More thoughts today of the legend as Project; clipboard notes

years ago when I first began this ongoing story of mine, told as diary and story merged together with fiction and autobiography confused into one, it was during my years growing up in the Netherlands and I would dream out the windows of trains through the cities and trams through Utrecht, The Hague and Amsterdam, and inspired by how the tram underpass went right into Central Station I would imagine James Bond scenes….

part of the stories took on the literary poetry of my favorite authors but mixed with this was one movie star icon—Garbo— I guess I recognized a sort of kinship for the way she averted the world. I’d see those long range angled photos of her taken by the paparazzi, kind of fuzzy, so far in the distance, though it was unmistakably her; she was always so obscure and well hidden, yet glamorous in her mystery; shrouded under a hat with upturned coat collar. 

Then later in my life when I was a bit older, was the other I felt closely identified with for her manner of method of thoughts blended with scenes; Anaïs Nin whose perspectives on life and the world felt so much like my own. 

And so, as my story evolved over the years, as a dyslexic who thinks in picture, well, it always seemed my story had to be a film ….told with her voice like a diary but with the narrator, like Garbo, always obscured 



sage

 

Something fundamental changes within once one has passed through the chamber of life. At birth it is usually quickly forgotten as one encounters so many impressions in which to adjust and understand. If again, though, if it should happen ….there is no question, no doubt….it was real and impossible to be convinced otherwise no matter how the evangelists may preach and debate with their semantics and ignorant witch-hunting dogma 

yes, one is forever changed. It is confusing and overwhelming and so profound and imbues every thought and act thenceforth….and makes impossible to ever blindly ever again follow the scriptures that do not ring true to what you yourself have seen

this too has set me on my solitary path and as I find myself  now falling into deep thought, I forced myself to remember ….what came after for me. I was only 18 when it happened and violence which proceeded it sets it in a different light than had it occurred in an operating theatre or some other way because of the plain fact I’d not known my life would be in danger until the horrific moments before and that they were horrific ….well, in parallel it was traumatic 

I never talked about it. I had no one to turn to; no bosom friend, no faithful relative upon whose shoulder I could weep so…. those days after the event, which too I kept to myself out of fear…. much of it is like a dark cave within me….a cave I don’t think I ever crawled out of…. and I have thought of those moments after; those hours after…. days….weeks and then months ….they are blurry, like going under the water in the ocean and looking up above at the surface—sounds muted….senses muted…. life muted…. Looking back, I know I was all alone and as I reflect on this now, you know, the terror never leaves….never….but I became my own crutch, my own shoulder and counsel that I clearly realize was all that I had and all I ever had ….save what saved me that day….what saved me that day….? but there is no doubt. just the whys. why….and I am all these years later wondering how I got up off the floor that day; how I faced the world ….how I squared my shoulders and stayed so quiet about an event that altered me forever and would always set me apart from everyone I would know and keep me removed and a bit numb but also ….cause me to feel everything so deeply; life; love; every moment and every tragedy I witnessed and heard of…. it did not make me a philosopher as—I already had such a mind…. 

so as I reflect upon this and life….again and again like I do today ….  I wonder about every step I have walked away on that solitary path with only this allegorical sheet of paper blowing through a subway to land on someone’s lap with my words 

do I touch you? 

is this why?

or just the impression which I leave, is it just art on the cave wall, like a museum gallery ….but only to be found by chance

Electra’s dictionary/surprising message(jmmusechron)

 

Something for which I will never understand, is how I have witnessed an attitude from some —either in my past or those in passing ….as though they own a piece of you, or all of you because they open a door, say hello or insist upon some tiny generous act of such which was never asked for 

independence is like oxygen to me and I see now —this— has been what keeps me on this solitary path and ….really separates me from the stereotype of my gender ….so much so to the extent that I really do wish to be called some other gender ….yes, I would chat with you, I would enjoy the hours in discussion only though if it is understood we begin as equals ….until you prove yourself not up to par ; then I would grow bored I am sure

and I see now this is what feels most threatening to that mighty gender or those posing as such but thank god I am older now to look at the generation I’ve been among and can laugh at them all now for their lazy minds and sloth like energy to prove them able to keep up with the will and conversation which I enjoy to challenge 

oh how they bore me

I see an interesting email,

“Oh my god!” I say aloud, “someone is interested in my project!”

