—And what I'm not saying.
to others
Philosophy of God's Dream And Our Being Able to Access It—
No, I don't already think we access it. We can't. Not already. Not us. If we cannot, then how can we dream? What are we and why do we need to help her access her dream? If he was a video game what would we do? Access daytime. Daytime activated, my computer says. Sunday. November. 2020.
I absorb vitamins through my eyes.
Apparently I need lots of them.
Then there is my body.
It's pretty important.
It's pretty beautiful.
Like you consider our computers part of it. And I'm like oh I just made a joke about being a cyborg.
What would a cyborg writer say? About the Philosophy of God's dream and being able to access it?
"I want you to be a friend so that I can train you to be a formal acquaintance using a medium between them enAboriginal because you are acting like my friend and my friend is a formal acquaintance."
Like Installed Bitches.
My friend is enAboriginal, like me.
We live in separate homes.
Since we are God's creation, when we dream, then perhaps we understood God's dream. God is us, as a creator is to a thing, and we ask it for knowledge because we know that the subjectivity itself is to a creator and itself thus dramatic with humour and a mirror only describes it, but a beauty to behold can never wonder.
I am at home when I think of these things. I am alone. I am a blogger, full time, so I prefer to be called a dancer. Like Ellen knows about all those dancers out there that probably have blogs too so I guess I can fit in.
I am at home.
I am alone.
I have coffee.
Everything's fine.
I have an indescribably deep emotion.
Is it sadness? I'm sad. I'm very very sad. It hurts. Everything hurts. Just.
And then I think, welcome. Like what does that mean?
Sadness Welcome
We feel together sometimes.
Cool with sadness, I open up a theoretical conversation about it. If you listen to me narrating a novel, for example, I channel my sadness into this medium and so, after time with every fact about it taken care of I will call it a memory, that taught me what I know now. Does that mean I am over it now? No, I speak in the future tense without lips like a computer. How could I be over it, she said, with her hand this way bent one pinky and one half ring finger bent in sorrow and expressive grief and anxiety.
And being such a drama queen, the most bizarre, and should I take the scene or not. To be said politely.
"Yes!" yells one of the children.
"As a drama queen I'm entitled to do that," she did, "I'm like this at home, and when I'm with you children because I feel safe here, but on the street you need to be careful."
He was in a theatre in his mind he had constructed with spare parts. A drama queen, a drag queen, it's the same thing really. Performing to children is an honor. Hon.
Maybe that was why he was alone, not in a full classroom. With Children. Not anybody's boss. Or to need to be. Or not to. But he had not engineered his education in such a way as to be positioned There. He had engineered it to allow him to supply readers with content. Originally a digital artist, he remembered programming websites, realizing, tragically, that he had nothing worth writing to put on them except the links, one of them leading to content. That it lead to nothing bothered him. I started writing, when I was older, in an effort to remedy the need for more content.
It worked. I wrote a journal every night, in memory of Anne Frank, giving details about the structure of my day. I wrote mostly about whether I was gay, for this subject eclipsed all other concerns.
My writing then took a leap of faith. I moved to Edmonton to go to University as enrolled in an English program of the Arts. It worked. The writing I had dedicated in print was strong enough to complete a University too. A degree. Though it was based on love and experimentation, based on the diary of a homosexual after WWII in Canada. They really gave me the gift that keeps on giving with teaching me.
Then the unthinkable happened.
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