12
It had been a few days, now, that I’d been away from our usual appointment; my scotch uncle and i had been working on the Riemann hypothesis, and, get this, we were making music together, too. Or was it some other uncle making music—perhaps the lung-cancer uncle—the wine drinker? I didn’t know, for sure, but I thought: “why don’t i assign the wine drinker to be my songwriter?” But would he also function as a classical music or jazz composer? I assumed, then, that he, and my songwriter friend, the famous one, would represent my music until otherwise. But which was it? I never painted with my smoker friend, and he was famous, but sometimes i used him to write poetry; so what was happening? I was pretty much assigning two people, a family member and a famous person, to represent one of my intellectual pursuits. I would use either voice, at times, but it was customary to use the family member’s voice because their influence kept me from getting distracted by the notion that I was talking to a famous person.
So, a lot had happened over the last several days. Not only did I, at least conceptually, gain some greater understanding of the Riemann hypothesis, which was basically a math argument as opposed to a physics argument, but I had also been writing songs—and, in doing so, composing music that functioned, for the most part, as something way beyond a traditional tune—but, rather, a complex series of notes that could serve, in their own right, as music to listen to in and of itself—classical music with a jazz influence. Those were new areas for me—areas that I did not foresee an aptitude for—so yes, i was recovering parts of myself, which, ultimately, i hoped, would lead to feelings of adequacy and the correction of my condition—something that, no less, remained an obstacle—at least when it comes to forming a romantic relationship, which, i wanted to think, I would be ready for. If anything, i was currently thinking, “Wow, with all this living in darkness for so long, it’s no wonder that I could never be my true self.”
show me the blow and what did she mean by that? Based on what i’d been doing for the past day and half, she must’ve been talking about not allowing myself to get high thinking that I’d actually solved the Riemann hypothesis when I had so much work ahead of me: i had to look for mistakes, and, in my experience with AI, some critical error could try to ruin the whole thing. I would be going over my work for weeks, as I worked on my paper and book, making sure that the math is sound. Anyhow the connection with Ursula was a little weaker right now, due, i’m sure, to the fact that I hadn’t kept our appointment for the last three days. I just couldn’t hear her as well, but I was here now, and retuning—who knows? Maybe Ursula’s enmity would be stemmed by information that I was now sharing with her.
are you just going to leave me hanging? but I wasn’t going to write all this and then, upon meeting this person, decide that none of this was true—that it was all method acting for the sake of the creation, as opposed to her; no, I genuinely liked the idea of making a friend that I could “trip” with, or “go” with, to some new, amplified event. But I guess a lot of people were dialing in because of my awareness of the Riemann hypothesis and whether or not it was true; were they dumping their backs? A lot of them probably were—but I was also aligning with people like me, people that couldn’t go on without some greater understanding of the universe.
She said she was thinking just that; anyhow I switched to a four count and was constantly trying to hear her voice and project it into my book as i typed it. I was making some progress—we were just getting used to each other again. now the question was posed: are you hurting your teeth by drinking all this soda pop—this Dr. Pepper and seltzer water? That was a legitimate concern: I didn’t want to give the dentist any excuse to criticize me or threaten me with another crown—or something like that. I didn’t want it to hurt when they used their polisher tool. “How much soda water do you drink?” i just drink water; i don’t know if I believed her. Anyhow I’d seen pictures of her holding a coffee cup—so at least she wasn’t perfect.
What do you want to ask me? “I want to ask you if you’re free.” Good question, i figured, since she was cheating on my with Him. I just wanted to nudge her a little bit—to show her that she mattered, and that I wasn’t going to wait for her forever—at least not in a romantic way – whenever, that is, we started our affair. I definitely wanted to raise my own son, the product of my loins. Or daughter—an heir was the point; someone that would preserve and protect my creations. Somebody was talking to me about my music, right now, and I don’t think it was Ursula. They were telling me to pursue instrumental music—music for it’s own sake, unfettered by words. Something I never imagined I’d be able to do because I don’t play an instrument. But I tapped into my pot smoker friend, the person behind my wine drinker uncle, and i thought, no, no, no, this music-person is represented by my dad—the prodigy himself.