Should Have Known Better

1.   Feel: Felt

Felt is fibers that have been rubbed and cooked and stretched until they are deformed, and by their deformity they have become intertwined. By being intertwined, they have become thicker but less flexible. Felt does not stretch. Wool, nylon, cashmere, rayon: it doesn’t matter. Felt is thick, heavy, dull. It gets wet and stays wet. It grows mold.

 

Children cut felt with safety scissors into the shape of hearts and glue on sequins and little pompons. They give each other these felt Valentines if they feel like it. Some teachers make every child give every other child a felt heart, but children have ways of making it known whether the gift is heartfelt: the snicker, eye roll, rude noise once the fat girl has turned away.

 

2.   See: Saw

A saw cuts wood, but thanks to the numbing and insensible action of modern anesthetics, people don’t remember that surgeons cut bones with saws as well. They cut bones with saws, skin with scalpels, and the layers of connective tissue that form a network within the body, they sever with scissors. Some of these look like children’s safety scissors. Some of them do not.

 

Surgeons cut into bodies with their owners’ full knowledge and consent, cutting, suctioning, ripping, and extracting things which people hope will make them better, change their lives. Do you like the response when they see new hairstyle or a new dress? Just wait until you see eyes light up at your new nose, lifted belly, and pumped-up ass! People form a judgment of you in less than three-quarters of a second of seeing you for the first time.
Fun fact: The scissors surgeons use can also be used to cut out hearts.

3.   Smell: Smelt

There will be a day when your panties turn yellow and you don’t know why. Your crotch will burn, especially when the boy who never looks at you is near. Your long bicycle rides alone will be a solace and an escape from the percolating pressure in your pelvis. The pumping of your thighs as you pedal makes them throb like iron. The moisture has an odor. You are afraid he can smell it. You want him to. You know he knows; you know he doesn’t know. Later, you will realize that boys mature later than girls, and he had no idea; he never caught a whiff and if he did, he probably thought it was the smelts at the fish market next door, where the crabs clambered up each other’s backs and pulled each other down, so none could escape.

4.   Hear: Herd

Cows produce methane when they fart and we are given to believe it will lead to the end of the world. The rude noise made when the fat girl turns away often sounds like a fart, and everyone reacts when they hear it with silence or nervous laughter. They are part of the cow herd. The truth is that there is no danger from cow farts, there never was; what causes the world to end is the sound.

 

The sound, and the silence. The silence is the silence of the ones who were thoughtful, but stand, corrected, following unspoken orders. They will not make eye contact in the future, now that hear has become herd. Their faces become bovine.

5.   Taste: Tasted

In the sense that it does not change when it becomes the past, this sense makes no sense. This sense is the sense which only lets us know when we transform its object within our bodies. This sense is the most private sense. This sense does not need to change to toast, test, tossed, when it has passed, because it is never really past.

 

The fat girl’s brain lights up like a Christmas tree, all dopamine, when the taste of chocolate cupcakes or fruit punch soda hits her mouth. At that moment, one or two of the herd will meet her eyes as though she was human. They see her joy, and raise her ante with disgust.

 

The flavor works its way into the fibrous network of her body, grape-like globules under the skin of her belly, butt, thighs, arms, cheeks, and chin. The taste is always with her, but she is the only one who is unaware of it; for her, it dies like a bell that’s rung, like a flash of lightning.

 

It’s the only way of knowing left to her.

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The Time Is Now

This is really happening. The only people who don’t see that government—all government— is lying and manipulating and deceiving and intimidating us are the people who are religiously devoted to one faction or another. True believers, equally matched, who completely balance each other out! All the rest of us (the vast majority who are sane and reasonable) have to do is allow them to engage in their death grapple until they force each other off the cliff. What’s left? Chaos and anarchy? Yes, in the sense of chaos being an exquisitely interconnected system in which small changes can have great effects; yes, in the sense of anarchy being being the state of individual freedom and self-governance.

IMG_4282The free circulation of information is now making it clear that we are being fed lies to keep us in fear. Perhaps the only time a politician told the truth is when the master propagandist FDR said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” That he then proceeded to create a leviathan based on protecting the “tribe” from non-existent threats is just a demonstration of the cognitive dissonance inherent in an institution which claims to be keeping the peace even as it also claims a monopoly on force, fraud, spying, extortion, and violence.

