Swedish. Raised in American chaos — 1970s Hollywood. My mother bartended at the Playboy Lounge wearing a federal wire. A Norwegian cannibal lurked in the woods of my childhood Arctic. My best friend Fredrik and I built cross-referenced Bigfoot files in elementary school.

Everyone called me STEREO because I could not keep my mouth shut. Turns out a kid built to broadcast was a receiving station being assembled before anyone knew what a receiving station was.

I carried a Wonder Woman lunchbox in 1970s. In Hollywood. As a boy.

I understood then what the rest of this work would take sixty years to name:

Your truth doesn't require permission.

It requires you to carry it, even when it is heavy, even when they laugh.

Sixty-two now. Brown. Gay. Thirty-one years of continuous sobriety.

Twenty-five years of continuous therapy. Thirty-plus years in product systems, and advertising design.

I’ve done the work.

I know how the wellness machine is built because I built machines like it.

I could sell it to you.

I chose to give it away.

I survived childhood sexual abuse, the AIDS epidemic, addiction, my brother's murder, strangulation, domestic violence, and twenty-eight funerals before I turned thirty.

The probability of one person surviving all of it, calculated later, came back

1 in 8.3 billion.

I left New York after fifteen years. Moved to Southeast Asia with my husband Anthony to retire.

Instead, heard a voice in a Brooklyn shower that told me to write, and inside a ninety-seven-day window beginning September 15, 2025, produced four trademarked frameworks, an art movement called FORENSISM, a nineteen-episode podcast now reaching forty-seven countries, and the 797+ pages of Books Two and Three.

I live in a glass house in the jungle with Anthony and our dog Rocco.

Coconut palms and plumeria trees on one side, actual jungle on two others, an elephant reserve behind. I wear ceremonial jewelry. Every day. Not as fashion — as technology.

I keep a ceremonial bowl in my spirit house where I place dead insects — moths, beetles, dragonflies — with plumeria flowers and honor their passing.

My husband walks around the pool at dusk with an electric mosquito-killing tennis racket.

ZAP. ZAP. ZAP.

Somewhere the Buddha weeps. Or laughs. Hard to tell with enlightened beings.

My best friend Jonathan died in 1995. He sent me sixteen photographs in March 2026. Don't ask me to explain that yet. It's in the book.

I didn't build this for myself. I already have the shovel.

I already know where the rooms are.

I built it for the person standing at their own dig site at 2 AM, wondering if they're crazy or if

something real is trying to break through.

That person is you.

I don't want you subscribed.

I want you healed.

Those Who Know Will Know