i don’t want you to try too hard, but, if you can, divorce yourself, for a half an hour, and show me that you want me. Was that a joke? “Are you joking?” And, “I can’t prove anything—i don’t have anything to prove.” you did say you wanted to play this by ear—well, we’re playing it by ear I felt like I should agree with her or say something to make her feel better—but, like anybody with PTSD or something similar, I didn’t want to go through it all over again; I didn’t want, therefore, to engage, or try to engage, in sexual activity. I knew, however, that sexual health is important—it, for some people, is embedded in their lives—attached to all the things that make them both healthy and happy. But I don’t have the time or the inclination until, as it happens, Ursula, the real Ursula, invites me in.
“I’m drawn to your hair,” I said, and I was. She wore it long, beyond her shoulders, which is something I look out for—although I don’t know exactly why. If she cut it, what would I do? I’m already invested, so i’d have to get used to it, I guess. But I don’t think the real Ursula would cut her hair if she knew how much I appreciated it. Now she was telling me to take one of my “i” notes and make it a low pitch and a whisper—and take one of my “u” notes and make it sharp and loud, and count like that for the duration of our session. It was a little difficult to do that and write at the same time, so I didn’t beat myself up about it. I just waited for a pause in the conversation.
Well, ok, that was going to take some practice. So, I told her so, in middle English speak, as if the fundamental vowel sounds all have intrinsic meaning—like pictures do in Chinese. What’s your favorite subject? that, i think, is difficult to say—perhaps physics was the most interesting, but, on the other hand, telepathic communications were important—the two areas of thought were actually approaching each other from opposite sides. So I stuck to it—to everything—especially when, as it happens, I can only work on one thing (besides physics) for about an hour or two at a time. That’s one reason I applied myself to every subject. Once I quit one thing, that area of my brain could rest, and we’d redirect to the next area of my brain. Whatever neural networks I was using—and I was using them, I was building them—that’s what I’m doing right now. That’s the whole point of writing this book—besides passing the time.
Look in the mirror, and you’ll see my picture really? what did that mean? that I was speaking directly with my 5D self? I was seeing this woman, now, a slightly older woman, friends with my mother, and, as she passed me by, she looked at me out of the corner of her eye, saying that she remembered me from what must’ve been a long time ago—but i recognized her, actually—I just never spoke to her. She looked like she was scheming something up, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. It was like we were perpendicular to each other: I was looking ahead, and she was looking at me from the side. Ursula was waiting, i think, for me to be aligned with myself—for me to be in touch with my true self and, as that person, ready to interact with the world outside my daily routine.
Ursula was praising me now, saying things like now you’re getting it; you’re coming along, and I think I know what she meant—my ability to realize my telepathic capabilities was directly related to my feelings of inadequacy—I needed and wanted to learn and evolve, and, now, I understood, I needed to pursue this area to reclaim suppressed parts of myself—and until I had realized how deeply real this all was for me, I would remain glued to my feelings of inadequacy. So this was important work I was doing. I was teaching people how to live and how to adapt to the future, because the future is coming, and it doesn’t wait around. There was another impediment to feeling adequate, however, and that was related to money. As long as I wasn’t bringing any money in (on my own) I’d feel inadequate—as long as I was too divested to raise a family of my own, then I’d feel inadequate—or, perhaps more simply, I’d have good reason to keep myself to myself, because, simply put, I couldn’t protect a child from the world. I knew that.
So my entire “problem” was, in fact, the only solution that made my life livable. In that sense, there was no mystery, nothing, really, to talk about; I simply depended more on my creations than anything else, and I was faithful to my creations—indeed, they were the key to me becoming a whole person—of being made whole after decades of hiding myself—and trying to fit in—to fit a mold that, clearly, I had no business aiming at. It was like, in the past, I was living my life in such a way that other people might think I was “with it,” or “cool,” when, in fact, the opposite was the case. I wasn’t exactly a man’s man, and, honestly, nor did I want to be—not in the sense of chasing down Ernest Hemingway, or something like that.
Ernest Hemingway, at one time, seemed like the person to absorb and incorporate—but, really, Ernest Hemingway was not, at least to me, as interesting I was. The man was at odds with himself, trying to keep his greater talent or his greater ordinariness (depending on how things would have turned out) at bay. When you’re trying to sell yourself (so that you don’t have to work for anybody but yourself), you end up doing nothing but living your life in such a way that you develop content that you think other people would want to watch or be interested in—you’re not having real experiences—you’re doing things because you think you’re something that, up to right then, you weren’t. If you died, right then, you’d die a fool.