Returning to Blind Love: Creation, Collapse, and the Call to Begin Again
- Lavavoth
- Apr 23
- 9 min read
I was reshaping the book entirely. I tightened the prose, stripped it down, and rebuilt it into something cold, mechanical, and clinical—a reflection of the novel’s own mechanized world, governed by an authoritarian regime
Aside from a recent post from a few days ago, it’s been more than six months since I last updated the blog—and there’s a good reason for that. At the start of November, I made the decision to return to Blind Love, my illustrated novel. Back in 2017, during Trump’s first term, I shelved the completed manuscript, afraid it would be misunderstood or dismissed, perhaps even canceled. But when he secured a second term in November 2025—not only winning the Electoral College but the popular vote—I felt a pull to pick it back up.
This time, I wasn’t just finishing what I started. I was reshaping the book entirely. I tightened the prose, stripped it down, and rebuilt it into something cold, mechanical, and clinical—a reflection of the novel’s own mechanized world, governed by an authoritarian regime.
But an unexpected turn emerged. It was no longer enough to let the fiction speak on its own. I knew it was time to thread my real story into the narrative—my life with Hans, our bond across lifetimes, and the unresolved questions surrounding my past life in Germany. Blind Love became not only a creative act but a reckoning, a confrontation with fascist ideals both historical and personal, woven directly into the fabric of the novel.
As recently as October 2024, Blind Love wasn’t even on my mind. I had just purchased a home on 25 acres of forested land—and had been focused on writing about my transpersonal experiences in nature with Hans. I was making strange, biomorphic artwork that documented our life together. But everything changed the night the election results came in. When Trump claimed victory again, I felt it in my gut. I couldn’t stand idly by.
I didn’t drown my rage in alcohol or cannabis. I quit both, choosing to stay sober, alert, and fully present. Because I understood—on a visceral level—what this presidency meant.
I imagined my life transformed—free from the necessity of holding down a job just to make ends meet, able at last to live as a full-time artist.
That’s when I heard Hans say: “It’s time to return to Blind Love.”
Let me backtrack to clarify Hans’s directive.
Back in 2016, I was deep in the process of writing Blind Love. But the book still felt hollow—lacking in substance, unfinished in spirit. I asked Hans if he thought it would ever be published. He said yes, but offered nothing more. No timeline, no guidance. I took it as a sign that success was near, that the dream I had carried for so long was finally within reach. I imagined my life transformed—free from the necessity of holding down a job just to make ends meet, able at last to live as a full-time artist. It felt tangible, like I was only inches away from the life I had envisioned.
But on December 31, 2016 [1], everything collapsed. That night, I received an email from a friend I had trusted with the manuscript. His words cut through me—he said the story was “terrible.” The fantasy unraveled. I realized how much I had deluded myself, letting hope carry me beyond reason, fueled by what I then saw as Hans’s empty promises.
I was heartbroken. I felt betrayed—by the promise of the book, by the spirits who had once felt like allies, and most of all, by Hans. I wanted to sever every tie—not just with Blind Love, but with the entire world that had surrounded its creation. I saged myself and my home, expelling the spirits of the Second World War combatants who had been by my side for the past two and a half years.
Without Blind Love, my life felt stripped of meaning. I couldn’t see a way forward. I languished.
I even considered banishing Hans—not only for misleading me, but for what else had happened that night (see note 1) and for the silence he held in its aftermath.
But Hans couldn’t be banished. I knew that. So I did the only thing I could. I gave him the silent treatment.
For the week that followed, I fell into a deep depression—one I hadn’t felt in years. It was so severe I called out sick from work for the entire week. I couldn’t bring myself to face anyone.
Since 2009, Blind Love had consumed me. I had poured countless hours into this strange, haunted project that entered my life with as much mystery as Hans himself. My identity was tangled in its pages, fused with its rhythms and rituals. Setting it aside—banishing the combatants—felt like severing a vital artery. Without Blind Love, my life felt stripped of meaning. I couldn’t see a way forward. I languished.
At some point during that incomprehensible sadness, I heard Hans speak again—gently this time. “Go back to school and pursue a doctorate degree,” he said. “There is research out there about these experiences.” His voice was soft, almost cautious, as if he were trying not to provoke me. He knew I was still angry. And yet, whenever I’ve given him the silent treatment over the years [2], his response has always been the same—he heightens the paranormal activity around me. It’s his way of reminding me he’s still here, still watching. But this time, he was gentler. He moved objects with care, knocked softly on metal and glass, and gave me space to grieve.
His guidance, combined with my deep need to understand what I had been living through with him, lifted me out of the depression. Suddenly, I had something new to focus on—something I had long wanted to pursue. I had always dreamed of earning a doctorate but abandoned the idea when I thought I’d have to retake the GRE. I had scored a 1200 back in 2007, but it hadn’t come easily. I had worked hard, especially on the math section, and had pushed through a migraine midway through the exam. The idea of doing it all over again was unbearable.
Then Hans spoke again. “Look at schools in California,” he said. “Search for ‘doctorate in psychology, paranormal, mystical, online.’”
To my surprise, I found several unorthodox schools out west—programs that embraced experiential research and, more importantly, had no GRE requirement. I didn’t want the degree for prestige or career advancement. I wanted it for personal development—for my own path in exploring my relationship with Hans.
