Friday, December 19, 2014

What the ()hole-y HELL was then? That. I meant that. Then.

5:20 2 hits
5:40 1 more(comma) to be sure :)
(Editors note: sometime around 10pm one more for good (the best) measure)

I pictured two old rednecks battling a cyclone to get the rabbit ears up to get five minutes of entertainment for the ungrateful fucking kids on their respective trailers and across a whole bunch of trailer park we just locked eyes and realised we are doing the exact same thing at the exact second. And it is the knowledge that that could be a physical occurrence in real life that could in fact lead someone down their own rabbit hole of meaning and beyondingness whatever .... That process of signification is beautiful. Perfectly lossless. Perfect objective subjectification.
Diagonal, and isomorphic

Mandalas are amazing telemetry tools for tracking time within no space. Get your bearings quick, lads and get going no time to spare with the chit chat, you only had eternity to check the map and that's gone and wasted eh? WHAT DO WE DO NOW, DEAR GOD, we are out of control with this power.

the infinite eternal

 balances us in time.

Thinking about time allows us to orient ourselves within time.

Wherever our subjectives polar-temporometrically oppose our objective....shit you can't help but helplessly and haphazardly spray all this garbage off into the void if you even once try and contain this thing. All manner of vile shite inside :) pandoras box a literal place you can hop inside, take for a spin like the fucking police box, always bigger inside than out.
The police box is a metaphor for balancing space within time.
Time within space.
The eternal balancing.

You don't even need to activist! when you figure out nature has got US ON LOCK, I could walk out in to traffic but nature says no let's think about death for a while you won't want to go ANYwhere. I could eat a baby pig but some deep down nature says NO and I live that animals death as long as it's meat is inside me.
Nature isn't the stuff outside but the stuff inside. And its(TIME) WAVE is cross-contaminating and Ebola viralling COLLAPSING YOUR SPACE PARTICLE.

All life is a desperate grab at any of this power that evaporates eternally down the drain. BEFORE IT GETS THERE, WHICH IS DUMB EVEN TO SAY!! BECAUSE IT WAS

Pressing the ART button gives immediate results in the form of a possibly quantifiable feedback(happiness+love?=reason?=logos?=gnosis=hypersygnimbyosis trying to smash ALL THE WORDS
I can (can I?) keep this going until my body dies and beyond. If I'm not aware of death I can't orient myself with regards to its spatiotemporality. Death is the inability to rationalise
We are not rational.
We are rationalising
Death is the inability to rationalise
this experience within the signified OR signifier's framework.

The haptic void is that which will totalise all noise into experience
The burst beat is a time synchronized marker to orient yourself in space. Who's space? Fuck if I know.

Mine and yours together, guess we did know after all.

Drugs flew by banging on my cosmic antenna until I figured out there was a problem, found out drugs aren't the problem: it is where I put that antenna, that it is getting in the way of all the drugs flying by. Move antenna x^4 degrees counterlatitudinally six steps from front door(any front door), west facing under the light of the 3rd waning moon, attempt. If same results sans drugs, repeat most expediently repeatable experiment.

Resounding success. Despite the fireworks and grumbling.


Oscar's obsession with the overturning wordplay vis a vis thingamajig doohickey thingamabob flibbertigibbet et al.  I'm only just now 32 years old and realising he is repeating the same TYPE of thing as a mantra over and over in every context and capacity, filling every signifier with his own and all of our signifieds all at once, in order, to auto-orient himself in time space. Without the need for teaching, hence unschooling. Without a teacher. Autodidactic.
Gaussian Diagonal post-acceleration says lay there and embrace the curve. For it knows from whence it is going. By the time he is my age he will be 32 squared years further advanced than we are at his age.

Blue does not represent peace but sterility. Red does not represent violence but righteous action
All things signified are emptied of signification. Into death put a period on that motherfucker and stick it in the mailbox, return to sender. Thanks DICK I mean dad I mean god I mean uh I mean uh...

Ya know what would be a motherfucker of a head trip for the cops? If every last one of us went out in the streets together and committed mass suicide and left them all alone in this scary shit.

You bet your ass they'd be scrambling for the togetherness and meaning and significance of unity when they are out herding nothing into nowhere for nobody, rapture-in-reverse style. And suddenly realising it.

We are gonna solve this fucking case if it kills us.

One could never know. Or always know, I haven't figured out all the knobs on this thing yet but IT DOES SOME REAL RAD TRICKS DOOD. There is some research going on at hellish levels
and I will hip you all as soon as I can remember where I spaced my time-brain.
People trying to use our subjective frequency-myth-generator to empirically mark out a pattern beyond time, map and key and compass combined so that all of us can get there. -All- the patterns are real, blablabla hippie shit x Just breathe, the universe, believe it or not, has probably thought I was going somewhere clever there but that's it. Pffft.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Short Cuts and Good Omens

There is a word hidden or trapped between three or four other words, of course it's mushroom-related...glistening gIyphosate glycemia my tongue halts/want to carve the sound out, the articulation grinds against a spongy wall that can be pushed in a bit but thoughtwave bends and erupts as it pushes too hard against the barrier, ugly oscillation and perception goes....weird. Blinking static, tracking error.
Anyway. The word...describes a trailing, dripping, ectophantasmic, ectoplasmic, electrochemical, diaphanous multidimensional hyperconnection to a geological unconsciousness that forms during psilocybin trials. Maybe(?), etymologically(?), a portmanteau of Glyph and glissando?

"Evolution did not end with us growing opposable thumbs. You do know that, right?"

It was like a donut, but in an exploded-diagram form, bisected crossed sliced and separated, hovering glowing, maybe 4 feet tall and on its side upright like a wheel, smaller cuts taken from all sides/insides. Strange geometric patterns and forms (maybe 20 or 30 though this number often changed) excised cleanly and glowing a few inches out from their respective holes. Actually, scratch the donut reference. Maybe it was overly simplistic to think of that because of the ease with which one could slice a donut…..

