the timboucher experience

(Our Services Are Endless)

I haven’t got a castle yet. But today they turned my street into some kind of fair for kids. And there was a bouncy castle. I guess that will have to do for now.

I shouldn’t keep writing to one person like this. My excuse is that I tell myself that for all the people reading this who aren’t that “one person” well they get to cash in on the residuals. Because we’re all the same person anyway. It’s totally stupid to think that we’re not. The wounds you inflict on others are the wounds you yourself bear. And so on.

It’s not really fair to me to keep doing it I guess is the thing. But I’ve never been much concerned about being fair to myself, although I should be. But I wrote down this one thing in my notebook earlier that I feel compelled to share to that universal one person out there inside all of us (what a scam!):

I dreamt a week or so ago that you asked me for advice about “when I went crazy”. I guess I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to potentially burden you with the opinion of my subconscious that you were/are “going nuts.” Are you? It’s a rhetorical point. I’ll leave it up to you. [I've certainly gone nuts. There and back again (hopefully) at this point. But more about that later.] Trials, more like it [better word]. They’ll turn into trails if you let them, if you can follow them with a pure heart [but maybe the whole pure heart thing is just an obsession of mine. It's so difficult to untangle these things: where I end and you begin]. Anyway, the symbols I’ve given you up till now are really my only advice. Trails. Follow them. Be observant and excited to follow the thread out of the labyrinth.

Flashing back to the present moment: I asked myself today while walking towards the University District to get Thai Food (to spite you, of course - I no longer do things for my own enjoyment), I asked myself: What do I have to do? The answer I got was a resounding “Nothing,” to which I immediately queried as a follow-up (knowing full-well the answer, but testing anyway): “What can I do?”

“Anything.”

It was an obvious moment. But it was still a moment. 7-7-07. I looked at one of the papers today (it doesn’t matter which since they are both owned by the same company) and it said: “Top Travel Destination” and then underneath, “You’re Already There”. Then I saw a sign that said, “All You Can Eat.”

From which I derived the basic philosophical point of: everything is real. You just have to decide how you want to live.

I also kept seeing guys wearing black tees with skeleton rib cages on them. And bulls. All over.

Moose. I’ve been on that trip too. (How come cows aren’t called “moos”? Things should be called by what they say, because that’s their expression of truth.) There is apparently a 24 but recurring lag time on that one from when you ask for it to when it shows up. I think we’ve hit the third mark now, right? I wonder where will be six days from now. Seven days from now. The heptad. The virgin number, it says in a book that my Leonard gave me (Leonard means “brave lion” and I can explain how it was given and to whom it refers some other time). I just read it while eating shitty pasta. The chapter about the number seven. It seemed only fitting.

I bought books today at Twice Sold Tales in between my bouts of spiteful spicy food. I bought books by Jung about “what I am going through.” One of them I read before several years when I was on a whole other kick in this massive process. Just beginning it, really, I guess. One of the books I didn’t buy was about incubi and succubi. It was called I think “Monsters from Inner Space” and was all about psychological reports of these and other beasts and nightmarish antagonists.

I opened randomly to a page describing character traits of schizophrenics. This ought to be good, I thought. I’ve always tip-toed around this word for fear of plaguing myself with it, but it described these past - what - eight months to such a tee that it was laughable. It said something about “endless punning” and plays on words amounting to “word-salad.” Fuck that though. It’s just one sad type of poetry to describe it. I can find a lot better. It’s called the Holy Spirit. It’s called understanding the root vibrational essences behind all things in reality. Who cares if the line between reality and fantasy become inextricable blurred? It’s a totally stupid and arbitrary boundary anyway. It’s not “going crazy” and it’s not a disorder or something that needs to be drugged into submission. It’s the pathway of the ancients taken to purification so that you may commune with the gods and so that you may become a full whole and healed person.

And so on.

So I guess that’s my advice - for right now - about going crazy. [Actually no, my advice is: discipline yourself to a creative routine to work through it in a form which you can concretely manipulate] Whatever that amounts to, I don’t know. I do know though that I’m supposed to go sailing on the 17th. Or rather, we have Amtrak tickets now to go down there then. Who knows when we’ll actually hit the water or what the hell will happen then. Supposedly we’re going to have to motor most of the way since the winds will not be with us. But I guess I’m used to the winds not being with me, necessarily. But that’s part of what makes a bouncy castle so fun: all the bouncing and the floating, however short-lived it may be.

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