A low-hype BBB transmission drifting through magnesium fatigue, orbit, repetition, and consciousness. We circle comets, gravity, art, and aura—how whirling creates life, how repetition opens dimensions. Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec appear as proof that art distills experience and carries it forward. Poetry interrupts as fuel: Berlin walks, UFOs, karma, beauty, danger, and a cliffhanger word we weren’t supposed to know yet—hyperbolic.
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QUOTES FROM THE POD
“It’s the whirling that allows everything good on the planet to happen.”
“One of the features of being insane is doing the same thing over and over—but that might also be how you get to another dimension.”
“Consciousness is layered. The lower levels run so we don’t have to think about them.”
“If you think of it just as a rock, it’s even trippier.”
“Art is about distilling—making something so clear it can be passed on.”
“Hold the line from your pit to the picture, then pass it to the next person.”
“This poem is a cup of coffee.”
“A rock whizzing so fast it can’t be swayed by a star.”
Beatnik poetry
“I lick the circuit and complete me”
By Jedidiah Jackson
I lick the Circuit and Complete me
is a Beat-style spoken poem recorded in motion — a live transmission moving through Egypt, Paris, and Berlin. It circles fingertips, vibration, elegance, shame, eroticism, opera houses, trash fires, trans glamour, trains, breath, and bone flutes. Purple becomes a threshold where contact happens — moral, sexual, spiritual. This is a poem that listens. It vibrates. It asks: are you the drum or the stick?
BBB poetry
The millennium falcon
BY Sean Twohig
https://youtube.com/@menindorf?si=yMGszpJr6NrK2l6T
A sprawling, beat-inflected meditation on climate grief, false intelligence, and everyday complicity—where mountains outlast denial, tea boils beside apocalypse, recorded by Sean near a stream.
• On false equivalence and cosmic humility:
“The equal quality of a dog and a stone, of a bug and of man.”
• On climate denial and delayed consequence:
“Sounds crazy, and four degrees of warming seems so far away… which is nothing in the eye of a mountain.”
• On ecological violence:
“Redwood, redwood, other grove, other grove. Still being systematically murdered.”
• On passive resistance masquerading as action:
“This year, all they do is pray in silence and write letters to the editor.”
• On inherited prophecy and burdened foresight:
“He told you so that three quarters of the world would be destroyed. But he meant it only in his special language.”
• On moral paralysis:
“Ask my son if he’d rather have ten billion dollars or stop climate change. He couldn’t decide.”
• On modern contradiction:
“Oh yeah, and while you’re getting too hot, let’s add more blankets.”
• On collective guilt:
“Not just the ones with powerful dollars, but those penniless and afraid. All are to blame.”
• On domestic calm amid collapse:
“Now, who’s ready for some homemade warming tea?”
• On reluctant acceptance:
“I admit that I am punishing myself while I choose to live like this.”
• On the poem’s underlying ethic:
“Never gorge on the absolute.”
BBB North Africa
A fever dream 12 hour layover in Italy on the way to Morocco.
