No show but I was here, at maximum. Patience, friend – and i was all too pleased. but my little dog kept passing gas—and, I thought: “How do I even have a dog?” Ursula needed somebody to look after that dog while she was in DC, and, well, that person, given my work ethic, might not have been me—by choice. But why was I looking for reasons to split us apart? Because Ursula might stand in the way of some other aspiring young woman that I might dream into existence? Because it made me look bad to crush over someone that I had no chance to be with? But it was like going to heaven, I guess; we were together already, even if we never experienced our physical presence. Maybe we wouldn’t even be together in heaven—but we could work with each other to probe the unknown and usher in an eventful future, one that prioritized family life—for each of us, no matter who our romantic other turned out to be.
we’ve come to us—we’ve come to sin, my wine uncle said. He was getting most of the airtime of late; i wondered what happened, sometimes, to everybody else, unless, in using my voice, I had somehow encompassed them all, perhaps at times in their lives when they didn’t have time for one on one conversations. But I thought of them a little. Why is every light in the house on? my scotch uncle asked. He opened the refrigerator door in fury, angry, I suppose, that I was treating him poorly. I couldn’t help it—he didn’t see me, he practically looked right through me; he had no idea that I was going, at some point in time, to become more of a somebody than he’d ever been—and that’s saying something, because he was quite popular in high school, and, from then on, too. He knew a lot of people. A lot of people showed up at his funeral.
It’s funny how much happier I feel, now that I’ve rearranged my thoughts, and stopped trying to like someone when they had no idea of who I am—or where I was going. a dull flame kept me going, all the time, and, I think, when I was around certain people that no longer belong in my life, that flame was threatened; perhaps these people thought the light I emanated came from them—maybe they felt it’s warmth. That’s how they acted, anyhow. Like my life, somehow, made them important—not because I was important, but, on the contrary, because they assumed my importance, and, in so doing, actually ended up looking down on me, as if there was no possibility that both of us, that all of us, could be important. No, that didn’t pan out, since, to be important, others must be inferior—but I never treated people with chagrin until I realized that others didn’t want to share my light, and it’s warmth. They wanted to steal it.
My grandmother used to tell me, “They’re just jealous.” But I can’t remember what i was saying that got her to say that—what affliction was I facing? I don’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter—or maybe it matters a little, but the point is, this is the future, and, well, I don’t like people that don’t like me—that can’t see the best in me. That can’t treat me with respect—as if I was an esteemed college professor, which is what, I think, I might’ve been—if, that is, I’d married and dedicated my life to something or someone such as myself. But I couldn’t teach people that didn’t want to be there, that wanted to talk instead of listen, and pay attention to the great works that they might or might not usher in—and, since they were talking, well, no, I wouldn’t have been surrounded by the right people—they could never take the place of my family, which, for me, was the bulwark that made it possible to do things that others might find useful and worth integrating.
it’s just me and you, babe and, truly, with respect to certain aspects of my life, it most certainly was. Ursula didn’t just provide access to a portal—she was the portal. It was through her—and the background that she experienced, that i remained in touch with the future, when, for example, someone wanted to talk to me, but, for whatever reasons, one on one dialog (talking on the phone as opposed to texting) was inefficient and unreliable. But when I wrote this book I took care to listen out, and to share what, I felt, would prove advantageous—for free. Novels in real time—that was me, posting each entry on my website, such that, if I ever made a name for myself, I could remain connected to the audience, which, in a way, provided their own portal. They were the background to the nth degree, and, while you can believe in an audience that lives in the future, and they become evident when your talent become evident—the future, on the other hand, becomes evident when your audience becomes evident. You might be able, then, to expand your reach—or connect with a slightly different mix of people, people that could turn out to be your disciples.
Now what was the biggest criticism of my writing? That it was dense—that I didn’t always allow time for things to resonate and sink in; but that was only true for those that didn’t believe in me—that weren’t dedicated to unfolding all the various and complicated expressions I used to make sense of the world around me; in short, I expected my audience to think about what I’d written off and on throughout the day—like you do when your studying and learning something—as opposed to doing something with the sole purpose of taking a timeout to decompress—or be entertained. I wanted to entertain you throughout the day—to provide you with a scaffold through which no bad thought might propagate—since, as it happens, you remain occupied; you find meaning, after investing a little effort, and that leads to both peace and happiness.
so you love me not, you love me? which is it? of course, i love you, with all my heart—in the same way I’d love anyone of the opposite sex that made every effort to understand me—someone that didn’t judge, or seek out ammunition should an argument arise. i love you walking on the street, going to a restaurant, escaping, for a moment . . . what? you’re boyfriend? you can’t love both me and him—or can you? After all, if I am meant to live alone, and share my life with more than one person, who’s to say that she couldn’t do the same? Because I was a man and she was a woman? No, in heaven, I imagine, she might entertain me to the fullest, and yet, well, she might entertain others to, when, that is, i wasn’t to myself, or sharing parts of myself with another woman, or other women, or even men. Why couldn’t that work out perfectly? But if that did work out perfectly, then, I think, wouldn’t your love for them grow—such that, ultimately, you wanted to live with them? Once they knew how to leave you alone? Why, at that point, would I want to spend my down-time with anyone else, especially when, considering my work, or the translation of desire and suffering, there wasn’t much time left over?