Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow. So, I loaded up the art car for a trip back down to this family lake house some 80 miles west of my hometown of Louisville and hit the road about sundown. Time to get the fuck out of dodge. Loaded up my aging chocolate lab Duke like he was R2D2. Duke is 16 years old and riddled with cancer and arthritis. So, I gently placed him in the back seat. Put on one of my favorite Grateful Dead recordings, Live Dead and now it’s the test of the boomerang, tossed into the night of redeeming. So this is the return.

It rained like a motherfucker all the way out Dixie Highway. 31w. Fort Knox. Out highway 60 twords Owensboro, Kentucky. Follow 60 until you get to that place that used to be called, “Hog Wallow” Kentucky and then follow 333 into the winding roads of Central Kentucky, industrial farming … dot dot dot … and I know these roads like the back of my hand. Country roads, take me home, I digress, often.

When I left this place in the spring, Louisville was all crazy, the pandemic was setting in, and the national guard had been called into the streets of town. I was spending time out here, so as to get away from all the bullshit drama of how Kentucky was just going to just have to deal with this almost unreasonable attempt at a Government issued MRE packet style monetary assistance project. When I left, I was just getting to know the Mennonite family out on the “state” road. Now I am back, Breonna Taylor is the acting mayor of Louisville and the pandemic is?

The pandemic is whatever you think the pandemic is. Because nobody trusts anything. The news makes no sense and because this country has been pushed to the brink of civil war, culture war, go ahead and try and make heads or tails out of this that or the other. Out here in Central Kentucky, it is a whole different ballgame. Wear a mask of social distortion out here in farm country and get your ass run off. This place is no place for a revolution. This is industrial farming and Anarcho-syndicalism territory. One of the last conversations I had with the Mennonite father was about what his politics might be. Of course “they” don’t participate in American politics, so my definition of his brand of “Anarchist Action” fell of Pennsylvanian German, whatever the fuck language “they” speak deaf ears.

So, this is the return report. This is a brief announcement. Follow this site for more. Share this link and all that Jazz. My plan is to write like crazy and stay down here for a while. More to come, news at eleven. Or The Eleven. That is that boomerang reference. Robert Hunter wrote that poem for the Dead. Got it? Pay Attention and you do the googling. I’ll file the reports, you do the math. This report is being filed with an on-line zine that my Shanty Boat friend Wes Modes is running. Unavoidable Disaster. Look it up. He is at his makeshift California deportee camp now. Run off by fire! He is a real Burning Man, know what I mean, Vern?

John Paul Wright

Madrid, Kentucky

Calamese Creek