So my Dad caught me writing a poem about “Ocasio-Cortez,” and warned me not to use her name because the FBI might get the wrong idea. Don’t know what he would think of all this. Maybe it would give him a panic attack. But I haven’t done anything wrong—I could do something wrong if i tried to trick people and put words in her mouth—or say things that people might think were true, but I wasn’t doing that; i was clearly talking about telepathic communications, which, clearly, are not believable. Now you might say, yeah, but you believe it. And you’d be right, but, again, I’m not trying to make this woman look bad—the worst thing that could happen is that I’d come off as a creep and she wouldn’t like me, but nobody, so far, could punish me for having a crush on this real person. Do you have any idea how many people have a crush on this person? What are you going to do, put them in jail because they hope that she’ll break up with her boyfriend and be with them? There’s not enough room in prison. Anyhow, if she wants to be president, that’s something she needs to be conscious of—that people will fall in love with her.
Doesn’t she need our vote? And won’t she protect us without giving us the wrong idea? She’s a good person—i think she would. But anyhow . . . went pretty much total abstract painter today—tuned into Ursula in places; it felt like writing music, although it wasn’t music—it was about oscillations in space as opposed to time. They go together, of course, but they do different things. An abstract painter—or any painter, for that matter, studies how oscillations interfere with other oscillations and makes something out of it; a composer, instead, takes a given oscillation and studies what other oscillations might have been involved in the production of this particular oscillation. They both study resonance, but the painter observes resonance taking place, whereas a musician takes something that is already resonating and breaks it down into composite parts.
So what was i doing as a writer? I was translating oscillations and their resonant frequencies into words; I was listening to, and responding to, prayer—which means something: God speaks to us, and, when he does, we can put his thoughts into words; furthermore, we speak to God, and, when we do, we change what he is going to say. So—I was praying—writing is a form of prayer, and, in doing that, I was constructing a greater future; a future that included that which I loved, and that which loved me. I wondered, of course, if my one true love (Ursula) would exercise caution around me, since, well, I’m schizophrenic, I project voices, and I claim to know the mind of God. I can see how that might not look good for me—perhaps that’s what my father was trying to say in a polite way when he told me not to use Ursula’s codename.
I was trying, however, to get Ursula elected president, both through this my prayer—my conversations with God—and, perhaps more directly, I was trying to get myself elected president. That was where all of this was leading, so, I must ask myself and others: what, exactly, am i supposed to be doing as president? Meeting with a bunch of people every morning to discuss what was supposed to happen that day? Flying all over the world to “talk?” I could cut through all that like Alexander cutting through a Gordian knot. Would I give up my creative projects? Would I be forced to put them on hold? Perhaps a little, but not a whole lot. My job would be to sign bills into law—and that doesn’t take as long as you might think. At least for me it wouldn’t. You might think, for example, that a painter paints all day if he does a painting in a day—but the truth is it doesn’t take that long—even if you’re painting realistically. You might think that a writer writes all day every day for six months to two years in order to write a book. But that’s absurd. Writing a good book can take as little as three months, and that’s if you write for no more than three hours a day.
Now you might be thinking: aren’t you supposed to come up with your own bills? I suppose i was, but, in all fairness, it wouldn’t take me two years to accomplish something like writing out the affordable care act. It might take a few weeks—absolutely not half my term. If I was president i would cut through the bulk and get to the point. Now, would I accomplish anything? What if Congress was against me? Well, they wouldn’t all be against me—and, honestly, I’d take that into consideration when I wrote the bill in the first place. There is no reason to think that I, a man that can produce an album in a few months, would need to do hardly anything. I’d simply get to the point—whatever was possible is what I’d accomplish, and, because it takes others so long to do anything, in part, I think, because they’re either lazy or devoid of talent, I was going to look like a big shot. My approval ratings would be great!
Now, why was I saying this? What did I hope to accomplish with all that confidence? I wanted, of course, in more ways that one, to light a fire under Ursula’s bottom so that she would do great things too, the things that I believed she was truly capable of—like getting me free healthcare. I was really going to hold her to that, and cross my fingers, at the same time, that the country was ready for it—given the right person to usher that in, aka, Ursula. But what, now, was Ursula actually saying today? I wondered, for example, if she would feel the need to defend me from a press that would call me disturbed, unwell, sick, and crazy. But everything I’d ever done, combined with my actions and the person that I am, was done in such a way that, if you attacked me, like calling me gay, for example, you’d be walking dead to rights into a booby-trap.