He left Powell River, B.C for San Francisco twenty years ago, to take up the truth in the wake of 9/11.
With irony dying, and fiction not far behind, a growing interweb presented itself as one book, and he read into its fictions a truth that suited him and those he messaged with.
Home was a storage container, and he worked with hemp to make his living: bracelets for students, to be sold on the sidewalks of Berkeley, an imaginarium their Boomer parents still sigh over, as in, Oh, for me? How sweet.
"He was very shy," people said. "He had a hard time making eye contact." And one wonders what those who found him shy made of him saying so -- how "hard" it was -- if he had.
If he were a Black man we might not have the information we have on him, framed instead as a violent attacker, not an eccentric in a village (Berkeley) of eccentrics, the only one clothed at a nudist wedding.
If he were anything but a white man there is a very good chance he'd be dead by now.
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