Auto dictation poem preamble to North Africa beatnik adventure
BBB North Africa start in Berlin before sunrise. It's the first snow of the winter. I'm nervous. to be traveling in Africa. I'm nervous to make plane connections and across borders. I've spent a month being apprehensive about terrorist threat warnings about the state of humanity, about being stranded. I've seriously thought about what to do if someone breaks into the hotel room at night to kidnap me, I have made a vow to myself that I will never get in somebody's car if I'm being abducted that I would rather be stabbed or let a friend be shot. This now sounds ridiculous, and overblown. But before the trip, I had contacted the United States travel Bureau and entered my passport information to receive updates on North Africa safety levels was going to Morocco, threat level, medium. Honestly, I am laughing now. I'm narrating this on a blanket. I got in Fez, Morocco. It's the 11th. of December, and I had left on the 21st of November, all those ones stacked up seems important. And I want some sweeping grand poetic narrative of this entire trip for my prosperity, because it was cooler and I wanted to share, and because I think I'd become cooler by sharing, okay, one of those answers is ego terrific and not correct. And another is deep into the substrate sap and mucus that really is the potential of travel, the feeling of being shoulder to shoulder with trinkets and goblets conversations with hobos in their cities, tectonic plates, grinding and making mountains beyond the ones that I've known reflections in street windows, pyramids, covered in dust, third eye anointment with dust from a sarcophagus unbounding laughter that seems to accelerate like avalanche narrative collection like poetic journalist also travel is just cooler. If you got a notebook and a magnifying glass, it's the feeling of being a scholar. Like what Indiana Jones really be as cool if he wasn't also a professor? I don't think so. So preamble set. Seeds of fear planted, holding advice from my mystic shrink, who said feel what is happening with space and awareness. And I saw this all as a force field around me, like an aura. Or a plate. And I'm the mashed potatoes in the middle. It's just being aware of the way that the stress is incoming, how the fears feel like blackberries, splattering. the wheels on the bike, pulling up mud and splattering No time for poetry, only what's real. I was afraid to go on this trip and had been worried about it. I mystic therapist advised me to keep a wider awareness of these feelings and to experience them as I met what I was afraid of I was very well packed by not much at all. I had asked Chat GPT if I would need shoes in December in North Africa, and it had advised me, "No, you will not need shoes traveling light and minimal is the way people would do it, like an aesthetic, like a desert monk. And so I had a teal green Adidas backpack, very light, with underwear, socks, toothbrush, sunscreen, frankincense, essential oil One notebook, some pastels, and a stack of yoga moves on playing cards that I can pull out and have a flow and a necklace my girlfriend made in a ceramic Dungeon in Dragons, dice, style shape that had her glasses on one plane and the other triangles that I now saw as pyramids and my ambition was to charge this necklace inside the pyramids. On the outside of the backpack, the last thing I did in my kit was pin on a felt symbol version. It's like a piece of felt that looks like Mount Fuji, that I had gotten in Tokyo, because Mount Fuji is big and looming in Tokyo, and you can feel the way that it charges up the ground. And for us masses up Tokyo is as massive as it is, Mount Fuji is bigger because it goes underground and also into the psyche. And I felt like connecting about Fuji with the pyramids….
A beatnik journey through alien souls, angelic envy, mathematical destiny (Zipf’s Law), and the acoustic physics of poetry. Jedidiah calls in from the art studio, Sean from a redwood stream, and the dialogue spirals into universal adjustments, singing as devotion, and whether soul is simply every possibility awaiting form.
Think interstellar campfire philosophy, finger-painted spirituality, and improvised biography of God played on a half-broken piano.
And Jedidiah is in North Africa! The BBB will continue in December. And if you celebrate it, have a happy first contact this Thanksgiving..
Beatniks Berlin bumtrips: A poem recorded in Victoria Park.
Walking through Berlin looking at colors
☉ I. The Chair and the Woman
There’s a woman who looks like a tattered old chair.
She’s a fabulous creature
with thick green socks way up over thick as renaissance fair turkey meat calves
a rock medallion as the necklace
Everything is worn enough that it seems made—
the way that mold comes on to things
and then seems new and made by natural
So fresh and vital
Maybe it’s the way
that the sun can catch on a cigarette
look the same white as a full body sweatsuit
and dangle the same way
Fabric drape
Cigarette limp on the lip
The sun light is a tight pussy
It’s also likes cheeks—
and they get fat and hold the sun
and dangle like a cigarette,
holding in the sun.
Maybe the same thing
As body holding sun in this almost empty Library parking lot holding this woman
A place to rest
with the rock medallion and the green socks worn with calm shell sandals.
I think just because they fit her swollen feet,
and her face has transformed
into a 1930s snowman cartoon.
And she’s bending over in the full snow avalanche,
and her green socks are coming up,
and they feel real and new and alive—
the way the mold does when it’s on old things outside….
