There Is No Civilization, There is No Wild. There Is Only You and Me.

(Originally posted at Gods & Radicals)

Editor’s Note: As fans of Dr. Bones on twitter and facebook might know our resident Conjurer was recently blown out of his mind on what Gods & Radicals can only assume to be highly illegal substances. This draft was sent to us with almost an hour and a half of audio, several hand drawn images, and a series of photographs in what we assume to be Dr. Bones…well, we aren’t exactly sure what’s going on but have serious doubts the alligator skulls were ethically sourced. Gods & Radicals in no way endorses buying high-powered hallucinogens off the Dark Web and patently refuses Bones’ calls to “send him $400 to help get some things going down here. If the rednecks get a taste of this stuff they’ll be shitting rainbows and communism for generations.”

The following text is presented as we received it in the hopes that readers will be able to make sense of it. Those inclined to help Dr. Bones further his drug habit and firearms purchases should consider buying his book.


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As of this writing I have been out of my mind on acid bought off the Dark Web for the better part of 24 hours. My house is covered in drawings, still-burning incense, and every mirror appears to be dotted with the words “YOU ARE TAICHI” written in what I presume to be blood. Texts from Stirner are scattered about everywhere and people on twitter are asking me how they can join The Ancient and Medicinal Order of the Hyena.

Chuang-Tzu said “The torch of chaos and doubt, this is what the Sage steers by.” If this is true I have totally transcended the motherfucking wheel.

I need beer to take the edge off, desperately trying to explain to my wife what was going on.

“What the hell was that,” she says mixing 3 shots of espresso into my morning coffee, “you were up till 4am talking about creating some…some lodge or something? You practically destroyed the house! And why did you keep waking me up to tell me you were a Japanese artist?”

“I don’t know! Sweet jesus I don’t even know what the hell I took. I got it off some old Korean guy I work with. One minute he’s showing my some tai-chi moves, the iron bar and all that, and the next think you know he’s asking me if I want any acid!”

“How much did this cost?” She laughs shaking her head. “How do you even meet these people?”

“The cost?” I move on to my second beer. “Nothing. He just gave it to me.”

“Gave-it-to-you?”

“Gave. Said he bought a shitload of it off the Dark Web with bitcoin. Gives it to wizard types he comes across. The sigils I was seeing…I…my god.” I grabbed my wife now, my eyes practically bloodshot. “I can’t begin to describe what this means for my magical practice. I have new glyphs for candles, new prayers to sing. Wait until my next-oh…and uh…speaking of…” She pushes me away, half laughing and half bewildered.

“You have to mail out one package and send that lady in Michigan an order for her candle.”

“Ah, good-good. The lady who had the evil eye on her wedding. Any readings?”

“One. And you were supposed to deliver it 4 hours ago.” The coffee is gone and I move on to my third beer, finally beginning to get back to some sense of normalcy.

“Well,” I cough, “seeing as how I’ve blown the day I think I need to mediate on my sins. We should probably go to a church.”

Load the car up, bottled water and rum. 55 miles an hour past blue flags and neo-confederates packing heat, drivers staring like sharks out of the windows; hungry, ignorant fools who actually hold their inbreeding in pride.

They needed to be punished.

I roll down my window and draw the attention of a nearby motorist.

“S’cuze me, sir. Is that a ‘blue lives matter’ sticker on your bumper?” He looks confused, like a wounded animal, his old Chevy chugging along some half-rabid pitbull.

“Yah,” he says spitting out tobacco, “and wuz of it?”

“Oh good.” I can feel my wife’s hand desperately trying to grab my shoulder, pull me back in the window, but there won’t be any of that. “I was trying to figure out who to tell to FUCK OFF!” Rubber screeches as the light shifts into green, a cloud of smoke pouring from the tires and filling the windshield. Turn the radio station up, that’s the ticket, if Marc Antony comes on it’s a sign from the gods I should draw on this miserable cockersucker and fill him with lead.

Did I say that out loud? Or did I write it? Judging from the terror in my eyes and the speed I’m driving I’m going to say this is really happening.

Turkey Creek Nature Sanctuary. Get out of the jeep, two more pulls from the driving juice hidden in the dash box. Go out to the kayak launch. Rain, who put all this rain here?

Breathe. Breathe. Calm and steady. I mutter words of power liberated from a Thelemic chat room many moons ago.

“I have a body but I am not my body.
I have a mind but I am not my mind.
I have desires but I am not my desires.
I have thoughts but I am not my thoughts.”

Everything cools around me, silencing the storm raging in all my nerves. Slipping once again into a meditative state I focus on the power that envelopes and flows through all things. Slowly everything begins to melt away: cars, worries, states, and borders all disappear. Some greater shard from the Godhead lights up in my chest and I’m swirling in wisdom and pure gnosis. In this small place, as the heavens bore life-giving water to a drought stricken land, everything was at once made holy; the river itself, slow and constant, becomes a symbol of that power forever lurking in the background, a greater icon worthy of worship unfashionable by human hands. Long ago a shrine might have been built in such a place, a person in touch with Spirit pulled to take residence and protect it. A place like that might heal the sick, start a cult, and in a few hundred years be the subject of many an anthropological study with romantic overtones.

And here it was, at a nature preserve, surrounded by cookie cutter homes and low-end nail salons….

Read more here.

About Dr. Bones

Dr. Bones is a conjurer, card-reader and egoist-communist who believes “true individuality can only flourish when the means of existence are shared by all.” A Florida native and Hoodoo practitioner, he summons pure vitriol, straight narrative, and sorcerous wisdom into a potent blend of poltergasmic politics and gonzo journalism. He lives with his loving wife, a herd of cats, and a house full of spirits. He can be reached at Facebook.com/theconjurehouse and drbonesconjure@gmail.com
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