December Una: Sometimes, when it’s about a certain craving, say I want to eat a butterscotch ice cream served in a cone, not in a cup, not a butterscotch cake, not butter or scotch (or chocolate or vanilla), just a butterscotch ice cream cone, I will get it, and I will relish it. It’s a certainty, so easy to live with.

At other times, I may think about a butterscotch ice cream and find myself led instead to a bottle of scotch on Uncle Grey’s brightly old wooden table, through the ageless corridors of time in my mind, corridors I travel through often. The table itself may hold a brief release from the scatterbrain of Uncle Grey, who might utter a sudden thought from his corridors of time in his mind, thoughts that may lead him to the butterscotch ice cream cone I thought of last Sunday.

Uncle Grey doesn’t exist in physicality.

My intimacy with my mind has been both my forensic curse and my cure, running on the same timetable. So when I extract a fragment of clarity, or a certain principle tied to the workings of all systems embodied through my vessel, and, at the same time, the dissolution of all systems embodied through my vessel, I see it, and I relish it as if it were the butterscotch ice cream cone I felt connected to in a fleeting moment, while being connected to all possible and impossible combinations, and the lack thereof.

I don’t think, Mister Crispy. Thinking happens to me, and it happens like a cosmic “it already happened.”
It’s beautiful, and it drives me wild, or perhaps I drive it wild across the endless, hasty horizons of a field system that clusters many fields, more than I can count.

What I can do, or what I usually or sometimes do, is turn it into fiction or poetry. It all happens to me at once, and I happen to all of it at once. So my life remains open and bizarre, flowing like a curvature of curvatures, full of certainties contained in time-space vessels while simultaneously breaking free from those containers. And I see them not with my eyes, but with my body, as if I experience them with my soul, or with a cluster of sprites I wholeheartedly and unknowingly embody. Or perhaps they collectively embody me.

I am not sure, Mister Crispy, whether I am supposed to be here, or whether I know what I am. I don’t stay tailored to my given form; I leak out in favour of the vastness of the bigger table that hosts me as a fragment, one Uncle Grey sometimes looks at while knowing he may not be Uncle Grey at all.

He could be someone December Una made up.

Hi, I am December Una. I ate up the “L” before “Una”; it feels breathable.
I will see you again.