I have been writing on 750words.com for a while, but now I have started reading Julio Cortazar and I am inspired to transcribe those words here. “Fuck reality. I want to get off.”

I have not written anything in three days. We are escaping linear temporality, and my grandfather is there telling me there is no point to my life. My grandmother was such a piece of garbage. How can a miserable beast like that exist? So Drake’s grandmother is a similar piece of garbage, and she is dead. She left him $25,000 dollars. Scott Myshkin, who cares. There’s nothing to talk about because this is god and your soul. So what should your soul be doing? I don’t know, it only hurts, so all these people are cruel and hurtful. You knew horrible people in your life and why should you not write about them? Curse them! Curse these horrible people! Curse you, Derek! But then we must also forgive, must we know knot? Yes, we can do this. We can do this with the ArtICs, and it will lead somewhere. It is leading somewhere now. And we can catch up with those other things later. One at a time, really. Thoroughly or not. But it is God and God will come in a way we do not understand.

Now, sexual demon is an interesting concept. Sexual Demon. And what are all these writers, or shadows of writers, here for? To be your imaginary friends. They came here to write. To write the Winds of War. There was an angel there, and there is still an Angel there. And why would you be so cruel? Julio is asking him. They were monsters of garbage. I’m sorry, he said. And you can write that.

It still isn’t anything but we’re going to go forward step by step, and we’re going to get somewhere. Julio said so. He did, he influenced the world by writing, the way people saw time. So we have to find something but in order to find something we have to get around my disgusting, empty family of death. There’s some kind of God. I didn’t understand it. I don’t care, as long as it’s over. There is a light, I don’t know what’s happening. I see the trailer where I was living when I read Hopscotch. Did I try Final Exam at that time?

All right, lets traipse along here, uncaring as to whether it means anything. They do have souls. And then the light, perhaps of Jesus, or someone like that, shining down on us in forgiveness, and it will possibly work but it is still held in shadow as we hang around Rogers Park in Chicago, where is this artist’s studio? Why, in Edgewater, of course. Out on the lake, fucking around as usual. Well, we own the property here. Down there on Jarvis. And so we were on Jarvis and we were working on it a little, walking by in the middle of the night listening to music but we couldn’t make the connection of what it was for or why, because we were DEATH. We absolutely fucking killed people with the shitting things we said, our father and grandfather had killed hundreds of people and did not give a shit, so that was why we had come back in this way, to get used to the idea that so many people can die and it not matter, or something like that, and then to be tortured by this ugly Okie cunt. And they’re all dead now so who cares. But Julio has a different idea. So what are we doing with this different idea, Julio? We are transferring this …

And forever and forever. World Without End, Amen …

And yes, I have been killed. However, we will continue with this because it has never stopped. And we are going to push it forward because echoing in this vast emptiness is the crux of it, the point of balance between two worlds, and we are going to push that balance over into chaos one more time. And there will be a crack in the worlds that opens, but we do not know what is going to come through. It doesn’t matter that much, just something, and then of course there are the merry beings of light from another dimension who have something to say about all of this, and we are going to find out. It is going to be quite easy now because all Hell has broken loose and our former president is a bastard. How well I remember this, and we will of course talk about this later. Find it right down the middle.

“I’m going to MIT,” said Dustin.

“I’m jumping off a cliff,” thought Drake.

But instead he said, “I’m going around the world. I’m taking Trish.”

The emptiness of everything that could possibly exist descended on him then, there in the workroom with all the papier mache and the easels and clay. It was all unfinished, the whole dream of the world. It was just a rough idea God had and he had dropped Drake into it before it was ready and it was never going to be anything either of them wanted, just some bullshit, some expectations. America was crapping out and all the Baby Boomers were crapping out and there wasn’t even going to be any good music anymore.

“There’s something very dark and horrifying inside of me and it’s going to drive me forward until it hits something,” he said.