It is on the way back from headquarters, but now with it all catching up with me, feeling sick in the car —the tension sets off the spinal pain and causes the inflammation ….from the stress of day, all the switching gears of events which began in the psychiatrist’s office, then the ordeal of being shot at 

….and the other part I have not written about —what happened on the highway when Jörn got out

to chase them I’d thought but…. that’s not what happened. What happened was—the one chasing us got in through the backseat door ….and holding a weapon attempted to kidnap me which is exactly what Jörn was banking on….calculated risk so he says

I look up now from the email and glance at Jörn’s profile

“You’re still angry,” Jörn says now as he drives 

“Can we not talk about this anymore today?—my head is going to explode,” I put my head down between my legs feeling unwell but I say, noticing a shard of glass on the floor, “the windshield is fixed….”

I hear Jörn’s casual grunt,

“while you were giving the statement.”

“So I’m going back to Sunny’s—what’ll I tell him?”

“He’s been unaware you were gone,” Jörn says, “he had a health emergency while you were at Dr. Evens, he’ll return by tomorrow noon, likely….so….”

But I notice we are still en route towards the lodge yet,

“this is not the way….” I say as I realize

“No…. there is an adjacent property which ….” that pause I know

“Let me guess, Airbnb?”

And I hear that chuckle

Oh little earth, there comes the sun

to shine upon you, 

and yesterday is done….

as the moon watched over you

comes the sun to renew

hollow streaming

 

what a world we live in now, I don’t understand it as it seems we have wandered past the idylls of an optimism once sung about that had inspired me as an artist to wish for that new renaissance 

years ago, it was the time when I met the woman seer; the psychic I have written here about before who told me all those things that wound up happening ….she knew of all the things that happened in my childhood, then about the other violence I had known …. she told me of the losses and of the heartbreak I would know as a mother, and my ability to know of things before they happened and the wisdom that came with this…. she told me that of love it would not come easy to me; I would not be seen for myself ….not really but she said that much later, in my life, that through my written words I would one day be seen and only then truly loved…. I think she only said this to give me faith to carry on and that was very kind of her, don’t you think, my lovely followers I am so grateful for?…. do you know how often I have wished she had been wrong?

I don’t know where we are going, Electra but I do wonder if we are ripe for an alien nation 

DC headquarters scene continues

 

“How dare you tell me this now!” is what comes out of my mouth 

and I run up to him to slap his face—but he stops me by grabbing my wrist 

….and then we are eye to eye looking at each other and I search his for ….truth ….I look deep within their beauty and keep myself from falling in….into them,

“controlling …. I feel like I wait my whole life for my fate to be decided and years wasted wondering if any of it has meant anything ….if I have….or was it all just a game to fill in your time while you keep searching for some better elusive prize….“ I say and look at his hand wrapped around my wrist, “do you think I’ll wait forever for you—what if we don’t have forever?”

He loosens his grip on my wrist and brings it down to weave his long fingers through mine and uses our hands to push me too him, pulling my arm this way behind me and pressing our fists into the small of my back

“Did you mean that?” I ask 

But his eyes tell me. The poker face dropped…. and his eyes are so beautiful when they are vulnerable, until now I don’t think I ever saw this quite ….so

“Yes,” he says 

Another knock jolts the moment as the door bursts open and Stina enters,

“we need to get your statement!” she says and slams a recording device on the desk and with a curious glance at the toppled chair she hauls it up in one motion 

Driving DC concluded; Pulp noir(jmmusechron)/Electra’s dictionary **

 

It is later, at headquarters when I don’t want to think about what just happened—I find myself in an office that faces away from the congestion, overshadowed by some trees that camouflage the reality of the surroundings.

There is not much to look at in the room, only a plain office desk made of mystery wood and stained to look lustrous, but exhibiting no unique individuality of the nature of tree texture which I find I prefer somehow. Prefer it because there is no need to lament the fallen sacrifice of that glorious vegetation. 

