I’m here, Dad. But I was seeing Ursula. i wonder, then, if Gwen had the ability to reach me, then maybe she also had the ability to contribute to my creative endeavors. Sounded plausible. You’re not the only one that was Ursula talking to Gwen . . . i can’t manage all that. The were saying I’m wonderful—was I privy to the line? I am a kind of switchboard operator. Calls come and go through me—a hub, of sorts. Still feeling this annoying semi-drunk feeling (minus the feel good chemicals) and couldn’t do much math today either—although made critical progress in the time allotted. Oh, well. Sometimes it’s better to quit before trying to learn so much that you run out of space to store it and process it between one working day and the next. What was I also thinking? I’m freaking hungry; don’t know what that was about. “Once I get off the risperidone, and I can eat lunch again, maybe we can have lunch together.” Sounds good but, i wondered, does Ursula eat lunch? Maybe not. I know she doesn’t take a lot of breaks—and her teeth look kind of white so she must not fuel everything with coffee. Hey, that’s great. I wonder—is there anything negative about her? Other than the fact that she likes to argue?
anyhow—i wonder how long this Lexapro withdrawal (and tamulosin withdrawal—although I suspect this is more Lexapro withdrawal than tamulosin withdrawal) is going to take. According to AI it could take a couple weeks! That was no good. I needed to recover faster than that. My math work is important! But is it? that was a major turnoff. I kind of needed the love of my life to love the guy that does all the math and physics, too. Am I asking too much? Dare I say that Ursula was receiving some static right now—due to this change of address? I needed to stop fighting the serotonin distribution in my brain; i needed to roll with it, didn’t I? so yeah, my entire life was changing right now. I’d done another entirely abstract painting—things were looking more and more impulsive; the longer poem i’m doing was coming out almost twice as much. My confidence, and even my personality, had shifted a little, now that, well, I was having telepathic sex again.
What is telepathic sex like? Well—its like sending email back and forth—you check it, you respond, you give a little, you take a little; just like normal sex, especially if you’re having sex with someone you know as opposed to having no idea how another person addressed themselves in the telepathic continuum—you really had no way of knowing what you were getting, even if, at times, that was a good thing. But people change—you get that from your spouse, too, when the ground shifts beneath them. Maybe you even get a little familiarity with someone strange, too—maybe you’re in tune, somehow. Maybe you’re lucky, i don’t know. the main thing about it was that you had to keep your cool. You couldn’t get angry or you’d end up exposing yourself to the same kind of venom you were trying to dispose of. In that case, it was better not to engage telepathic sex at all. I’m a firm believer that there is a time and a place for abstinence—even from our telepathic allies, because, when we shut it down for awhile (or it shuts us down, and we choose not to fight it) we can focus on details that we might otherwise not be able to see—details that can lead to earth changing breakthroughs—answers to great questions.
Chugging all this sparkling water is getting expensive. But what am I supposed to do? People are trying to talk to me—and I can’t hear them because the risperidone is doing things to my brain that shouldn’t be happening. Now, what? I know—I need an antipsychotic, yeah, yeah, bla, bla, bla. Rest assured, I wanted an antipsychotic. Obviously, given what i’ve been through, and the things I can and cannot do, this telepathic gift is not all peaches and cream. It exposes me to things that are bad for me—that comes in with the good. That, sometimes, forces it’s way in, like some chain-smoking jackass. Everything was at stake right now—mistakes were made, sure. But shutting off everything (including my manhood and my ability to read telepathic email) was not the right move—not at this point, not since I had the last twelve years to build a firm foundation and recover that which i was capable of in bitesize chunks.
