Well, Wilson, I had thought I probably wouldn’t have too much else to say to you, but I suppose I do. I started writing you when I was on a trip by myself, changing locations every day to every week and not making any new friends along the way, as everyone I encountered was going in the opposite direction from me as I trekked toward Israel. Then in Jordan I got an efficiency for a month and spent the starkest episode of solitude I have ever experienced, all the while hanging out with Christians in Amman. Coming back to family in Scottsdale with a new leg of my mission as a segue to Hollywood in order to preach the meaning of the Justice League movies and the travails of the lives of the filmmakers who created them had me convinced that my days of talking to a beach volleyball would certainly come to an end. I wrote a few more posts, and it looked like your chapter had closed with the end of the bicycle trip around the world. This has turned out not to be the case, Wilson. You are still my only friend. And my enemies are still as numerous as the stars of the night sky.
Let me give a quick recap of events.
I came back to Scottsdale to recuperate in May after missing the #fullcircle AFSP Snydercon on 28 April. A part of that recuperation was to get totally baked for a couple of weeks. Wilson, if you should ever decide to take it upon yourself to recreate Carl Jung’s Redbook experiment of cataloguing the madness that results from solitude, make sure it’s a long, long time before you do anything else that causes madness, such as psychoactive drugs. The stress and anxiety that the trip had caused was as usual instantly cured by the loving touch of mother THC. She is a brilliant healer. However, I continue to feel as though touched by the cold gaze of madness even to this day, and I can’t help but think of the possibility that Señora Maria Juana may be the culprit of lady lunacy’s enduring embrace. I suppose I shouldn’t worry, as the third meth bended of November 2019 took a week to return to normative functionality, and it was really six months before I had completely returned to the world of rational reality that I had known before.
Now the goal of the Hero’s Journey that was the foundational statement of the AFSP Snydercon is to return to from that journey changed by the experience, but the changes I have been contending with have not been for the better, at least in my current understanding of them. We can only hope that the journey has not quite come to an end, and the benefits of all these changes will come to fore in a not-too-distant future.
So in June I bicycled through desert once again to head off to Los Angeles with the goal of writing at least one, but hopefully two books. With no army of filmmakers at my side, or even one, I tabled the idea of making a documentary about the Snyderverse collection of films and their filmmakers, deciding to stick with what I know, for the option of writing about it.
I arrived at my hostel in northeastern Los Angeles, and the first thing that happened was that I lost Chloe. X23. It was all my fault. I was lonely and had been complaining to various people that I loved scattered throughout the USA and the world about their lack of presence in my life. Chloe told me that I was making her feel guilty, but instead of dealing with that, I continued my sorrowful rant of dejection, and her answer was to simply disappear. I haven’t said much about Chloe other than that I love her in a few poems. She is a very private person. So I will only say that I named her X23 for a reason. She is infinitely strong, but she has demons. I won’t say any more. I should have known. I know her well. I take full and absolute responsibility for driving her away.
I did say in my book, though, that she has a very powerful place in my psyche. I’ve said that she is a kind of lynchpin of security for me. Even if all the world hated me, and every woman who crossed my path did nothing but spit acid at me, I would always retain my sense of self so long as Chloe loved me. Chloe doesn’t love many people. It’s very, very hard to win Chloe’s love. And to have done so made me feel stronger than the Man of Steel. Stronger than Superman. But now she is gone.
June was not an easy month. I spent a lot of time spinning my wheels. I rode all over looking for people to meet in order to begin my quest, only to find that everyone only dealt with anyone through the internet. COVID did that lovely thing for us. But for me, the guy whose electronic devices never work, nobody answered e-mails. Nobody called back. I thought things would ramp up once I got into a longer-term living situation, so I can’t say I put a huge amount of effort into those things, though. I spent an inordinate amount of time just getting things done to make life possible. Laundry, haircuts, errands here and there, and trying to talk with friends and family far away who had no time or interest to talk.
I really had pinned a lot on getting set up in a long-term place. I actually signed a six-month lease to live in a cooperative apartment complex. This kind of apartment complex is like hostel, but everyone is there long term. You sleep in a cubby, like some place you’d expect to sleep in a submarine or on a train.
