Aterrizaje (the Twentieth Chapter)

All right, maestro, I’ve finally finished telling you about my drug saga. Now it’s time to get into the aftermath and my return to what passes for reality. So my parents did finally come back from Texas, and in the end I was able to rest in that the big bathtub at their luxurious home. My adventure with drugs had come to an end. Or almost.

I do have to tell you that Arizona is a state where medical marijuana is legal. You can get it in places similar to pharmacies that we call “dispensaries.” Thanks to my PTSD diagnosis I got a card with which I could obtain pot for therapeutic purposes. In 2020 I used it four times. I don’t smoke it. I prefer to eat it in the form of gummies. Since when I’m on marijuana I can’t behave like an adult, I usually just eat a little before I go to sleep. I do it for a week, a few times a year. It helps me a lot with anxiety, PTSD symptoms, and surreal tendencies that the crystal left me with.

Since that time that culminated in my stay at the Marriot, however, I have not used other drugs that are not therapeutic. Over time, the psychotic episodes became less frequent and intense. But the drug experience was not something I could forget so easily. It was more than I could mentally process, really. I wasn’t able to reconcile those experiences with the rational life that I had lead before.

Maestro, when you take a drug and you see an angel, you can just say that you are hallucinating and the matter ends there. But if the angel asks you to go to a place that you do not know and tells you that there you will see a girl who has seven roses in her hand, and indeed you go to that place and do in fact see a girl with seven roses in her hand, it is not easy simply to convince yourself that you’ve seen a hallucination. Yes, Chaz and Haley were scammers in some ways, but this fact could not explain all that I had experienced with with them. The whole ordeal was something supernatural, without the clear evidence of being able to determine where hallucination and dementia began or ended. Things that were obviously explainable and attributable to being high mixed with things that I just could not explain. As if that were not enough, my experiences did not lack themes of profound philosophy and deep psychology.

There was another problem to boot. One to which I have alluded previously. The songs of the Electrochemical Girl began a few months before the drug episodes. And they continued until September 2020. That’s when Noah stopped putting songs on her lists. I stopped paying attention for a long time. In fact, I got a girlfriend and tried to start a new life elsewhere which I will describe in detail later. However, this year, 2021, I checked on her playlists again and saw that she had added more. In fact, she added a few songs for the last time in March of this year. Just a month ago.

I still had a relationship with these playlists, butI got so frustrated with everything that I didn’t want to put any more songs on Spotify. Instead I started writing poems and short stories on my blog site.

In a previous mail I tried to describe our song exchange to you. It was in one of my first e-mails. I remember you hated that e-mail. You said it was excessive. It was absolutely not a pleasure for you to read it. But I had only just begun to explain what I saw in her songs. My reaction to them was easy to attribute to someone obsessed, interpreting everything according to his wishes and preconceptions. Occasionally some song would present itself that challenged this understanding, however. My e-mail only had the first of these songs. Right after Harold took Noah to the police, a song appeared on her list that said I shouldn’t worry about the police. I think it was the last one I mentioned in my song description.

But there was more. When I announced on Facebook that I was going to Mexico, the song “Barrio” by Mahmood appeared on her list. Had the Electrochemical Girl started listening to Spanish songs by pure chance? Sometimes it was a song in Spanish or with a Spanish title by an American singer like Cristina Aguilera or Jennifer Lopez. Where did her interest in Latin music come from, maestro? Of course, the theme of the songs was always related to what happened in my “relationship” with her. I use quotation marks because I acknowledge that I have never had any relationship with her. I just let my imagination fly to the rhythm of our respective playlists.

Also, in the absence of a way to contact her, I started putting up very open Facebook posts. As if I was thinking aloud, but in writing on my social networks. Anyone who reviewed my blog site or my Facebook page could know practically everything about my life in addition to my most personal and private thoughts. Her songs seemed to be the answer that my various Facebook posts and my poems and short stories on my blog were looking for. If nothing else ever comes of any of this, I can say the whole experience has transformed me into a person who wants to be heard. And into a person who writes and uses art to communicate. And into a person who says anything at all that crosses his mind. Sometimes God develops us in ways in which we are not aware until much later. This had made me into a poet, an author, and a public communicator.

