#BREAKING: The #FBI has #arrested #Transgender woman #plotting violence against #Jews, #Black People,
🚨#BREAKING: The FBI has Arrested Transgender Woman Plotting Violence Against Jews, Black People, and Allegedly Targeting Transphobic Co-workers with Nazi Imagery and Stockpile of Guns and Ammunition⁰⁰📌#CottageGrove | #Oregon
The FBI has arrested a 56-year-old transgender… pic.twitter.com/73mHn8VZfa
— R A W S A L E R T S (@rawsalerts) January 17, 2024
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Now the Fringe Rightwing is saying Ambassador Sondland is part of the “deep state”.
Need I remind folks that the Ambassador donated $1 million to a Trump inauguration committee and then Donald quid pro quo Sondland to the Ambassadorship of the European Union where Donald tasked Sondland with um, shaking down Ukraine.
Wait, it all makes sense, Donald Trump is part of the deep state out to get Donald Trump, as evidenced by his appointment of Sondland!
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Cottage Grove // Magic Man // Into the Mystic
Impossibility weaves it’s poetic tongue through the blankets, confusing the sleeper, driving doubt into the gray matter. Confusion.
“I get lost inside the sheets” isn’t an uncommon phrase.
“I’m still running in the morning.” is the triumph.
I am not sure when i decided, along the rails, that it should stay the same, that the driver and the rider were immortals and immune to the changing pace of the impossible society.
OH, but it’s more fun this way isn’t it, Joshua?
Musical businesses and individualistic (dare i say artistic?) endeavours feel almost like strangers, unlikely friends that refuse to take the call of the other.
Navigational confusion can lead to lack of communication with the other, or atleast for me.
I will find myself inside of one den, focused, obsessive, lost, hoping that the other was left with enough fuel to continue on, even if the light goes dim.
It isn’t the lowly lit rooms that scare me, it’s the death.
Day four arrived of traveling, safe and happy inside of my rolling, gasoline fed home. The two shows in Seattle and Portland had been wonderful and fulfilling. Seeing Susie, George (who are responsible for my wandering abouts) and meeting Sara (with or with no “H” i am still unsure) in Portland was electrifying. Conversational theology felt thematicallly new and refreshingly welcomed as we sat at the hungry tiger, I in animalistic behaviour, consuming fat fried tubers dipped in corn syrup.
***Mother don’t be alarmed***
Lines were blurred, crossed and checked off.
Learning about his/her roots of thought.
Taught and raised, each one of us, from the stalk that each procreator saw fit.
Time twisting each of us into a slightly crooked fruit, different than our predecessors, sweeter than before, chasing the dream, searching for sanctity.
Like a ghost we arrived in the night, like a phantom we were never even there.
POOF and we’re gone.
The following morning we headed down I-5 South. It was a day off, nervous for the inevitable onslaught of self doubting nervousness that accompanies such moments.
The familiar names of towns appeared and disappeared on the road signs
Salem
Corvallis
Eugene
Cottage Grove
Without saying anything I pulled off of the once familiar exit.
I pulled into the parking lot of the town’s Walmart and parked. Strangely or not I didn’t make any mention to Evan of my seemingly pre-meditated plan of pulling into the magical town where in 2011 Evan and I would make From The Top of Willamette Mountain. I put on my running and shoes and invited Evan to follow me atop bicycle on the route that every morning I would run whilst making the aforementioned recordings with the magical man, Richard Swift.
We plotted along the route, reminiscing on the experiences and excitements that we felt in that small Oregon town. The blackberries were in full bloom and didn’t take much bother to our frequent stops to dine on their blossoms. We passed by Swift’s house with flooding emotion and memory, eventually making our way back to the van, handfuls of blackberries in tote.
Before leaving Cottage Grove we decided to stop by Rally’s Coffee shop that at one time held our caffeinated bodies, every morning before spending the remainder of the day at National Freedom (Swift’s recording studio). The barrista made small talk as we relished in the feeling of returning to the place.
“So what brings you two to town?” she asked kindly.
“We’re just passing through. We left Portland this morning and are on our way to Petaluma...Caflifornia. It’s a long drive and needed to break it up.
(pause)
We stayed here, years ago, it’s been such a long time…
(pause)
We we’re…
(pause)
Making music here.”
(pause)
“With Richard?” she asked.
“Yeah, with Swift.
(pause)
He was a magical man.”
(longer pause)
“You know Shea, his wife, and their kid, Adrian worked here.” she said with kindness.
“I used to see him come in here, visiting them, he seemed nice. I never did get past the sunglasses though.”
She laughed.
We laughed.
“We miss him here, in this town.”
I sat there.
“Yeah.”
I didn’t know what to say.
We finished our coffee and got up to leave.
“It was nice meeting you two boys.” She said.
“Yes, you as well. Thank you for being so kind to us.”
We made our way back out to the van.
“That was a trip, eh?” I said to Evan.
“Yeah man, time...wild. It doesn’t feel like yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like 7 years ago either.
Nah..”
I put the van in drive, looked left, looked right, back at Rally’s. In the drive through window somebody was waivin their arms in our direction. I quickly realized they were waving at us.
“HEY, You know my dad!”
Adrian and Madison, two of Richard and Shea’s children, had arrived the moment that we had stepped out. We went back in and talked briefly about our time in that small and magical town.
It never left, the magic, the mystic.
It’s all still there.
Just how i remember it.
Joshua
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