Pulverized grey paste of other people’s lives.
< ai is scraping for your human soul, your socials are data

A best friend says, “Do you need any help?” Or “Let me know how I can support you.” Right? This one was more voyeuristic. “Is your power really off?” “Yep.” “What have you been doing with your time?”

Great question, just not one that deserves an answer at this juncture. He’s the ghosting friend, stopping by after dipping briefly into my ongoing malfunction. Now, it’s all in pictures and videos, screenshots of texts, and unsolicited cam footage. It’s all about monetization. We’re monetizing ourselves to death. The collapse of the biosphere is less than 200 years away. What do you want to tell your grandkids? What would you do to push that extinction event out an extra 2,000 years? You’d do nearly anything, right?

What have any of us been doing with our time? I didn’t ask about the financial impact of his father’s estate. He’s relaxed. In his groove. Way off from mine. We part with a hug. “You already did this,” he says as I step closer. “Yes, two hugs in one day, I’m blessed.”

What mfkr says that when you’re going in for a hug? Someone who is deeply insecure. Or someone who doesn’t want a hug. Or a walk. Or a chat, unless it’s his orchestrated chance meeting at Whole Foods. Yeah, not interested.

Ask your friends and family if there is any way you can support them. Don’t pressure them into “what”, just offer your home-cooked meal, or coffee and pastry, visit next Sunday. Mourners need something to look forward to. An almond croissant from Central Market would just about do the trick. You make the coffee. Today, with my father* I brought two cookie/bar things. A raspberry crumble thing, and something called “caramel celebration.” Fuck. I understand addiction better now. Not drugs. Sugar. I’m hooked.

I politely ate a quarter square of both flavors. The pairing of the cafe a’latte and the caramel bar was otherworldly. I left the rest of the sweets for my dad. He needs the calories. I do not.

I’m surprised by my current status: fit, handsome, and happy.

If a vampire offered me a bite, this might be as good a moment as any. Provided I don’t lean into the macabre idea of helping young divorcees adapt to life after being dumped. Got daddy issues… Fuck. Erase the previous sentences, please, Alexa. Siri? Grammarly?

I’m not going anywhere near that last outburst. Forgive my buttered half for the intrusion.

It was a long walk back from the donkey’s birthday. It was humid. 83 degrees. As I was a mile in I thought how beneficial it was to be fit. I had no worry about my endurance, my stamina. Kind of like that ED med that made me so enthusiastic. I was happy with my fitness, my body image, my shirtless persona. WTF?

Okay, first real acknowledgement of “her” and the healing she performed on my physical body and my spiritual chakras. We aligned. We merged. We became singular. She freaked.

She said more than once, “I love your little belly. So cute.”

I had never thought of my “little belly.” Ever. She had given me a new appreciation for my body. Yes, I’m thinner and more fit than I can recall being since the divorce. I’m up for it. The walk in the humid Texas heat was sweaty and gross, but I was never concerned about my health. I was glad I left the hippiefest when I did. I was already overstimulated. Visually, of course. The entourage effect of that party is still slapping me silly. Notice my own reaction to the couple next to me at Whole Foods this morning. (Previous chapter.)

Now, how’s that for your meta? Twisty enough for you?

Turn me loose, Daedalus, turn me fuckin’ loose.

Everything is fuzzy and slightly out of focus. The day has parsed itself into early evening. No contact since lunch with “Hey Grampa” star, my self-elected dad.

Who am I to think I understand any of this shit? Life? God? Sex? Magic?

Having been a card-carrying international magician at ten, it is safe to assume I have a few cards up my sleeve. I never learned the steel rings thing. That one is amazing. It was a passion. It was a family systems mascot, trying to distract mom and dad back into love. Dad to drink less. Mom to cry less.

Ouch.

I gave a few birthday parties to kids not much younger than I was. My most famous was during an art opening at Laguna Gloria Art Museum. I was the “act.” I had a lovely corner of a small room off the stairwell. Everyone had to go by me to go upstairs or come back down. I had a captive but mobile audience. Everyone had a good time. I made $25. Got my picture in the annual newsletter. It was a hit.

