INTERFERENCE. Part One: Chapter Four.

Chapter four

Fritz would become lucid one other time in his life. He lived, at this point, in an apartment in Downtown San Diego. He lived on the third floor, overlooking the Burger King on the edge of the city, from a diagonal angle. Behind a chain fence, the concrete went on for some time, passing under shops and either dissolving into grassy, unpopulated stretches or draining out into the highways. A bus would carry passengers down – or up – this stream.

He took particular precautions to lock away all of his items in a safe that only he knew the combination to. He kept a lock on the refrigerator. His computer was bolted to the desk. The legs of the desk were enclosed in cement blocks. His biggest fear was that some police officer would have to investigate his apartment one night in search of some suspect. Fritz would be innocent, of course, but there would be no way to escape the awkwardness of the police's inquisitiveness when asked to justify the blocks. As Fritz reasoned, the inexplicable presence of the blocks in his room would appear as just cause to the officer to arrest him.

Yet it was worth it.

The only part of his apartment, in fact, that was at all moveable was his cellular telephone. He kept it in a box beside his bed. He had bought the box in one of the colony of thrift stores that were fixed, fated to grow no more, in the corner of the city just past the great, monolythic skyscrapers through which buses and trolleys would pass as though through a mountain pass, depositing passengers.

The lid was under a thick book on programming.

He was flying an airplane. He was a pilot. All of a sudden, his parents barged into the cockpit. The stewardess apologised profusely, and to his profound frustration, claiming that she had done all that she could to prevent this. Breathing deeply, eyes staring in their trademark glares, he resolved himself to turn around and face their angry voices. He rubbed his eyes dramatically and then turned about.

They were complaining about their son. They said that he had pissed himself, and they refused to sit next to him. Breathing in deeply again, rubbing his eyes again, he explained that he had been their son, and that he was no longer sitting there. They acted as though they hadn't heard him. They continued to scream at him about how he should have installed restrooms in the seats. They said that everyone should be able to sit and piss in the seats when it so pleased them. He called them selfish. It was at this moment that he turned about to see his plane hurtling towards a missile. He ducked. The missile smashed through the window and traveled past both his parents, who leapt to either side of it. It blasted away the central aisle of the airplane.

The next thing he knew, he was pressed up against the door of the cockpit, which had swung shut when the airplane, following an explosion that sounded like a sonic boom, turned into a nose-dive. He watched the plane plummet downwards, with both of his parents huddled, more by virtue of the laws of physics than by the force of compassion, at either side of him.

All that he could think was, “Not again. I thought I secured that window thoroughly.”

The next thing he knew, he was falling through the air. He was no longer wearing his uniform.

He reached into his backpack. He extricated from it a key. Upon it was inscribed one word: “Fate.”

He thought, “But shouldn't it say 'lucid'?”

He then realised that he was sleeping. No sooner had he tried to take flight than he awoke.

There was a man in his apartment.

Within seconds, the silhouette disappeared. He seemed to disappear the moment Fritz screamed.

Fritz sprang from bed. The golden light of the streetlights looked in on his room. The steady, Piccassoesque blue of dawn was already somewhat present in his bedroom. His heart was pounding and his mind racing. He wondered what time it was. After turning on a sterile green light in his room and checking under his bed, he removed the book lying atop his box. He lifted the lid. His phone was missing.

Within the minute, someone was knocking on his door. At first, Fritz felt too disoriented to answer it.

“Que es?”

It was his landlady, Claudia. Fritz was almost enraged by her invasion of his privacy at this very dire moment. He opened the door, regardless. He muttered to her, as he opened it, quickly, “Did you just see a man running down the hall?! Was he holding anything? Did you call the cops?!”

To his discontent, he was met with only her blank, almost macho, impenetrable glare. “Lo siento, Senor Franz. Didn't see no one. I only heard the noise.” She seemed only slightly bewildered, a condition that unnerved him even more.

“Well, okay.” He was furious now. “Can you go, then?”

She kept staring. Why?

“Fritz. I don't want to hear any more screaming.”

