Now, I’d been recording songs, right? And listening to my voice. Well, my voice didn’t sound like the voice I’d been projecting as my voice—I needed to make some adjustments, and it was a little difficult, since I was so used to pronouncing the tone I was used to. I made a little effort, however, to hear my voice, to remind me of what my voice really sounded like, which sounded more like an adult voice than the voice I’d been projecting. Combining that voice with Ursula’s voice, if not throughout the day so much anymore, then at least for this time spent here, writing prose, was important. You can fuck me anytime ok—i heard that, and that was a little problematic because I don’t think that’s something she would say—at least not consciously. Frankly, I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know who I was talking to. It couldn’t be her unless I was somehow connecting with the person that is no longer in a relationship with someone else. So I thought about it for a minute and I figured what she was really saying was that I could think about her any time. That I could imagine what she might be like. Or what I might be like—considering that I was well aware: when I thought of Ursula it was like a dream; we’re often not the person we think we are; we’re often the person that is the focal point of our imagination—so she, and the things we did, were probably more about me than they were her.
“What are you doing?” I said, once in my voice, this new voice I was trying to get used to, and once in her voice, since, when it comes to telepathic communications, that’s how you talk to each other—using the other person’s voice. I’m just playing chess was that true? what did she mean—that she was playing chess with me? Ot that she was playing chess with the entire fucking country—because that’s what I thought she was doing. Anyhow, i wasn’t playing chess with her. I was trying to have a conversation. Which was successful, albeit a tad mysterious. Now, I had basically come to the conclusion that over the next ten years she was going to do just like most people do and put on another 20 pounds—which would have pushed her past the point that would’ve been appealing to me, unless, I guess, I was just so fucking used to her that it didn’t matter so much. But, frankly, that idea put a bit of a damper on my constant fantasy—that I, in time, would partner with her.
Her voice was still incredibly valuable, however, and, for now, she was still very beautiful, so I wasn’t going to try and replace her like I had not so long ago with this unknown voice that represent the so called Norway blond. So I was sticking with her until I fell in love with someone else and maybe even if I did fall in love with someone else, since chanting that person’s voice would be like making their telepathic phone ring off the hook. Thanks for being honest with me that was about what? Her weight? But I was reverting to my old self—the self that didn’t think about what somebody might look like in ten or twenty years. I was thinking about what the person looked like in the present moment, since, as a matter of fact, that was still important.
I know what you’re thinking—and i didn’t sleep with Ted Kennedy that was kind of funny, actually, because even I, with my wicked, paranoid imagination didn’t consider that for more than a moment. But I had to tell her, “I don’t associate you with the Kennedys,” but then I said, “I guess that was your only option.” At least he was a democrat, right? So I said, explicitly, “I don’t think you slept with Ted Kennedy.” Then it occurred to me that I might have been doing something fundamentally wrong when engaging in telepathic communications. If I reproduced her voice, how was she supposed to know it was me? Was my signature already there—since it is probably impossible to exactly reproduce someone’s voice in your imagination? Or should I try to intone my voice on the consonants? I thought that, quite possibly, could be the case. But I also thought my signature was probable already on the projection, so I decided i would think about my voice only a little when I tried to speak to her directly. I remembered, then, that, as I understood it, when you use someone else’s voice they hear your voice inside their head—it’s the basis of the telepathic wave—it’s like you have an address in the continuum.
She basically got the golden ticket when she got elected. I’m not saying she didn’t deserve it—she deserves to be the fucking president, but, frankly, I think anybody that gets elected to office is like finding a needle in a haystack—unless you have a lot of money or influence already—which is kind of unfortunate, but, well, i think she was trying to change that. After all, I had every intention of getting elected president, at least in my little world where I imagine that, in fact, the present incorporates me, this entity from the future—which, in and of itself, would be like getting a golden ticket, at least a little, even if, well, as time went on, I found that I was proving myself, at least to myself, more and more. I had faith, anyhow, and, frankly, i think, deep down, I was already connected to the future in such a profound way that discovery, with a little help, which was probably going to come in some form, given everything I’ve done with myself, and continue to do with myself, was bound to happen. My art, I think, would eventually surface.
I have faith in you Now, that was something that I can certainly imagine that she said—it was a hell of a lot more likely that she said that than, “You can fuck me anytime.” So I felt some reassurance that I was still connected, enough, to her voice, to engage in telepathic communications. How’s the Riemann hypothesis coming along? I figured, then, that she was really trying to butter me up, since i hardly ever got asked, and it was unlikely that I would be asked, to explain what I was working on when it came to mathematics. Add that to the fact that it was incredibly complicated and difficult to talk about, and the thought crossed my mind: “Is she trying to get into my pants?” But, again, I think she loved her boyfriend, so, if she was trying to get into my pants I don’t think she was aware of it—it was far more likely that she was simply thinking of me, was genuinely interested, and, on top of that, was, as I imagined her to be, an incredibly kind person—someone that would make every effort not to ghost me if things ever went south.