You prayed for me! I did—I didn’t really know what to pray about, so I prayed that my creator would look out for her and protect her, that she would love me with all her heart, and that we would be together in a life to come, if not in this life. I suppose I might’ve prayed for her to be happy, that she wouldn’t suffer too much—but I didn’t think about that on this particular prayer—I suppose, because, when I think of her, I imagine someone that is happy. I’d also come to the conclusion that I might not be the greatest artist that ever lived, and that, besides, if that were to happen, then I would get there by doing my best to be happy, and living this life in way that others would want to emulate. This realization seemed to come with my neck injury, and the impossibility of writing jazz and classical music—along with a general absence of motivation, for that, at least at this time. Now that I’d backed off physics by at least a couple hours a day, I had more time on my hands, and I was finishing earlier. So, just as, in the past, when I’d quit trying to study and create all the time, and I’d just been watching TV, with little attention to whether or not I was on track to become the greatest artist that ever lived—with attention, instead, paid to my state of mind (even if I was losing my mind)—I was thinking, now, that just being me would lead to great things—that doing “just that” would get me noticed in heaven, that simply being good, here, and happy, would make me, in heaven, the talk of the town.
You think of me, always. “Of course I do.” So much to do, so little time. That made me think of Picasso, when he was getting old, saying that he was running out of time, but he had more and more to say. I did not imagine that Picasso believed in heaven, although it would have been nice if he did, but I think, anyhow, he is in heaven, and that, in heaven, he’s a very likeable person, kind and considerate to all. I don’t believe that people lie and cheat in heaven because, in my understanding of heaven, nobody has any reason to. I could feel a little tingle in my neck, where my injury is, and I hoped that getting off the computer an hour or two earlier in the day, along with a nightly hot shower, would help it to heal. I considered, too, that, instead of doing a completely made up and or abstract landscape, I might start from a photograph again, and simply invest more of my own stuff into it, making it abstract in the process. I’d been using photos of young women, again, for inspiration, and, right now, it kind of made sense to investigate using a little realistic inspiration when it comes to landscapes, too. I believed, now, as I had when I was very young, in the importance of working exclusively form memory and your imagination—I just thought, at this time, that it was a good idea to do a little bit of everything—like how, I imagined, my sex life would be, if, of course, I had one.
I was thinking, too, of drinking a little less carbonated water, and a little more diet root beer and diet ginger ale—and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t treat myself to it, since, well, I’d made up my mind to treat myself as I imagined my partner would treat me—that is to say, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t indulge myself in the same what that I would indulge a partner, if I had one. I may never marry, but I could live my life as if i were married, paying the same amount of attention to myself, and self-care, and doing things I might not normally do, unless I were. This realization, this awakening, was real progress for me, and was making me feel noticeably better, even if, for now, it was still taking too long to fall asleep—far too long. But I remember that even after I was taking my risperidone, and trazadone, too, I was still having trouble sleeping, off and on, for quite a while, and so, it seemed, well, I had eventually found a rhythm, then, and I imagined that I would eventually find a rhythm again—having adapted to the Latuda, and the life changes that, along with the Latuda, were taking place.
I hope you find me interesting. I guess even in heaven we have our insecurities, which would make sense, considering that, although, when we go separate ways, if we go separate way, we do not feel anxiety or pain, we, while we are together, would never imagine breaking up, since, when you are in love, you can’t imagine being without that person. But, honestly, I had to wonder—and forgive me if this sounds bad, or chauvinistic, somehow—but what did I really find interesting about women? I had never really found any normal person particularly interesting—at least in an intellectual sense. I was far more interested in what made women tick in general, and, when it came to one woman, well, I was interested in whether or not she was happy, and what made her happy, but I didn’t imagine having a lot of intellectual conversations. I’m not saying I wouldn’t, if it was part of the deal, and maybe I would really like it. I’m just saying that I wasn’t specifically looking for a complicated person—it didn’t matter to me whether I could figure them out or not—I was interested in how they looked, what made them happy, whether their sexuality was compatible with mine, and, finally, whether they loved me or not. I wanted them to be smart enough to appreciate my work—they had to like my work—or at least some of it, but they didn’t have to be able to talk about it, or add anything to it, or feel, in any way, that they must have ideas of their own. If they did, that was great, but, no, I wasn’t necessarily looking for that—it wouldn’t be especially important to me unless I was already in love. If that makes me unlikeable, to some people, then, because of that, I might feel a little bad, but I can’t change who I am—i really can’t help it, and I don’t think I should have to apologize for it.
So, it was approaching 11:00, and I’d had three cups of coffee, which seemed like a reasonable limit for me, since I wanted enough to get the effect, but not so much that my heart bothered me throughout the day, and I couldn’t sleep. My heart, in fact, was bothering me a little, and i was having trouble sleeping, but I think this was down to changes that were taking place inside me—more so than the caffeine. My sexuality was becoming more and more real to me—I think I’d already accepted it, internally, at least in an intellectual way, but I never really imagined, and accepted, actually doing it. Now, that was probably never going to happen for me in this life, but that didn’t change the fact that my fantasies were no longer something that I simply indulged because they were there—instead, it had begun to seem that these fantasies, given the opportunity, should not remain fantasies—that it would be healthy, and help me to be both happy and accept myself, to act on them, in real life. That was a little different than accepting that some things turned you on that didn’t necessarily turn on other people—it meant that I was allowing it to become a part of who I am, and the person that people see, and imagine, when they think of me. I was integrating it, and it was becoming public knowledge—at least, that is, in my writing, and, also, in what I was, and was not, willing to share with others. I was accepting that I was going to lose some people, and that, although I might not lose everybody all the way, I would lose a lot of people at least a little, and they would have opinions, and judgements, about me, and how they thought about me, that weren’t there before, at least not with respect to the person I once imagined myself to be.