Rivers of the Mind Episode 5 Southern Hospitality

The farmer, Gerry, led me down the hallway, stuck in an uncomfortable lurch as his arthritic joints sent shoots of pain up the sides of his legs. He couldn't believe he was doing this—it seemed insane. But I seemed like a nice boy, and also a psychic. Plus I'd spoken to the mushrooms in the field on his behalf in order to save him from an ancient curse. Strange, but no unbelievable. He'd seem some crazy stuff in his time. He recalled a time that his old best friend jumped an old pickup truck over Farmer Dales house and landed it in the hay loft of the barn. Once, he'd left church, and he'd seen an angel come from the sky and stop a car from hitting an old lady at a crosswalk. At the age of 32, he was sure he'd seen a Flying Saucer while he was out fishing with his buddies. He'd witnessed racial integration, men walking on the moon, and the advent of the internet. Heck, he'd been to a Grateful Dead concert. The psychic voices, images and feelings he'd felt in his head, the existence of some kind of sentient fungus trying to insist he spend more time with his cows, even if possibly the effects of dementia, were just another oddity in a long series of strange things that had happened to him in his life. Gerry supposed it was the Christian thing to do to give me a room, and beyond that, he needed to adhere to the basic principles of Southern Hospitality. Something those God-forsaken California Yuppies out in Austin would never understand.

Hand trembling and aching, he gently turned the handle of the door to a room at the end of the hall, one with log-cabin style décor, a queen-sized bed that had been neatly made with a red, Western style blanket. “Home Sweet Home”, read a sign above the bed, and another across the room read, “9MM Beats 9-1-1 Every Time.” Pictures of his kids rested on either nightstand. An elegant wood chest sat underneath the window. Looking into Gerry's memories, I knew that, every once in a while, his kids would clean the room. He liked to keep it nice in case any of them wanted to stay there, he explained. Internally, he felt like they were ungrateful for this, and would have loved to see the look on his daughter-in-laws face when she saw me staying there. I set down my backpack. “Couple rules”, he looked off, not having thought of any rules, “Keep her clean and don't do nothing you wouldn't do at your momma's house. You wanna smoke, you can take it outside, but I don't take too kindly to marijuana or anything like that. Bathroom's across the hall. Feel free to wash up”, he said, though I could tell he meant it more as a command than an offer, “I'm heading to bed myself. I can make you some breakfast in the morning. I suppose it'd be best if you get on your way wherever you're going”, he said, trying to communicate for me to not take his hospitality for granted, and wondering if I could read his mind still. He wanted me to stay—I wasn't sure if I would. I felt like I wanted to, but also imagined that staying rooted in one place for too long out of the blue might be too sudden of an adjustment for me to make.

Taking a shower felt unreal—the burning hot water, the steam rising up into my sinuses—I hadn't had one for three months. Back in Austin, I washed myself off in a river, and after that took advantage of a creek I'd come across somewhere just before I got to the hill country. By the time I was here my skin was covered in dirt and dust and sweat. The water poured down over my skin and brought with it a flood of dense brown slime down the drain. It filled my senses, the steam rising around me in colorful swirls. Shutting my eyes, I felt myself standing on the edge of a chasm, one which stretched between the world I lived in and the world I remembered; the person I'd become and the person I'd been. My lungs filled with searing, dense humidity as my psyche flooded with noise and palpitation, clogged like the gutters of my parents house in the fall-time. I'd taken a trip, and I would never come back. It was beginning to hit me. The awful force of this strange adventure. I'd almost begun to...to normalize it. My eyes shot open, darting around the shower, staring at the room around me, the flies trapped in the ceiling light, the mildew growing around the edges of the curtain rod and the walls, the half-faded scenes of contrived marine life on the flower mat. I clutched my head, overwhelmed—it was all wrong. The color white, on the shower wall—it wasn't white. At least not like I remembered it. The blues weren't the right blues, the reds weren't the right reds. Everything was off. But somehow, it'd become normal. So normal I'd almost begun to accept it. Accept it, that was it. This wasn't normal. The breathing around me, pressing against me like a blood pressure cufflet. The seasickness that I felt on dry land, making me feel like I was forever walking a tightrope to stay on my feet. The untethered buoyancy of my ego over my subconscious, a riotous and cavernous calamity loomed beneath me like an open jaw, my own sensibilities and comprehensions staring into that which lied beneath unknowingly, unthinkingly.