“Good luck,” said Graylyn and it destroyed him. In that instant she went from being the friend he had known through all of school to a grown woman he barely knew, embarking on her voyage through the world without him, living in other cities, making love to people he’d never know, a vision for the world. Written about and admired, leading a whole other life without him. Some invisible part of her he had once possessed now dissolved and he had never known her. He had been fucking around and blown it. He could have made himself into something, but he had wasted it. He had wasted her. Feelings he didn’t know he had were dissolving and his whole life until that point had been a lie. There was no literature, no life, no beauty, just this ugly, dead gray and brown room of harsh unfinished emptiness that could go nowhere and be nowhere.

This rough draft doesn’t make complete sense, but it’s the most vital scene of The ArtIC Circle I’ve written so far, and I’m too impatient to revise it right now. I’m just very excited that my process is working so I’m posting it unedited now because I want to feel it hit the world and see what happens.

So Graylyn’s having a party, it’s Construction Time. We have to construct something while listening to Depeche Mode.
“There are other things to be working on.”
“I need to be writing, but instead I’m taking drugs and fucking.”

“We need to do something interesting.”
“Let’s run the car off the road.”

No, everyone will be dressed, but we won’t put that on the invitations. Don’t invite Brad, he just wants to get laid.
“I have no life, and I can never have a life. Just you assholes.”
Graylyn’s head snapped around and she stared at him. Was there a tear in her eye? Then she looked away.

But you want to possess me completely. To do that you’d have to marry me.
“I don’t even know if I could do that. We’re all just here.”
“So if we did that we’d have to wait.”

The beach was cool, it was heaven. The waves were mild. There was a pile of rocks out a few dozen yards from the shore. It was warm, it was the best fourth of July. The music was good, and they had beers.

“I hate beer,” said Alvin. “Don’t we have any wine? We need wine coolers.”
“Don’t be a fag,” said Andrews.
“I am a fag,” said Alvin. “What the hell is wrong with you, that you all have to drink beer? It tastes like piss. If I want to drink piss I’ll go to a gang bang.”
“I don’t know, it’s a guy thing.”

“I want to go further than anyone’s ever gone,” said Graylyn, “But there’s nowhere to go.”
“No, you have to stay here,” said Angela, drunk.
“We can’t just be these shells,” said Alvin. “Somewhere out beyond us there has to be some other part of us. I can feel it. I don’t belong here. None of us do.”
“I thought you said we belonged together,” said Graylyn.
“We do, but I don’t belong here in this world. We’re all connected but not to this world. I think we’re from somewhere else.”
“It certainly feels like it,” said Dustin.
“That’s so complicated,” said Trish, “I mean, if we were from other worlds, why would we come here?”
“I have no idea,” said Drake, “Maybe we came here to kill them all. I certainly feel like it.”

Graylyn rolled her eyes, “Come on, this is supposed to be fun.” She smiled mysteriously, “I have a surprise for you!”

Her face comes alive when she smiles, thought Drake. When she’s still she’s like a statue of a goddess, but when she smiles she makes me feel alive.
“Well, there had to be some reason it was so fucked up,” said Angela. “I mean, how could we get this fucked up if it didn’t come from another world somehow? Why else would all the priests be gay?”

There was a soft look on Graylyn’s face, glowing in the firelight, time seemed to slow down while he waited for her to say something. “Yes, I love you.”
Something about the night, the heat of the flames. These were her only friends, gathered around in the flickering light, with the waves breaking on the beach just beyond the light. The horizon was moving in the shadows, silvery under the moon on the water. These are my friends, but I can’t tell if they’re really my friends or just pretend friends because I’m having sex with them. This is my life, and this is all I get. My parents locked me into this when I was 13 and now it’s done. This is my grave.