“Well, I'm sorry, but I think, honestly, that you should call the police, because there's an intruder in the building.”

Her grinning glare seemed to yield for one moment as she, Fritz hoped, considered investigating.

“I didn't hear nothing. No footsteps. Maybe you had a bad dream.”

Fritz could not argue, but this was unsettling. He told her again to go away. She yielded, but not before giving him a look of stern recognition he could not understand at all. He had no interest in doing so. He shut the door and bolted it shut.

Why only the cell phone? Wait.

He unbolted the door and opened it again. She was passing down the bleak green aisle. He yelled after her.

“Hey!” She turned about abruptly, but her complexion seemed unphased.

“What time is it?”

Her eyebrows sank into a perceptive, gently sarcastic stare. “Que hora?” She checked her watch. “Four.” She raised four fingers innocently, as though to dissuade the uncertainty and disbelief that his face still showed. He thanked her formally and shut the door again.

The curtains were closed. He had not done that. He turned on his monitor. For the first time in three years, he had to wait for more than several seconds as the tiny bars that lined up in a row to show that the OS was loading made a solid snake twelve bars long and then disappeared to begin again. In fact, the computer did not finish loading. He waited for something like five minutes, meanwhile trying to gather his bearings. He was prepared to take to the streets again.

Drumming up enough courage, he cast the curtains aside. The window was locked. A green, Oceanic light, tempering its own intensity, leant a bleakness to these familiar streets which, even despite his knowledge of the area and its dangers, felt comforting to walk along in the daytime and to look out at from the third story from behind a bolted window.

He perused the room, examining every corner as though to find some crevasse through which the intruder might have passed. He walked back and forth between the main room and the kitchen innumerable times. His mind was too frantic to question his own sanity in doing this. All that was on his mind was survival.

After several hours had elapsed, he had to resolve himself to going to work. He took his briefcase from his safe. He packed all of his prized belongings, including the programming book, with the exception of his computer and his refrigerator. He unbolted the refrigerator. No food was missing, thankfully. He loaded it into a backpack that hung in his closet.

It was not until he was just at the door that he noticed that it would not budge. He panicked. Was he dreaming? He tried to become lucid. He jumped to see if he could fly. The efforts were fruitless. He began to bang against the door, yelling for someone to open up.

Claudia opened it again. She looked bewildered, unnerved, and furious. All Mexicans, as far as Fritz was concerned, were proficient multi-taskers where emotions were concerned. She told him that he had bolted the door shut. He asked how that could be so if she had opened it. She began to stare at him. All of a sudden, her grin became enormous. Her head swelled to the size of a pumpkin and her eyes were ablaze with a manic kind of malice. Terrified, Fritz withdrew into the room. He would have closed the door, but she was already halfway in.

He had no choice. Turning abruptly about, he broke into a run for the window. He would throw himself through it. He could hear her running after him. A demonic scream emanated from behind him.

He crashed through the window, determined to fly away. He could not, however. He was falling through the sky again. He was wearing his backpack. He tried to open the backpack and to extricate from it the key. Instead, his clothes flew out, unfurling. They made a parachute.

Penetrating the black haze, he sank into the lighted part of the sky as though he had dived into a swimming-pool.

The parachute upheld Fritz, but he still plummeted with incredible velocity. He knew that his legs would probably not break if he remembered how to do a tuck-and-roll. He had never attempted this before, but he had heard of people doing this successfully. He tucked his legs into a ring created by his arms. Pressing the knees into his chest, he prepared to tuck his head inwards and to roll into a run upon impact with the ground. But by the time that his shaking knees were secure in his arms, the grassy wall that was the ground smashed into him and he awoke yet again.

Dm.A.A.

INTERFERENCE. Part One: Chapter Three.

 Chapter three

Adulthood would find Fritz von Franz working for a computer company. Having found a homeless shelter in Downtown San Diego wherein to stay, he saw his convictions -- that living in the meth desert that was Downtown San Diego would be livable by his standards – disproved. His laptop was stolen one night by an addict. He had made every effort to preserve it.

