some come out of the american dream and have a hard awakening. many never will. i never dreamed it. i dreamed of cliff running, and being buried alive. dad was a paytriot, a made of money man. i remember sitting on the porch of his summer house, a giant flag flapping in our faces. as he would say about other things, it was abzurd, and i remarked how if fucked up the view. he was bitter angry. his flag was like a blowhard shout, fuck you. he said all immigrants were scum, including his parents. anyway, it goes beyond the old man by now, he's been dead many years, but he was an unconscious teacher in my my sentimental education. he was the key to my slow slow awakening to creative anarchy and radical love. i never was a paytriot.