 It resembled more of a circular fluorescent tube-style light bulb. So bright you can't see where it begins or ends, unless you glance at it directly and then look away and close your eyes fast enough to see the edge in razor-relief within the afterimage before it fades. This pre-afterimage (similar in color, even) hung here before me, autopsied and open. Labeled with I Do Not Know. Not that it wasn't labelled, or that it was No language, or a Strange one...but it seemed to be hyper labelled. Every point to an atomic level (and probably beyond, I imagine) had sets upon enfolded and superimposed and entangled sets of labels. It was a conundrum, until I touched it and it immediately lit up and began responding to my presence by each piece rotating or spinning or zooming in or out, and several unnatural motions, [involution, evolution, wrapping and undulating, all and none of these things], [some extremely difficult to focus on as if the gaze was being bent away] seemingly at both thought and touch simultaneously. I couldn't calibrate any motion to a particular response, as if it were also taking commands from my emotional state or subconscious [though it seemed, or I had a intuition, that I was directly responsible for all included motion]? Bears further research.

 It did not feel threatening, but I can't seem to recall if anyone showed me how to use it or beckoned me closer, or if I simply couldn't resist touching. I got a distinct feeling of un-alone-ness, but no other figures were visible.

I began haphazardly slopping through various labels and segments of the inside of the wheel, searching for...for anything that felt right. Every tagged and labelled point sparked feeling and my brain heated up, and I, almost as if in a dream, briefly had a -subjective- experience of a scene from something else's point of view. Some living, some plant, some so alien it made me nauseous and I couldn't understand, but all moments contained coordinates that allowed them to be placed into a constantly fluxing space-time flow-map (or rather…their coordinates were Marked somehow within this map) and afterward I could see their glows when looking up and knew instinctively that I'd be able to find any mindspace experienced in this fashion again forever.

The points with no labels drove me into ecstatic states with extreme psychophysical hallucination. I judged these to be new experiences. Everything had happened, will happen, is happening. But whatever my Self is of has a map of all possible experience and is systematically covering all experiential ground.

The wheel had a flexibility, stuck to your fingers and would sometimes seem to flex and bounce. Any motion was accompanied by a swipe through several dozens or hundreds of points and you didn't have to be focused to be plugged in for that fleeting less than moment that it spun through the labelled and non labelled.

At a certain point I realised the pieces that came out could be molded and refit elsewhere and that this technique dramatically shifted reality and caused distortion and a fresh wave of visual effects. These were too great to overcome and I lost myself and the wheel.

"You ever notice that people who believe in creationism look really unevolved?
 Eyes real close together, big furry hands and feet. "I believe God created me
 in one day." Yeah, looks like he rushed it."  -Bill Hicks

Friday, November 28, 2014

what what what what what what want what what what

they told me there was no saving you
and really, i loved the madness
your wings enveloped me
and i threw you to the ground

but seriously.

my back is bending further and further. hurt everywhere, all the time. i am at some low level of sickness just about always. ground covered in snow/feel it in every previously broken bone. Afraid to tell anyone or go to the doctor because, well obviously, what if it is something bad? Can't I just die in peace in my own due time, without some fucking quack butcher sawing up my gutty-wuts and telling me I'm an asshole for doing drugs all the time and eating terrible food and never letting him poke and prod me before?

a clever aside:

My throat is slimy
my nose drips
my head is bangin'
but not because what I'm listening to

My eyes are dry
my lungs feel ?thick?
no one listens to my diatribes on
the realpoli-tik

My toes do this thing
where they feel like they break
and get unbearably hot.
Please, prepare my wake.

Surely, it won't be long
I am cold to the bone
can't lift the whiskey,
is there no end to this hell? I'm alone!

Stressed and depressed
clenched my teeth till they cracked
not like I use them,
for my tummy is all

it rumbles and grumbles
bitching just so,
I'm afraid one day it shall give up
and crawl right out of the mouth-

my hands hate the work
and work hates the hands
but the rent must be paid!
you know we are subservient to the

jackboots and batons out the door
and needles and pins within
my back may be broken (literally)
but I'm thankful my teeth have so much
Skin. (did that work? did you get it?)

Clearly I'm dying,
but what's to be done?
the whinging won't do
and the complaining's all gone!

Because someone said it better, first.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

drilled killed eternalised metabolised and falsified

several hundred internal near-catastrophes per hour. i was gifted a vision of a framework, mother earth divorces father war and begins an almighty custody battle for the kids. i lie down with the bloody bullet-riddled body of a wolf and slip into blessed unconscious. in the dream we huddled around funeral pyres to inhale the burning corpse like incense to chase away the I.

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.
Rainer Maria Rilke

an impossible extradigital wheel, exploded. step inside the wheel and a vast file tree, infinite card-catalog of experience. zero-lag, subjective precise recall of anything anywhen. experienced in 0-time. work out your own salvation. ("Oy vey, have you got the wrong vampire!") 

That weapon will replace your tongue. You will learn to speak through it. And your poetry will now be written with blood.

i see an end…parts of my body fail. a soreness, a physical expression of ennui, pervasive. i will push my own burning boat out onto the river styx and fall asleep, peaceful. painting face with blood for battle that doesn't come/sits across the street, points and laughs, comfortable in the knowledge that it pulls every string, everything. as if on cue, a headache drags mental faculties back down to the physical realm and thought is vapor. 

Rise now, and drive your cart and plough over the bones of the dead!

hear music softly from another room. soft crooning. pipes creaking in the cold. what a sham, this body. 

a revolution to be had (but not ours)
we are not wanted here.
where is Out?
"Easy, John" they said as they wheeled him back to HQ. 
But they all knew he was dying.

"He walked straight, with firm proud strides, without a doubt. He was doing something that would never end; he would go through death without hurt."

**you can hear the howler monkeys in the background
**it dissolves you into a confrontation with authentic being tmk
A less-than-surgical removal of illusion, fantasy's stage lights switched off abruptly, intimate encounter with the Real. unspeakable unknown death truths. when i go to the jungle, the key is to find your secrets. 

