….how will I get back?”

But what do I mean? from that lost horizon ….? or from some long lost land….

“Your ride is here,” the postal worker says with his Dutch accent that only I can hear him say as amongst the activity, there is noise of the water; of the motors all around; of voices making static on the wind…. and the wind itself ….which carries the sounds away, far away from the maddening crowd 

I turn and see a black car with an Uber sign in the window of the back passenger side and I see the familiar figure of Stina step out of the car and walk over

I look at Willem as Stina nears us, she calls my name and says,

“you ordered a ride?”

“Did I?” I say still obtuse to no one in particular but …. perhaps to myself 

Willem walks casually near me back in the direction of the postal van and says,

“you should go with her. She’ll bring you back. I will text you later; we can’t talk here— don’t look at me as I walk away….”

Then he walks to the van

I turn to Stina,

“oh—yes, I’m ….who the ride is for….” and I am so numb inside that I just walk straight to the Uber car with no emotion and feel so exhausted when I slide into the back seat…..

Electra’s dictionary/“Operation delivery ‘going postal’” Noir

 

Operation delivery ‘going postal’” goes perfectly without a single hitch, as it is Willem who arrives driving the delivery van, as I had half expected it would be. As expected, Sunny is not present during the ‘pickup service’. So, from the nearby cluster of thick shrubs, Jörn is camouflaged by the thickly leaved trees as Willem opens the back of the van to remove a large box of wild deer feed at the moment Jörn climbs in. Willem neatly shuts the back and carries the box of deer feed to the spot where Sunny has in past requested his packages to be placed 

I casually walk up the long drive that leads to the dirt road and walk to the end of it where the postal van is waiting to pick me up so that I may say my goodbyes to Jörn. 

The ride to Chesapeake Bay’s ship launch is heavily silent though as Willem drives and Jörn and I sit in the back on the floor surrounded with shipping boxes, all of which are actually empty 

I feel as though someone should say something but it seems none of us find something relevant and worth saying but then, they have their top secret world and who am I in all of the grand scheme of things? 

“Will you report to Stina?” Jörn asks suddenly over the hum of the van as he looks up from the cover of the floor to watch the sky through the cargo window 

“Is this really what you choose to talk about right now when I don’t even know when I’ll see you again?”

“He’s right,” Willem says from the front, “you should. This way if anything—“ he stops whatever he was about to say and pauses as though to reconsider his words, “I would also feel better having someone or some way we can reach you. We don’t feel it is safe for you with that maniac still out on the loose too and Sunny….he’s retired and not up on ….how things work these days….”

“Why would you need to reach me?” I ask and watch Jörn for any sign of emotion 

He glances up at me and raises one brow. Then keeps his eyes steady on me; they are shadowed and still gray overcast and reveal nothing 

I look away

“Duva….” he touches my hand and then takes it in his. But I don’t look at him. There have been so many stretches of silences between us and I just don’t know if he leaves me with any possibility of believing in ….anything. More softly and just audible to me, he says again, “duva….” and weaves his long fingers through mine 

“The last time you just ….there was nothing; no communication from you—nothing! I mean, I do understand you’re in deep cover but, Jörn, already the ties between us have been so sketchy at best but ….mostly frayed at the rope’s end ….” the last part of what I say comes out tense but my eyes tear and I look away 

We reach the bay and there is the shifting of props —he changes clothes putting on a US  naval military disguise but is set to climb into a box large enough to contain him. I realize the plan is to have Willem cart him to the ship in the box using a hand truck but the rest I have not enough to understand more of their plan 

“So this is it?” I look at him as he is about to climb in it

Willem says from the front,

“I’ll let you talk in private,” he gets out

But then not much is said beyond,

“you’ll hear from me ….I promise….”

“You said that last time,” I look up at him and search his eyes, then I say, “be careful,” and grip his hand tight, “please….”

conversation, ymddiddan/Electra’s dictionary

   

There is this sense always when you turn back the pages of a lifetime and it feels as if that lifetime has remained preserved; frozen as it was

That life. That relationship. Those people you were. 

To me, it is like you could see them there still; your ghosts haunting the hallways of scenes from that life. There they are still lurking in the shadows of rooms where the dust glistens like pixie dust and romanticizes forgotten pain 

“Do you know where I am right now?” Bran. His voice. Alive. It reaches me through that audible organ my phone is pressed to; ageless and ….still belonging to that ‘her’ that ‘“Beth” who is what?’  

But in slow motion I only comprehend the meaning as I am myself in this strange bedroom that I have only learned to occupy as mine of Sunny’s hunting lodge. No the bedroom is not strange. Just strange as in I am its stranger; new and not mine and I am not its 

I belong to me. I am mine. 

or am I? I look around me and wonder how to mesh the celves ….how to become its whole; how to find perspective with this voice that belongs to a man who once broke my heart 

“Cardiff?” I ask him. And I fear the very strangeness of my voice gives me away

“Well…. I mean—where I am sitting….calling you from….” and that lilting of his accent befuddles my mind playing tricks with how it causes me to feel

I only realize when I exhale I’ve been holding my breath and need to breathe and must stop to inhale deeply as I pull the phone away a moment so as not to give myself away 

I cannot find any answer though to what he has said and feel too dizzy to think 

“I used to call you from my car outside, remember? I showed you ….”

“The same car?” I ask because I remember it from our trip when we drove from Paris to Rouen 

“No—that one had a sad demise,” he says with a kind of heavy nostalgia

“So the same house then….” I say because ….because ….it was that life that won over me 

“Well….it’s ….a lot different now—added on….” he says and I note he refrains from any pronoun 

“How is Clare?” I ask as I put my mind on the frank reality of the present 

“She’s ….she’s….” he sighs heavily 

“And the child …? Should be —what eight right now, I guess?”

“Please Beth….” unexpected is the heavy sorrow in his deep voice, “you’ve been on my mind so much lately,” he says with a sigh of defeat 

“Have you been reading my blog?”

“Do you think I ever stopped?” he asks

“I don’t know. How would I know?” I ask him. But then ask, “why did you call?”

He does not answer right away. But hear him moving around in his car. In my mind he is still in that old faded blue car with the mis-folded old maps stuck in the visors. 

After a moment he says,

“I’ve needed to hear your voice again. Maybe it was that recording. Or….maybe ….I just wanted that glimpse back of feeling ….anything.”

“It’s been eight years….” and I regret how cold my voice says this 

“I deserve that,” he says 

“No—no—I’m sorry….I ….have wondered about you. I just felt it was best to leave you in peace.”

“Peace. Is that what you call this?”

“I don’t know….but still, I mean—I left Chris ages ago and even that life feels it belonged to someone else.”

“I’ve been replaced by a Viking,” his laugh is forced 

“Not replaced —another who is otherwise engaged so to speak; unofficially still with his partner.”

“What happened with the other one?” he asks trying to seem casual 

“Who? Eliot? The step cousin of my illegitimate father and his ridiculous ideas….?”

“Nicholas? The archeologist researcher, professor?”

“Nigel—oh, he was just ….that was….I don’t know; his DNA memory theory was really why but he—was….I think he was my rebound ….from you,” and only as I say this do I realize what that was, “why did you really call me, Bran? Don’t tell me it was to give me lessons in Welsh.”

“But….it would be a good excuse,” he says