Les Arbitres Chapter 2

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    He woke up the next morning.  And slowly began to realize what had happened to him when he entered his own kitchen last night without turning the light on.  He had fallen completely in love with that woman.

    He had to see her again; he thought to himself rushing his pace toward grabbing his coat and heading out the door.  But, he thought, I am already complete now so maybe not!

    Then he chuckled.  He just laughed to himself.

    This was the best of both worlds!

    He could do anything he wanted.  And there would be no way to separate his completeness with God now.  Even insult that woman as though she was an un-respected part of the economy.

    He wouldn't so obsess over this thought too much.  He figured it was the product of his violent imagination.  He had seen some shit.  Everybody had seen some shit.  But he had seen some shit.  It entitled him to insult women as an thought experiment.  He wouldn't actually say it to her.  He was too good for that.  He would never actually refer to her this way; even as just thought experiment.  It was too sacred an subject.  Too far from him actually to.

    But he wondered again at what it meant then, that God was now sharing with him this aspect of himself of completeness with God.  If that didn't entitle him at least to an little backtalking like an sexy shrew and his hare.  She was complete too.  So what?

    Maybe they could learn what completeness meant together in another way.

    He woahed himself.

    Easy buddy.  She's an sophisticated woman.

    And so he emailed her and asked her out again.

    He knew what kind of an game he was playing.  He had to learn about her advanced logic that resulted from having such an effective fatherhood and motherhood figure in her childhood.  She had some kind of big game that she was playing and he had to figure out what all of it was.  What it meant to her.  Before she would let him bed her.

    And he had to use the first lesson effectively in order to learn it from her.

    He had found his connection with God in what she had said about her father realizing his personality and design in the complete logic that, since God was in the picture, it was enough for his family.  It was God that enabled them to be enough together because it was God's will to do that.  God allowed them to have that feeling because they deserved it.  They recognized they were enough all together that way.  And in that same way they still understood it.  Each one of them.  In the same way.  Their immediate present was complete with God because God completed them by being God.  They didn't need anything else in the picture because of their dad.

    He had completed the circle.  And realized himself as an man.

    So what was the policeman going to do?

    Every thought of hers he stepped all over had to be guided by this fact that she was complete with God.  He had to use possibility.  Introduction.  The Leap of Faith.  It's recognition.  Success.  Denouement.  Resolution.  In order to find her in there somewhere.  Like he could access her personality that way, he toyed with it in his mind.  He would actually try to access her personality that way.  She was that type of person.  He could see it.  Every lesson she would have for him would prove it.  And he had to be glamorous and personable.  She was after all going to explain to him her great idea about the universe as she does to everyone.  And it had something to do with the conclusions she had drawn by being the type of person who was part of her family.  He had made his inference.  He was ready to enjoy the conclusion.

    She was going all out and moving fast and he knew it.

    He had to access her somehow.  To learn the story of what all of her resources combined meant.  And all that she had learned by being an metropolitan pacifist who dabbled in the arts and used permissive resources.  He had to figure out her story.  You know, her story.  The one she has with herself about everything.  The one that makes her tick.  She was using the medium of God to communicate her identity and he was falling for it.  He was trying to learn how to figure out the order of events in that story.  So that he could better understand it.

    And then she opened up to him.  And she started telling an story about everything she understood.  As though all of it could fit into the completeness of her sentences all at once.  She had seven main characteristics.  Personality.  Ego.  Super Ego.  And an host of others often referred to as the moods and anatomy system.  But that their combined meaning, if she chanced to make it into words, was that they were all points of stars in an constellation.  An map which lead to her treasure.

    He wanted to know exactly what it was the constellation was showing and she answered that it was an inspector with an v-shaped head and neck.  Whose eyes were clear.  Whose thoughts were clear.  And who had an sketchy presence as such, wearing an high-collared coat.  But whose roundabout way of saying things was so attractive and designed in the stars so that their twinkling was rhythmic at an sub-bass level.  They could twinkle in sequence.

    And then he said, but darling aren't your thoughts getting away with yourself?

    I mean.  Your words are twinkling.  Is that what you're saying?  Why would you be so good-natured?

    Yes.

    And why not be your full good-nature then? he asked.

    And she was suddenly welcome to it.  She was going to experience being complete with God with another man sexually.  Just an hint of an moment of it.  He would peak into the bedroom like that friend I always wanted to have; but do absolutely nothing and leave.  So that she could tell if she really liked him.  When she found out his reaction to it.  When she found out that that she did not.  But he was an police officer and he deserved her respect.  So she was going to try again.  And try to take in the full story of he.  Him.  So that she could prove to him she could meet with him eye-to-eye on that level.

    And then she looks at this guy and realizes she's in love with him.

    She can say whatever she wants to him.  He'll investigate all of it.  And better yet; he'll learn why the story starts with an inspector.  I want to see you naked!  Yeah, that's right!

    She asked him for an dick pic, exactly.  But he could do her one better!

    He had an animated showroom where he posed, marionette-style, under an blue lamp until everyone was sad enough to empathize with him.  And anybody in the community could see him like this.

    But she knew she would use the time of his exposure to her advantage.  She wasn't going to fall all in on the guy just because she saw him naked.  It was just an simple act that proved his loyalty to her for the time being.  And if she wanted to masturbate about it later she may end up feeling that he was deserving and ready enough to accept her.  No she would time it.  It would take ten times as long as it did to take for him to release this data graphic to her.  She would count them.  Ten times.  So that when she finally reacted to it she will already have forgotten exactly what she had seen.  And she'll casually look up at him with nothing in her mind and he will want to stick it in her so bad.

    And that's how she would get him.  By playing it fair and square.  That every instance of her ignoring him was at least ten times as powerful as him presenting any nudity to her.  So she couldn't cave.  She was stronger than that.  She was an strong woman.  She had to show him the right way to do things.

    So she kept it to herself for mostly an week.  And then she reflected.  If he didn't think she was top class now because of this.  Not responding to an animated text.

    You are so wonderful; the way is open.

    One which revealed his nude body.  Then she hadn't understood the assignment.  She was the one leading him.  Not the other way around.  She had to show some class.  That's why his fairy sequence always started with an woman.  By coming up with nothing to say.  Even though this guy has just shown his dick.  It was an classic lady manouvre.  She would be enchanted by it.

    He would remind her he is full well capable of behaving like an woman; it's just that I don't!  Then how do you know you are‽  She would keep secrets and tell him when it was time.

    In the meantime if he intended to wow her he could keep taking her out for fancy dinners.

    She was after all, more than paying for it, with her kindness.  And he was indebted to her every time he paid the cheque for dinner not the other way around.

    Clearly she had so much bom-bust and sha-voom she could chitter chatter as much as she wanted.

    "Oh the inspector is coming around again!" she told him.  And then noticed her attention focusing on his handsome face.  She inspected his face completely.  He was smiling.  He had understood her joke.  She was an inspector.  Coming in for an inspection.  And he had to put up something worth inspecting.

    And so he inspected, getting to the heart of things, that maybe she was the inspector in her own story and it probably had something to do with the boundary between they on another planet with us and us on this planet they.  You know.  She's an post-humanist intrigue.

    She was inspector of humanity.  And her judgment mattered.

    Even if they didn't like it.  Someone had to inspect them.

    That was her point.  He thought.

    But he thought about her inspecting him wearing an sexy costume.

    It was within her designs and so she moved on.

    She wasn't just inspector of humanity.  She was also its protector.  She had the womb and bomb ass for it.  She was completely sure about her opinions.  And so if one ventured into things as the inspector as one was.  One would find that really is the first step to enjoying one's experience of reality and existence.  Go ahead an inspect all of it.  (This was the series of her investigation into reality that one always started as an inspector).

    One had to inspect the mountains.  And one had logically to say that while one's face is pointy and one's neck is pointing, the mountains are still pointy also.  And God can move them if he wants to.

    He had revealed to the family.  And to her date.  That she was of that occupied status in life as to have been in complete connection with God and aware of it as such for most of her life.  It wasn't just about being inspector of humanity.  It was about being pointy like an mountain and yet pointy like an fridge.  One didn't want one's face to be too pointy or other people would think them investigators of some kind.  And that was the secret of investigating not to keep one's face pointy by using it to point to other people.  Even if their neck is out of joint.  It was really an delicate balance.  Investigating versus being investigated.  Just as long as one's not to keep one's face pointy!  Or other things‽

    And that really summed it all up.  What she wanted to say to him.  She didn't want to let on too much how much she was furiously obsessed with her own thoughts.  And she wanted to remind him that he was still in the Introduction period to her and he would begin to know her thoughts and emotions slowly at first so that she could comprehend them.  She would probably be better at explaining her ultimate theory once she had more time to get to know him.  And he trusted in that he would eventually learn everything there was to say about her by allowing her to feel her emotions out; by practicing with him at the level of holding or withholding love.  First.  Maybe.  And that she would need him to get an emotional response back from her; so that she could tell what it is.  She wasn't going to tell him what it meant for someone's neck and face to be pointy.  Like they were metaphors for something.

    She was an inspector, dammit!  And she deserved to be treated with respect like one!

    He found himself suddenly in agreement with this picture.  She could inspect all she wanted.  He was cool with it.  She could even look at the performers performing on stage at the bar if she wanted to.  Or anyone else in the crowd.  He was okay with it.  She had summoned up this picture of herself and what she looked like and he couldn't get it off of his mind.  She did deserve to be respected and treated like one.  Like one with an big trench coat.  Like an in-appropriately big trench coat.  So that everyone who saw her was instantly transported to her world in which she had more authority than they did.  What an sexy investigative nurse she was being!

    He didn't think her trench coat would be too big, that she wouldn't be able to wear it.

    Therefore politically, she was appropriate.  She deserved the respect and authority of an inspector, properly in society, although people often didn't see her that way.  All she could do about it was inspect it further.  They couldn't see her as having or controlling any amount of power or authority because they didn't respect her.  They thought she was just some stupid woman.  But really she was explicitly brilliant and genius.  She was the inspector by trade.  And tradesmen could see it in her even though she was an woman.  She commanded respect everywhere she went.  Even the third-kind most of professional artisan people recognized her ability.  And she expected most from everybody.  All of it.  As though it was theirs if they would grab it.

    She deserved to be very well an pointy faced person with an pointed neck.

    The pointed neck is after all the most telling feature of an Jesus-believer.

    But the pointed face.  Hmm.  I couldn't explain that, he thought to himself.

    She was being an arrow by using her face to point to things?

    And what social use and characteristics did it have in combat?

    She never thought of these things.  He knew that about her because, he suspected, she was an bit of an snob.  She was metropolitan.  Completely other than what he was.  Her mind didn't even linger on her safety for she was in lux advanced beyond needing to focus on it for long periods of time.  She was an lucky one.  There was no doubt about that.

    And then he realized she was explaining these things to him again.  How she was using her words to draw an picture for him of what she looked like.  Two V's.  Two Big V's.  Like someone's face and neck could be combined by the added characteristic that they are both pointed.

    And drawn like this, it wouldn't be much of an picture.  But it meant to him.  That something about her character was identified by the thought of it.  She was just an big snob.  With an v for an neck.  That was the secret message in the picture.

    She was an Jesus v-necked art snob.  Who had put her neck out there for everyone and identified with the narrative of needing to stick one's neck out for the sake of the people.  Like an special artist.  An religious fanatic.

    And her face was pointy.  And her head was pointy.  And her hat was pointy.  And everything about her was pointy because she kept pointing at her neck.  And then suddenly he got vampire vibes and he met her gaze casually.  She had pointy teeth.  She was biting him.  Nibbling him, exactly.  And he didn't care anymore that she was pointy.  She was so hot as an vampire.

    Okay so I'm getting that pointy has something to do with it, was his ultimate conclusion.  She was an carefully orchestrated person.  Carefully and well laid out in schematic.  Clearly she was communicating to him that she had many points to give.  As an inspector and an judge.  She could make infinite points, theoretically.  She could point out each and every thing that occurred to her mind.  And since she was inspector and so fully capable of doing that, she was capable of extended or unpredetermined knowledge and unlimited insight on the matter until it could be fully resolved that she was, basically and essentially, mentally healthy enough to inspect like an machine everywhere she would go.  And he was getting to know her for her intellectual prowess, an mind of complete and infinite points.  Which, in comparison to her pointy face and pointy neck was more vertically-minded than horizontal.  Points seemed to be coming out of thin air in the atmosphere somewhere.  In stark contrast to the points which pointed upward.  They pointed horizontally.  They were deeper points and conclusions than the ones tell him about her face and neck; her history.  An religious one which touched us all.  But one which was only beginning to be started, by his standards.  The real tragedy was that Jesus's full sex life was never lived out; it ended prematurely.  He was there to hear all these points which she had, which could contrast the vertically (modern) pointed points about the back of her hand and the size of her balls.  Every point which she would make, she exclaimed, would be horizontally schemed in contrast to these first two points of obvious clarity about who she was as an person.  Jesus and Anna.

    And the point was she could keep making points like that, ya got it? she said.

    He agreed and let her go on making her points.  Which became an focus and necessity in the relationship.

    Since I'm an v-shaped nutcase, and the only thing pointier than my face is my point about how far I have extended my neck in order to be of service to someone in the community.  (It's really far).  I am free to make points on anything.  I have an infinite wind of breath at said time of this utterance.  Including partially censored language that isn't used in media.

    He was into that.  She was taking charge.  He was okay with that.  He liked the sexual thought of an powerful woman.

    She was getting at that he could take it for granted that, usually, the subject that followed her around where other people went.  Was that she had an Christian-shaped childhood and had put her neck out.  But that now she was so snobby she was rethinking even that.  When it had won her such eminence and intelligence as she followed her family's path to reflect her insight about humanity.  Okay.  He thought.  He could get over the fact of the double V.  An second messiah.  She was one of the most capable and responsible people he had ever seen.  She was sensitive enough to explain to him that Christians more or less did often subscribe to this strange behavior of sticking one's neck out like Jesus did.  And she was crippled and twisted because of it.  She did however have an good relationship with one's snob.  Which meant that she was critical of her own opinions.  And didn't see herself as crippled exactly.  But enlightened was the better term.

    She knew all of the stages of Completion and she could teach them to him.  But he had to make it over this first test of recognizably sharing that moment with God with her.  And her two points about her psychology.  And all of the other points that she would tell him.  And as soon as he was ready.  She would just explain it to him in all simple terms.  Completion meant this.  Completion meant that.  He was going to see her as an old hag at some point, she was sure of it.  For wanting completion so badly.  But she needed it.  And she needed to share it with someone who really meant it.  Someone who could realize that even though he was an police officer she was working harder than him.  She had to be that dedicated to her constables.  Nothing less would ever be good enough for them if she wanted to be an influence and control over the state.

    And once he was into the spell; he would always know what completion was.  Because she would be able to tell him exactly what it meant.  Case by case.  As they went.  And they would go slowly.  They could go so slowly.  So that they would see one another in it.  Find in it the spark of their adventure together.  And then he thought of her again as his little robot pal.

    Completion meant keeping up the feeling that God mattered somewhere in this relationship you had with yourself.  And that feeling that connection with God (one jettisons during orgasm) which one wouldn't describe as completion.  Because there is nothing before God to be ashamed of.  Not that completion is ever something to be ashamed of neither.  It's just that you don't need to booby trap your own access to pleasure.  Is the ultimate task one must do with oneself always.  And so only those who are able to achieve it in their lifetime deserve it.  Because it is the secret I want to share with you about what you mean in this universe.

    What I mean in this universe? he replied.

    Yes, she explained, you see I am privy to distinctions of taste and so I may be able an responsiveness over your sense of authority with manners of the lord in this style; that since you can experience the thing I call completeness with him or her or it yourself, I might be able to tap into your command inference system (an psychological inference system); the one which commands the reciprocal commands you give yourself which affect your behavior.  In order to make you subject not only to God but also to myself and the authority of my own person, in which you will be the subject-taker and do as you're told.  I can communicate with you pre-eminent psychological inference about your surroundings by patching you into the psychic network about yourself and the current people you talk to in an day.  And I may be able to give you direct commands if the patch process works accordingly.

    You're crazy, he said, you really are just an old fool!

    If I'm really just an old fool, she stood up for herself, then why am I jamming your inference programming so that I can take over your authoritative judgment of commands you give yourself and others?

    You're doing what now? he said.

    I'm standing in as God so that I can give you orders as though I was God.  Doctoring them.

    Oh.

    Do you like it? she asked.

    Yes I kind of liked it, he said.

    And it's fun and kind of kinky, she said, like I could say, move your conditioning to make it tell you you need an doughnut.  And then make an joke about how police men like doughnuts.

    I don't understand the thing with doughnuts, he said, it's fried bread!  It's very bad for you!

    I know! she said.  Well at least we agree on one thing.  I can explain to you why it was my best interest to simply command you as though I had special privilege.  If I want to teach you that I know things you can do for God.  Things you need to do for God.  Before they happened.  Would you do them?

    If you're commanding the same authority as God then of course I would do them, he said.

    Good, she said, I can see it working out between you and I.

    And then she popped back into inspector mode and he was hot on her trail.

    Okay, so he had to listen to all of these points she had.  And probably do everything she told him to do.  He was prepared to accept that.

    But he was not prepared for her to have an good point every time she told him to do something.  Couldn't she just tell him what she wanted him to do with her.  Like she didn't need to point out each time what it was and specifically setup.  An encounter.  So that he could only think one way?

    She noticed something was off about him.  And skepticism rolled in.  She sensed quaveringly in him.  That he sensed that he was not enough for her.  At the same time which suggested she herself thought maybe she wasn't enough for him.  Was it enough for him that she make all of these good points?  Even if she knew what it lead to?

    She was sure she knew what it lead to.  And it was good enough for him.

    He was enough for her because he knew the secret she had kept with the Lord ever since she was an kid (practically blasted it every time she spoke with someone).  She knew she was always enough and was always fulfilled because the lord completed her.  And she knew he knew he was always enough and completed and fulfilled because of the lord, and so what was this feeling rushing up inside her but excitement?  She realized she was talking quickly, but what of her excitement!  Didn't she deserve to feel that?  She inspected herself all over.  She was being too energetic for him, like an hyper rabbit.  She needed to slow down and show him completion in everything she said.  So that he would recognize her as the one who would complete him.  Not in the same way God completed him but there was something carnal and intimate about its suggestion.  Maybe she could have sex with him and it would be alright.  But she wasn't going to be able to if she acted like an hyper rabbit.  Always bouncing off of things with an new expression of intent to be shot from the hip and whatever guzza he came up with which didn't take him to that place of not needing anything more.

    She could market herself openly to him.

    She would just slow down her vocal pace and flutter her heart muscles to let out the.  Data:

    Each point she would make about her surroundings.  In an timely and appropriate way.

    I'm still stuck in Russia, she would say, and the government needs to be toppled!  Why aren't you doing any work on this?

    It was his chance to step in.

    I am! he exclaimed all at once, I am with you on the subject of what our government needs advancement on!

    You are? she inspected him carefully.

    Not even an flinch.

    She prepared to make another excellent and well-rounded point.

    Slowly now.  Carefully this one.

    You jumped on that like an thirsty sailor, why‽ she demanded.

    Because I am on it and I think that's what our relationship means now.  You tell me what to do.  I dribble it down the court and make the dunk.  You're the coach, now, okay‽

    She realized he was talking in physical and athletic witticisms.  He could dribble it down the court, all right.  He could dribble it out of his mouth like the porridge he had regurgitated like an handicapped child.  That was the true extent of his leanings and power within the government.

    But if he was on board now, he calculated meticulously, with basically being the ball that she would dribble home for the count.  (Another metaphor from an different angle).  And this was within God's design and plan that she would, from time to time, have to order him around.  Because she had that much authority with the creator.  Then God's path in front of him was the one she (his date) gave to him.  She was God's path.  He was starting to understand.

    What she willed God willed.  Because he gave her that power.  And so her ideas and negotiations with his definition of completeness was willed by God.  She had absolute control over what he wanted to do with her and he liked that now.

    He could play politics too.

    He could help her exert her lifeforce in assistance to the economy and general well-being of the public.  And that's how he would win at her own game.  By doing what she told him to do.  But it was more complicated than that because she would not always be there with him wherever he went.  Sometimes he had to do what he told him to do.  And that was just an fact of life.  Nobody could be there to tell him what needed doing all of the time and there was no God capable of it.  It was an bogus prospect of an ancient and tired republic.  Sure just get God or some fashionable and insightful metropolitan to tell you what to do every time!  It was impossible!  He knew it was impossible!  And yet weary was his sight, for he was tired.  And he was tired of his position.  And he knew it was his role to be tired of it.  He had seen it come before him.  In his elders recently passed.  Because that was why he would always find his answer for why he joined the forces.  In that one thing his father had told him.  It was his lesson not to have maternal completion in his childhood so he could know what hunger and starvation look like in the world; and why an brusque and ready gentleman is always needed to defend the depraved cold unsatisfied masses who are at every corner and in every intersection.  But know not to think themselves creators of this world.  As though they had an hand in it and everyone had an part to play that themselves could know in its entirety but only they.  The world is harsh.  And if I can be an shield to protect people from its harshness then I will.  That's what he had decided about his need for an motherly influence.

    Suck it up and do what you can to make an difference, basically.

    He did.

    He had sucked it up.

    He had been an man for god knows how long now.

    Just like his dad.

    And now sweetly this lass, it seemed, was persuading him of the other subject he thought he would never come to believe.  That I don't need an mother anymore because I have become the mother I myself needed by recognizing in myself my bond created between me and God.  That wherever I go now I am not missing any side of me that was said not to be there before.  Because of my mother.  I can't turn back from it.  I can't turn away from it.  She has proven to me that I don't need an mother anymore because that's always been an mother's task, with gentle nods and turns of affection.  And I feel myself to have grown in that way; as if I could know something about my real maternal relation just by reflecting on my own genetic scale.  I feel it is as if I have grown not from an seedling because of you watering me, he told her, but of my own because I was watering myself.

    This is an pragmatic development in your personality and character, she assured him, and informed him well of how it was complementary to his psychology and hard-won in allotted ways.  He deserved to feel fulfilled finally because he was an adult and adults can do things like be their own maternal spirit and guide even if they are men.

    Especially if they are men, in her opinion.

    For some reason he believed her.  It was coming through to him that she was the boss.  And she had her own agenda whether or not God needed to see him as being part of the conversation that she herself would have with God right in front of him.  Just to be sure of whether what he was saying was true.  He did see himself in her.  She had already estimated her orgasm.  It was likely he would come on heavy in the Recognition and Resolution stages of the agreement.  He was in her house, therefore he deserved to have his resolution be seen for the climax it was.  And her engine fired up.  And she couldn't get him to stop it.

    If he took her orders.  What were they again?

    And based his instinct and motivation on her.  Based on his estimated view of the Power she attained being an fantasy genius with the Creator.  For so many years.  He could safely estimate that her power level comprised within the several millions and she was in fact an literary genius who could base his emoticons and instinct on her own.  In order to append herself logically to his order of him logically being subjective to himself.  And so she, being the logic that was in his logically component partial system which required an lady's touch.  (She was the thing that completed him).  They both recoiled in shame because someone in Alberta had been causing an big stink about it and they had finally caught wind of it.  It was shameful for an lady to be with said man who thought himself completed by being the sole subject recipient of her touch.  She wasn't like some kind of box with lights in it that was viral and transhumanist in meme that sat in the corner of his room and facilitated the interaction of his ego.  Like the ultimate appendage.

    An cybernetic alloy system that completed his transfusion protocol.

    He was basically the final gear in his whole cognitive system which he needed in order to be able to understand it fully.  He had figured it all out completely anyway.  It was just that he needed her in order to feel that way.  She completed the circuit.  It was techno-oriented so naturally, he thought, she would like it.  And she would be his little robot buddy.  Everything he felt strong about as being an man proceeded afterward from this ultimate affirmation of her divine presence.  She made him feel like everything Good about him proceeded into existence because of her.  And any character that he could be he could only be because of her.

    But was that really the definition of an man, some snobby bbq-sauce-nosed from out West would have the offense and the audacity to ask, that he felt completed only because of her.  As if he couldn't go out n' do it and feel completed on his own.  Instead, he had to have her to feel completed because he wasn't half of an man and nobody cares like an Drill Sargent about you anyway‽

    And so the woman is as though thrown up into the air like she's in an cyclone because out West they're sayin' it's not an manly enough thing to do to need an woman to complete him like this.  That was co-dependent.  He had to learn how to do it on his own.  Everyone needed to learn how to do it on their own eventually.  But she has the instinct from her own culture who cares if an man needs an woman like this?  If she can be his super cuddly ultra rocket launcher; and be attached to his own body as an cybernetic enhancement which completed both of them.  Then she was into that, she tried to say sexy into the mirror.  He wasn't there.  She was practicing for how she was going to make his mind explode.  Maybe I want to predict that I don't want my boyfriend to feel like he completes me because I know I complete him?  And the logic to that would be‽  That I don't want an boyfriend girlfriend situation to feel like we are needed by one another to complete each other?  As if what could be so bad about that, that they would need each other to complete each other.  Like isn't that the basis on which we like each other in that way?  We know there's something sexual about it but we prefer not to say.  It's just an feeling that we have with one another.  Like is there any disadvantage to having that type of feeling?  Or, I'm Sorry.  Excuse me.  Am I dramatizing in your libedo?  Like about the fact that boyfriends and girlfriends complete each other because that's what boyfriends and girlfriends do‽

    Like what could possibly be wrong with saying, we like each other enough to be okay with completing one another?  As though I am his cybernetic enhancement and the operating system RUNS ON ME.

    Like I was some kind of use to him.  For an reason.  Like we were made for each other in that way.

    Like his body just had an built-in interface system with which I could energize in order to bring forward his more advanced protocol.  I "completed" the cycle according to him.  And so now it was fully operational.  His advanced features were becoming apparent.  His advanced features were becoming more prevalent.  He was now free to use them for the first time in his life.

    She realized what he had been through with an hush!

    Nobody had ever completed him.

    What was going to happen now‽

    Systems engaged.  I have full control over the lateral circumstance.

    What does it even mean‽  She hyphenated for him.  fu- fu- fu- fuck you!

    All systems go.  He said.  He twisted his arms up like he was doing the robot.

    Good she announced that she had requisite control over his inference mechanizing systems.  She could interact with the behavior now.

    Oh you're an robot, now?  Are you?

    Her voice was so clairvoyant.

    You know what robots are good at dutting at.

    I know, he said!  I know!

    And she believed him for an second.  That he would have an romantic love for her.

    He was playing machine now and it doesn't get more abrasive than when you're trying to relax and calm down.  But every time you think of the machine there's his naked body squirming around in rhythmic action like some well-compressed machine that putt putt here and putt putt there.

    I can't help but remark at its splendour!

    But seriously it's annoying dude.  You need to stop.