"i lubricate my rifle with liberal tears." he said.

funny, i just soak mine in pig's blood.

"the spiral pilots everything" but, then it isn't really a spiral is it? It's a vortex. with power and motion and chaos amid the clean toilet bowl swirl. dose myself to implosion, save the space for someone that needs it. self-auscultation, self-replication. self-shattering tones, noise-segregation and collapse of all function into the particle-static and cold. falling fast, right out of space and into the void forever.

the controller is the controlled - j krishnamurti

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

most things haven't worked out

at the drive-in theatre
we saw bloodlust and sickness
unremitting horror backstabbings 
melodramatic revenge fantasies
utt/////errrr destruction of illusions
made Real
behind the house
coal cars and leathered lined faces
leered godlike on a trestle above town
carrying black lung gloom 
to illuminate their domesticated violence
for a pretty decent wage.

We wove silently around these perfectly flat, evenly covered fields of some indistinct crop still early goings and bright green low to the ground. at speed they blurred together and appeared smooth and i would pretend they were lakes and we were on another planet where water was emerald. I didn't realize it until i was older that i was probably using some meditative trick to….focus by not focusing…on the oddness of the color in comparison to "real" water on earth and using that to trick myself into thinking i was in like X-Ray Zone or on Venus or wherever i wanted to go at the time that had green water. 

dear old dad built bridges out of concrete because he
couldn't figure out how to create them out of words
nevermind love
denied emotion
but not math
he preferred correct answers 
to what was right
a destination
to a journey
everything was always fine
why can't you be?\/\/\/\//\/\/\/\///\/\//\\/\/\//\/\/\\///\\\//\/\////\///\/////\\\/\/

i watched the older kids jump off the bridge into the deep water the younger ones weren't allowed in while sitting on an algae-covered underwater rock hunting crayfish with a jar and a stick. my memories resemble 8mm film, scratchy…grainy. no sound. i remember the clouds crossing the sun/a knife-edged wind/whipped through the shallow valley the creek ran through/brought some vague contentment as it chilled my skin-unexplainable. only crossed the creek once:something about the other side seemed off. 
sinister somehow

    My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.

no air conditioning, farmhouse. 
hot…box fans jammed in open windows. 
chased her through labyrinthine hallways
ending/puzzled/in empty rooms
the staircase shouldn't have been there
the door shouldn't have opened
the basement, long disused. dust covered and cluttered
piled high: a century of gathered uselessness
it was always bone cold in the basement. 
i heard her laugh above me: at the top of the stairs she smiled and turned to run
can never reach her, and the smell of her hair trails onward through another waking.

i think if i ever caught her i wouldn't know what to do. 

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. -Psalms 34:18
(((((tell me which way that river run)))))

Thursday, October 30, 2014

my own public-domain hyper-Idaho

"And I really think, you know, what we need to do is put the art-pedal to the floor, and understand that this is art - we are involved in some kind of enormous piece of performance art called Western civilization and, you know, it's been a C-minus performance so far... And they are just about to reach out with the hook and drag us offstage, unless we begin pulling rabbits out of the hat pretty furiously." Terence McKenna

heavily weighted by sleep and solemn thought, i staggered sluggish onto the balcony.
sharp-cold and clear, porch lights sprinkled the valley for miles in the pre/dawn blue/black. i shivered awake, and watched the bats snatch insects from around a nearby light pole. Through mushroom experiments I've decided that within my thoughts, in their progression to some kind of moving/evolving emotional imagery battery and away from words and still pictures and video (for horrible lack of better terms) I have progressively lost the ability to articulate my thoughts as effectively as maybe I once had (or maybe my unconscious/subconscious/overmind or whatever it is being called these days knows what needs to be said but is horribly out of practice since the clumsy idiot beast Ego took control of the mouth in bloody combat so many years ago. Difficult to win a war if you're a pacifist.), my flapping lips and acid tongue also are imperfect tools on the best days and possibly even wildly inappropriate for the task. you're simply going to have to plug in to find out what I mean…take that how you will/

it's like a black hole now, i can no longer touch the outside and feel its shape. i feel distorted when i come too close. void approaches and it hurts to be so scared like a despair, regretful, black hole scared and i instinctively shy away. can feel it spiraling, just out of reach. solid as metal and cold again. i immediately begin testing it for weakness; trying to find a way inside, fool that i am. lay my head under the microscope and bash it in with a hammer. look at the tiny pieces running about, you'd almost think they know where they're headed. sometimes in the breath between words I will (internally, always) make guesses as to how their sentence will end. I'm often hilariously or tragically wrong, but I like to think of it as lightning-round analysis. If only Symbolic practice made you better at things…and besides, a .300 average in baseball is hall-of-fame-worthy if your defenses are good.

I need more content for this page. Or to be more content with this page. You, dear reader, all both of you, should write something and i'll post it. maybe I'll also type up something that is currently only available on analog paper so as to provide more length. I seem to only be effective in small doses when confronted with a shiny screen.

meanwhile, in our hero's latest experiment...
mushrooms had seemed to grow out of me at one point. Terence McKenna mentioned a similar image so I searched and found this:

Bee-faced shaman, Tassili, Algeria 5,000 years old

Apparently, I wasn't the first.
i was vividly -in- the network, my corpse may have fed a small forest of mushrooms but their root system encompassed my Self as well as my body and I could sense /through/ the mushrooms' senses which felt extraordinarily wet and warm and brightly "colored" though i was certainly not using my eyes. time-lapse growth overflowed my boundaries and linked us into a world root and I could immediately feel everything and hear and see and maybe a half dozen other senses I couldn't hope to explain. time was revealed to be massive clusters of probability-related moments-repeating-eternallys and that all things were happening everywhere in every direction real and unreal forever. the frozen wave cracked and crashed over me, and my body was unceremoniously dumped in an alley waaayy out back of Cognition, many states from home. 

from an old dream journal: 
'Racing down a highway hill on a motorcycle, it ended by running straight into infinite ocean. At the last second the bike stopped but I flew off over the water, where I hovered not quite touching the surface, I slowly started spinning in a strange pattern and all the clouds compressed into one, and the world turned kaleidoscopic.
Woke up still feeling that inertia and nearly vomited.'

