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August 13 2017

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Fairies Wear Boots - Black Sabbath - 1970

People are surprised when I tell them I go to church. And sure, my church involves listening to Sabbath while doing yogic breath work, ingesting fungus/grass, followed by a walk/wander in nature. But it is a church nonetheless.

If I was gonna suggest a church for out of town visitors, it would be the one I used to go to in Portland in the late 1990s. Your typical Luthernish Methodist snooze fest of a building. Tan brick, minimalist brushed aluminum lettering, a lot of light colored wood. But the joint was owned by hippy acid-freak twins. One was an aeronautical engineer, the other a grower of rare orchids. They had these amazing arguments that frequently ended in over-the-top MASH laughter. Total maniacs! The church had been owned by their father who leased the land to the original church builders. That church went out of business (who knew?).

Those old boys would put on a fucking show. You’d come in and be seated like it was a regular Sunday morning church service, then they’d kill all the lights and the cross would glow in the dark while these guys and their choir of 10-15 friends would scream in an amplified PA that would put Sabbath to shame. The place had that same piss/Pine-Sol smell as the creepy old folks home where you visited your great grandmother. Only the ordor was often overwhelmed by pot smoke and nag champa

After screaming full blast for several minutes the choir would sit in complete silence for 10+ minutes. Let me tell ya - you could see the silence. It glowed humming white like smoke.

Mmm… those were some nice times.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello and to stay safe out there/in here.

Love ya,  

Jade (Dr Fever Britches) Bos

August 11 2017

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When my grandfather came home from World War II he had nightmares. He dreamed he was still fighting the Japanese, but in the trees behind our farmhouse. He was only 17 when he enlisted and had never been out of the county. Six weeks later in was in the middle of the wild blue Pacific on a destroyer in the Battle of Midway. He fought on through Okinawa and the dropping of the atomic bomb.

Years later, my father woke us up screaming. I ran into my parents’ room. My dad was twisted up in the bedsheets, on the floor, sobbing wildly like a lost child. He was gone by breakfast time. Mom said he was sick. That’s when she told us about Vietnam and how dad dreamed, just like his father had, of fighting the enemy in the woods behind our house. I remember walking in those trees later, clutching my BB gun. I eyed the old rusted farm equipment suspiciously. We visited dad in the VA until he eventually came back home. Only to awaken us again and again.

I never had to go fight in a war. I went to college, moved to the city and got a decent job. A few years ago dad had a stroke and passed away. Last summer mom broke her hip and we moved her into an assisted living facility. We sold the farm so there was plenty of money to see that mom had her own little apartment and was well taken care of.

Before I left, I went back to the farm and buried my father’s and my grandfather’s guns in the grove. A few were probably worth some real money, but I wanted to put them to rest. I was tired of guns.

Burying them became a strange comforting ritual. There is a rhythm in digging a grave. I dug the hole deep and began to imagine and slipped into a dream. I was planting a new kind of crop for a new kind of world. We’d found an alien machine and used it the wrong way. The technology wasn’t for destruction and killing, but for creation. It was all one big mistake. It was well after midnight when I finally covered the hole and lay on top of it, exhausted. I was overcome as I looked up at the silent giant trees and imagined my father’s and grandfather’s fear and horror. It was so peaceful now. I hoped they’d found peace. And perhaps that something wild and new would grow.

The farm’s new owners cut down most of the trees. They built a giant orange storage facility for people to hoard all their excess junk in.

Last week mom fell again and had to have surgery on her hip. I drove out to the old farm. The house is still there but covered with shitty looking vinyl siding. There are two long rows of storage units. It looks like a factory farm. All but a small bunch of trees in the very back corner had been cut down.

I parked and walked around the back. There was a young mom with her child. She was trying unsuccessfully to squeeze a large cardboard box into her little Toyota while wrangling her 3 yr old. “Here, let me help,” I said and grabbed the box. The child made its escape into the underbrush of leftover trees.

“Jacob!” the mom yelled, chasing after him. I folded the flaps of the box and slid it snugly into the back seat.

“Oh put that down,” the woman said. I turned around. The child emerging from the bush, holding an odd large red flower. It was probably the wind but the petals seemed to flutter like wings and for a second I thought it was a bird trying to fly away.