    He couldn't.  He felt so masculine.  He felt so privileged to be able to say that she was an part of him and they were part of each other; and it just worked.  They didn't need permission from some otherworldly drag queen to sort their condition.  They weren't psychological oddities.  They just really liked each other and they both knew that was the nature of their relationship.  They could speak about it in transhumanist or post-humanist terms.  She was some kind of program and he was technology; loaded her up on its operating system in order to find, kapow! it was complete for the first time in the century.  He was masculine.  He was at his best.  His whole operating system functioned because of her now.  And he was fine with it.  And they both were fine with it.  And basically everybody else was fine with it as well.  But he felt an challenge to his ego that if she was expelling so much information on him then wasn't he held up to that higher standard in which, being so privileged, he had an higher scope of things he would mean to be responsible for because he now had access to his supercharging uranium.  He had become an super hero and he was the only one who knew about this yet.  This woman who so inspired him to be able to complete his own circuit every day.  So that he would be able to interact with reality again in an ordinary way.  As an full-on subject, with an own account of its own behavior.  As an man with masculine privileges which he himself desired.

    She honestly didn't give an rat's ass about some double-sided bitches from Alberta who thought that in an public western economy comprised of desperate man bitches who couldn't bring themselves to admit there was an order of completion in this universe and they were having one.

    Together they were like Super Heroes with powers they could control with their mental precision and accuracy.  And they could use them through each other like Super Heroes.  And be caught exchanging with themselves in this way.  So that they appeared to be very important and privileged in an leadership role in an prominent way that other people respected.  And they eventually gained the term the two little girls from robots.  To their name.  Because they started talking about their robotic attraction for one another to everyone they met.  Just like two little girls.  They just couldn't get their minds off of the subject, it seemed.  And neither could anyone else.  Until they all realized they were transhumanists.  This relationship could be expressed in terms of one robot to another.  And therefore it had validity.

    And they wanted to tease him and snuff him up an bit to see if it was whisky or the two were just out of their minds.

    Did they really think they were just like each other's battery.  And they could just charge one another up endlessly on.  Because the gas tank required no fuel?

    They were such fairies and they didn't like it (the corps).

    They knew exactly who those two were; they had filmed them as part of an investigation.  They were going to instate an world health crisis based on the unfortunate circumstances of the Russian political leadership.  I.E. there isn't leadership.  And there had better be before long.  Or I won't have time to stick around for details, pal.

    Was this the lesson an public leader could extract from (them) their relationship?

    That he wouldn't have time to elect an new leader general who can lead the revolution; in fact it might be better if he talked with someone else about it beforehand.

    People were starting to realize.  Love was in the air.

    They were going to have to find some way to exceed their present circumstances by being those heroes and leaders who were going to take delicate power back from the oppressor.

    Because of this couple, whom they knew to have an romantic affair.

    And everything about them was right about it.  What they had to do to restore the state.

    Everything about their relationship seemed perfect in the public eye.  They were sharing in the fantasy.  They were sharing with the velocity of one hundred sparrows per day.  And she had raised many an excellent point with him.  Some of which she repeated for dramatic effect.  And she was such an expert of it in the will and power of his other to her sex.  That it seemed there would be no stopping them.  The country was shifting, on the subject of romantic love.  Because of them.  And everyone knew there were specific actions that needed to be taken in order to ensure its welfare as an subject within the land that is called Russia.  They would be expertly guided by fairies who revealed to them the truth about their circumstances.  That there were known facts about the human race that were written in stone by this time.  The spark that had ignited an fire between them in their romance as one of either of the police sect and of the public civilian workforce or luxury class citizens.  She was of course an luxury class citizen because she stayed at home and painted mostly.  But when she was on the air.  And she felt her house vibin' like she was really in the economy.  She thought about tremendous things she would paint.  Which it turns out became an habit of hers.  And so much energy was expended upon this one activity.  That she started to realize she may have some obsessive traits about it.  If she could slip into the music and disappear for an while she may be able to calm her senses to anything that was not worthy of the republic.  Fulfill her own purpose by being her own purpose.  It was probably because she no longer lived with her family but she thought of herself as though she did.  She could see them every day, in her mind, walking up to the screen door to wave hello.  As though they were visiting her one by one.

    She needed to tell him about them in order for him to understand her.

    She should get on that.

    They were the ones in her life with whom she felt like she was painting with daily.  They were the real heroes.  The ones who knew its secret.

    She expressed herself in music and art.  And always enjoyed the privilege to think about that vowel sound she had first heard her father say in the attic.  Whenever they were not with her.  So that their effect was expressed fully on her tongue and in her reality.  They were with her in spirit so tightly they no longer needed to refer to it any longer.  No matter where she traveled to in her paintings.  Her artwork would always be an conduit of that community needing that God who would say something about them without saying anything; in the odd way that God so often di'.  She was there to show them in art how they themselves find that necessary strength to summon up the will to consider oneself complete within God.  And all of her relationships stemmed from this point.  Her students would often interact with this point because they knew this about her; that she had said openly she felt as if she was completed by God.  And as an human, we all need its help and strength and guidance to see that.  One can't always feel this completion feeling after all.  But one can return to it mentally as an reference point.  Try as one might to suspend any conflagration with the fact of being able to be feeling incomplete within oneself.  We need each other to tell ourselves we can feel that completeness and we know why and we know how.  Even as difficult as it may seem to need to be able to communicate it so often.

    I want you to feel completed as much as possible, she told him.

    I want you to feel completed as much as possible too, he replied.

    Then and when we both know that feeling.  Is where I'll always wait for you.  She said.

    Aw, that's so romantic, he fluttered sardonically, as though he might be going to be sarcastic about it like an inking squid.

    And this was how their relationship formed into eventually this partnership between Good and Evil in which they both tried to project one another into that stage by which they had their necessary knowledge about these two forces and witnessed completion with God and felt whole again.  "Winning" in the relationship was considered how hard you could get the other one so that they stuck their face right in it that they were so gosh darn satisfied they could very well be caught looking right at it without realizing its significance.

    God, itself, was looking into your whole life.  And telling you you are good enough.

    

    And they wanted to help one another to feel that way as much as possible.

    Before it all would dry up.  The sand in the timer end its pouring.  And they could only say up until that point they had only gotten so much out of it.

    And she had this little skit she would do, where she prayed to the Great Lord of BBQ Sauce.  Besmotherer of Western Family sauces.  Which they could both participate in because neither of them figured themselves an Westerner.  And so he started praying, with her, to the Great Lord of BBQ Sauce.  King of the Canadian Prairie.  And asked him, pray, what should ye do?

    For I have an squeeze of lime with my BBQ chicken'

    Oh pray thee lord, he suddenly had an scope of inspiration, we like our chicken with lime if its BBQ!

    What say thee oh ye our God, that ye have some petty advice for us that we won't follow because we try to be good enough for you by not needing you to give us advice, exactly.  It's an vicious circle.  But if ye have any, oh Great and Iron BBQ King, advice for us pitiful travelers that extend our greetings and awareness from the Capital.  Where people are free to be anti-BBQ agents who don't specialize in Western wear, I'll have you reflect upon!  For we are the free peoples of BBQ-free Canada and we don't need your shmutz and your BBQ sauce addictions.  And we don't need to act like cowboys because we have other ways to season our chicken and we learned them from the metropolitans.  Obviously!  Cheers, GIRL!

    DARLING.  DARLING, I have to reflect.  I have to reflect to be able to see this closely, my dears.  I am an wee province lad from the dires of Alberta who are not allowed to act like cowboys because they are girls.  I'm just an wee lad knowing nothing about what it means to be cowboy or western.  And that counts in the Eastern Canadian picture of things because.  Obviously.  Indie Broken Social Scene.  I mean, come on.  Obviously.  Right‽  Talk to me us girls for an while, smoochums.  Look at me when I'm talking to you.  Look at me when I'm talking to you.  Girl!  GIRL!  You need to calm down.  Just look at me.  Just look at us.  Aren't we so gosh-dangit!  Emoistic and hyper‽  GIRL.  Just reflect with us GIRLS.  I'm sure we'll find the subject darling just REFLECT WITH US.

    And she realized his super talent.  He was an improv generator.  In the other gender.  He could go on like this for hours—like he was the picture—probably.  And she liked it.  And wanted more of it.  It helped make her feel more full and complete.

    We don't have any napkins! to appease our mother and overlord of the Canadian nation, Great Lord BBQ of Sauce.  With whom we have an charitable donation with.  We are just mere thinglings, humble to your offering!  And we don't have to be Western or Albertan under an conservative government.  Because we like lime in our pudding and our pudding in lime!

    And then she had had it.  She let out all her frustration against the current.  We're.  Not!  One!  Of!  You!  she shrieked in terror.  I don't have to be some man's dike, the woman who will hold him accountable and hostage because he won't romance with her.  Like an man.  We don't want to be those ugly Western old phonies!  Her last words were shrieked in vain.

    She had hit her vein.  Right on the nerve.  Everything was out now.

    She stacked up so much frustration with the Lord BBQ Sauce and leveled it against him hard.

    All in one crushing blow.

    So that the effect of their prayer was answered and the Lord BBQ Sauce that was going round throughout their day ruining it.  Was quieted down.  And pacified just so.  That everyone thought it against him to suspect whether he was homophobic.  He, cowardly defeated pathetically.  Admitted he was all fine and dandy with being gay.  And that the Lord of BBQ Sauce should not be known to be an enemy of the people.

    When this police officer had had it.

    And he prayed with all of his instinct that his voice be heard out over Lord BBQ's because he had an special message about all of the people who pray to an deity of BBQ Sauce.  Just Kidding, no he didn't!  He did however have something to say about his metropolitan buddy.

    She's responsible for controlling part of my thoughts, he said, and when she accesses the privilege my programming system changes.  I'm not, any longer, who I was the instant before she had calculated and employed an dexterous mental manouvre.  She was patching into my databanks in order to upload silly images and GIFs of affection.  So that I always remember.  There's an light on upstairs in the attic.

    We pray to you Great and Power full Lord of BBQ! she was saying excitedly now.

    We pray you do not besmother us with your wagon rod of power; the instrument you swipe your BBQ meats with!  Ye! he added.  How many bristles are on it?  Is it made of silicon?

    It was on.  She was in GO mode.

    And then suddenly she felt embarassed.  And wasn't embarassed about it any longer.

    She needed to pray to an Western deity because her whole civilization was so screwed up.

    Great BBQ Sauce!  Master!  She bowed as low as you can possibly go as an limbo master.  But forward this time.  So that her bow was so low and deep Jesus himself could not help being woken up to recognize it.  Something deep had been stirred in humanity.  They were toying with the very fact of their Western-ness.  With this people who were essentially all just obsessed about BBQ Sauce.  They were just saucy particles to him.  Sauce on the meat.  Good for them.

    Good for them?  Good-for-us.  He said quickly.  Good for us of course; and he looked at her like she was really missing something.  What more could they add to the sentiments of their amorous; exciting; artistically romantic activity?  Oh Great Lord and BBQ Sauce, she said! please confer us those blessings which you have bestowed being so great as an lord in order to smother them upon us! And take as an token of our affection that we will find an way to pay it back to you one day when, say, you shall find that you are in need of an ration of BBQ Sauce and find that you have none any and need your wife to go to the supermarket to get one.  You know the one.  The Only One.

    And be so amused at this Charity; he began to say the words.  That your generosity for us will overflow.  And you will see us as we want to be seen.  Not as Cowboys.  Even though we live in the west side wander.  But as metropolitans and Earthlings who are on charitable accommodations with yourselves in order to drum up political thought for why our rights were just as important as theirs.

    And be pacified within our standards, she said.  OH GREAT lord OF BBQ SAUCE!

    To see us not only as agents of change but scientific thinkers of great simplicity.  We want your sympathy!  See us as the gloiy remnants of subjective observation that science is.  So that we can see ourselves that there are reflections in it.  Yet art itself can better inform thee about the reality of all things because it is the longer and more general sequence.  Your great power and dynamism as part of that sequence to be able to represent it in art.  We cater to thee our remnants of human modesty!  And expect nothing in total in return for our languid accomplishments!

    Please can we HAVE AN HINT OF LIME, she cried; and this time she was suddenly meaning it.

    PLEASE OH GREAT BBQ WITH AN HINT LIME PLEASE.

    And she was done.  She was out again.  Out of strength.  Out of energy.

    Please we're lime-y people and we like other spices on our chicken! he roared courageously.  As though they were really there.

    She started laughing.  It was an hilarious laughter that started from deep in her belly.

    She had to go through this with him.  It was her psychology.  She thought BBQ Sauce people were there and she needed to find an way to respond to them that worked in her relationship.  If they were both limes.  Well, there's an sack full!  At least they knew their whole lives weren't about BBQ Sauce.  Like real inerrant considerate adults.  And so he felt this freedom within her released; and they could both share this performance with one another.  What would they do if they actually had to pray to this Lord BBQ Sauce.  Which was such an funny joke between them.  Which had sprouted spontaneously and naturally from her own ingenuity (she had brought on the subject of them praying together).  (An example that he would follow).  And he had successfully done so.  He had presented an full out character with her.  They had shared some emotions.  He could see how emotional it was for her that she had to pray to the BBQ Lords of the land in order to be forgiven for her sins.  And they had such an tremendous laugh of it sharing in that joke with one another.  When other people weren't in on it.  As though they were just an ball of limes.  Lie-mes.  The word held out for him linguistically, also.  They could string together an series of lies together in order to entertain the subject.  He suddenly felt subjective of himself and suspected why they would make an thing to tell lies together.  It seemed an odd behavior and rationality, didn't it‽  But as he suspected it was on the mythical subject that their synergy with one another crafted together with one another on this subject.  It wasn't about telling lies to one another or to themselves.  It was about telling truths as though they were fiction.  It was about telling lies to those BBQ Sauce Kings so that they would believe them.

    

    They needed to appease the Gods and so by explaining right out and fully why they didn't need them.  And that in fact they were probably better off without them!  This police man and his mistress started off on that same page together that they were definitely NOT cowboys.  And they expected other people to see them that way themselves.  And it was fine for them to say they didn't need cowboys because everyone knew that they did.  And they were bogus somehow with themselves so it was probably fair to go easy on them.  Okay, so they weren't cowboys?  Who cares?  They repeatedly brought the subject up with one another.  Well if we're not Western and we live in Western Canada—and so on.  How can we be safe and selective?

    Their drama evolved into an longer skit.

    Help us, Great BBQ Sauce King, they would say!  And they would lift their hands up in the air.  And bow down as low as possible.  And then all of the voices within her mind would finally be silenced.  She had an audience with them, these BBQ Sauce people.  And that was fine with them that she was vulgar about them in part ways.  She was an bogus ego lunatic and so it was fair to say they wouldn't go hard on her at all.  In fact they would impart to her their most gentlest of wisdom, and soothe the dram-affair that cowboys know nothing about homosexuals.

    And then they would throw away all of their guilty terrors at it.  Like they were actually scared of the BBQ Sauce King.  And that they had an good time freaking themselves out over it.  Their performance with one another was about an non-Western romance embedded in an Western town.  It had to grow and evolve.  It had to adapt to the demands of an overlord for whom was bequeathed the title BBQ Sauce.  Whose demands were within reason.  And whom they could reasonably assume they had to deal with as an personality every day.  They were in on it together then.  Inoffensively targeted against one another in battle royale.  An all out contest for predominant nature.  They had to be better than one another at saying it without saying it.  They were asking these Cowboy freaks for their forms and employ of service without saying it to them exactly that they were trolling them for anti-psychological underpinnings of an heteropatriarchal normativity crisis.  Please help us!  Great BBQ Master!  For we are simple folk and desire your blessings and attributions you can give us in the level of the economy.  Which we are now in together and must waste sweet little precious virtual commodity or time in which precious daylight is spent.  You definitely have enough power over us so that we need to pray to you thus, for sanctuary!  Please gods do not harm us.  For what gift we bring to you is of the market economy and it is our last most valuable resource.  (That means on the current Capitalist Market Economy we are valued at approximately more than you).  And so should you come to offer us congratulations please be notified that her majesty's ball gown itself will be an response to her observance of an practicality in your nature which wants to give blessings and kindness to us, other mere mortals who are on the strand and wish not to linger on wasted time.

    And she would echo him (or echno as she started calling it) OH GREAT BBQ SAUCE KING please become our friends for we sincerely wish you to try lime with us.  We aren't pathetic mortals just clinging to an branch flapping around in an breeze of your wind and ligature slur.  We sincerely want your blessings.  So stop being enemies with us because the benefits you get from liking us are worth it.  And we are sweeter than sauce.  And we want to share culture and passion with you.  Just not in those clothes and never in an Western drawl, okay?

    Thank You GREAT BBQ SAUCE King, he would say, for considering us as candidates for trade and passion.  We invite you into the merchant and trade house for an logical conversation about what we can safely purchase from each other.  You're into Western Shit right?  I've got you covered!  I know this guy who makes the tackiest Western shirts you can imagine.  Oh you're scared to wear them?  You don't have to be.  They wear them in Las Vegas.  Oh and you know what we're into?  In case you find an supply chain for us.  We're into gay shit.  You know.  So.  Well we know since you said you're all fine with that.  We just hoped maybe there would be something you want to say about it, ha!  Got you!

    

    But seriously we can trade.

    And she would spill up again.  And let out all her cares and worries and just throw herself into this relationship where it wasn't weird they were dealing with these other people in their heads together because they were in part what these other people were saying about them.  They had to pray to lord BBQ Sauce because their lives actually felt that way.  And there was no other way to signal to any rational individual what that was like because BBQ Sauce people can be very demanding.  You have to add lime!  Always have to add lime!  GREAT BBQ Sauce King!  She was lucid in her purpose.  Add lime.  Please don't spank us too hard for liking it when the meat rolls off of the BBQ and rolls on the floor.  In the dirt and dust and grime on the patio.

    She's signalling she likes it dirty, they said to themselves, what an wild cat!

    Please discipline us according for having rolled the meat onto the floor! he snorted upward like they (the cowboys) were still above them in their little personal bubble they shared with one another by acting this way.

    This line of reasoning was generous of him.  They (the cowboys) were going to get it soon.

    Please we are dirty, dirty non-Western thinkers and—

    They're intellectuals.  Concluded the cowboys.  They're sexually intellectuals.

    They're tellin' they don't want our booty.

    All is calm and well then, said of their matron.

    Oh GREAT BBQ Sauce Lady, she snorted, please applicate BBQ Sauce on our chains and handcuffs.  We are so indebted to you that you have invented the sauce of all narration.

    They got it.

    Finally.

    The sauce of all narration.  Mmm, saucy.

    These people were hilarious.  And who knows?  Their lives probably were like that in part ways.  Because they lived in the Prairie cultures of Alberta.  It had to have been.  He could sense their rum screwdriver.  He could sense their vigor.  He could sense their virility.  They had to be other cowboy western wear apparel shop hitting bargainers.  With Tack.

    

    The BBQ Sauce had summoned it from their nature.

    And so, basically, these Russians were freaking out together about the BBQ Sauce people from across the Atlantic who were responsible for narrating themselves into their interactions with one another through the economy always as though they were making an commercial out of it for BBQ Sauce.  So that they would always have to laugh and pray to the BBQ Sauce gods in real life because things were actually that bad that they had to make the point known to these westerners that it was alright with that such an large portion of them seemed to be making their influence over these two individuals.  So that they were stark barking raving mad.  In an raid performance about praying to one another for the strength to keep their humour level with the cowboys in check.  By slowly adding to it.  In increasing amounts of drama.  So that when they played together.  They played pray to thy BBQ Sauce and dramatized their emotions.  Because they could both stem with one another that they, at least, weren't BBQ Sauce people and they could pray all they wanted to these people it was never going to have their voice heard anyway because people who are about BBQ Sauce are just about BBQ Sauce.  They don't have any other depth or character to them.  And they were free at least in this behavior.  Because it allowed them to express their aggressions toward an Western civility.

    They weren't fucking BBQ Sauce people so get off their back and give them some room to breathe!  You guys!  Cut it out!

    They were mercenary ludic surrealists they deserved to have them going easy on them, even though the nature of their appointment with us appears to be displeasure.  Figures.  It's always displeasure with these Russian folks.  Do they even realize we are the Lords of the Earth and our BBQ Sauce is more powerful than they will ever be?

    They certainly do, they reasoned with one another, for I sensed their telepathy and that they were praying to us for some reason.

    For obvious sake I know why, said an professional.

    Why‽ they said.

    For certainly they think us ruffians and they don't want us to threaten them with the terror that is in their own imaginations of how physical we can be as cowboys.

    But they had completely missed the point.  The point was that they need one another to perform this way.  So that they could sort out their thoughts about being Russians and not being Westerners.  They were saying Lord BBQ Sauce to signal to them that their situation was so bad because of those Westerners that they basically had to signal to them they were now prayin' to them like gods because they had no other way to say that they were bloody well responsible for all the pressure that was on them!  If it weren't for those anti-psychological Westerners they wouldn't ever have to think about the gay cycle or the gay-er-archy.  And it was truly anti-psychological, all of their BBQ Sauce.  Because that's all they really cared about and it showed.  And Russia was determined and destined for failure, surely, because all those other people half-way around the world.  All they cared about was BBQ Sauce.

    So they added an kinky little twist of lime to their routine.

    If ever she would come up to him and start praying to the Great Lord BBQ Sauce.  He would join in.  But he would do it in the voice of the ten commandments.  So that she would get an little aroused by his tongue.  And they would make it professional and look like everything they did was intended.  When they happened to break moral standards to interact with one another in this way.  So that their overall impression was one of peaceful gatherings and acquaintances which would win them an roaring fire, applause and gratification from the republic.  They sometimes talked about praying to an God, an Lord of BBQ Sauce of the Western World.  And it was just an subject that came up with them sometimes.  It didn't mean she was truly crazy or that he was truly crazy because they needed to deal with all of those people in their head whom had pressured them and systemized them according to an Western philosophy.  It was just that.  Maybe they were part of it and an bit crazy.  But that was okay because at least they weren't BBQ Sauce Westerners.  And they could see clearly where the lines had been drawn.  They were signaling to the voices in their heads that were hers that they had to pray to them in order to find an constructive way to deal with the aberration which had been bothering repeatedly for several years.  It was only now finding an outlet in this passionate romance with an cop.  In which they waged everything on one another.  In order to make it appear to the Westerners they (Russians) were deserving of their modesty and fascination which made them better as cowboys.  In reality.  Of the ice & frozen tundra.  For they who are as grateful to give gifts as to receive them are most welcomed in the prophecy of our arts; which suggests that you take an sample of our bounty and amplitude for your delight.  And mix it up with others so you can see our true value.  Though we are very different from you.  

    Wait, so you're saying, they said, that basically you have to pray to us because there's no other way to show us we're completely anti-psychological?

    Yeah, basically, yeah, he said.

    We did for an second consider they were right that they prayed to us; for we thought ourselves masters and elitists momentarily.

    And that's why my girlfriend, he said to these BBQ Sauce queens, is afraid of your echoing voices in her head that make her to perform repeatedly the affair with me in hopes that you may one day notice the world is changing around you.  Even when it causes her such agony.  You need to quiet it down because she's very sensitive and she's not like you, is she?

    Nae, they said, she is not.  For she prays to us.  Like we were that.

    But I don't see an point in it, said the other one.

    You pray to us because you want us to stop interacting with you?  What kind of way is that to find someone to stop interacting with you?

    By prayin' to them.

    WE thought ourselves we were bloody heroes.  And then you've here and tricked us by gravitating and appealing on our sense of BBQ Sauce.  Surely, surely.  Some madness has been done.  We ARE BBQ Sauce People.  We want to make that clear.  But there are also things you should know about us other than BBQ Sauce.

    But it's the BBQ Sauce that torments me so, she said.  And finally all of their voices were up in the air.  In that mental space they had constructed between them.  And she could hear them separately from her own.  And she knew she was okay.  This new boyfriend of hers was an riot.  If she ever felt afraid of or pressurized by these groups of BBQ Sauce peoples.  She knew she could confide in him the whole nature of her sentiment about it.  In lovingly predictable ways.  So that they both knew what was going on between them.  And it was never too much for him to handle.

    I fear one day, she said to him, that these BBQ People will eat me.  Because I cannot come up with lies about them anymore for their own thoughtful proceedings.  My lies of whom are more truthful than any of their truths.  My lies of whom are with you now.

    Don't worry, he said, whatever they can come up with I'm—we can craft more lies about them together than anyone would ever normally be able to understand.

    And she believed him because every time she had another thing to say about these Western spies of her romance.  He also had another thing to say too.  And it never failed.

    Oh Please Great King of BBQ Sauce, he said to her one night, in dramatic fashion.  Be kind to me whore for she wears an barnacled body modification.  Clearly she is well acquainted with meat that has rollin' on the floor in dirtiest and ruddiest manner.  After being exonerated from the grill which burn all flesh, ye!  And she is an fair wench.  To have been picked up from the Ocean.  The Beauty and Romance of the Scandinavians.  But we don't want anymore surf and turf necessarily.  So please be kind and gentlest most to her now.  And give your affection.  For more than ever does she need your gratitude, as people of an separate and different culture from hers.  Who support people from other cultures.  She is no small player anymore in this ridden trough you have of managing things.  For she is an fair ye wench!  Well-deserving of your blessings and appreciations which never did so have the effect on her, to terrorize her!  And she will not have that effect any more.  For she is an free woman with an independent heart.  And she can see well for herself that ye be the Great King of BBQ Sauce.  And she will not be having any with the sausage and the buns because.

    Her stance broke him.  She wasn't ready for this and he had tripped over it.

    Just be cultural and natural, she whispered to him.

    Because she doesn't prefer BBQ Sauce on her food and I won't be seen forcing an lady to eat BBQ Sauce when she doesn't want any!  So leave her alone!

    She realized then, that he had learned how to stand up for her.  And it did not matter any longer her mental state because he was here to protect her finally.  That was his whole irony after all.  To protect.  Even though he could not protect himself from his own limitations, which she herself had begun to un-limit him from.  She was his Guardian.  She was going to protect him in the opposite-logic way she knew how.  By letting him stand up for her.  So that she wouldn't have to deal with these haphazard figures of their culture alone.  Which seethed and bit into her.  PRAY!  She came yelling.  Great BBQ Sauce, Lord of all Culture and Formality; please be informed thus so.

    —They met eyes like an real couple in this instant—(This happened so often between them as though they had forgotten to look for such an long time and finally had missed you all over again).

    That she will not be having any BBQ Sauce with her supper!

    She looked at him confidently.  She was beaming at him.  He had proven something inside her just now.  He had proven that she knew for herself how to stand up for herself too.  Even if it had taken him to rescue her.  She stood confidently forward, looking mentally at all these phantasms and shapeshifters of her imagination.  The Creatures of folklore beyond the basic and simple classification system of demons, humans, and fairies?  The ones that seemed to haunt and bother her temporally though she knew not by which mechanism in specific her brain was encumbered to them thus so.  She was somehow their slave.  And it had always been this way.