I avoid thoughts of Jörn, thoughts of the danger of what occurred during the chase and his estimated …. choice to play with my life —speaking of sacrifices ….I feel so angry….angry at mankind, angry on an unreasonable scale at a species and gender too that I’d rather not deeply reflect upon…. I have learned through personal experimentation that it is not realistic to counter what you feel; you cannot annihilate what you feel—the result, instead, is you bury it, but when you bury it, it’s just covered up, poking internally like a thorn in your side and reminds you whenever you try to move about 

So I acknowledge this. As I look at the fake wood of the desk, try to name the mix of colors that I recognize went into the stain’s hue….alizarin crimson….as I cling to this ….because it is one of the two of my favorite colors ….especially Windsor and Newton’s….and pulls me temporarily down an avenue of release ….away from the rawness of the savagery of my own anger 

yes I grab onto this fabrication ….thinking of tubes of it….squeezing it out and how it glosses and shines as it catches the light still so pure on my imagined pallet ….why ruin it? poised over it as I know in time it will not stay thus, the air has already contaminated ….its existence to remain ….so

Out the window something distracts me….a movement of a bird ….

then….no, it’s not a bird, too jerky in motion, not the natural kind anyway; drone ….’a little bird told me….’ 

again, I am wrong, I’m being paranoid —just a helicopter descending as now I can feel the nearby vibration shaking the building 

and look away….I had shut the abrasive overhead light off with its LED migraine caresses so the grey of the carpet and walls are subdued in a lush of FBI shadow I prefer to be cloaked under

Desk, chairs, a cabinet discreetly in one corner, the other, corner window and steel sills with pulled up blinds

There is a knock at the door that is startling though expected that comes just a second before the door opens 

“Are you all right?”

“How dare you!” I say, not a shout but still spat, despite my intentions to not expose my emotions

Jörn looks at me, now changed into a dark blue business suit, superbly, expertly cut to outline his every angle to advantage 

“Do you keep a wardrobe here?” I ask because he only just looks at me

“I understand you’re angry,” he says as he carefully walks towards me

I turn away from those eyes,

“angry….” I say but the laugh I attempt never is conjured and I get up and kick the desk chair….and we both watch it ungracefully topple in an awkward tumble, landing wheels up, one hitting the wall and spinning 

I look at Jörn again now….he glances from the chair to me with one brow now cocked thoughtfully and —a stiffness around his mouth that holds back a desire to —laugh? that his eyes betray revealed by a twinkle he attempts to hide by looking down quickly 

“What is it with your kind that just decide what will happen without asking first? How dare you decide for me?”

“My kind?” again that raised eyebrow 

“Your—species!—breed!—gender!—type!—controlling, bossy, assuming, superior—“

“Now you’re just rattling off adjectives in tandem that challenge my grasp of your language as you do tend to morph their meanings….Duva—look—“

“No, you look! You can’t just pop in and out of my life and think it’s ok to play craps with it! Being shot at on the highway—“

“Now that wasn’t my fault—“

“But telling me to stay in the car when YOU get out and leave me there as bait —WAS!—“

He shrugs grudgingly but there’s no remorse,

“it was well calculated, you were never in any actual danger, duva—“

“Says who? According to who? Whose calculations? Not mine —from where I was sitting!”

“Duva—“

“Don’t ‘Duva’ me, fuck you! How dare you play with my life—my safety—my needs—what about what I want, what about my fucking opinions of what I want to happen or —DO!? I have to get back to the lodge—Sunny’s going to wonder, don’t you even see that much? Deciding for me when—you’ve put my—my—fucking —cover—at risk!!—jeez!….I want out of all this! I want to get out of here—away from you and away from your species telling me how to live my life—“

“You mean gender, right—? I’m pretty good with English but like I say, you can be challenging!” and he laughs at me

“Fuck you, Jörn!” I snap and then under my breath, “translate that!”

There is a pregnant pause

Then within the silence he says,

“Jag älskar dig….” 

and his voice has gone dry ….that it cracks

It touches some unknown nerve within me

At first I don’t understand. I hear instead his tone. It has been awhile since I thought of the phrase. Especially connected to him. But….slowly it registers.

Why now? Why say this now? In an FBI setting of all places too….why now? Is it to shut me up?

I look up at his eyes. They watch me. 

“I don’t want you to go back there,” he says and ….it is the vulnerability that I hear ….and see….that disarms me

**freedom of choice among other things, hidden in my meanings I rage about here; read between all the legend lines