Woke up today on my fourth day not drinking. Consciously not drinking. A dream about an uncle I had set limits with. He crossed the line. I banished his influence from me and promptly woke up to remember that when I make a move toward not drinking, my subconscious says “hi!” to me through my dreams in major ways. That there is a delicate bubble of extra consciousness floating around my head like a spaceman’s helmet. It says: “I was always here, waiting for you to invite me back.” Ready for me to once again create the conditions for its return. And with this fourth day sober, my connection to the unknown is once again visible to me, known by me. I need to keep this connection, as a writer. I just haven’t been strong enough to do that always. Imagine what my life and my creations could be like if I did++!!

Dream I was in class at school. It was Masterman. I skipped around classes and grades. School was in full season. I could skip from place to place seeking a seat in the higher grades’ seminars which were crowded and happy with learning. Teachers called on me knowing I would be on top of the material. And I was. I spoke to their hardest. Their deepest questions. I needed a ride so I left.

Caught a ride in my friends’ car. It was messy (epically). A sedan. Seven of us riding in a four-person car. And we were in downtown Dayton. And it was the victim of flood damage. I had no idea what was going on outside the school. None of us did. Entire shops. Entire buildings were devastated. Shop wares piled up against drain gratings. Stones from buildings were piled in the streets. And our handful (plus two) drive slowly through it all. Through zeroing setbacks that sent people who owned buildings back to their countries. You had to have roots here to even survive.

I looked over at Masterman. We all did. And it still stood. And class was in session—a raucous, boistering noise that would continue forever. And I knew I was like Gauss. A kid in my mind and my heart who would never be squashed. Never stopped. Everyone in that car had something in common: head and heart. My writing was my current area of focus, but I had multiple skills, multiple heads, multiple hearts. Everyone in that car had something in common: an unbeatable spirit, an unbeatable soul.

And I woke from this, the most of a message dream I have had in years, feeling like I can handle life. Feeling like I don’t need alcohol—in fact it hinders me (this on my third day dry). Feeling like I don’t need anyone outside my car (we are doing fine and will always be doing fine). Feeling like I’m virtually untouchable. Unreachable. And whether it’s good or bad, it’s true. If you’re not also Gauss, no length of reach will cause our hands to touch. And if you are Gauss, we’re already in the car together. We understand each other, and there isn’t even need to talk. This dream has me crying today. Looking forward with hope. Unwilling to listen to the propaganda and mumbo jumbo of politics large and small. My ex-family is full of shit. I love them, but I love them like those whose minds have been destroyed by weather. Same with the larger government picture: that is merely bodies who go away with the tides. I don’t need to listen to that anymore. None of those circles demand my attention. I can work with happiness and genius for the rest of my life.

I rode my bike in the dark in the cold to get Four Lokos for me and my baby. We’re listening to Rob Zombie videos on the TV blood-sipping our drinks out of fancy wine glasses. We’ve been drinking once every three days or so. Celebrating life in general. Celebrating the completion of the first third of my novella, Purity Ball. Watching Rich the Kid singing How Else. This is our jam right now. And everyone else in the fucking world, apparently.

I know that the opposite of love is fear.  And that the opposite of fear is adventuresomeness.  And so love is adventuresomeness.  Fear is being afraid to adventure—it is being stuck in your rut, and love is not being stuck at all.  And love is the lack of fear, one who is able to adventure without fear.

Some of us here have gotten stuck in fear.  The fear of the lack of money.  The fear of dying.  The fear of living an unfulfilled life (which is what lies at the base of the fear of dying).

I know that all fear is the fear of a life unlived.

That all fear is the fear of what is becoming.  Of what I will become.  All fear is the fear of what I will become.  That is the only fear there is.  When I am afraid of (or hate) homosexuals, that means I am afraid of becoming a homosexual.  No one straight who doesn’t fear homosexuality is afraid of (or hates) homosexuals.  Homophobics are people who have not dealt with (or who are uncomfortable with) their own sexuality.  And such is true for all states, obviously—not just homosexuality.

