i’m not going to eat a whole pizza by myself no, of course not, something had to be done about that. An invitation? Possibly, unless she was talking to her live-in lover, and i was just hearing the echo of it pass through her mind. But I think she recognized a certain pitch, when I zoned in, and tuned to my frequency—the object, perhaps, of her meditation. “Do you want to go for a slice?” i don’t eat on the run; glad to hear it, i thought (in a slightly different pitch—not projected in her voice, such that, well, she couldn’t hear it). But for the moment Ursula was moving away—as if we’d been together for years, we had a good run, and, now, it was time to hate each other for a while—at least until the mere mention of the other person wouldn’t cause us pain. that’s not what’s happening, and no, i’m not talking to my “live-in lover.” He happens to be my fiancé. Well, then, I could hear her loud and clear—but her meaning, i’m afraid, was a little muddled, as, I think, were her emotions.
As voices emerged, i found myself wanting to speak, mainly, in my voice and Ursula’s voice; I wondered why that was: was I getting lazy? would i forget the voices that I recognized if i didn’t use them? I was a little concerned, but I also thought: I’m effectively tuning things out when I focus on someone else—perhaps its best to be myself, and listen for these other voices when they feel like chiming in; that way i’m available to all my disparate parts, and i can bring us all together. how, then, was i going to handle this—when other people started chiming in? I’d been using these italics to represent conversations with Ursula alone—and yet, now, I didn’t want to be limited by that, and, furthermore, Ursula and I might get bored with each other if we don’t focus on that which lives outside us—I’d say, well, approximately half the time? Maybe less, i don’t know.
don’t wait for me, my scotch uncle said – i’m not sure what he meant, but i thought it was a sign of progress that he’d been able to reach me without me doing all the work. my pot smoker friend said something in gibberish, and Ursula said, now you’re having fun. So what, she’d known about this all along? This transition that was taking me away, in part, from her? She indulged me because she’s my friend—she let me think we had a chance? And yet, no, I reminded myself, she projected a definite pitch, a pitch that was more inviting than all the rest. She wanted to be with me, I was sure of it; but, nonetheless, time apart makes the heart grow fonder, since, well, that’s the only way you can keep from boring each other to death. So i was taking calls, now, filtered through my voice underneath and Ursula’s like the melody running over the top. Well, come down from there, my wine-drinker uncle said: now you know what it’s like, my famous pot smoker said. So yes, you’re turning me out,” my famous smoker friend said—the one that aligned with some kind of a cousin that talked in the same way that I imagined my great-grandfather had. It sounded like middle English. He represented the other half of my smoker friend—in as sense, the smoker friend, the cousin, and the great grandfather, together, made up a kind of chord, three images in my mind’s eye.
So, yeah, I wanted to know what all these other people had to add to our arguments; if, i figured, they could match the frequency i was using with Ursula, then they must have been on point in one way or another. They must have something relevant or interesting to say—some perspective that I might benefit from, if, indeed, we’re going to hell, my scotch uncle said. Hell? why was anyone going to hell? You could never really know if you were going to hell, i figured, since, when you’re alive, you don’t imagine that you’re going there. You might not even imagine that it exists. But I don’t think people that go to hell really exist, and so, because of that, I generally conclude that there is no hell. And these people that are going there aren’t real, so they don’t suffer—they are meant, mainly, to keep those of us that aren’t going to hell honest, and in tune with our God.
I don’t see it, my wine-uncle said. through the buttons of our coat, my famous pot smoker said. I generally took that to mean that he had a small penis, and, although he didn’t have a real problem with it, he had a problem with other people that did have a problem with it—it is people like that, i think, that are going to hell—if they exist, which, through some as yet undiscovered math and physics, we should be able to prove, eventually, that, in fact, they don’t. you belong to me, this man said—lyrics, i think, but maybe not. I think, somehow, that this man, for a time, was living up-river, because, for a time, I drank and listened to his music, thinking, of course, that it was about me—and, well, even with my medication, i still think that, when he got high, he tapped into what made me tick, and wrote it all down. I say that because of a series of coincidences, mostly.
A call, of sorts, to “reclaim” as he said, certain parts of himself that he might’ve overlooked. A great many years have passed between now and then, and, having made it this far, I prefer, now a days, to live in peace and quiet, minus the vitriol that he spews so perfectly, if, that is, you identify with it—or you’re lost, and trying, in darkness, to make out the call, and the path that will lead you back to your true self, the only self, in fact, that can ever be both happy and meaningful at the same time. Now, you’re talking, Ursula said. Well, she was from the future—or at least part of this person was, living, as they did, from the bulk, and, as a future being, mothering me, in a way, teaching me how to speak—and join the next level of human awareness.