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Because you can't stop me.

Recently I guest-posted on a Canadian metal blog with the intent of doing something slightly regular, a here-and-there-ish 'when something my style pops up for review' level contributor. One post and it became pretty clear they weren't really interested in my style, but just in filling space. I am posting this here because their editor eviscerated it in the name of style-guides and I like it better the other way. Fucker.

Rings of Saturn
Lugal Ki En
(Google it. Lazy bastard.)

[Full disclosure time: I don't like much death metal, and I like even less 'core. In fact, this album /on its surface/ is nearly the diametric opposite of my own personal tastes - which lean significantly toward the atmospheric, the bleak, the noisy, the raw, the droning. This opposition is precisely why I accepted this particular reviewing gig. Call it a means to escape my shell /a review for people that would never give this a chance on its own.

Because it is fucking GOOD.
Incredible even.

Death metal space-fury gone virally berserk. Be warned: the following has a lot of hyphens and copious use of words like fractal and spiraling. New concepts had to be invented, existing words had to be chopped up and blended to describe parts of this everything-but-chaotic album. I literally gave up on the entry for "precise" and made something up at one point.]

digitalis in extremis

Rings of Saturn are inhuman post-digital precision, slick and clean even amidst the depths this style is clearly capable of plumbing. Self-described "aliencore" and absolutely drilling in its pointedness, this album is spectacularly tight and technical even when losing its mind entirely in the grind and the guttural. Right off the mark full destruction reigns, the opening track Senseless Massacre living up to its name and pulverizing from the first second before a beautiful melody flows seamlessly into the closest thing this song has to a hook. While this explosive leadoff symbolizes the blend of mercurial hyper-melody and impossibly massive sledgehammer rhythm to be found in abundance on the record, the second tune, Desolate Paradise ratchets up the intensity of both. Sparked by a spiraling lead break and elevated by perfect use of mood-bending near-ambience, demands of the listener to "wake from slumber" precede its going wildly off on a treble-happy shred excursion that drops into a breakdown that would leave the proudest hardcore kid in fear for his life.

Track 3, Lalassu Xul is an altogether different beast from the groove-laden doom I'm so used to. Bungle-esque carnivale-bounce frames the mechanistic and repetitive drillpress xeno-grind in an off kilter its-happy-music-if-you're-a-robotic-serial-killer kind of way. Following up that is Infused, one of the more humanoid bytes from this disc. A standout track, the cyborg blending of wicked thrashed out human guitarplay and galactic deathcrush virulence is top notch, near painful in its attempt to drive -through- the star rather than go around. After the short and appropriately-named interlude Fractal Intake, the midway point that is Natural Selection restarts the malevolence in a cauldron of pistoning meticulousness. Spiteful electronic spikes of twisting melody slicing through the jackhammer trigger-warning drums before Beckon calls the terraforming ships in to calculate and articulate how your planet will be destroyed, ending in a wonderfully lucid echo-driven final drive toward peace before Godless Times schizoanalytically (go look it up, I'll wait.) progresses from shrieking lockstep to doomed-to-drift breakdown to tech-splatter and beyond. An industrialized /solar/ intensification of death, grind, and deathcore tropes into a vicious exclamation of hybridization.

Unsympathetic Intellect is a peak moment, the first few seconds vividly portraying the wonderment that could come from the Eye or access point of a vast intelligence turning its gaze upon you before it begins to communicate /before it reminds you just how alien it can be/ before it ups the grind in unsettling/hectic/body hammer measure. Not to be outdone, Eviscerate flashes without segue between several modes of RoS' extraterrestrial stylistic choice, rapid-fire alterations and complications of their sound continue unabated as the instrumental The Heavens have Fallen shows a lush, almost comforting form. Maybe a reminder of technology's inherent promise hidden in ultimate wasteful destruction/a breath of resistance before the ferocious 12th and final track No Pity for a Coward (a Suicide Silence cover) brings ending in a violent, direct assault of laser-guided planet-glassing before our new overlords descend to greet us in star-wrecked climax.

The Alex Grey meets Voltron artwork sums up the tone of this release tremendously. There is no hope. The visitors do not come in peace. Surrender or face imminent annihilation.

(insert a video here!)

(I think the only thing that could ruin this album is finding out the sample at the end was used un-ironically.)

Thursday, October 2, 2014

comprehensive pupal stage insurance

threading across snowfields/ threatening to overtake expression as the result of infinite dispersal/ i have eaten today and it is already spacing me//
from the most unlikely places/ the kingdom of heaven one day may start to unravel//
the virtues of plants/ the forces of magical conjurations/ invoking the symbolism of the sea in order to align himself/ but all unintelligible//
my modest contribution to this were broadcasts via my brain from a shaman of long ago/ in these sorcerous images/ these his purest incantations are marks to function/ marks of place/ marks of time//
keep going/ no progress to the inevitable release/ targets of light expansion/ meta-energetic and left-handed//
we sat in the fountain/ strangers/ careful to stay under the ledge//

(( watch this video: ))

"they start to exist in you. in spite of you."

i shot an arrow into the air
and believed i hit the moon.
she ignored my command to "fall!"
and restlessly continued.

the unconscious now of eternity

/6 grams of mushrooms/

Face of my girlfriend solidified into a mountain, sun and moon cartoonishly sped around and seasons changed several times, leaving snowdrifts and piles of dead leaves upon her face before I rooted down into wet soil and became a plant. When I plugged into nearby roots it opened access to a world-network.

I dug down into the saturated earth. My words, which had already gone to gibberish, began devolving into spluttering and spurting. My mouth overflowed with mud and I realised I was a large frog, vomiting the mud.