I hung up my rubber thumb and trick card decks and went into sex. Directly into sex. No warm-up. While riding home from the beach with my single mom and her girlfriend, I snuck a copy of “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex.* In that magical instruction manual, I learned that masturbation is good clean fun. That touching your friend’s private parts was common and not alarming. It doesn’t mean you’re homosexual. Don’t worry. The part I was most interested in was oral sex. Why? No idea. Probably Penthouse magazine and all those lesbian spreads. Playboy was so fake, and Barbie™ or Bambi. (Hugh Hefner’s wife)

Let’s keep it real. I wanted to know more about sex than any kid I knew. I’m sure it was the hippie girls, ten years older than me, dancing around in bikinis, trying weed and apple wine coolers. How was I not supposed to lose my mind? And lose it I did. I lost my virginity many years later to an older girl, so if I was home for Christmas break in 1977, I was… (math is not my first language) 48 years ago… I was young. She was one year older with massive Hispanic pacha mama boobs. She liked to show them to my friend and me the summer before I left for prep school.

It was climactic for me, but not what I expected. She said, “I can’t have orgasms. Accident when I was a girl.”

Damn! Welcome to the world of women and fucking and stories. And my approach to life and love and all that other stuff. The answer is always 42 if you know how to form the prompt correctly. I’m a prompt engineer for hire. No one is hiring.

Maybe my branding is all wrong. My focus is to narrow. To broad. Too much whimsy, and not enough cash flow. The allmighty cashflow. I’m starving for gas and drinkable water. Everyone is fine. The cats are digging life. I’m home a lot.

I’m reset to zero. Like when you weigh yourself. You zero out the scale. I’m zeroed out. The donkey party was a good example. Desire is high. Motivation to swim in someone else’s trauma and anger? No. Done that. No time for bullshit this time. Either be all in or all out.

One false move and you’re gone.*

I don’t need to step on the scale to see if I’ve gained or lost weight. I need to quit eating candy as a fix for my unsatisfied craving. I had the best. I lost it. Or, I let it go.

Moving forward is the best choice. Holding old screen porches open for someone who is walking away from you, is not the best use of my time. Strip clubs are also not of interest. Porn? Nah. When you’ve kissed the lotus (for real) there is no coming back to ordinary. She calls, and I will struggle, for sure.

What’s better than a hit?

The sad ennui of my liberation moment was all-consuming. I never spoke to her after that. She popped up on Facebook some years ago and attacked me about getting her pregnant when she was 12. Jesus. That is not true. Whisper on the street was that she used this tactic once a year to shake down the monied. I have no idea if that was true. But if I were 15, she was 16. Or 17. She might have been held back, now that I think of it.

I never told Joey. I took that one to his grave, a few years ago. Poor bastard. Huntington’s just like his mom. He saw it coming. Knew it was going to be awful. We had no idea. I had to bail. I could not be part of his ongoing care team. The man I knew as a vibrant and excitable boy was growing more feral and curled up as his decline robbed him of vitality and cognition. Sad. No happy moments. Letting go is hard. I still miss my running buddy and first psychonaught partner. Weed in the chaise lounge in the side yard of the castle on the lake. The summer before everything changed.

Joey, I know you’re here when I write about you. Brother, I still love you and your father so deeply. Sorry about the girl. (He and his father laugh.) “McElhenney!” His dad finally shouts my name. “You old bastard. Thought we’d both outlive you several times in all those years.”

All those years. All those years ago. Memory, speak, magic, and this. You + Me = Love.

I am rewriting my own internal equation. I can learn to be with an introvert, I swear. At least, I’d like to try being a millionaire. I think I could do some real good. It would be nice to give it a go. Not likely, unless someone gets this book or the other one, to Dennis Villaneouve. (sp? fuck you, spelling, the guy who’s redoing Dune, for godssake)

I will not be here for your dying. I will stand close. I will bring you things. Ice. Popsicles. Chapstick. I will step out of the room at the appropriate moment. I will cry with the rest. I will laugh at your release back into my mind. Having you in human form (DAD : ONE) was difficult. I prefer when you are direct in my mind. Like an inner voice. The Dad Thread. I can’t really cover all that “thread stuff” right now, I’ve got a show to watch. I’m having a party with myself to watch the second episode of Euphoria season 3. It’s a car crash in slow motion. SS is bursting with irony and suck. The Zen girl is funny as ever. A little earnest about life. It is no longer brilliant writing, more physical. More boobs and blood. Or the threat of blood. Sorry, I’m trying to keep spoilers down. Anyway, I’m signing off. I’ve downloaded the new episode.

Je m’muse.

*but were afraid to ask (greatest book teaser ever)
*One False Move and You’re Gone (Kerouac documentary)

dig into the deeper meaning with the Cloud Pilots

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This image, a slight variation of life, was not provided to the AI:

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