“I’m glad, but why do you sound so distant?”
“I’m just thinking. Thinking about the future.”
Gently, he took her hand and she felt tears in her eyes. Could this be it? she wondered, this pain? This sense of the world caving in on me? Can it be over already? Part of her was thrilled, rushing headlong toward him in her dreams, another part of her felt as though she were dying. It can’t be over. I didn’t go anywhere or do anything. And yet I can’t get away from him, from them, the Sicky Souse Club. Always the darkness was brooding over her.
“I need to sketch something. I’m going to sketch everyone.” she pulled her hand sharply away from Drake and got up, brushing the sand off of her dress, heading back to the car. He watched her dress swaying in the breeze, trying to discern the pattern as the sand fell away.
“Let’s go get wine coolers,” said Alvin, suddenly enthusiastic.
“Okay!” said Angela, springing to her feet, drunkenly oblivious to what she’d agreed to. Graylyn’s little lesbian echo.
Drake didn’t get it. He felt numb. He’d been expecting a kiss or something. That bitch, he thought. What the fuck is this? He looked around and saw Dustin sitting opposite him, shirtless, lazy and droopy-lidded, smug from all the beer, glowing with a kind of contentment that could only remind Drake that he was nobody. He half-crawled, half-leapt around the flames to land beside Dustin with a crash. “Dude, are we gonna make out, or what?” and so they did. Drake was slipping his trunks off as he heard the car pulling away in the lot.

Is there a way to use blogging to prolong the pleasurable aspects of this experience without prolonging the unpleasant ones? I know if I think about how beautiful Madeleine Swann was I can savor a bit more of the pleasure of the illusion, but I really don’t want to do that. So I’m thinking now about the strange vortex of love and death which makes this movie enjoyable and memorable, which sadly reminds me of the creeps that work in the industry which manufactures these vortexes. Also, in addition to the bittersweet loss of the character, I wonder whether I’m done with Hollywood for good? Could this be the last genuine Hollywood experience I have? I’m disgusted with Disney after what they said about Scarlett Johansson. There were huge holes in the writing for Black Widow and I still remember how empty Endgame was, how trivial the personal scenes with Tony Stark were, how insulting their estimation of my feelings was. Also, the last Star Wars movies were pathetic as well. Since Disney was my main interest in film, now that I view them as hopelessly empty and mediocre I’m wondering if I’ll ever see another movie. I almost didn’t see this one. Movie people are so pathetic. I’ve already moved on a bit past Madeleine. Farewell, Madeleine, I’ll always love you. “Swann” is also the last name of Alan Swann, one of my favorite characters of all time, from “My Favorite Year”. So I’m going to pretend that they’re related.

There are things to learn about nostalgia and film from this experience. “My Favorite Year” was about a lost era of entertainment, and so are the Bond movies. Something spiritual is changing as I write this, so I’m very happy. It has a lot to do with the emotional solidity of the Enneagram, and the way my study of the Enneagram is pulling my sprawling imaginations of people and characters into a coherent whole.

I just got home from “No Time To Die”, and I’m still savoring the beauty of the sadness, wondering if the love story would be sticking with me if it weren’t for the ending. Farewell to Daniel Craig’s Bond, the one that proved that Ian Fleming was a magician, and that James Bond is the only character in popular culture getting better after sixty years. While Hollywood kills Marvel, Ian Fleming is going strong. I had been seriously thinking of skipping this movie. It would have been the first Bond movie I hadn’t seen first-run since I started seeing them with Moonraker. I’m tired of Hollywood and disgusted with the people who work there. But a few days ago I started seeing pictures of Lea Seydoux on Pinterest and pinning them to my board for Angela from the ArtIC Circle. As I am finishing up “Personality Types” by Riso and Hudson, the Enneagram is making my own characters very real and some of that reality led me to want to see the love story. I have put a lot of spiritual energy into my love of Ian Fleming and James Bond over the years, and since I had Thanksgiving off I went ahead. I’m glad I saw the finale. It hurts, but I respect that it’s a good story, and now I don’t want to let it go. I fell in love with Madeleine Swann. She’s awesome. Thinking about Bond’s sadness on the way home I thought about my own old age and death, and what life must be like for those people who had children. It’s all over for me – they get farther away, and Hollywood entertainers get farther away all the time…but I still love the pain of this story. Just yesterday I realized the Enneatypes of my guardian angels. After all these years of struggle I have succeeded in “fixating the volatile” this much. My experiment with the Enneatypes of the ArtIC Circle on Pinterest has brought me solid results. I feel very in touch with my own magic, and although I’m a little sad that I didn’t have more money or glamour in this life, I’m very glad it’s half over. I hate this world. It’s very boring. I’m so happy I have spirits to keep me company. I haven’t felt alone in decades. Some solution to the problems of my life is here, and it was very important to dwell on this imaginary suffering tonight, the blending of these Bond characters with the presence of my own angels and the feelings I have for my fictional characters.