Imagine yourself as a Mexican immigrant to the United States.  Does that scare you?  Maybe you will find as a matter of following this logic that it does scare you.  What if you were born in Mexico, trying to escape.  Does the thought of being born in a third-world country scare you?  Do you think your humanity would be as fully expressed in such a circumstance as it is in a first-world country?  What scares you about the idea of appreciating Mexican poetry or of being born in Mexico?  Of being of color?  Does your fear cause you to lessen the value of Mexican citizens so that that value is below you.

The US is full of this kind of fear/hatred.  People who have never traveled to another country.  Quite simply, Americans who are thus afraid have never visited another country.  We operate within a veil of ignorance.  That breeds hate.  It isn’t so complex as patterns of hate existing within humanity.  It is simply an issue of a lack of information—thus a lack of care.  Thus a lack of love.  Thus hate.

And so we see these massive populations of hate.

Hate for what we misunderstand.  Or for what we have no information about.

Thus fear.

I live in this country right now (the US), this society, this culture.  Where the fearful hold onto the most money.  When money is wrong and we’ve known all along that it’s wrong.  Where subterfuge is natural, from scared people to uneducated people.  And to artists (which I find myself one in this life).  And I guess it’s the job of the artist to see things clearly.  To see the world how it is more so than it is seen by executives and office workers.  To be successful in a corporation is to willingly give up your truth and obey the rules laid down by your corporation.  These are beliefs you adopt.  It is necessary to believe them in order to succeed in your corporation.  If artists lie at one end, and corporate workers lie in the middle, then politicians lie at the opposite end of artists.  Politicians not only buy into their party line, they create it, and they create it in the worst possible way, with disregard to truth, with unwillingness to go adventuring, with the two-faced embodiment of hate.

Politicians are the most scared because their livelihood is dependent on other people’s hate—they must stir the hate in others for them to even exist.  Artists are the least scared not due to any accident but due to a relentless adventuresomeness—an active pursuit of the truth, a pursuit of love.  And we may miss the mark sometimes.  But politicians miss the mark all the time.

I live on pittance.  I can never responsibly have children—a mark few people ever consider at all (their capability of raising another human being).  Most of you have children indiscriminately, without consideration of your capabilities, just because you have sex and you believe that having children is the thing to do.  I look down on these people (including my parents) for having kids like it is just the universal plaything.  To have kids.  To promote your beliefs through time.  It is disgusting to me that my relatives and parents and siblings have created “life” just as a new substrate for their own (ill considered) beliefs.  I have no love for that.  I am a random kid of this creation.  From parents who didn’t consider the ultimate consequences of procreation.  They fucked, blindly, and I was born the first of three.  We were born of passion deflated, senselessly, and I can say the same for my extended family.  Most of them are useless plops of flesh, recycling hate and fear again and again and again.

I would recommend death for these people.  Eighty percent of them will never escape a life of hate and fear of adventure.  You can talk with them forever, and in that forever, they will never let go the pole, the diving board—they will die without having ever lived, in a self-created world of hate.

By chance, I oppose this hate.  I am shocked to have woken up, to have been born into, a land of hate.  I can only shake my head and mourn the situation.  And try (as an artist) to communicate my point of view (which is superior) to these bodies I can hardly call people.

All that was ever necessary for me to become “an artist” was to answer life’s questions with as much honesty as possible.  I have no idea what my relatives’ perception of me, is. Except that I doubt they consider me cogent.  To them I am the relative gone crazy but it isn’t that way at all.  Truth is a potato.  Life is a game of hot potato.  I am holding the potato.  My hands are burning.  I stopped the game because my hands are hot enough to hold the potato.  So I stand here, palms burning, working as hard as I can, expressing my truths in text, those next to me unable to even read the texts I write.  Because I scare them.  Every contact they have with me encourages them to hold onto the potato another second longer, another second longer.  Am I jealous of my mother who is a minister?  Of my uncle who works for the oil industry?  I cannot say that I am.  I am the relative fool—much wiser than them—who they have created and who, in my writing, I destroy.  Their choice of active ignorance offends me.  It stinks.  I will never live that way.  And as they continue to wallow in that ignorance, I will never be their friend.