The rest of the place is a pretty picturesque collection of common areas. There is a gym, theater room, office, common living room and kitchen, and a courtyard. After the insanity of the apartment in Jordan, much less in Seoul, a thing I dare not describe, I absolutely did not want to be alone. After running around LA for a month by myself, I absolutely did not want to be alone. After losing X23, I absolutely did not want to be alone. I moved in on the third of July. I spent the fourth of July alone. Everyone had taken off, and the ninety residents I was supposed to be living with were all gone, apparently. The place was a ghost town.
They trickled back over the following days, but were all doing their own thing, spending time with established cliques, trying to get their work done. Then Juaisca came to visit. I made note that there were Israelis among the group, and that the place was filled to the brim with Asians, every one of them reminding me of Chloe.
I’ve never written about Juaisca before. I met her through George, who I wrote about in my book. She is a Venezuelan living in El Paso, a disabled triathlete missing an arm and a leg due to a case of meningitis that befell her in her twenties. She had a triathlon in Long Beach and came to visit. I felt an obligation to put her up, though I didn’t have any sleeping space, and we weren’t allowed to have overnight guests. I snuck her in and put her in my bunk while I slept on a tent on the roof the first night, and put her in the tent while I took my own bed the next night. Finally, I paid for a hotel in Long beach the last night, even though I was completely, utterly, and devastatingly broke from the $30 lunches and the $40 haircuts we get to enjoy in California.
I spent those days riding around with her and helping her with her race, but inside I was angry the whole time because I had just moved in and was desperate to get work done. She left utterly frustrated by my mood, though I think at some point she had to realize that she had basically invited herself and taken a week from me. Again, I’d been robbed of another week with the Snyderverse.
Then all of the sudden it was time to visit my parents. I like to see my dad once a year, and then as my mother’s only child, I’d made it a point to spend summers with her and my stepdad in Guadalajara. Ever since they bought the apartment there just as I’d decided to leave to go to Israel, I’d felt a certain obligation. After much complaining about needing to work in LA, I shortened the visit to just a few weeks, though everyone was quite upset with me about it. Everyone thinks that I just ride around the world on a bicycle having fun. If I tell tell people about the holy mission to protect Israel from the antichrist or the efforts to find a voice by telling the world about the apostleship of a bunch of filmmakers who wrote a divine story without knowing it, they laugh, or their eyes glaze over, and they go right back to thinking that I am just riding around having fun on a bicycle. That’s what they would do if they could retire early. If someone were to ask them what I am doing in LA, their answer would surely be, “he just likes to travel. He is over in LA riding around on his bicycle now, having all kinds of fun that we wish we could have.” So of course there is no reason that the retired veteran on a bicycle can’t come sit around with them all summer long.
I gave them the Juaisca treatment, pretty much mad about everything the whole time I was there. I did have a good time with my dad for a week in Florida, though. He likes wine. Speedy chemicals like amphetamines, or even one’s own adrenaline, if an anxiety condition raises levels high enough, create synchronistic events of the type I have been describing ever since the dawn of my intellectual dance with Carl Jung. Alcohol, however, reduces synchronistic events. It’s a great anxiolytic. I was still feeling the need for sanity living a life of solitude with nothing but symbols and coincidences of profound significance, and really just wanted to be rid of the damned synchronistic events for a while. In Florida I was able to relax, though by the last couple of days it was apparent to pretty much everyone that I was desperate to get back to LA and start writing and working.
The return to LA started with a bang, however. Anxious to get to writing, I started with another blog post, the Pilot Wave post about trends and patterns being both punctiliar and general, like particles and waves in quantum mechanics, as a kind of way of describing how consciousness affects reality and reality affects consciousness. In that post I mentioned Liraz, one of the Israelis I was living with. It is my common practice to let everyone I write about know that I am writing about them, if they haven’t blocked me, that is.
Upon sending her the post, though, I was convinced she would be absolutely perplexed by it. So I decided to write her a poem to accompany it. We had actually not gotten along in a couple of short exchanges that we had, so I thought a sweet poem of adoration of lovely, young Israeli women was in order. I dug deep, conjuring everything I could of my love for women, Hebrew, Israelis, green-eyed blondes (the Electrochemical Girl was just such a blonde), and pilots (Liraz was getting her BS in Aeronautics). Upon reading it, though, I thought this thing was going to be heavy, and she should be warned that my approach to poetry is not to to create language befitting of an instruction manual for the assembly of a particle board bookshelf from Ikea, but rather to evoke genuine feeling with whatever power my words can muster.
