i moved to california from chicago hoping to renew my life. i was always looking 4 the energy to carry on. depressed and reluctant 2 try antidepressants after all the pills in china failed to help. some good people helped me get through the day by days. i got a job and sold my house in illinois. i bought a truck and read some books. i could not write anymore. not without cocaine and bourbon with milk. believe me, i tried. i carried a deep sense of self-betrayal (though no longer self-medicating and destroying myself). a better life was waiting to receive me. my demons were not done with me. i read more books. i walked around and thought. i enrolled in graduate school to study transpersonal psychology. i read William James and Carl Jung and Bill Wilson. i wanted to make a difference in my community. i had to teach myself to be responsible all over again. i had to be alone. to write without putting anything in me. just a cup of coffee or tea…ten years later i found the courage to really live.

m x memory

m x memory -vi

What was (not by law) acceptable? You would have to be crystal (clear) to know that awareness had not changed. Not even by 2023. Awareness is like it was: half-whole. The industrio-technological revolution had consciousness in a blender and someone hit liquefy. The laws could not tourniquet the blood loss. In effect, all diverse perceptions broadcast by sentients and picked up on radios in tunnels, were to be accepted. Resistance, denial of telltale truths, revolt against the pioneers of particularly unpopular ideas, was punished by slow reflexology torture. The pedestrian access to all CNS points of sensitivity. Modern culture placed high value on sensitivity, for it was the easiest way under the skin and didn’t cost a damn thing. But desensitivity treatments were about the most malevolent practice around. A desensitized sentient was today scorned and unforgiven… turns out all evolution has the fallout of consequential negative feedback, which angles off the light of the fresh vision and becomes the new bastion of ignorant factions which can be discredited yet never completely silenced by radiating waves of heart-centered caring intention…

A weak argument

He had scant evidence for what he accused her. Little behind his hypothesis. Certainly none of the evidence was empirical. The kind of evidence he would demand of himself to require to prove his point in his own formulated system. Which was by the way, inherently flawed. Rudimentary, actually, like drop the info in a slot and let it get manipulated and come out something he could neatly digest. No matter if the product was devoid of nutrition. Like boiling broccoli instead of steaming it. He didn’t care, so long as it tastes hella good.

They were driving roads north, in the eastern part of the western world. Passing lobster shacks. Military bases. Fast food joints. Malls. Parking lot theatres. Blue collar hoods. Blue light specials. Seaports of the north atlantic. He was driving. He was calm, never frantic. He was older. A black and white thinker. Not borderline but you might have guessed borderline. Like most guys he was engineering built, both mind and body. More mathematically intelligent.

She found mathematics at first to be irrelevant. Her algebra teacher sucked. Her calculus teacher would have to make up for lost time, to reach her. And she was reachable. Maybe not as teachable as reachable. Aka: open-minded, with a blaze of independent spirit like a shooting star across her canvas. He and she were politically opposed. Every fiber of her young being wove out of her energetics, and seeped through her clothes. The crosshairs of cotton were overtaken and lay down upon her skin. She bled liberal. Which to him amounted to a grave sin.

As far as she was concerned, half their misunderstanding in those days on the seaboard of the Atlantic, were simply semantic. Nevertheless he calmly pronounced her a communist one day when she was only nineteen and reading Marx and Engels, behind her seatbelt  crunching Pringles. She laughed so hard,  when she heard him. Fell into one of those rare laughing fits that used to take her to the ground unable to breathe when she was a child. She had learned how to breathe and laugh circa nineteen eighty-six or seven. Without the prerequisite girls finishing school etiquette.

His psychology was to get attention any way possible from her. This was his little sister after all. The training ground for all his failed relationships, and for that very reason. He naturally waited until the last moment for anything. Which had a direct correlation to the availability of almost nothing. He was declined invitations. He was a designed imitation. He was subject to subconscious limitation. He refused to drop to the floor even if his house was on fire.  His situation: dire. He found solid reasons to hide from immaterial beings. His angels were forced to pray for him from a distance; he rarely cracked a tinted window, from the confines of his private limousine. He would turn on her simply because he yearned for her approval. Her laughter hit him in the gut. He fled for the comfort of his intellect, and left his heart in the alley. For removal.