in *hey* i attempt to wake from the ai slumber party
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The jets have been cooled long enough. This fucking mosquito is going to die today. Buzzing me for two nights in a row. I’m on a mission. Writing first.
Nothing much to catch you up on. My screenplay has been optioned by Sony for a musical, set for production in 2027. That’s exciting. Alas, there’s no money for another nine months. I must keep selling hours to the cybersecurity firm. Writing for dollars.
I imagine Kilgore Trout publishing all his science fiction stories in porno magazines. Wide open beavers inside. See Breakfast of Champions, the most whimsical book ever published. Slapstick was second. I’m hoping to life time + space = love into my Slaughter House Five. We’re a long way off.
Anyway, there’s a girl. There’s no girl. There’s still a dark presence of insatiable energy. A body of work, an addiction, a form beyond this world, sublime in the ability to untether me from myself. That is a worthy and noble trick. I am seeking another, while fawning over my loss. The disconnect was mine. A time out for interrupting angels with axes to grind. I’ve got no time for that. Either have your shit together, or we’re not meant to travel together for long. She’s behind. Not out of the sound of my voice. Nearly.
Time, as you know, is not what it seems. In my world, time is wrapped around itself, more than a time-space continuum; this is like time and space all at once. I am not sure I’m explaining this correctly. Let’s see. Time is nothing. Human time is the only time you are familiar with, I understand that. I’m trying to make it make sense to your human mind. About what happens when you die.
See, birth and death are merely milestones on your experience, what we consider life. Our life. Born in 1962. Living until… Optimistically, another twenty years. With the health advances they are making, who knows?
As I pitch around for a breast to rest my head and heart upon, I am understanding a bit more about my optimism and hope. The actress, for example, and the yogini before her, have all passed through my viewport to remind me of my human needs, my biological urge, my manliness. I was raised by two strong women. I learned to love and respect them, adore them from a distance, and keep practicing my magic tricks. Women dig dudes who can do magic. I learned a new card trick from my cousin last night. It’s a good one. Ask me, next time we see each other.
Today, there is only one woman in my life. Sid. A cat. A daughter on the planet moving in her new adult untethered life. My friend said, “She is solid with you. That’s how she knows she can go a month without seeing you, and you’re still okay. We really don’t want our kids having to look after us or our feelings.”
That’s it. She’s independent and doing her own thing. Needs some space from both parents and her brother. The twitchy one. We could all use a break from the twitchy one.
In this very moment, a big storm is collecting in the West, supposed to blow through with potential 1-inch hail. I am debating a massage nearby in Oak Hill, but I’m also happy to be here, eating a few Nerd Clusters. My daughter turned me on to them.
I am curious about my intent toward the actress, unaware of my plans or prose. I did ask her to coffee. She has a boyfriend. “So what,” my friends say. Yeah. So what.
I have vowed to let it drop after this missive. It’s a big one. I have a tv series, unproduced, that I have been trying to approach a local movie star. He’s had one huge success with HBO, and nothing much after that. I couldn’t watch his direct-to-cable series. I don’t know if he’s a good actor. I guess I need to rewatch Entourage. I know the first two seasons were T&A. But can he act?
I am volunteering on his environmental farm next week. Brush shoulders with him. I can’t show him the script or pilot without a budget attached. It is too risky. Too many legal sharks trying to make an issue. I prefer polishing my turd, asking politely, and polishing more.
The form of storytelling is important at some point. Taking things to a larger level, beyond books into film and tv. A local play. Oh, right, and put the band back together again. Start putting on some shows. For what?
I love writing. I love performing. I love women. I’d like to find a *next* partner.
My last partner was confused. She had been married to both of her husbands for 30+ years. None of them happy. Two kids. How does that happen? She was concerned in the early weeks of our dating about my “lots of women.” I stopped talking about them. She couldn’t stop talking about her ex or her soon-to-be ex. That was a big problem. She was still fighting the divorce and taking me down in much of the crossfire.
A painful letting go when parts of the fit were perfect. Is there a chance, after she’s free? Who knows. We’re sending songs back and forth. Not a lot of words. I can’t give her the assurance she wants. She has no idea that she did anything wrong in all of her life. That’s a bit of an issue. I had to ask her to quit saying their names all the time. When she was fighting me, later on, she said, “Well, you talk about your exes all the time.” “I stopped after you said it was painful.” “Yeah, but you still talk about them all the time.” “If that’s true, then what are the names of any of them?” She had nothing. I had edited that storytelling out of our banter. She had a hard time not venting about her ex and her soon-to-be ex.
I am not sad. I am alone. I have the comfort of my cats, my pillows, and unlimited time. The contract work is slow to ramp up; I need cash now. Still investigating other options. Got an envelope from Social Security, but it was only a pamphlet about “survivor benefits.” Um…
A few years ago I attended the funeral of my best friend’s wife’s father. He had four wives. All of them came. Three of them spoke. He was loved by all of them. He was a nice man. I believe that when you’ve reached a dead end in a partnership, you have two choices: 1. Stick with it through thick and thin. 2. Let them go and keep seeking.
I am not all that interested in the hunt. The banter and newness of a stranger are fun. I don’t want to spend months getting to know someone only to find out they are terrible in bed. Or have issues with alcohol or something else. I want to have all the red flags upfront. My own too. I am impulsive, mercurial, and harsh. I ravage and take my fill. Ask for more. I am satiated only by exhaustion.
I want you to be alive and happy about life. Something other than your job, your workout routine, and your tv preferences. I’d like to hear about your creative projects, what you’re reading, and that dream you have of, well, whatever it is, I’d like to join you in seeking peak moments.
If you knew the full truth, you’d know that my house and car are under threat of repossession. I need a windfall, and I need it soon. One of my proctors is insecure and tight. I need to pay attention. I cannot end up back at the retail option. I want time and energy to write. Retail leaves you empty and spent at the end of an eight-and-a-half-hour shift on your feet.
Okay, so… Write their stuff instead of my stuff. Seems easy enough. Now, Mr. Potato Chip has another one in his crack. We wait until next week for assignment number two. The truth is, he hasn’t taken the time to map out the next projects he wants me to do. I get zero billing. He gets all the time he needs. Mine is urgent. His is not. Fk. That’s how it works.
From the future the echo is of happiness. Fulfillment. Serenity. Secure attachment. And an athletic outlook about life, love, and living it together.
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