It is only a matter of time before the entire world wakes up. The color revolutions of the early aughts were just a rehearsal, a mere shadow of the transformation in the offing. It may be that my nation of birth will be the last holdout, clinging desperately to its illusion of exceptionalism and its narcissistic addiction to dominance. But the foundation has already crumbled. The head is cut off the chicken and it’s running around the barnyard, not yet realizing  that it is dead.

Truth, Like Glass in the Street

I have not published in a long time. It has been hard to write truth in the face of lies. It has been hard to espouse consistent principles while watching the liars try to mold reality as though it were clay, mud, dough.

It has been easier for me to read novels, short stories, and nonfiction, to copy edit scientific manuscripts when they come, to watch entertaining series on DVD. The slow-motion car wreck will not end. The best and most faithful are, not crucified, but smeared with excrement and shunted aside. The truth sits like a diamond in the middle of an intersection full of shattered glass.

Yet, when I turn away from mass media, including online networks, I realize: The change is here. It is more profound than the posturing pompous pricks in power or the women caricaturing themselves in cuddly cunt costumes can even imagine! Every human in the entire world is waking up to the reality of individual agency and setting aside the collective fantasy of authority. Poverty is subsiding; population growth is slowing; warfare is guttering out like a flame whose fuel is exhausted.

The years ahead will truthfully see enlightenment in full flower.

The Scapegoat and the Silence

The brouhaha about Trump’s most recent crudeness had me totally and utterly confused. Why could it be that the media, as well as authorities in the party which nominated him, are suddenly disavowing any allegiance to him over this one thing? This one thing, which is as common as a dead animal rotting by the side of the road?

Like most pretty young girls, I was subject to sexual harassment and sexual assault/attempted rape by figures of authority too many times to count in my youth, from middle school onwards. The only way to cope was to dissociate, wall it off in my psyche, and regard it as something unpleasant from which you try to move on, like stepping in dogshit on the street. One learns at an early age that it doesn’t even matter if anyone believes you when these things occur. The people you go to with complaints or allegations, be they family or teachers or police, may believe you. They probably do. But there is a certain type of silence which falls over them. A certain silence which says, “You are not a person any more. You are a problem.” This silence allows you to slink away; if you press your claim, you will be freshly verbally humiliated by your supposed protectors.

But the story which is most grievous to me comes from later days in my life, when I had matured and fattened past the point of being prey for such hyenas (And isn’t this one of the best arguments for remaining obese? Perhaps why many women do? But I digress.).

This story takes place in my town of Tallahassee, where a certain colleague of mine practices. He is board certified in a specialty. He practiced in partnership with a chiropractor who was the son of a respected local minister, a man who was politically connected, who eventually served on the Board of Chiropractic for many years.

It was my second or third year of practice that the first young woman came in to see me after leaving his practice. She was about 22. She had long straight hair, big eyes, a slender build, and large breasts. She said, “I know that chiropractic care can help me. But Dr. X insisted on having me undress completely for my examination and then he did a breast exam. Is that normal?” (No, it is not normal.)

Later, a massage therapist asked me if I was on the provider list for a particular HMO. This HMO restricted its chiropractor list to a very few practitioners, and getting added to the list is highly political; you have to “know someone” to get on the panel. I knew that Dr. X was on the panel, so I mentioned him. My massage therapist friend said, “No, this is for a female client. Dr. X uses, er, handles when he adjusts.” My friend put his hand over his nipple to make it clear what he meant.

Another young woman came in. Big eyes, big boobs. Cried when I asked why she was switching from Dr. X. Refused to say more.

A male patient mentioned his daughter had gone to see Dr. X and been molested; the male patient went to Dr. X’s office and threatened to punch him in the nose.

Another young woman who fit the description of Dr. X’s preferred victim came in. When I heard her story, I went into my office, printed out a copy of the Board of Chiropractic’s complaint form, and gave it to her with encouragement to report. I never saw her again.

I had lunch with Dr. X and another chiropractor. Dr. X was urging us to refer patients to him for evaluation in his specialty. I told him I would never do that because he fondled his patient’s breasts. He said “Well, you never know if a woman’s headaches could be caused by metastatic breast cancer, do you?” He changed the subject abruptly, excused himself, and left a few minutes later. The other chiropractor, a man, complimented me once we were alone for calling Dr. X on his behavior.