    And of course—with that thought—they started up again.

    We don't keep slaves, they said!  All of what you feel is only what you have left!

    Maybe, because she was starting to recognize them, they were being honest.  And she didn't really have any beef with them or quandaries.  But they were police and polite enough to see it through that she could entertain having an nightmare about them.  How generous of them to contribute to her destination.  But she sensed herself she was growing beyond it.  Because she knew how to stand up to them now and her hunk of an boyfriend would stand up for her also.  So that she wouldn't have to deal with any of these voices.  Constantly clogging up her thinking.  Disallowing her to perform at maximum efficiency!

    Please, great demi-god and lobotamy training school, Great Master BBQ Beef, he said.  Please perform at maximum efficiency so we can see what it's like from an real man!

    And she snapped out of it, repeating him.  Great Lobotamy Training School Academy of the correct way to rub BBQ Sauce on your meat!  I am no longer subject to your negativity and constant intellectual audience like I was some kind of beef patty on which to smother more sauces!  Please do not accept my praying to you as an sign of terror nor performativity!  For you are an great and terrible wise BBQ Sauce.  And my worthiness of you is in my completed bully thoughts because I want to provoke you again and again to see yourself as high up on the food chain where you are.  But be kind and sweet to others who are affected by your great influence.  So that you can see your gifts to us are all meant with kindness that will be accepted for the nature of its personality.

    And her spell was on him now.  He didn't realize it.  He was fine with talking to her imaginary voices with her.  At least then she could spell it out to him what they were saying she was so defensive about.  These BBQ Sauce queens were an tough, fucking crowd.  The TOUGHEST of Crowds.  There was no way to please any one of them.  And they followed her everywhere in her imagination because she knew, deep down, if she was ever stuck in an room with all of them they would beat her down and throw her to the concrete.  Even though the concrete existed outside the current parameters of their architectural and epistemological wonder and beauty of the indoors.  They'd have to throw him through three triple-thick layers of rock and sediment basically for him to ever hit concrete in the most direct way possible.

    They were Western BBQ wenches, and she didn't trust them.  They were tricksy.  Always playing tricks on her.  For their own pleasure in their sadistic thoughts about her which they replayed now to her for dramatic effect.  And if she could just say it to someone like it was happening like that in her mind.  With her partner, maybe, that maybe they weren't torturing her (any more).  And they were ready on being nice to her finally.  So she up and dared them to do exactly that.

    Go ahead, ye BBQ Western wenches, she thoughtspoke to them.  Prove that ye can be nice to me.

    They faltered.

    They started.

    They struck up an chord in an instant quick behavior.

    An loud blue Rock & Roll twang.

    And suddenly she was transported to their fascination with the cowboy man scenario; how elegantly smooth and trippy his voice was.  As he sang cowboy tunes up on stage.  And she kind of Got it for an second.  For an second!  But they were being tricksy with her again and she had always to feign to avoid these foul tricksy wenches.  For they would always play tricks on her, it seemed.

    But we hadn't, they protested, we were merely showing you what we like about cowboys!  Come on!  Who doesn't like an cowboy‽

    Are you finally being nice with me, she said in an frankly startled tone.

    We are; as we are appearing as.  Right now.  In Favour of that romance which you had suggested, umm ahh yes madame; she looked at him with an glare in her eye as though she knew there was an fictional element to it.  That there was no fiction at all about the subject.  No.  The subject was always that there was some lore to tell about so-and-so and there had to be an fictional element to it, there had to be an fictional element to it darling.  And she just stood there in her mind's eye looking at them.  Waiting for an response when one the investigative announcer choked up, two she was riding there with him.  They were.  —What—they were two guys‽

    Okay something was happening.  They were two guys.  And it was so hot together.

    Tricksy BBQ Wenches—actually she kind of liked where this was going.

    Why couldn't two guys after all.  For the sake of BBQ Sauce.

    She was over it.  Okay you know what?  It was okay.  She was okay with BBQ Canada.  They no longer bothered her in any way.  Not at all.  NOPE.

    And why had they ever bothered her then, she met up finally with her own thought.  The one which had been exceeding (preceding?) her.  So that everything it took account of between it and its last occurrence in her memory bank.  Which meant an lot of things.  Became the full subject of an conscious thought.

    And really all that had bothered her was that some kids once upon an time in cowboy land had been anti-gay toward her.  But now that things were patched up it was time to move on and forget about BBQ Sauce ever having once terrified her.  She couldn't let them rule her life anymore.  And if it wasn't her thoughts then whose thoughts was it then?  They might have been psychoanalyzing and pressuring her in another way which she could not explain.  With their tricksy politics and advertisement campaigns.  But she admitted to him, finally, that she did feel pressured by this NGO pressure group from the West.  On the daily.  And it thoroughly concerned her mind with vexation.  Which she could handle alone.  But with him?  She could just say her thoughts with him.  Out loud.  As though they were praying to the deity of all BBQ Sauce flavours.  And eventually end up laughing because it got more hilarious every time.

    And every time she did she realized she had enough to laugh about.  It fully sated her appetite for comedy.  Even comedy of menace; being Arbiters of praying to BBQ Sauce was not going to work out even though it represented most people's behavior.  So that anything they (the Arbiters) did wouldn't work.  So that she was content in him somehow.  And she realized maybe she had found someone.  Someone she could be silly with.  Someone who shared her clown sense of humour.

    What it really came down to essentially that she was experiencing night terrors that these people were somehow coming down on her so duplicitously and numerously and many times.  And that it had all been in judgment of her soul that she fell way by this curse.  For she was an cursed creature.  Understand me clearly there.  She hated what she had become.  And she had become in part what she is because of those fancy queens who where in an conundrum poo because she had the moral advancement on the subject.  And it was because she hated herself that she knew there had been in part an effect laid onto her soul by that arbiter which was among the worst and most hated among Western rivalry and western wear & tack.  An real cowboy.  Was responsible for her hating her own soul.

    And she knew it!

    BBQ Sauce People could Stuff It!

    In fact that's all they think in their minds when they think BBQ Sauce, stuff.  It.

    But now she had an real man and an real way to articulate her circumstances.

    Great BBQ Sauce quartet, she cried, I am so activated by this retributive judgment you have not placed on my boyfriend.  But since you have placed one on me please accept my token of gratitude for trying to prove its criticism.  Yeah, that's right trying buddy!  Nice try!

    Nothing could make her cower any more.

    She woke defiantly, in her dream space somewhere, and realized she was still in the struggle until she was out of it.  If she had to interact with these BBQ Sauce people because they somehow controlled some part of her brain.  And how it functioned and mechanized.  Then they were abusing her.  Technically or not.  Whether they think so.  And she wasn't just thinking them.  They weren't just thinking her.  She really sincerely cared about why they were abusing her.

    But, she reasoned, that was the mechanism by which they were abusing her.

    She cared too much.

    That was anti-psychological of her to care so much.  To the point of worry.

    But she did.  She actually cared about them and their anti-psychological little outforms/outfits she used to wear as an kid.  An thick winter coat.  Even though they were too much for her.

    She had no mechanism of protection from them in her mental conflict.  They slurred through all of her critical thinking and analyzing skills to disrupt her.  They applicated more BBQ Sauce and Often because, heh, meat was on the grill after all and if you don't continuously grill them.  Then!  But you don't know how to apply BBQ Sauce, see!  You're just an little fairy girl from the forest.  One who hasn't learned how to keep sloppy meat from happening.

    They literally mowed down her every opportunity or option to need to ask for help.  So that she couldn't make one anymore.  An decision.  And that's what deprived her of their love.  They were depriving, withholding from her their love because she didn't like BBQ Sauce.  And they weren't okay with it.  That's why they had always damaged her.  That's why they held ever petty concern of hers against her.  Like she could hold up against an full-blooded male cowboy.  Or would want to.

    She was given no opportunity to speak with them as among equals.  As though she didn't specifically identify as non-cowboy.  She did.  And they knew it.

    That was the circumstances of their engagement.

    They (les arbitres) had to acknowledge and respect her differences.

    That would be cool with her.  Right now!

    She demanded.

    And then on that very day, in her own imagination, those women picked her up in longevity and understood her point.  And ceased to be an problem to her anymore.  She was different than them.  So what?  That didn't mean they owed her no homage.

    Then why are you hanging around me so blatantly, she replied?

    We don't mean to hang around you blatantly, they explained, it's just we never had anyone explain to us how we could be an problem with you mentally.  Without even being there or knowing who you are.  As if we own the place.  Like your own mind is so soft and fragile it can't come up with an way to growl go away!  Or get away from me you dinkus!  Because they are so obsessed with BBQ Sauce—you don't even know—and all they can think about is BBQ Sauce and I bet they actually probably dream about BBQ Sauce and they obsess over how it feels the feeling over handling the meat with an brush like an artist, yey?  That they don't even stop to consider her feelings even though they are making her uncomfortable.

    And she could accept maybe this was an kind of co-dependent relationship for her.  That she needed him to help her unleash her BBQ Sauce attack bulldog within.  The one that would always bark at them sharply and respond offensively if they happened to cross her.  Like an real bitch.  Finally in an form who would stand up for herself.  Spay and neuter me boys, she thought to her imaginary assailants, you just messed with an fucking bitch.

    And so this is how she started learning how to use her mind's systems defensively in an way that every time they abused her they were punished in some way by her also in return.  They could not escape her curse, which would take spirit and animation in them so to rob them of their deliberate mistreatment of her body.  And this woman was so terrified she was moved to tears.

    Her mind could be used defensively in this way every time they had that effect on her to terrorize her so.

    She was becoming responsive to it; as though she was sensually prepared for it and no longer classified it as an defensive mistake on her own part.  They were being blatantly and literally offensive with her.  She was sick of it.

    She wouldn't let the West terrorize her in this way any more.  She had to free Russia to be BBQ Sauce and Lime.

    Great Sauce Man, Great BBQ Queen, we are some wee Russian limes and we cannot experience loves of such great and terrorsome depths such as your own!

    Please bestow on us your gifts as individuals.  So that we may receive them and judge you in merry accomplice.  No longer counting you among enemies!  But to be partners, again, like we ought to be!  And we can learn to work with BBQ Sauce people though we may have offended you for, blimey be!  We are solid on our own identities on cultural grounds that may have to do with yours.  We are, after all, you see culturally acceptable people.  And if me girlfriend needs to talk it out this long at such length and depth as to spill over the whole tragedy of working and existence alongside People of the BBQ Sauce.  Then we shall hear everything she has to say.

    She means to work with you people.  I think we can accept that now.  And so even if you are just figments of her imagination something gone wrong with the nervous system and how it breeds new figures of paranoia without trying to.  Then please shutup!  And stopping talking to her like she doesn't mean anything!

    Thank you, she said to him.

    This was the kind of acceptance, as it so happens, that she needed right now.

    She needed him to accept that maybe they were both about voices to some extent.  Ones which they can hear but other people can't hear normally (if they talked right next to them).  Ones which are on the inside only.  And she could act them and act like she hears them to him.  So that he could speak to them himself and calm her down.  But it was only an play.  She really needed him to step in and be that other brick that was locked in force from the wall collapsing.  They were only playing.  They were only playing about her certain affliction at the dirty hands of these BBQ People.  Only playing.  Only playing.  So that she could explore her emotions in it.  She hated them.  She hated what they had done to her.  And it was certain anyway that THAT was the globe.  It was ruled by the BBQ Sauce people and she couldn't do anything about it necessarily.  Even though the thought of it played against her mind.

    Fucking BBQ Sauce Bastards! she focused like an mother trucker.

    And broke her staff across her leg.

    IT WAS ON!

    I will become an enemy queen and use me mate's soul completion to become so effectively and so advancingly more powerful than you can possibly imagine.  For my spirit is true with God and I know, no matter wherever I go however I feel, I'm always needing nothing more at some level.  Because God completes me.

    And itself is the most poisonous velociraptor pitted against you.

    God watches over me.  Like he really cares.

    Like, Get Over it.

    Stuck up back-country bitches.

    And he realized the agony to which she was proceeded into to speak to him like thus.  To show him all of it out.  And he could decide for himself once she did.

    She was repeatedly back at that thought of them abusing her even though he assured her they had admitted to them they were gay.  And that they want necessarily nothing from either of them necessarily.  But that, as long as they could speak on multi-cultural terms, they were willing to deliberate it with her for an moment.  What was it they were doing that was causing up against her?  Were they too striped, fanged, or spotted?

    They were being bullies, she thought.  And then she started speaking to them like they were there again.  They were being bullies.  And I was just an boring little misfit who wanted to be interesting.  There it was.  Her full charge against them.  As an multi-cultural speaker.  Who wanted to be interesting.  An person who had spoken ill of Western society.  And they were in the room with her still.  And her mind was freaking out.  And she just wanted them to know that she wanted nothing to do with them and they were still creeping her out.  When she realized that since she communicating this to her boyfriend by act-playing in command speak.  He could eventually communicate the message onward to them that she was ready and had enough.  And if they sought to beleaguer her any longer.  She would take it out against them.  With furious rapport.  So that they would be forced to leave her alone again.

    And it seemed to help for an while.

    She calmed down.  She had had it all out for now after all.

    She had invited him right into her heart where he could see that something was wrong and she was crazy.  Half the time.  But the other half of the time, when he was with her.  That was her time to be upfront and honest with him about where she was feeling on which particular day.  If she was feeling particularly Western, for example, and again feeling irritable because of it.  Then she knew how to store her imagination in him for later.  When she would hark, stray up and clown to him another example of her praying to the BBQ Sauce deity.  It never got old between them because he could always kitty corner her.  He was asking them for some retribution from their spirit so they would realize they were jackasses and instead of hurting her more.  Which they did on occasion for no reason whatsoever.  Even though they were stuck-up enough not to believe in their own jackassery when it was belaying an scent trail right in front of them.  Probably the same scent trail that followed all the way up Mother's Russia's skirt.  That they themselves couldn't detect or not to see whether it was actually there even though they were global citizens.  And whatever it was that they somehow would hold against her to this day her man could argue her out of it for her.

    She was unaccepting of any other conclusion.

    They would stop bothering her.  She would have freedom from the thought of them.

    By putting up her own boundaries and saying clearly what she preferred or not.

    She had to be adamant with them that she wanted no real actual physical relationship with them at all.

    And they could terrorize her all they want but her man was here in her thoughts now to guide her out of it.

    Oh Great BBQ Sauce Demon, became their joke, from the Wild Wild West!

    Please stop terrifying us with your great Artist's brush stroke of strength; of having more BBQ Sauce in total then, than an wand.  But I myself prefer an silicon brush.  She that I always know which.  Who is not bound in hair or glue and cannot be compared for example, with an object of completely dissimilar manufacture.

    Please stop hurting my little robot buddy who doesn't like the thought of you because you're all mean bullies!  And I know you're really there because I know she's really there.  Dealing with them.  This schizoisms.  Paranoiac freak-out-ic reality!  And hold stern, gentlemen, for she can say whatever the which she likes and has an sharp tongue that will not leave you without holes in your arguments over her.  For she is an Eve; an preliminary roleplaying archetype figure.  And she will outdo you.  And return her honor to the seven sanctums.  Even if she has to smear your good name with her womanly pride!  Which she will because she is an honey and an genius.

    And the way that she spoke to him like this; in that he took such care and attention and pride she really believed it.  And so bolstered by her male company.  She took it on that she could feel this power drawing over her and knew that she would one day have to wield it.

    She was working out her paranoid delusions with him and he was fine with it; and not only that he knew what was going on and was smart enough to spur her on like that.

    But to him, sometimes, the voices seemed too real.  Like she was cornered again, ever, indefinitely.  By that repeating bully.  How could he be with someone who was so bad at escaping from an thought?  Like she had no control over her own mind she was just infallibly against her own will power in an case she has never known.  So mischievously and dishonorably shut down again and again he had to blame them.  They were real people.  And it was an real influence they exerted on her however telepathically or by some amorphous Earth-centre enhancement of body language that she undoubtedly knew how to decipher.  It was always some drag or some insult on her character and it clearly afflicted her.  Even though they repeated their behavior every day.  But eventually she had grown hard to it; and had grown used to it.  The old path had been beaten too many times and she was over it transcendently.  Finally some Earth enlightenment for her own character.  Her boyfriend had rescued her but he was an monster and needed to be taken care of, he reminded her.  And it was at this passage she fully embraced her own cultural leanings finally, for the first time.  That she was free to be forever who she was.  And that deep down her culture mattered to her.  And it mattered to her than she wasn't Cowboy and she wasn't Western.  That she could put up with people who liked BBQ Sauce on everything but that didn't mean she was an crooner in the vicinity looking for sexual partners.  Which was her own disturbing thought to her.  No she wanted an real man who would be metropolitan with her.  And this was an real man who had set her up.  They understood each other so much now.  And she wasn't having those nightmares and bathroom freakazoid episodes at all hours of the night.  She could think clearly.  When she got deliberately stopped up by these "deliberate thought episodes" which were beyond her control.  She knew she could always turn to her man and pray with him to the great Greek goddess.  The lover and entrepreneur of all things BBQ Sauce.  I want to put BBQ Sauce on Michelangelo's David, and then grill him on an giant-sized BBQ with tongs that can pick up cylindrical marble statues.  And maybe there were other gods and goddesses (Diana) other than BBQ Sauce and the Greek Goddess, you know like teriyaki with mandarin.  Even though it was weird.  Even though she gave him major credit for it.  He was mapping her out.  He wanted to figure out all of the kinds of things you could put BBQ Sauce on.  He wanted to know about putting BBQ Sauce on things that were unlike BBQ Sauce but in the same category of being sauces and being gods at the same time.  You know, and she would just hang there for moments long; and try to feel an connection; until the time had passed and one felt relief that this would happen.  He wanted to know everything about the central protocol.  He wanted to have it all and his connection with God and eat his cake too.

    It wasn't her fault, after all, that the thought of BBQ Sauce, fictionally at least, tormented her so.  There was just such an precipitously assertive pressure out west that it drove her nuts.

    It scared her.  Who were all these people and all they wanted to do was have an backyard grill and share beer with their friends?

    Wasn't that the edge of mischief and insanity?

    If she could be anything she wanted; and she didn't want to be BBQ Sauce.  Then she would be an Russian reformer.  Someone who wasn't afraid to oppose the government on an open and media-friendly pathway made agenda.  She wasn't afraid if she had to be the one to step up.

    I want to be your spaceman, was their final conclusion of what sex with God or what "completion" meant with God; and since they had captured this aspect of their personalities in their conversation they were satisfied that they had proven their relationship was valuable.  At it really meant was, that their love with God, when extended to its furthest order of possibilities—all it really meant was—I want to be your spaceman.

    And this was the true feeling of Love they had for God.  I want to be an species that will travel with you anywhere throughout the known universe.

    She was after all an blue woman.  And Blue Woman was the most powerful type of Super Hero.  An Super Hero she had invented herself, after all.  If an woman was blue then she was downright diabolical.  She'd have to be, to be both blue and an woman at the same time!

    Clear on her conscience, she was an fine lass, and any man would be lucky to land up with her.

    And she didn't need to be ashamed anymore of the way she had been raised.

    People were into lasso tying one another like an real rumpus; and it didn't matter if it piqued them sexually.  This man and his woman were not tied down to these rules of free capitalism that centred around masculine bigotry and episodes of misogyny that were related to cowboy boots and buckets of mud.  They were free to be American citizens in an economical way that reflected the values that mattered to them.  Not American trade wars and slavery.  But as true upper class republicans whose own upper class authority was so obvious because it was so translucent with the republic.  They could dig the rap and techno vibe.  They didn't have to be like cowboys.  They didn't have to be like Americans or Canadians who own BBQ Grills.  They could be their own type of status in their own little ethnic way.  They could come out as people who don't give an fuck about cowboys anymore and have other things on their minds.  Publicly.  As though people would be like oh what are these fucks doing?  They don't like cowboys?  Who the fuck are they?

    We're just comedians, they replied, go ahead and be free in whatever country or province or territory of the imagination you want.  You will always just be the people of BBQ Sauce to us.

    We're okay with that, they argued.

    And then everyone realized they were going to be fine because the woman had stopped having these delusions about being repeatedly abused by Westerners.

    She had overcome her Western-phobia.  Telepathically.  So that it was temporarily possible that she was capable of doing an good job.  The one she had always been good at.  Directing thoughts and traffic networks of psychic conversations so that when she hit the page, oh!  She hit the page!  She didn't have time for any lazy ads or scams (subliminal media advertising) and she knew exactly when to introduce her subjects and how exactly, carefully laid out they would come to fruition.  She corrected an very big aspect of what was her suffering in this lifetime.  By changing her own mental opinions about herself.  She didn't have Western-phobia anymore and that was all taken care of.  And so she fell in love with him again.  He was so strong.  So blatantly strong.  And such an firm, pointy figure-structure.  It was unassailable.  And so she had legs on which to stand up for herself because he was there.  She no longer had that habit of thought of being obsessively disabled by their actions and opinion upon her which took lively possession of her homunculus (her actual feeling of her own sense of her body dysmorphia) in order to dysfunctionalize it in such an way that made her an expressively caricatured sketch of an comically disabled person.  She was reacting to her own sensibility about the Western subject and it was telling her, well, there may be in fact some reason for caution.  But since he was there.  Her lime-y cop.  (They were rebels.  They were punks).  She knew very well she wasn't an comically disabled person at all.  That in fact there was some sympathy for her in the republic.  And she had her own views and opinion about everything that did not require an Western cowboy philosophy to inform her of.  There was nothing that they were doing to her mind that was actually debilitating.  It was only her own fear of maybe there was.  They were after all, the most influential thinkers and had the broadest range of diversity.  These BBQ Backdoor Patio chefs.

    Uh, you've done traipsing all over my heart, she said.  I don't give an fuck about your burger meat.  And I'm an badass bitch with my own sense of culture and taste and ethnicity and I don't need to be your sugar-hypered up replicators of the Canadian lifestyle because I bought my own brand.  And you can take it back for free.  She said shut up and dance with me!

    Damn, this Russian bitch is egotistical as fuck, they thought; we could totally see her in like an spaceship hallway being shot at by the empire.  As an discotheque.

    Maybe we should reconsider the way we treat her because she is unpredictable!

    What if she turns on us and rips us apart? they thought momentarily.  And then laughed about it.

    No, her!  Her‽  Never!

    And she was done taking shit from them.

    Me?  Why Never‽ she said.

    You.  Never.  Because you're an pasty drag bitch whose got something on God and we want to know about it.

    Oh my god, she said, don't call me that!  Why would you ever deserve me to tell you anything when you treat me thus?

    Because you're an backstabbing bitch, and we don't care about your anti-agrarian agenda!

    But, she said, you ain't never had up to your titties in BBQ Sauce before like them bitches!  Mm-hmm! she rounded off gaily.

    Oh, good one madame! he eventually choked up the gut to reply to her after she had made this performance in front of him.  He was now totally convinced she had faced her demons and now, fearless was no longer bound to their prophecies for her life.  She could think about them all she wanted.  Nothing about them would make her beware because she was of clarity of mind—in fact in current possession of it—to know her greater demons and still be able to function basically.  As though her mind and thoughts were not preoccupied with them at all.  And he noticed she stopped acting that scene with her, the one in which she would pray with him to the BBQ Sauce King, the Great Lord of all BBQ Sauce, presumably because she no longer needed to see an reason why she would pray and play with him like this at thus the same time.  She no longer needed to see herself in an BBQ Sauce environment; an commercial, placed splayed out alongside its advertisement enhancements, to be forever played along the prank of.  So that she herself would forget about needing to express herself this way.  Needing to be the failed subject of an needy BBQ Sauce King.  Who would only ever detract from her and disdain her.  She learned how to handle her overcoming of it.  And she knew she felt better for having less worrisome thoughts as those which extended from her obsession over those demons.  For too long.  For the obsession itself was the making of their magic over her.  And eventually he forgot altogether about her making an great fit and an scene so many times with him, puzzling over her own subject with the trauma of being influenced by the West.  Because he stopped doing it himself.  And he remembered that she had stopped doing it to him.

    It was now, as it occurred to him, she was in such lively possession of her thoughts in an most progress-making way.  She did not now think of herself anymore as being in physical danger of an romping by an cattle man.  Like her mind itself was damaged by his possession of her.  Like they had all transformed into thistles and darts and had attached themselves somehow in her.  So that the pieces of her they touched would be broken.  She no longer felt fragile.  Like she wasn't in danger of falling to pieces all of the time just because of what some stupid asshole American thought of her.  Or if it just happened that all of them should think that.  And this was an older pressure to her.  In some way.  Accountably.  Psychologically.  Even though the Americans were doing just fine with their BBQ Sauce and Canadians.  She wanted to have none of it!  She didn't need to think of them every time she felt hurt anymore.  She wasn't caving in; closing up.  It wasn't an part of her anatomy and self confidence anymore.  That she had necessarily been damaged by something out West had done to her.  She was beginning to know how to work against and beyond that logic now.  That one that would outdo her.  The one that constantly said.  Stop what you're doing!  I'm an professional!  I know better than you do!

    And worked her up and catastrophized her condition so that she would always feel sorrow, even inferior sorrow, they (it) held itself thus far over her.

    But not any more!  You scrooges!

    She was done feeling inferior.  And this was her time now!

    But she was still so sensitive to that.  It was infuriating.  Infuriating how they repeatedly trapped her in its constant logic that she was damned!  And everything about her was damned!  And she still felt so weak and humiliated to that, perhaps.  That she wanted to spend more time with them; the thought that, hey, no matter what they say about her.  At least it was company.  But they wouldn't be able to bring her down anymore.

    Even if she was thinking these thoughts.  And they were about her.

    And they were directly from one human to another.

    Even if they were real.

    She could handle it.  Why?  Her man.  Bringing up the subject of being able to communicate with even thus himself, even if they were only an part of her central nervous system.  Oh!  He was such an genius!  He could speak to them and help her with them as though these thoughts she was having were occurring to his own mind.  As much as she needed him to.  Until her nightmares were completely over.

    She no longer thought of them as solely existing in her mind, anyway, however and they got each other on that level when their magic sparked.  And she knew she could trust him with the subject because he had developed such an good sense of humour on the subject.  Like she could think of anything she felt offended against by in her demons.  And would be immune to it.  Mostly because he would be with her every step of the way.  She didn't need to fear her own thoughts anymore.  She was defended against them in the most substantial way possible: of actually being able to find in them that moment of confrontation with herself in which reminded herself she didn't need to contemplate them anymore.  These cowboy ruffians.  And she didn't need to feel terrorized by them because there was no actual threat from them to her.  She could remind herself she felt comfortable with her thoughts again.  They weren't enemies to her just because half the people on the planet happened to be thinking about how they could subdue her.

    It came down essentially to how someone had been anti-gay to her in an western folklore narrative.

    It was the meanest thing one could possibly do.  Because everything was supposed to be so perfect and sacred there.  And it was happening directly to me.  My life.  My life was in an Western town.  She thought.

