Quietly, now: i can hear her lurking in the background—taking on the physical address of my great grandmother; except that it was an address that wasn’t what my great grandmother really looked like. It was more vague than that, as if she was starting there, and sort of overlapping with her in such a way that everything looked a little blurry. The fat was there—many movie stars, in fact, get fat when they quit working, as they get old. Was my Ursula a movie star? what, then, exists between us? But my Ursula, barring a miracle, won’t appear on my screen—my Ursula is more than that. And, because she’s more than that, she won’t appear on a screen unless greatness is thrust upon her—and she rises to the call. Now, for the past couple of hours people were talking about me inside my head; they were impressed by me, and they were saying things that made me sound like a big-shot; I tried not to pay too much attention to it—can I help it, however, if, sometimes I agree with them?
Ursula, i imagine, was speaking to me, since it’s her voice i project, even, now, as I paint. Telling me stuff I wanted to hear—things that I wanted to be true but required a miracle of sorts—not just steady, dedicated hard work. People have sex and they think they’re such big shots. The idea is that you’re better than other people if your getting it, because, well, that’s what parties are all about when you analyze things. Everything is about ending the night with a sexual experience—am I wrong? that’s why we’ll never be rid of cocaine—it makes it possible for people to see what they want to see—to imagine, after hours of talking nonsense, that things are much more favorable than they really are. I don’t know how these people continue to believe that something big is going to happen because of the party—that they are going to be discovered—or fuck their future mate, when, as everybody knows, especially after you’ve been through it a few times, that nothing like that is ever going to happen. It’s all a mistake—at most, well, you’ll meet a movie producer, right, and, you’ll get connected, through him, this guy that you fuck, and you become rich and famous? But tell me, actually, does that actually happen? Ever? Actually?
Well this merger between my Norway blond and Ursula was really happening—some kind of psychic threshold had been crossed—and I realized: Norway blond is code for Ursula, now, yes; but it’s also code for this person that is channeling me through my great grandmother. Now, am I speaking to my great grandmother, too? Well, it’s possible that things get through, because, as we’ve discussed, I, at least, don’t believe that people are just themselves, as if they were in a vacuum. I believe that souls overlap a little—that there are more people on earth than there are in heaven because of this overlapping. In short, we have disparate waves on earth, but, in heaven, those waves interfere and align, leaving us with one soul—one wave. That’s how this works. That’s how I say—you have a boyfriend? Good. Be with him. Because, if you belong to me, which I think you might, at least as a projection of my female God, then you’ll discover that He, at least temporarily, is me. Maybe you’re meant to be with him in heaven—maybe our paths only cross, but you can’t be with him unless I am also with him—and, as such, I’ll say it again, he is me.
Well, John, what do you want to eat? I’m having a hamburger, Leona, and what have you done with my Ursula, the woman that I can have a sexual relationship with without having ill-begotten children? This isn’t Leona—not in full. Leona, of course, was my great grandmother—I imagined, once, that she belonged to me; but I actually ended up spending most of my imagination on a woman with darker hair—at least, that is, when I was in Mormon town, and losing my mind, seemingly because I wanted to, but really, the part about losing my mind was against my will. I was in it for what I might learn about heaven—not the story I dreamed up to match my narcissistic fantasies. Math uncle appearing now—I’m taking things really slow right now—since, as it happens, I keep forgetting things and getting really anxious; so I’m trying to understand things a little at a time until i really know them before I allow myself to push forward. Math is cool—but I miss physics a little; I’m looking forward to proving the Riemann hypothesis (I’m kidding, except not really; but if I don’t solve the Riemann hypothesis I don’t know what that’s going to mean for my approximately (so far) three volume and 900 page math book) but I’m looking forward to proving the Riemann hypothesis, like i said, because I’m interested in getting into the actual physics behind prayer, and the existence of an afterlife—a fifth dimension, and so on, and so forth.
I guess instead of ending up with a book that advanced my field I’d basically end up with a bunch of notes—but, I declare, these are good notes, and they might help, so I’ll publish anyhow—for my math uncle, for example, whenever he comes of age. But lets talk about my prolactin levels—and the fact that my orgasms are suppressed—if, that is, they can be called orgasms. I’m not going to put up with it, basically—i want my life back—not the life I lived in Mormon town, but the life I was trying, at that time, to integrate—the self that I was trying to find and develop. The person that is me without the world getting a hold of me and suppressing the abilities and the personality that i was born with—the person, in short, that I really am—a combination of what I was, as a child, before the world marred me, the person that I am now, with the help I need to silence invasive thoughts, and the person that I’ll become whenever I get on the right level of medication.
Medication that will suppress the people that dump their telepathic backs on me—wailing into the abyss, and make it possible for me to actually tap into my abilities and the connections i make with real telepathic hosts, people, like Leona, that actually talk to me. We can be the same person but, no, actually, Ursula, we can’t. I needed to make her understand that I was her boyfriend, or, if she didn’t have a boyfriend, I would be her boyfriend in the future—a future that did not include this fourth dimensional man that was bound, as a wave, to align with the dominant wave, myself, in the fifth dimension. We were partly the same person—that was true—but there were other parts of me that would always prevent me from being her, since, as it happens, I am the man that she loves.