So, in 2018, as I sold my Victorian farmhouse and downsized to a condo in Stowe with spectacular mountain views, I started school. The coursework was intense. The constant stream of research papers sharpened my writing. I returned to Blind Love occasionally, revising a scene here, adjusting a passage there.
But every time, Hans would interrupt. “It’s not time yet. Stop revising your story.” He would hover, groaning theatrically, muttering his disapproval. “Let’s go for a hike and a glass of wine at the Von Trapp’s,” he’d say, offering distractions until I gave in. Eventually, I’d close the document and surrender.
I lived in that condo for over four years before realizing that HOA life didn’t suit me. So I sold the place and bought a beautiful Craftsman-style home in Rutland, surrounded by mountain views. But the population density made me uneasy. I felt exposed, like I was living in a fishbowl. After just two years, I sold the house and moved again—to the home where I live now.
That geographic restlessness mirrored my creative state. I drifted from Blind Love, growing weary from the endless string of research papers—though each one was tethered to my lived experiences with Hans. The writing had become academic, detached. I missed the visceral pulse of the novel.
So when Hans gave me the green light to return to Blind Love in early November 2024, I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself into it, sometimes working twelve to sixteen hours a day—editing, rewriting, rebuilding. With each revision, with every overhaul of the page layouts, I saw the book come alive in ways it never had before.
This time, no soldiers arrived [3] to help shape the narrative, like they had in the past. This time it was just Hans and me—working closely, relentlessly. His drive was palpable, feeding my own. We stayed attuned to the world outside, watching the news of Trump’s unraveling of the government, of the country itself. We recognized the signs. We’d seen it before—fascism rising, just as it had in Germany, all those years ago. Another life. Another nightmare.
This time, I would embed our experiences from that era into the novel—as a warning, as a thread of truth in tandem with the fiction.
It’s a risk, laying this shadow bare beyond my website, which sees little traffic. But it adds a necessary depth to Blind Love, a rawness that anchors the story in why it was created. It gives me the space to meld fiction with autobiography and historical memory—through both words and images.
On Sunday, I sent out my first query letter. I included a sample of the manuscript, a visual layout of select pages, and a 47-minute video I created to present the heart of the introduction. While I feel proud of what Blind Love has become, I don’t expect much from this round—or the ones that follow. Blind Love is strange. It defies genre. It confronts taboo. Given the world we’re living in, and the volatile themes the book explores, I imagine most literary agents and publishers will have to weigh whether the risks are worth the rewards—if they connect with the story at all.
And still, I move forward.
I stand alongside other outsider artists—a term I claimed for myself long ago, when I realized my work would never fit conventional molds. Artists like Henry Darger, whose In the Realms of the Unreal carved out a space where the impossible could live—where the artist was never required to conform to create something incredible. Where muses, angels, ghosts, and memory could guide the hand, even if the work isn’t recognized until long after.
Back in 2002, when I was at Penn, Paul Chan became a friend and creative influence. He introduced me to Darger’s work and showed me the animation he had made from it. It was like a portal opened. My understanding of art—and my path—shifted. That moment allowed me to become receptive to Hans’s presence through my artwork, even if I wasn’t yet fully aware of who Hans was.
To make art that follows its own rhythm is to accept a kind of exile. It’s dangerous terrain—professionally, emotionally, even spiritually. I think of Nick Drake, whose music wasn’t embraced until after his death. I think of Darger. Of Van Gogh. Of the many who were ahead of their time—out of step, misunderstood, forgotten. I count myself among them.
But in the end, that doesn’t matter.
Because the work takes on a life of its own. It begins to breathe. It keeps the artist alive, propelling us forward, into realms more vivid and expansive than this one. Realms filled with strange characters and impossible beauty—realms we were always meant to find.
Notes
I'm not ready to share the full extent of what happened that night with the soldiers. Even now, I struggle to put language to the experience—what it was, how it unfolded, and whether I had truly consented. It felt like I was complicit and overtaken at the same time. The sheer scale of it—the way dozens of them surged into me like a tidal wave—was both ecstatic and violating. It’s the kind of event that sounds too surreal, too cinematic, to be believed. But it happened. And to speak about it without reducing it to spectacle, I need to find a space within the narrative that can hold its weight. Not just to tell it, but to process it—to allow the experience to breathe, to settle, to be witnessed with the gravity it deserves.
Since 2010, there have been a handful of times when I’ve gotten upset with Hans. Sometimes it was because I felt misled—something that deserves a post of its own. Other times, it was due to promises he made but didn’t fulfill. In hindsight, these moments weren’t betrayals; they were lessons—barometers of trust and tools for growth.
Being this intimately connected, day in and day out, with a spirit is not simple. Their abilities can feel like superpowers—impressive, seductive, and at times overwhelming. I’ve witnessed what Hans is capable of on many occasions, often left stunned by the precision of his foresight and his uncanny influence over others.
Over time, I stopped getting upset. I also stopped asking questions he wasn’t willing to answer.“I’m not here to disclose future events,” he would say. “I’m here to help, not interfere.”For the longest time, I misunderstood those words, thinking they meant the same thing.
But I know better now. I no longer demand certainty from him. Instead, I listen—and when he chooses to speak, I do my best to understand what is being offered.
Several days ago, I had a vivid visitation dream involving four WWII combatants. I’m still working to decipher its meaning and will share more soon. This was the first time any of them have appeared to me since 2018.
Comments