what do you have to feel sorry about? “Nothing—right now,” I said. is that a joke? “kind of,” I said, but the fact of the matter was that right now was the main thing that mattered—as long as I wasn’t doing harm, then, right now i was okay—and, indeed, no matter what I did, even if i deserved to die, if i was ok, right now, then i didn’t have anything to be sorry about right now, ad infinitum. You might ask, then, what have you done to deserve to die? “dying would be the easy way out, i guess, since, if i did something really awful, then it was a burden that I had to carry for an indefinite amount of time, and, in that sense, i had to work really hard to make the present ok. i had to let go of everything but my basic existence—and that went hand in hand with divine help—not four dimensional help, but divine help—the kind that comes from the pinnacle of consciousness—something made of light—not matter.
so i switched it up and applied consonants to Ursula’s voice and vowels to mine as i counted and in lieu of consonants Ursula said, You’re doing it right now which seemed kind of transcendental, to me, considering we were just talking about “right now.” She was coaching me, a little, i guess, teaching me—i think, is a better word: the word coach implies getting yelled at or treated with disrespect—like people in the army, for whatever reasons, do. It’s never ok, in my book, to treat someone with disrespect, even in the army, when they’re trying to make soldiers out of you. In fact, violence is never ok; the best way to combat it, if you let things get to that point, is to be real with people—not tear them down and brainwash them into thinking that they’re no good unless they’re a killer.
now i was just waiting for Ursula to say something—i never did so well at talking on the phone unless i was listening more than talking; it wasn’t so bad, in that case; but that was partly because all the people I’d ever talked on the phone with weren’t aware of how strongly i felt about the work that they wouldn’t or couldn’t understand. i know i think highly of myself, but geez that was funny, because i was just about to say that; i’m just saying that talking about something that i wanted to talk about might’ve made the experience more pleasant—but I was destined to be a little lonely—I accept that, because, as I’m well aware—and part of being aware of this is part of being, at times, a little arrogant, or, at least, a little sad instead, but, honestly, nobody existed that would or could understand the significance of my work—the amount of thought, for example, that it requires—and the amount of belief that is required to get something out of it—something that goes into your soul.
So there it is—if I talk about the things that i go through day in and day out—i betray what might otherwise be called conceit—and i don’t want people to find me obnoxious. After all, how likely is it, really, that I’ll ever be discovered and become one of the greatest, if not the greatest artist of all time? i want you to do that she meant switching it up from time to time—giving her an opening to speak, i think, by switching up the person that was pronouncing the consonants. My theory about consonants, after all, is that they make space for something external to come in, like putting your finger over the holes on a flute. think of me like that—think of me and be happy and I was starting to get a little lonesome for her, because it was beginning to seem that this person that could see me and believe in me and understand me might exist, at least in some way, shape, or form that would render me a viable sexual partner.
I just wanted to share what my life was like without meeting the wall of silence on the other end of the line—the wall that indicated that someone was not curious or had no interest in trying to understand my life. I realize, over time, especially now that Ursula has made it apparent, that the women I used to try and have sex with were not right for me—nobody was right for me, in fact, nobody ever even came close. Sure I was heartbroken when I realized that the few women I seriously ever liked turned out to want nothing to do with me, which wasn’t expected, at the time, but i think that heartbreak had more to do with my being angry at myself for allowing myself to believe in another person that didn’t believe in me—you might have someone, for example, that doesn’t believe in you at all, they just tolerate you when you try and share something, and then you might have someone that takes the opposite approach—they build you up so that you’ll sleep with them when you don’t really want to, but, when it comes down to having a conversation about something meaningful, that person would prefer to just skip ahead to the part where you make them believe that they’re sexier than they are (by sleeping with them when they know so little about you).
there you go, just go with it, it feels natural now, doesn’t it? you’re going to make me really happy one day well, she was being generous—or was she trying to get me to believe in her? That somehow all this telepathic stuff would bring us together incidentally, or coincidentally, and, from there, we’d realize that nothing was coincidental about it—it would’ve boiled down to all this talk about getting married? was i kidding myself? what do you want to hear? well, honestly, i wanted her to stop sleeping with other people—and, until that happened, until she was single, and happy being single, then I couldn’t allow myself to believe in some seemingly coincidental way that would lead to marriage. so you get married, i guess, and what happens do you really pass gas in front of your partner—are you that in love? Or is that lazy—ruining the romance, and destined to lead to asexual familiarity, the kind that leaves someone—one or the other, seeking something more passionate?