August 10 2017

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I apologize for not writing. I’ve been jangling rabid across this great land of ours, dining with the wind and weather. I’ve lost and found more than I have the energy to explain, and anyway, such explanations are always tedious. Who wants to hear an empty grave whistle?

You are either overwhelmed by the magic of life, or dead. Or, if you’re like me, you die and are reborn several times a day. It’s complicated. Sometimes you stay dead for days.

I wish not to insult you with the comforting ease of pretending that I understand anything. I want you to feel the emotion of your own weather and words. I want you to become curious about everything but become an expert of nothing. I want you to stop and unfurl yourself like a wonderful dream. Stop calculating everything and fuck a bucket of paint. Ask a tree why we crucify gods on them. While fat baby’s giggle in their shade.

In my bible, Eve is mother nature incarnate and she eats of the tree of knowledge because she’s the whole garden of Eden. Life only begins when she births the fruit and we eat our very self. Devourer. Only when we know that the apple is poisoned can we truly eat. That’s the great secret of the tree of knowledge. It’s death. Without it, life doesn’t exist.

The withered apple rots
on the branch
and wonders

what was that all about?

Christ hung from the dead tree
the fruit of the tree
of knowledge
The Buddha sat beneath

Eve offers you her flesh
take and eat
it’s your death
the only way to live

Tell God to fuck himself
and salvation shall be yours

The eternal well is inside you
find it or suffer a fate
worse than death

A life unlived.

July 21 2017

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Mary Jane Rathbun, Inventor of the Marijuana Brownie.

In the 1980s, Mary Jane was baking over 4,000 brownies a week for Californian AIDS patients after she realised it eased their suffering and depression. Despite multiple convictions, she remained an active marijuana advocate until the day she died.

I had to fact check this and her Wikipedia page made me like her even more:

“She was raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she attended Catholic school. At the age of 13, she was involved in an altercation with a nun who tried to cane her, but Rathbun fought back.”

“Social activism appealed to her from a young age; she traveled from Chicago to Wisconsin to campaign for the right of miners to form unions. In the late 1940s, she worked as an activist promoting abortion rights for women in Minneapolis.”

“Rathbun often appeared in public wearing polyester pantsuits, and she was said to have a ‘sailor’s mouth.’”

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July 18 2017

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I keep waking up in suburban homes so comfortable I’m fucking dead.

Goddammit, how does this keep happening?!

I used to be totally insane. Somehow, I’ve turned into a comfortable militant square. I just sit around by myself, quietly bitching about shopping lists.

You fucking clown!

Sins of a motherfucker
dreams of heavy animals
praying to the mud
Are the trees alive?

I used to worry I was crazy
Now I’m afraid I’m dead
I savor my madness
out behind the garage
in sips and slow dances
I lean over and bend back

Twisting rhythmic dances
watching jagged shadow wave
in green grass
I’m waving right back
happy the darkness remembers me

sins of a motherfucker
dreams of heavy animals
praying in the mud
It’s never too late
to wake the fuck up!

July 15 2017

You can’t ask questions anymore?

I was gonna ask people what I should write about, but I guess the ask feature doesn’t work anymore?

July 14 2017

Connect With The Sea of Being (I think this music is changing my life).

Best Songs of the 80′s - Spacer Woman - Charlie

When I bought my first record in the summer of 1983 I bought the wrong one. I was programmed to buy the wrong shit by boring corporate radio DJs who were obviously on the wrong drugs.

The first record I bought was a 45, a hit single, my neighbor’s favorite song.

He put a bullet through his brain a month later.

Had he been listening to this instead he might’ve lived.

I think we all would’ve lived.

It’s not too late
you bright fucking maniacs
change your programming
change your operating system

Change your mind

become sweet with electronic understanding
brain plasticity

insect-ual rhythm

alien insect pollinating
hearts blooming 
bright new minds

New Order cheered themselves up with Italian Disco after their lead singer Ian Mckay killed himself. This is how they moved ahead with making music. I’m not a huge fan of New Order, but I researched Italo Disco and a whole new world opened up. Part of what makes this music special is that it’s electronic music painstakingly made by humans with analog equipment. Recorded and reproduced on vinyl LPs. Transferred digitally. Reaching me some 40 years later like twinkling starlight. It has a wobbly authenticity that feels circadian and organic. Like kooky computer space man music made by cavemen discovering a new form of fire. This music feels like happy animals falling in love. Falling in love with infinite possibilities. Falling in love with aliens and our future past.