I was advertising for a receptionist and I interviewed one candidate who had worked six months for Dr. X. (I eventually hired someone else for the job). I asked her, “Why did you leave?”

“Because of what I saw there every day. Dr. X is a pervert and I couldn’t keep silent and be a part of that behavior.”

The next time a 22-year-old, big eyes and breasts, long hair, came in, and I saw on her paperwork she was a former patient of Dr. X, I had the complaint form all ready. All she needed to do was to write in her short description of the molestation and sign. I even had a stamped envelope ready, addressed to the Board. I gave out four more of those forms with the ready envelopes over the next fifteen years.

At a chiropractic society dinner one evening, I was seated next to a married couple who are both chiropractors. The husband mentioned that Dr. X was going to an offshore medical school and was thinking of becoming a gynecologist. I said, “Really? And would you want Dr. X doing your daughter’s first pelvic exam?”

The wife interrupted. “We are not talking about Dr. X any more at this meal. And, Peri, no, he is not touching my daughter.” She abruptly changed the subject. Women, like Hilary Clinton, learn the rules if they want to get ahead.

One day at a chiropractic convention, I met Dr. X’s former partner, who was by that time on the Board of Chiropractic. We were standing in a registration line together. I asked him point-blank why nothing ever happened to Dr. X and how he could stand to be associated with him.

“I was never associated with Dr. X. And I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. And that silence came over him. You know, that silence I talked about? When you stop being a person and you become a problem? That silence. And I knew at that moment, if I wanted my chiropractic license to remain clear of discipline, I had better shut up about Dr. X.

My point is: men in positions of power commit this type of behavior wholesale, every day, everywhere, in public and in private, and are protected by both men and women who overlook it. From Kennedy through Clinton, Presidents have behaved this way, and they’ve been given a pass by their subordinates, their opposition, and the media. The only difference with Trump is that he never put a hypocritical face on it; he was openly a pig from the very first day he hit the public eye, and he has never changed.

So what’s up, that all of a sudden, his supporters seem to have “woken up” to what a pig he is? It surely wasn’t that video; he’s said things in public, on record, many times which were just as offensive. The only way I can understand this story is as a scapegoating narrative. The scapegoat is an ancient custom; a goat is chosen to represent the sins of the village. The goat is driven out by the shouting of the whole village and banished to the wilds, to be eaten by wolves, or stoned to death just beyond the village gate and left for scavengers. The primitive archetype is saying: drive Trump out and government will be clean and pure again.

Ludicrous! Nonsense! Some people, given power over other people, will abuse that power. Power thus attracts people who want to commit abuse. If their taste runs towards sexual abuse, sexual abuse will happen and the victims will be powerless to stop it. This was true in the days of the Renaissance, when the Pope was the protector. It’s true today.

These life experiences are part of why my political beliefs changed over the years. In my teens and twenties, I was a radical feminist, a socialist progressive. I bushwhacked into the wilderness for a week on Election Day 1980 to avoid watching Reagan be elected. I listened to Maya Angelou’s “On the Bright Pulse of Morning” and wept for joy. However, I evolved. Now, on some days I am a bleeding-heart libertarian. Other days, I would be best described as an anarchist. Whatever the label, I have certain core convictions, certain consistent principles.

The first of those principles is this: whenever and wherever possible, deny others power and authority over you and over those you care about. And the second goes hand in hand with the first: care about the helpless.

 

Heart of Gold or Steel

This is a shout-out to my sisters and brothers with mentally ill adult children. This is to say: you are not alone.

You are not alone when another parent laments a horrible night fighting with a son or daughter over curfew, and you try to commiserate while silently recalling the weeks your child vanished with no word. You are not alone in feeling the stab of pain at the photos and mementos other parents take for granted. You are not alone when your silence at celebrations is a veil between you and shared joy. I am with you.

You are not alone when you run into your child’s classmates’ parents at the grocery store and hear stories of graduations, weddings, careers, and grandchildren, and are struck dumb. What can you say? “The electroconvulsive therapy seems to be helping,” or, “It’s been almost eighteen months since the last relapse and it looks like this new boss is very understanding about the absences”? You are not alone when you wonder what they’ve heard, and what they are not saying. I wonder too, in silence and gracelessness.

