Turned the heat up a little in the shower—i miss the relaxed, focused, measured mornings i had when taking a bath; so i think i won’t turn the fan on tomorrow, and make the place my own little fifteen minute sauna, as I shower and shave.  So, too, i find myself, in spite of my dehumidifier, listening for the sound of my clock, and writing this, now, at 9:26 AM, as opposed to noon, or after painting, often in the late afternoon.  There can be a special kind of zen that goes with the morning hours, when the mind is both fresh, and, having reset itself, leaving you, at that time in your life, to your true self—still unaffected by the oncoming events, and the drama, of the day.  In this moment, recovering some of that zen, potentially tapping into my bath zen without taking a bath, seemed more important than securing some increment of knowledge or theory that would back up my faith.  At this moment, instead, it seemed more important to simply be, to engage my faith through meditation, and faith alone.  I think this might have something to do with what I’ve been missing: i’ve been so determined to make sense of the universe, and prove my faith, that i’ve been neglecting faith itself—faith as it’s own form of science, it’s own path, in and of itself.  I need, i think, to practice mindfully setting my doubts, and my logic, aside, in order to grow spiritually, in order to believe based on belief, and the feelings i get when I believe, or choose to believe, something in a certain way. 

  Welcome to my home.  I’d been trying to tune into Anna’s voice throughout the day yesterday, not just while writing, and, also, a little this morning, lying in bed, as I waited for my alarm to go off at 8:00 AM.  Normally, throughout the day, if I was going to tune into a voice, I’d tune into my voice—not Anna’s, but I was having such trouble conjuring Anna’s voice that i felt i needed the practice.  Listening to the clock had me measuring my breathing more, even when i wasn’t listening to a clock, so i figured that was a good thing, and, some, I tried to breath a three second count, and, more often, I tried to breathe my natural count, which is a compressed count—a little shorter than three seconds.  So Ursula was welcoming me to her home—and by that I could only conclude that, in getting back to my measured breathing, I was getting closer to her, and that which she considers her home.  Perhaps, otherwise, I was only with her at different times of the day, like when one of us was deliberately trying to tune in, as opposed to just measuring our breathing, and being with each other in general.

    I woke up an hour early and played with the idea of taking a bath and listening to my clock—to try and get back on track.  But that would have put me almost an hour behind, and, besides, i didn’t know if i had the patience anymore, at this time, to sit in a bath long enough to really get something out of it.  But without my metronome—and regulating my breathing, i felt a little estranged from myself—as if i needed some degree of meditation, and the help of a ticking clock, to really regulate, and get centered.  So i brought my clock close to my computer, where, if i listened closely, I could make it out over the sound of the dehumidifier, which i ran, in the basement, with me, in the mornings, when it was warm outside.  I wished i could hear it a little better, for this, but i was anxious to listen to my clock, and incorporate more meditation into my writing, right now.  That meant that i took a breath for three seconds and exhaled for three seconds when i was paying enough attention to it, which was a little longer than I normally breathe.  When i was living in Mormon town, after having lost my mind, and continuing, over time, to lose my mind, I used to listen to the clock all the time, and count a three count, a four count, or an extended count—inhale in for four seconds and exhale out for eight seconds.  Despite losing my mind, and listening to the clock too much, I still believe that it was the clock, and my mindful, regulated, measured breathing, that made it possible for me to tap into the 5D universe—and many of the ideas that i still draw from today.  The life, then, was an experiment born out of a desperate attempt to both occupy myself and maintain my sanity, and, although i went off the deep end, the experiment, in and of itself, led to valuable results.

    Counting, one, two, and three . . . and here we are.  It seemed to me that, in heaven, extradimensional travel would be that simple—that our neurons and our nerves would produce a magnetic field, and that we could sense what frequencies to project, use our magnetic field to bend them, and, as such, transfer 5D momentum, and ourselves, to the desired coordinate.  And food?  yeah, part of living as a function of consciousness, as opposed to consciousness being a function of living, meant that all our needs were instantaneously provided for by the 5D field.  The continuum of our consciousness.  Our fridges always remained stocked—you didn’t need to order things online, you just needed a clear idea of what you wanted—and it would appear.  Consciousness was the difference between 5D and 4D.  In 5D we are the product and the components of consciousness—the product and the components of the 5D field.  We, as the centers of our individual universes, define the universe—where as, in 4D, all too often, it’s the other way around.  Consciousness is the product and the component of an individual life—and that life is limited.

    Several days had passed since i’d checked in—i’d done some short poems and some six stanza rhyming poems, and posted them on social media, which is probably as close as I was ever really going to get to being read—barring some dramatic stroke of luck, which i’d given up counting on.  But that was nice in and of itself—i didn’t get a lot of attention, but the attention i did get could be very positive—which made me think that, if i did get published to a wider audience, then I would have an audience, if they could find me.  You’re here for me, now.  Watching Anna on social media—thinking, well, she’s actually a normal person, she won’t be attractive to me in several years, after she gets a little older, after what, for most people, means the inevitable addition of what would otherwise be deemed too much weight.  That she’d already lost some of her appeal, and i had to wonder: did that have anything to do with the fact that I wasn’t relying on her voice as much?  I thought it was a good thing to use her voice, still; it was a part of my telepathic process, but when the writing took a back seat, so did my telepathic process.