If it weren't for the madness of it—I'd imagine I'd gone mad—but instead I felt like a totally sane bystander to my own insanity. Watching the my mind and my body struggle as I remained deep inside, helpless. Dispossessed of my own autonomy at the mercy of—it—inside of that great river in which I'd seen myself floating earlier. I was only atoms lost in a stream, lost in a space inside of space. Burning as a finite quantity caught for a mere second in the raging flow of infinity. I shook, almost convulsed as I can to my knees. The air around me was pierced with a shrieking, an uneven pounding against my ear canals. A scream, rising from the depths of the cosmos, echoing across the canyons and mountains inside of my mind. I turned...it shifted. The sound did. The sound shifted. The noises from the...I turned it again. The shower head. I shifted my feet backwards, and tightened it. Much better.

The sound was gone.

And so was the sound from before, the distant humming I heard over the ocean of dreams the last time I fell asleep—I was in the same ocean, but the noise was much different. I pondered why. The mushrooms must have been making it, I supposed. They extended into this domain, whereever it was, and made their noise, likely some kind of after effect of the field which they project around the field to defend the cows. They'd called this place the Brick Abomination, I remembered. But I imagined perhaps their aura doesn't penetrate into here because it blocks them out. It probably only seems like an abomination from the outside—horrific because they've never been inside. They've never completely understood the inside of the Brick Abomination, they only ever understood that it was different. Different than a field where someone grows as a mushroom, or a blade of grass or a branch of mesquite. And being different, and it's qualities unknowable, they must assume it is the opposite of them in all respects, they themselves are good, or hopefully; the other is opposite, and so bad, since that's the way it is. Why differ from the flow of the hive mind? They know all of what they can know, the mushrooms, but don't know what they can't. And that was where I was. No humming. Barely anything. Only staring at the stars on the back of my eyelids, tripping my eyeballs out of their sockets until the moment I die.

In order to really do what you're doing sometimes, I think you need to not know what it is your doing. Take me for instance. I've had no idea. Imagine for a moment that you're me. You took acid. It was your birthday five days ago, and you thought you deserved it. So you did it. You were in Texas, and you were terrified you'd get arrested, and you wanted to see aliens, but you did it. You took the acid, and you swore you'd just stared into the center of the universe and watched souls be sucked into the gates of hell. Then you come off of it, and it feels almost normal. Almost. But you're still tripping. And you're tripping and you're tripping and you're here. In an old man's house, flying away from the sun inside of an infinite dream. Waking up inside of the head of a girl you've never met before.

She'd seen me once, and I knew I'd seen her twice, so I'm sure I'm lying when I say I've never met her. But I'd only met her since I could read her mind and I knew what she was thinking, so it doesn't count. She didn't know my name. Just my face, and the crystal that was now hanging from her rear view mirror. It was Meagan. I'd seen her the day before, and I knew that I was dreaming and so was she. Everything looked so normal, I swear it was the strangest thing I'd ever seen in my life. She passed by me on the street, she asked me if she could get me anything. She walked with me down to the Walmart, where she worked. Their manager, wearing tissue boxes on his feet and with horns growing out of his head, ran up to us. I found myself playing the part in her ballet of some type of hero, staring the villain down across a tile floor. I don't recognize myself when she dreams about me; I'm just a part of her dream. The strangest feeling--but I love it. Because I wouldn't be here if inertia wasn't doing it's work. I'd dreamed about her first. Before I'd even seen her, when she was just a thought I'd had, I'd know her, and I'd wanted to dream of her. Aware of the strangeness of this new power I found possessing me, I felt that it must have been wrong, to use it to visit her in her sleep. I'd never met someone who seemed so honest. Into whose soul I could stare and trust without another word. Of course, I'd never had psychic powers before. But neither had she. And we were there. I was floating through her dreams.

I could have floated forever, I felt like, but our dreamscapes quickly drifted out of phase. I wandered intactably through the minds through which I'd flown, unharmed and untouched by them, weaving between their memories and my own almost unconsciously until a crisp warm light snuck through the skin of my eyelids, lighting up the trembling veins within them. The sound and smell of crackling meat floated from outside the door. Where was I? I felt so hot. I heard sizzling all around me...it hit me...I was in an oven. I was one hundred and fifty seven percent sure, almost exactly. I jumped up, screaming something awful. I was melting! My body was being cooked. I must have been wrapped in something---I felt like something was on top of me, dragging me dow...n...n......What in the...I threw the blankets off me and dove for the floor, tearing off the nightclothes that Gerry had given me frantically. “You okay in there son?”