You are not alone in those other awkward silences, when you relate a funny story, an achievement, a talent, or a celebration pertaining to that mentally ill person whom you love. You know those silences: the person you’re talking to is momentarily confused, because they thought your child was that child, the one who…you know. How can you be praising that child’s talents or skills or achievements or sense of humor? And you want to shout, “This child of mine is NOT circumscribed by illness!”

You are not alone in your anger at your child over the behaviors which make life so much more difficult and painful. Or in your anger at the people who take advantage of a mentally ill person’s confusion verbally, financially, sexually, violently. You are not alone in your desire to protect someone who cannot be protected without also being imprisoned. You are not alone in your confusion over where to draw the line between making allowances for things mentally ill people can’t help, and enabling unacceptable behaviors that they can. There are others out here, like me, whose hearts are a battleground between the rescuer and the judge.

You are not alone when the phone rings in the middle of the night and you panic, clawing at the sheets, and flailing in terror that this is one of those times when the police, or the ER, or the psych hospital calls to tell you your child is arrested, unconscious, suicidal, hallucinating, self-harming, attacking orderlies, or any of a litany of other behaviors. Or, the worst call of all, the one you dread the most: the call to say your child has overdosed, successfully committed suicide, been shot or stabbed or bludgeoned to death by a cop or a drug dealer or a stranger or a lover. And you are not alone when the most shameful thought flickers momentarily through your mind: at least then it would be over. And you are not alone when you crush that thought desperately, so fearful that even allowing it to cross your mind will somehow make it true, make it into a hammer that will smash your heart to pieces forever.

My sisters and brothers, that hammer keeps pounding away at our hearts. Let us keep our hearts warm and pliable so the blows will be the blows of the forge, to mold and shape our hearts and leave them stronger and more resilient, and shining like metal, like steel, like gold! Let this be a flame to warm your heart: you are not alone.

 

 

As One

The more I learn about human history, psychology, anthropology, and economics, the more I come to believe that community is the most dangerous and evil factor in our existence. Whenever anyone rhapsodizes abstractly about peace and goodwill, the nebulous word “community” seems to appear. These rhapsodies generally evanesce as soon as the wind of reason blows across them; the end of such discussions is hurt feelings and spilt-milk tears.

From the work of Solomon Asch, we know that it only takes three liars to cause a fourth person to lie. For those who don’t know, Asch conducted a series of experiments in which volunteers were shown lines of differing lengths and asked to match a separate line to the one of the same length. The task was clear and obvious and less than 1% of subjects gave wrong answers when tested privately. Yet, when tested in groups of four or more, when the other group members (secretly “planted” by the researcher) identified the wrong line, a third of the test subjects gave the same, plainly wrong, answer as the other group members. What is more, only half of them later admitted that they knew the truth; the others had actually trusted the perceptions of the group over the evidence of their own eyes. Remember, this was a very simple question: which line is longer? When the reasoning is more complex or the differences are subtler, how much stronger is the influence of group opinion?

Following this reality further down the rabbit hole: We also justify choices we think we have made, even if they are opposite to what we actually chose. In the case of voting, this means that, even if an individual rejects a particular choice, as long as she buys into the idea that her will is reflected in the will of the collective, she will mentally justify the choice of the collective.

From the work of those such as Peter Killworth and Robin Dunbar, we know that our human brains can only handle the complexities of understanding and having true social relationships with 150-300 people, the size of the smallest social groups, such as clans, in hunter-gatherer societies. Any larger group must be managed by heuristics, where people (or objects, concepts, anything) are mentally pigeonholed based on obvious characteristics. A judgmental way of referring to heuristics is use of the word stereotyping. Heuristic stereotyping is the only way to imagine that we are taking everyone’s interests into consideration when we make decisions as a city, as a state, as a nation, or as a world. Put another way: when an individual accepts the idea that decisions must be made as a group, the only way to think about the interests of the group’s members are by applying heuristic stereotypes to the group’s members. But humans are far more complex than stereotypes, and to talk about the interests of “women,” “blacks,” “the handicapped,” or “workers” is to disregard the ways in which any individual woman, black, handicapped person, or employee may have differing interests or needs. In this sense, every person belongs to multiple communities, but no community. The only way to value every person as an individual, is to refrain as much as possible from making decisions for people as a group.

