Talk to the Angels of Information

I think I will just talk to the Angels of Information from now on. People are usually too flimsy to support anything approaching the horror of honest communication anyway. You are bedeviled if you speak as you think. The joy of wanting less from humans is a great consolation when it is finally achieved. Other problems are relatively minor compared to wanting things from humans. I prefer books and silence mostly. Warm water. Well you are the exception. Whoever you are. I don't really know you. Except I do, I suppose. And a handful of friends. But I worry about them. If I won the lottery, I would subsidize a slightly lighter shade of despair for them. It's so funny when I remember how I used to be a volunteer everywhere. Museums, the scholastic arts programs, even the State Hospital. "A friend to the mentally ill." It was funny. I enjoyed it. But my friends kept getting them high. My "charges." I was mortified. Tina, when you took him to the basement I didn't know you were going to give it to him. But I'm happy for him that he had that. And your sister was nice to get him high. We never got caught. Imagine. I think he's long dead. He was an old man even then. I liked his singing. Dark days lately. Yet I feel joy is just around the corner. I always feel accompanied. Do I believe in divine Intelligences and Intelligencers? I sure do. Have had too many experiences not to. I only pretend to be a rationalist. What's that? I don't feel superior or inferior to anyone because of my mental illness. Although some people might get that impression sometimes. Or some people might feel that way towards me. But those people are funny messes of a different color usually. Their brains are politicized by a different form of mental illness that doesn't have a name yet. Give it time though. Society loves branding. A capitalist society really only exists for branding. It's the new Greatest Hits that replaced the museum long ago. Well, it is the museum. Branding. Bipolar people sometimes have a problem with the "wariness" issue in writers. Some writers I find completely natural human beings because they have been streamlined by life. If I talk to you in email or have more than once, you're almost certainly one of those types. But ones who are shaping a career in their mind, or who already have one, are funnier. Funnier to watch. Because it's all a bit of a head trip for them. The essential illusion for a writer of this type is that he or she really influences other people or the process of life. And he or she does, but no more than a five degree difference in the weather usually. If that. Often a half of a degree. On one day. For five seconds. And yet that slight caloric difference can often produce a truly horrible human being. The horrible self-consciousness that gets bred into the weaker writers. The stronger weaker human beings. It's like that funny Strindberg play where the one character does all the talking and the other only sits and listens. "The Stronger." The irony of the title. The terrible defensiveness. I think the greatest blessing a writer can have is to feel a separation from the writing. To know that they are a full human being first, and a potential career second. I call myself a horrible human being sometimes but I know I'm not. Sometimes it's fun to realize you are controlling people's reception of you through the narrowness of their receving wavelength, their inability to rely on a noise versus information discriminator. Because they either lack it, or have disabled it. These people will never get the good information in life. They will always filter to the appropriate level of reality they can handle. They walk on eggshells because they have separated eggs and put the eggshells on the ground themselves. Probably they don't even know they do that. Spend their lives putting down eggshells. They do it in their dreams. They are like the Robert Smithson of eggshells. Down on their knees. Creating patterns. Controlling the reception. They would as soon kill you as let you seem them sweat or pull a 360. Which they do all the time. Usually based on their perception of other people's "success." Which comes down to the "glossy glossy" to change a letter on Fergie. These people are not Fergielicious. They are Herbs in designer minds. They orient like throbbing pools of paramecia towards the warm urbanized light of people invariably younger than they are, richer than they are, snarkier than they are and more inaccessible than they are. They are Dorothy Stratten in the Dairy Queen of one American art or another. They wait to be discovered. They spend their lives discovering. They are ancient by thirty. They go on. They are attractive and entropic. One waits for the inevitable chink to widen in the armor, and hopes someone is there to catch the spiritual pupa that will inevitably fall out of that horrible clanking thing. I mean, if God is so kind. And I hope God is.