Still going on about the prime minister of Italy; thinking of leaving a broom closet a couple minutes before her—and I think she was even heavier then than she is in real life—unless, well, I haven’t seen her in a while; I don’t even really know what she looks like: maybe she’s been having two pastries instead of one, etc. Or maybe that’s how I had to imagine things to feel good enough to do the deed. But if that was the case, why wasn’t i attracted to other heavy women? It was all about the power, wasn’t it? So sue me. See what you get out of me; I couldn’t help it, and, frankly, there was nothing wrong with it. I just liked to mix things up—to mix becoming the president with fucking the president, etc. Now i could practically hear Ursula’s skepticism: He’s just like all the rest, she at least seemed to be thinking. But really I’m not; I’m kind of unique. You’re not going to find somebody like me very often—somebody that will overlook the money, the fame . . . and the fat, in order to access the 5th dimension.
The main thing that was pissing Ursula off right now was not that I was with somebody else (theoretically) but with the fact that I turned to blond hair and white skin when I was overcome with desire. I wanted that snow white skin. Most people nowadays want to be tan—they want to look like the future, upon which, after the melting pot simmers for a while, everybody will look like they’re white with tan skin, won’t they? Everybody will have brown skin. But that wasn’t what I wanted, was it? I wanted white skin—I wanted to have white skinned, blond children. Was that because I was resisting the melting pot—because I was a racist, deep down? Maybe so, I don’t know, but my point is that I can’t fucking help it. Nothing else makes sense, at least not right now. When I see Ursula I can’t believe a thing—she doesn’t like me in the same way that a white skinned blond would. She doesn’t trust me, either.
But what is there to trust? By the time i was off the risperidone and I’d made a name for myself—which was the only way Ursula was ever going to come to me, I’d feel plenty adequate and willing to backchannel with the best of them; I didn’t think that was going to be a problem. But what do you really want? What can I say? Right now the love I feel goes to Anna, but the desire I feel goes to the prime minister of Italy and her white skin and blond hair. So do you want to have children with her? Well, if i was rich enough I would. Why not? If i was rich enough I could have children with more than one woman, couldn’t I? Wouldn’t that be ideal? Considering that, deep down, I’m not exactly a polygamist, but, let’s face it, I’m not exactly monogamous, either—I don’t want a mistress . . . not exactly. What I want is to be in love; if some lines get blurred, well, my own personal code of honor allowed for a lot when it comes to love.
I just couldn’t make Ursula look at me the way I wanted her to look at me; I couldn’t see desire in her face—I couldn’t feel it. And i like people that like me, don’t I? Well, who says the prime minister of Italy is going to like me? Isn’t this so fucked up? Ursula lives inside my brain, day in and day out, but I can’t keep it up. She’s too fucking heavy—she’s too fucking focused. I don’t know what it is. I could wonder about her—if she felt the same way, and, if she did, could we overcome it? In the interest of a family? In the interest of the future? But why did we have to overcome something? Isn’t love supposed happen naturally—without working yourself into a fit trying to figure out why you can screw some people, but you can’t screw others?
The only way I was going to get to Ursula, right here, and right now, is if I continued seeing the prime minister of Italy—I had to get my confidence up. But then again . . . but no, I don’t see the prime minister of Italy as a partner. I just see her as someone to use and abuse—which, after all, might be what I really need right now. Someone that I could get down to business with—someone that I could work with, doing our best to channel the real Ursula or others that lived in the future, and work things out in a physical way. In a way that I could see—in a way that made it possible for someone to communicate with me when, for whatever reasons, I couldn’t let them into my heart. Why couldn’t that person be Anna? It basically was Anna already—which is what made this so confusing. Why was I attracted to the PM of Italy? I really wasn’t, was I? Considering the pastries? I already thought of Anna as the president; I don’t think it was the fact that the PM of Italy, right here, right now, was more powerful than Anna. Who, then was Ursula? Was the real Ursula making herself known to me through the PM of Italy—because, otherwise, I’d be too focused on getting Anna in the sack, instead?
O Ursula, whoever you are, I want your voice to be heard. So there were signs, then, that Anna wasn’t right for me, weren’t there? Because I couldn’t get into it the way I could with snow white skin? This was so frustrating—I was totally invested in Anna as Ursula; but the real Ursula seemed to be stepping in, demanding to be heard. But she was just going to have to get used to the fact that Anna was my go to object when I needed to look to the future. When I needed to interact with Ursula herself. She was just going to have to get used to that, because, well, in the interest of telepathic communications, the president’s voice is the strongest backchannel out there—I’d be using it even if my Ursula turned out to the be the PM of Italy, which, no doubt, would piss off the PM of Italy. I could imagine her totally treating me like shit, that wasn’t hard to do. I don’t know how good a person she is but I want to do it with her so what does that say about me? That I still, in spite of all the progress I’ve made, just don’t like myself very much?
I was doing everything I could to reclaim the real me—I mean I was more productive than ever, and it was all good. So i don’t know how i could possibly like myself any more—all I could do was be patient, and allow this person to gain their confidence, and emerge, through this person that was somehow interested in the PM of Italy in a purely vulgar and volatile way. Well fuck it, anyhow. Anna and or Ursula can’t say anything because she’s currently with the love of her life—a man that i can’t compete with, at least not when it comes to grounding my Ursula, and keeping her sane. If anything—well, I apparently needed a sparring partner to be sexually active; that’s how things were for me, in the past, and I figured that, now, on medication, that would no longer be the case—but given what I’m going through right now, i’m not going to be having sex with someone I can’t get into argument with—someone that I can’t use as a sounding board—someone from the future that would use my Ursula to talk to me about things that I, for whatever reasons, couldn’t see or understand.
But i should probably try talking to Anna, shouldn’t I? She’s probably the best possible sounding board and wildcat that I could hope for—I’ve seen her rant to the camera, anyhow. She looks like she can fucking argue pretty good. So I listen for her voice . . . right now. I say, “What the fuck?” or something like that. And she calls me a fucking racist . . . and we go on like that for a considerable amount of time. It was only after getting my hands dirty that I could ever truly bond with a woman—i needed to argue, to turn up the heat, and to shape this person into the person that we needed them to be; and, well, I needed to change too, I’m not denying that—I’m saying, in some cases, I just fucking can’t because I can’t hear the person that is trying to reach me. Let’s face it—I don’t have the telepathic abilities that someone from the distant future, after centuries of evolution, has. I’m practically the first cave man artist, drawing pictures on the wall, and ushering in the advancement of man from that which has no soul—no certain afterlife, and that which necessarily does. That which believes.
Impressive—but I’m still a fucking caveman compared to these people. Now, Ursula, technically—my Ursula, my orphan, my equal, my woman from the fifth dimension, is beyond me—so I think that’s what this comes down to. I need someone that can embody that 5D Ursula, someone that I can use to speak to the real Ursula, which may or may not, ultimately, look anything like Anna or whoever the fuck. That’s one of the reasons I say that falling in love is so important—that it trumps what, otherwise, might function as a strict moral code. Access to the future, to more life, to God, was paramount above all. That was the only way to be true to yourself and to others at the same time. You had to get yourself right with God—and God was all about resonating with the people around you—people that, for better or worse, were, at least in part, preoccupied by people from the future, people that they, too, in fact, needed to use as a hearing aid when someone that made them look like a caveman was trying to get through to them.