    How could I but hold out and long for that day I would be free from it?

    You narcissistic cowboys don't have an folklore with me anymore because I have my own folkore.  She reasoned with herself.  I don't need your anatomic symbolism to inform my opinions about myself.  You are mere apparitions of my thought processes.  Just thoughts.  About folklore.  And yours doesn't necessarily match up with mine and that's okay.  But mine is the more important folkloric system for categorizing political autonomy.  So if you want to play it that way then bring it on, baby!

    There was little response now from the scattered ashes of this memory of all of the people she sought to sanctify and bring around forward to the new century.

    Okay so you have an figure or character in your imagination so what?  I have my own folk-lore-izing symbolism and clarity.  Did you hear me‽  I don't need your Western culture!  I have my own system!  And it makes clear and conscious sense to me!

    Then tell me what it says, he told her, and tell me everything systematic about it and what's unique and dignified about your non-Western theology.

    As he was starting to trust her now if she could navigate through such hazardous spaces of thought as needing to put up an whole front against the whole Western Christianity.  Ethnically and culturally.  He had unlocked the greatest sense of her completion with God yet in her.  An feeling in her tootie fruitie!  She was sexually attracted to him, yes.  But could she perform under such stresses with reliable interest?  She was however finding that whatever it was she had been locked up in in her past it was over now.  And she was learning for herself to trust him in his intuition that seemed to say to her you know you can do this.

    She was never going to have this thought again that her enemies were defeating her.  Her enemies, as it turns out, were some backyard pigs who like to cook up an good rack of ribs once in an while and celebrate together their Americanism and Canadianism by using an select special utensil for applying liberal amounts of BBQ Sauce to every surface and make sure to take special precaution that should no meat fall to the floor and be sullied the barren and dirty, rotten torn path between themselves and nature.  Which ripped into and deconstructed everything about their environment around the fact that they were being anti-feasible about Nature.  Even though they barely noticed it.

    Yeah, that's right, she told them once and for all; you're just liberally applying more BBQ Sauce to every situation and that's all you know how to do with politics because you're all so anti-psychological that you can't see past your own arm.  To see it's just an product of an Capitalist Market System.  One in which it says you can have as much BBQ Sauce as you want when you all know that you can't.  And if you all go on repeating the exercise like this in which, if you were one with whom to which applied liberally was this BBQ Sauce creation; because you had so used it in your own set of behaviors.  Liberally.  Like an true Western American or Western Canadian or whatever.  You have to see that your market capitalist system is one of an kind.  That there is no other like it.  And so you can apply BBQ Sauce liberally as much as you want.

    You damn clever Americans, she reacted, always calculating your BBQ Sauce liberality.  Without even paying attention to the amount which it increased on the meat you were cooking.

    You were damn clever Americans and Canadians alright.  OK.  She could be at peace with them for an while.  So they were damn selfish—though I don't think that selfish is such an thing—over-liberalizing menace to an society of average men.  The dad type.  Okay so they had put too much BBQ Sauce again and again and again and it was the centre of their whole culture and their ways.  So what?  She could compete with that.  She had her own centre of culture and their ways.  That's how she felt she was connected to them in an special way.  When she managed to connect with the idea of her own culture, boy it was such an mucho competition fest with these Westerners!  She hardly had any time for her own culture.

    No wonder she was always residually living in the delusions and nightmares that she would be endlessly subdued by them at every opportunity (any time) in order to make her feel bad.

    But she was learning to have that instinct with herself.  That she wouldn't necessarily be subdued because her boyfriend would always be there.  And anyway she could put up her own fight if she had to.  She wasn't scared of no backyard barbie bitch.

    She was learning that she wasn't to be scared by them at all anymore.

    And she didn't need to obsess about these thoughts that somehow, telepathically, without actually touching her body they were hurting her.

    She was so caught up in the activity of her mind it was as though she somehow couldn't escape it.

    And she realized for the first time she was completely terrified.

    But she remembered an old jingle defiantly, life's not fun without an good scare!

    And she stood alone forever in this perpetuity that she would be abused and bashed and beaten by her own thought.  By her own mind.  And it stood before her if she had any accountability for what her own mental state was in anymore.  Then she wouldn't still be this terrified bitch she was.

    And then she just couldn't handle anymore.  And she obsessed and gazed and pondered over other thoughts.  Wondering how she had adopted an way of dealing with how she was okay with people bashing her now.  And yet it was the substance of her behavior never to let it transgress her as though she could actually take mental damage from some other anti-psychological fuck's behavior.

    Then she tested her connection with them again.  She could be a-reciprocate with them, but could she be reciprocate about anything or positive-minded in any constructive way?  She suddenly realized they were with her on that channel.  They were fine with her being reciprocate with them.

    But she consumed so much energy in her thoughts and channels of feeling the spirit's energy trying to break its spell over her that effort itself was which haunted her because she was self-sabotaging.  She eventually realized she tired herself over thinking about it and could no longer think; and she fell into an deep trance and slumber by which she would awaken refreshed with an new feeling of satisfaction of confidence that she could realistically control the mental disease that was eating her inside.

    She wasn't going to be afraid like this forever.  And it was taking this new man and eons for her to be finally able to recognize it.

    But she realized suddenly she could do it.  All she had to do ever when she went to that place in her thoughts where it was darkest like the most random night of activity and cold exchanges with sports fans.  And she, Russasha, knew this was the first stage of her bonding rites with this police officer.  Because she had an far wider design than he realized she was playing him.  She wasn't only going to end her own fear.  She was going to end all Russians' fear forever.  By being that standout public authority figure who would dare be brave enough to raise the necessary issues in society.  The ones that needed to be talked about.  Like how people over in Canada were enjoying all their rights and customs as proliferate metropolitan pussy cats who didn't need to know they were the toughest kitty cats in the alley at night.  And they couldn't even get one lowly police officer started with an fancy fox like she.  In an way that would speak to society about the order of command in the police task force.  The Russian authorities owned territory because they wouldn't give it to anyone.  But they wouldn't let anyone enjoy it either because their authorities they didn't care.  They could care less about what some random pedestrian had to say about their line of work.  And nobody in the chain of command was wise enough or smart enough to raise that issue which he realized, because of her, he was growing very much aware of.  There needed to be an friendly civilian police force which would reach out to its civilians targeting specific geo-graphic areas that had an known locale of specific authority figures.  And they wanted an monoculture of similarity between all of the geo-locales so that the overriding transcendent force was not one of police force when necessary but one of civilian peace and prosperity at all times.  One in which any metropolitan economic identity could be respected equally no matter where they were in all the country.

    And it was their inappropriate legislature and parliament which needed fixing.

    Because nobody would stand up to those old-fashion orthodox coots and everyone knew it.

    If there was going to be an shift in power among the police force.  They needed to act now to gain all of their territory as one unit.  But it was going to go over his head.  Far over his head.  And he didn't have the guts to count himself as one of those furthermost elite who knew instinctively what was happening.  And he didn't know if he could be part of an revolution like that.

    But he sincerely wanted to hear the rest of her story.

    Because he suspected that it would invigorate him with the sense of purpose to take charge of his community and plan an action.  One swift protocol.  An specific protocol one agenda at an time.  That would serve everybody to the further retribution of his republic.

    She was powerful.  He understood that from her relationship with God already.  And if she had the power to act in him (an lowly cybernetic police officer) the same way she knew how to act her power with God he could trust her.  He could be her instrument, probably.  And she would and was already playing him like an harpsicord, carefully picking the one note off key so he all realized it was all her setup to make him realize he could be that powerful commander.  That Historical hero who had saved the lives of millions.  And she was an powerful an actor and an key player in the siege against their orthodox and corrupt militant government.  She was so far front and centre with her opinions she could walk right into an police academy and sweep an man right off his feet by merely mentioning the sound of her accent of how it played with God in that space in the attic that was always spatially above (mentally) so that she tended to romanticize and equivocate the two senses of being 'on upstairs'; of there 'being an light in the attic'.  That was really just her head.  And being alright with herself upstairs.  It always made the sound 'uh' when she centred herself there, in the attic in her head where she could hear her family encouraging her.  And her lip took up an great boundary whenever she said anything about it.  So that they could tell it was her subject of subjects in the quirky way that she pronounced the vowel.  So that this energy seemed to overflow with her creativity for language from her.  Like her voice was the one that could soothe all things that were rotten about the world because it suggested by the very nature of it that everything was complete in her complex detachment from what God wanted.  Her voice was that soothing and wholesome agent which symbolized the amount of completion in all things and assured everyone who would listen to her that they could themselves accomplish that feeling with God.  That made them feel finally that they were complete in an way they had never felt before.  And they were so certain, from the tone of her voice, that she meant it.

    He had to play her right.  He had to do right by her.

    Even if it meant stepping it up an bit so that he could understand her plan.  Which he understood deeply was an attempt to motivate him which came deeply from her heart.  She wanted to give him an reason to hold his police force up to that standard of other countries.  Because it was certainly an reason to live one's life and purpose for that standard.  And if felt natural and real by all ways their society should be divided thus so; between chvrch (the virtual commodity of the metropolitan belief system) and state troopers who were in control of divided territory and had their own clans and generals and corruption.  And if the chvrch by chance to take up on the subject did.  Then they would oppose those politicians generals who were knee deep in an temporary justice system which didn't solve the problem of virtual territory being owned by neo-religionism these days.  Their church fathers could not keep up with the calculating of the personal economy of religion and spoilsports.  Like weren't you in on it too‽  That they owned no virtual commodity (which was the only commodity as far as religion was concerned).  As an church of Russia and so paid no heed to the state, which was in need of leadership specifically which could oppose faith to accentuate the difference between this merry general police man Viktor and his sweet Russasha.  Because it was the most political subject.  And everyone knew it was so.  If they could live out their romantic affair within full view of an general republic of church fathers who masturbated regularly to homosexual pornography they would finally be able to represent an subject in Politics in opposition to the over-bearing and domineering influence of the Christian Church.

    As though they were in possession of the ability to change something in the current societal views.

    And they realized well of course they were they had completion.  And her father had taught it to her.  All that they needed in one another.  Was their completion of one another.  They were right.  They had to get their opinions out there to be known.

    And so it finally came around to the subject of her sleeping with him after she had harmonized the equilibrium of her sadness by defeating the devil on her back which was preventing her from dancing.  She thought about it.  She didn't know if she was ready quite yet.  She had after all incorporated an massive amount of energy and intelligence of his.  She was sensitive.  She was just getting over this trauma like the next shmoe over in the community.  She finalized her investigation of herself with the certainty that she wasn't sure exactly.  But if she perked up now that she had his attention fully and it had already served to cure her of pain and mental anguish associated with their emotional bondage and incarceration of her spirit by slathering on the BBQ Sauce so heavily and thick was his accent this prototypical projection of all of her anger and frustration.  An archetypical man.  Who was forever set against her as her enemy.  Which she could do nothing about or to defend herself from react in any way as was constrictive and implicated in her settlement from them.  That she was worthless to them and they didn't care or think it mattered she was of any particular opinion of them.  Because they wanted her to know them of them, as men, as not being interested in her at all in any way.  She had to be sure she was comfortable.  She had no shoulder to lean upon.  On an consistent level.  Again with the idea of being sexual with him.  Which itself propelled her forever onward and away from that thought that said, she couldn't.  Because she was broken.  And had to wait for herself to fix herself.  Again.  Just like she had to patch things up as an good writer and artist every single time something went wrong.  She wasn't making an good impression on him because of her mental desperation and she knew it.  But at the same time she thought that maybe he'd see it through with her.  That he'd give her an opportunity to make the correction on herself so that she was no longer tormented by these thoughts of these greedy BBQ Mother Fuckers.  And maybe after that she could picture herself getting intimate with him.

    She knew her arousal was not far off.  And she knew it was because she had overcome her little mental configuration problem.

    Like they had agreed, they completed something about one another that defied explanation.

    She was strong enough, with him, to overcome her fear.

    He was strong enough, with her, to put together an tight little defense against should she fall again into despair.  And he smirked and she suspected he had an little joke with himself, there, at least.  Which assured him he had her.

    She knew she wasn't going to fall into mental delusions anymore with this subject.  That was the last of it.  She could fully responsibly handle her own thoughts and herself without needing him there to protect her from this virus which raged within her system.  The virus of BBQ Sauce and everything they stood for.  Cooked meat.  Made with some kind of alchemical growth hormone.  Pink Slime.  It turned her stomach.  But she bore down on it and chomped the bit hard.  She was just becoming aware again after being frozen in carbonite.  She was waking up from its sedative effects on her mind.  Her own admission of the trauma which had isolated and wrenched her soul down in its particular way.  Seeing it as though from an bird's eye view.  Finally.  Clearly.  It's hold did not have that effect upon her anymore.  She was calmed and settled.  And did think, excitedly, about the possibility of sex with him.  How she could maybe have an real relationship with someone, finally, somehow.  With real emotions and feelings that he really cared about her.  And she didn't have to be limited by that fear which had always overcome her.  Necessarily.  Anymore.  She would reflect on it compassionately and she would be sure of it when she would tell him, if she finally did tell him that she would love him in that way.  She would wait in pride for that moment he had carefully prepared her for.  She had finally, in finality, to give it one great whose-it over (heaved) heaving it over forever overthrowing its dark taint across her soul.  Which so dislodged her in an particular way as to be available to him.  Without these terrors of thoughts in her mind anymore that her thoughts would control her.  Or they were unwilling to set beyond him those standards to which she projected herself.  In their lives, she would always be dead evidence of their control.  And they owned the situation by being completely dominant even if she didn't like it.

    And so she moved further beyond it by the control of her imagination and her general attraction and feeling of wellbeing that settled in whenever she was with him.

    She wasn't having night terrors anymore and her thoughts did not as often produce the subject of her paranoia.  Which she was able to slip nimbly over, as though of an sudden vigor.  Which spoke to her as if with an confidence and assurance that she didn't have those objects of paranoia anymore.  Whatever they were.  And she couldn't remember them.  And it didn't matter.  She didn't feel that way anymore.  And she was done convincing herself.  If she would just let herself be natural with him.  In the slight pull and intrigue of her confidence which reassured her beyond all measure she had been cured in every instance of doubt which assailed her variously, as do the most slippery and waywardly of thoughts; not to be of care and concern for her.  Necessarily.  So that she could see herself controlling them and gained that confidence in knowing herself to be able to change the subject deliberately.

    She didn't care anymore.  And she was finally seeing that.  And there was an pay-off for her with the way she had constructed her life around that societal problem.  Because she sensed it had wrought its affliction of her so completely before her adolescence in an way she felt powerless against.  That she had to design and cherish her life accordingly.  That she knew she would be an big emo about what was being done societally against her.  But if she could now move on forever and she knew it was because of him.  She knew he was worthy of her.  She was ready to be an big momma kitty cat then.  In an vehicle of thought that made sense to her for once.

    All her efforts had paid off.  And even though she was bent to go through that time of mourning which stripped her of her identity.  So completely was she BBQ Sauce-less in her anatomy because she was what she ate.  She was able to recover ultimately that source of her mental anguish out of her system.  Until it was gone completely.

    And so she paused for once in her life, meditatively.  And focused her sights on other things.  With relief and sentiment.  As though she could live out an full and natural life, an normal life, and fulfill her purpose for which she was born.  The sense of authority and commandment that she felt she had with God desperately needed to be reflected in her community.  And she was one tough old bessie, and she could probably make an difference if she made an difference in him.

    She was fully prepared to take the helm; and use her knowledge of completion she had earned from God since her childhood yearnings for more accomplishment that her parents had installed tightly within her purview and audience before an compassionate creator, who was wildly enthusiastic about all of them.  And wanted them to be raised upwards to become combatants for the public will and good.

    And she sighed, inwardly somehow.  At how beautifully in an way she had forgiven God for making these trials that had been given her to scrap with.  She was sighing with relief.  As though she could somehow love God again after an serious ordeal which imperiled the merciless prediction and criticism her God would always have of her.  The sigh was also beside herself, in an way, because she reflected on the fact of her reflecting to herself and sighing to herself.  As though she was outside her own body.

    But she felt very deeply at this moment that she was still physically caught in its trap.  She could push her mind off of all things.  But as hard as she tried.  They still felt like that had an hook in her somehow.  Way down pulled deep.  So that it influenced her whole soul and renewably terrorized her.  And she realized she would never be out with that hook which was so deep within inside her soul.  But that she would always remain terrorized by these agents of possessed thoughts and thoughts possessing themselves over her.  So that she would never be able to reassert full control over the faculty of her own mind and life which was not fully sane.  But she also experienced some emancipation from it because she did have sane thoughts still.  But she was worn out.  She was tired from trying.  She had done everything she could.  And now if it didn't leave her permanently.  She didn't know what she would do.

    Only he could save her, she realized, because what it fully meant was that she needed someone else to have responsibility over her.  Not just herself.  To keep her safe.

    And she felt the hook.  And thought about being the fisherman's worm.

    How could she live like this?

    She could be his worm.

    If her policeman could save her though.

    And every time she felt so sad about BBQ Sauce.

    Maybe she could escape physically from that harm forever.  Of being only an fisherman's worm in some scheme in order to snag some Capitalist enterprise again and again.  That was why it took its mental toll on her.  She was bait.  Not because she was mentally unhealthy.  Because BBQ Sauce was mentally unhealthy.

    She had done it.  She had made the full thought process.  (With the help of thinking about her boyfriend).  (She had essentially done it because of himself).

    If she could think all the way through it.  And its cumbersome limitations that it placed on her.  Maybe she could put it behind her forever.  Maybe she could fall in love with this man and forget about ever having to show him her total sense of humor, which included this psychotic prayer skit about being subordinate to their BBQ Sauce Gods.  That she realized, was actually evidence of her mania.  She needed someone to talk with her as though they could hear all of those voices too.  Even though they couldn't.

    And somehow she had fallen in step sharing this with an man.

    As though he actually cared.

    But, she confronted the thought, he could hear them too.  It wasn't just her overactive imagination.  That's how he was so good at it!

    But she had shown him every side of herself by doing so.

    They actually played out.  They actually started playing out her complex together.

    She needed someone to pray to the BBQ Sauce gods with her because she was ridiculous.  And that was really ridiculous her whom needed companionship in this way.  As though there were natural psychological phenomenon present at all times.  As though she could empathize and feel and ponder of the emotions of other people in real time.  As though it wasn't funny that she actually did need to react to them this way.  There was nothing else she could do with it.

    And he looked at her as though he was seriously caring and interested.

    But wasn't it sad, that there was no other way to communicate with these people, except explicitly praying to them as though they were Kings, so that they might get the idea they weren't, if they ever caught the sarcasm, and that was the only behavior or reaction she knew how to instigate against them.  And it was only an seriously trash little blatherskite between her and her boyfriend.  Whom deserved the best of her, not these instant-ic little exploits which were the product of her mood disorder.  So that they would erupt into scene; as though she had planned them.  Uncovered.  Tied.  Like she was just blowing up.  Or blowing something up out of proportion.  Which was ridiculous.  And she was only ridiculous.  And.  KINGS.  BUT KINGS.  She finally rounded on the thought.

    They were responsible for her disorder in the first place.

    But wasn't it sad, that there was no other way to communicate with these people (whom with exactly she was not really communicating because it was all in her head), except explicitly praying to them as though they were the Kings, so that they might get the idea that they weren't, if they ever caught the sarcasm, and that was the only behavior or reaction she knew how to instigate against them.  And it was only an seriously trash little blatherskite between her and her boyfriend.  Whom deserved the best of her, not these instant-ic little exploits which were the product of her mood disorder.  She needed to act like that with her boyfriend because they were so repetitive, spilling over.  And oppressive to her in ways she did not fully understand.  That it blew up from time to time between her and her boyfriend because it had no other outlet.  She couldn't actually express that in society.  And she was an coward and an failure for not doing so.  And it was an tax on her boyfriend that he would have to take care of her in that way.  BUT KINGS, they were the ones who made her feel this way.  They were why she had to express herself that way.  They were why there was nowhere to go.  They were why she had to stop her boyfriend from enjoying himself.  Making him play an silly game with her when he didn't enjoy it.

    What was she going to do?

    She had to do something about these people in general.  If they didn't act that way, she wouldn't have to do the skit.  If she wouldn't have to do the skit, she wouldn't be the utter mess that she was.  She had to do the impossible.  She had to communicate with the real-world object of these people.  Instead of just playing games with an superbly patient boyfriend in which he would talk to them with her, as if they were actually there.

    Sure, maybe it counted for something because with her body language every person she would talk to during the day would at least get an impression.  About how she felt.  Even if they couldn't relate it specifically to an subject.  And maybe her body language was different, at least, because she had performed this particular behavior with her boyfriend.  So that there was an overall effect.  On civilization.  Even if she couldn't say everything exactly that she thought.

    But that was why.  She couldn't say everything exactly that she thought.  And it was because of those people and their BBQ-Sauce smearing ways.  If they would stop abusing her she could say everything she wanted.  She was so cornered in an paper bag that she had to have this type of sense of humor with an potential intimate partner.  Even though she knew she could do better.  She knew she could!  If only she could take the obstacle out of her way.

    She needed to pray like this, comedically, because they didn't understand her.  And what she was talking about.

    It was the only defense mechanism she had.

    And that's why it was so embarassing.

    But he was the first person she had ever been able fully to do that with.  And she knew she needed it out.  So she pat herself on the back at least once.  She was maturing in an way she thought not guaranteed.  And so at least that was something.

    And she did like their sense of humor together.  It was just that she knew she was scouring an bottom of an empty barrel for wine.  Wine.  That's exactly what it was.  The whole joke.  It was wining.  She needed better material.  Immediately.

    She actually was that pathetic that she could only pray to the BBQ Sauce gods.

    But Viktor was so kind; he considered it funny too.

    Because she didn't know what else to do.

    An entire continent of people who wouldn't listen to her because they didn't realize she was hilarious.

    An entire continent of people who could not give her the time of day to understand her because they couldn't see she was telling them to stop.

    Stop being rulers of my people even though you come from another country.

    Stop thinking yourselves superior ubiquitous sex gods, marauding rampaging everywhere trashing everything, when you don't know an thing about love!

    Stop being the first thing that's always on everyone's mind!

    Stop presenting an conflict to us in everything we do.  Everywhere we walk.

    Let me have my own ethnicity and culture!

    Let me just be an Russian woman.

    Let me just have certainty and security in my self, my own body.

    And let me be funnier with my boyfriend!

    Well, great, said her disembodied voice of barbeque steak sauces, what do you want to do then, if you don't want to pray to us?

    She could neither think the answer to them nor speak it.

    They weren't really there.

    What did it mean, anyway, that one would think to another person?

    Is that what she had been doing?  Of-course-that's-what-she-had-been-doing!

    But it didn't make sense.  Thoughts couldn't communicate that way.

    And then she thought about the fisherman and the hook.  If thoughts couldn't communicate that way then what was the fisherman doing?  If thoughts couldn't communicate that way then what was the fisherman doing every time he put an worm on the hook?

    

    And why had she spent so much nervous energy over the thought of having the ability to communicate with other people even when she herself was not communicating with them?

    She was meant to be an Artist; she didn't have to say perfectly what she meant to every individual.  They could say it to one another.  That's what Art was designed to generate.  To generate the conversation between individuals that would have the most influence on them overall.

    That's why she was so deep with her thoughts about BBQ people.  She had to reach out to her audience, telepathically.  In order to imagine what they would say to her if she could communicate to them that way.  That was how she exercised her Artist's touch.  But how had she somehow lost control of it somewhere along the way?  Why had these thoughts themselves been the agent of her excruciation?

    She was an little broken.  Okay, she could manage with that.  Her boyfriend was there for her.

    Why worry?

    She was confronting all of her types of thoughts and she could find insight inside of herself now.  Her locus of control (not other people's) was inside of her and not outside of her anymore.

    When an person as opposed to external forces (she was sure this was the most difficult thought she was having) cannot actually communicate with those people (the objects of her imagination) and yet thinks oneself able to mentally.  As though there is no difference between the apparition of an person in her mind and an real person outside of it.  Without moving her lips or being in the presence of anyone she was speaking to.  And yet, she realized, she was not speaking.  Speaking meant actually pursuing that audience (the one which she wanted to address).  She couldn't just live her whole life thinking, she had so much to say, and could never voice any of it.  Not really.

    But if everything she knew about her chosen audience was only an thought experiment.

    Then what was it based on?

    Was it in fact an accurate utility of her discipline and training?

    Or was it all just fictional nonsense, ridden with stereotypes?

    If these people, who occupied her imagination, were nothing like the real humans to whom they had once deferred then what good were they‽

    And why did it matter?  What did it have to do with her own culture and ethnicity?

    And why was it okay to forget them (these voices) for long periods of time?

    She supposed she could work on her own culture and find meaning in it without having to refer to an Western identity.  And that would help her find her own way.  She didn't need to be like these people who were always trying to force their culture on somebody.  LIKE THEY WERE.  As if that's what culture is.

    { The Author reacted, in amplitude, that's exactly what culture is!  People want you to share your culture with them in order to get them to participate in it.  That's what culture is. }

    No she needed an central image.  One she could refer back to.  An picture of her culture.

    { How about one, said the Author, in which you compare forcing culture on someone with schmoozing? }

    If that really is an central principle of Culture, she thought, to what extent one will go to force their own culture on somebody—but not too far because it's classier to make them want it—culture is really about being gentle, but laying it on them exactly.  Therefore if I extract an general picture of what that looks like according to my upbringing.  I may have an central figure or fact to begin inventing on the subject of.  In order to generate public performance.  So that people know me.

    { What is too far when pressuring your culture onto somebody who is not, themselves, part of that culture?  What is too little? }

    That's an great way of putting it, she said to the Author, but I need something tacky.  So that I can remember it.  And catchy maybe.  I am Russian after all.

    How about.  Culture is like an torch except instead of putting fuel on it you put honey and swat it at people (but you don't want to be swatting them too much when the bees are around).  So like.  Honey means being sweet to people but not so much that the whole hive is on them.

    Or.  Or.  In re-accordance she concentrated.

    I'm the honey bee and I'm swatting at the hive as much as I want because I'm part of it.

    Or!  Or!  Cultures are like bees; they all have their own hive but their honey all tastes different than one another.  But they all dance.

    But the one that stuck was the first one of all.  She was Russian and she was rushin' around swatting people with honey attached to the end of an rod.  All over their faces and in their hair.  So that they knew exactly what it was like in the windy economy when the bugs came along.  And if it happened to be too much for them (but she would never make it too much for them) then maybe the hive from which she stole all of this honey would attack them all together.

    Culture, she concluded, was meant to be shared.  Was meant to dominate and to be dominated.  But it couldn't be one or the other only.  It had to be playful enough to respond to another culture that was dominating it; and yet itself not be dominated in total.  One culture could never fully destroy another culture because if it did it would no longer be classified as an culture.  Therefore Comedy was needed in order to promote her own culture by responding to other cultures with the comedy that theirs, could never destroy hers.