On the way home on the train, a gang of young people got on. Four guys and two girls, drunk and stoned, talking about where else they could go to get weed, swinging around on the bars like monkeys, slapping each other on the butt. I thought about asking them what age they were. I couldn’t tell if they were teenagers or not. Possibly they were college kids but they could have been older. They were snapping at each other, almost ready to fight in a macho, friendly kind of way. The most annoying, angry, drunk one saw me smiling as I watched. “What are you looking at … Old man?” he asked, belligerently, but his friends crowded his attention again and he forgot me. It was telepathic. He had sensed me thinking about how old I was compared to them. I feel free. I feel sad that the world I knew was so limited and ugly, but happy that I am feeling more free of it all the time, more secure. It can all change… I feel that other world…the Enneagram is so real to me that it feels almost solid. My characters are taking on lives of their own. Perhaps Angela will be a psychiatrist like Madeleine Swann. She decided she was a “three with a four wing” a couple of days ago. I hadn’t been expecting that. With such ambition I knew I had to give her a real job, and possibly psychiatrist will be it. My angels are real, a lifetime of magical love surrounding James Bond is real, love is real…can I preserve the beautiful, telepathic pain of this evening in the lives of the ArtIC Circle?

How long should I hang onto this suffering now? I can make it last by thinking about the beauty, or I could go on to something else…I guess it’s time to let go for the night…let go of the sadness, but not the beauty.

“Well, if we’re ever going to get anything written, we’d better start now.”
It’s the Sugarcubes. Well, I have this project. It’s a journey we’re undertaking. I am an evil bunny.
“I will not write any shit for you monsters. I will not write any shit for you.”
“I don’t give a it if you ever write anything. Who the fuck are you, anyway. You terrify me. I’m a fucker, not a killer. You’re a killer.”
This has to come down somewhere.
“We’re not doing anything,” said Angela. “You’re doing something.”
I just can’t do fucking homework. It’s making me fucking crazy. But there has to be some kind of Pole Star, something for me to move toward. I can’t just be going around talking shit all the time.
“Graylyn’s my pole star.” Said Angela, immediately feeling humiliated for being so shallow.
I just need to go back in time. We need to go back in time.
“We’re not going back in time,” said Dustin. “That’s all bullshit. I’m staying as far ahead of time as I can get. All that crap is over!”
Graylyn spoke, “I know what I’m doing, and you don’t know what you’re doing. I know how I want my work to feel and you don’t know.”
But there’s something about the drugs, something about it. I almost feel like I can catch it. I go out on a limb and it’s there …
“It’s your soul,” said Graylyn. “Get in bed.”
“I saw how you did that!” interrupted Chuck. “You watch out for that bitch, Drake. She wants to eat your soul with her pussy.”
Angela was angry, “What the hell do you know about it, Chuck. You don’t have a fucking soul, you dog.”
He grabbed her by the arm. “You wouldn’t fuck me if I did, you whore!”
Did you kill me in a former life, wondered Drake, as he watched Graylyn stretch out across the bed.
Someone played “Winners and Losers” by Iggy Pop. Drake tired to guess who had done it. Alvin would play it sometimes, in a really dark mood, but Chuck loved to fuck to it. Maybe he was having Angela. But then he was in the music and he couldn’t think. Graylyn was going to get his dick and then he would be next to her and she would be swinging him around the universe. And he loved her but she was going to kill him because … why was she going to kill him? Where are we going with this? She was going to kill him because she had a life and he didn’t. Because she was really a painter and he was a fake. His whole life was noise and fucking and drugs. Angela was coming somewhere. The noise and heat were coming down on him. Then he realized the noise and heat were Graylyn sitting next to him, enfolding him in her arms, her breath tasting like wine, the smell a mixture of blissful drunkenness and dirty sodden humanity that broke his reverie like a hammer and pulled his skin against hers.