On my blog I described my quest to get superpowers to contact her via telepathy and on her list I found the song “Telepathy” by Kali Uchis. Who knew you could make love by telepathy? It’s another Spanish song. There were many songs like that, maestro. In general, all of them narrated in their own way things that had to do with me, or with “us.”

I have always understood your skepticism, maestro. But do you remember that I showed you some songs that made you think that maybe something was happening? Things that seemed to transcend mere delusion? Unfortunately everything was made shit with drugs. Everything broke into a thousand pieces, like a ship crashing against a reef in the middle of a storm without a lighthouse. It was clear that I had lost my sanity, at least temporarily.

Often my ravings on Facebook and my blog involved issues of the hostility of the world toward males and being so uptight about sex. My world was a stage where I battled Harold’s neurosis to defend all the women of the world from me and to vanquish Chaz’s insistence that I would steal his girlfriend.

In general, I realized that just as I was healing and returning to sanity, I was also unraveling in a way. I wouldn’t let shame, convention, or privacy shut me up. As I healed, the complexes of my PTSD seemed to merge with the scars of the meth-fueled psychosis to cause my world to become a wicked reflection of my psyche. Every day my life offered me a bitter cocktail consisting of my most intimate shadows. I clarify that I do not maintain the idea that the Electrochemical Girl called Spotify to insist that Tame Impala be played over and over again in the car as I was rushed to the hospital because I had had a mental breakdown. Yet that too was a form of Spotify communicating with me somehow. My inner world appeared before me in songs, friends and experiences. Often life contained too many coincidences and subtle messages to seem real to me. My life was a dream, and Noah’s songs were a part of this madness. When I started writing this story I confessed to you that I had a difficulty distinguishing illumination from madness. Jungian psychologists call the type of weird coincidences that express one’s own mind in the world outside “synchronicity,” and they do not call it madness, but rather they call it communion with the collective unconscious, a Jungian term that is not entirely too dissimilar from the concept of God.

Nonetheless, for a year or so I continued my relationship with the Dutch girl’s playlist. I couldn’t convince myself that the songs had no connection to anything. It was a complete and complex dialogue. And it had a dominant feature: I needed to talk to the girl. Her songs spoke of regret, fear of saying things, inability to help someone, anger, disappointment, difficulties in trusting someone, anxiety. Negative things in general. It was not a romance of roses and passion, maestro. She had to know what the fuck was going on and what wasn’t. And so did I. The devil had done his job well: the contact with Noah through the songs was no longer distinguishable from the conversations I had with demons and fairies who used Wiccans and drug dealers as bathrobes.

As you said, on my part, my poems expressed an intense need to talk to her. Above all, I needed to distinguish reality from my projections of it. In my writing I referred to my interaction with her as real, but I always had doubt that I was talking to a real person. And if I wasn’t, with whom or with what was I interacting? Was it possible that the angels were inspiring Noah to put certain songs on her lists? Or were they demons? Or was I talking to the universe? Or with Karl Jung’s collective unconscious? Or with God?

In fact, maestro, the most important thing for me was simply to know who the Electrochemical Girl really was, so I could interpret my experiences. It wasn’t just that I wanted to have a romantic love with her. And yes, maestro, I always say that I love her. And it’s the truth! But no one has ever asked me what kind of love I feel towards her, or how this love is supposed to express itself. The fact is that it could take any form.

I didn’t want forsake the idea that the real Noah van Ouwerkerk was talking to me, and that she was also had feelings for me. But like I told you above, my world was so weird that I couldn’t exclude the great probability that it was all an illusion, but one perhaps of some completely otherworldly experience with deep meaning. However, even if my assumption that the girl burned in love with me had been true, obviously I would not have eloped with her.

