he is a victim of his emotions and blindly as he drags everyone with him through them in a childish rage 

 I see past your smokescreen 

JMMuse Noir (Ed)continues

And as I stare up so wistfully at that tiny phantom of a helicopter speck that is not even there

I hear Jörn make the oddest—and yet—familiar sound. Like an apologetic cough before,

“jag är ledsen, duva….”

I do turn my head quick —but!lights out!! All goes dark like dreamless sleep 

….was there a prick, a jab?I don’t know ….

Chapter and verse; First day at the bookstore at Walt Whitman

Long Island

And so we begin this part of the dictionary by rewinding through time to

      as I recall, it was Spring…..

The driveway pulling out does a kind of semi-snake at our house in Huntington New York. Whilst overhead hangs heavy branches of the old trees that inhabit the grassy land in front of the ranch style house. The house sits on a cul-de-sac at the end of Buttercup lane, and off of Windmill Drive and Cherry Lane which feeds from 25A of Long Island’s North Shore. 

Behind the ranch house and hidden from the road is an in ground pool, and a great place to find dead squirrels and frogs, often killed by MacDuff; the short black Scottish terrier (my mother’s husband’s pride and joy) with a thirst for blood (he took his first bite of human flesh from me and it just never ended for him)

So, between how the drive snakes, the heavy tree branches and how the drive slopes up out to the cul-da-sac, it was always a challenge backing out the drive, but today was spring and no worries of snow drifts.

It is a beautiful drive from 25A to Walt Whitman Mall, but if instead you turn left and not right and instead take the Deer Park Road way, it is not as pretty. But it saves you about ten minutes. 

I liked to go that way because it reminds me of the way to West Hills; one of the equestrian places I have ridden. So as I drive to work that day, I leave open the windows for the scent of early floral blooms that reach into my car’s interior and with it mixes that distinctive horse scent from my riding saddle from the back seat. 

It is the day I go to meet my new boss as her assistant manager at the bookstore, having just returned from my trip to New Orleans (from a high school reunion). My head is all full of confusion. If only I could tell that me it was not worth the headache. 

So, I wait st the stoplight to make the left to the mall and think. I consider my goals ….my acting classes in New York City at H B Studio ….what for ….do I see myself on Broadway? No. I stare at the light. Do I see myself in commercials for laxatives and female products? Please not that…. 

Beside me in the passenger seat is my Anaïs Nin book. It goes with me to work as the excuse to leave to read on my own. I have had it since my second bookstore job when it hit me in the head while I was vacuuming one morning at work. I saw it as a sign. It is the lavender covered one; volume four of her early diaries. My favorite of her diaries—I think because it was the first one I discovered of her. 

It provides, at this moment, at that stop light—a symbol to grasp onto. 

Because—do I see myself as a bookstore district manager one day? Or a retail executive ….? I start to hyperventilate …. Oh my god ….

The light turns green 

But I cannot breathe …. Jack…. Jack …. Jack Kerouac ….

breathe ….and pull in from the back, drive around the parking lot, passing the department store attached to the mall. I drive to the other side, which parallels Walt Whitman’s historic house (and is a museum). 

So why do I go through the other entrance? Walk all the way back where A & S used to be? Because I am curious to see how the job I just left is doing without me ….and notice there is an unloaded shipment on the curb and a truck driver who looks furious. 

Of course this is amusing to me as I rush through the mall, passing the Gloria Jean’s heady smell of coffee on my way.

I am breathless when I arrive at the store and go right up to the front desk

“Bruce?” I ask the guy behind the desk (he hated me because I got the job over him, but at this moment, I have no clue he wanted it)

He is a nerdy, stout young guy, prematurely middle aged at 23 with a miserly disposition 

“Are you the new manager? Debbie is waiting for you in the back,” then abruptly he walks away 

I walk the long isle of books and sections, past tables and displays. It is a very busy shop with mothers and young children actively engaging with others and lines of customers waiting to pay; I have always loved the rush of activity and the stimulation of engagement; indeed, it is something I have always needed

When I reach the back, I recognize Debbie

    but ….to my shock the older woman 

    who during our interview had appeared mousy and frompy with greasy hair and a librarian mode of clothing style ….and 

while all this remains still apparent, I find her making-out across the receiving table, by the receiving back door 

stunned disbelieve I …. stand there stock still staring ….until ….

until…. until….

someone else clears his throat —but sense it was intended for the frompy book store manager, hidden under a man, laying across her, over the receiving table. 

I decide to look at who cleared his throat and turn to my left inside the back of the doorway, as I have entered the back room 

“Yeah….” he says….

I see a very tall guy wearing a purple pirate bandana….over long blond hair, tied back in a pony tail. He stands by a computer and holds a twelve inch Bowie knife as he casually opens boxes with it. The rest of his ensemble includes what appears as —a hand made poet’s shirt tucked into black gypsy/genie trousers (also hand made?), tucked into black cowboy boots —where he now stores his Bowie knife. He says to me,

“hi, I’m John—are you starting here today?” 

He uses an extra loud voice. He pointedly looks at me, then at them and says again, “hey are you starting today? Are you the new MANAGER?”

Debbie gives a whelp under the prone male who is wearing dark blue work trousers and a stained (ketchup and mustard?)cream colored Oxford shirt, half untucked over her….

I stand there as the Oxford shirted guy stands up but—someone behind me says in a brittle toned voice,

“Debbie, I think you and I need to have a talk….”

I turn and see an older woman in a business suit. She looks at me. She reaches to shake my hand,

“You’re starting today, you’re Dawn? Hi, I’m Mary, I am the district —and the regional manager! And I’ve heard a lot about you, you came from the competition—guess what?!!—you’re going to be the acting general manager here starting today! Congratulations!”

She turns and walks to Debbie, opens the back door,

“you,” she points to the guy, “you,” she points to Debbie, she steps outside the door, “out here, with me!”

Chapters & verse

Pre-Quel Electra’s Dictionary; the chapters and the celves invention that lead to the need for a JMMuseNoir

[Note to Celf: Examine henceforth some pages to begin examining the landmarks]

Chapter & verse; the chapters the celves inventions….

to be continued [marker to Celf: starting with the encounter  ‘revival of dharma’via stacks&print]

to be continued

 

you know, it is not that I don’t have things to write about but lately I guess I wonder once again about why 

I can write until the cows come home ….and there are cows all around me, you can be sure and —they are all home ….but why?they told me to write and …. I guess it is something about how I string my words but with the thought vortex they just tumble out 

I would never have given a fig to be a writer

 had it not been for Mr Page 

and Mr Lance 

(of whom kept my 13 year old journal)

but if not for those English teachers, I was actually quite glad to dream out the window

 my imaginary lives (but then—something happened

that day Mr Page read my daydream to the class telling everyone it was from a magazine something powerful flooded through me as I listened to and watched the reactions from the class as he read. I stood outside myself and felt like a charge rush through me like a tuning fork ….)

and the fear of the power 

the pressure for important words ….when all I want to do is doodle 

that really is code for something —you know….

our immediate domestic and emotional needs dictate our lives