Strange, received a letter today, a beautifull envelope, the adress written with inkpen, might even have been a quill, but calligraphed or written so beautifully as if……as if it had been written by a woman. It was thick paper, a bit rough to the touch, it was a mix of cotton and newspaperpulp, a bit like parchment. I smelled it, i had a scent of flowers, a scent i did not rememeber, had to ask my wife, she said it was lavender. She laughed, asked me with a chuckle if might have a love on the side, i did not know what to say, then and there that moment, lost my temper, yes i am that kind of male, when i am lost for words……i get mad, it is not very highstanding or a sign of good class or sportsmanship as my old mates would say. Damned, these kinds of thoughts have not been in my head……ever !, since i am reading, studying the notebooks of the Artist, these thoughts, ideas, feelings are continually in my head. He, she, is affecting me, through his or her work i am being affected, i am being forced to examine my life…….because of the artworks, the peoms and darwings……………..yes, i am amazed about it.
The letter, i steamed it open, i did not want to damage the envelope, opened it carefully, some coins rolled out, some lavender flowers, my wife was right and an empty shell from his inkpen. I was remembered of that Cornell bloke with his artfull boxes, this time, with this ‘Artist’, it was an envelope and one leaf of paper acme out. I unfolded it, on my desk, i wa struck by the beauty, the intensity and the………what is, was the word, necessity or deliberateness of these letters, words, these things he told me about. I felt like i was drawn in to a………..an adventure or……….something scripted by someone, something else, another world, something that brought me back to the memories of my own war, just as scary and unfathomable as his or…….no, i was safe in Bletchly Park, we had been safe, it had only been the work of our heads and some intelligence thinktanking back then………….this man, woman, held me captive with these beautifully written words, sentences, the intensity of life, emotion and feeling all held in this letter to me.
I gather he wanted to explain things about himself but……there were no explanations, some about the way he created his notebooks, some insights in the why of his stories and why he had his ‘adventures’. Why he used the images of these women, he was filling a hole within himself, healing himself through all these women or…….am i just filling in the gaps through only my eyes. I am a logician, a mathematician, his world is………unknown, strange, beyond anything i have ever known in my life. I wish i could see him, talk with him, like i walk and talk with my son Robert.
This man makes me think of the unknown filosopher, whose works have been circulating in masonic circles in Yumanopolis. I have read samples of them, the ideas in these notes make me think that the ‘Artist’ is just like the unknown filosopher. Both men are unknown, safe for some, can it be that people live in Yumanopolis only known by a ‘title’, can we call it a title.
I took the Balsac report from Berlin from my archive cabinet, read it again. Had i read it or had i forgotten to read it, i could not remember. Harry Balsac is my Private Investigator, nothing stays hidden for him, he gets his man……always, so he did and this kind of comrade out of arms persuaded him not to tell anything and leave him be. This means that Harry balsac was impressed by him or he would not have said yes to the proposal of the Artist. I read the report, all the places the Artist had been, the women he had been with and where the Berlin notebook had turned up. The final bit was about the ISF, a very frightening bit. The ISF had started out as part of the Intelligence Community of the Merican Territories. In the civil war the organisation that became the ISF sided with the Middle merican Territories, that is the conservative forces, headed by three generals. The ISF was reformed, became a national agency and did all kinds of police tasks and……..developed techniques of unconventional warfare (fringe sciences, psychic warfare, magickal warfare), actively, trying them out on their own countrymen during the civil war, without any……….scruples and then the civil war ended. The ISF had become national and then became international, hunting down soldiers of the outer forces, especially those of certain military programs, programs that had enhanced the abilities of the persons involved. The ISF had it in mind to return all the enhanced veterans to the MericanTerritories and keep their findings and powers under lock and key.
I had been aware of strange disapperances in newspapers, in Par-Isi, Rome, Munchen, Ulm, Amsterdam, even some murders or unexplained dead found in other places on the Yumanopolis mainland. Now i had read this ISF bit……it clicked, i understood, the ‘Artist’ is one of these soldiers/agents, changed in a government program to enhance his abilities and thend result is………..a person without a past, drifting around in Yumanopolis, going for a Guinness World Record in sleeping with women all over Yumanopolis. Pieces of a puzzle, the Artist was sharing them, sharing them on purpose for……….he might disappear or end up dead when the ISF caught up with him and no one, i would never hear of him again, i would never, ever collect another of his notebooks and……………i would miss it, i would miss it not to read his stories, look at his drawings, knowing he is, was, out there having his adventures, giving love to these women that invited him by……..just saying yes, yes to his………..what was it that these women liked about him, i could not get that from his notebooks……nor from the descriptions of these women he had been with, they ahd given descriptions but they all seemed to……….not describe him at all. The strange thing is……i still don’t know if he is a man or a woman, Harry Balsac says he is a man but……..it is as if something, someone is throwing me off in this regard.
The Artist is affecting my life and……………i don’t mind. It is crazy ofcourse, me the man of logic is being swept of his feet by something and someone untangible, like Evelynn is taken by him, by his works or are he and his works……………he is affecting me, he seems to be taking me somewhere, some filosophical place, a stance of being…………..i am wrting this but i am not aware of what i am writing, i feel like i am automatic writing. God, i hope i don’t go the ‘Conan Doyle way’, laughed off in to oblivian if and when i try to tell about……the Artist. I leave this in the Hands of Evelynn, she is younegr, stronger, her mind is still shaping and pliant, god, this is truly something else……..i know where this is going, it will not be long and the Artist will be here, in Breet, Brittania and he will be here on the doorstep and……………….
I have to stop writing now, have to talk with my wife about all of this, it is, has become a bit too much. Although, i like the exitement, it is like the exitement of breaking the codes of the Axis before Yumanopolis had become one. This man, this ‘Artist’, is shaking my memories loose, all kinds of things bubbling up, i’ll really have to talk to my wife, she’ll love it, she in to that kind of talky-talk stuff, lets make use of it and in a way that is conducive to the process. The ‘process’, it makes me chuckle, this Artist has got me and he is freeing me of………….i’ll stop writing now, its a bit much, i feel someone s pushing me and i don’t like to be pushed. That was the reason i left Bletchly Park after the war. NOW I STOP.