My love for her is real, but it is a love for someone I don’t know. I admit that all my contact with her had been from a list of songs. Still, I decided to love the real Noah. I am stupid, I suppose. I decided that it was my right as a follower of God to love anyone I wanted. Love of the stranger is a virtue. Also love for the enemy. All the religious people would applaud me if by chance I chose at random some disgusting vagabond man as the recipient of my love. It would have obviously resembled the love of the Good Samaritan. But for these people, randomly choosing by some happenstance of bizarre fate a beautiful and completely unknown young woman is very scary, maestro. Only a stalker pervert would do such a thing.

To boot, the songs are just fascinating. They reveal a spectacular character even if they have nothing to do with me. The person who compiled those songs, whoever she really may be, is a badass.

However, I cannot make decisions for someone I don’t know or have any contact with. She was not my sex slave. My love for her never had a chance to transform into something specific. It never took the form of romantic, parental, or friendly love. It was a love in an embryonic state, pure and indeterminate.

It goes without saying that if you had an affair with someone you have never had a conversation with except for songs on Spotify and poems on a blog, it would have been a miracle. Sometimes it seemed like she was trying to explain through her songs her hesitancy to contact me. I figured she would be afraid that her family would find out something. Remember my story about the Fire Girl in which a group of Christians cut each other to ribbons so that a single, solitary atheist would not get upset about something. Similarly, the notion that “I can’t talk to you because my dad doesn’t want to,” seemed absolutely ridiculous to me. Even if she were to call me up and profess some undying love for me, I certainly would not have suggested riding off into the sunset with what what would have been at that time a 19 year-old.

Conversely, if she had contacted me to inform me that she did indeed hate me, exactly as she told me over the phone in September 2019, I would have been greatly relieved. At least I could narrow down the possibilities of what happened. At least I would know that I had been talking to God, the devil, the coolective unconscious, or that I had just been suffering schizophrenia. However, as I have indicated elsewhere, I needed to believe her, maestro. Not like that time that her dad had given her the phone to tell me I was a creep, exactly like he had told me I was a creep a few hours before. It is possible to help someone escape from a state of insanity with a little civility. Yes, I needed a little of her time. A little friendship. To know who she was. This was the subject of many of my poems on my blog.

In my poems I wrote many times that she should not be like her family if she wanted to contact me. Of course I didn’t mean for her to leave them. Not at all. Don’t forget, maestro, that my own daughter, the fruit of my soul and the pearl of my existence, found a nineteen year-old son of a bitch who convinced her to tell me, her dad, to go fuck himself. And she went with him, with Dan, with that cranky, arrogant, resentful German who always treated me like nothing. Apparently my daughter didn’t have a respect for me like Noah has for her family. I tell you, maestro, the perfect cancer for a teenage girl is usually a teenage boy. I tell you truth, amigo. By the way, I repaired my relationship with my daughter, but there are scars. Nevertheless, I can understand very well the pain of when a daughter throws shit in her daddy’s face. I would never inflict such a thing on another man, no matter what he did to me or anyone else.

In those poems where I was telling her to not be like her family, I was trying to convey my impression that the van Ouwerkerks seemed only to actually communicate in niceties. I had a suspicion that they never actually said things gritty and true that may cause a little hurt. I confess I don’t know these people from Adam beyond a little time at dinner. But how else could someone be so absolutely offended at behavior a little out of the ordinary? What would possess someone to vanquish a man as an insane stalker just because he ranted about having the police called on him? They seem to be of a class of people who do not express themselves frankly. I could be wrong, absolutely, but this was my assumption. And this context, it would be very difficult for a young woman to tell her father that she wanted to talk to a disgusting old tramp with whom he had a beef, even if she had no intention beyond helping the deranged enemy of her family save his mind. It would take a lot of courage, maestro. I think it would be something van Ouwerkerk just would never do. This is not something that civilized people do, Vidal. They just close their social media accounts and continue with conventionality. My requests to Noah to be different from her family were not intended to separate her from her family. They were a plea to step outside of her comfort zone and do something for an enemy, as the New Testament and the Torah would approve of.

Maestro, psychologists say that a person is only a product of his environment and a member of his group. In my experience, this is true in the vast majority of cases. People believe that if their soccer team wins, they are a good person. And if their team loses, they are a bad person. A failure. The other day I said something bad on Facebook about a Jew I read about in a news story. A Jewish friend read the post and commented with a litany of accusations in reference to my alleged hatred of Jews and Israel. For that guy, an attack on any Jew is an attack on him.