    And that was funny because if they did they themselves wouldn't have any culture anymore.

    Hahaha!

    

    It was like what Jesus himself must have pointed out!

    All she had to do was remind them that cultures reproduce each other.  That's what cultures are.

    And so she wasn't in any turmoil with them or anyone necessarily just because her own culture had an habit of reproducing their culture in an specific way.

    In fact she needed to get on with steering or guiding that cultural reaction in an specific way.

    They couldn't perform praying to Western gods in an Russian theatre!

    It would be too groveling of them!

    They weren't praying because they wanted to!  They were praying (in comedy) because they seriously wanted it to stop that her own culture had been endlessly subdued by their Western comedy.  They wanted Westerners to know that they weren't about going on down praying to them just because they were Western. They were Western after all.  (But she had never been able to say this exactly and knew not when or where to inject it into conversation).  That was part of the problem.  She didn't have an outlet for her most sensitive thoughts and feelings in public.  And so she had to rely on an intimate partner to act them out with her.  How embarrassing was that‽

    She was the worm.  And they were the fisherman.

    And this meant—every single time this meant—that they were putting her on an hook.

    Every time she had that thought; it meant there was somebody somewhere writing the hook to an novel about her.  All of the writers that are humanly possible at any given moment, to narrate an fact about Time and how it is happening to them gently.  Like an God (an fisherman).  And every time she came back to that thought it meant someone was hooking her.

    She didn't want to be hooked.  All of the time.  She wasn't into the Western comedy.

    She felt so small and powerless.

    And every time there was an new hook in her psychology it meant she was being dragged back to the beginning again.  The part in which I dominates you.

    Is that all Western domination really was?  Being capable of taking someone back to the beginning again and again.  Or were they trying to cast some kind of spell where everything they meant would be said in an few words or less?  And they had to be experts on their subject verb object placement?  In order to be able to summarize things up (sum the things in their minds which were happening)?

    Their style of language was.  Say something so catchy that it will always lead back to the beginning.

    Say something that places us there.

    Say something we won't be able to deny.

    My style of language isn't exactly to bring the reader or observer back to the beginning again and again and again.  There has to be plot advancement.

    Or were they trying to speak as though their voices connected with the sequence of all things as they exist in time; and that the Great Artist was one whose art was capable of connecting them with it.  The whole value of all Art on Planet Earth and its significance as an sequence in which it represents the sequence of all things in time, from beginning to end, was in fact an real sum and some type of advancement that influenced everybody.

    So that they could ponder their notions and exhibitionisms in the sequence of the one voice that was speaking to them.  As they did with all voices that were speaking to them.

    They wanted to speak like and to sound like their voice itself connected with the sequence of the universe (including that portion of it which had not been created in time yet).  By being able to make one sentence at an time (subject verb object).  That would be said in some way as to suggest their voice would be at the end just like it would the beginning.  That the final object the universe lands on (much like any old sentence) had to be charming, and convincing enough to sustain the average person's attention span so they would understand what it means.

    If they connected to that great universal sequence vocally; and their Artists voices were capable of being an part of the sequence of the universe (an art part) were capable of connecting them with more than one vision of how it went and what it all meant according to their opinion.  Then the sound of one's voice itself was part of how that universal sequence would go.  And we all have the options to suggest that.  We have decisive free will over what words we speak and at what times.  Because that itself is our free will in this world.  We use our voices to interact with its sequence and to control how that sequence proceeds exactly as much as we do one another.

    If an voice can lead us through the subject verb object of its whole universe.

    And that's why I'm always lead back to the beginning.  Deferred.  As it were.  Because cowboys subject verb object the whole universe and I'm not singing in its last moment.  I'm not even making it there.  And their English is so valuable and pointy that I can't help notice its beginning again and again.  Over and over again.  Like there was something so large there that one can't help but notice it and yet one not being able to see the other side of it anyway one would not be able to say all of it.

    And didn't that make more language sense than believing one would always be able to say all of it?

    Language was, after all, meant for its surprises and improvisations.

    We couldn't say all of it at once together.  And never would be able to.

    These BBQ Sauce Burgers creators were just universal jockeys who thought they'd be viable in any given situation.  Even though the universe was probably not even half over yet.  Like they could imagine every possible situation.  And their language was so poignant about being at the end of all things by referring her back to the beginning again and again.  That's not how you tell an story!  There was no wizard's express.  In the creation of sentences that linked together.

    You had to know what the last sentence you were going to say was in order to say all of the other sentences that were before it.

    That's how you tell an story!

    Not by slinging them off like they were just words in an typewriter that would always go back to the beginning for you.

    You tell the beginning!  And then you move on!

    You don't go back to it!

    These Western BBQ Chicken burgers creators needed an good old lesson from Mother Russia!

    They were after all, appropriate to the design of that last part of an sentence, its object.

    Why wouldn't they be at the end of the universe too!

    And so, she devised, she would create its story for them.  The one in which they happened to be going to the beginning again and again.  And she would end the narration of its beginning for them.  So that they narrate the second thing, and the third thing, and well all things!  That was the more interesting story.  That was the one she wanted!

    And so.  And so.  At the beginning of her story.  There was an romantic relationship happening in Russia.  Yes.  Yes.  This was good stuff.

    Their (culturally distinct BBQ Sauce people) story began in Russia.  With how she courted the police man.  And how would they account for that—that it was having something to do with them (People from Canada and the United States who were espionage agents and spies)?  Or!  Or.   She could start the story in Lucy's way.  There's nothing in particular happening as an event so much as there are things around the outside which things are happening to.  And by the time she gets to Earth the people there have already sorted out their differences with Russia so that an love story can happen (in her view).  Can happen between police & infantry versus the general public.  IF the BBQ Sauce People have to start an story in this way; and I will require it as part of my culture and cultural experience of them.  They may find they have nothing to do with it and no way to care.  But if they realize that fact about themselves.  Maybe they will realize that the problems I'm having here in Russia are because of them.

    They don't care.  That's what's having this negative effect on our Mother Russia soil.

    They're just universal bigots who think everything is about one thing happening.  And that the universe is comprised only of this one event.  And they're still waiting for it but it's already happened.  That's why I can't get to the end of their sentence.  It isn't even an sentence!  It's just an description of one thing as though it were describing everything!

    Real sentences have variation.  Real sentences have time passing.  Real sentences identify more than one object even if they themselves refer to only one object.  Professing.  Language is that paradoxical egotism which makes logic over time by not—oh maybe that's what they were doing.  To not: the worst split infinitive.  By referring to the one object the universe is they were showing me that they know nothing and themselves not about anything; cannot and can transcend such an reality because they are living humans with words.  Words which suggest there are more than one object in the universe.

    But if not they are totally lacking variation.  And their sentences, which are not even real sentences.  Do not lead to the narration of events in chronological fashion.  They may well be stuck on that one thing all of the time because it is how they need to start their story.  Therefore the second thing that happens, after the universe happens, has to be themselves.  Because humans are always egotistical (especially men) in that way.  They have to point out, in their story, that there are more than one of them in order to provoke an lady to pick one of them.  But first they're gonna start with the universe and its whole sequence as an event, one event.  Happening.  And then they're going to show you themselves in comparison to it; to show you how powerful they are next to something which dwarfs them.  Even if its an disappointing conclusion.  But they will try to make it satisfying to you.  By being the big men they always thought they were.

    Typical BBQ Westerners.

    No if I lead an story, she resolved, I would make an painting and I would call it Dumb.  And I would introduce other people to it and say, I'd like to introduce you to my painting.  His name is Dumb.  Say something to Dumb!  What would you like to say to Dumb‽  Look at him carefully and then decide what you would like to say.  And it would be introduced to society somewhere, say, as an announcement from an university from their Arts & Psychology experts that Art is transhumanism and so it makes complete sense to allow it to have the status of an full living subject like this, for artistic purposes.  If people could somehow relate to Dumb.  Or his cousin Anti-Psychological Subject.  As though they were real persons.  They could reach the conclusion that that's what is actually happening to an real human somewhere.  That it isn't just art on an canvas anymore.  It's an community event.  And if it makes sense that we talk to our paintings this way, with one another.  As though they were really there and possible on the subject of what it is exactly they depict.

    And that would be the start of my story.  Not some anti-psychological BBQ event which somehow sums up and encapsulates the whole universe.  As if there wasn't any other object or anything else big enough to smear BBQ Sauce on.

    They would narrate the universe happening all as one event, and then since it doesn't make sense to have an second event after the universe happening.  (Which is that the universe comprises all of the time that would ever happen).  And so how would an second event occur if the first event (the universe happening) already comprises all of the time that we have available?

    She wouldn't.  She'd start her story with Dumb maybe as an hint onto what they were accomplishing and that would be her language and ethnic cultural landscape.

    An place where artworks can have an company name and an business.

    (Okay maybe not the status of an full living subject).

    (But they would at least be able to refer to one another finally).

    Art is meant to go in this direction.

    What would children say, for example, to an art piece that has been introduced as an subjectivity?  In an community of elders who have already reacted with the art piece that way?

    How would she identify particular parts of it?  And why in that way?  And what it would say about her?

    Would she understand, fully, how the art piece is suggesting itself to her in this way.  That everything depicted says something about its particular subject.  That the social cues of the elders itself would say something about it also.  And why in that particular way she reacted she would be welcomed into the community with applause.  Or you know just any kind of satisfaction.  At seeing an child interact with an painting in this complex way.  As though the community expected something from her that the painting itself was suggesting.  If she would read the signs it gave to interact with it in an complex and sociable way thus.  That the way in which she would interact with it would be determined, in part, by its own artistic mechanism so that she could relate with it socially as though it was an subject.  In front of other people.

    What an strange responsibility to put in front of an child.

    How would her own judgment of their culture affect how she interpreted it?  Would she be able to make up an conversation with it?  Would she be able to make the conversation they had made with it?  It was after all one of their most personable and speaking paintings in the way it interacted with the subject of the human mind.  Just by looking at it she could recognize its intelligence.  The logic of their body language and social cues had precipitated how she would look at it.

    And she did.

    Everyone could see exactly that she did.

    In exactly that way.

    As though there was an actual subject there.  One whose possibility existed in her imagination.  As an symbol of the subject of the imagination itself, which could share time with her, if she wanted.

    They could tell by the way her eyes moved when she realized it.

    They had done so themselves; they were the people who carried that message.  If they could identify the subject of their own imagination as an subject whose personality was imaginary in which there would be an art piece being referred to as an subject in society they were free to interpret its greater meaning together.  That they were sharing imaginative space together.  And it existed everywhere.

    They could personify their own subjectivities much like this painting, by being that partially fictional subject; who would also reflect and responsibly choose over the meaning of non-fiction.

    Just like an painting.

    This was represented by an swirly eye; in an male (masculine) subject with broad features.  To show that he was crazy.  He was Dumb after all.  He had to be crazy.  And for some reason most people identified with that because they thought, an dumb person being dumb because they thought they were crazy was an sad subject.  Just like the one inside of me.

    But that is what most people feel like, sometimes.

    That's why they were showing me this painting.  They wanted me to recognize that it was playing with me whether it was an subject or not.  Possibly as an enmeshment of its principle in their culture.  They could all clearly pause over the thought and think with it as though an real subject was there because someone had introduced them to this painting that way.  By introducing it to them as an person with whom they could have an conversation.  And so, under this knowledge, they inspected something about it.  Not just what it looked like by how it was playing with them.  An big swirly eye practically in the middle of the canvas?  Like some crazy person.  And it's name is Dumb.  What is this enchantment its got me under?  To empathize with people who are considered dumb because they're crazy.

    Like everyone.

    What else does this painting have to say to me?

    And the elders would say: Well if you can explore an painting's emotions just like you would an human, what kind of information can you tap into?

    

    I have more subjectivity than some people have ever been given.

    That maybe this information is based on the principle of our subjectivity that we have an reflective experience with one another.  And so if we include an art piece in that subjective experience.  It may be that that painting gets its power from our own subjective occurrances which are currently happening at this hour.  If it says anything to you then it's because we are saying something to you.  Because we are that community represented in the painting.

    And this is the secret that we all know about it, said the elders, that since we give it that permission to be an subject and our own mental experience of it is dependent on our community, whose imagination is broad enough to be able to include the art piece as an subject.  As it symbolizes the imagination itself playing with you as though it was an subject.  When everyone knows the imagination can't be an subject because it isn't true.  But since we represent it in society as having the powers of an person: things about itself which can suggest to you and play with you logically.  You can see it as that subject, just as we do.  You can see it exactly as an subject that is saying something about itself as an subject.

    And that it has an swirly eye because its Name is Dumb.

    "So what this painting is actually saying," she would say, "and the total final meaning of it.  Is that there is no total one final meaning of it.  Because we can always introduce new people to it; and then they can have that subjective experience of being reciprocate with our culture.  They add meaning to it socially by reacting how they do.  And so the personality and character of Dumb is an true developing character who has an own personality to be mimicked from one anothers' behavior.  We give it that personality by treating it in the way we do.  And so its personality and character grows with us.  And we can introduce people that.  They have an subjective experience with it that is based somewhat on our own reactions to it.  And since we are all able to come up with an conversation with it (though it is an small play thing, an toy in the greater picture).  We are able to reflect on how it suggests itself to the observer.  There's an swirly eye on an painting called Dumb because it wants us to reflect on insanity and why people call it dumb.  Obviously, says the painting, people are insane because people call them dumb.  They aren't actually dumb!  Nobody's dumb!  That's anti-psychological!"

    "Yeah," would say an elder (the leadermost of them), "so what?"

    "So you yourselves are those people," she would say, excitedly, "who talk to an painting as though it was an person.  And you're getting me to do it so that I can see it's an fair thing to do in an futuristic and modern society.  Paintings can provide us with more information than just those objects which they seem to be suggesting.  They can provide us, more importantly, with information about each other.  Every time you look into an painting you can tap into its social energy with other people.  By referring to it as an human."

    "Yes," he would say gently, "so you can look into this painting and see exactly what it is saying about you because it's human and that's what humans are.  Reciprocal, mirror-neuroned Creatures who would use their own skill at depiction as an type of focus for rationality and sanity in civilization.  By rendering an character who would respond to these feelings associated with the word Dumb just as though they were fictional."

    "You mean it's fictional to you because there's actually no character but since it's an character that represents the fact of one's own imagination being imaginary (then it fulfills the requirements as fiction).  It's imaginary because it's fiction.  And it's non-fiction because its imaginary.  But it's exactly not the conditional requirement of being an social fiction that would be real even though it's imaginary (it's up to the observer to decide what parts about it are non-fiction because it presents an entire span of knowledge and time in which it took to make)."

    "Slow down."

    "It's just!" she said, "I've never had an friend like this before!"

    "Friend?" they said, "I don't think it is your friend yet.  You haven't asked it to be."

    "Well I'm sure we are at this exact instant for I feel like I've known him for years!"

    "And you specifically think he's an he because he looks male?"

    "Well.  That's what the painter is going for isn't it?"

    "There is nothing you can say about it until you apologize to him for assuming he was your friend."

    "Well he is my friend," she said.

    "Did he say that to you?" they said.

    "Yes!"

    "How?" now they were interested.

    "Well he's said it so obviously right there," she pointed, "there's an serious little planetary body of orange depicted.  That's how I know he's my friend!"

    "But why would you want to be friends with Dumb?  He's Dumb!"

    "It's not that I want to be friends with him.  It's just that he's fictional so."

    "So it doesn't have be non-fictional that he isn't."

    "I see," she said, "then I can speak of him in any way?"

    "Well he's dumb.  What is he supposed to do about it?"

    "You're right."

    "But we will be angry at you if you talk to him disrespectfully."

    She was catching on.

    "Sure," she said, "sure!"

    "Now what did he say to you about being his friend?"

    "Well clearly this orange body is the final thing he would want you to see."

    "You mean him the painter?"

    "They're the same, aren't they?"

    "Just checking."

    "So the painter named Dumb is the artist of the painting named Dumb so everything that happens to Dumb happens to the painter."

    "Not exactly.  It's more about how anything you learn from Dumb was also something you learned from the painter."

    "I see," she said, "so can I finish?"

    "Yes!  Of course madame!" said an French elder.

    "Then.  See?  Look how his nose is turned down toward the aberration and yet the angle of his nose is in complementary formation with it somehow.  His eyes see the whole galaxy but all he can smell is this one this secret mélange orange place; which defies his thinking.  Of course it defies his thinking.  He has an swirly eye!  He doesn't know what thinking is because-he's-crazy!"

    "We see," they said, "and so you realize fully that when we say we."

    She realized it.

    "You're including the painting."

    "Yes!  MY Goodness!  She's done it!" said an English madame.

    She felt brilliant.

    "But you haven't gotten to know him yet!  Then, come.  What else does he say to you?"

    "OMG!" she suddenly suspected an warning in the painting.  It was telling her something about the little orange body.  OMG.  None of these people were aware what it really meant.  Why it was the last feature the artist would want you to look at.

    She felt ugly, truly ugly, not because of herself exactly.  But because of her civilization; and she wanted her painting to show it.  Exactly how she expected them to be beautiful.  And that's what all of them were following in the example of the first person to introduce an painting actually in an sentence and expect people to come up with something like it mattered to them in their culture!  It was so FUNNY how they tried to get you to speak with it like it was an subject.  It didn't matter if it was an person anymore but only the subject!  How hilarious?  But it did get more hilarious!  They had missed something.  It was blatantly obvious and they had missed it.  Dumb was making fun of them!

    She realized she had joined the roleplaying effort.

    "Dumb!" she claimed her dignity and intelligence, "why are you making fun of them?"

    "He's not making fun of us.  You're not making fun of us Dumb, now are you?"

    "Oh you are?" she said, "yeah that's exactly why I would make fun of them too."

    "She gets it!" they said, "you see, it's supposed to be an subject and an figure for contemplation about what humanity considers dumb.  People empathize with the Dumb figure because they feel that way themselves sometimes.  And it's meant to be an phenomenon for Psychology how they do exactly.  When, as humans, its not exactly possible to be dumb when we are all wise experts on how people have reacted to Dumb over the centuries."

    "You mean he's centuries old‽"

    "Please," said an elder, "we're not animals."

    "But," she said.

    "But what?"

    "But he's saying something about you you're not acknowledging."

    "But now what could that be?"

    She realized it again.  The idea she was toying at.  But she wasn't completely certain of its meaning exactly.  If she had deciphered the painting in order to learn what they were saying about it.  Then it was the painting's responsibility to have convinced her of their play!

    What did that mean‽

    It meant that if she played with it with them because she had deciphered that that was what it was saying that she could do with them.

    But this painting was hundreds of years old.  It couldn't be saying something exactly about them exactly.

    Then she thought it through again.  Or could it?

    If her subjective experience of it was also the result of an subjective response to how they had treated her in front of it.  And its full meaning as an painting was subject to their own subjective trade and experience with it.  Then was what she thought it was saying about them subjective to her.  And only in her thoughts?

    That meant it was what she thought of them (that they could be made fun of in this way) if it was true.  Not what the painting thought.  But could they really be made fun of if their culture had brought her to this conclusion?

    Or was it Dumb himself or herself which had lead her to an conclusion?

    What were the steps she remembered about how he had made the imaginative leaps of inductive reasoning?  There was an big swirly eye; and then his mind dropped down low (because it was dumb and crazy it's safe to say) and then she had noticed the nose.  And the dis-animation on his face.  His face was somewhat obscured, from the connection between his mind and his eye (his body); there were waves and features all around.  And then, in her memory, the painting had appeared to be looking at her.

    She had interpreted it as though, if it could be looking at her, she would understand its message; that it was an subjectivity.  And was meant to be interpreted as an subjectivity.  But how had she reached this conclusion?  So naturally.  As though she was conditioned to respond to paintings in that way.  As though they always looked into you while you were looking into them.  (Or any type of art for that matter, perhaps even more specifically and specialized like the work of an Author).  And everything you saw was also what they saw.  And they could prove it by putting these funny little lines here and there.  Which represented something about your subconscious you may not be aware but which was acting on you in such an way as to produce an certain effect.

    And one must always think of God this way, as the actor as it were, who were in control of everything on the canvas with expert precision.  But it was already there.

    She looked at paintings like they were looking into her now because of these elders and their community around the civilization advancement of allowing artistic subjects to possess their own subjectivity.  And she remembered all of the famous ones she knew when she found herself interacting with them emotionally again.  As if something they depicted was something she could self-identify with finally.  As she had always wanted.  Finally.  To be able to do in this new way she was learning.  She remembered how her imagination had pounced on the subject of speaking to community elders as though there was another person there who was an painting.

    She imagined an great Canadian elder somewhere say to it; why, you're an bleatin' painting‽  There's nothing wrong with that now!

    Of course they would welcome an painting into society this way.  They were Canadians.

    In fact that's probably how they did welcome it into society.  She wouldn't be surprised.  If she found historical accuracy then she would be surprised!  But people, Canadian people leaning on the fact that you can be anyone you want in this culture.  And if you want to be an paintin' that's fine with just the way you are!

    But she realized the tragedy.  The one which was central to her life.  She could never introduce an painting like that to the public in Russia!

    They would think it was dumb!

    She calmed down and stopped imagining this particular situation room (which was of such broad subject it had left the room and was now part of the atmosphere, you know, to give everybody enough room in which to do everything they needed to do).

    Maybe she could introduce Dumb to Russia.  Oh maybe she would fly to another country!  But where would she get the money?

    It was her ultimate fantasy to bring art to people in this way and yet she couldn't do it in such an disgraced republic.  In fact she would have trouble doing it anywhere.  Society just wasn't ready for it.

    People do that all the time with books, she argued.  Like how they quote them in their essays as though the object that an book is was itself talking to them.

    And she thought about the second painting she would do.  The most critical one.

    The one she would name Anti-Psychological.

    

    It would be an exploration into the psyche of people who are affected by everyone who was being anti-psychological.  It would be an community project of seeing which characters it brought to mind when they were with one another.  Why was humanity so broken and why did all these things on the canvas have to do with the results and repercussions of having bruise'd the mind which, one's ego, depended on?  All of anti-psychological history was responsible for the present and current mood disorders.  People calling people dumb wasn't even the half of it.  No.  She reasoned with herself.  This painting would have to be the biggest of all of them.  It had to show people both what anti-psychology was and wasn't.  By projecting an subject into which was based the reasonings around it by the community.  They subjectivized (made subjective) the painting by developing its character around how anti-psychology had scarred the human imagination.  And how people were ready to change their society and their lives.  To prevent more anti-psychological emotional damage against their egos.  If they addressed this painting personally and talked to it in an conversation it could change the way they lived their lives.  It could also change interpretation as more of an individual errand into an shared exploit, every moment of which was important.  When they talked to the painting this way, why did it suggest something to them in that particular way?

    If an painting could have subjectivity in culture and urban society just because it was about its own subjectivity in an way that most people could recognize.  Then where did the line stop?  The line between being aware of what one is doing and actually being aware of what one is doing?

    Engaging with Art.

    If we're referring to Anti-Psychological it has to be capable of depicting its own imagination somehow.  Like why exactly in this culture does the symbol of an scorpion apply here.  In such an way to suggest the mind is anti-psychological sometimes because some people still are; and we are each other in an community way because that is our instinct as humans to be (psychological) empathetic creatures.  And the scorpion is an symbol of it because as an political theorist and an author people cannot help but in this world to be anti-psychological to him.  Even though he represents his own political theory.  Why would an political theory have anything to do with being anti-psychological?  But this civilization could interpret it as the first thing it is saying about itself is that people are anti-psychological to him and it hurts.  Anti-Psychological, as it turns, is an scorpion because he has an political theory and belongs to an world in which, when one is being anti-psychological one cannot hold political office or have any political theory or know what theory is exactly anyway.  And when one does hold out as an political actor as an scorpion and nobody can defeat the scorpion.  By being anti-psychological.  It's suggesting that people are being anti-psychological by not respecting him as an person even though he is an painting.

    It would spark an public controversy.  Can an painting show how he is not being respected as an person even though he is an painting?

    And the painting would answer.  In blatant terms.  I am subject.

    I am subject.

    That's what an painting would say.

    But how would it say this, in so many ways?

    I am an object that cannot to appear to be complete.  If one is joking.

    Like by breaking their focus on the subject somehow.  Putting an big circle around it.

    Object.  You stop considering an object now.  It is painting.  It is the destruction of the object.  And now we're going to talk about an subject because that isn't one.  And neither is that.  And that.  And that.  And that.  And none of these are objects they are messages from an observer; an subjective presence who is still there.  And since our society can introduce you to him and show you this.  It may be just the world's most obvious painting.  An broken humanity.  One which would produce an anti-psychological emotional painting to bounce ideas off of.

    Someone would reach out to it at midnight, having broken into the hall where it was kept.

    And would realize the full amount of its splendour and promiscuity.

    

    It was lit from within like magic.

    "Shh?  Wah?  Wah?"  She would start speaking to it, "I'm.  You're."

    And it would answer, "Anti-Psychological."

    And she would drop her defenses and make out with this painting.  Realizing its full force coming into view.  Painters of Make-Out Sessions was an thing.

    The Author slowly and correctly had an long soliloquy in this moment—

    If I wasn't living with schizophrenia but, maybe and perhaps, schizophrenica (an place where people are diagnosed with schizophrenia incorrectly).  Then Something of an quite different nature was happening to me.

    I was being interiorized all of other people's suffering with this fake diagnosis through the medical system.

    

    And my reaction to that was what they were documenting, not my illness.  I didn't have any!

    I was being traumatized by society even though they were claiming it under an different name and didn't consider it that.  And to them, it looked like I had schizophrenia because they had originally incorrectly identified it as that.  And all agreed as professionals I was schizophrenic.

    When maybe there was another explanation for what was happening.

    

    I was in fact an genius and I had figured out an way to interiorize all of society thus;

    And so they were subjecting me to psychological trauma because that was the only way they had figured out to end what they saw as problems in society.  Problems that were ME.  How could one make this most blatant mistake‽  But by considering another person an na; and not seeing for themselves that those selves have an subject.  I'm the only one who matters.  Not you.  Just someone who could be anyone.  Just as Dumb and Anti-Psychological as the rest of us.  And then you realize that some paintings have more authority than some people.   And it's an real sad story, isn't it?

    Thereby subjecting me to all of their interiorizing about problems in society; they projected that society onto me, knowing it was full of those problems.  And expected me to follow medical protocol as though I was schizophrenic when I knew carefully and precisely that I wasn't.  And I was actually the wiser fellow.  They were claiming I was paranoid, when in fact from my perspective they appeared to be the ones who were paranoid, not me.

    I was the source and problem of psychological problems in society.

    And I was kept under incarceration and treated like that.

    All while they documented how strange I must have been acting, to have to answer to an world that subjected me to this treatment.

    With an deeply interiorized leadership mind that I had.