One day, as he was spanging on the streets, he met a man named Frank Wolfe. This was during the daytime, when the city was still a swirling parade of disaffected adults running about from bar to bar as though possessed of some kind of hypnosis.

Nights in Downtown San Diego began at the moment that the Sun went down. At the outset, upon arriving downtown, Fritz did not know how to distinguish the tender line between the late afternoon and dusk. He was surprised to see a barrage of bar patrons begin to flee towards the safety of their automobiles practically simultaneously. The hypnotic celebration yielded to a dusk that seemed to set into the hearts of all the patrons themselves.

Within minutes, meth addicts would accumulate on the street corners. He saw in their eyes, then, the look of individuals who had no pity for anyone. He began to miss his family, but only formally.

Frank was a professional artist. He had been in prison several times. He had tattoos running along his arms and a lion's mane of hair. He spoke with a voice as broken as his teeth, as though each intonation was made by the scraping of the inside of his throat against a stone. He smoked a good deal. Beyond his manic eyes, however, rested something else: A childlike wonder. Even his rigid views – a fortress of opinions -- seemed to be constructed as though it were a fortress to protect childhood naivete. He would, each day, make some reference to one thing or another from his upbringing: How his hard-nosed father commanded respect without ever having to demand it, how his mother-in-law had been the scourge of his early life, how his younger brother, also an artist, got into juvenile hall for counterfeiting bills that he had drawn, himself.

Frank fought for Fritz's legal rights. When that crusade failed, he took Fritz into his own care, as an apprentice. He taught Fritz how to be a freelancer. Fritz learned quickly.

He had a prized talent for designing three-dimensional models and figures by computer. He would advertise his work tirelessly on the website that Frank used to network. One day, he got a gig and made several hundred dollars. Several gigs like this later, he was ready to move out of Frank's custody.

Dm.A.A.

Catsup’s Illumination Dream: Interpretation. [MUST READ.:}>-]

Catsup’s Illumination Dream: Interpretation.

When Pluto was in Scorpio, it killed all the cool cats.

When Pluto is in Capricorn, beware the plutocrats.          Dm.A.A.

You will recall of course the dream that K. mentioned atop Mushroom Hill: He visits with Anubis and Anubis shows him a hologram and informs him that the Illuminati will flood the world in 2025.

My Mother was born in the Plutonic Age of Virgo.

I was born in the Plutonic Age of Scorpio. So were Catsup and Tony.

Alanna was born in the Plutonic Age of Sagittarius.

Let us estimate that this last age began in 1995.

Let us suppose (for I have all ready excluded the possibility of either ten- or twenty-year gaps) that it ends in 2010. That would mean that each Plutonic age is fifteen years. Scorpio thus began in 1980. Libra began in 1965. My Mother was born on the cusp.

That would indicate that the Plutonic Age of Capricorn ENDS in 2025.

The nineteen-seventies were an embodiment of the Libran virtues. Discotheque, applauded now (and falsely) as a “gay” art form, was simply an expression of airiness and sociability.

The nineteen-eighties were a descent into the depths. Beginning with Phil Collins, who heard it calling “In the Air Tonight” (and called it) in 1980, the Plutonic Age of Scorpio was a re-affirmation of the collective Shadow. We got to know the monster. As Catsup once said, in his usual [,sicly] attentativeness for disonerous de-tail, the eighties were about coke and the nineties were about heroin. Of course, the bigger picture here is that no generation prior to this was quite as obsessed with drugs, save for alcohol and LSD, each of which was a “social” drug in a manner of speaking.

Goth swam to the surface. Grunge became popular. Et cetera. The “alternative” became the main-stream, dissolving a gap and leaving us all feeling guilty, but in a good way.

Having opened the vat of Dark Eco, so to speak, it only made sense to embrace the chaos with renewed optimism. Generation Y took the bull by the horns (or rather the Scorpion by its tail-end) and turnt it in their favour, getting turnt in the torrential process. Modest Mouse became a Pop Band. Alternative Rock became the Killers and Coldplay. Radiohead went dancey. Pop came back, beginning in the late-nineties and escalating, especially in the careers of Justin Timberlake and many women such as Katy Perry, Swifty, and Lady Gaga. (Ooh la la!)

