bien sûr par e-mail :) ! C’est bon! J'aimerais voir vos interprétations vidéo de mes mots comme vos icônes ! s'il vous plaît

tu as restauré ma foi en ….  humanité

surtout le genre "man….kind”

e.d&film noir jmmusechron/shields for battle

Jörn stands in the doorway of the old familiar art decco bedroom that had once belonged to my biological father, in the penthouse that had once been his that is now partially a museum 

In the dimness and shadows he watches me

“Andreas ….told me …you were here,” he says from the distance 

His words echo 

I sit at the old dressing table with the silver combs and porcelain brushes that once belonged to ….oh, I don’t know—I realize, I should ask Ilya 

“What happened to Ilya?” he asks as though reading my mind, “he said—“

“Oh, we found the overnight bag—“ I suddenly look up at him, “she’s gone into labor—I didn’t know she was expecting ….”

“Oh—how could you?—you’ve been—“

“Yes, I’ve been….I’m not going back there Jörn.”

“You have to!”

“I have to?” I stand up and walk to the window, “nobody owns me. I don’t have to do anything, I belong to me and I decide what I do.”

& always appears

votre message était parfaitement chronométré !  comme d'habitude!

I often get the feeling he wants to scare me away; always—but never consciously do I call his bluff, no;it is more like some intangible, invisible tether that is not like the others

in meditation, more thoughts later ….etcetera, electra 

lost memories in dreams(thoughts for the legends of electra)

to examine a pilgrimage’s direction:

If a vampire is undead how could he stand for healing? 

that he stopped to see the dove in the heart of winter’s bitterness ….

as I focus on the dna containing the leftovers of our ancestral pitfalls 

I look at guilt and trauma and the manners of how the individuals learned to adapt or not —and survive as best they knew how 

but structuring a pattern that would be forced to repeat 

because the wheels and impetus never stopped to reflect upon why

suppose we may wonder 

when was the original sin…. ? which side of the gene pool —or both? was that why they are drawn together…. Manny and his trapeze artist  

and what is that reflex in me to grab my things and take flight —like a wild Gypsy on the run 

I suspect it goes further back than when those two knew each other in Warsaw 

And what does this have to do with a Viking and a Dove ….have you paid attention? 

she would watch into the distance towards where the cliff’s sharp edge stopped to drop out into the sea past the blinding rocks

the was a narrow hidden pass in the thick density of the woodsy forest 

since a child it was a secret place to go and where she first saw him. the boy from past the fork. past the fork was forbidden. he wore their colors, and she always remembered how well they matched his eyes. when they were older they handfasted 

before she got onto that boat with the man with the vampire eyes, there was a world she had and left behind

while vague, they tell me I must complete the journey back ….to find the circle home 

whether bitter or sweet, the Opera stands for that journey

does the wolf moon cry wolf

So the course of this saga has been always governed by purpose, 

   and I stop to define so —lest the work ever be shelved onto the pile of ‘modern memoir’ or who-knows-what 

well what do we mean by purpose, yet again, after all…, 

so let us be clear 

    I am an observer of people,

 a people watcher 

 so I guess as a witness to a society, there is a passion within me to try and awaken the sleeping dragon of the slothland, yet so apathy seems to come from the exhaustion of experience 

I must use my own life as the example; the apparatus to dissect and as my mission is true to my soul, I am always true to my purpose and so, I know this is odd to say but, it is the thruth; it’s never let me know how it feels to ever get to come first …. to anyone and not even to myself to seek what I need 

So I look outside my one Self of Celves to the dynamic I landed in 

and wonder about DNA memory —the sins of the father ….do we take on their guilt…. 

Do we take on their guilt! But it is not just for the sake of the torture ….you see

you see?

You know, I must search backward, I think and so wonder as how Freud has identified how trauma did warp the generations he witnessed. And I look to Freud because that was the generation that came on the boat from the old country in my ancestry. 

As I have mentioned the mystery of the woman who was my grandfather’s mother from Pinsk who claimed to be a widow. On my grandfather’s side we have this mystery: She gave birth to my grandfather soon after her arrival (yet this never was discussed or ever addressed in the family)and from the old photos I recall, she looked like Ingrid Bergman and was quite tall and blonde.she did not look like the peasant, nor of the faith she claimed to be. And my grandfather never spoke about it. And thst says so much 

But on my grandmother’s side is another mystery. Who was my grandmother’s mother? 

She died young. After twelve births. And many more pregnancies that did not make it to full term.

My grandmother was the twelfth one. She had eleven siblings. Her name was Jewel. Sometimes in records it is ‘Julia’ and in my family it seems everyone has had derivative alternatives to their names. I think this was intended for many purposes  

My mother spoke of the husband. The father of the twelve . She called him “Manny” and she told me he was narrow boned like me and had small hands and feet. It made me wonder about his other appendages especially considering his success rate and ….when she would say, “Grampa Manny was a trombenik,” and then looked at her sister and mother they would exchange glances in —that way. Very telling when you learn to interpret facial expressions quite young. 

My grandmother would say,

“they really should trace the family line through the mother. They can claim it’s the husband but only she knows. And sometimes even she doesn’t.”

They would sit around the round kitchen table, Harry’s girls, as they were called by my grandfather’s buddies —and there was my mother, my grandmother, my aunt and my cousin Pat(my hippie idol among the cursed 27) and play with their make up, trade lipsticks, open new boxes and gossip about this enormous family of cousins ….and if I pretended to fall asleep, I’d get to hear all the dirt. And there was a lot

But my grandmother’s mother? 

“She was a gypsy,” according to my grandfather but my grandmother would get angry and say,

“She was a trapeze artist!”

“In a traveling circus,” he would counter 

“Well, they moved around a lot and were more like nomads—from Warsaw— but we only tell everyone we’re French—“

Nobody at the table believed the French remark snd all burst out laughing as soon as she said it. 

Which is funny because I ended up with the French from the other means and by a means she never approved of. 

a Gypsy trapeze artist from Poland who had twelve children with a no good trombenik 

I don’t know about Halcyon Days but once having read Freud I understood : what - went - wrong - there ….

do you know how many cousins come from twelve? From the oldest to the youngest the generations span 

 My mother had dozens of photo albums of their weekends at Jones Beach and Coney Island and every photo album took hours for her to tell the stories behind them

As a literary biographer you look at turning points in people’s lives that caused impressions on the artist and upon their lives

A ship to Ellis Island 

The Great Depression that the photo albums were filled with. Poverty was their reality. And often twelve sibling’s children and children’s children were crammed inside apartments meant for families a third that size.

 And …. yet …. 

   one day my mother put all the albums away 

     and not once ever did she tell those stories again. Turning points and catalysts. Harry’s girl’s lost two members six months apart. First Jewel and then it was Pat who overdosed; intended or not

but within a year we left Florida and my mother was never the same (having to also hide that she’d have also been a widow because my biological father had also just passed away); became a shell of herself, the ornament of her husband’s arm with a frozen smile

My grandfather was the only sane one —or I should say; the only one looking out for me. While he was alive my mother had a protector and —so did I  

I focus here —to lay to rest a past

it’s what an artist does for growth with a cathartic work and is the lens of my focus

What it becomes as it would to anyone and how it manifests is the art of free will and I am just here to log it as well as I may