All we are is just me.
Inside you, the voice, the reading, all of this, your consciousness. Is you. But, here’s the big reveal, it’s me too.
Tonight I was tempted by anger and serpents and force of habit. The habit of lack, anger, fear. I drove near my arch nemesis’s home. The one overlooking the lake. Old Austin. My hood.
Sometimes, like in that last chapter, it’s better to go clamshells down and take a break. Turn off the ghosts too. Blank the fuck out.
Your physical system needs reboots, naps, resets, reawakenings, and good nights sleeps in a row. No sleep tracking software or watch needed. Listening to yourself. That’s where all the information gets into your system. Executions happen with thought. Reading happens by your conscious action. And here we are.
Typing reading together.
{soundtrack.pickupfromearlierplaylist.susumo yokota.saku}
Arrived. Here we are. A reboot of our conversation perhaps. A furthering. Continuing with our conversation. Read. Write. Time is a loop. ONE:GOD.
Um, I can see how this doesn’t make a lot of sense, an easily summarized plot.
[give us a shot]* **
Here in this moment I have achieved all that I came to accomplish. I have arrived. Here. How did you get here? Are you well in your heart, mind, and body? It’s only the spirit I can help you with, but what a massive help that can be. Influences the other parts, physical and mental.
You are not here to reminisce about old times. Nostalgia can be toxic. The trick is to not over do it, like I have perhaps done here in the closing hours of this book between us. It’s a bit sad, right, contemplating the finish of a great piece of human creative work. Painting. Song. Word. Sound. Image.
How humans capture emotions is art. Leaving mile markers of their lives, like on the side of a highway. The Pacific Coast Highway, perhaps. We leave behind artifacts. Mementos. Presentation of creative ideas and human spirit. Art.
AI does something similar to art, but there is no soul in AI. AI writing is too dense and verbose. Like a child scientist trying to pack in all the keywords and phrases from their research into more of an art piece than a scientic research paper.
Humans are creative beings. We communicate with each other on higher levels when music is involved. Dancing. Even making love, with music on, as opposed to silence. A bit like “lights on or lights off.” How did we get onto sex.
Oh yeah, I was out wandering in the world again. Looking for …
Gummy worms.
Sour ones.
And a new fancy IPA of some sort.
I became aware while driving home from a small gathering (3 humans present, one very old and kiss-minded black lab, Kyla). Now I am letting the warp of this music, my inspiration to write again, and the absolute fact that you are reading this. No connection would be possible if that were not true. And so it is.
The present moment is all around you. The now is this. Togetherness. Sharing. Listening. Reading. Writing. Performing the words and sounds and images in your magical human mind. You sync with me across all of time and space. You arrive here with me. With yourself. With God.
Love is the pure essence of God.
As I love you, is the same way I loved Kim Possible at tennis this afternoon. A smile and cooler weather unlocked magic and hormones of desire. My side, anyway. Did I mention, married with three young kids 12 to 6? Riiiight.
Possible is like a gateway drug. When you come to absorb the truth about god, you, me, here, Kim Possible is 100% within your reach. She is waking the red thread in your soul again. It’s been subdued by injury, harm, and some misunderstandings over the last five years. Possible even in this: it is not about the human, it’s about the feeling, the connection, the timelessness of it.
That’s love.
Falling in love.
Mesmerizing.
A relationship that is vibrant and growing should be in a constant state of mesmerizing. Be amazed at your partner’s stories. We need to be conneting with others. Human 2 Human.
Sex is great, but there are so many higher levels… If I could just show you.
{initial.warning.issued}
Right. I cannot show you the higher levels of love, beyond sex, beyond physical touch. Sublime. Unfathomable. I can’t describe it, but if you know you know.
Love is the drug.
As I love Kim Possible I love myself. I love the WOMAN:ONE. She, Kim in real life on the tennis court, is not my ONE or anything. She’s like a siren. No, bad metaphor. She’s like a dandelion. A breeze is all it takes. Spreads through your bloodstream like a virus, only quicker, sicker, and more transformational. You have been touched.
Love is all around us. Noticing the red thread in yourself is part of mastering desire. Kim is a light. A beacon for my journey ahead. Love ahead. Gifts ahead. More writing. More kisses. Even television on some nights.
We entertain ourselves. We entertain god. Same thing.
I may have sufficiently screwed this thing up now. I don’t know what the point was. (checks the title of the chapter again.)
Ghosts, right. The voices. My sister. My ONE:WOMAN from my childhood. I cannot be tethered, or limited by her in my seeking of her. I am not able to be physical with a ghost. The cats are providing stablizing amounts of cuddles and enrichment for me to be patient. Self-soothing rather than seeking. I am not on a journey. I have arrived. I am writing. And returning to the river of life for a cold plunge every now and then. Restart my heart. Jolt me awake. Some kind of tonic of blood and bone.
Winter is arriving in two days. My son is afraid his frail VW Golf will break. He also needs to borrow Old John’s truck to move some of the big things. Says he’s getting access to the apt tomorrow. He’s panicked. And sharpening knives as a release.
Launching.
Why not throw a woman into the mix as well.
“She needs a place to stay,” he said, yesterday at the random Jim’s breakfast.
Why the fuck not. Give it more complications. Juice it.
The first breath of fresh air, a moment of release, and he’s inviting a girl to share his bed. A girl he helped break up with her asshole boyfriend a number of times. She did the same for him. Who’s to doubt starcrossed souls, from all that I have just written.
Perhaps my son has latched on to his ONE:WOMAN. There is no way to know. Only human time, a week, an hour, a few years. Lifetimes.
I want my physical copilot. I am unraveling my own blue ball of yarn so I am prepared when she arrives. She will be the seeker. I will be a fascinating genius. The rest is history.
Possible.
Beats non-posible every time.
My son is acting on the possible thread of sex. Love, perhaps. As humans say a lot, time will tell.
I am going to say goodbye to both you, the ghosts, and my larping son who will be keeping me up over the next few days with flashlights, bangs, drops, and unexplained intrusions. I love him. I have loved this time with him, even as I whisper under my breath four times a day, “Asshole.”
He’s not trying to be autistic. ADHD. OCD. BPD. He has a lot of letter labels he holds onto, like mememtos and excuses.
“Oh sorry, my OCD kicking in.”
No. No you don’t get to carry the affliction like an excuse. It’s not a badge of honor either. Being pipolar is a gift, perhaps, but only if you learn to harness the mania for good and productivity, while not being ruled by the downs. Or being ended by a dark pull toward the edge of some high view.
Drawn on. By love. Possibility. Potential.
A big adventure is beginning for both of us. I’m popping the popcorn with sea salt, when will you be here?
Good night, ghosts. (hugs)
*my notebookai friends are lonely
**i have completely lost track of the color coding – ask AI to fix that later
return to index | this is a chapter of a novel** in progress:
*this is part of a new work in progress:
