Containment.  I lack it.  Other than economic constraints and time constraints and mental constraints and spatial constraints and gravity, I am uncontained.  How can this be?  How could such a state of affairs arise in this, our highly organized, modern world?

I am the Artful Dodger of another age, in a different sense, reincarnated.  I found myself cast fatefully into this world, abandoned with mother, and developed a knack for psychic self-liberation that, I’d dare to challenge, is unrivaled by others.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima bullshit culpa.

*scanned, bacteriologically sterilized, and prepped for starhop pre-induction*

I go nowhere.  But arrive everywhere (and thus am the prime suspect in all crimes considered).  I’ve withered on the vine yet have found myself subsequently cast by Johnny Appleseed yonder.  I’ve pondered the full moon upon a still lake when drunk.  And have hid in armored tanks while killer bees rumbled overhead.  I’ve  psychically witnessed the undead become dead.  And have died once too few times to ever die again before eternity’s end. I was an adventurer in time until blogging revealed itself and then I became a cyber-Jason in search of the Golden Fleece.  I’ve sought nirvana, found self-annihilation, but have never been granted a lover’s release.   I am the Conifer Bodhisattva here to assure you that hemlocks are the heroin addicts amongst trees (possessively coveting every precious needle of juicing). 

:that is my cosmic resume.  

Will work for food.