You’ve got to hand it to yourself—you’re a wiseass. What now? Did I actually want to make pornography with my partner? I don’t know about that, but maybe—it was a far off possibility, if, that is, I didn’t, in doing so, ruin my chances of becoming the president, which would never happen, of course, but that mattered, and, I imagined, there could be a world in which I could get away with that, if I went about it the right way, and I was really lucky in life, however unlikely. But anyhow, I put the pornography off for a day and a half now—the imagery got a little distorted, a little ugly, in my mind, and I wanted to wait for it to pass. I wanted to wait, too, because solid telepathic communications did not always mean watching something. You had to use your imagination—and see what came into your consciousness. That was how you got some idea of who you are, what’s going on, and how thing are taking shape. I would never do that, except I might, if it didn’t stop either one of us, in whatever universe, of becoming the president.
I wondered, then—if pornography didn’t stop you from advancing up the career ladder, in any way, then how many people would actually be interested in doing it? A hell of a lot more? Maybe, when you’re young and wild, and you do things that, once you get older, you’re embarrassed by, but what about adults that knew themselves, and weren’t simply trying out whatever on impulse, acting out, in effect, however innocently? How many people actually wanted to pursue this, and would take no shame in it, after the fact? Would it be a hell of lot more? Maybe not—I don’t know. It seemed to me it would be lot more, on the one hand, since it wouldn’t impede your career, and, as such, it wouldn’t impede your social standing or whatever idea of class you might subscribe to; but, on the other hand, it seemed to me that a lot of people were fundamentally monogamous, once they found a partner, didn’t watch pornography, weren’t interested in advertising their sexuality, and, in doing so, connecting with people on a level that might or might not invite sexual relationships, or, at the very least, attention—attention that could change how people behave around you, even if, ultimately, they do not judge you.
I’m going to the moon and back, and I’m taking you with me. Ok—I was up for the adventure, although I didn’t know exactly what the moon represented for her, or if it was just a figure of speech—I was far mor interested in interstellar travel, going to a habitable world, with trees and vegetation, a world I could move to, if I wanted, and coming back from there, from that. That was what I wanted. I didn’t want to leave earth, necessarily—but I wanted to go there, and come back, at least, and know, deep down, that moving there was a real possibility, and that others eventually would be moving there, regardless—just like people that moved from Europe to America when the continent was discovered. Well, it was 10:00, and I wanted to enjoy my coffee buzz for two and a half or three hours, actually, but, given the difficulty I was having with getting to sleep, I couldn’t allow that to happen. I was basically getting to my computer a little after 9:00, getting two cups of coffee in, and then it was about 10:00, and time to quit, so, if I started getting to sleep I might extend coffee time to 11:00, but I didn’t want to ruin a good thing in doing so, and I didn’t know that I was going to be getting to sleep on time with full confidence every night for a while yet, so, it seemed, well, if I wanted to enjoy coffee time for two or two and a half hours, I was going to have to get up earlier, and even then, the extra caffeine might interfere, and, furthermore, I didn’t want to get up any earlier. I was already doing a full day’s work by 4:00, and then watching about four hours of TV after that, which was probably about as much TV as I could realistically watch at this point in my life—so I didn’t want to get up any earlier. It would add time to my day that I wouldn’t know how to spend—and, besides, I liked getting ten hours of rest, even if, for an hour or so, I was adrift, daydreaming, in a semi-conscious state, regulating my breathing, reciting poetry, praying, or whatever, as if I might still go back to sleep, or, if I might not, as if I was in the bath—dreaming up my day, and organizing my thoughts.
I have to admit, however, near total sobriety, other than what my medications were doing for me, without a coffee buzz for a few hours, without cigarettes to change things up, without wine, or even a little liquor, to take the edge off, at night, was a little rough. Watching TV longer, getting closer to a relaxed state, to my true self, when I am doing virtually nothing but existing in my skin, made me think of these things—I don’t know if that’s because, deep down, I still don’t like myself enough, or if, on the other hand, I like myself fine, and, deep down, I can’t come to grips with the life I lead—a life where other people don’t like me as much as I might like myself, a life that requires me to live with my parents, minus a partner, minus people, around me, that are in my age bracket. Either way, this is my life, and I have to get over it—my longing for the divine, and the truth, answers, may always lead me to long for an altered state of mind, to put something into my body to change my consciousness, maybe that’s all there is to it, I don’t know, but, simply put, getting high wasn’t an option—peace and relaxation, contentment, was the only way forward, and, as such, I was going to have to get used to myself, and my consciousness, as it is, without thinking, deep down, that other people should like me as much as I might imagine they would, or should—that I’m meant to be around people my own age, that I’m normal, which is simply not the case.
Well, I could still feel my neck a little, from typing, and being at the computer, but the new table, and the new use of my mouse, was a significant improvement, and it seemed that that, in combination with spending about an hour and a half to two hours a day less on the computer than I might have done, before making all these various adjustments to my routine, meant that my neck was going to get better sooner than I might’ve expected, given my fears that my condition might be a little like neck-sciatica, and last for an unknown amount of time. I was thankful for this, but I didn’t want to jinx myself, because the pinched nerve was still there—I could still feel a twinge, and I didn’t know how long that might last—but some of the stiffness, and the idea that I might be making things worse, had passed. The changes I’d made, I think, put me on the right path—a path that, eventually, would lead to full recovery, and, if I wanted, the ability to spend this extra hour and a half to two hours on writing music, if I wanted, or not, if it seemed more important, actually, to watch TV and relax—to get used to being in this bisexual skin, a skin that must accept that there have been, in the past, somewhere in the universe, and there always will be, somewhere in the universe, people that are more talented than me, people that work harder or better and or more efficiently than me, or both. In short, I’ll never be Jesus Christ, King of kings. Nobody ever will—which is what I tell myself when I accept that I’ll never be the greatest, but, I know, I also have to accept that in some way, shape, or form, there have been, and there will continue to be, many people that will always produce creations that are equal, if not better, than mine. So, in the grand scheme of things, I’m really not that special, and, as such, the most important thing is to learn how to do “just that,” to just be me, and to live, comfortably, in my own skin—to be at peace, at the end of the day, and go to sleep without effort, without trying, without waiting, and, hopefully, at the end of this my life, to die in the same way, without proof that I’ll wake up, after my death, without worrying about anything, with total peace and acceptance of whatever must, and necessarily will, be.