13
We were coming, in some ways, to the end of one road, and, as we did, we were approaching another road that, according to my bad angel, might not exist. I was down to 1mg of risperidone and up to 80 mg of Latuda—i’d also quit the benztropine, so I was waiting to see if my involuntary mouth movements returned, which was a little difficult since I would make the movement if I was thinking about it. But the risperidone was supposed to cause that kind of thing to a greater degree than the Latuda, so I had my hopes up. All this left me to one prescription before going to bed—atorvastatin for cholesterol, which I might not have needed once getting off the risperidone but, well, I figured it was good to have lower cholesterol than higher cholesterol, and I don’t think it was making me impotent.
Now, i was trying, with some success, to think of my Ursula when I was backchanneling—i got to degrade her for a change, but, before you get your hopes up, that degradation was a function of what was happening to me more so than her. I wasn’t exactly doing it to me—it was more like I was recovering from something that had already happened to me, but the mere fact that Ursula, to some extent, in this case Anna, to be exact, was contributing to the work I was doing—which was important to me, since, in my opinion, the person we love should also be the person that turns us on, was progress. It sounds simple but, for complicated people that don’t have a lot of friends, it can be quite frustrating. You might think that, well, if you had friends you’d think about your friends, wouldn’t you? So you’d have a problem. But the real problem was that Ursula was too heavy—she meant too much to me, more than she could ever give, i.e., she couldn’t take the place of having healthy relationships with other people. Now, in my defense, there weren’t a lot of people out there that could be my friend—they simply didn’t have anything to offer me. But i needed to turn to others from time to time when I went looking for happiness and entertainment because, if i didn’t, I didn’t have a whole lot of new material to share with Ursula. We were just left kind of sitting there with me waiting for her to entertain me when I had nothing to share—which meant that she had nothing to respond to, and it takes two to Tango, so there.
I wasn’t going to spending a lot of time with anybody, however—sparse friendship was just my lot in life; so maybe I needed to try and channel other voices instead of relying so much on my voice, my internal narrator, and Ursula’s voice. I don’t know. But the fact of the matter was that I wasn’t as deep into all the telepathic projecting as I had been several months ago; that, in part, was a function, i think, of me letting people in—of not forcing people out with a chant that was designed to destructively interfere with unwanted thoughts. It was also a function of the fact that content had basically been pouring out of me for the last few weeks—i was writing almost twice as much as I had been—and, it seemed, in nearly the same amount of time. Thus, things were moving quickly as I transcribed my thoughts and my telepathic experiences, too quickly for me to dedicate a big amount of attention to counting, chanting, and reproducing what I thought someone was saying to me.
But I was trying to let her back in . . . and I was trying not to depend on her so much, too. So really i was right where I needed to be—I was on the right path. But where was i going right now? What was the Latuda doing to me? What was I recovering now that the risperidone wasn’t able to interfere? And would i continue to think of Ursula when I backchanneled? Or would I fall back on the Italian PM? I had no pornographic input, which was great for telepathic communications, but also meant that, at times, I was at a loss to think about something that I would be able to respond to. But i hear her, now: I was not pierced by his comment . . . if that’s how he feels . . . and so on, things that I’d heard her say—things that I turned to when trying to reproduce the sound of her voice. Norway blond, at this point, wasn’t doing much for me anymore; she existed, theoretically, as an accompaniment to what was going on live, right here, right now, but I had no physical person to think of—which, I think, made a little space for Anna—but the question was still a real one: Is my Ursula blond, or not?
i can’t answer that question. All I can do is walk the path in front of me and do my best to translate and process the information that both entertains me some of the time and makes me suffer some of the other time. Mostly thinking, now—yeah, i know it had been so long since I had been with someone, and i have no one under the age of seventy something to talk to, but what the fuck was I doing with the last person i was with? What was I thinking? But she was related, in my mind, to an old art teacher, that, for a long time I thought was a good person, and then, as I recovered more of myself, in particular my gay self, I came to the conclusion that she wasn’t a good person, and then this woman comes a long that likes all my art work—or pretends to love it when she’s actually trying to manipulate me, and she says, “hey, i’m friends with this art teacher and I showed her some of your paintings and your poems and she said you deserve a show in a museum and your poems are really well written—etc., and suddenly I think, maybe that art teacher really wasn’t a bad person.
I allowed myself to get fooled a little because i was lonely—and I wanted somebody that wanted me, etc. But this woman was not such a good person, and, having thought on this a little more—well, it’s possible for people to like my art work and still be a bad person—lesson learned. Glad you’re rid of her and so i said, “you don’t like for me to talk about other women but you’re with somebody,” and she said yeah, but I don’t talk to you about them and she had a point—but that didn’t make it any more real for me—real in the sense that she, eventually, would choose to be with me—that she, eventually, at least, would live a celibate life. I was encouraged, however, a little, when i saw her stating how some people think they’re better than people that had to work for a living, and, I figured, well, she’d be a little less likely to look down on me in real life, i.e., in her eyes I might have been a little more adequate than I allowed myself to think—it wasn’t enough, but, given a little encouragement, I might, I’m not saying i would be, but I might be able to combine a feeling of love with a feeling of desire—and that was the dream, at this point. That was the place that I was trying to go—the place I imagined would be best.