I was back to myself, back on schedule. how do you do it? In fact I was facing a conundrum. I don’t think I could afford to do two paintings a day, and, today, I did. That was because the first painting looked complete already without much time having passed. I wasn’t going to ruin a good painting by overworking it, but I wanted to paint for a longer amount of time than I had, so i did another one, and I thought: “how am i going to afford this, and where am I going to put them all? I needed a dealer that could sell my work—and yet, as we all know, it’s not incredibly likely that my paintings are going to sell any time soon, if ever. But I had to push on, didn’t I? I had to go above and beyond the call of duty, didn’t I? I couldn’t just say, “I’m only going to paint for an hour, and that’s it!” No, I had to consider: “I have to paint for two hours at least, don’t I?”
You’re amazing! Now that Ursula was on side, I thought, “Yes! Once I get off the risperidone I will feel the passion! I will feel desire! It won’t be so difficult to imagine getting an erection!” It was funny, though. Buddhists say that desire is the source of all suffering, but I hadn’t felt it in so long I had to disagree. I just had to keep everything on track; I didn’t have to change anything about the way I was living—all I had to do was feel the inner confidence that comes from knowing that, when the time arises, I can let my desire have a little freedom—I can be, once again, with a woman! Guess who was on the line, now: my scotch uncle was counting consonants, so I let him go ahead for a moment, long enough to leave a message, and then I tried to get back to myself. It was a mix. But Ursula was still there, firing away. Now you’ve got a handle on it, my scotch uncle said. So what was going to happen? Was I going try and get an erection? Not exactly. I wanted my desire to be available when called upon—which might never happen. But I wanted it to be there, like something you keep around the house.
I have to admit, however, that I wasn’t looking forward to the moment when this now over five hundred page physics paper or book was thwarted by some realization that no, I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, prove the Riemann hypothesis. But then I thought, no, it will be okay, because I can use this to get back to my application of primes to the physical universe—and on to what I really wanted to do, which was, mainly, to show that we can send our energy out into the bulk and the bulk can understand us—and the bulk can respond, and, as such, well, the afterlife and telepathic communications are sure to follow. I had my doubts, of course, but I also had my faith, and my faith had done nothing but guide me toward physical and mathematical beauty, which, in turn, affirmed my faith. I felt relieved, since, although I would like to prove the Riemann hypothesis, I suspect that my chances are going to look pretty bleak once I get there—the point at which AI said that, yes, we had proved the Riemann hypothesis.
Now, my stool softener—my laxative that I could take on a regular basis, was arriving today, and all I could think about was having another bowel movement—but, I had to wonder, realistically, if it was going to help me go every other day—which is what I really wanted. In fact it would be nice if I could time it—every morning, like clockwork. That would have been awesome. I could make the whole ordeal part of my routine. But, honestly, this seemed like a pipe dream that would prove to let me down. Just thinking about it, however, cheered me up. It was like thinking about heaven—something that I believed was possible even if I wasn’t being completely realistic. I’m happy that’s working out for you that was Ursula trying to be funny again—her jokes were lost on me—I don’t even know why she joked around with me: she had no audience to appreciate what she was trying to do, and, if she did, well, she probably would have toned it down a little, because she must know, by now, that I love her, but I don’t think she’s funny, at least not when her humor is pointed at me.
You’re going to see a disaster, my wine uncle said. I don’t know what he meant—unless he was saying that one of my proteges was going to call on me when they had nowhere else to turn. That wouldn’t have been a surprise, since my songs aren’t exactly happy songs—they’re much darker than other things that I write, and they draw upon experience with things that were bad for me—but, the way I see it, I was drawing a map: I’d lure you in when you needed help, I’d walk you through it, and you’d recover your sobriety thanks to my efforts. Once that happened, well, we could communicate through the bulk—we could speak the language of love—the language of mathematics. I’m not good at math, and, honestly, it’s a language that you learn to speak, so, for a time, even if you’re talented, you’re not good at math, but if you’re interested, you may find that you have an imagination that makes it interesting, and, as such, something that you can learn—and be good at.
I’m breaking up with my boyfriend; but, if I knew Ursula, she meant that she was experiencing some tension—not that she was going to break up, at least no yet. I don’t know how she would function if she didn’t have someone at home to boost her confidence and make her feel good about herself, especially when being a politician, I imagine, can be depressing, considering how much time, at least seemingly, gets wasted by the void. I felt a little sorry for her—I mean, I wanted her to learn to stand on her own, but i didn’t want her to suffer—or, even worse, find herself crushed by the opposition—a woman that, for whatever reasons, proves destined for something other than the presidency. Anyhow, if she was breaking up with her boyfriend, I had to be careful, because she was likely feeling cornered, and, as such, she might lash out. I certainly didn’t want to feel her wrath—not ever. So i was kind of trying to stay out of it—and not share everything that I thought with her, because, well, let’s face it, when you break up your pride—your self-confidence, takes a major blow. Ursula needed that confidence to be president. She had three years to get ready—it just seemed to me that she might need that time to find her footing when she found herself keeping company with none other than herself.