you have nothing picking something up off the ground can feel like a big deal. In hindsight of course this isn’t true, but it sure felt that way. I might not pick up two or three interesting curiosities that day. Then I’d find it. Maybe it was the color or the texture, but that object was going in my hoodie pocket. I’d finger it from time to time, a comfort, maybe even a memory of richer days.
As supply has become less urgent, though my instincts are still not acclimated, not relaxed, different choices are made. Intellectual choices about ideas, and how they feel to me. Where am I headed? Certain memories made up of systems of delusion, or just plain made up, fall apart. I have a clean slate.
I have awoken from a coma. I been dreaming so many years in this bed that the people around me with their oh so human forms are almost estranged to me. What do you say to a real person. So much more then to a real construct. But I’m lost for words most of the time, like arriving on a new planet, learning a new language, I still spend most of my time listening.
My Favorite heyoka (other then my cat)
schizophrenic art... alchemy?
random hopefull cash suitcase, sorry dick higgins 
Sero magnetic collab c carol powell and
Make-ing for Mark Bloch who plays with Block s, internet language effects form
TRi-bute to in ray johnson ny