Optimistic apocalypse.

These songs feel like love songs of the cosmos. And I’m not even on drugs. The right music can change your chemistry. The right music can reprogram your sweet little mind. It is our best new medicine.

Here’s some more medicine. A playlist I made on youtube 

Much Love!


July 09 2017

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The White Lodge - Greg Ruth art

July 07 2017

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1975 Czech poster for I KILLED (Stanislaw Lenartowicz, Poland, 1975)

Designer: Karel Teissig

Poster source: Posteritati

Nietzsche and I shared a devastating telepathic grief over a painting we saw in our dreams.

The painting was a hypothetical union our minds sang into the dream reality together. A dance of light and dark bathed in the blood of innocence.

The actual painting itself was a child’s rendering of a horse.


Why is a drawing called a rendering? The same as a rendering plant? Those horrific slaughterhouses that tear animals apart, selling everything from their flesh, hide, eyeballs, hooves, and teeth.

I guess that’s how our minds work. Dismembering, remembering all the memories of people and animals that we render to feed our various psychological needs.

Is the rendering plant a museum? Is it the best museum of the 20th century? Of our whole bloody history? They could sell little buckets of blood and maybe a length of intestine in the gift shop. Intestines and eyeballs make wonderful toys for children.

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Dennis Stock: The California Trip, 1968


July 03 2017

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David Lynch’s mom. 

From the 2016 documentary on David Lynch called The Art Life

June 30 2017

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sɯǝǝs ʇı ʇɐɥʍ ʇou sı ןʍo ʇɔɐdɯı ǝɥʇ

The Owls are not what they seem.


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Nothing can change the fact that everything changes.

Each morning I warm up my cat’s food in the microwave. It only takes 7 seconds, but in these 7 seconds, I can tell a lot about my current perception of time and thusly my state of mind. My cat for her part has taped 7 golden bird feathers to the door of her church. They change color and sing depending on the weather and her mood.

My father used to call the microwave the radio fry box. He said it sang heavy metal of which no man or animal should listen to. He was probably right, but it’s so damn convenient.

“It’s so damn convenient” is the jingle for a chain of suicide parlors called Days End.

My father called the cancer that killed him, Mr. Jenkins. After he died I learned that Mr. Jenkins was a real person. I met him at the funeral. I shook his cold clammy little hand. I watched him and understood. I know I’m supposed to tell how and why I understood, but I can’t yet put it into words. Maybe later the words will come, or perhaps you have a Mr. Jenkins in your life? A slow moving cancer that takes away your dignity and bleeds away your money as it kills you.

My Mr. Jenkins is procrastination and fear. I spend a lot of time imagining terrible things and to relieve the pressure I do stupid things. This all keeps me from doing the one thing I need to do.

You know what you need to do.

Maybe cancer and illness don’t kill us. Maybe we never live and our physical death is but a last gasp to get a few words or curses shouted. A proclamation of love, forgiveness or damnation.

Live your life you fucking idiot.

June 23 2017

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If throwing a little poo is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right.

TGIF! (FYI - Flinging feces on acid is how I met my wife!)

June 22 2017

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The Forest

When I was born, no one was allowed to go outside anymore. There was still grass and trees and clouds, I guess everything looked the same as it always had, but the air had changed. You wouldn’t die instantly, but they said you’d be infected. They said the machines would come take you to a special hospital where you’d never be seen again. I’d never been outside or smelled the grass or felt the rain. Yet I knew exactly what it all was like.

While I sat in school, the forest behind my house sent me telepathic pornography.  Most of it was your run of the mill tree porn. Roots stretching their sonic lust into the devouring earth. Branches dancing their painstaking ache into the illuminated blue sky. I’d close my eyes and listen to the classroom lights hum and flashing images would bloom out of the dark in rhythmic succession. It was like a flip book that created a swaying movement like the language of wind.

My teachers called it daydreaming. But I’d suddenly feel very alone. I’d hear the hum and be overtaken by a memory that obviously wasn’t mine. At home one night after supper, the leftover chicken bones sang to me from the trash bin. I started singing along with them. My mother got weird and upset. She locked me in my room.

