can't worry about my weak mind or the dilemma of language. talking on the beach about talking like dreaming, a delicious notion. thinking about the couch, thinking i never had the couch, or the steady fellow dreaming empath on the chair. i have a doll couch of faded blue satin, with a pink crystal with little triangles etched mysteriously on one facet which can't be read but felt which formed of itself underground out of time to be with me to represent me in my time. i have the crystal on the couch that's my self i can carry with. though it's often lost to me, lost in place with me. it's sitting at home now waiting for re-discovery.

my primary job, is that i consider myself, an artist, and by that, uh, that means, i'm not a politician.  

robert altman   

so why stay in the anger, why rage at the politicians, what do they have to do with talking dreams? they are in the world, they are stupid and powerful forces. they even rise in the talking dreams.