If this seems redundant, it is only because we are so-used-to-it.

But with freedom comes responsibility. And when responsibility is not taken, it takes in stead.

The Plutonic Age of Sagittarius had as its theme spontaneity and optimism. But too much drinking begets a hang-over. OURS was an age of broken promises and fraudulent elections. It was an age of political disillusion and the submersion of history. Relativism became the paradigm, and the individual began to feel more isolated than ever hitherto.

So now the goat follows the centaur. The Age of Capricorn promises a re-affirmation of Apollo and a quieting of the four-legged Dionysus that is Sagittarius*. It promises the repression of tenacity on both sides of the political spectrum. Liberals have all ready begun to try to repress all dissent, whereas conservatives strive to repress the very habits that liberals are trying to defend FROM dissent. This duality has no resolution in either opposite’s favour. It is at worst a futile power struggle and at best a collective merger of power (or is that in fact the worse of the two worlds? Probably not, though our friends still stuck in Scorpio may think so.)

*Dionysus is usually depicted as a faun, not a centaur, but the symbols are practically brothers. Dionysus only has in common with Capricorn the goat’s hind-legs, whereas Being-half-man is a peculiarity he only shares with Sagittarius.

Catsup has intimated much of this. So it comes as no surprise that the source of his wisdom – his drug-addled Unconscious (if an Unconscious subject may become drugged, as Nietzsche seems to refute in his first book) – has produced the Great Flood Dream.

When Catsup first told me this dream atop Mushroom Mountain I imagined water levels rising to the height above our heads. Per chance I even thought that they might reach the Clouds Themselves.

But now the image of Clouds is so clear to my mind that I am inclined to slap my fore-head. How obvious now! And yet how unpredictable. Until now.

In 2025 the age of Capricorn ends. The Illuminati – representing the Age of Capricorn – do not wish to CONTROL a flooded world. They wish simply to cede power TO it.

The FLOOD is none other than the Age of Aquarius. And it just might so happen to befall in conjunction with the GREAT AGE OF AQUARIUS that Jesus Christ predicts in the Bible and that Peter Joseph describes in ZEITGEIST.

Holy Funk.

There have been many instances in mankind’s history of Pluto in Aquarius. But they have usually occurred in other Great Ages. Any one since Christ has only known the Age of Pisces. Jesus was not a false prophet. Alanna simply dislikes him because PISCES DISARMS ARIES!

And since the Great Ages move in RETROGRADE, that means that Jesus and the Age of Pisces (the age of prophecy and false prophecy, though to speak of Jesus as a false prophet seems ironical [now that we are using him as a reference it would be irreverant {and sic}.]) follows the AGE OF ARIES. The Age that Alanna represents in both her Sun-sign orientation and her South Node (her karmic history.).

So what Catsup predicted was the Plutonic age of Aquarius in the Great Age of Aquarius. And so the “Great Flood” of antiquity comes again as a symbol of the WATER BEARER, and the rising sea levels are [a] representation of Water in the Skies – ThE CLOUDS, which are WATER BEARERS and have all ways been represented by AQUARIUS.

But Catsup, given his paranoia and dependency upon the Scientific Orthodoxy, fills in the details spontaneously and thinks that this is a LITERAL flood brought about through Artificial Global Warming!

Woah. Neat.

The message comes to him in an Egyptian tomb because Catsup, a mummy bound to his own past (and his own mummy, his Mother, his matter, his MAYA or illusionati) is trapped mentally in the confines of the political and religious oligarchy which includes the Scientific Community. Yet as a mystic he is able to decipher the symbols in the tombs and thus visits with a deity that informs him that all shall be well…:

The Age of Aquarius. It shall redeem the Individual. Not on[mere]ly will the Individual remain an aesthete, as in Sagittarius. The individual shall in fact have past through Kierkegaard’s Ethical Stage to the Religious Stage. Here the individual has learned discretion. So one is free of factional dogmae. One is free to live a life of one’s own choosing. But one is ALL SO entirely free, as has not yet been seen in our generation or any generation alive today, to CRITICISE the lives of others, without the leveling (and thus conformist) accusation of a pretense.

