The love i felt for Ursula, my small obsession, seemed to wane with the absence of desire—it was as if every modicum of desire, spark, or chemistry, was beginning to wane. She was also rising up through the democratic ranks—and i don’t know if this had anything to do with it. But it wasn’t just Ursula that I questioned at this point—i felt no desire to be with anyone at all; i wanted to remain in the state that i was in to the end of time, and, it just so happened that this wish was a function of the fact that I was both happy and, in being happy, i was alone.
Ursula remained, however, a source of inspiration for my paintings, and I didn’t see how that was going to change unless something really extraordinary happened. The basic fact of the matter, i think, is that desire has a point—it goes to a point; you don’t accumulate phase and then accumulate it forever. You start over. You reset. You make a point and then go away from each other for a while, and then you come back together. I don’t mean to question Ursula so much as I question myself: something needed to change in my writing—i couldn’t go writing about nothing but Ursula and the conversations we had without anything else added to it. Not everybody felt the same way as I did about Ursula—and, then again, she was probably the source of inspiration for a million basement dwellers that wanted to see the democratic party shift to the left.
I think my utter in-extraordinariness was the source of the problem. I wanted to believe that I wasn’t among so many—that I stood out; and maybe i did, a little, many years from now, but, for the time being, i was just another basement dweller—the key difference being my utter lack of interest in anything remotely related to sex. So what gives? I’m still projecting her voice—i’m just not being as strict about it. Maybe she was the love of my life—but the mere fact that she was the love of everybody’s life made me feel icky and undesirable. That said, I should want the love of my life to be desirable to all—i wanted a quality lover, one that others knew was qualified, and, in so doing, looked up to me in the same way that i looked up to myself.
It’s not very romantic anymore, is it? I know you have to do what you have to do to keep love alive; but I got all the love I needed from my family: that’s how it seemed to me. As Ursula rose to power, however, she became a more valuable amplifier—i could reach people, through her (in heaven, at least) on what, perhaps, was a much better frequency—a much better channel or station. Anyhow, something had shifted over the last several days; it might have been shifting a little for a couple weeks; i’m certain that it had something to do with the fact that I was preoccupied with math and science and how we relate to, or consist of, consciousness. I found myself working longer and longer hours, and I was enjoying myself more doing that than I was thinking up different ways to express my love for Ursula, or to coordinate a future relationship. She was merely my telepathic symbol, for the time being. I had no full-stop inclination to be with someone that was happy without me.
Needless to say, however, telepathic communications was something that defined me and my style—and i had no thought or intention of replacing my link to the future with some unknown entity that was not at all complicated or interesting. Rationally speaking, Ursula was the best fit for my telepathic pursuits. I suspect, however, that she wanted the details of our conversations to remain private. I could respond to her—and my response was what truly mattered when it came to my writing—but I couldn’t necessarily talk about what she couldn’t help but share—such as her relative happiness or unhappiness and the fuel behind it. i needed to evolve, so how was that going to happen? And didn’t evolution, for artists, generally mean getting lazier and lazier? But a piece of artwork wants to be unique in some sense, and you want to use all your faculties and all the tools and various styles at hand to build something that’s not necessarily new—but represents, to no small extent, your relationship with the future and the anxiety that comes with it—the anxiety, in fact, is the frequency.
So it is probably a good thing that Ursula lives more in my brain than my heart, since, as I’m beginning to realize, she’s perfectly fine the way she is. I don’t factor in or out of the equation in a physical sense. The combination of our bodies does not relate to the task at hand, especially when she is sharing her body with someone else. So what is this, then? Some kind of conscientious kickback for stating that I’m keen to have an affair if it leads to love—and, most importantly, and, also, ironically, someone that I could trust, that i could let into my life, that i could share my experiences with in a meaningful way?
That is already happening; it’s just my asexuality has peaked at this moment, and I’m only concerned with expressing myself to myself—the one that lives on the other side, that one that, no matter how great I become, will always stand out a little more, since, as it happens, my anonymity does nothing but add to my mystery—and my extradimensional aura. I’ve come to the conclusion, then, that, in spite of myself, a woman that is sharing her body with someone else is a bit of a drag, something that makes it hard to imagine that there is, in fact, something that lives there—something that can bring fairness and equanimity to all. So yes, my imagination, when it came to being with Ursula, physically, in real life, had changed course. I’d never be with her if i couldn’t trust her, and, if she was happy with the man she was with, and her career was also making her happy, then she would never be someone that i could trust with my heart. She already had what she needed and wanted, and that had to be good enough for both of us.