Hella cool beatnik poem by Sean Twohig . Read by me ,Jedidiah, while driving a van around Berlin with my girlfriend. There is the soundscape of Berlin Jazz radio raindrops and hipsters.
The podcast starts with me reading the poem for a second time in an attempt to sound more casual European. The second half of the pod is my first reading, sounding very American and with full bombast.
I like the poem and the soundscape of this podcast. A true poetic field recording.
Check out Sean’s 40 albums
https://youtube.com/shorts/WC9WiW29Vt4?si=u63-G-6ru5wnqAxI
The rhythm is,
You burn petrol gasoline for 2 days
And soak in sacred waters stolen from the natives for three...
The rhythm is,
I comb out my hair and toss clumps off the deck,
So that rats can take it to their nests and I become one with them.
The rhythm is,
Five shooting stars and five secrets that shant be spoken of.
The rhythm is,
Dreams all night,
Including when I get home and dream deep of rising through the darkness.
To a child, the rhythm is,
It makes sense to drive 10 miles for
5 pieces of candy, which turns out to be 20
Teach 'em to poison themselves young
In America, the rhythm is,
The tipping point of world collapse,
But there's still time for a surf contest.
The rhythm of cool,
Is faster than talk,
Because cool means you want to listen to someone before they've even finished their first sentence.
The rhythm of sunshine on a rainy day.
The rhythm of calcium absorption, and mountain decay, found in life on other planets.
The rhythm of things that disappear
Like waves breaking that no one catches
The rhythm of a phone that dies at 20%
Tipping point
3 foot dead fish in front of the shoe store
Gulf stream free energy solutions
Art becomes illegal when it's capable of rocking the boat
Like that guy in the 70's who invented a car that runs on water
Sounds crazy
But nowadays anyone could do that, they're just afraid to
Dodging tazers in my nighttime thoughts before sleep
Missed my chance to be a teacher
Who would listen to a whole universe that's alive?
Natural building got chucked off the list
No one could believe in homeless solutions that cost less than $600 per person
Waves get a lot bigger
Maybe big enough to knock you out of your comfort zone
But it will be too late to course correct by then
You know God loves you when your experience shapes itself around your consciousness
But this is also terrifying in a recursive sort of way
Fear mongering must be fun or it wouldn't be so popular
The one percent of the one percent are the people who know what they're doing
This one's for you, light-whipper
Cracked a conch shell as she smooshed it into a clay third-eye
Making things natural is hard
Unless you don't try very much
22 throes before I'm impressed
Forgot about my smile until it lit someone else up
The rhythm of a name I had to try and try to remember.
Thinking all about the person,
Eventually it came to me
And a while later I fell asleep
After a few more things I couldn't think of
So many babies being born to break free
Busting loose from the business game
Costly references to the last resort ski lodge
China mountain electric state
Mexican whore house climax
West cliff rainbow hair
4:44 is the rhythm
Blasting roller boats and viral opposition
Vote for the proposition to end voter fraud
Sturdy umbrella for an inner tube sail boat situation
It would only work in one direction
Like, this is really happening
And your belief in it, drives it's rhythm
Dream state irony gets funny and hard
Sun rises out of the highest mountain
Peaking it's rays across the range of light
Son says to mother
"You're a unique one,"
Radical Connector also took a while to recall
Kick the can,
But don't
I can't
Land in the 25%
That remain after the cataclysm
Like they thought the bubonic plague would never happen again
Circuit theory goes around and around
Open a lock with that can cut down the middle
Get sued by the company
I was never afraid… poem continues
In this podcast you can hear me writing a poem . I auto dictate the poem as I walk through Berlin. I notice it’s 420 when I start. This is the raw recording of it. I auto dictate poems now and then edit the text by hand. I send the poems to my poet buddy Sean. He responded like this:
I like this poem.
Reading it as you're texting me.
I like it's repeated rhythm, driving the connection home.
I like picturing your jaunts through Berlin
Seeing what you notice.
What comes alive in you.
What makes you wonder and feel alive.
I like the self-awsreness of it.
I like it's rawness.
If you do edit, do it yourself by hand.
Maybe sleep outside in Berlin some night so you can experience just how cold it is?
Did you get an audio recording of your original voice dictation?
This would be cool to hear on the BBB
From Sean (November 2025)
420 auto dictated pull while walking through a gully in Berlin There is fog. It hasn't drifted down to this spot yet, but the colors of the leaves have. And it's a blend of orange and red and the dark green. scene set / poem rip.
It started this morning looking at cat food, round, crunchy, in the bowl. The atoms in the cat food are the same as in the garbage can. These underside dark side of the moon, the part of the miniature poodle. that it can't reach with its teeth. The underbelly. The armpit. the smell, even in smell, it's all here. There's atoms, the molecules, whatever it is that everything is, that internal structure, that vibrating, glistening, iridescent, biouminous deep seafish is on the other side of the cat food. Crunchy, waiting there in the bowl. No, not even waiting. Bursting, Dean Moriarty. Not even bursting, just being. Everything's transitioning. Made it to the leaves. full, so could this tree changes all the colors. Continue in narration, trying to get it succinctly, something magical or no. There's nothing succinct in magic. Looking at the cat food, then looking at the trash can, thinking of all the trash in the trash can. and thinking of my insides and my hands and the songs that I sing. And those songs are made of breath and moving. air and up and down waves. Same as the trash and the cat food. It's all the same. This seemed like a poem if I could get it succinctly and somehow not be pretentious while saying molecule and atom and it's all the same as cat food and trash…
Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit: Berlin ↔ Santa Cruz field transmission. Two poets trade live poems and cosmology in real time — breathwork in an alley waving two machetes, asteroid convergence, why bad art is just blocked life force, sleep as micro-death, barycenters, dream yoga, licking the hologram, and teaching your kid to eat hobo food off a trash can because love means helping someone move beyond their nature. This is tenderness at the end of the world, recorded between a Berlin paint studio full of grotesque flowers and a redwood creek in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Main threads in this episode:
• Walking through Berlin “waving two machetes,” meaning breath, meaning aliveness, meaning you don’t get a future — “there is not any later, only now.”
• Art and shame: bad art isn’t failure, it’s where the life force can’t get through yet. Good art is when the work goes someplace you haven’t even lived.
• The barycenter, Jupiter pulling the Sun off-center, solar system dancing like a pirouette, and the prophecy-feeling of everything snapping back into alignment in 2027.
• Sleep as micro-death and relief: “We actually need unconsciousness to stay sane.”
• Dream yoga / higher self work: falling asleep as direct contact with the star that is you fulfilled.
• Death as comfort, not horror: “Someday we’re all gonna be dead,” said not like doom but like, finally, exhale.
• Phones melted for gold in an alley. Cell towers, purple smoke, extraction, alchemy, reincarnation of trash.
• Teaching your kid to eat scavenged food off a trash can as initiation into freedom.
• Rhythm as a survival structure. Rhythm as a cosmology. “The rhythm is five shooting stars and five secrets that shan’t be spoken of…”
“Walking down an alley waving two machetes… which is just my way of saying breathing.”
“There is not any later, only now. I can’t be intimate with life without being vulnerable.”
“Bad art is just where my life force is blocked. Good art is when the piece goes somewhere I haven’t been yet.”
“Someday we’re all gonna be dead — and that’s not despair, that’s relief.”
“Sleep is the little death we’re required to touch every night to stay sane.”
“The Sun’s center of gravity is outside of itself right now. Jupiter pulls it off-balance. In 2027 it comes back in. The whole solar system is literally dancing.”
“Understanding has no meaning.”
“You know God loves you when your experience shapes itself around your consciousness — and that is also terrifying.”