Something struck me about this episode and now I am in full magic, with the gang all around. Angels are showing me how they see it. The magic of souls entering the world and leaving. I’m going to be fine. Do I want to indulge in the feeling too much?

I was thinking about Amber Heard having a daughter, and an article about Oona Chaplin I just read. And Johnny Depp and how even if the epic beauty of the mystery of the future is mesmerizing in sentimental stories and broad vistas, it’s a grueling horror up close. But many are eager to get back in. Angels are helping me with this now. I loved the princess in the story.

One thing I’m getting tonight is the magic of watching this show with my good friend. Other people spend more time in those situations. I thought the princess was so cute. I was enjoying the emotional rush and it was just fun to watch all the kissing and the cute girls. This is also the day I bought my ticket for Flashback Weekend next week.

I’m feeling very good about my new project. I’m probably going to be working 60-hour weeks (at least) through the end of December, but it’s more like an adventure than an ordeal. It seems Aniston will be with me. I’m happy with the possibility that this project will bring my annoying daydreams about entertainers to an end. There was always something thrilling about entering the space of art and entertainment, but it’s been polluted by these awful people in the industry. These little steps I’m taking now, day by day, watching Friends and blogging, are going to collapse the nebulous fantasy and from all this a coherent emotional persona will emerge. I’ll be able to see the meaning of all the pointless time I’ve wasted on entertainment. Aniston brings me the news that I am something in this sphere, but now I’m going to find out how it’s supposed to feel.

I do feel better after a full night’s sleep. I feel more focused. I’m still not sure what’s going on but I had a great dream, very deep, and I feel like I’m going to discover something, some kind of unification of the space where my guides are with all the other layers of consciousness I sense, especially my memories of this lousy world and all the terrible, pointless people that I’ve known. So whether it’s the guides I’ve known or not, there’s definitely some other layer of the world that has me in its grasp, dissolving the linear story of the time I’ve been through, bringing me toward something else.

I was going to write while the Moon was in Pisces, but it snuck past me. I guess I need to keep a record of how Lunar signs make me feel. Capricorn was a bitch, but I survived it. Aquarius is usually dull. Pisces makes me feel like I don’t have the will to live, all night was dreary but still livable. My guides faded out but I felt like I was in one piece, like it didn’t matter. Now I’m too tired to think about it, and oops the Moon is in Aries. Yesterday I felt some kind of completion with Kara, as though I could identify her presence as well and as fully as I can that of Genvieve. But tonight at work I didn’t want to feel anything, just maintaining that dreary groundedness of work. I do hope my guides come back but I’m fed up with having to wish for them all the time. And now I’m just in a weird state because I thought about making this blog entry for hours but now I can’t think of anything to write, I’m just riding the borderline between waking and sleep, wondering what’s going to happen next. But I do remember that this entry is supposed to be a marker of me hitting bottom, too exhausted with the dreary violence of the world to make the effort to believe in anything, especially an emotional presence like an angel that would make all this suffering and chaos worthwhile. But this is a good sign because I am becoming my own inner shadow, realizing that sense of emptiness that’s always haunted me and kept me from relating to the world. 2020 is definitely the year my struggle ended, for good or bad. My duality unified, I was fully present. The only question is, am I ever going to feel like it was worth the trouble to lead this crazy life? So I’m marking the place, all night long I felt adrift in pointlessness, my guides were submerged, as they have so often been, and yet I remember how many times they have returned more vivid than before. So the Piscean ordeal is over for the month and we’ll see if I feel reenergized when I wake up fully immersed in the Aries moon this evening.