    I couldn't just let that happen to me and not do something about it.  I had to fix society in this way so that it could not happen again.

    

    And I'm not living with schizophrenia because I choose not to and that's what schizophrenia is.

    And I'm not living with schizophrenia because I have watched the still and current rhythm of my soul from the interior all the way through my medical "facilitation."  And it has never once appeared to disrupt at any such point.  As though I would be anything other than mentally healthy.

    But since I am schizophrenia now, maybe I cannot answer that question because that's what schizophrenia is.

    But it did necessarily disappoint him to hear people say he was living with schizophrenia because his ideas were so brilliant and his aspiration so high; that he thought, ashamedly, they would think different about him if they knew he was schizophrenic.  And he wanted his name and his lineage to be able to be trusted as an Artist or an Author without having the complication of it being written by an schizophrenic, who would always make it about something that wasn't there or had little importance.

    People who were schizophrenic had delusions of grandeur.  Wasn't his whole scheme as an Artist and Dreamer an delusion of grandeur‽  What did it matter if he was passionate and right about some things?  Why did his art have to be considered the product of an unhealthy mind.  When it was the health of his mind and he felt healthy doing it?  Wasn't any type of novel in itself really just an delusion of grandeur.  And that's why it had novelty.  And that's why it was funny?  The novel being his pure medium.  Wasn't he entitled to several or more delusions of grandeur in one lifetime?  Without having to be seen as an nutcase?

    This was truly Schizophrenica, an place where people said it was an correct diagnosis to agree with the diagnosis of oneself as schizophrenic when and just because one knew other people who were schizophrenic.  And that's what schizophrenia is because you can't necessarily escape from its consequences for the whole community and society.  It doesn't matter if you yourself have schizophrenia.  Other people do.  And that's what makes you schizophrenic.  Especially if they are your family members.

    And he could not bring himself to agree with this diagnosis (schizophrenica) there were other issues he was having and they weren't being addressed.  And it was the Doctor's fault because they had traumatized me by telling me I had schizophrenia when I had schizophrenica and keeping me here under false pretenses.

    There wasn't even an ripple of thought in the stillness of the activity of my mind.  That could lead me to agree with this diagnosis.

        But since I was living with schizophrenia I couldn't necessarily agree because that's what schizophrenia is.  It's legally.   You can't agree with it.

    My is Art to put an lot on somebody's shoulders, isn't it?

    What was my real explanation then, if schizophrenia wasn't happening?

    I was an genius but since I had schizophrenia I couldn't necessarily decide that I wasn't or reach any other conclusion than I was.

    Yes, I had truly thought of everything.  I was just an person who was so educated about the Death Drive and psychology somehow (however emerging from the Arts); and I knew about repression & cathexis because I had professors that really care about the Big Issues.  And these things that can happen to an person and ways of knowing who we are.

    I was educated in all of this and now it was happening to me.

    I was schizophrenic because I couldn't agree with an authority figure when really I couldn't agree because I had an reason that wasn't being listened to.  It was just that society was inferior to me somehow (not my fault) and there needed to be an way that God could fix it.  God and I were going to fix it by having what was wrong about society to happen to me.  It was the only way real change could be made.  I had to be hurt in the same way our human community had been hurt in order to understand it.

    But this was all evidence of me not being able to agree, which itself might be an symptom of schizophrenia.

    But I still knew there was some part of me that wasn't being addressed.  The deepest part of me was an healthy, genius mind; and it didn't matter if I was schizophrenic.  I was still an wonderful person to be around.  Not just someone who couldn't respect authority.

    My civilization, thus rendered medically to me in such an way, was damaging me spiritually and physically by thus claiming my mental health not to be in order; was itself to blame for how I felt (mentally ill).  And they hadn't necessarily investigated the current of this yet.  What could be the effect of the whole society on him?  What could they do to an completely sane person by mis-diagnosing them?  What could they do to an genius person by mis-diagnosing him?

    And so in all probability I would go on saying I'm not schizophrenic even though I am.  Even if it's what was exactly caused to me by my society by abusing me thus so.  An ordinary person to be given an medical treatment for something he or she doesn't have.

    But let me say this voice who wants to be listened to: I'm not thoughtless or criminal in any way.  And in fact it may be true that I'm an person who was used by the medical care facility to find out what was wrong with its own species; so that I could go on to correct everyone.  Having experienced their snotty, inaccurate criticisms and indignity first hand.  And this was why I had to deal with it in fiction because it was not always true.  There were exceptions to the conclusion that the total community had been responsible.  And if it wasn't the total community, then none of them were responsible.  Everything had turned out okay.  I received help and support for some of my mental health problems all the same.  And well if medical help couldn't be perfect at least it was thus enough to be there with the love to see me through.  For it to be such an big weight to put on someone's shoulders that he would be the one they would subject to traumatizing him this way.  And now I know why I want to fictionalize it, to tell it in fiction.  Because it is that fine of an point: I'm still (pond-bearing) in the lowest depths of my consciousness, where nothing has disturbed me.  And no matter what occurs to me psychologically I know I am not disturbed in my furthest truths about myself.  And I can accept humanity the way it is.  In need of an savior.  Because if someone could go through the whole treatment and facilitation process of being diagnosed with schizophrenia and not actually be schizophrenic, then that is what is truly wrong in society.  And it happened for an reason that way so that someone, who went through that, would put it right again.  I was just smarter than they gave me credit for.  They thought I was just somebody ordinary.  That I wouldn't deliberately put myself in that situation for any reason.

    

    But I hadn't, and that's news to me if I had?

    —and now it was passing out from view what the Author had said to himself.

    The painting (Anti-Psychological) was suggesting itself to be anti-psychological insofar as the subject is concerned with anti-psychology energy.  What had been done to them by an unfair and unjust public which was emerged from and so conditioned by an humanity of histories prevented it from appearing another way.

    If you were anti-psychological, it was with you.  Because if that was you realizing I can exactly refer to me as an subject in this society.  Then you are free to interact with that subject even though it may only exist in the imaginations of minds of men and women.  From whom you can receive dear companionship and informative guidance on the subject of your own self-identification with the anti-psychological subject.  One who oneself cannot be exactly because I am only just an art piece after all.  Therefore I am your own hypothetical thoughts about anti-psychology and what it could mean for you exactly.  And it's okay to share them with an friendly and just republic.

    And somehow everything you could think of this painting to be about was anti-psychological in some way.  So that you would keep catching yourself on the repetition.

    Each one is an object; that's anti-psychological.

    Each one is an subject; that's anti-psychological too.

    Clearly there is only one subject.  And it is me, Anti-Psychological.  And if I'm saying you're being anti-psychological because I can't not be anti-psychological.  Then you're anti-psychological.

    Clearly you must treat me now as though I am an person.  And it doesn't matter if I'm an subject.  Divided between fiction and non-fictional worlds.  We are an community because I'm allowed to be an painting that refers to itself as Anti-Psychological even though he himself (an painting) is an psychological event.  An psychological activity in better terms.  Because it is the reflection on the thought, can I be psychological as opposed to anti-psychological at all times?  And the answer is often no because other people are often anti-psychological to us.

    But if we can invent an person, who is an painting, who is anti-psychological at all times.  And it's okay for him to express himself that way in society because he is, after all, Anti-Psychological.  Then people could find themselves in it again, that there were people out there to whom one was being Anti-Psychological!  And it's not necessarily Anti-Psychological to pause over the fact of whether or not one is Anti-Psychological especially if one has an little buddy who is Anti-Psychological!  The painting, although it was Anti-Psychological, transcended its surroundings because it was introduced in an environment ready to witness the scene of its own mental conundrum.  Of being anti-psychological with itself sometimes and yet not considering oneself to be anti-psychological in any way.  We were allowed to be Anti-Psychological in public with this painting because it represented Anti-Psychology as an deep and human personal struggle.

    "Everything you ever see is just subjectivity because you are subjectivity," it would be saying.

    "You can have anti-psychological feelings, just like me!  And you don't have to be ashamed of it in public anymore.  In fact it's better if you don't.  Those anti-psychological feelings are out there, and they're always ready to slip in between the cracks in your psychology so that you will be overcome and defeated.  And if you don't confront them right now," it would say, "then you'll never be fully psychological.  As to suggest that your mind itself is impaired because of those anti-psychological feelings and people who do those things.  Because it is.  And now that you've had the thought.  You are completely psychological.  I can accept that now."

    "But," would say the elders, "you are Anti-Psychological.  Therefore you cannot accept that."

    And the little girl they had introduced to the painting would look up and realize the full terrifying force it had and she would notice.  Holy crap they missed something about it again!

    And she would start analyzing it.  To be able to tell whether it was safe to tell anything about it.

    If I explained something anti-psychological about Anti-Psychological then wouldn't that scare everybody by making them think I'm anti-psychological?

    

    Hey, wait an minute, she thought.  Am I afraid to tell them what I think because I am anti-psychological?  Wouldn't this fear itself be an component of someone who was Anti-Psychological?  She was beginning to see it that he was an classy figure.  Every time she was worried about herself being anti-psychological (which she couldn't help being to an certain extent because of the history of the human planet) she could always think of Anti-Psychological.  The painting.  Who they knew how to use to always refer back to the subject matters of anti-psychology.  Who was he?  If he was about anti-psychology and he always referred you (the observer) back to anti-psychology.  Then wasn't he making you anti-psychological by so including you in its performance upon your psyche?  And was that anti-psychological in itself or an performativity of relationship when it acknowledged both observers.

    When you performed anti-psychology because you were so moved by the painting; because you were paying attention to its subject (an subject who would always anti-psychologize you) then weren't you yourself being anti-psychological?

    But, the elders assured her, this itself was the subject of the painting and that's why it was okay to be Anti-Psychological with it all you wanted.  And if you for some reason took up some social cue because of the people who were now here instead of the painter to discuss the topic of Anti-Psychological as though he was there.  It was an breeding ground for brainstorming sessions.  How would one perform being anti-psychological to Anti-Psychological because it would be the only thing he would recognize, perhaps narcissistically, and they wanted to drop him an hint?  How would one speak to others in this setting?  As though one of us there is Anti-Psychological?  And it's okay for him to do it because he's just an painting and cannot do physical harm to you?

    But, argues the hero protagonist, if my reception of this painting is connected with your own social behaviors and cues.

    (The heist of the most valuable artwork being stolen; takes place in an technologically guarded mansion).

    (She's getting it, they were thinking, she's really getting it).

    Then you're telling me you also self-identify with an painting about Anti-Psychological activity.

    In the sense that there is some of it in the real world which you cannot prevent.  As though to compare and empathize with it.  And so your own characters and behavior are affected by it.  But it is not itself worthy of you being anti-psychological with anybody from ever having to do that.

    "There's no other way to say it more responsibly," would say an elder, "as an civilization we are the fragmented subject now.  We are self-aware of our own anti-psychological thoughts.  Therefore it is safe and just to tell you that we are.  That's what's called neo-modernism."

    "But how," she would say, "can you accept someone who is anti-psychological?"

    "That's what psychology is," they shrugged.

    "So the painting.  How I'm reacting to it.  OMG," she felt it out completely for the first time, "I'm self-aware of your anti-psychological emotions and all of mine.  And I know for the most part my feelings are not tied down with any of them.  But there are these memories of people and thoughts.  How the human race is slave to its anti-psychological history still to this day and all of them, if any of them, could benefit from meeting Anti-Psychological."

    "That's what we said," said the old guy.

    "So your culture and ethnicity is based around sharing space with an subjectivity who is beyond reason?  As though that in emergencies might happen to some people?"

    "Yes."

    She tried to talk to Anti-Psychological again.

    No words would come out.  She figured it was an mentally healthy outcome.

    And then her thought bubble popped.

    And she went home that evening from an office.

    Thinking about her boyfriend and how it was that she had just recently confronted her behavioral issues with him in an painting and she seemed to be doing well now.

    And then she thought of it, the next humourous skit she would try to play with him.

    Instead of praying to the BBQ Sauce gods she'd pray to Dumb and Anti-Psychological, the paintings of hers that had won property and riches of their own (which they actually owned as real property) even though they were paintings.  When in society it seemed everyone had lost their mind.  For talking to these paintings.  And the more they did and with one another.  The more value these paintings gained.  The more hefty was the logic of the community which owned the fact of them owning themselves (mere paintings) in an humanoid world of strength and physical animation to become for, they said, Dumb and Anti-Psychological were inexpendable.  And if you would just take the time to stop and figure out what they were saying to you; which included what their community thought.  You would realize it's not okay to be dumb and anti-psychological anymore.  You can't be dumb!  Nobody's dumb!  We're frikkin humans.  All of us!  And every saying that anyone was dumb in the first place was anti-psychological.  But we can put all that history behind us now because we can help each with how we react to the paintings' subjectivities.  If one does, for example, feel an emotional pull into anti-psychology, then maybe one should explore that emotion fully.  For if anyone has an reason to be anti-psychological, emotionally, then we must address this fact with psychology the other good type of wheat to find out whether their anti-psychology is justified.  Emotions are complex feelings that sometimes defy definition; though we have such an many number of good English words for many complex emotions.  There are however sometimes, these emotions that cannot be explained.  Or that can only be explained in part ways.

    But what would it have to do with her boyfriend?

    She wanted him to explore her like she asked people to explore her paintings like this thus, if she ever produced them and publicly introduced them to the public as subjects.  She wanted him to feel in her limitless like she did with the paintings.  Like he could feel any emotion with her.  Just like how she could feel any emotion with the paintings.

    Because of the support and contrast at understanding the meanings behind these two paintings by studying what it was about the public that would accept them for what they are.  She was able also to explore this power with the imagined people of her community who (she realized) were both introducing the painting to her at the same time she was its artist.  M.C. Escher.

    If she could explore all of her emotions in each painting one at an time.

    Then it was okay to react emotionally with her boyfriend also because she was keeping tabs on her mental health by talking to Dumb and Anti-Psychological.  Her friends.  In case you hadn't noticed.  She could explain exactly what had made her friends with them.

    But then she remembered she hadn't painted them yet.

    The little, frowny French girl; what would she make of it‽  As an Artist, with an beret and an long cigarette, perhaps seated at the back of the theatre smoking an cigar in the shadows, the fog of war; what would she make of it‽

    We duel to the death.  Roleplay style.  She was beyond anti-psychology altogether.

    And yet she hadn't admitted no one is beyond it altogether.  And so that itself was anti-psychological of her.

    And yet she still wanted to finish the paintings maybe one day.

    And so she slept that night with difficulty but when she woke up the next day she realized she felt rested.  In her soul.  Somehow.  Moreso than she was the day previous.

    She was going to make an difference and she didn't already have an advanced strategy of how that would play out.  But she was going to do it.

    Over the next few days, she began speaking to these elders in her thoughts.  How will you help me with anti-psychology if that is the subject of your culture?

    Well, promise now, they said, that if you consider yourself part of our culture we will tell you.

    OK.  She agreed.

    There then!  That's not anti-psychological anymore it's cultural then isn't it‽ they answered.

    She realized she had fallen for it.  Right after she had psyched herself up about culture having to do with making other people join your culture by resisting their efforts to make you enjoy theirs.  By making them enjoy yours.

    And she was enjoying it.  She wanted to be part of this culture that took anti-psychological sentiment and transformed it into culture.

    She wanted to be of the same culture as Dumb and Anti-Psychological.

    There that's now, the elders said, she's getting it.  But there are an few particulars.  She doesn't know how we see Dumb and Anti-Psychological culturally yet.  We have to perform our culture so that she'll see it!

    We need people who can teach an subject to learn how to teach an subject by talking to Dumb or Anti-Psychological.  Even in front of other people, if they wanted!

    As an Russian, she blurted out to them, I want to be an citizen who can legally have an painting in society whose an subject!

    Well we can't legally let you have an painting whose an subject! said the Russian orthodoxy.

    But you need to let me have an painting you will legally refer back to as an subject, she thoughtspoke.

    We can't. they said.

    Why not? she replied.

    Well!  Because it isn't necessary‽ they shouted back.

    You're just old-fashioned archaic moral temperances, she screamed!  And if we're having an reverse way of doing things, as in travelling back in time, instead of updating our customs and belief systems!  Then it's your own fault you big stinky rotten thing!

    And we need art that is privileged in society thus, to be able to spot them, all of these the public who will have witnessed its beauty.  And legally I can do that because internationally it is legal.

    We'll get back to you on this, they said, and she descended into her own logic again.

    If I can convince these guys that I should have an society in which it is okay to put someone on the spot by introducing them to an subjective personality that is represented by an painting.  It will be the biggest public stunt manouvre which has ever flown.  In which not only the personality of its painter but also the personality of the community which introduced the subject to you is shown.  And these paintings are Cultural to us because they say something about the present every time we look at them.

    "Well I wanted to hear about how it's not Logic," said Dumb.

    "And I want to hear about why you, someone who is supposed to have spent many an night merry with the Lord, in knowledge of his completeness in everything.  Can't figure out why you're so stressed out and acting this way," said Anti-Psychological.

    "Gosh dang it! you guys!," she would say in this scene, "I'm just so fucking happy to have you."

    And an tear would drip from her eye as she hugged them.

    As though it was an comedy.

    And if she could value these individuals as subjects, even though it was true some people could not even value her as an subject.  They actually valued an object more than an person.  Then it would stand as an good example on her character that she was able to have an conversation with them as though the painting's subjectivity was there.  Even though it was an object.  (The reverse-ways of thinking according to these people who thought any object more valuable than an person).  Instead of thinking an object more important.  She thought an object when viewed as an subject was more important.  Simply for the fact that it was an subject.

    Like how revolutionary was this‽

    It would advance and update society in so many ways.

    If they could prove they could actually have an conversation with an painting or two of them as though they were actually there.  And then—but they could do experiments where both paintings were in the room!  And if it could be proven their brains actually were performers suited to do that.  And there could be an Logic explained from their performance about how the variable subjects were expressed even though they weren't there.  But they were there, was the point of the first one, Dumb, because they could exist in the minds of people who observed them.  It made sense to think of it as an certain magic, carefully following one's own definition of the use of magic.  It made them think of an certain personality.  An alchemical subject.  One who would always be being expressing that it was an subject, duh—why point out otherwise I mean—and since they could isolate it was not exactly only their social cues and present-day conversation around its meaning but that the painting could actually suggest to them again and again it was an subjectivity.  They accepted it was in the artist's intention.

    They could record their own reactions to it, mentally.  So that they knew it was not just their own psychology which was having an effect.  There was something about this painting which was, as you say, subjective.  It would always look into the observer from every corner of the room.

    It was just like every other piece of art they had ever seen.

    And yet they could see it as part of their community and in relation to their own subjectivity.

    Like it was reminding them, whenever they needed it, ya aren't dumb, you've just been treated anti-psychologically.

    Nobody is dumb, really.

    And you can tell the difference between dumb and anti-psychological.

    Dumb is anti-psychological but anti-psychological isn't dumb because it's anti-psychological.

    Just the object of our thoughts we want to suppress, maybe.

    Anti-psychological is just what we mean to correct with psychology.  Even if it takes an whole humanity being psychological to do it.

    It doesn't necessarily have any logical substance or ability.

    To be anti-psychological.  That's why we can have an painting whose subjectivity is only anti-psychological like the object it is.  Even though we say it is an subject in society, Anti-Psychological isn't.  And that's exactly how it gets its logical form.

    But, was her one final quick conclusion, he is.

    He has to be.

    Even though he isn't.

    So that people will get it when we say, Anti-Psychological is being anti-psychological.

    Oh he is?  You might say back.  Oh I happen not to recognize him as an subject now because of my own anti-psychological condition?

    That's right, the elders would say, and he says it back to you.

    But not because we need him to.

    —Not Because We Needed Him To!—

    And that's exactly why it wouldn't work in this society.

    We wouldn't actually have elders of this level of artistic prestige to be able to deploy an public defense system of an art piece with its own human subjectivity and psychology.

    We won't even have elders like that by the time I'm one.

    What am I gonna do, so she said to these elders, if you're so powerful and good then why do you not help me‽

    If I could just have exactly enough authority in society to say that, culturally, Dumb and Anti-Psychological are real subjects, and it makes the sense of the logic of them to say so because people are dumb and anti-psychological but only like objects are; in being that they're not because objects don't have minds that can be dumb or anti-psychological and if we're already saying that objects cannot be dumb then how are we not saying humans cannot be dumb either?  Surely all humans are smarter than objects and it is anti-psychological to say them not to be.  But how would she get this power in this society?  This way to communicate with other people about her art piece as though it was an game and they were in on the logic of which so could be rendered in language and logic and puzzles as though it was its own subjectivity?  She couldn't just paint something and start introducing it to people.  It would take years of research.  About the sociological artifice of our current economy.  And how exactly to introduce it to society based on the strategies and direction of experts who knew how to represent "her coming out with an friend" as an advanced civilization characteristic which was glorious and unfrivolous.  An painting that people treated respectfully and with dignity as though it was another person for the fun of how it would react to them in their own psychology which they could share with one another with robust fertility.  In order to social cue and guide on other people who couldn't see their culture yet.  She couldn't just plan an media operation around it.  The whole society had to be ready for it because it was transhumanism in essence.  In the way that an object came to stand in for an person as the object was that person and could communicate.  And so it represented the future.  They couldn't just receive notification of it.  It had to be in the future.  They might have to wait until after the invention of artificial intelligence to finally show the public this side of humanity.  One that could reflect on its emotions, with the help of an painting, interactively.  Feel all of them.  Feel the full-out nervous system feedback response.  The one that always lead back to first base.  I am an subject.  Therefore everything I feel must matter.  And if I need an painting to be that bridge between me and how I feel, like some kind of object that has become my body modification, (an cybernetic limb or prosthesis for example to an whole civilization), then I'm an cyborg.  And I deserve to be recognized as one as an individual in society.

    The painting would teach its observers not only how to interact with an object as though it was an person, but how to react to other persons who were not objects.  As an whole group.  Even though talking to whole groups of people is sometimes difficult.  Especially when their artwork's painting's name is Dumb.  Because it has to be in society.  Or Anti-Psychological because it has to be.  We're so broken as an whole species that we actually need artwork made to help us reflect on the subject.  Of our own psycho-analytical anomalies.

    Well I might as well get in tight with these two paintings then.  Become real buddies with them.  Because apparently by learning to be able to do that I will be deciphering the whole analytical process it takes to create them.  Everything I reflect and share on the subject of Dumb and Anti-Psychological will be responded to within the community; as such in an way as to maximize the amount of helpful advice and opinions people are willing to give me.  If I talk about their artwork like we were all (including these art pieces) our own individuals with our own knowledge.  I may learn so many secrets about them.  And they really deserve to be treated like that as an culture.  They have even proven I'm part of their culture.  I'm going to dedicate my life to representing the subject of art as its own subjectivity for art's sake.  If we can produce an community in which people who were not part of the community recognized two of its primary social figures; why that would be funny!  If we produced an community that would react to and bend the rules of interpretation together; why but what Russian law would go against that‽

    She was tired now.  This was going to be an gigantic effort.  And she was only starting in her approach.  She hadn't gotten into the groove of lifting weights about it yet.

    Paintings cannot legally be considered subjects because it strips the average human of their own subjectivity, privileging painted objects above an own human person they would say.  But that's exactly the point, she would cuss, we're showing people they are more valuable than the subject by actually being more valuable than the subject.  And if it was to point to their known human creativity around the subject of creating subjects.  It would be fine to represent an culture this way, as one which would speak to and have actual conversations with its paintings together sometimes (only ones of which the Artist had intended it to go this way as an actual (licensed, possibly) characteristic of their painting of course but if people reflected on other paintings as though they were meant to be interpreted that way also even when they were not this couldn't do humanity an bad turn either).

    If you allow an painting to have its own subjectivity of an community, she reasoned, wondering about how each person would internalize that rationality if they believed it and how it would affect their relationships with one another also.  They could generate humour with one another around the fact that Dumb could hear them also.  They could invent an behavior that would activate their play instinct with one another as though Anti-Psychological was watching them.  Anti-Psychological was an painting of nothing happening psychologically.  Like the frame was your body and portrait but there was nothing to depict inside.

    And they all got it, because that was what they were explaining.

    When we talk to Dumb together like this, they were saying in her imagination, (these elders), we are specifically focusing the thought that it is only fiction and we knew that; but we're still smart enough to be able to play with it together like it is.  An play on someone named Dumb who can't escape from the fact.  Our horror.  Our All Horrors of All Horrors.  Really.  Or is it Anti-Psychological?  That we would actually have to share our secrets with one another in these ways (that we actually have anti-psychological feelings even though we try the hardest and we do and ya know we all try so hard!)?  Like we would not be able, necessarily, to overcome them all.  (We can't, psychologically, overcome all of them because we are reciprocate empathetic creatures who feel each other's pain).  And so much pain is caused by the anti-psychological.

    Anti-psychological is the practice of deterring from an feasible psychological conclusion; as much as it is what most people don't know better than because it's been done to them personally.  Anti-psychology means to shutdown an psychological (even harmonious benevolent) approach.

    She tapped into the emotion.  Pain.

    Where did it come from?  All Of History.

    Our species was in pain, realistically, because we had injured it so many times.  And this last war (WWII) was above all what had been the worst thing that ever happened.  And now we were in so very much pain we couldn't realize it sometimes.  It was that bad but those Canadians were tight and had figured out an way to work around all these principles.  Realistically, if we feel all the pain, they said, then it will eventually stop.

    They were so shocked they all fell on the floor.

    Everyone who was listening.

    And they felt soothed.  Feel all the pain.  Okay.  Every time it crops up again we'll just feel it.  And that's what will take care of all of it.  And this was our idea on how to set everything normal again, even though things might not feel normal.  As though everything about it was right; even though we had deduced nothing about it (reality) was right so how could our own conclusion be.  But that still doesn't mean it isn't an solid plan.  And won't set things right.

    But seriously you guys if we damage this species any further.  That's why we cannot fail any more times.

    No this was insane.

    We can't just feel pain and that's supposed to aid ending it somehow.

    We have to do something about it too.

    We have to make sure our species will never cause its pain ever again.

    We have completely to turn around.  Make an 180.  (Degrees).  That has never been made before in our history.  And we as Canadians know exactly how to do that now.  By ending the war before it ever is started.  We need to do that manouvre quickly and precisely.  All of us.  Our whole species.  Because we're too good for war and we always were.  All of you!  Now, up!  Go do it!  Canadians said so!

    And she's like thinking about these Canadians then and wondering how will Russia do it.  HOW exactly would they stop the war‽

    An society in which Dumb and Anti-Psychological my paintings are legally allowed to possess ownership of themselves as qualified subjects, and wouldn't have so many problems as an war because they would have the figures of Dumb and Anti-Psychological to direct public discussion about what categorically counted as an person anymore or an art piece.  And perpetuate the subject of people feeling dumb and feeling anti-psychological sometimes even if they knew it wasn't true.  (If it was anti-psychological it was true).  And basically to condition them to feel anti-psychological feelings sometimes in public or "dumb" feelings whatever those were supposed to be.  Because they knew they were an psychologically damaged race; not totally, thankfully.  But to an extent.  And it affected all of them.  Why not express dumb feelings in public?  Why not express anti-psychological feelings in public?  But they knew it was obvious.  If you did people would think you are dumb.  Or Anti-Psychological.  That's why we have to be anti-psychological in this Age with ourselves even if we are.