We also fear loss far more than we value gain. This is true even when we have more than we need, or when the losses and gains are of points or chits that have no value. If we are told that “we” own something, even if it is something that we cannot use, such as a nature reserve, government building, or military base where we are not permitted to go, we fear the “loss” of something which is of no good to us. On the other hand, if we never have something, we do not fear to lose it. This is the genius of withholding taxes, which disappear from a worker’s pay before she ever receives it. If everyone had to write a check for their withholding, FICA, and Medicare tax every payday, they would feel the loss and recognize that the collective is taking from them. The same is true of IVA taxes in many countries, where the IVA is baked into the price of the item at many stages along the object’s being brought to market. Taxes and regulations on business are likewise more popular than sales taxes or taxes on individuals, because we never see the increase in prices that results from the taxes on producers. Yet, those who set taxes, fees, and regulations know this very well and choose to push it out of their minds and disregard it, telling themselves it is for “the greater good.”

And last of all, we are easily stampeded into fearfulness. Whether it’s fear of Muslims or fear of guns, the narrative of attacks floods our primitive brains with adrenaline and focuses our attention on doing whatever is necessary to combat the perceived threat. It is only by careful thought and consideration that we can realize that the risks to our safety posed by guns, Muslims, or whatever this week’s terror totem is, are very small. And it is only in quiet and relative isolation that we can perform the careful thought and consideration needed.

In short, whenever I hear anyone discussing politics begin a sentence, “We should…” I want to interrupt right there. “We?” Who is “we?” Do “we” have to do this as a group? What if I don’t want to be part of this group? Can a group of those who want it done, do this thing on their own? Most of the time, my answer, whether it’s building a wall along the Rio Grande, or taking away people’s belongings because they might hurt someone, my answer is “count me out!” If it is so important to you, you do it.

The truth is, I am only rarely part of “we.” Are you? When?

Vulture Shock

My neighbor in the RV park says, “Hello.” If he said any more it would be weird, creepy, awkward, suspicious. I flash back to Cuenca and the cholas sitting in the market with grandchildren running around their knees, the old men in the parks on the benches, greeting one another and conversing with anyone who happens to come near. That includes a pale-faced gringa trying to improve her command of Spanish, eager to learn about their lives and tell them about hers.

 

It’s so trite to say, “people who don’t have as much, value what’s really important: friends, family, music, enjoying the company of others.” Yet, it is true. I think I never really believed it; I felt like people here in the US enjoy those things too, AND PLUS we have spiffy cars and electronics and nice clothes and kitchens and the best stuff ever in the history of all mankind! What I found living a year in a developing country was that, no, all the stuff really does get in the way of what is real. The things really do distract people from one another. The entertainment media streaming at us all the time really does confuse us and make us cold to one another.

 

We look at the stuff and the shows and the movies and the video games and the commercials and the news and the signs and the billboards and we are in a trance. We drive in a trance from place to place. We compete in a game to win prizes which we may not even like when we get them. Every now and then we look up and catch each others’ eyes, startled to remember each others’ presence, and stammer a few words, unsure what to say when there is no business to be transacted. What a relief it is to get back down to watching, buying, consuming, earning, and to know everyone around us is doing the same! We are all doing it, so we don’t owe each other anything. Not courtesy, not a moment’s attention, not a smile, and certainly not the truth.

 

Let us speak one truth before it is too late: we are not the greatest and we never were. We are the world’s dregs: the criminals, the religious fanatics, the political dissidents, the neglected twelfth children, the sexually trafficked, the captive losers in small, local wars. We were all turned loose on a continent whose tech was ten generations behind, and we ran roughshod over it; we then turned our aggression outwards in two world wars and a perpetual global occupation, and claimed control of the financial structure everywhere. We began to tell each other lie after lie after lie about how it all became possible, and we believed those lies, until the truth was hidden in plain sight among a million other stories we liked better. Our youth find nothing more motivating in life than a handful of pills. We want to work and we can’t. We strive and struggle to get a scarce job, and then discover that we are not creating anything of value. Our children’s brains are wilting inside their skulls before they are even born.

 

We are safer than anyone has ever been in history and yet we are consumed by fear. We have more knowledge available instantly on our phones than our parents could access at the best library on the planet. Yet we are duped over and over by transparent lies, because they are told by pretty people on glowing screens. We are ashamed of our pain, ashamed of our stories, ashamed of our need to connect to other human beings.
Say more than hello. Just say it.

