Reconnecting, now, with some of the voices i used to use when i was losing my mind; uncles, today . . . although i projected my Dad’s voice, some, back then, and may continue to do so, some, in the present. they represent different channels, and, with some modulation, connect me, like texting, although it’s more intimate than that, since i can tune into what people are feeling and thinking, to specific people. The question presented itself: does scented soap help or hurt my telepathic connection? I considered the possibility that it made me a little easier to identify, which could be good, but it could also be bad, in that bad people, also, might be able to identify me easier, too. But I thought, well, i will consider it a part of my driving frequency, and, when i want to identify myself, i can pay attention, specifically to the smell, and, when i want to protect myself, well, i figured, over time the identifier would merge with a more complicated background, which would keep things complicated enough, and so, i thought, perhaps it can help, since it isolates a particular message sending and reading time, much like the smell of smoke must have, when, in the past, people exercised their telepathic abilities next to a fire.
I determined, then, that the scent was okay, and that, as long as i didn’t notice it much, after getting used to it, then it wouldn’t prove too troublesome, and that, indeed, it might help, like repeating a phrase in a musical composition to establish a pattern, and a relationship. Many people, in fact, relaxed through “aromatherapy,” using a pleasant scent to complement a relaxing experience—something, that is, that helps to get you in a mood. But all was not entirely well with the universe, as, for whatever reasons, i was waking up in the early hours of the morning, and, this morning i couldn’t go back to sleep. My theory that I didn’t need as much sleep now that i wasn’t taking my risperidone seemed in part to be true: but i found that, whereas i figured i’d stay up until ten to get to sleep easier, i was having trouble getting any reading done because i was getting tired, so i turned the lights out earlier last night. I don’t know why, if i was getting tired, and i was taking my trazadone, i was waking up, unless something, beneath the surface, was coming to a head.
You talk to me, and then you don’t talk to me . . . Anna again; i wondered, did i need to make some kind of adjustment to keep the conversation tuned to Ursula? But it seemed i needed to accept the compromise: identifying Anna’s voice with Ursula was going to leave the channel open for Anna to talk to me; since i was using her voice, she, too, could text, as it were, and the only real solution seemed to be that I shouldn’t engage her that much—the same as you’d do with anybody that you’re no longer interested in carrying on a day to day relationship with. I’d just have to train her, so to speak, not to misinterpret an open channel as a question—or even an invitation. As long as I didn’t direct my thoughts specifically to Anna, as long as i didn’t intentionally try to speak to her, i figured, then, eventually, i should recover enough control to keep myself from going on a tangent, talking to Anna when I am not particularly interested in what she has to say. At least not in an intimate sense. I still, of course, had high hopes that she would prove a tremendous president, and bring the US closer to heaven—like things are in Europe.
You have to help yourself Ursula, this time, hinting at something i was thinking of earlier in the day—that, in this life, no woman is going to look perfect. That we must rely on love to see people for who they really are, and what they will be, in heaven—that we must, and do, find character, and counterpoint, in what otherwise would be considered a flaw. Then our defining features make the good in us real—distinguishing us from generic beauty formed through brothels and brothel like behavior—people that, God bless them, if they were good, would find a way out of that life, from one generation to the next. I say that because, if we had a choice, we wouldn’t share our bodies with those we didn’t want to—we wouldn’t train ourselves to find satisfaction in sex when the sex, under different circumstances, would be considered bad. These brothel beauties—these random blond idiots—often, somehow, begin to look the same, since there is no intelligence to give weight, and meaning, to their features.
What was she saying, then? i think that I might need to keep an open mind—that i must allow the magic of love to do its work on a woman that, for whatever reasons, might look a little problematic. If the love was real, well, then, in the next life, any problematic feature would be corrected, and, i should keep in mind that, when the magic of love takes hold, desire takes over, and problematic features are no longer problematic. Give me a chance . . . she said, under the auspices, i suspect, that my idea of a Swedish blond was based on some heavenly expectation, when, if we were to meet in this life, some flaw, no doubt, would rise to the surface. And she was right. I needed to temper my expectations, and leave it to the afterlife to take these flawed, earthly bodies, and bring them into perfect harmony.