So it shall-Be that the Great Flood subverts the Illuminati. The irony is so brilliant: (now we know where K. gets his more clever ideas.) the World Rulers unwittingly destroy their selves through a tragic hubris. But on the highest level this is inevitable, necessary, and agreed-upon. Capricorn surrenders to Aquarius. Both sides of the political game are assuaged. The left surrenders to the right the right to judge, and the right surrenders to the left the last right left to be surrendered: to be (or Not to Be). And the Individual obtains, and attains, both: to either be stained or to abstain, to become tainted or not to become tainted, and to criticise one’s fellows and thus to MAIN-tain the social order.

And so in 2040, when Pluto enters MY house, I shall well come him gladly. For then we shall all become, as Catsup had stated, Gods.

Dm.A.A.

INTERFERENCE. Part One: Chapter Two.

Chapter two.

Fritz had been my business partner back then. He was homeless, yet he had a plan for penetrating his predicament.

I had a steady income, back then, from working as a cashier at a jewelry store. It was by virtue of this income that I could afford to drop nearly forty dollars to pay for a meal to sustain him one morning, at Callendar's Pies. He had as rambunctuous a material appetite as I had an intellectual one, and between my trying to convince him of the validity of religion in the face of scientific orthodoxy, I watched him devour a meal of hash browns and potatoes. I did not even notice that I had spent forty dollars on him until we received the check.

I let it slide, naturally, but I did not let him forget this fact when he began to castigate me for having spent several hundred dollars on sending an e-mail to an old friend and, to my dearest hopes, prospective marital partner. What followed was a heated argument. It had been the first argument betwixt us that I could handle with a cool head.

He had been homeless for one week. His plan was to use the money that our company would make to escape his predicament.

We had just started the company. Our intent was to develop software. We had no programmers, but only a designer and an artist. We were idea people. His plan was to spend several hundred dollars, as a company, on hardware. He had looked into all of the details. I was the only one with money or an income, for that matter. I was also in the process of quitting my work to pursue my intellectual endeavours with greater fervour and concentration. Answering to a manager who questioned her sanity routinely was beginning to take its toll on my own.

He told me that, for the company to work, he needed my earnest promise that I would never do anything 'like that' again. He said it as though he were convinced that everyone within a hundred miles of us knew what he knew, with absolute certainty. My decision to spend two-hundred and then some dollars on a social networking account was as Unacceptable by his standards and convictions as heresy. I do not exaggerate. I did not tell him what my reason for this preoccupation had been. I just hinted that his own sentimentality towards girls, being a personal matter, rendered his judgement towards me an act of hypocrisy.

That day, our business relations ended. I would not see him again for three years.

Dm.A.A.

INTERFERENCE. Part One: Chapter One.

Fritz von Franz is the typical modern man. He wants things to make sense. He wants to mind his own business and none other’s. He works a job as a programmer and intends to live comfortably. Yet whatever his pretensions towards certainty and clarity may be are about to be shaken and muddied. A trans-dimensional alien interferes in his life, presenting himself in a bizarre series of visions that Fritz must interpret in order to perhaps become a hero.

Dmitry Andreyev’s debut Absurdist epic is a surreal tour of the mind that leaves one questioning all of one’s prejudices. Each character, as both a person and a symbol, becomes entangled in the mind-bending enterprise in a way that leaves both the reader and the character thinking, “Huh?” in the most satisfying, delightfully humorous, and terrifying of ways.

Dmitry Andreyev was born in Moscow, Russia in 1991, just at the end of the Soviet Union. He immigrated to the United States four years later. He lives with his family in San Diego, California.

Interference

“Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination.”

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Chapter one

Fritz von Franz delighted himself in being precise. This occurred to him as a matter of course. He  had never been imprecise, except where matters of tremendous emotional sensitivity were concerned. The only exception to his habit and, in fact, orthodoxy of precision was the time of morning when he would awake. There had only been one instance wherein he succeeded in waking at a time that he himself had designated.