I was sure I was, I was just tripping. Except that it was real. Oh no. It was all real, I realized. Except the oven. Although I supposed that was a reasonable way to describe a house in Texas with no air conditioning.

Reluctantly putting on clothes (clothes are stupid, one is prone to thinking when they have taken lsd), I slowly maneuvered out of the room, readjusting to being awake with a stiffness in my muscles, like when you've just stepped off a treadmill and you start walking. The light flooding in seared my dilated pupils and gave them the tint, almost, of an old sepia photograph, a comparison to which my imagination found itself immediately latched—time drifted with the heaviness and force of a glacier—the old man's stern and stoic face, ringed with an angelic white halo of frayed out hair, looked not unlike it was posed for a photograph, the antique kind that took hours to develop, which meant he couldn't smile. He looked up at me, impassively.

“I suppose you really are psychic. I was just about to wake you up.”, he joked, between half to three-quarters serious. My face twitched, unsure if I should laugh or frown. Caught in the middle, I only nodded, and gulped, afraid to admit that I hadn't heard his thoughts. It was weird that he thought I did, though, I chuckled slightly. Actually I'd been woken up by the sun. I almost always am. I'd had to get used to the sun, tying my rhythms to it. I would usually wake up before rose, and then walk until it was at the top of the sky, at which point I'd rest and try to stay hydrated. When it started to cool off, just around nighttime, I would start moving again, and walk until I got tired. Hitch a ride if I could. Human brick and mortar may offend the mushrooms but it sure helped me sleep last night. “That smells real good.”, I said, still hazy. How long had I been out there? How long had I been in here? It already felt like home. Like this had happened a thousand times already, even if I was still having trouble believing it was happening. The thought of staying in one place for a week already felt disarming. But I bit back against it. I knew it was what he was thinking, but was embarrassed at readying myself for his invitation. “Thanks”, I said, almost accidentally. My eyes grew wide with embarrassment before I realized what I said was just as reasonable a thing to say for what he was doing for me at that exact moment as it was for what he was planning on doing after he showed me the cows. “Sure. My son always brings me these eggs when he goes shopping, but my doctor says I need to watch my cholesterol. Gotta get rid of them some how”, he scooped them up with a spatula and spread them on a little orange plate. Then the steak, three or four strips. “I suppose you aren't some kind of vegetarian or something like that, otherwise you'd have told me five times over how I was going to hell eating for steak, pointing a shotgun at you and voting for Trump.”

He set the plate in front of me. On the edges, it said, “Gavin.” The old man looked at me tensely, trying to dismiss any of his own thoughts that he might be giving me that particular plate since it belonged to his son. That son Gavin hadn't called in years, and he hadn't the slightest idea if he was still alive. Gerry supposed that it was only his fault, though. Gerry had a fresh peeled orange and a couple pieces of steak on his plate, a clean and plain white one with a little chip in the side. “Well. I suppose I'll say grace.”, he said, since he hadn't asked if I was from California or Washington DC yet to see if it'd offend me for him to ask me if I could lead the prayer, “Dear father, who art in heaven--”, I watched with awe as his words flew from his mouth in labyrinthine puzzles made of light and bubbled up towards the ceiling, passing through row upon row of clean transparent squares as they climbed into a radiant light up above our heads, the Ultimate. Again. I knelt my head in reverence, and prayed along, adding on towards the end, a muffled, “Yeah.”, which I sent up to the Ultimate in a word that looked like a weird, lopsided triangle. I didn't ever see what happened to it. For all I knew, I only saw it because I imagined it was probably real to begin with. And I probably saw nothing but light because that was as far as I felt like I could get, even if that was not for lack of trying. Gerry chuckled under his breath. Apparently Millenials talked to God like they did to their Grandpa when he asks them if they're doing well in school.