Frog became dog, then coyote, then wolf, then several other animals and several other people, eventually it all whirled together, noisily melting into a staticked blur. Blur resolved into three spinning balls, the primary colours. They spun more rapidly and began to merge. When they became one spinning white orb, it coalesced into the tv screen in the bedroom. She was up changing movies, and asked what I wanted to watch. I said whatever, and she asked again. I repeated myself. This happened several times before I realised I was seeing successive nights of the same thing. Every time she asked, I smiled and said whatever. Hundreds of nights passed and I dissolved into the bed. I just faded out. It didn't hurt, it didn't feel wrong. I held on to her and disappeared.

I lied inside a jet engine.
I pried a little as to why, but it was too nice inside to leave. Volcanic projection, I slept inside a magma flow. Open wound of a celestial secret, blazing righteous like a white hot star. Several people and things had been subsumed into me, or I them. I asked them questions but I answered for them. They answered through me. After purification I was shown inside my mind.

All experiences /everywhere and everywhen and everyhow/ organized in a virtual infinite library. The prize for dying a final death was access to it, access to every experience. I danced through my living room as a young Persian girl, I listened to George Carlin narrate my demise. I stared out the window as the sun rose but I felt transparent, and I watched several weeks of post-mortem life in the apartment unfold, the way they reacted to my death.

Monday, September 8, 2014

a need for note-taking, pay no attention to the….

shattering further moldings, covering noise with mold, covering noise with moss. black and green, covering mold with moss. melancology raised to rupture, feedback loops of atavistic dreams fractally repetitive until the sound turns into noise, the noise turns into squall, the squall explodes into directed (anti-tribal-anti-eco-anti-human-anti-folk-)anti-shamanism

All true language
is incomprehensible,
Like the chatter
of a beggar’s teeth.

but no repeating
just repetition
walls of sound and fury signifying nothing
inverse Om, the sound decaying
the sound of decay
the sound of a tank rolling over flesh
the sound of a scream choked out by blood filling the mouth
the sound of a migraine
of depression being stifled and swallowed.
of anxiety built to bursting
the sound of all the fake smiles
frowning simultaneously
the sound of animal fury caged under experimental pretense and the sound of resigned (redesigned) sigh, finally (fully) acknowledging the -true and total- loss of idyllic myth, the pastoral primitivity longed for in steven shakespeare's "the dark that soils itself"

"To us, the driving impulse of BM is more about deep ecology than anything else and can best be understood through the application of eco-psychology. Why are we sad and miserable? Because our modern culture has failed—we are all failures. The world around us has failed to sustain our humanity, our spirituality. The deep woe inside black metal is about fear—that we can never return to the mythic, pastoral world that we crave on a deep subconscious level. Black Metal is also about self loathing, for modernity has transformed us, our minds, bodies and spirit, into an alien life form; one not suited to life on earth without the mediating forces of technology, culture and organized religion. We are weak and pitiful in our strength over the earth—in conquering, we have destroyed ourselves. Black Metal expresses disgust with humanity and revels in the misery that one finds when the falseness of our lives is revealed."

but how deep is ecology that we have left behind? what happens when we feel trapped within the noise, when the noise grows louder everywhere?

folk metal
no folk
inverse folk
anti folk
city folk aint folk?
gods of pollution and authoritarian violence
folklore of police brutality and the numbing isolation of social media
the drag of the rat race
the daily grindcore
worship money
swim in industrial sewage
bank headquarters towering over urban sprawl
schools rot in disrepair
green replaced by silver black and grey
no homeland
streets are home and homeless
no gods no masters just
clean atheism
Skeptics, one and all
rising above squalor
being a martyr to the machine…or for the machine….the lines in the road get fuzzy after a few drinks.

/With society and its public, there is no longer any other language than that of bombs, barricades, and all that follows/

even desolate streets make a noise. a hum and rumble punctuated by outburst and paroxysm.

/You are outside life, you are above life, you have miseries which the ordinary man does not know, you exceed the normal level, and it is for this that men refuse to forgive you, you poison their peace of mind, you undermine their stability. You have irrepressible pains whose essence is to be inadaptable to any known state, indescribable in words. You have repeated and shifting pains, incurable pains, pains beyond imagining, pains which are neither of the body nor of the soul, but which partake of both. And I share your suffering, and I ask you: who dares to ration our relief?... We are not going to kill ourselves just yet. In the meantime, leave us the hell alone/

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

ain't no grave gonna hold my body down

"If one good Deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very Soule"


]walking down a hallway playing a guitar. got in line with a great many people, dressed in sunday-best. we were going somewhere, perhaps to the performance. hearing footsteps, i turned and came face to face with an elderly black man who asked me if i'd play the train with him. we began playing and slowly walking to the head of the line. at the end we walked through a curtain onto a stage where we were shadowed in thick, heavy interior darkness but the audience was outside in extremely bright and hot sun.

]everything went quiet. upon first glance, they appeared to be aboriginal people, tribal and primitive. closer inspection proved them to be dead; covered in makeup, ceremonial garb made of bones, and war paint.

]a leader emerged from the group, bones sticking out at odd angles from every part of his decomposing body, face painted as a skull. he gave a speech about how we would be allowed to continue our practices because of an ancient agreement between the vampires and his people, the originators of voodoo, but that they would be prepared to bring us into the sun if we were to disrespect the dead.

]i could feel a body coming to warn us of something, but he was turning into a vampire and being cooked by the sun as he ran. he never made it to us. nuclear testing in the desert had opened a series of caverns. if you were able to get deep enough inside them you could avoid the radiation, but if you died there you became a rapidly decaying ghoul intent on eating any flesh within reach before the face fell apart. we watched a girl die, slaughter her mother, and be slaughtered herself in less time than it took to write the words. a laughing man loaded mounds of bodies into the back of a truck.

]made it home in time to watch my son pour poisonous household cleaner over his head, and begin to howl out in pain. tried desperately to wash him off but the water made the chemical boil and i woke up to the sound of screaming.

