As a result of being shot by his shitty uncle, Tony Soprano lays comatose, in a hospital bed.
On the exterior he’s of course unconscious, using a breathing machine while loved ones surround him and grieve.
On the interior however, Tony’s mind constructs a sort of Sims for him.
In this unconscious dreamscape, Tony is no longer Tony Soprano capo of an organized crime syndicate, but Kevin Finnerty, a functional salesmen with zero recollection of Tony Soprano.
The people he encounters seem to recognize and accept his projection of Kevin, naturally.
Something, perhaps a lack of detail or Kevin’s permeating confusion, makes this reality feel as though it’s a facade.
Like watching Josh Brolin play Oh Dae-su in the unnecessary remake of Old Boy.
From his hotel balcony Kevin sees a lighthouse.
Allegory no doubt used to impart the promise of recovery.
His grand destination is the lighthouse, otherwise Kevin will unwittingly surrender Tony to a psychological black hole.
Tony could die an old man, seemingly a vegetable.
But really, he will die a completely other person, in a different world.
A stranger amidst an odyssey.
I never really understood those two episodes of the Sopranos.
In fact I hated them.
Laying in bed way past midnight.
I can honestly admit these episodes have made an obvious impression on me.
Thinking about my bizarre year. And now, about this unbelievable global lock down.
In short, I’m seriously questioning my reality.
There have been times when, for one reason or another I veer from a choice I was determined to pursue.
When I arrive at an alternative choice, relative to the original expectation, it seems to be hurriedly, even poorly constructed for me.
Constructed isn’t quite the word.
But it’s close.
It’s as if in some unknown dimension there is a being that knows I’m going to Bryce’s house to play games.
Because I know I’m going to Bryce’s to play games.
Bryce knows I’m going to Bryce’s to play games.
So every possible result of that, Bryce and Games reality, is there waiting for me.
But on the way to Bryce’s I decide to get coffee, which I genuinely decide to do in seconds.
Inside I meet an old friend who invites me to go for a walk in a park, to catch up.
Which I surprisingly agree to.
When we arrive at the park, it’s closed.
Every choice I make absent of going to Bryce’s house seems to fail in some way.
Do these versions of reality fail because there was no time to prepare them?
Is my god a lazy god who, like me, does the bare minimum when tasked with unwanted work?
At risk of sounding like a ego obsessed lunatic or a simulation theory groupie, I will admit to you, that this unmistakable feeling of, waiting for the game to load, has happened to me on a great many occasions.
My whole life, in retrospect.
I feel a hand at work, a hand I can never fully acknowledge, let alone communicate with, shaping what I experience as reality.
I believe it to be so.
I don’t align this hand with religion in any pretext whatsoever.
For the record.
This is not a Jesus.
It’s something more, scientific.
Remember when Rick breaks the Zigerion simulation by telling everyone at a concert to do very specific things based on their distinguishing attributes?
If you’re wearing yellow and are over forty, shake your left foot!
M. Night Shaym-Aliens, my favourite episode.
I think I’ve reached a point where discerning what real is, has stumped me.
Perhaps the Canada simulation isn’t ready?
Or this program has to reach a point of progress before everything can go back to what i’m accustomed to?
Or maybe I’m in a coma and I’m trying to reclaim a participatory directive over my consciousness.
How long have I been here?
WHAT YEAR IS THIS!?
What if everything I think is real is not?
What if I have to unlock my existence?
Are you this Hand of Creation?
Are we together, when unified on a harmonious frequency of peace and accepting, this so called Hand of Creation?
This, collective Zen Artist?
I know that questioning reality is a dangerous endulgence.
But can you think of a more apt time to do so?
Billions of us are being quarantined because a dude ate a bat.
In an attempt to be information responsible, several of the articles I’ve read describe the origin of this pandemic as a derivative from a zoonotic disease, presumably the result of a person eating an infected animal, probably a bat.
The entire world is unraveling, the culmination of thousands of years of cultural evolution threatened because some Chinese guy ate a bat.
Sounds like an out of ideas writers room to me.
Remember when Steve Urkel built a machine that transformed him into a cooler sexier version of Steve Urkel, Stefan Urquelle?
Yeah, this might be the same writers room.
Not to mention the sad particulars of global leadership at the moment that seem to be contributing to an anger narrative.
Which I refuse to acknowledge in any detail here.
The redeeming virtue of this otherwise terrifying contemplation that I could be in a coma or a simulation is, I accept it as a challenge.
I rather like chaos, and have always wanted to loose my mind.
On the condition that I can find it again, of course.
I must get to my home continent.
To my lighthouse.
Where people speak English and there’s much less racism.
That’s what my intuition is telling me.
My third eye chakra, for the mystics out there.
So I’ve decided on May 3rd, when the Indian lock down is presumed to finish, I’m going to the airport in Delhi to book a ticket to as close to Mexico as I can get.
From there I’ll attempt the Pacific Crest Trail, to British Columbia.
By way of hiking or trekking or whatever people who use walking poles call it.
I think trekking.
If I am loosing my marbles, surely I’ll be able to find them during a long walk home.
If, that is, home is ready for me.