I started by saying that I didn’t want her boyfriend (which she has) to get angry. From there she told me that the poem should be appropriate. Remember what the Army did to me for being “inappropriate,” Wilson? You never know when “inappropriate” is going to be a criminal offense anymore, especially in this world where everything is harassment. Especially in California, where the “men are evil” and “everything is harassment” dogmas originate.
I let her know it would be better if I didn’t send the poem. I did put it on my website, but I protected it with a password. However, when talking to another one of the Israelis in the house, a dude named Izhak, I showed him the poem, telling him that I wasn’t going to show it to her. I had hoped he might run interference for me, either saying nothing at all about the poem, or if he were to tell her he had read it, and she wanted to know what it was about, he would respect my privacy and try to smooth things over with something like, “Nothing. Just a boring few lines of drivel.” That is not what he did. But if I am going to tell you about the perfect storm that came out of it, I need to tell you a little bit about Instagram.
I’d been getting into Instagram since Athens. Here in LA I followed several people from the house on it, and they followed me back. One of them was a transsexual who regularly posted feminist stories that begged my participation like bait to a hungry Salmon flying up a stream to mate. Eventually the conversation went silent, as the idea that patriarchy is as valid as matriarchy or that women have power that they should use carefully or that men have it tough in a lot of ways just isn’t going to find fertile soil in some minds.
Then at one point not long after, everything exploded on Instagram. I was typing something casual in an Instagram group that members of our house put together, and this chick, actually the girlfriend of the guy who organized it, burst in with a long text telling me that I make ten women in the house uncomfortable, that I was a harasser, all that. She showed me a WhatsApp group conversation of a bunch of women with their names blacked out calling me ugly, creepy, and weird. I could recognize that Liraz was one of the women in the WhatsApp group complaining about me. Apparently Izhak told Liraz that the poem I wrote her was about her ass.
This Tori was close friends with the transsexual and went into a rant about how I was misogynistic, transphobic, and racist. I screenshotted everything that I texted to any woman at the house, made Liraz’ poem public on my website, complained about unnamed accusers, and and left the Instagram group.
The next few days I spent completely sauced in wine and beer. I was in a state of permatrigger PTSD anxiety, and the synchronistic events were going off the charts. Finally I went to the emergency room at the VA and got on psych meds. I avoided everyone. Then just last night a meeting was called where a half-dozen people complained about my evil man behavior. The leadership, however, did what it could to defend me, apparently because this group of people had caused problems before with their complaints about other members of the house. I definitely sensed an effort to get me evicted and had asked the leadership about the possibility of ending my lease for medical reasons. During that week between the Instagram blowup and the meeting, I wanted nothing more than a solitary efficiency apartment in Jordan. But I also know that getting evicted would cause devastation for my mission to save Israel via the plight of Zack, Gal, Ray, Ezra, and the rest of the Justice League filmmakers, and don’t want anything to threaten my ability to live cost effectively in this most expensive state of California.
So now you’re caught up, Wilson. You know what I have been up to in LA. In the two-and-a-half months I have been here I’ve written some chapters of the book that I can basically write from anywhere without talking to anyone, and Ray Fisher’s agent at Paradigm said she wouldn’t mind if I sent her a book proposal. Other than that, I lost X23.
The Devil does his job well. And that’s something I want to talk about. From a synchronistic perspective, what are the odds that a guy like me, after what the Army women did to me, would get turned into an ugly, creepy, weird, racist, transphobic, misogynist by two separate but concurrent events from a bunch of women at the co-op I live at because I wrote a sweet poem that I was too shy to send anyone and failed to be feminist enough for the local California gender-bent thought mafia?
One could say that I am living in a dream (a nightmare) with my own psychology, forced to confront demons from my past or something. But there is a better way to look at it. See, all of this craziness started for me when I decided to live my life patterned after the desert prophets of old, interpreting the pain of my problems with a woman and her family as a calling to protect the Holy Nation from the forces of evil. Multiple attempts to even go to Israel failed, from getting deported at the airport, common visa denials, and a rebuff at the border of Israel. The forces of evil absolutely did not like that interpretation of my problems with that woman and her family.