Invitation to a Cogitation (Bring Your Own Brain)

Science tells us that everything can be broken down, systematically analyzed, and understood. At least, that’s what I learned at the Bronx High School of Science; Northwestern University tapped firmly on the notion with a large mallet and seated it in the slots in my mind as I worked on my BS in biology, and by the time I was grinding away at neuroanatomy, pathology, and endocrinology in chiropractic school, my train of thought chugged reliably away on the steel track of theorize, analyze, test, conclude, refine theory. Spirit, spirituality, belief, mysticism: these were something separate and peripheral. Like the supposed separation of church and state, the Ineffable was reserved for recreation and socialization while the Measurable was what really mattered.

While I was grinding away at fulfilling the requirements of my credentials which would make me credible and grant me permission to earn a living doing something I was good at, the really dweeby math and physics geeks who rolled their eyes slightly when I said calculus was a challenge for me, wandered off into a land of abstraction and came home with things they named weirdness and chaos. This was cute, but then it wasn’t because they really meant weirdness and chaos. As I struggled to reach the point where I could gulp huge swaths of data whole, digest them, and shit out mental algorithms that would make me the best diagnostician ever, they slyly whispered: you can never know. Starting conditions affect the outcome. Fractal repetitions will lose you on orders of magnitude. You cannot analyze it. You can only appreciate it.

I had to take their word for it because my mind wouldn’t wrap around the math. Perhaps, I pensively mused, I should follow my heart, which was always annoyingly pulling me towards other people. And I found the church! I found belief! I dusted off my inductive reasoning and found God’s word in the Bible; I became part of the global body of Christ and we all devoted ourselves together to the love of that word, the Logos, the eternal utterance of pure love which created, creates, and will create the Universe. We did. Really. Except it turned out that involved a lot of eating bad food and singing bad music and judging people unkindly and telling people what to do with their reproductive organs. I tried several flavors of Christianity just to be sure.

I HATE being told what to do! Always have, since birth. It’s who I am. It’s part of what made me a vehement feminist when young and idealistic. And I hate still worse being told what to think and what to ignore. And the whole ignoring-the-parts-of-the-scriptures-we-don’t-like-while-flogging-the-ones-we-do-like-a-dead-horse part of religion finally tasted bad enough that I spit the whole thing out.

The basic principles of morality are actually pretty clear and simple: don’t hurt other people or take their stuff. Love God and do what you will, as Augustine said. The rest proceeds fractally from that. All the rest of it is pretty much just yak, yak, yak.

So okay, that’s the non-aggression principle; you caught me, I’m a libertarian. Maybe an anarchist, depending on what kind of day I’ve had. Don’t hurt people or take their stuff. Anything people have to be forced to do is not something that actually needs doing. The best outcomes are always win-win. And one of the most satisfying things I know is helping other people. I made a successful solo career out of it, until the arthritis in my hands, aided and abetted (in an obvious conspiracy) by exponentially expanding healthcare regulations, made it nearly impossible.
Of course then there’s the helping versus enabling dichotomy. Crazy sadistic nutjobs and alcoholic narcissists bloomed floridly on my family tree. Gaslighting was a family evening at home. Tied up, whipped, and suffocated was a visit to Grandma’s. The inductive reasoning came pretty naturally to me because as a child I had to always remember what to think so I’d know what to say. Not whining here; worse things are happening to other people all over the world right this very moment (and you and I are paying for some of them). I’m just explaining why I kept giving second, third, and successive ordinal chances to people who disrespected me, including people I gave birth to, until I mostly stopped. Fuck that! On a personal level, boundaries are beautiful.

So now you know what this blog is about. If you prefer a cheerful, happy blog about traipsing around in an RV and enjoying the beauties of the most prosperous nation in the world from the open road, check out https://peripateticperi.wordpress.com . You’ll probably find it much more to your liking. This blog will have sex, religion, and politics in it, sometimes in the same post. Sometimes in the same sentence. Also conspiracy theories. And cussing. But it will also have poetry and whatever deep insights I can convince myself are not just the drugs talking. There will be beauty.

That’s where I’m going. You’re welcome to follow me.