Ursula wasn’t talking much, but my scotch uncle was energetic in the background, as if he wanted to say something. “Now you know what it feels like,” he said. I guess he was talking about investigating prime numbers and their relationship to my physics model, which looked promising, albeit arduous. Now you see what he wants ”but does he want to communicate with me—or is he a little pissed and saying that me not being able to reach you was how he felt when he was trying to reach me?” I’d forgotten to tune him in when I was doing my math this morning. He was definitely excited, as if he’d seen my work already, in the future, and was passing that enthusiasm down. I don’t know if he was dumping his back at all, but if he admired me, then it might have been very difficult not to dump his back a little—or, at the very least, pass information down to me that I could use if I had the capacity to store it all at once.
that’s how i feel so, what? She wanted to say that she was a fan, and that she was trying not to dump on me? But that she really liked my work? that was nice. i let my smoker friend, in, then, and he said, “You’ve got to make this happen!” back to Ursula’s voice: they’re excited for you we all are. “They wanted me to send it back.” that was my way of telling Ursula that my smoker friend sent what I dumped back to me by not dumping his back when presented with the information that I couldn’t handle all at once. that was the great thing about having historical figures behind you. They could pick up what you didn’t have the capacity for, but were interested in, and send it back to you—in that way they were like storage entities. That’s something that I was grateful for, since, I know, what I can’t handle goes back to the past with little bits of my back that can make people suffer when they seek to follow you.
i listened to my stomach cancer uncle next—the one that used to experiment with monkeys, and he was talking about routing numbers. I switched back to Ursula, noting that I could address this person by using their voice to pronounce the word “routing.” i was seeing, next, a painter on TV saying that he put a little burnt sienna and alizarin crimson in his sky color—it was difficult sometimes, to get the sky exactly right if you just used ultramarine and white. that was Ursula telling me that she wanted to be a part of my life. “How so?” I want to work with you on your campaign ok—did she know something that i didn’t? Was i really supposed to run for president? I preferred to think quietly of such things—without putting them out there to leave me judged, mocked, and humiliated. But that seemed to be where she was calling from—a different area of my life that she was storing for me. It sounded like Ursula wanted what was best for my career, too, if, that is, being president allowed me to pursue my creative activities, and skip, I’d say, half the meetings I was supposed to make.
“I want to help your campaign—but don’t tell me to donate any money—i don’t have it; or, if i do, i don’t want to be solicited.” I know i probably should donate the measly five dollars for myself and my self-respect if nothing else—but the thought of getting solicited by the democratic party when they are not taking proper care of me was abhorrent. I suppose at some point I’ll donate ten bucks so that I can know for myself that I contributed to putting this person, my favorite person, in a position that would make it possible for her to help me—such that, eventually, I might be able to bring an heir into my life. Someone to love and look after; someone that, no doubt, would be worth it.
I figured I still had time—if my smoker friend could have two children in his sixties, then, maybe I still had time. But i wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t look after the child and or if I hadn’t made it possible for him to live as I live, if he, in fact, couldn’t work. Healthcare for all was a giant step in that direction—but it wasn’t enough. Someone like me needs an allowance coming from the government, enough to live modestly—and look after at least one child. we need to meet before you turn sixty—i can only have children for approximately the next ten years ahead, if that. “In that case, you’ll have to find me—I can’t find you; given all that I’ve written, it would be inappropriate for me to seek you out. We’ll have to wind up at the same table at some fancy dinner or something—and that, for me, drives a hard bargain. But I guess, by then, this will be written, and my feelings will be apparent. Don’t pity me, though; i get plenty from subscribing to your channel—the channel of your voice.”