i got my stuff from the Manitoulin island delivered by my friend today, finally, after seven years and much effort. No childhood photos that i wanted, i have only one photo of me as a kid, however i got everything else, books, paintings, and Idiosyntactix archives for what they worth.

It makes a closing chapter to the drama of becoming a homeless.and rebuilding from ground up, in this case from Toronto to Montreal for seven months, then to Manitoulin for two month, living in a mud hut, then back to Toronto, climbing my way up from one shit hole to another, places infested with the bad bugs, demonic murderous crack-cocaine alcoholics, psychopaths, crazies, and simple sloths and mental retards, granted with a few good folk here and there like speaks of gold in the unrefined ore. Even the secret service has stuck their head asking stupid questions, incognito, although not to my hidden intelligence. i can smell them from a mile away.

Anyway, if there is any intelligence on this planet, it is really scares indeed. So, i got my stuff packed into my little room.  now i can go through it, see what is useful, all that paper, even a box of old cassette tapes and cords! The books are nice. Most rotted away in the forest, however the ones that survived are wonderful and a good company. The Dalai Lama painting never looked better, after long seven years in the forest on the Manitoulin island the oil 25"x27" portrait, from a famous photograph possession of which was punished severely by the Chinese authorities, has no mold and no damage whatsoever. Obviously his zen carried him through unscathed.