Yes, an individual is a reflection of their outer world, but sometimes God gives us the opportunity to show that we can be inspired by something from another place. I guess this was what I was hoping to see in the Electrochemical Girl. I know well that the world demand that girls are not supposed to talk to old men, but I hoped that a divine spark would inspire her to defy the world’s expectations, at least to help someone regain their sanity.

I just needed to be able to interpret my experiences. News of hatred would be a gift, maestro, likewise, news of love or a news of apathy. I was suffering from no news. Unfortunately, I had said that I loved the girl, and for religious people “I love you” is a very strange and scary term. Very few know what it means at all. The love of the unknown is an incomprehensible thing in our world. Loving the vagabond is a sin. And loving an insane ex-monk is a mortal sin.

Maestro, I love that girl just as her daddy does, but I only asked her to be her Facebook friend. I suppose there is a possibility that the Electrochemical Girl loves me romantically, or that at some point she loved me like that in the past, but no more. I can imagine that there are sins more terrible than that of an old man who has a young woman for a partner. Although as I told you above, my love for her was a love without any specific expression. Basic contact and her help to come to my senses were all I asked for.

However, at the end of 2019, after my adventures with drugs, I had heard nothing from the van Ouwerkerks and needed to define a course for my still directionless and now twice as crazy life. In December I traveled several times between Scottsdale with my parents and El Paso with George. He introduced me to a friend of his girlfriend, Juaisca Rodríguez. She was an refugee from Venezuela, and also a disciple of shamanism and astrology.

We spent a lot of time together and mainly talked about spiritual things. We were developing a vocabulary to describe our spiritual concepts, including words like “Illuminati,” “Jedi,” “The Ninth,” “Padawan,” “Prophet,” and other funny terms that I use in my poems and social media posts. I can say that this was the beginning of a long journey that sought to decipher my psychedelic experiences and reconcile them with the great world of spirituality. Unfortunately, she is not my friend now. She was attracted to me, but I didn’t want a relationship with her. At one point I told her that I had no respect for George’s girlfriend because she never confronted him. He could have pissed on her face in front of everyone and she would have delighted in it. She let him treat her very poorly, if I am to say that in a more civilized way. Then, later, I once something rude to Juaisca. I don’t remember what, specifically. I think in order to stand up to me and demand respect, to not be like George’s girlfriend, she decided to block me. After what happened with the Electrochemical Girl and her family, I can’t tolerate being blocked by anyone. And when someone blocks me, it’s final. I don’t go running around trying to talk to them. For any reason. Apparently only Noah can block me without altering my obsession with her, and even still, as of mid-2020 I cannot under any circumstances take efforts to try to talk to her. I simply cannot tolerate accusations of being a stalker. Thus, once again because of my crazy complexes, I never spoke to Juaisca again. It’s sad. I lost a friend. A lot of women like to be chased. Others like for people to show love by battering down their resistances. I’m sure she thought that if I cared about her and was sorry for being rude, I would find some way to get past her block. Have George or George’s girlfriend convince her to unblock me so I could apologize, for example. But for me, when someone indicates I should not communicate with them, that’s the end of all things. I’m sure the devil is happy about that. He has another tool to prevent Jonathan from interacting with people and telling them things about God.

Anyway, all I can say is that the coming back to earth from my excursion into the world of drugs and schizophrenia was not a short or neat event. I experienced more than I could accept, and the center of it all, the narrative thread of the story from start to finish, was the Electrochemical Girl. Contacting her was extremely important to me, but the world is the world. My world is my world. And in my world, the only girls who help old men are escorts or sugar babies. And I cannot reach out to someone who has indicated to me not to. So I guess I am doomed on that front.

This e-mail has been difficult to write. I don’t know if I said everything I wanted to say. But there is no point in writing more. It would only lead to more confusion. It would be better to write you another e-mail about Mexico tomorrow. Adios for now.

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