Candice is one of the mutations. Some gripping force. We’ve got to mutate the higher intelligence. Practicality issues large scale problems that will impact [eco-, political, energy] systems. Everything influenced by the super intelligence.
Would Bobby flip out if he knew?
How does my own existence engage with this knowledge?
I see visual, global. I see Candice playing in the sun. Self-appointed revolutionary of the wisdom tradition. Candice’s genius–what is emerging is so radically new in kind. We cannot content ourselves with sitting the exam.
Not for a new order of society. The spirit-infused super intelligence utility.
It crystallizes for me a sense of dharma. In the bathwater there’s this part here that makes sense to me. I have the most passion when it feeds me.
For example, you see some things in certain ways. You list ten people. What percent have already been there? Candice, the only ones alive come to me.
***
Intuitive cider. It’s streaming. Starting. Looking forward.
Only a handful frame the problem properly; to implement a pedagogy that has a solution–virtually non-existent, though extraordinarily present. Ponder the experiment. It doesn’t really survive collision with a visionary priest, oriented to the future.
***
Massive fucking aneurysm.
***
Convection.
I felt in that moment a level of compassion. The Atma Project, instinctively closer to the vision, doesn’t manifest in his own being. Never cultivated the material feminine.
You and she started talking, and there’s the challenge: need for safe conversation. I’ve said this to Margot, closest of any of them. She shoots up but doesn’t have to. Best game for free fellas. The lovely humidity my mother charged her with.
Letting go of the need to fix everything. Emotional effects of work and enough to do. Never took Candice, in theory. Intention. He couldn’t let himself open. His wife was somewhere. Had he had the humility to deconstruct, to see anything else. It’s the only way it works.
Run all points through the system. Can we take it from sixty to seventy or eighty points?
We are seeing. Triumph.
I’d love to play with you more. Alive right now.
It’s the Mafia card. Johnny-style. Tried to sell it on the market but they weren’t ready. Show up regularly for bagel-lovin’. A woman too. Wednesday through Sunday shootin’ the shit. Got not tons of time. Wooly, like the balloon that floats around.
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Jess Hagemann is a graduate student at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. She spends her time hunting for jaguar sharks, and refurbishing thrift store furniture. Her work has previously appeared in Pank Magazine, Gambling the Aisle, and Kweli Journal, and she is the 2009 recipient of the Richard T. Sullivan Prize for Fiction Writing.
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