“We are surrounded by lies, but we have nothing to be upset about.”
A poem for Spiritual disconnect
A sonic journal from the neural spa of berlin - recorded in Victoria Park
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✨ Choice Quotes:
“This city becomes conscious through me. I am an interface, as I move through the city, the city moves through me.”
“Counting becomes prayer when I lose track.”
“I am scared of connection because I don’t think I’ll be able to stop it.”
“The rock is swirling very slowly, holding its granite stillness.”
“The fingers extend like surfers in Malibu, each one an attitude toward the future.”
A Beatnik Poem read by a powerful woman in bed
“Gentlemen Don’t Fish “
By Sean https://open.spotify.com/show/5wLSeBa5k0ykpBMVWI0h5Q?si=em9UGJuXSV2bKBiz3l8ofw
Gentleman don't fish
What you consume
Is what you're connected too
I would like to say my karma is getting smaller
But I don't know
Sitting in the forest doesn't help
The unravelling of the web
Survive seven days
I was caught using a stump
Being a builder
That's bad
Tossing craw-dads onto shore
They get stressed out
Lose hope
The shape of desire
Is like a blockade
To the truth
The poor cricket jumped into the water
We have pears and apples but no cherries
No tea for me this morning
Decaf Chillhop
When will I find the bass I'm looking for?
Too lazy to build it
Stuck like a branch half under the riverbottom
Bury a earth boring dung beetle
Wild animal Crossing references
This poem just lost its cool
Even though its apostrophes are all lined up
A whack with a net gets worry out of your mind
Even when your wife might be leaving the island
A money-tree will get you up off the ground
Tooth licking gum decay
Adventures at a podium
Get your party outfit together
Die your hair
Soil music on the outdoor DJ setup
Samples blathering on and on
Causes me to spam B
Left bumper works too
Zip line through restlessness
Waiting to talk to my favorite psychiatrist
Catch a flea off your bird-friend
High Andean Condor
Covered her song back in highschool
Fruityloop carrot logo
The hype place right now
Government plaza
What's your damage?
Beefcake tank
Sips a smoothie
Crazy fire
Cephalopods don't need friends to be intelligent
Old tires are useful
Beyond swinging
Radial band grow a garden
Show your mange to the receptionist
Redeem my miles
Hose reel
Dixie texhnique
Cool is your boot bigger than life
Just give me my screens
Play it low-key
Love always demands this
Lips sealed
Demand nothing
Never forget the goal to disappear
Goes way beyond the body
Hafiz knew things
No one can know
A star can catch you and reel you in
Buckets of effulgence
The best time of your life
Should be right now
Patience to the patients needing a cure
Bright kids playing by themselves
Polishing touches
Four thousand bell butterfly
Queen Alexandria
Generating for no reason
Long enough to be ignored
Meaningless red stripe across your nose
Renounce me
To the heart of the house
More Irish or Scottish?
He prefers one over the other
Bilingual record collection
Push pull cadence
Lost in a mirage
Hypnotized by a belief
By a mood
Tota-Bolero
Mastery would mean the ability to feel anything
Regardless of a wanted poster
Island trailer jams, mind-speed media, animal tempo, Meher Baba translation, and a Venetian exorcist—poetry, truth, and friendship.
🐅💎😇🤯👻🤌
On a Danish island, Jed pairs a thrift-store drum-pad with a punk-moaning flute while watching wind, crows, and rabbits fold into his nervous system—“it feels as if I’ve become the island and the island has become me.” He calls Sean at sunrise by the San Lorenzo; they trade fresh poems (turkeys!), swap craft notes, and map mind-rate vs. heart-rate attention (TV’s fast cuts vs. the body’s slow boil). They unpack Sean’s transliteration of Meher Baba—how to honor Bow’s words and keep lyric rhyme alive—then dive into AI as collaborator (use it, but “get in there and mess it up” so it stays human). Jed reads a hot slice from his Father Pellegrino Ernetti/Chronovisor novel—exorcism, chant, tuning-fork acoustics, Venice humming like an instrument. Through it all: process over perfection, animals as metronomes, and a pledge to publish instead of over-editing.