He had set about waking at four in the morning to get away from his parents. He could not remember the last time he had seen dawn. The morning Sun leant its peering perceptiveness to a sky that appeared, to him, to be merely a crowd of mossy trees unified by their statistical properties. He could describe each, if asked, as a fir or maybe even a sycamore, as befit its formal nature, but he usually paid no attention to it. What leant character to the morning of his departure from his parents' house had been  his own anxiety. The Sun seemed to dog him, hovering, unrelenting in its eventual flowering into a glowing yellow that would stand in ironic – almost jeering – juxtaposition to his predicament.

“I just want you to understand,” he told me back then as we sat at a table at a Starbucks. “If I hadn't left, it would've been much worse.” He fixed me, then, in a stern glare that was uniquely and tragically his own trademark: An almost tribal stare, pointed and penetrating, interrupted only by a haze of what I took to be delusion.

His parents, several weeks later, arranged for a restraining order to permanently keep him more than a hundred yards away from their house at all times. He had never considered it a home. If I am to believe his account, he had never deserved the eviction. The only trait I can imagine by virtue of which it may have been merited might have been his almost pious insistence upon logic, as cold and sterile and depersonalising at times as his mother's own, emotionally self-convinced psychological dogma. He made me read his conversation with her one day.

Perhaps it would have been worse for him, in fact, had he not left home that morning.

What little I know of how he extricated himself from that situation upon that morning, taking to the streets for three years, I would only learn when we were much older. He had always been private in regards to his dreams, and he preferred to interpret them for himself – A habit that I admonished him against repeatedly.

That night, he had dreamt that he was riding in an airplane. His mother and father abandoned him to visit the cockpit. All that he could remember was that they had sat at either side of him in the middle row of an airplane that had three rows. They had not spoken at all, but they would refuse to get up, obstructing his opportunity to get up and use the lavatory. Finally, he pissed himself. Rather than hanging around for any substantial margin of time – the length he would have expected them to had this been an Actual incident – to castigate him, his father did something strange, prompting his mother, at his left side, to follow suit. The two of them stood up and went up their respective aisles to complain to the pilot.

He took the first opportunity to get up, but, as he paced the aisle awkwardly, taking care to apologise methodically as he passed foot upon foot sticking out from their seats like teeth in half a human zipper, the airplane veered and then turned vertical. One second found him stumbling upon the legs of an attractive girl older than him by an unfair margin as all but the lights at the restroom end of the plane went out. The next had him pressed against the back of the vessel by wind resistance, eyes peeled as much by wind as by terror as he watched the tubule that was the interior corridors of the plane plummet past stripes of light. Papers flying from briefcases sent a barrage of papers that attacked him as he heard the screams drowned out by what felt like a sonic boom.

The dream changed. He was falling through the sky. It was dark, but the darkness seemed to have been coloured by some almost cartoonish, magical but terrifying cloudiness overhead. He could not see his plane as he turned his head about, with tremendous pain, to see his point of departure overhead.

He flew past stratum upon stratum of clouds. A light was approaching. He was terrified. He then realised that he was sweating in his armpits. The sweat was drawing his attention to a backpack strapped about his shoulders by two casual straps. The backpack had a parachute. He did not know how he knew this. He only knew that he did not know how to open it.

Clinging to one of the straps, for dear life, he opened the backpack, fumbling with the terror of letting something slip away and be consumed in the dark clouds above and therefore behind him. The left lobe of his brain raced, recalling Newton's laws of gravity, as another part of his mind saw his life flash before his eyes. As he reached a pale hand into the left pocket of the pack, he extricated from it a key that seemed to be glowing yellow by not so much a supernatural force as his sheer shock and delight at having found it. There was no keyhole in the backpack, but there was a strange pattern of scratches etched into the side of the key.

He brought these two his eyes. They read, “Lucidity.”

He recognised that he was asleep. The dream became lucid. As a cotton pile of deep dark clouds broke into a sunny morning sky, inexplicably, he willed himself to fly.