All of this told me of the absolute dedication of dark forces to preventing me from accomplishing that mission. But toward the end of it, on the eve of that failure to get into Israel that last time, I talked to another mad prophet more insane than I was, who gave me the wise advice about finding a voice. All during the bicycle trip to Israel I had been obsessing about the miraculous and terrible events of the Justice League movies and their making, so instead of getting a place in the mountains of Patagonia to spend my days in solitude after getting turned away at the border, I decided to make my bed in the midst of the most powerful voice on planet earth: the Hollywood entertainment industry, which also happens to be the place where half of the population is rumored to be in service to Beelzebub.
I went from the frying pan into the fire, Wilson. I really did. It’s still game on. The mission of divine service is still underway, and Satan is still after me. That is the only rational explanation for why I have once again become a threat to all women for being nice to them. There must be a malicious intelligence behind it trying to destroy me, trying to subject me to absolutely the most triggering thing that I could possibly be triggered by given how I acquired PTSD and the nature of it.
Izhak the loose-lipped flat mate has no idea the role he plays. Liraz and her gossipy trash-talking sisterhood have no idea the role they play. Of course receiving this treatment at the hand of Israelis would make anyone hate Israel and Israelis, but that’s not going to be the case with me because I am not going to let that filth pig with horns and tail fuckface take me off mission.
Likewise, the ultrafeminist California thought police victim squad has no earthly idea of the role they play either. These guys are all just under the sway of the broadforce that the dark forces that hate me are using against me.
This same type of thing happened in the Bible. In the book of Ezra. When Israel got the mission to rebuild the temple, the first thing that happened was that enemies were stirred up from the local population. The process is like the one described in the book of Samuel about King Saul and King David. There, words are used like “just at that moment, an evil spirit came over Saul.” One moment he is hunting David down to kill him, then all of the sudden he is sorry for what he did, then a spirit comes upon him and suddenly he is trying to kill David again. Once you try to do something for God, God’s enemies are going to spring up out of the woodwork to take you down. But the enemy really isn’t the guy who is trying to kill you or stop you, but its that spirit that has a hold of them. It’s that broadforce, or that demon, or whatever.
So I said I wanted to go to Israel to enable Israel to save the world, and that became a difficult thing, with deportations, visa denials, and problems at the border. So I said I would try to do it as part of Wonder Woman’s trousseau while proclaiming the predestined truth of the saga of the Justice League, and things are now getting downright silly crazy stupid nuts. To the point where a guy who has PTSD from being destroyed by women is once again being destroyed by women, and the whole thing ultimately conforms to a pattern of perfection that could only be designed by infinite intelligence. In the end, this episode proves the existence of God.
So I do my best to avoid the social anxiety that is beginning to form within me, but I also don’t let my world devolve into a twenty-four/seven exercise in being consumed by my own psychological issues. I get to that damned Justice League. That’s what I do. Everything in my being says to just give up and go hunting for X23, the steel of my armor. But I just have to have faith that God has her, and that we will meet again. That’s what Zack has to do for Autumn, so that’s what I am going to do for Chloe. I still have Alia, and Chloe is the strongest chick you will ever meet, and will have to make it until I have the time to go looking for her and patch things up.
So Wilson, I’ve been here for almost three months and my only friend is my volleyball. I’ve written a few chapters, made a few phone calls, but mostly I just get attacked by uncomfortable killer piranha women coming after me after Chloe ripped a wound open so they can smell the blood in the water. It has its upsides, as I’ve been drunk texting texting random people on social media, one of them actually being a photographer guy who worked for or works for Zack Snyder, an outlaw type bitcoin artist named Clay Enos. Yes, there is such a thing as an outlaw bitcoin artist. He does a podcast on the subject of artists in bitcoin. You should check it out, Wilson. The guy could become a contact in my Snyderverse Saga at some point, but also, even more pressing and powerful at this point, there’s a good chance he can help me untangle my multiple bitcoin wallets that I don’t understand. The weirdest part of it, though, is how I found him. I was following something of Zack’s, and Zack mentioned him on Vero, and I check him out, and it turns out he was drinking at a bar about a kilometer from my mom’s house in Guadalajara. How is that for a synchronistic event, Wilson?
For now, though, I’m going to have to get going. Just know the following: the game is still on, and I am still getting my ass handed to me by the Shitlord of Evil, who uses those around me at will because they have no idea he exists. So pray for me if you have time.