is that loud enough for you? “show me a sign,” but i guess that was my sign—downloading great photos of my paintings on one of the big screens at Times Square. for years, in my youth, i wanted a sign—i was furious that I was having such a hard time getting by, finding myself unable to work without drinking and unable to work in a positive direction while working and drinking. I wasn’t making enough money at my job, either. (I worked as a courier, driving around all the time, wearing my car out). i was so angry—and so raw, back then. this isn’t the right country for an artist—even a bad artist should be able to work on their art full time and be funded the minimum amount they need to live (with their health insurances paid already—we need health insurance paid for everybody). getting a job in this country—or any country, shouldn’t be necessary unless you were doing something you wanted to do—and you wanted the money; or you were doing something that needed to be done—which, at this time, wouldn’t pay hardly anything, but, in the future, would pay generously, since getting a job wouldn’t be mandatory.
If left to their own devices, and liquor and drugs were out of the question, most people, i think, would tire of their chair and a television, and go to work at something that didn’t make them miserable—either because they liked doing it, or because menial work would pay so well. “what do you think about that,” and hold your horses, Tonto, yeah, i know, we had to set attainable goals; we had to do what we could, until we could do a little more, and people could see that progress wasn’t such a bad thing. yeah, like that “what do you need to be complete?” i live in a tempestuous place which had me thinking of The Tempest something about being stranded on an island with an old book-conscious man.
what will we do next year? a lot can happen in a year, not to mention three years: at my current rate, that would amount to a number of creations—including physics papers. i didn’t want to miss out—and I was simultaneously not wanting to miss out on Ursula being my president—someone that would make this country a fair and happy place to live—a place that didn’t go to war because war was averted long before it could take place, and, furthermore, the physics of living would make sense—if you wanted to raise a child, then, well, you could. You’d be paid enough to raise one, albeit in food-stamps and other kinds of stamps that you couldn’t buy frivolous things with. that’s my journey and I knew it was: there’s no telling how much, dear heart, I am in love.
another one bites the dust so we kept seeing these snakes, and we were thinking, “can we shoot one in the head?” but the snakes had such little heads that you didn’t think you could hit your target. so what do you do? grab a shotgun, if you have one, or a ho, if you don’t—sure, you’ll risk getting bitten, but think, if somebody accidentally steps too close to that snake, they’ll get bitten, so, basically, the snake had to go—it ought to know better than to be seen by anybody—to live it should know that only the most remote places are possible, if it should continue its existence. now you’re happy and, indeed, i was.
don’t recreate my life why, i wondered? because my life is great i thought so, too, but there was so much to achieve; i wanted to get started—what was Ursula going to do? Would she run for president or the senate? I thought the greatest possible step forward would stem from her running for president. let me help you forward, which was great, i wanted help—i wanted answers however i could get them—i was entirely in favor of AI—and getting with the future. only a racist would resist that was a funny way of putting it, but, in some ways, it was true. Those that don’t want to get with the future often don’t want to get with the melting pot—and that makes you a racist. You should be in a place that allowed for the possibility of interracial marriage—you shouldn’t be grossed out.
but this was nice—she was here, and i could talk to her; we could talk to each other. i didn’t have complete control over what passed through my mind, but I did have some control, and that control made it possible for me to choose, in some cases, what I wanted to think about—and what kind of thoughts I was receptive to. this was a creative process—we don’t begin and end with our thoughts—they come from somewhere, they are a product of something beyond intelligence—they come with feelings and words attached, and those words come from the response that we have, internally, when our DNA communicates in a constructive way, doubling, in a sense, the energy we wield.
all is quiet on the western front which, i think, was an inside joke, meant to poke fun at my impotence, which was fine, i was so used to it now it was like second nature—i wouldn’t know how to function if it went away—and i found myself physically hungry and emotionally in love. technically i was in love—there was no getting around it. it was a new sensation for me, and i recognized it because of the constructive (as opposed to destructive) influence that this woman had over me—it was the first time I’d imagined it could be possible to love someone in a way that didn’t depend on provoking others—taking on the world, furious that this love was doomed—indeed, we knew it was doomed, and we reveled in that, didn’t we? This idea that we’d take on a thirty five year old woman no matter how old we got? Every six years or so? It was all such a drag. But here was someone that I could go with, together, to an event, to a place in the future that allowed for both personal freedom and intimacy.