Monday, August 25, 2014


                                                   these impulses run amok in this world
in this work
strangled orders and suppressed motion
climbing over walls of water
climbing over walls of smoke
a touch of fear
but only for the touched
spiritless voice chants

these thorns run wild in this work
in this world
strangled overtures and suppressed miracle
climbing over waves of sound
digging under landfill
for truth of fear
but only for the truthful
spiritless voice chants

Monday, August 4, 2014

veneration of violation

(from an "audition review" for a doom/sludge blog.)

SWANS - COP (1984)

a ritual of humiliation.
an endurance test.
a glorification of submission, even as it is repeatedly proven horrific, unsafe, and weak.
an ugly tombstone over buried happiness.
the opening riff of Half Life never ends, grinding you down as effectively as it grinds the laborer of the lyrics, passive and crushed by an obscene but far from otherworldy tyrant. in fact, the real-ness of their pessimism, unburdened (on this album, at least) by concerns for the metaphysical, adds an urgency to lyrics such as
"ambition is senseless
don't make a wrong move work with a purpose"
...sounding for all the world like a fellow prisoner of the Machine whispering the "rules" to a newcomer, an outsider, in an effort to help him understand his place and the hopelessness of any attempt to deviate from the Work. the constant downward trajectory of the main phrase drags you ever deeper into this machinery, into the hole. a pervasive atmosphere of meaningless toil and futility numbs you into accepting it.

the lurching stutter of Job (track 2) splits this inelegant droning with a confused "waking up" that slowly solidifies into a grooving chant, an effort to regain some feeling of the natural, of something organic. from there it begins slipping into and out of rhythm while equally wavering between the elemental and the structural, between tearing apart and desperately gripping. the song culminates with an exhausted wearing down, carrying the burden of heartache as a mantra until collapse.

the third track Why Hide opens on firmer ground, insistent bass and solid, compact drumming providing an ominous foreground for the exorcising of an overwhelming lyrical nihilism. bathing in a crushing lockstep, m gira shouts why hide the lie?? over and over as if THIS was the moment he was waiting for to ask the question of his abuser. as if his oppressor was looking through him, dead-eyed, as he recorded the vocals.

barely a pause for breath between tracks, but those silences are a welcome glimpse outside the isolation this album evokes. these are not dance songs. you are fitted for the collar from the first seconds and it never relents in its exertion of power and domination. the listener is never in a position of control, is never allowed to relate to the dominant perspective even when (especially when) those perspectives are shown. there are only brief moments where the pain and discipline let up to take a deep breath before intensifying. Clay Man wastes little time establishing a musical corollary to the dissonant drive into sexual submission. the ghoulish lines "get into this car bow your head down" over painfully grinding mechanical drones twist the Work alluded to in previous tracks into an obedient acceptance. unexpected chokes and lunges in the noise feel like the moment a bone breaks or a dentist wrenches a tooth free, the onset of a panic attack, an unwilling orgasm. the last minute brings with it an undeniable pulsing heaviness that, almost ironically, forces you to bob your head in time as it sucks the air from your lungs. maximum volume, indeed.

Your Property disguises itself well as a rebellious shout at Control, until you realise it as the desperate howls of someone learning it was their own weakness that led to control in the first place. Authority is corrupt and corrupts, Authority is worshipped nonetheless. to be trapped in this is perceived as an ultimate weakness and the vocals grow harsher, the music more nakedly aggressive as it briefly loses a pretense of subtlety. inward contempt is far more malign than any exterior assault.

track six. Cop. this is where it gets dark.
it slithers in sinister, sleazy, initially maintaining a calm demeanor. proclaiming "the punishment fits the crime" and judging the guilty in a combination holding cell/execution chamber over an unhealthy melody that, despite being nearly atonal, subtly reinforces the infectious reptilian menace of this song's mood. as the beating continues, the music keeps steady as a metronome, placidly describing atrocity with an almost-accessible laid back throbbing. through the primary section the perspective never fully sets on victim or bystander until finally collapsing into a hypnotic, martial agony that (in a ferocious dichotomy) gradually but spectacularly crumbles and bursts until nothing is left.

after all the buildup of intensity, all the intentional and directed increase in depth and hostility, Butcher is all hanging tension. a pause in a relentless attack on the Self juuuusst long enough to see outside and warn someone. "don't be a whore you could be screwing yourself", advice given from a position of intimate knowledge of a great darkness. the music never seems to resolve, solidifying the uncomfortable and unsettling feelings elicited by words like "you're in the wrong skin i don't recognise your smell" and "you're too close".

halting, cacophonous bursts of feedback scream above a strangled, sluggish drone that sets the stage for the final catharsis of degradation. Thug is confrontational and provocative in a sneering passive aggression. "obedience pays if you use it right", but "the only real thing's misery"…..words finally breaking down into paroxysm and even a seven second fade out feels suffocating and endless. Having this album on repeat for a few hours in order to write about it pulled me through a significantly more visceral and challenging experience than i expected, even having heard the record quite a few times before. it forces one to inhabit all of the negative spaces it describes in ways most art (and even a great deal of the hostile stimuli referred to in the lyrics) can't come close to replicating, and it left me shaken, stretched thin, and feeling sickly afterward in such a way that almost overwhelms any possible cathartic value. 

Wednesday, July 30, 2014


"My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers."

When writer's block gets bad enough that the only thing you can think to write about is how your writer's block feels[

:a punishing regime of self abuse:

It started as a high-pitched but barely audible whine, like that sound an old tv tuned to nothing makes] started and never left] after a while even the memory of the starting fades and you kind of accept it as part of your perception] a dulling of it] sit day after day staring out a window at a terrible, uneventful, mundane view, lacking even the energy to simply change the view] makes my hands [n[u[m[b[ and I drift off in the middle off typing this to look out [5 hours pass here, and I] can't even finish a sentence without a chorus of exasperated sighs
no movement no sense of humour

a migraine drills into my temples////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

:: lay waste my heart with monotones of boredom ::

Overwrought pressures compound the burden of knowing nothing. 
All the bodies have been removed, but it will never be clean here.
maybe, a psychic wreckage] maybe maybe maybe unmeasurable quantum excitations]
i am sure it was there.
this is where i left it]
frustration squalls and squeals like a field of blackboard-nails

[sometimes, when sufficiently panicked, my spine instinctively tries to flex in a distinctly inhuman fashion] reminds me of the contortions of a fish dropped on the ground] 

shaken by ultimate unknowns, your information is valueless

(pouring gasoline on ice-cold week-old dead-ash] the smell makes me nauseous and drives me from the room] the interrogation is over, the experiment is over] drilling recedes to a muscular ache in the back of my neck]  

Monday, July 14, 2014

"You recount your sorrows to a stone…" -Titus Andronicus Act 3 Sc 1

What doesn't kill you makes you weaker.
What kills you makes you stronger.

