I’m healing slow. The scar stays there with a little little scab. I won’t touch mine like the guy did next to me at the rehab he kept touching his scab. He kept pressing on his wound and wanted the pus out.
It was hell listening to him. I’m sorry to say this. I’ll change the subject to a dream.
Down the roof walk past windows and there at the end was a wonderful pile of junk. You can judge a guy by how good his junk is.
Helicopter bodies covered in rotten tarps with grass grown up in around the round shells of the lawyer company owned company? Enstrom,, something like that. I wanted to meet the guy that owned such junk.
He came out with is wife who was staring mean at anyone come from the roof. “Fine helicopters.” I said.
“Thank you.” He said. “I have one running over at the airport.”
“Terrific.” I said. He was wearing a white shirt and blue jeans and thick glasses. His hair was medium length.
By then his wife had gone on to taking clothes off a clothesline, so he was a green fellow you saw.
“I’ll leave you now.” I said because I had shown up unannounced and from the roof. I left.
At the airport I had a friend who brought me a cardboard box with parts of a radio in it.
I loved that radio when I got it to work in a wood frame that was a sculpture to me. My brother smirked at it, and probably threw it in the trash when I gave it to him when I was moved again and had nowhere for it.
Many radios and books are long gone.
Even now I have recorders around me.
I used to record all around me all the time.
That’s not really. What really I did was record talking when groups were going to be together.
There are transcription programs now.