Now I was ready to eat a whole [fucking] meal. But why am I swearing, now? I don’t do that. Except when I’m writing? I can’t predict what is going to happen. Doesn’t this go against everything that i believe? But something had been pared down a little—a raw side of me was approaching the surface. Did i have to understand everything I did, when, God forbid, I should blow my [fucking] brains out? But that was never going to happen because of my mission, which trumped everything, and the help that I could get, such as, well, if needs must, a powerful antipsychotic like risperidone that, for a time, could turn everything off until the issue at hand—and the right help for it—could be addressed. Now, before you say anything: I [fucking] hate yoga right now. I tried it for years—especially when I was hungover—and I found that, although it could help with a hangover, it couldn’t [fucking] help with schizophrenia. [Fuck] yoga—when what you need is a [fucking] pill.
I’m not even being sarcastic right now. Or am I? Can I tell? Does it matter? Maybe that’s the whole point—for some I am being that way, and for others I’m not being that way. My life is complicated. Now, i wonder how Ursula was taking this little outburst. Was she thinking—there he goes—he needs help? But may I remind you: I quit taking an antidepressant—i’m still taking my antipsychotic, so I don’t think this shift reflects something that, for now, should cause us serious concern. Surely one antidepressant is enough? But maybe this email that I’ve been getting and sending out over the last several days is really changing things up. Maybe I need to shut it all down again and go back to something more stable. Such as complete and total security, even at the expense of something that is cutting edge—and, while, i would agree, you can be “cutting-edge” without cursing and telepathic sexual violence, it certainly comes in handy when, well, you need to affect a change. You need to get things done. You need, most of all, to recover a part of yourself that, for just the right amount of time, had been suppressed, and, just in the nick of time, was coming to the surface.
Madness with method—if I wasn’t taking my risperidone then I might say that I’m losing it a little; but, i’m not, so I think what’s really happening is that I’m reclaiming my link to the dark side—not to render harm, but, on the contrary, to entertain—and, in so doing, help people to learn. I want to save lives, don’t I? I want to draw maps for people so that they can awake. But yeah, my beliefs have shifted a little—back, that is, to what I experienced while doing a deep dive into every form of sin and insanity that i could conjure—so long as it helped me survive, and get my revenge, on Mormon town. So what? No—I didn’t think heaven would be free of suffering. I thought it would have it’s own problems. I integrate that—I take what I was doing back then, I subtract the [fucking bullshit] and I have an idea of the afterlife that I subscribe to—a whole new world—a whole new dimension, and, yes, enhanced, and heavenly, until, every so often, people got greedy and abused others—essentially opting out of a life that we could live on our own terms. A life plagued by jealousy and mutiny—unbounded anger and despair. People, in short, as I’ve talked about before, that, ultimately, don’t really exist; they’re there, instead, to make us earn the dividends we get when we exert a minimum effort to love each other without a chip on our shoulder—or the notion that anything other than love was acceptable.
Now—since this book is, ultimately, supposed to lead to a happier place than the one it found you in, like all good things, like all real things, we need to address my outburst. What kind of book am I writing? Am I satirizing myself? Am I doing a parody of someone that is riddled with hate? Maybe both—but I think more importantly, this is live. I’m reporting. But I’m not just reporting. I’m integrating. So what am I [fucking] saying? Well—this person belongs to me. I am him. I had him stashed away, infinitely suppressed, and the lack of Lexapro gives me a raw excuse to let him out a little—to let him live and breath a little. Does that mean I contradict myself? Not necessarily. But I certainly don’t need to swear unless it serves a purpose. So what purpose is that, when, well, we don’t want our heroes to swear? We want them to be better than us. So what gives? All of this is meant to show: sometimes you can’t get something good without letting in a little freezing cold air when you open the door. That’s what I mean when I say this is live. The ground is shifting. I’m not afraid, anymore (with good reason) to let the messy and the complicated in—those that like Vincent Van Gogh, for example, fall short of being the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. So what? Should i celebrate falling short of Jesus Christ? But I don’t believe that anybody is inherently better than I could be. So what does that mean? My world doesn’t allow for perfection—unless He is me, in the afterlife, looking over me, and working, in solidarity, to make it a little more likely that I might be Jesus Christ, once the dust settles, and I’m realized as the greatest artist that ever lived—plus one small caveat; Your version of Jesus Christ is every bit as real as mine.