Yet another sleepless night
I swallow pill after pill
In a desperate attempt to fall asleep

Touchy subject eh? Significantly more often than I feel is healthy, I daydream about suicide, pure morbid curiosity. I'm far more likely to think about it out of boredom than depression…wonder what that says about me. 

"Such indeed is how the steadfast act: They are not attached to life." -Buddha

Thursday, July 10, 2014

New Wave of No

"There is no doubt that life is given us, not to be enjoyed, but to be overcome; to be got over." 
                                                                                             -Arthur Schopenhauer

Schopenhauer has led me to Cioran, in a virtual pathway of pessimism. One's emptiness not fulfilling, I have filled me with another's emptiness until I burst. 

"with every experience i expand like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. the most terrifying intensification bursts into nothingness."

I can't remember a time without anxiety. Shaking at the thought of interaction…touch burns my flesh with its ACTION. I withdraw like a turtle, freedom is slavery. Freedom from interaction is slavery to inaction in a world devoid of solitude. Am I hiding? What am I hiding from? Condemnation or boredom, I find those anywhere I go….everywhere I go. Can't survive a conversation, can't participate in the easy illusion of socialising without feeling dragged and lost and interminably bored. I spent an eternity listening to a filthy waterfall in a polluted river and all its breath came out mangled and contorted in a poisonous stream…

I daydreamed of a clean flood but no one understood my words, shrieked as they were.

"To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style"

Singular elements of individuality, buried in the field. Flat, uniform, desolate - it unifies us. All equal, on the other side of the Dirt, but subsumed to the Dirt, we become the dust and lose ourselves. A grave is an impression on the immanence of suffering. A battle won, rest as the prize. 

"Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there."

Sunday, July 6, 2014

leaves in river

     With the innate nature to grow between 
the two horns of Satan - inward virtue - you have been correct and careful! 
How is it that he who 
lights a fire 
kills living beings? 
They will not escape 
this fate anyhow: innumerable 
spheres in all directions wake from the trance. 
No perceptions - it is not suffering - but we have decided to retire from this world. 
Muhammed is the father of no man among you, for the crocodile chooses. 
The recapitulation was a disposal of the dead. 
Corpse-eating birds, carry the bones. 
The sharper people's weapons, the more they riot. 
Hollow becomes full and nobody thought 
me to be God while I dwelled in the tallest grass. 
There I performed the 
Great Death. 
I worshipped penance. 
Renounced birth. In this triple order, unworthy, ascetic. 
Only a skull left behind where I saw omens of chaos, adorned and guarded. 
Tell me, who are you? 
"Sin and Punishment", he replied. 
We floated on, 
as the 
 into the sea 
to seek
 refuge from the sand.

post-structural miserablism : everything will always make me unhappy

a calm erasure                                     nowhere
of nothing
                                                    a void within
I don't hold                                            myself

                        this void holds me

if you seek
don't discount
the path of
the path of emptiness
A path
No Path
All destinations
are perfect
and No destination
is the end
no destination
is the

"to put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire-
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid."
-Edgar Lee Masters  'Spoon River Anthology'

Thursday, July 3, 2014

I suppose, in retrospect….

My words about "Transcendental Black Metal" earlier left out some important details, yea?

Like exactly WHAT I was ranting about?

Firstly, peep this:  Transcendental Black Metal (It's on page 53, though if you're here you'll probably enjoy the rest as well)….it assumes that you have some reasonable depth of knowledge about the black metals (at least in the Scandinavian sense), and I rather like it. It's all true, or at least not wrong, despite what the journalists and fans have had to say….pretentious, of course. But sincere enough I think, mainly because it seems to come from the romantic angle of having loved and loss -or maybe from experiencing a loss of faith?- rather than from an outsider, dissectionary observation. Goes to show that evolution can't be stopped, even if it can be diverted. When even a band (there was a point when I'd say the entire genre, but I think that idea has nearly gone with the wind) so vehemently against evolution and change as was Deathspell Omega originally, was eventually caught out experimenting (in an interview in or around 2000 they said breaking with tradition and musically or lyrically experimenting should be "punishable by torture"), then what is left but to toss all notions of any original or objective truth aside eh? At this point, the bands that DON'T experiment are the ones that are being left behind….Dimmu Borgir still claws their fingers bloody on the story of Lucifer, and Cradle of Filth haven't been relevant in a decade at least….

"Out of pure spite we pretty much always said the opposite of what the other said, no matter what they said, only to mark distance. That's how we ended up calling ourselves Satanists, despite the fact that we absolutely were not. There was not a single Satanist in the whole Black Metal scene in Norway in 1991-92." - Varg Vikernes

In this environment of permissiveness, Liturgy's "transcendence" loses a lot of lustre for me. It is exceptional as a mission statement for their specific genre-fracturing moment….but as some kind of statement on the state of black metal (even at the time of it's writing, which is admittedly quite in the past considering the acceleration of the evolution and fracturing of metal genres in the last 10 years or so), I feel like it just misses the forest for it's particular tree. It isn't enough to simply turn 180 degrees and go opposite the direction you were walking! What about what is on either side of the path? Below or above it? What about the bird that alights for half a second on the path, picks at the dirt, and flits away? What about the person unaware of the existence of a path that stumbles out of the trees, crosses the path, and keeps on walking? Or the same person stopping and marveling at the fact that here is a perfectly worn path, carefully plotted and heavily trod, and deciding to stop their romp through the woods to see where it leads?