Choice quotes:
• “The process of the art should have something to do with the product.”
• “The mind is the boil’s bubbles; the heart knows the moment it’s boiling.”
• “We’re tuned to a human essence we don’t yet have words for.”
Cool concepts:
Island→self permeability: living in a Danish trailer, flute + thrift-keyboard jams; wind, waves, birds, and rabbits become extensions of attention and body.
• Sound pairing & friction: punk-off-key Native American flute vs. lo-fi game-pad beats; the “moan”/yell of punk against grid-accurate rhythm.
• Animals as cognition cues: rabbits as “thoughts,” crows, sea hawks, salmon, turkeys, a bald eagle—nonhuman tempo calibrates perception.
• Mind-rate vs. heart/body-rate: TV/news cut frequency equals “mind speed”; heart/body intelligence moves in slower, wave-scale shifts (boiling-pot metaphor).
•
• Poetics method (Sean’s “working practice”): state what is, then circle the indescribable from multiple angles so fragments cohere into one felt object.
• Process purity vs. over-editing: the labor of reconciling multiple drafts can strip life; product should carry the energy of its making (Rooibos/tractor treads).
• Transliteration dilemma (Meher Baba project): fidelity to Bow’s words vs. English rhyme & lyric flow; two versions vs. a harmonized single text; do it “in love and harmony.”
•
• Chronovisor fiction thread: Pellegrino Ernetti, chant, exorcism, tuning-fork acoustics; Venice as resonant instrument; vibration/sex/chant fields; “publish, don’t dither.”
•
• Ethos of truth: truth is felt at heart-rate, not forced; “the red button” problem (performing for publication) vs. writing like a letter.
It feels as if I’ve become the island and the island has become me.”
• “The rate of media… is mind rate. We need a balance of head and heart.”
• “Trying to make it truthful and you’re already fucked.”
• “Those are the anchors to the depths… one line of truth inside crystal-clear prose.”
• “The process of the art should have something to do with the product.”
• “Now when I drink rooibos, I just taste like micro-rubber.”
• “We’re getting surged with the non-human… we’ll realize we’re tuned to a human essence we don’t yet have words for.”
• “A poem circles the thing—none of it pokes it too hard, all of it points at it.”
• “The mind is the boil’s bubbles; the heart knows the moment it’s boiling.”
• “You have to not do that—three screens open is a way to be mind-fed.”
• “It doesn’t sound pleasing… two worlds not quite fitting yet, though you can hear they want to.”
• “Best artists forget they’re on stage—or they feel the whole audience as one body.”
• “Publish it. You don’t need other people there to make it good and real.”
• “My poems are always about the same things… records of what has moved me.”
• “Animals know. The slow soar of a bald eagle might be the better pace.”
A roving Berlin dispatch: cappuccino steam, Qi Gong by a rippling pond, and Jedidiah reading Sean’s fresh, feral poem before wandering into a centuries-old Crusader church. Between neon streets and stone sanctuaries, he wrestles with depression, alignment, imagination, and the unruly engine of the creative life. A poetic excursion of breath, nerve, ancient walls, and lived mysticism—where Beat poetics, Berlin grit, and rakish wonder collide.
“Awareness beyond myself, awareness behind you.”
“The flow stops only to force a deeper current.”
“Pregnancy is not lateness—it is arrival precisely on time.”
“In Berlin, even sorrow has its own baroque architecture.”
“To align the body, mind, and spirit is to re-enter the present as if resurrected.”