He took a bite of the steak, trying to keep it from flopping out of his mouth as he chewed laboriously slow. He'd been afraid of two things his whole life. Death, and having food fall out of his mouth. Now that he'd shaken the first of those—he often felt he faced death itself every time he opened up his web browser and glanced even for a moment at the latest headline about some Syrian kid blowing himself up in Europe or chopping some poor fellas head clean off—he still chewed with excruciating caution. The fear had only gotten worse with age. Nothing had fallen out of his mouth since he was seven or eight and his mom had boxed him on the back of the ear for dropping his corn dog on a boardwalk and watching it get carried off by a rat. Eight decades, 12 presidents and God knows how many meals afterwards, he was less terrified of the actual dreadful act itself than he was of going down at the expense of a near century long winning streak. As the meat made its way from his dentures down to his stomach, he pointed at a portrait of the ranch hung across the room, bobbing his fork up and down like he was getting ready to say something.

He was going to tell me about his daughter Miranda. Miranda went to Art school, much to her fathers chagrin, and she'd become an artist. Thirty eight years old now, and she was successful for it. I studied her painting. I could feel the energy coming off of it, the traces of a soul resonating from each brush stroke on the canvas like a thousand record needles running across a floor covered in shattered vinyl LPs. Illustrious, painstaking work—I knew fifteen years ago when she'd painted it, she'd been crying. She wished she could go back to the farm. She was so sad to know her dad was sitting there, waiting to hear about the test results the family doctor had ordered for her mother, and that she'd finished it just as they knew the dreadful news those results entailed—it was the part of the painting where the sky got just a little more blue—she hated New York, she kept thinking. The ranch was always on her mind, and so she hadn't needed any reference photos to paint this. It made her feel stupid, though, making this painting. he had her first gallery showing since art school in a week and she was using the last of her art supplies painting a picture that would never sell among the snobby rich people she imagined would be coming to see her and buy her work. But as an artist, she'd never connected with the trite, post-modern collages she'd used to earn this showing, and had only made four or five. She finished the painting the day after the show, having sold none of her fifteen others more drunk than she'd ever been in her life, and was ready to burn it in the dump before she, hungover and despondent, decided to mail it to her dad.

“My daughter painted that.”, he said, smiling faintly. Miranda hadn't come for Christmas in two years. She'd taken Gavin's side in what Gerry remembered only as, “that whole debacle”, pushing it far out of his memory. Gavin didn't call either. He'd come out to his dad—he'd had a partner for seven years that his father never met. The rest of the family all knew, they were just afraid to tell him. Gerry didn't take it well. He spent the rest of the summer not returning anyone but Mick's calls. Mick came out from San Antonio to help with the cows. In September, he called Gavin to vent his frustrations and split the wedge even further. Miranda called and argued with him for hours. Now only Mick, and from time to time Daniel, ever came to visit the farm, and Daniel never brought his wife, only his three kids. When it came down to it, Gerry didn't know how to apologize to them. Even though he wanted to, he wasn't even sure if he should.

“She lives out in New York. Sells a lot of paintings.”

He had kept and preserved every one of the fliers for Miranda's showings, keeping them in a photo album he'd maintained since her first third grade art class. When she stopped sending them to him, he started printing them off online, writing in big letters so he could read them in the form of a brief executive summary—Miranda leads workshop in Estonia—Miranda's show in Connecticut—Miranda's show in Los Angeles. As for Gavin, his dad had all of his stuff in a box. His report cards. The letters from the dean's list in business school. Some old emails and photos the two had exchanged were printed out in a big binder, also with big-lettered captions. Gavin gets his new job in Denver at the cannabis factory—Gavin meets the Governor of Colorado—Gavin speaks at big marijuana conference. He'd stopped hanging them on the wall, though, when he'd found out, but still couldn't bear to part with them.

“She just had a show somewhere in Spain.”

I acknowledged him blankly, slurping down a piece of scrambled egg that I had neatly impaled on my fork.

“Sure looks like it's gonna be a nice day outside.”

Gerry bit down on another piece of steak and the two of us watched the other masticate with unease.

“Hard to have a conversation, I guess, when you just read folks minds.”

I nodded. It was.

“I'm sorry about your kids.”

Inwardly, he grimaced, but on the outside, his face remained still.

“I'm proud of them.”

