I’m just getting rid of some trash; what kind of trash? white trash? I wondered: did Ursula come from a red state? was she surrounded by republicans? if so, she wouldn’t be her authentic self for years. But, that said, i might have been talking to the future version of Ursula. i may have gone in for a blond, but many blonds were racists, and bad people; random blond idiots, we call them—those that, because they dye their hair blond, are given the chance to express an opinion that they stole from someone else—someone that sleeps with them, usually. Some women get laid and then they think that gives them the authority and the presence of mind to talk about politics. It might not be so bad if they had something meaningful to say—but really they were just saying whatever those that elevated them wanted to hear—such as, Jack Daniels shouldn’t have to leave his house to go to a party—he needs a ballroom.
I hated these RBI’s—random blond idiots—that made up the MAGA (make America great again) base. “What kind of trash?” White trash. “As in poor white trash?” But she wasn’t going to go there because she knew what it was like to be poor—sadly, these people were so poor that it made them sick—in order to feel good about themselves they needed to live on the idea that they could get rich—that that was a possibility, at some point, if, that is, they supported the right people; it allowed them to think of themselves as more than janitors and tweakers and people, in general, that don’t have health insurance. And what increased the likelihood that they would be chosen—that they would be rich? The color of their skin. They assumed that, because their leader was a racist, then, well, that meant he held white people in high esteem, and, because they were white, it made them feel good about themselves, something that they desperately needed in order to live lives that amounted to food stamps and alcoholic beverages.
But i won’t preach to the choir. Clearly, anybody that would read a book of mine would know that I have no tolerance for small minded people, no matter how much they are suffering—or how much suffering went in to enabling that small mindedness. Now I saw Ursula as a cross between her and my great grandmother—who had a voice in my mind’s ear, although I’m not sure how, exactly. Anyhow, they were saying that I only love them because they’re blond. But my great grandmother, after having a couple children, i don’t know exactly how many, but she became overweight. And as she got older, and had more children, she continued to gain weight, until she was grossly overweight—so: god bless my great grandfather for doing his best to keep the family together—and for making this family in general, but I wasn’t like him. I wouldn’t put up with a woman that was grossly overweight.
Do you want to sit by the fire? but we didn’t make fires any more—we had central heating and air, we didn’t have the wood, and we didn’t have the wherewithal to turn it into firewood. But this book, in a way, was like sitting by the fire—because we were telepathically communicating with each other—that’s what made sitting by the fire entertaining and comfortable—in addition to the warmth, of course. Did I want to sit by the fire? So she was talking to me and her husband simultaneously—in the same way that my grandmother, I think, would ask me to watch TV with her—with a small difference. My grandmother couldn’t shut up. Now, granted, when I was there, we rarely spoke, since i went up the road to the second house at the top of the hill where I did my painting and reading for most of the day—and then I read romantic poetry in the evening. But I would’ve preferred to work on telepathic communications, which meant, to some degree, you had to hold your tongue until that energy crossed a threshold and found its way into your partner’s brain—you wanted to share thoughts as thoughts—you didn’t want to avoid that by painting over it with a story—especially a story that you clearly told yourself over and over in some probably destructive and dishonest way—to keep yourself, for example, from having intimate, telepathic thoughts. Thoughts that involved heaven, and the people in it; thoughts that, in fact, made heaven possible—thoughts that you could use, and take with you, when you left for the next world.
So, “Yes, we’re sitting by the fire.” Who is boll weevil? I had my great grandmother on the line, now. Who knows, maybe she ate so much because she was trying to control her telepathic sensibility—to protect it, and, when necessary, to turn it off. Maybe she was trying to absorb some of the drunken and painful situations i so often found myself in when I used to drink. In that case—she would’ve been giving me a space to dump my back—a time in which, like MAGA, I couldn’t help but dump my back because, in short, the world wasn’t paying me very much—and, of course, it was taking me away from my real work, the driving force behind my purpose and, at that, my well-being. So what was happening to Ursula, my Norway blond? Or had she, in fact, connected herself to my great-grandmother, having found some way to access that channel—and reach me on a more intimate and realistic level.
I want to catch you at the right time ok, great. But who was this? My Ursula, my female God, was taking on different faces, and changing her frequency ever so slightly. Clearly, she was talented—since, as it happens, my energy was focused on her—my Norway blond. thanks, dear John. Yeah, of course—now we were talking; but what did she mean by wanting to catch me at the right time? Did she mean when pregnancy was an option? Did she mean when, at some point during the night, i somehow managed an erection? But I was going to put a stop to this erection problem—I wasn’t going to let that control how i lived my life any more than it already had. But I had this sneaking feeling that I was somehow talking to my ex, Ocasio-Cortez. She was driving me nuts—i didn’t like seeing her on my screen anymore. I found it to be disconcerting and painful. Can’t I just vote for her—and be done with imaginations of an intimate relationship? I didn’t want to see her. It was too much. But—what about a baby, if that was a possibility? But she didn’t want me—she was happy without me—she was trying to control me in order to elevate herself, in order to dump her back on me. When we didn’t have that kind of a relationship anymore.
The problem, however, was that my Ursula—my Norway blond and, somehow, part and parcel of my great grandmother, was not someone that I could imagine a physical relationship with—and if this was Ocasio-Cortez, then I wanted more than she had to offer, and, therefore, it wasn’t going to work, and I didn’t want to be connected to her save in a professional way, i.e. she had my vote. I’d say nothing but positive things about her—to help her rise to the top. But she didn’t seem to need my help, and so, well, she was trying to use my emotional vulnerability in order to dump her back—which was really pissing me off, if that’s what was happening—which I’m not so sure is the case. But anyhow: that person, this ex, was not welcome when communicating across the bulk in an intimate way. She didn’t turn me on like she used to, during that brief window of time in which I felt strong enough to be good enough (if I wasn’t a basement dweller that didn’t have a good job—or any job, for that matter) and the time in which I realized that we’d run our course—that we couldn’t go together anymore. A physical relationship was too much like a pipe dream—and, furthermore, I was using her too much. I needed a clean break—hence the emergence of my Norway blond, but I seem to be backsliding a little—and that’s because (dammit) i see her on my screen, happy as can be, while I’m working my but off with no foreseeable end to my loneliness and the abstinence I’m forced to accept.