A crackling, stream-of-consciousness field recording from Berlin: hot yoga and long painting vigils, collage-streets, turmeric smog, strudel laments, techno pulse, loneliness, and the half-mad ardor of the artistic life. From the Gospel of Thomas to pulp-sidewalk reveries, Jedidiah wrestles with desire, discipline, and the dream of California across an empire of yellow-red signage and storm-ridden skies. A poetic dispatch of breath, bodies, neon, women, and the inner riot of becoming. Beat poetry meets urban mysticism. Berlin, yoga, painting, travel, art life.
Jedidiah wanders the Berlin streets and meets the man who embodies his imagined “perfect German”—a swaggering techno-muscled figure with fanny pack and charisma. A quick hit of street poetry, Berlin style.
Hotel keys,: Berlin, podcast, street recording, beat poetry, techno culture, German identity, masculinity, queer energy, counterculture, fanny pack fashion, canals, observational storytelling, spoken word, urban philosophy, BBB podcast, Beatniks Bumtrips & Bullshit
What follows is a field-recorded stream-of-consciousness poem: erotic, comic, lonely, alive. It drifts between jazz, ambient sound, and philosophical reflection, capturing the strange pulse of Berlin at midday — a library full of wanderers, dreamers, and sonic archaeologists.
This is part essay, part hallucination, part documentary of perception itself — a Beatnik sound collage for the modern flâneur.
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Hotel keys for discoverability:
Berlin podcast, field recording, beat poetry, spoken word, ambient city sounds, existential reflection, experimental music, avant-garde vinyl, coffeehouse philosophy, Berlin sound art, consciousness stream, street realism, Beat Generation revival, sonic diary, underground Berlin, poetic narration, mindfulness audio, Jedidiah Jackson, Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit.
Sean Twohig reads a 🛸inspired passage from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road—the New York attic scene where Carlo Marx becomes the ecstatic prophet of “the Rock,” hearing the holy drums of Harlem and calling Dean Moriarty to sit still for once.
Hotel keys ;-) 🎹 Jack Kerouac, Beat Generation, Allen Ginsberg, Dean Moriarty, Carlo Marx, Beat poetry, American counterculture, spoken word, literary podcast, poetry reading, jazz prose, spontaneous bop, psychedelic culture, art conversation, Jedidiah Jackson.
Vincent van Gogh, Freemasons, Gauguin’s swords, fencing turned into brushstrokes, Persian light philosophy, Tesla in Egypt, the origin of zero. A Berlin field recording where art history, conspiracy, and myth collide.
We stumble from Berlin street noise into an artist’s studio and fall headlong into a sweeping, conspiratorial art history.
At ~12:00, step inside with us to skip the wind and sip tea with a painter who recounts the secret life of Vincent van Gogh—including the idea of four different Vincents, fencing as the origin of the paintbrush, and Gauguin carrying swords into the studio. The story spirals into Persian and Zoroastrian light philosophy, the Bauhaus, Herodotus, pyramids as Tesla batteries, and how Freemasons controlled which artists lived and which died young.
It’s part myth, part oral history, part hustler’s lecture on art, light, and survival.
Recorded raw. Just Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit
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Choice Quotes
Note: The studio guest shares personal interpretations and disputed claims—offered here as viewpoint, not verified fact ;-)
Dishes done, coffee poured, and suddenly the conversation hits a drop: “There is no free will.” From there, Jedidiah and Sean spiral into fresh street-born poetry, hobo scat philosophy, and the secret mechanics of the universe.
This episode weaves together:
Choice lines include:
“Hobo shit and self-help braid together and kind of cancel each other out.”
“Maybe I feel rich because the baby’s head was the third tit—so plump.”
“We are multi-dimensional beings. Even putting on water shoes is another dimension.”
For seekers of nodes of power, astrology as real physics, or just the raw beauty of improvised poetry, this episode of Beatniks, Bumtrips, Bullshit drifts between street grit and cosmic alignment.
Check out Sean’s Cast : https://open.spotify.com/show/5wLSeBa5k0ykpBMVWI0h5Q?si=YWLygCPoQUSqtZaGh2ISyg