I bit another piece of egg. It was weird to eat food. Especially when, if you think about it, you're eating a fried, unborn fetus that your species just randomly decided you had the right to steal from its mother and devour at your leisure. My eyes went wide as I looked at the food on my plate. Suddenly, I could visualize it's entire lifecycle. All of it seemed to pulse with life, as I contemplated the life it had left behind, thinking of the cows outside, and how unknowing they must be of the slaughterhouse, how powerless the mushrooms really are to defend them against the true dangers, how naive they were to think they had done themselves a service maintaining the ranchers presence. How sad it was to be a chicken inside of a box, growing against hard steel walls and laying eggs for the tall bald monkeys to consume. How horrible it was to feel it all. To realize I could feel it all. How the cows and their fungal guardians ought to have begged me to kill the farmer. To kill Gerry. To kill—I looked into his eyes. With mild stability, he munched down on a piece of steak. He had killed them. In the scope of life, everything, he was a carnivore. In the scope of consciousness, perhaps it would be better that—way--

I shut my eyes and ate the eggs, although they tasted like cold metal. The taste, and the thought of the chicken suffering made me imagine myself as a chicken in a factory farm, in vivid and gruesome detail. Internally, I tried to right the course, feeling my soul teeter into a darkness, an anger, as my own sense of compassion pulled me back towards the light. I could feel the love Gerry felt for those cows, last night. He was grateful for them. He cared for them, he nurtured them. Every day he opened his freezer and took out the steak it had been a creature he'd cared for. He remembered it. And one day, he hoped to give his body to them. He wanted to be buried in their field. He supposed it was the order of things. Just as the grass supposed it was the order of the cows to eat them. Soon he would. Soon he would give back to them. But not through me. Genuinely, the cows loved him. The mushrooms, in their odd and haughty way, loved him. I loved him.

“I love you.”, I said, finding myself staring at the plate. Gerry had started eating his orange, slice by slice. He liked to bite them in thirds, biting first the top end, then spinning around, and biting the other, taking out the seeds with his fingernails before he swallowed the middle part. Gerry looked puzzled. My eyes moved up to him, slowly and cautiously. “I--”, I stopped myself from saying it, making eye contact with him. I'd gotten carried away. The cows were only slaughtered when they got so old that Gerry could bear to see them suffer no longer. Meanwhile, the eggs were from his neighbor Jill, who lived over the hill from here, and who Gerry thought looked mighty fine for a young lady in her sixties. “You must've not had steak for a while.”, Gerry laughed. It was something he'd also said to his wife every once in a while, in a particular scenario I wished I had never seen come through someones memories. I shook my head, withdrawing from his thoughts. “No. I love you.”, I poked a bit of steak and stared at it, “Steak. Steak, I love you.”, I ate it, stoically, suddenly tense from how awkward that moment had been. “So, did you have any questions?”, I asked him. I figured it would be easier if I let him know he could ask me the questions he'd been thinking of.

“You ain't from California or anywhere like that?”, he wanted to ask. I winced in anticipation, preparing a lie. “Where are you from?”, he asked me instead, softening the question. “Not California. North Dakota.”, I said. Understanding that I was reading his mind, he tried another approach. “What do you want to tell me, how about? And I'll ask you about it again when we go out and tend the cows.”

“Well my name is John. I can read your mind because I took acid next to a place where the government punched a hole in the universe. But I don't do a lot of drugs. Only every so often. I don't drink, at least. Never heroin, or anything bad. I'm hitchhiking to a music festival in New Mexico that starts in a month, so I can sell some healing crystals, like the one I gave you that you were keeping in your nightstand. I used to be a geologist at an oil field but I quit. My favorite color is the sun, and I like looking at my feet while it rains.”, I didn't want to tell him that, but for some reason, I'd had a profound need to say it, “I'm homeless. I'm homeless on purpose though. My old company thinks I'm dead. Last Christmas, I called my mom from a payphone and told her I was fine. She was mad I wasted my education, and my dad says I'm a disappointment.”

He nodded, slowly, “Guess that's the sort of thing the government does these days, punches holes in the universe, huh”, he bit another piece of steak, and stared at me solemnly as he did, wondering about my family. Figuring that I was from North Dakota, he imagined they were fine, respectable, redblooded Americans, and tried to picture himself in their shoes, “My family is good. They're all good people. I want to visit them. I'm gonna call my mom for her birthday, it's in April. I call my dad too. His is in May. I have three sisters, and a pet cat named Rufus, unless Rufus is dead, which is possible, since he had feline aids and a weird bladder condition. It's weird being here. Usually, I'm a normal person, but I guess I'm not now. I'm going to get some juice. Don't tell me where it is. I know.”, I stood up, breathing deeply as I inched towards the cupboard to fetch a cup. I wanted to be careful to use his least favorite mug, one that had a pair of little rabbit children who always gave him the heebie-jeebies, but gave up on excavating it from behind the other mugs after I'd already taken six or seven out and set them top down on the counter. I settled on a neutral looking one, with a picture of a windmill. You could tell it was painted by a machine, since when I looked at the image, it didn't have a soul. No soul at all. I watched the windmill in stupefaction. How could a painting have so little soul--

