this little voice inside my head, saying: “why don’t we celebrate women that are blond haired and blue eyed?” Because they’re already celebrated all the time—it happens so often that it’s become normalized, so you might think that, but, if you’re paying attention, you know much better. “I couldn’t agree more.” I was stepping into my airplane—switching to a four-count and using my passwords, even telling others to leave a message (because I’ll be working in focus mode). Now, when you were writing something your four count could get truncated by the rhythm of your writing, and that wasn’t all bad, but ideally you’d absorb that while keeping your four count going as much as you could.
i kept seeing images of Picasso and i knew what that was: Ursula was trying to cheer me up, telling me that the way I once saw Picasso is the way that others will see me—minus an addiction to cigarettes and the tendency to fight off some greater calling by spending a lot of time doing my best to sleep with various women. In short—I would have my secrets, and, as such, there would be some semblance of mystery when people thought of me, whereas there was no great mystery to Picasso—you knew that he sacrificed a lot of his time engaging with cigarettes and women, doing his best to tap into the dominant or even subdominant frequency he may or may not have had access to. Bad people are easy to figure out—good people have some inkling of things that they cannot or do not know how to share.
Leonardo was a little mysterious, for example. He certainly didn’t sleep around. He dedicated himself to things that went beyond the scope of his time period—people couldn’t understand someone that wanted to dissect bodies or just dedicate themselves to learning many and various things. “Why would someone do that?” “Why would someone learn things that they didn’t need to know unless they had some thought of taking it with them when they died?” “Why would someone dedicate themselves to knowledge if, in fact, they weren’t going to be able to take it with them?” What did the man think? I mean, what did the man really think about things—what resonated with him, and why?
You couldn’t put your finger on it, and, hereof, Ursula was kind enough to tell me that—many years from now, the way people saw Leonardo (minus the procrastination) was the way that people would see me. (Or maybe it was just the way that Ursula would see me, but considering Ursula’s character, there wouldn’t be much difference, i think). Bold claims, and, if I had the right mind, I wouldn’t allow myself to be flattered like that. But I think highly of myself, and I won’t apologize for it. I have the work to back it up, and, although it may not be comparable to the work of men that proved themselves their whole lives—it exists. If I sustain my reputation and make good, informed choices, then, at the end of my life, somebody might say, “why did he do all this?” And a star would be born—(having proved myself my whole life, without using my talents to do bad things—things that didn’t align with my character, who I am, and what I stand for). But, yeah, nothing is set in stone, you have to get lucky, i may not be as talented as I think i am, et cetera—if people know how I thought about myself they’d never risk blowing up my ego, making me an unpleasant person, no better than a fraud—someone that might go down in history—or be forgotten—because, in fact, he’s seen as a fraud.
I was dialing Ursula back in—i’d zoned out at some point in the previous paragraph, engaging Ursula, no doubt, but, in some way, i’d gone rogue—we were no longer talking to each other in real time. You can say things like that, but it’s not true like, what, then? Was she saying that she was on the line the whole time? Was it possible that I could become unconscious of her voice on the line but still be talking to her? That made sense—now that she’d said this. Ursula was the bridge that I used when I was tapping into my 5 dimensional self—the guy that was never born, and will never die—in a manner of speaking. I was born, in fact, in this life, and my birth was his birth, but that birth, for him, existed as a partial reality—a life that he could remember, but, as a function of a different dimension, that knowledge was incomplete and only accessible through events that jarred our memories, allowing us to share an aura that we wouldn’t otherwise remember or represent.