He began to fly in the opposite direction: Up. Just before immersing himself in black clouds again, he remembered, in his lucidity, his determination to awake at four o'clock in the morning.

At that point, the dream ended. He found himself in his dark room, dawn breaking.

He barely hesitated to grab a tooth brush from the restroom, taking special care not to wake anyone by treading with something like softness. He even looked at his feet as he did so, just in case something might trip him.

Dm.A.A.

Tale of Narcissism:

A Tale of Narcissism:

Why is it that when I argued with Catsup at first about you it seemed so much like he was all ways so near to being right? And then when I retired to listen to an ASMR, looking at this girl, I felt as though she possessed some sort of inexplicable black aura, as though she were part of the same degenerate mass as all other women, and as though I might never touch her, for I was much too pure? Not pure of heart or mind. But rather pure only Within my own mind. Because at every junction I refused to admit her debauchery.

Catsup must possess this skill of making it appear as though he is the more-deserving male. He is a total sociopath. A want-to-be alpha male who is unscrupulous and unyielding.

He was no different the night you first held his hand. And he all ways has this seeming knack for displacing the blame upon the victim. All narcissists forget their boundaries and try to persuade their victims to do so too.

And yet what do I find after I find my self? I visit the same ASMR video. And that aura is entirely absent! I cannot even WILL it into existence!!

And what that aura suggests is Distance. A protective boundary against protection. Against possession.

And yet when I am most meditated I am least possessive! There is no me to possess the other. There is only the divine Mersion. The peace of a kind and gentle love. Without the anxiety to control.

Catsup then appears to have all ways tried to control every detail in both our friendship and our rivalry. Even arguing he does not leave a single avenue uncharted. Why? Did I pretend towards Absolute certainty? Not absolute by his standards. I would not wish to impress an inferior. Now would I?

So what my peace of mind now evidences is in fact that the control originated externally. And it was his. For only several other people have ever made me feel remotely akin to this way.

All that I sought was for him to serve you as he had volunteered to. If he was so convinced of his own qualifications, why hesitate to expend his resources on your behalf??

Prove Me Wrong, Catsup!!

But he gets insecure at the sleightest touch. Unable to part ways with his self he would rather make me king for a day. Like I am the town fool.

So now it is I that is domineering. I am controlling. For demanding justice, I am selfish. For defending you I am arrogant. For condemning you I am a hypocrite. As though I had ever condemned you for any thing but to try to show you your own guilty conscience. As though I had ever condemned him for any reason but to persuade you to surrender that same guilt to him. After all: I knew my self to be blame-less. So from whence emanated these accusations if not your own guilt? And who is HE to judge of me for judging you? Is he not the most aspiring psychologist here, seeking to dismantle my pretensions towards goodness through a reversal of my egoic conception of guilt? Is he not the anti-Christ?


And yet what a breath of relief to find my self a blameless victim. To be at-peace and in love. To be secure. Was this ever his solace? Is this the province of any man who believes his self to be right? Or did that guilt that he had blamed me for not originate within his own heart? And if he did not blame me for it, why condemn me for agreeing with his own heart??


His strategy is cyclical: He is the more deserving of the two, and if I fail to agree, then I am the less deserving. I was no less cyclical, claiming you were wrong for dating some one who was wrong for dating you, and that each wrong stemmed from its partner. But has he not wronged you? Even now I only argue with him over his insistence upon apathy whilst I try to defend your ambitions! And he can only make reference to boyish rivalry from five years prior!!

So one emerges feeling as though one is one's self the control freak and the egoist, undeserving of all of the world's pleasures.

What idiocy!!

My solace is in knowing that it is only my empathy that puts me into this paranoid state, a state not only the product of a dishonest dialogue but all so a walk through the soul of the dishonest of the two interlocutors.


How dread full it must be to dwell CONSTANTLY within this arid realm. Without a friend. Trying with futility to accrue a spiteful harem.

Sigh. I pity you. For the intimacy he pretended to have. That you had pretended to have WITH him.

Dm.A.A.

My Pekingese dog.

What an animal. And yet:

My most loyal friend.

Dm.A.A.