I was in the middle of a mathematical jungle trying to make sense out of various things that both solve the Riemann hypothesis and explain certain physical properties in physics. All i wanted to do right now was take a breath and get back in touch with my Ursula. Her voice was coming from the center of my brain, but I was a long way off. That happens when I do math—I’m so focused on other things that I forget to project her voice. Maybe I’m doing it a little unconsciously, but she definitely gets pushed aside by unknown people that sneak in when I’m checking my email, so to speak. I’m not saying I’m not reading Ursula’s email when this happens—I think a lot of times I am, but as all this math comes out of me, pipe dreams, i know, i lose the filter. Others get in. People that would disrupt my routine, make it difficult for me to focus and get things done, and, of course, to get to sleep at night. I had no intention of living the tortured life of some archetypal artist.
I wanted to change the archetype. I wanted to be the archetype. Or at least i wanted to become a new archetype—my own archetype—i’m talking about a person that doesn’t waste a huge portion of this life being miserable. Now all i could think about was Kamala Harris trying to run for president again. I wasn’t in to it—and I don’t exactly think she was a threat to Ursula, except she kind of was because she might take votes from Ursula that made it possible for some other person to get the nomination. That was the whole fucking problem. I was so frustrated with the democratic party for showing no spine—and getting defeated by Jack Daniels, a man that the democratic party should have served to prosecute. But what about the PM of Italy? What can I say? She was gone, now; at least she had been for a couple of days. Did that mean I didn’t want someone with white skin and blond hair? I don’t know—because the day before I couldn’t think of anything substantial, and today I found myself thinking about Ursula. But it was so fucked up . . . Ursula was degrading the shit out of me.
I wondered, then, if the PM of Italy was eating pastries today. How many? Two? Three? Four? Well, if she ate four of them (that’s plausible every so often) then she probably wasn’t going to make it back into my imagination. But the sex wasn’t that bad when she was here. Well, it was kind of difficult, but she was the most valuable player, the MVP of my mind’s eye. I figured I’d better quit talking about her, however, unless I really wanted to set myself up for disaster. The way i saw it one of three things could happen. She’d never learn who I am and read this, and she might not even read this if she did know who i am, which was the most likely scenario. But I didn’t build my life on likely scenarios—I believed in a future that allowed for the possibility of sex with the PM of Italy. I allowed myself to believe that could happen. But that brings me to my point. The other two things that could happen are that she could ridicule the hell out of me—or, on the contrary, she could pursue an affair that was really more of a bluff than a real call to action. So, in two out of three ways, I was screwed, barring, I guess, the as yet unstated fourth possibility, which is, of course, that we would connect.
I guess the main thing that sucks about being 47 however is that you can’t imagine being with someone as easily as you could when you were younger, and all possibilities lived in your imagination without the more practical voice that might or might not snuff a lot of love in the bud. Because let’s face it—I might’ve lost touch with the PM of Italy because it occurred to me that I’d never move to Italy, and, consequently, even if love was a possibility, i wasn’t up for it. This was also a little disconcerting because however so much I protected myself with a spot of realism, I, in turn, lost a key component of my mind’s eye—I was running out things to get me going—to make me think, yeah, well, I am only 47, and sex, at this point, is still a possibility, even if I knew better—that I was years away from moving out—if I ever moved out—in which case, well, this is Clayton County, and, and I don’t have a lot of options out here. There weren’t any white skinned blonds, for one thing, and, for the second thing, there weren’t any would be presidential candidates or otherwise sufficiently powerful women. Did I consider a more humble woman? If she was really into me, then yes, but, at my age, I kind of need some degree of fame to get with what I really want, which is a woman that both digs my art, and, most importantly, is young enough to have a baby—i needed that possibility to keep this up, too.
I was kind of wishing that Ursula would talk to me, but, with all the free wheeling over the last couple days, I don’t know, but she wasn’t exactly talking to me. Maybe she was pissed that I’m normal, and I want to screw the PM of Italy. Maybe she thought I was different, that I wasn’t exactly a typical heterosexual man, which I’m not, based on how Ursula gets away with degrading me, but she might not see that. So maybe she was pissed. I don’t know. I’m so frustrated by not being able to be with her in person that I don’t fucking care as much. I am transitioning from risperidone to Latuda—I’m down to 2mg of risperidone a day . . . whatever that means. Am I getting off the risperidone and losing touch with Ursula? Is she a function of my mental health? But I can’t make this shit up. This is real life. She really does live in my brain, in my mind’s eye, in my mind’s ear, and, somehow, she gets away with degrading me, which might be alright, I guess, if I got to degrade her, but I can’t do that—the action is not in my arsenal.
But maybe i’m making progress and it will be. I need something. But i won’t turn to pornography, considering how, well, you get used to seeing it, instead of doing it, and it turns you into an object—a fake homosexual, a deviant that doesn’t really stand a chance of connecting with the right person—a person that would, god forbid, be into whatever it was that you were watching. But some people say that everybody watches pornography. I don’t know how many people do. But I don’t think everybody does. I don’t even think nearly every teenager does. And I certainly don’t think Ursula does. If she did, then it seems like she might be a little more uncomfortable in her own skin, or, at least, a little more interested in treating people like shit, and degrading them, which, granted, she does to me, at least that’s where I’m calling from, but I’m the special case scenario because I sometimes ignore the fact that she’s taken, that she doesn’t want me, and that she never would.
Anyhow, I wanted to talk to her so much I was taking a moment to especially focus. don’t get me started . . . so she said something, but i was kind of hoping for something more meaningful than that—something that might have promised and delivered, at least in part, the assurance that we would get together before she went into menopause. You’re such an asshole Now she just sounded like an ex—a person that treated me like I was an asshole no matter what I said—there was no stopping it, everything that came out was wrong, at least to her, when it really wasn’t all bad. I don’t like it when you talk about other women well, I’d expected as much, but, let’s face it, this is reality, and you write what you know about. You write what you’re trying to understand. And I was trying to understand myself more than anything—and the options that I would have, if, that is, at least at this time, i wasn’t getting degraded.