That was the last time I saw her. That was the same night I saw the man in the woods. It was dusk so I couldn’t see him very well. He was very pale, almost completely white, but when I looked closer he turned into a shadow. He moved careful and slow across our back yard toward the forest. Then he stopped on the edge of the trees, turned around and looked at me. My hair stood up on end and I knew.

June 17 2017

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The Big Bang part VI

The devil spent the next 15 million years trying to get back together with God. After all, they’d fucked a universe into existence. Back when that really meant something. Back when autumn was a holy hothouse prayer for the release of winter.

Anywho, I wanted to write a love letter to you, dear stranger on the internet. I wanted to let you know that I love you and everything will be alright. Oh sure it’ll be hell sometimes, but that’s how you find heaven.

Plus you know what a massive splendid bitch you are?! I’m sure ya do. Transcending yourself with electric fingers - tracing yourself in steam on the church windows - my dear, we all fuck everything up and apart sometimes, that’s the wonderful joy of being alive.

For my part, I like to listen to sad music and tune myself into the rhythmic darkness. I find it soothing, though sometimes it hurts a little. Careful, don’t get caught in that maudlin undertow. Just enjoy - feel the pain and sadness light up every inch of you. 

Do you know how endless and wild you are? 

Out here in the cosmos - in the backyard naked - feeling the stars come undone for everything and everyone.

June 16 2017

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June 15 2017

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The thing I fear most about the singularity is the loss of nuance and mystery. The eradication of the unexplainable deliciousness of awe.

I went to a Buddhist temple once. I didn’t care much about Buddhism anymore, but the building and the landscaping were like a magnet. There was this sweet old monk sitting on a little-raised platform in front of maybe 100 people, reading from a big book. His words were like music. But he could never get more than a few words out before he was interrupted by some young guy who wanted to parse out the exact meaning and translation of one or two terms. Then little arguments and discussions would ensue for 5, 10,  sometimes 15 minutes. The old monk would nod and sit quietly while everyone hashed it all out.

Eventually, one of the other monks would quash the whole debate and the old, mostly toothless, Buddha would clear his throat and read a few more magic words. Of course, someone would interrupt and so on…

It was like seeing a beautiful woman loosen the belt on her silken robe only to be interrupted by having to fill out a bunch of paperwork. Suddenly, I realized this was life. Right here in front of me in it’s simplest form. Inexplicable beauty butchered by shitheads. I began to chuckle. Then I began to laugh and then I couldn’t stop. Everyone was silent except for me cackling. I still couldn’t stop. It was like some kind of well of laughter had opened up inside of me. I apologized and began to excuse myself, but the old monk slammed the book shut. “HA!” he yelled and leaped to his feet. Startled, I was silent. The old monk put his hands together as if moving in slo-motion and bowed to me with this booming look of love and I just burst into tears. Again, I couldn’t stop. Then after sobbing a bit, I started laughing again. Then sobbing - then laughing again. Finally, not wanting to be a nuisance I made my way over to the door and a couple skinny old monks took me through a side door out into the large garden. They led me over to a bench by a pine tree. The old monk was already sitting there! He must have ducked out when I was carrying on.

I sat down opposite of him and he nodded at me. We sat for a bit in silence. After a while, he turned his head towards the tree. I followed his gaze and saw a mockingbird on the lowest branch closest to us. The bird began to sing and it was startling. Perhaps it was the silence but the song pierced right through me. The bird went through its rounds of several different calls. And I’ll never be able to explain it, but then it was like I was everything. And it wasn’t weird at all. It was obvious and simple. Then the bird stopped singing and flew away. I stood up and bowed to the old man and he nodded and sparkled in some inexplicable magical way and off I went. I had a wonderful evening. I wandered around as the summer day came to an end, watching the people and the trees and the birds.

I went to a  Chinese restaurant and had hot tea and the best hot-n-sour soup I’d ever had in my life. I contemplated becoming a homeless beggar there and just living off that soup and maybe sweeping the sidewalk of the Buddhist temple and garden. Of course, I’d gone down the road before. It was a good and nourishing road, but it was time to set off for new lands.

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