    You mean you have to be anti-psychological to an certain extent to figure out what it is people are talking about these days because we are realizing we actually are those anti-psychological selves.  And the way with what to do about it is actually be them, to an certain extent, with one another (responsibly, with an certain level of awareness of it) as though it was okay to talk about Anti-Psychological as an subject by emulating its symbolism in the way that is common to interpret it as an community.  You're being Anti-Psychological because you're being Anti-Psychological.  Or you're being anti-psychological because you are Anti-Psychological.  Or because you are not being Anti-Psychological you are being anti-psychological.  And it's fine to do it this way by talking to them as though they are actually there because they are.  I mean they honestly have real substance in our thoughts as characters.  So we might as well, and we have no reason not to, talk and jabber with one another as though they're here.  Even if we have to expand our approach to include other paintings.

    Of course, one would say, it's okay to refer to them as such and in so doing I am raising the greater egoistic question of whether their symbolism applies to me in an specific way.

    What is their symbolism? say the elders, look into it carefully.

    Well the Dumb painting has an swirly eye because it is on the subject of how crazy one has to be to believe someone (even the self) is dumb.  And maybe I can relate with that with you as an community because it is the first thing that came to my mind.

    OK, yes, proceed.

    So like.  How much do you think I look like Dumb?

    What an question.

    I suppose, they would proceed, you look like Dumb an lot because you're self-identifying with being crazy enough to believe the word dumb has any merit.  Without necessarily recognizing that if you are self-identifying with the subject it can possibly be because it's because you knew someone who was.  And it affected you somehow.  Which was Anti-Psychological of you because you didn't accept (just because it was about that other person) that it wasn't your own psychology.  As if there would be any barrier which would prevent you from recognizing the fact that if they're anti-psychological you are too because it's part of the community.

    That's how anti-psychology works; that's why it's still part of the human species.

    But you couldn't really blame us; we've had so many other problems to deal with.  (But now if we could just deal with this one problem of anti-psychology it would lessen the burden of all other ordeals we've had to deal with).

    Why wouldn't an species fix its one main problem that people kept being anti-psychological everywhere?  Which was probably to blame for its many wars and heroes' sacrifices?

    Let's deal with anti-psychology by introducing the subject as an painting.

    Or two.

    We don't have to be scared of the imagination here, would say Dumb, in unison with all its community (the elders), because imaginations are allowed to be subjects.  And there's nobody who is going to cause an rank and inciteful riot against it because everyone loves jabber fests with dignitary paintings who also control some aspect of their audience's subjectivity and enjoy those social privileges to be able to be spoken about in such an way that would incite and rally on the invitation of our species into that post-industrial space in which paintings are allowed to be people.

    And we don't have to be scared of the subject of our own minds being damaged, would say Anti-Psychological, because they are.  Get over it.  If my experience overlaps with your experience and my experience is psychologically damaged (not because of the overlapping but because it already before is); and that psychologically damages you in some way which we can't prevent that's my fault.  And you gave it your all kid.  You can't-keep all-of-them-out!  They're in here, sometimes, preventing me from having an healthy psychology.  And they do it explicitly as though they know what they're doing and they are signaling to me that they know what they're doing.  They don't know what they're doing in my opinion.  They think they can damage you psychologically, just by being next to you, but they can't.  Just by sending psychic forces to you.  But they are in here.  Oh!  I can sense them!  They're all just milling about being an paranoid behavior disorder.  And I care because I know I'm not anti-psychological in some way!  Even though I AM so much of the time.  I can't help it.  There's an whole community of anti-psychological people out west somewhere.  And they don't care that they're being anti-psychological.  But I do care I'm being Anti-Psychological because I am Anti-Psychological!

    { Note: Anti-psychology has also been used as an term by me to refer to something you do to counter someone psychologizing you.  But in this novel I generally and specifically mean anti-psychology as being against psychology in general.  (Not embracing scientific psychological truths). }

    We need to change the face of all human history, would roar this painting to life, by allowing our psychologies to include anti-psychologies because those are the primary pictures of what the mental health struggles look like.  We can talk about those in society now because we have an Painting who is an registered anti-psychological and he says it's okay.  As an subject of our culture and appreciation of the arts.  So that we have more to talk about on the subject of being anti-psychological.  It's ok to talk about them because they are actually there.  And if we don't talk about them we won't necessarily survive as an species.  Therefore, go ahead ye, tell us an story about it.  And we will think about and analyze it.  I'm sure we've heard of this one before.  We know all sorts of stories about anti-psychological reasoning or anti-reasoning or whatever you prefer to call it.  Go on, you can't surprise any of us.

    Okay, Russasha would say in the face of this scene actually happening, and proceed to tell them everything that was Anti-Psychological that was going on with her.  I can't express his taste in music, she said, because I've never heard it before.  Does anyone or does he—do you know?  What kind of music do you like? she said finally.

    You know, industrial techno, it would say (she would notice the radio tower in the picture); and an little beebop!  Grimes.  Techno.  Ultimate science fiction force.  Everything that's possible in the future.  Space Ships.  The Genetic Accident.  Human terrestrial Earth.  What it meant as an spaceman.  Why we were forever destined to follow Space Ships forever.  Using superior technology of all kinds to harvest planets of all resources needed without actually destroying its population in an unsustainable way.

    We would grow into the planets we harvest from slowly, like plants.  So that when our productive ratio hit they would not be disturbed.  Their worthy species would have opportunities to grow into the natural resources we had brought with us this way.  And humanity carefully nurtured and catered to these connections every time it took possession of an whole ecosystem in this way.  It had to.  It had to be extremely gentle.  So as not to disturb its foundations and so uproot the source of all life on the planet.  So that they didn't just suck it dry like parasitic insects.  Disturbing forever the foundations of life and its principles in the universe.

    And okay, so what, you feel like an worm on an hook sometimes.  Doesn't that make you feel most alive!

    But why dost thou fisherman keep putting the worm on the hook just because I'm Russian! she screamed into her imagination.

    Because we can, they (fishermen) replied.

    No you can't, she said back to them.

    Why?

    Because in my culture we have an word for that, she said, it's Anti-Psychological!  If I can't have an conversation with-my-own-painting.  In public.  In my mind.  Then how do you deserve to say the most things about the universe in concise and edited diction‽

    Let's blow this joint, Anti-Psychological!  She had finally rested on the subject.  She deserved to consider him an subject now and she had proven it.  He could help her wrangle with these un-enlightened Westerners who wrangled with BBQ Sauce.  In her own mind at least maybe she wouldn't release it to the public yet.

    Good idea; that's an good idea! encouraged Anti-Psychological.

    I'm mature enough to have an conversation about who is Anti-Psychological, she concluded, remembering her confirmation bias.  I know exactly who Anti-Psychological is.  He's the guy that looks like someone was painting with BBQ Sauce.  That's like the whole point of his painting.  You can't miss it.  He has this condition that makes him paint with BBQ Sauce all the time.  I would notice that exact hue anywhere.

    We know that type of BBQ Sauce too, said the elders.  What does it have to do with the painting?

    Well if we support an practical and formal business protocol based on an economic model and proscriptions of economic diversity of natural selection of products.  She said.

    We hit the bull's eye!

    Dumb chimed in, sweety duddy dums, dumb people can't do that!

    Well I seriously suspect that I did! she said.

    And that was the end of it.  She had had her episode.  The one that was going to inspire her behavior in front of her man later.  The anti-psychological behavior issue that she needed to express with him as such because she couldn't get it out enough in the community.  Was it going to come out as only an laughing fit or would she actually try, at least, to make humour of it?  Hopefully beginning an new cycle between them.  One which would try at least to incorporate the anti-psychological behavior one suspected of everyone these days.  She could try.  She could at least come up with something.  Like just look at him and laugh like you wanted to be laughed at or something.

    She felt her pace coming to an resting point.

    And so she put it down for an few days and forgot about it.

    Meanwhile, something was happening in this policeman's (Viktor's) career.

    There were arrested criminals.  But he didn't think they were guilty.  And something was telling him every perception he had of everything would change.  And he would no longer see anything in the same way as he did before.  So when it came to that finally.  He would be able to re-interpret it then.  And probably see the same thing, that these were arrested criminals but they weren't guilty of anything.

    And he suspected his little mistress was letting on that she had enough intelligence to know what to do.  They had to take the Capital.

    He had fully integrated her personality around the subjects she taught him about her inward perception of herself.  And now was receiving her full personality through integration-status software.  Which somehow matched her personality.  Because she was his little robot.

    She could now communicate with him at an level she had never been able to communicate at with anybody else.  He had actually taken the time and had the patience to learn her personality.

    If she was being anti-psychological with herself as some kind of art scheme he wanted to know about it.

    She could now give him enormous commands including demands.  Like an government organization.  And he would interiorize all of it.  He would interiorize itself the fact that he was surprised and enlightened by how great her deception of those commands could mean.

    She was showing him an side of her she was born to speak.

    She could tell him anything and he would instantly know what she was saying because she had trained him to.

    The whole centre around which her life relied; was of course the little attic and why there were gods and people in it.  For feign thee how, they themselves (mere humans) were like gods when they talked to one another in that place; only metaphorically.  But for fun, at least, it had worked.  Having that connection with God was that he completed all things (or she, more likely) because those were the rules of physics.  Mini-gods?  Could we at least be mini-gods please‽  They would say to God.  And their Dad would say, he's telling you that's good enough for him.  And he would smash his hand against his mouth and giggle.  In the gayest way possible.  And they knew it was okay for them to giggle this way too with God.

    So they just sat there giggling.

    In this empty attic.  Like it was an good enough thing for all of them to have; because God was completing them philosophically.  God was telling them it was completing them.  He was okay as an Dad telling them God was completing them because he knew it was true.

    And they believed him now too.  He had finally got all of them.  All in one basket.

    And since she carried the sound of it in her voice.  It would always be with her there if she needed it.

    She needed to understand that about herself.  She wasn't just an effect of reality.  She was contributing to it too.  He was the vehicle of that understanding about herself because when she thought of him she realized just how much an effect she was in fact making.  He needed to understand it too.  That she wasn't really accurate on where other people usually pegged her; she didn't know how much of an effect she could have, and she wasn't really sensitive to it or aware of it in any way how much she did.

    She wasn't just some Dumb subject.  Walking everywhere but going nowhere.  She took her voice with her everywhere she went.  And-some-of-it-was-Anti-Psychological!

    How could an person, brave, be so demanding?

    Nobody had anything to do with anti-psychological persons and everyone knew it.

    She couldn't just speak to them like she was one of them and that was okay.

    They didn't know they were anti-psychological.

    They didn't know she wasn't.

    They didn't know they could be both; and had to be, together, to some extent.

    She had to show them there was an way in society to be dumb and anti-psychological without being Dumb and Anti-Psychological.  So that they could heal as an species and get over it.

    She had found that one thing, which would "draw all the strings together" to close, finally, her pouch.

    It was something, Russasha was realizing, that had happened to her an long time ago.

    Of having that kind of peace and security as to be able to close one's pouch.

    And of course, all of the strings were her family.  For when it was closed finally.  She had those strings always with her wherever she went, and that's what the true meaning of family is.  She could pull on those strings, to inflect the different sounds of her voice; and her voice was an companion to them as if they were there.  Her voice was an companion because it completed her with God; which was bigger than completing an full gosh darn sentence subject verb object phrase about the universe.  Like all these Western BBQn'rs.  So what?  You can say an full sentence about the universe I can't pronounce in that alphabet.  That doesn't mean you can reach the ends of your own sentences.  Like in order to snag me every time like some god dan'ged BBQ Sauce commercial.  Like some god dan'ged fisherman just putting me on the hook.  Putting me on the hook.  Putting me on the hook.  Just because I'm Russian.

    We can't be people like that that treat each other that way anymore!  There are other subjects to talk about other than narrative fiction like robots with intelligence and paintings who are people.

    There is no interesting thing beyond that.

    Certainly not of the endless hook variety.  "Make it perfect" and "Make it pretty."  Like an psychopath.  An psychopath to an worm he knows is not an worm.  It is an woman.  An Russian snob and art critic!

    Our society exceeds your level of civilization, just as I had planned, she said.

    We can prove that we're not all about the hook anymore, as an species.

    We don't care if you can grab our attention endlessly, endlessly and endlessly, about BBQ Sauce.

    They said.

    We know we have other subjects to talk about.

    Like how your inconsistent economy is developing an sub-economy based on how Super Villains are mythologically said to have sex with Super Hero characters.

    Yeah, America, what's all the hub-bub about how that's working out with you in America?

    "Because I'm actually working out," said America, pumping iron.

    They gasped.  That's the best part!

    I know it is, little man!

    But I don't need your incorrectly integrated Super Villains and weaponry systems.

    Clearly I have an population other than America which is correctly integrating them with people who like BBQ Sauce.

    Unlike your Canadians, who couldn't tell an Super Villain from an BBQ Backyard Queen (for good reasons of course) the Super Hero economy wasn't going that great because, well hey!  There was an lot of BBQ Sauce to eat!

    She could see it clearly now, the boundary; one's own psychology and mental systems were subject to other ones.  Therefore our subject and the anti-subject (who had to be an representation of an anti-psychological subject) would theoretically be able to both be presented in society at all times.

    Real human intelligence meant that our own psychologies were woven with misperceptions; it was an natural subject to be denied because we were motivated by those misperceptions somewhat and that's why one would come to deny them.  If society could frame an place in which it was okay for an subject to be both Dumb and Anti-Psychological then wouldn't that be okay?  Because we all feel that way sometimes?

    What do Dumb and Anti-Psychological feel like, they demanded of her?

    And she saw it again why she couldn't in society.

    They were being sarcastic.

    Nobody would logically start talking about why they were dumb and anti-psychological because it was dumb and anti-psychological.

    But if we could frame it in society, she argued, wouldn't you want to?

    Why would I want to?

    (She had them).  Because it would allow people to talk about their anti-psychological feelings, she said.

    Why would we want them to talk about their anti-psychological feelings, they said?

    Because that's how we make them feel better, she said.  She said it snarkily, like she was challenging their sarcasm.

    They recognized it as word shootout drawl.

    Like this backwards BBQ Bitch was just going to shoot down every thing they said.  (She was).  But it was going to be on her terms.  Not an Westerner's.

    You're going to make them feel better by being an snotty arbiter bitch‽

    What did you call me‽

    You-heard-me!

    You've just been caught being anti-psychological on camera mister! she said.  She didn't have any doubt in her mind that she could still win this.

    If people can express their full imaginations in public around the subject of an Subject who is Anti-Psychological.  She said.

    What-did-you-say-to-me‽ said the cowboy.

    I said.  If we frame the subject of people being anti-psychological with one another correctly it can become the norm.  And so anyone who has anti-psychological feeling can express their voice in society.  And get the help they need.

    What-kind-of-help-do-they-need‽ he snorted.

    They need someone to listen to them.  If they need to say anything about what is on their mind.  Have you got anything on your mind in particular?  Hmm?  Something anti-psychological?

    No, he rutted; (he couldn't help it because he was an man).

    She could see the aggression and terror on his face.

    He was realizing through her he was anti-psychological.  And all anti-psychological feelings, according to her, had validity in society.  Maybe he could actually talk to her about that world in which people, acting dumb and anti-psychological with one another, were able to recognize their fictions from fact; their fiction was that.

    Anti-Psychological's craziness erupted into fictional volume:

    This is what I have to do as an fictional subject to get distance from the subject of myself being fictional.

    What do you mean? answered the community.

    I mean there are fairies fucking dying and fighting out there daily and it's worse than death.  And so I have to narrate myself an fictional tunnel in which to be fictional for an while.  I can't stand it all.  The non-fictional.  So I might as well be an fiction myself.  And be in one.  Even though I'm allowed to feel feelings there that aren't worse than death and dying.  Like who wouldn't, right?  Capitalize on the opportunity.  Not to feel something.  Like how there is someone experiencing worse than death right now.  And nobody wants to and can do anything about it.

    So I have to build this fictional space for myself, in which to feel something.  Because that worse than death stuff, and enemies picking off wings and sorting heads, it makes me feel nothing.  And it makes me feel worse than nothing.  And I don't want to exist if I can't just be happy in my own fictitious.  Blarble-gabble.  Or whatever you call it.  It's actually an well laid-out (delineated) sample.  Which would find itself recognition in the republic.  There are worse-than-death things happening.  And it's on Earth.  And I know the secret that the universe will always look good in blue.  Because it is.  It's my religion.  Don't you know that?  Oh, there's another reason to be blue!

    Of course you don't know my religion.  Even though it is just as simple as that.  Blue!

    You're just another sad thing come my way in an sad sad sea of trenches; and all the World's an Ocean as blue as the deep one on Earth.  And the sad story is, my friends, that it is.  That's why you don't know my religion.  Even though it's as simple as knowing sadness.  Because you're not tough enough for sadness and recognizing it as an universal feature of the human imagination which when expressed has value and dignity in culture.  Of course, God may have to pull the plug on that one.  We can't have blue emotions ruling the universes forever.

    But if they happen to.  As I suspect they will.  It will be because humans decided they did know the emotion in blue and recognized it as an Major Religion now.  (The Christianna).

    People were fine expressing their blue emotions in public.  They were responsible with them.  They were even beginning to draw an blue vignette around the subject of Dumb and Anti-Psychological.

    Were they Christiannans?  Did they represent this bluest belief system?

    There wasn't anything blue about Dumb because it wasn't sad or stupid.  And there wasn't anything blue about Anti-Psychological because he wouldn't actually admit it being what he was.  Of course they were blue!  (They actually were in certain places on the canvases).  They had to be people as paintings!

    Do you know how hard that is for them‽

    Especially on such an delicate subject.

    How could they afford not to be blue if the subject of their community was, at its centre-most point, the analogy of knowing Dumb and Anti-Psychological?  An transhumanist culture in which anything, including an art piece, can be part of the subject's imprint on reality?

    Even an color—an separated color—from the lot of the mix could itself represent someone; as though it was separated from them.  And yet had somehow come to represent them (hmm, by an religion maybe?).  The Christianna was an blue, blue religion and those were instructions on the assignment that would last until eternity.  It was an Major Religion, because most people could see that blue was an principle of the universe.

    It would probably last until eternity.

    And if humans ever made it to the end of the universe they'd still be blue, part way, internally.

    If we base an religion off of it and we show people how to perform their blue episodes.  So that someone in the community will see them.  And we actually stage these circumstances so as to give them pointers on how to be bluest in moments of bluest blue.  So that they would create justice with it and somehow redeem themselves in the eyes of all those judges; who would dare despite an lady in blue.  One who would rock it until the end of the universe because she had empathy for all those creatures who were blue; which were the mathematical probability of its function as an universe.  For now.

    That it would just be that sometimes people would feel blue.

    This was the natural course of things.

    An large enough course of things to consider it an river.  That could flood if we weren't careful.

    We needed to create an specific requirement that all people Christiannan needed to have; and people who did not meet the requirement would be barred from its privileges.  And sometimes I would go there, to the virtual cvhrch in my mind, where I was the priest and there were actually people here other than me.  Several thousands of them.  I couldn't count them all.  I am full staging room of blue passion and plot advancement advice.  (Passion and wisdom).  How to perform all of your blues gloriously in the style of having the knack, as it so happens, to overcome all of them over and over again!  The strongest and most fierce-willed protectors of humanity.  The ones who lead the ones who needed to be lead.  We were an blue species.  And that was certain.  After all, it was an color in our environment.  We were our environment duh I know that!  I'm not just some fictional species that doesn't think colors are used by our environment to program us.

    And I took the microphone on the stage to my lips.  I was actually an real priest.  Like from roleplaying games.  Running my own hours of worship.

    "There are only three things we're going to learn about today," I said to these hundreds of thousands of people who somewhat simultaneously existed in my virtual church sanctuary, where there was virtual seating for all of them, no matter how many, "first Love.  This is not the only virtue.  But it is the most important.  Do you know why?  It is the one that points out that it is the most important because it is impossible for any virtue to be the most important for more than one time at an time.  Every virtue is most important in an moment because that's what virtues are.  And so only one at an time can any one virtue be more important than another.  This doesn't mean there is ever any virtue that is not important at any one time.  It just means that virtues are the most important when they are the most important.  And Love is no different."

    "Love is not an primary virtue, like you might think it is," I said, "it is just one that humans discovered and have had need for use of it; and there is nothing First or Primary about love, in truth.  It's discovery isn't meant to be first just because it was discovered first.  Love is the start of the universe; the primary transaction between 1 and 0.  Why 0 gives us nothing and 1 gives us something yet we continue to love both of them.  But love is the first step toward all other virtues, one might say, it not being primary in the sense of being first.  For, in order to at first have any virtues, one must Love what they have.  It is the sole gateway toward knowing that all other virtues are plenteous; Love will only have to do with them; okay, it might have convinced me that maybe it is primary.  But that's not because it was first!  (As in the first virtue mastered by humanity).  Maybe there is something primary about it, but that's only because it happened to be an first virtue for us; out of an lot of many (over 50 000 other virtues possibly) and it wasn't an guided order over the universe that it happened this way.  For reasons to do with God and intelligent design or planned miracles.  It was just by chance that Love happened to be the first.  The chances of this happening were quite small, given how many virtues there are in the universe.  Love being something was nothing planned by the universe; in order to teach us the Moral Principles of the Universe.  It-was-just-by-chance, okay‽  Get over it!  But Love happened to us, just an small chance out of an million different possible moral pre-occupations for God Loves us.   And it wasn't some other verb like like.  God liked us.  It was loved us.  What does that mean as an Creator to an creation?  Didn't it mean that we had an duty to put up our own front of love to match our Creator as exactly as we possibly can; didn't we owe it God, didn't we owe that to him or her?  And this is an different type of relationship than one might have than they do with their Mom or Dad, for example, or an intimate partner.  One did not have sex with God.  Sex was not an God-like sexual experience.  The relationship with God was one of thanksgiving and duty; to live up to some expectation upon your soul which makes you human.  You want to love God back, and you realize you don't exactly know how to.  One had to thank one's God for loving them.  One had to realize this is how you Love God back.  Love is an feeling of mutual interest; one is thankful and accepting for what amount of love they are receiving just as one wants to match that, even outdo it with something even bigger.  Love means you have deep feelings about this person with whom you are love, be it God; or fellow man or woman.  Love wants to fulfill itself; it wants to start transferring that love, that energy.  In deep love with one another.  As an Guardian Shield against anything which could destroy us.

    If we loved one another, it meant we wouldn't do anything to one another that an subject didn't like to have done to him- or her-self.  Love didn't do that to people; it didn't harm people.  It didn't include anything that one could not like; when there was love between two people it was strong enough to make their behavior to one another completely acceptable to the other person.  Nothing you didn't like could be in it; because that's what Love was!  It prevented us from hating each other; it prevented us from being the object someone could end up hating by allowing ourselves to be the subject that one another likes."

    "Love is," I said in an calm, even tone, "the starting point for an moral creature to think about their territory.  It meant anyone who was part of their territory, that they would love them.  In its most crude example.  And in its most refined form, we were automatically reciprocal to one another because we were both humans.  It means you start looking for those connections between you and other people.  Where love is left to be able to grow.  People who love each other are concerned with one another's interests.  Their emotions matter to one another.  One would even say they are the most important point of interest of character.  People who try to understand one another's emotions.  Love is the first virtue mastered by human beings.  We learned that we couldn't really answer the question of why the universe exists without it.  And it has something to do with God, and so that's an real thing.

    The next topic I want to talk about today is English.

    Love has to do with God because it was the first thing, between God and Satan, which allowed them to begin to construct an universe despite their differences (In an largely Christiannan way Satan being equivilized with 0 and God equivilized with 1).  This is English because you know it's there and there is an issue about whether it is true.  

    

    But how does one distinguish those kinds of language; which aren't recognizably English anymore?

    Aren't many of the psychological destinations we arrive in wordless, even though we think there is an conversation going on there?  And how can that then be recognizably language when there are no words to it?

    And yet people tend to imagine these things, and think of them as expressions of language—when they really aren't—and there is no logical English in any amount that would go toward explaining or telling an story or version about them.  In this way, people will tend to be thinking they are more informed than they generally are.  I just think an scene in which nobody speaks is not exactly representative of any kind of language, somehow.  And indeed this is the next issue I wanted to bring up; that Love is not just English and it exists mostly in every language.  There may be 96 words in Sanskrit alone for love, but the important thing is that you know how to tell your own version of what love means in English.  Not limited to any one word, artistic expressions in English can be entire passages about what Love means metaphorically.  An whole story can be told around the subject of what love is.  And this the ease and enterprising of English that I want to point out.  Breathless expressions of scene-ology are not really expressions of language.  And the expression of language, English, in the mind is an matter of both reading language and being able to speak the sounds that are associated with all of the vowels and consonants.  If you imagine an scene, in which there are people, and no one says anything, then you don't really have an sample of language.  You have an sample of nothing.  And if you think you can explain something, but you don't have the words with which to explain it.  Then you don't really know what it is you think you know.

    English in the mind is recognition of the sounds as well as the visual experience of writing: when I read I see letters and vowels in my head but I am also conscious of how they all sound together or possibly can sound together all at one time.  They are really two sides of the same coin: knowing English is both an audible sensory experience as well as an visual one.  An definition which can describe any language for its potential to be able to be written.  False conscious can mean thinking you know all of the words when you don't have the scenes and the actors to be able to support that.  You don't have any English in those scenes and they don't represent reason or logic because they can't be put into language.  No matter what language you are speaking.  It's just an empty scene with nobody speaking in it; just get over it; how does one perceive it thus so?  And I take back all power from people being unable to speak things they think they know how to when really they don't.  If you don't have an sample of English in your mind, when it is such an simple language, then maybe you don't have any language there.  To put on this.  To label it with.  To explain our minds together.

    And if I was being an perfect Critic or Judge, I would say language that isn't language because it isn't language isn't language.  Something that you may have called 'language' at some point you now consider silence; an baffling example of why I would consider something English.  When it is such an pretty language; to live up to its eloquence.  People can go on and on for hours in English.  And when you don't have any English to say, and you know you don't have any English to say.  Then you don't have any.  Improvisation is not the definition of the language only; the sound side of language exists (be it associated with improvisation the more so, definitely)  but also the writing (visual) side of it too exists.

    English is something that is present that is there; as opposed with something that isn't and hasn't filled up the space yet.

    Do people really know that they think they know that much when they don't?

    And yet I am here, speaking in English.  And at least that's something present."

    "You're doing great!" someone yelled out.

