Shame on you! You mentioned me! Well, i’d just figured out that an italic sentence should be punctuated with an italics punctuation mark, but, you know what? Screw that—I wasn’t going back to fix it; so I tell myself, I’m a painter, and it’s important to me to show a little of the process in the finished piece—such as well, how you don’t care sometimes if something looks unfinished or a little daring. I know, though, who do I think I am? That I can play fast and loose with the laws of the English language? But anyhow—what did she expect? That I’d never mention this person, when, after all, I projected that voice on a daily basis? But I know what she was getting at. I was only going to make myself look crazy, or, possibly, I was going a little crazy, because I should know better than to joke about something in the hope that once people get used to the joke it will feel normal to them and then you can get away with things for real.
That was how our president, Jack Daniels, did it—and sometimes it worked; so we must ask ourselves—is it only bad people that talk about something in the hope that, in talking about it, it will become a little more real? But wasn’t organized religion entirely based on talking about joint beliefs? So there—I wasn’t ashamed of what I’d done, and I told her so, upon which, of course, she told me she was joking—that I had nothing to be ashamed of since people can’t exactly help how they feel. That said, our feelings shouldn’t serve as a good excuse for acting on something or saying something, that, ultimately, makes us feel bad, or, instead, reveals that, in fact, we are bad, or, if not bad, then a little sick—a little, perhaps, in need of a psychiatrist. I’m not going to let that stop me! then my wine-drinking uncle said, what are you doing, asshole? I don’t know why he called me an asshole, but he did; i think he was mad that I’d dedicated myself to songwriting; that some of my songs weren’t especially meaningful to him, upon which, no, he said the following: you’ll prove yourself soon enough and then, only then, will you find true love.
So someone was out there for me; someone that, most likely, had been born already, and, also, someone that, likely, waited, for the most part, for me—the guy on the line, talking, through Ursula the politician, to them. Stop conflating me with other people! but she was going to have to get used to that—reality had to be taken into consideration, or, that is to say, in all fairness, this was real enough, but probabilities had to be taken into consideration. Nothing was going to change that, since, as it happens, we can’t see into the fifth dimension, at least not exactly, not yet. The best we can do is observe it’s influence, and, while I feel that influence, and that influence tells me that life in 5D is possible, that anything, really, is possible, including the possibility that I’m at the center of the universe, that influence can’t be proven exactly: it can only be predicted—as long, that is, as we cannot measure anything directly: we cannot interact with our 5D bodies, or, if you don’t believe in that kind of thing, we cannot interact with the geometry of 5D—not until we have a better understanding of the universe—something beyond quantum mechanics and relativity, something that, perhaps, combines the two, or something that, perhaps, reinterprets everything.
But i was getting a little off track. I hadn’t projected my scotch uncle’s voice while doing math—not at all, in the last several days, and, honestly, I wasn’t projecting Ursula’s voice as much either—at least not consciously. Now, I’d been doing it for so long that my counting mechanisms were pretty much always counting in the background, but, it was kind of like blinking—you’re not always aware of it. I don’t think I even used our passwords this time, and, well, perhaps we didn’t need them anymore. I felt that Ursula and I were on a level now that went beyond the giddiness of learning all about someone and discovering that you couldn’t find fault with them for pretty much anything, or, if you did, it was cancelled out by something you did.
So you love me? “Yes, of course.” But listen, my wine drinking uncle kept trying to talk to me; what did he want? He wanted me to start putting out songs on a regular basis; now, that was going to be a lot of work—not something that I could do in a day unless I gave up on something else, which I had no intention of doing; currently, on average, I worked for a few hours on math, a couple hours on poetry, an hour on this novel, a couple hourse painting, and how much time was that? Well, that was eight hours. So if I got started around 7 or 7:30, that put me at around 3:00—which was perfect, actually, if I wasn’t too tired—I could give it an hour, and, if I wanted, I could dedicate a little time to my instrumental pieces as well. So why, then, did he keep trying to say something? What was on his mind? I was well aware of the fact that I couldn’t stand to do anything but further the importance of my work (by both doing it and getting better, or evolving, at it). I don’t know—I didn’t find myself on a honeymoon anymore—she’d become a major investment and a partner—someone that I could report to on a daily basis, without making an issue out of the past.