“That LSD, sure a hell of a drug.”, he sighed. He vaguely remembered hearing the stories of teenagers burning their eyes out on LSD by staring at the sun, or thinking they could fly, and jumping off buildings. Heroin was one thing. If the kids were doing LSD now, that was something even worse. Who knew what could be next? They'd even legalized marijuana in some places. He'd heard of it doing some strange things. But never giving someone psychic powers. He supposed it was the devils work. I'd probably sold my soul to the devil, even if it was without knowing it. He hoped he could help me.

I poured orange juice into the mug slowly until-- Dammit. It was a mug. What was I thinking? People don't drink orange juice out of mugs. They drink it out of cups. I threw the orange juice down, almost tearing out my hair out of frustration. “I'm so stupid!”, I shouted, before laughing, “I thought this was a glass, but it's a mug.” That's what Satan will do to you, the old man supposed, Sad. Seems like a nice kid. Gerry finished his orange, licking his fingers as he pondered whether or not he'd allowed me to curse his house with demons, by welcoming me in. I felt horrified. What if he was right? What if there was something dark inside of me? What if this was---I calmed myself down. My hands were shaking. I was losing control. It was all of this human interaction—this strange house. I couldn't smoke weed around most of my friends, let alone trip on acid with a total stranger. I tried strained myself to use these powers to somehow act normal, but it was forced. I couldn't do it. I breathed deeply, and thought about the most normal person I'd ever met. Her name was Janet. I tried to become Janet.

It worked for long enough for me to finish my orange juice, before I realized that Janet had never spent ten minutes wondering what it was like to be six fluid ounces of orange juice in a mug. She was a sociology major I fell in love with in college and once made out with in the back of a pickup truck. I looked over my shoulder, to watch Gerry floss, and took another sip without looking. It tasted strangely sweet, tangy—delicious. I looked down at it, and realized it was because, up until now, I'd been preoccupied with the fact that it was in a mug. Through a colossal force of psychic willpower, I put this thought behind me, and made the orange juice taste normal. Mmm. Such normal orange juice I am drinking, I imagined Janet saying. “I don't suppose you play guitar?”, Gerry asked. He was asking me since he thought I sold my soul to the devil, and, obviously, that's the first question any person in their right mind would ask to someone who'd done such a thing. “A little bit.”, I said. I played a long time ago. I knew four or five songs.

Gerry knew a lot of songs. He'd been playing the mandolin for 79 years and, when he watched me try to strum a few chords on his old guitar, he decided that I'd gotten a raw deal out of my satanic bargainings. I played G, C, and D for about fifteen minutes--enough for most country, Gerry said-- before Gerry taught me some other chords. If you're a musician, I imagine that psychedelics probably help you be really creative. But for me, my neverending acid trip had left my sense of rhythm confused and uncoordinated. Gerry was annoyed at first, but later grew to like it, as teaching me to play guitar was almost like having Gavin back again. We played and sang an old Neil Young song, to which the mushrooms and cows in the pasture responded to with joy. For a few hours after that, Gerry walked me around the field, introducing me to the cows, including two cows named Sheila and four cows named T-Bone. After I'd met 53 of his 27 cows, I suggested to Gerry that we head inside.

Commentary
The incident in the shower is based on actual events where I realized that the sound of a squeaking showerhead was putting me in a weird mood, and everything actually did get better once it was tightened. There are a lot of other little things I could point out, but basically, this episode is here for characterization and to set up some important plot points later on in the series.

Streaming Links
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVmTciJiDjE
https://riversofthemind.libsyn.com/southern-hospitality
https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/rivers-of-the-mind/id1278391177
https://play.google.com/music/m/I5obttfukzok6ggklvb5umo2mgq?t=Rivers_of_the_Mind

All episodes by Timmy Vilgiate. No drugs harmed in the making of this podcast. Nothing in this is real. Nothing at all is real. Everything is a lie.