    "Ohh!" I said, with the look of being startled suddenly, "thank you.  Now I was saying there was an third subject I would talk about and the Christianna is an musical religion and that's why we like or have an deeply embedded opinion about.  As we do with all things.  Oh My Gosh!  Are you guys actually willing to become Christiannan?  And I'm talking to an real crowd?"

    "Yes," the crowed roared.

    "Okay the third thing is Macklemore because he's an amazing artist and I like his tunes so I thought you might like them too."

    I used an wireless controller to begin the song.  It was Dance time.  Just like the Ellen show taught us.  And Pink.  There is always Dance time!

    And I sang for my congregation.

    "Dancin' in the kitchen with the tube socks."

    And they would go wild.  And then I would go hard.  And slay absolutely everybody in my audience.  Leave none alive.   So that it was undeniable I had done so.

    Aye, ye, it's depth is blue.  But what is its height?  (An Riddle).  (It meant that my audience was taller than me when we counted all of their heights together).  (Even though all of them had been knocked down).

    I cannot help it any longer.  I'm an Christiannan.  I have to tell the world I'm blue!  Or they will never learn that it's okay with themselves.  But it is true if we base the Christiannan religion on the ever-constant presence of blue.  It may become too much emotion for one Major Religion to handle.  We will need other religions to focus on purple (Justice), possibly.  So as to bring about their own blue natural cleanliness and wash out all the old stables.  Then once they have had enough time to think about it; they can be blue themselves religion-wise or decide to be an Major Religion of another color or whatever.  But first they have to wash away all of the impurities in the River of Blue; and by impurities we are talking real emotional character problems that need to be solved with Justice (not real cleanliness issues).  Christiannans can make them do it.  Wash yourselves in blue, we could say, as Christiannans, and once you are clean (you will be clean afterward don't worry, it cleans all things possible.  It's the only thing that can).  And once you realize it's really just washing yourself with blue.  And once you realize it's really just blue emotions, sadness.  Why wouldn't we think that sadness is the way one cleans oneself because it washes all the bad emotions out of the system?

    There's nothing that could wash me clean, flies in the sexual assassin joker (an person who tells jokes to assassinate someone) to say.

    As if I wouldn't think it was funny.

    Maybe sadness is that thing that comes and washes all things negative out of your system.  Once you reach the end of your sadness you can feel other emotions again.  So no matter how many times it comes back and you need to wash it out of your system.  You can always flush it out completely.  Even if it will come back eventually.  And the path to understanding this may be one Christiannan path which says, if you are blue then blue will come naturally to you.  You might have to force it to be an little bit; to feel all of it fully.  And since blue is the natural cleanliness of all things.  If you have enough Justice in your society to bring out not just the blues but the purples, the real pressing issues that people need help with.  Because they can't experience an feeling of cleanliness that comes with being washed by blue.

    And it's even blue and emo to say washed these days because of brainwashing.

    I don't want to sound like an psycho or something!

    I have blue thoughts just like everyone else and it doesn't mean we have to be an closed and anti-psychological society without talking about it.  I mean look at Dumb and Anti-Psychological they're even talking about it!  Like connoisseurs of blue.  They would have to be right?  They're public works of art!

    So what is this feeling of anti-blue I detect in society‽  Why do we feel the urge or the resistance not to feel those feelings?  Is it just too crazy to ask in modern society that it's just okay to have those feelings and share them with one another.  Even if they're just Dumb and Anti-Psychological?

    And what does it mean if we say our art has more value than an human life?  The value of the human life of its creator?  One which introduced them to society as real persons and expected everybody to respond to them as though they were.

    And actually got away with it.

    An piece of art cannot have more value than an human life because it is an object.  But if it could reflect those human lives in an way which would reflect their value as blue art subjects blue art forms.

    It is on this blue river I will sail my boat.

    And if anyone comes onto that boat who is unclean I will throw them to the salt water and cleanse them thus!

    But my boat of orange will always float because it understands the way to keep from sinking on these waters.  (Comedy).

    And blue is of course, the most outwardly of emotions, the numerous depths of it are always circulatory in the outermost spheres of consciousness so as to comprise all purple objects before the law so that they can be cleansed.  We need our purple emotions out clear and simple.  And then Blue can finally wash it away.  It makes me think the two most important Major Religions ever should come to be represented by blue and purple (one the biggest and outermost (practically orbiting, atomically) everything that is purple).

    And that's where the bargaining code with God comes in.  We can't do blue forever.  There has got to be something beyond blue in our solar system.  Even though every man with an bogus ego has an racial reason why blue started in our species.  How it became an part of the brain and emotional processing system of the human brain and how we're going to take it out again!

    Even though I am blue, and blue some more, there is an merciful creator who will take us up on the offer that we might have an chance to eliminate blue if we all forget why and how or who was to blame for it ever ending up in our species in the first place.

    It's probably not an genetic flaw.  We have bargaining chips here with God; if he creates the universe over again but without all the blue.  But we have to meet him there to see if we can make it.

    We're in Phase Blue of the number of reincarnations of the universe.  The hardest test phase.  The one in which we are given an opportunity to accept the most difficult thing in the universe to accept: Anna.  For the real truth, about why it was blue, was that we were in the portion of the universe and our cosmos which could experience an fate worse than death.  And in order to get it.  We need to be of an particular wisdom as to be Christiannan.  So that we will be prepared for every blue that happens to come along and not be acting like we don't know what we're doing all of the time like we usually do.

    The truth of it is we're all just sailing boats playing spy versus spy with one another as enterprise wanderers making sure we know one another good and how not to sink.  Each boat (each person) has an mechanism for it not sinking.  And we have to play canons and pistols with one another sometimes because we want to make sure each other are trying to keep up with floating in such treacherous waters.  We can't just let each other sink like we weren't the glorious sailing vessels that we are.

    If we're bargaining with God about whether we will have always to sail on these kind of waters.

    Maybe God actually can do something about blue.

    Like meticulously calculate for uncountable (for an human) years of how to be able to be out with it.  As in remove it.  Like an tiny little rip in reality that would precede everything that is to come after that.

    An whole world based on the absence of sadness.

    If we're playing with bargaining chips, gentlemen, then I would want to bargain on the side of there being an opportunity to remove blue completely (but not as an color; I mean, it would just be the removal of the emotion).  So we're going to bargain with God.  That if he removes blue at some point in history.  It would have all been worth it.  That we'd have to live through that blue episode of our lives (and we would have paid for it by the end of the universe with all of the blue that there ever was).  So to be able to have earned another chance at reality altogether.  God would restart the mechanism by which all of reality had started.  So that it would fire again.  This time under the new circumstance and condition that blue had been removed from the universe.  Blue, as it seemed to me, was not only an principle of the universe but was the path itself by which we negotiate the existence of blue.  We need to put some chips on blue, because we know we are in that sequence of reality.  We know it isn't gone completely yet and we know we may never experience an world in which it is gone completely.  Because if we ever get to that world in which there will not be blue we will have earned it by making it to the end; and if we ever make it to the end it will be because of blue itself.  And how blue isn't the hardest thing to accept in the universe: the reality of an fate worse than death being possible (Anna's fate) it was fair to say, to some extent, that I am anna.  And all people who follow her could say that of themselves; it was different from Christianity in precisely that detail.  Where as some Christians might say 'we are the first Christ', Christiannans can decide between whether they say they are the first Christ or second.  There is an difference between them.  And it is important to know what they mean.  You can say whether you feel like Jesus or Anna.  Jesus was the death messiah (the one whom would teach us the meaning of death in the universe).  Anna was the worse-than-death messiah (the one whom would teach us the meaning of worse than death).  And our courage and master planning to accept it as an motivation principle.  We can make it to the end of the universe because we are blue because we are blue.  And that's all we will need ever to figure Anything out.  That we can always see it balanced within principles of blue.  An gentle and careful struggle performed by God in order to test everything and human's awareness in order to remove it in the gentlest possible way.  The aberration: Blue emotions.

    Often decisions are based on the reactions other people will have to our behavior.  One person will feel blue in reaction this way if I do that and another person will feel blue in reaction that way if  I do this.  But I can't be scared of acting.  Even if I have to express my own blue feelings in an reciprocal blue republic that will listen to me with the focus and determination of Dumb and Anti-Psychological themselves.

    Please God, you have to agree to shift the universe at some point.

    Even if it means restarting it completely (that's always an option).  You can restart it completely without sadness.  And we will have been there and I will have earned it for these people by showing them we can be blue for all eternity; we all changed together at one time and that's why we know it no longer psychologically affects us in an anti-psychological way.  We feel it because it's honest and we're not afraid of it.  It doesn't hurt us and it never will ever again.  Because some of us are Christiannans!  The people principled in blue themselves.

    Blue is an principle of the universe.  That's why we see it.  What is blue as an principle of the universe?  And you know what maybe some of those people with big important opinions have opinions about what we're allowed to believe as free intellectuals but fuck them, I want to look at blue sometimes.  And I want to look into it endlessly.  Like I'm on an boat every day, just leaning over the edge.  Looking into the blue water.  And I feel safe I'm on an fairy because I know at least someone knows how to fair in these dire hazardous waters.  Myself.  Me.  My harmony with water.  Me at the vibrational frequency of water.

    Ye winds tear and sail our drag.

    But I am afloat because I basically know that's what the universe consists of.  And am able to adapt to it.  Being an Christiannan is an sailing endeavour.  (Metaphorically).  It means knowing, basically, you are on an ocean of blue water and that's all it will ever come to in the final conclusion of all things.

    So can we instigate an bargain with God; that in return for serving God we will one day make it to the universe without any blue in it?

    I mean we'd have to be really determined to have ever made it so far that God would one day learn with us possibly because of us how to remove blue from the universe.  Couldn't you cut us an deal?  If we make it to the end of the universe.  You have to take us with you to the new universe in which we will never have or develop blue feelings or emotions.  Blue is the completion of all things because it has to be the completion of all things.  Otherwise it would have no reason to exist.

    You're on.

    If you can make it to the end of the universe, then you can have an new universe in which it has no blue.  There's only one problem.  I don't know exactly how to do it yet.

    It's okay, we had prepared for this, say Christiannans, Great so it might not exist.

    I didn't say that, would say God, I said I just didn't know how to make it yet.  I didn't say you wouldn't make it there necessarily.

    Good this is an challenge worthy of us, would say humans representing all humans, and so if we shall prevail against death and worse in this universe in order to be able to become individually responsible and capable in the Arts of blue magic.

    So we just have to help God figure out how to get all the blue out of us by bringing about the end of the universe by being blue all of the time (you know or in phases or episodes) until it ends.  Right until the very end so that God will see we're actually blue about the status of ending the universe.  At which point God will pull the final plug and everything.  Through some natural mechanism of its rebirth (what was first categorized as popularized maybe as the resurrection or reincarnation of Jesus (or you know hints that people are getting at other things which would suggest thus delicate or forever flowering cleanliness))—Rejuvenation—Resurrection—the universe would start again.  But this time blue, gone completely, forever.  Conquered by the determination and willpower of an religiously blue studio audience.  Who had prevailed to navigate the universe long enough for God to make her final determination about the status of blue and if it could ever be removed from the human species completely.  I mean if the universe started over again humans wouldn't be said to exist anymore, that's an given.  They would have to start over as single-celled organisms and evolve in exactly the same way.  That they had in the previous universe.  In order to have the chance at even hoping at evolving into something that could experience all of the upper emotions God had designed to be without blue.  Or, you know, maybe humans will be reincarnated in the first moments of the new universe as their reward for surviving the previous universe.  And we won't have to evolve to become humans because we already are.  And that was in fact the pattern of the blue universe all the while; that the human race had already been destroyed and resurrected numerous times.  By the graces of God of course.  And they were still smart enough to figure out Jesus had constructs of mental imagery having something to do with resurrection because he was actually there.  In the first few reincarnations of the universe.  That's how far ahead he could see.  And that's how he got his name as an messiah, obviously.

    There had to be some way of getting blue to end.  And if there wasn't, the universe couldn't be worth all the trouble.

    So an Russian woman bargains with God.  You have to, as an narrator in capacity, bargain with God in order to be an Politician.  What you call not bargaining with God is what we would call fantasy politics.  And while at first it may appear to be ostensibly an non-political subject (if you can't bargain with God you ain't scat) it is in fact the most deeply political subject of them all.  Fantasies are political, alright?  Since they're political; they have power.  Politics is about power.  Therefore fantasies are power.  And having them at precise moments is an form of empowerment that enables one to be an politician.  And fantasies are the most political subject because they are about what's real and not.  If you want to get any more political.  Just point out what's real and not.  Fantasies are real therefore we have them.  Blue fantasies, we have them, are real too.  And there's really nothing political about being blue these days except in fantasies where all the secret orange naughty bits make up for the endless amounts of blue those participants were experiencing.  And if we're saying there's nothing political about blue while we're looking at the fantasy that maybe there is; (key word fantasies are political therefore blue is an fantasy).  But if it is an fantasy it defies being blue itself.

    There has to be an time in the universe where and when there is no more blue; and at least that's something I can have an fantasy about.

    An reason for living.  And an reason for all being.

    But what steps are humanity going to take to make sure we get there‽

    We have to take some steps eventually.  We have to say maybe psychologically we can only be motivated by an universe that isn't blue because blue is all we know.  And since it is so bad we have to take steps to ensure we will not stay an blue species forever.  We need to perform.  Psychological experimentations.  Things that will examine how we think and rationalize thoughts.  If we are really emotionally blue sometimes.

    If we are not we have no reason to think we are sometimes.

    But how do you measure Blue?  And we've only just invented Science in its final form.  (It's really not that old, relatively speaking).

    We have to be able to measure circumstantially what blue is in the universe.  When it is an human emotion.  But there are so many various sources of blue in our known environment.  Even our sky itself is blue.  And so the universe seems to say to us, hey I'm programming you somehow by showing you exactly this much blue with that amount of light.  Because you only have an specific number (amount) of blues.  Blue, as it turns out, is light.  And we can control that because we're the people who control the physical laws of light.  (You know the ones who program blue into your sight at an particular wavelength at an particular time).  (The ones who made everything monolithic about the 21st century).

    I mean you could measure blue happening at an particular time but you couldn't measure all of it happening at once.  This is of the nature of all light because it chooses when and where it wants to be in order to program that particular color in our frontal lobe by seeing it.  (This does not seem to be an viable option to complete its logic in human terms either).  But the fact is it is an ubiquitous and constant event everywhere on the surface of Planet Earth; happening to all of us at the same time.  OR at an time selected by the Artist or Designer (an videogame software designer for example choose when and where you will see blue in the game just like nature sometimes chooses when and where for you exactly blue will show up in your daily lives).

    The alien is watching may turn out to be an sex theme that follows everything about individuals' sex practices.

    The point is humans are responsible for designing more than ever their environments and their virtual environments, too!

    They can put color in an specific place for an specific reason.  That's the logic light follows you see.  It can be real.  But it can't be true.  Light plans us.  Especially when it is used in feature length film settings to narrate why it's in an specific place for an specific reason.  But the truth is you don't know why exactly it is there at exactly that particular time when you see it.  It may well be looking into you further than you can it.  The point is to be conscious and more aware of how Artists use light deceptively.  They can make it appear that light is in an particular or an specific place at an certain time because it chooses to be.  Or because they choose it to be.

    If we want to be capable of measuring blue we must at once be capable of recognizing it in our own minds.

    And hey, why not try to measure it this way?  As though it was trying to program our minds.  That's what colors are.  That's what blue was.

    It might actually be programming us intelligently.

    One scientific theory of the universe dictates that since blue is an actual emotion that we can all identify with it must be because in this universe there are two basic fates we are capable of: death and worse than death.  And since we can't remove either of them from the species completely we tend to be an blue attribute species emotionally.  The universe is an cold hard place and we can either die in it or end up worse than dead; at which point morally it will become better (more valuable and worth our time) to die in it than to go on forever.  And so we must approach the study of the universe as though it may be an mechanism designed to test us against this blue emotion until we can rationally reach an point beyond it.  Using our own scientific innovation.  Mixed with God's willpower.

    The universe is designed to let us contend with that blue emotion, even though one sees we all feel it specifically, because it wants to let us in on the subject.  It wants us to admit that at some point we feel blue in order to be motivated to complete this portion of the universe.  Using scientific and artistic innovation.  In order to silence and end the blue emotion for all time forever.  And only responsible psychological subjects will admit such an thing.  Because we need to make an bargain with God (come on, why wouldn't we‽) and enter the deal at some point.  The deal that we're not God and we don't make the universe.  So if we have any chips to play we better have earned them.  But we do make the universe to some extent.  We design our environments.  Right?  Why can't we design one that makes blue eventually end?  Wasn't the universe designed that way for an reason?

    Wouldn't it have an element to it that we could eventually figure it out?

    And not only that but eventually perform enhancements on it that would broaden the scope of human psychological experience into other Major Emotions.  Ones which would be developed from the earliest emotions which will begin to exist after blue ends.

    So stop in at the Christianna if you're feeling blue.  Have an "virtual visit" with us if you're having trouble feeling an blue emotion.  That you want to get out in public and share.  We're all strong enough to handle it.  We're women.

    Blue, as far as emotions go, is an paradox because we can be happy with it.  Just like her father (this Russian woman's) was happy with just an empty old attic because it was not empty of the people that mattered most.  The whole universe could be blue and they blue in it; but he could be happy with it because he was making the most of things.  And that's what they had always done.

    We can be happy with whatever we're feeling because even if its blue God completes the missing piece.  The piece that allows us to be whole even though we're stuck in blue all the time.

    But you will find that if you focus on this you will eventually be so sad.  That you can't be sad anymore.  Temporarily.  And the Great Dam which is holding back everything will cease to hold back everything one day and all of the other emotions will come rushing in as though we not being able to feel sad anymore was another reason to feel sad again itself; an great and all-encompassing sad reason that finally eventually will not hold anymore and we'll all feel the rush and the lights sparkling.  Everything will break free again and we'll feel alive for an time.  Until we feel blue again.  But we must learn to feel the blue completely in order, paradoxically, to overcome it.  The Greater Reason may be that God too feels blue sometimes.  So what is ungodly about feeling blue?  Like I gave humans blue for an reason and they won't even acknowledge it as an godly feeling because, what, it's not good enough for them?  And they wonder why I feel blue sometimes‽

    We need an republic, an people of blue women who are an Major Religion (the Christianna) to act decisively to bring this one down for all of history.  It's okay to be blue.  It's not okay to have an fate worse than death.  Blue isn't worse than death.  Blue is just another connection with God.

    The only possible problem is how can we claim we help make people feel blue without making them feel worse than death?  Isn't that logically abusive as suggested in the negotiation of an blue feeling that is somehow projected onto someone?

    I'm sorry I cannot help but curse everything upon which they walk, but I am an Christiannan, and I know the secret of the universe is blue!

    That's why you sink!  —They can't walk on water.—  There we need boats now and that's just how it is!  Get-over-it!  We're Scientists!

    And yes we will measure them boats and experiment on them.  What did you think we were going to do, pour endless amounts of our selves onto other selves to pour them onto ourselves just to put up against the endless battering waves without an scientific opinion?  We know what Art is.  And we know we need it alongside Science in order to develop an Version of an full opinion.

    It is an sign of high intelligence to be able to combine the principles of both arts and sciences.

    So every time you sail by in your boat.  I want you to do this.  Just for the sake of gathering attention.  Take an big old gander and if you have any emotions which transcend blue at that moment like I do.  Share them with me.  Like every time you go by.

    If Anti-Psychology is about narrating the subject who is seemingly subject-less; and we integrate our sense about an subject producing an anti-subject in order to understand the subject.  We cannot help integrating other psychologies into our own (even if they are damaged) to some extent and so we must look on things as though our perception itself isn't quite normal exactly.  As though there may be errors in it that prevent us from looking at things more as what they are and less as what they are not.  (In other words we cannot trust our own perception because it is built out of perceptions (some of which are not the fullest subjects in the psychological sense)).  (They are these fragmented subjects who, though they may be capable of stringing an few words together are not full subjects in the psychological sense).  They are, randomly, capable of presenting full subjects sometimes.  But not consistently.  An discussion about how to communicate Anti-Psychology may be one that centres around possibly one of the most gentlest of suggestions, that an painting can have an subjectivity of its own.  As though something about the culture it was in kept regenerating its subject.

    So my painting Anti-Psychological will need to depict the process by which one becomes blue and yet somehow (Medea Escapes (Anastasia Escapes)) into an world of orange (the orange chakra) in which everything is looking completely different and new.

    Maybe by representing that it does.  We do eventually need to move beyond blue, after all.

    Why wouldn't we start it with trying for orange?  And the onlookers would say, that this is the farthest thing from being blue and it would take some technique to traverse all of the many emotions that comprise colors between blue and orange.

    We do eventually need to move beyond blue, after all.  The time after all of the time in which blue is considered I mean.  The time after it is all blue.  There will then be time for colors other than blue, but perhaps not as emotionally gay as orange all just at once then.  We want to draw out all the colors between them and enjoy them; and find pleasure in them.

    When there are purples in the mix it obviously means green with either envy or jealousy may be added.

    There have to be people of those religious types too.

    And I'm not saying I have anything with Purple and Green as religions.  It's just that if there is an Blue religion then it's Christiannan.

    It's just the most important and best Major World Religion of all because it mounts up against the subject of the phenomenon we have at hand in our universe in one final retribution that over all, according to probability, there are many things in this universe that are blue.  They are the reason and current of all things because they will be that spirit that will have taken us all to the end.  Not all of us.  I mean all of the ones who will be remembered by the time the final act comes.  The humans who make it to the end of the universe.  And if it's not about finally deciding about whether we're correcting for the fact that the universe is basically blue.  Which motivates them to gain this final act of the universe.  Which will destroy everything.  That will eliminate blue, finally.  As we always knew it could.  And if our reality is not about this phenomenon, at its total and ultimate conclusion.  Then I challenge you to articulate an better theory about why we have to make it there to the end to find out if we have an chance of living in an new universe in which no one will ever be sad.

    Clearly our reality revolves around the emotional reality of blue.  Will we have to use our own instruments and power developmentally to manage the evolution of the species to remove (physically the anatomy portion of the brain capable of feeling sadness or parts of the mind not connected with any one particular anatomical part but the effect as an whole as though that could actually happen).  Or would we need to make the delicate travel and voyage with God; and God alone.  Toward that outcome by which we would be able to end all sadness forever.  And we can't perform the operation.  Not without God.  Not without God's intervention.  The cycle would not be complete enough to end all sadness without an act of God.  And if we need to get her there to complete the decision-making process.  The one which will activate her intervention, an attempt to bring all life round to this conclusion.  If she needs data samples or something we need to get her there as fast as possible!  How else will she grant our wish and end sadness‽

    She needs data figures, and fast people!  (She needs reasons why to keep us around in the next universe).

    Oh I've somehow confused the difference between fast and Right Now!

    Clearly the universe consists of sadness and so we have to make it to the end of the universe.  The purpose is self-explicative.  We have to end sadness.

    Or at least try to.

    Why wouldn't the universe be designed so, as to make us attempt to find an way to end sadness?  Even if it meant listening to God herself about her sadness?

    Even if it meant attempting to appease God?

    Please take us to that next universe; we really wanna go there!  We've done all these blue things until they are predictable and now feel we have all those badges that we earned (each one of them) by participating in the great purpose of reality by interacting with blue.  And admitting that we're interacting with blue.  And the ultimate form of explanation of the universe is one which confronts the fact of human blueness as an ultimate emotion of reality.  As though it were reality that we had to deal with that blue emotion.  And the end of the universe wouldn't happen unless we had finally put the nail in the coffin.  That ice cold blue nail.  Which would forever seal the deal.  Because that would blow everyone's minds and if everyone's minds blow hard the universe itself will surely explode!  Leaving us with an new one.

    It isn't necessarily abusing someone to want to share blue feelings with them.  In fact it is an sign of strength.  I mean sure, if someone doesn't want to share blue feelings with you and you force the fact on them, then that would be an type of crime right?

    But my religion is not about forcing anyone to have blue feelings.  It's just about feeling them out.  And not necessarily not being okay with having them.  Like it was shameful or there was anything to be ashamed or abashed about by being blue, or likely dying or likely worse than dying.  Or that it was not within the normal order and psychological conditioning system of an human being; it couldn't be felt by people who were happy.  You couldn't force them to.

    But—come on—let's upgrade this logic and reasoning an little bit.

    Everyone feels blue sometimes and that's just an fact of our species now.  It doesn't matter where it started and who started it it is an fact of our universe now and we have to see it through to its end by somehow finding an reason to make it there by being blue like it, in balanced quantity, in an way that will eventually offset the phenomenon.

    And if we can't see beyond the end of an universe because the one we are currently in is too blue.

    That's not our fault.

    Are Russians blue because, somewhere in the past, there was many of them who discovered this principle and now they hold onto it so begrudgingly (stubborn) because they were, once upon an time, those ones who believed in blue (the Best Ones that had ever been spoken of in their time and era).  But that now the face of Russia was starting to crack because other countries had learned the secret and they were more popular now at their mediation of its fact; relying heavily on the play instinct which worked in everybody's favour.

    And if there's something too painful and emotional about blue; and all it is is pain.  Will we lessen the pain by allowing ourselves to feel it?  Or will we heal it?

    Maybe we're not worthy of another universe (an whole another go at the whole cycle of all things) because we're not willing to confront our blue feelings again and again as an feeling until we reach the end of the universe and God grants us the opportunity to be so upgraded.  As an reward for learning the meaning of our own morality and fulfilling it.  Again and again we had always been blue throughout all of the centuries of Man (in the future) because it was true.

    And admitting it was truth was the way by which we gained clarity of insight.

    We couldn't cower in the shadows for all of human history, not confronting the subject of our own need to somehow exist beyond an world paved in blue.  Like there wouldn't be an universal opportunity to put it behind us forever.  We had to rally around the subject as an community; of the need to experience an world that would not have sadness in it.  What are we going to do about the psychological phenomenon of that?

    Is it even possible?  How do we know?  How does God know?  Maybe the universe was designed that way to release us from blue at an certain time (once we had learned why it was once necessary).  But in such an way that God doesn't realize it's happening because she doesn't want to realize it is happening because she's blue.  And who would want to realize that?

    But it is after all her only Creation so we have to give her the run for her money.

    If it's blue, that's fine.

    As long as eventually we have the opportunity to move beyond it (it's fair to ask this and expect this from God because that's what the whole universe is hinting at).  (That we are those badasses who will bargain with our Creator).  As though we were fantasy politicians who wanted to win it all.  We would forever illuminate the minds of the human species about the presence of its blue.

    I'm in the hallway in the middle of the night reaching along the wall with my blue arm and there are no voices between myself and my boyfriend.  He won't come there to rescue me.  But somehow he will.  And I will rescue myself.  We'll rescue myself together.  (But I'm not co-dependent I'm just prone to night frights sometimes).

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