"I quite enjoy this genre for its underlying irony: You have to be alive to play it and listen to it." - Henry Rollins

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Evocation; an Elaboration.

When I first entered this Way, I relied on mySelf very readily. It was natural. It FELT natural, at any rate. It felt so real I fell into operating in a very-Real-manner almost at once. It was only after a dream-death that I came to the realization that, despite the "reality", despite the here-and-NOW-ness of it all…that this Way was just the many corridors of this trance. Despite the protests (of which there were plenty), I returned constantly. I dreamed about shattering the wall I'd inevitably find at the end of every path, though honestly, who is to say whether it is a wall or not (No wall. Not-wall. The Great Wall of Not)…after all, I can only touch it, sealed there in the dark, feel my way down its oddly textured surface. I grope desperately at every grain and graft (of which there are plenty) like someone newly blind. Like my eyes were taken forcibly and I'm far from adapting. It radiates a something….a drive, or maybe a hunger. I often make guess and estimations of its nature by listening to what it hungers for, drives toward….these guesses ultimately feel superficial and I think it knows this. I know it, at any rate.

Is this thing Me? Of Me? Merely INSIDE Me? Is this the dark passenger Burroughs mentions? It is stealthy, strong, and smart, but utterly beyond me apparently. It occasionally seems to be on my side though, which raises its own set of questions.

"One of our most ancient proverbs justifies the war prisoner: 'the captive will cry out, the dead man never.' "  -Aleksander Solzhenitsyn  'The Gulag Archipelago'

nothing is illuminated - back to black, the deck is stacked
against the wise
who rise to face clashing tongues wagging and
bragging for scraps on a dirty wooden floor notched from
teeth dropping from smashed faces bloody from
and crying like a dying dog
it sits, baffled at an end it couldn't see coming
because more than two eyes are required to
see into coiled cold snakes eyes
from birthrights to death rituals
we sullenly scrape the surface and find infinite surface
no progress.
ultimate regression is stagnation
is a
nothing is worth remembering

Sunday, June 29, 2014

ambiguity and apathy

"Men use thought only as authority for their injustice, and employ speech only to conceal their thoughts."  -Voltaire (The important one, not the goth-folk singer)

"I was known as the chief grave robber of my state." -Dan Quayle (no context given, none needed)

I hate how seemingly reviled the idea that there could be ANYTHING else beyond what we can see and measure is among people today…not that it looks very likely, but it's a romantic thought. Skepticism is such a humorless sport, or it is at least played that way by most. Boring Bores. Learn a different language.

sspread] your] antennæ]
to] acccept] ssoft] transsmisssion]
sshape] ssenssory] fallout]
unussable] ssignal]

                     deeefffaultt] too] regggress]
                     revevverrtttt] to] trrransslittt]erate]
                     thought to speech]]]
                     prriimi]tive]] orgggann]n] shed]
                     la]yyerss] [lierss] ov mean]ning]

stri/ipppp] h[3]art]ttt]] fromm] hus]k]k]
[[/məˈʃiːn s/sɪnθəsəs/s r][u][stsss]
st/ri/pp] g[ē]rs] tø] faull]t] 
lïn[z] ov] /kʌˌmjunɪˈkeɪʃən] /bɹeɪ̯k//daʊn]

f rr ag m ent] sp eee e eech] s hhif t]
sh atttt errrred] bab/bb/b/b/b/bbbb/bb/bbabblle]
vibb r r a t te] innnnnn co h h eren t ttt]
shape/shhhhif  terr] logo/ooo/rhee a]
m u ss cc l e] sp/as/as/ms]
tonggguess]-inn]-speak/k/ing] sp-l/int//er [sp-l//atttt-//er]]
v^v/o/mitt-tt] nothingssss]


"The simple slave, in fallow fields, shrugs off his burden and falls asleep."
-Wreck and Reference  'Apollo Beneath the Whip' 

Friday, June 27, 2014

The problem with Transcendental Black Metal; or 'How seriously can I possibly take myself?' (The answer is: ALL THE WAY)

I don't know what I'm doing. I stole from far more than the citations I -do- give, and I'll steal again if I'm not stopped. I will bathe you in unnecessary punctuation. I'm a monster! Don't listen to anything I say!

Is the "Haptic Void" really an endpoint, even a fabled and unattainable one? I think not....this thought is partially due to an idea that I can't seem to shake: that, as Hunter Hunt-Hendrix states, black metal in and of itself could NEVER reach such a space, even as it constantly pines for and crawls toward it. I wonder if this doesn't imply that the HV is not necessarily or even primarily a Black Metal ideal? Or is it less a sonic or emotional/physical space we move toward or away from, and more something akin to Zen for the nihilist? An incursion into that network of selflessness and Stoicism, a radical acceptance of suffering and Nothingness so commonly associated with Zen Buddhism? A Piercing (of the Veil of Maya? of reincarnation and the Bardos, or universal recursivity? Now I may be stoned, but….) from Below?


Truly unholy amounts of words have been written on the history of Black Metal. Unfortunately most of those seem to discount anything that happened after 1997, as if the entire genre had simply packed its bags and went home. Utilising such a set of histories one could be forgiven for believing that the genre had reached the peak and "lied down to die at the summit" but hopefully I can show that not only is that not the case, but also that the common idea of transcendence as the method of "leaving" is still inherently tied to the framework upon which it came to be considered necessary. That from a larger view, nothing has been transcended: you are still climbing the same ladder made from the same material. Only your position on it, and your name for the top rung has changed. The new doctrine(how arrogant -ed.) of Black Noise does two things: deconstructs black metal into its component parts in order to quantify and qualify them against all other sounds; and demonstrates an infinite recombinability with any or all types of sound(and, possibly, therefore philosophies? Maybe?), regardless of origin or stylistic parameters. A (hopefully) more "true" (should that be spelled trve?) transcendence of the transcendent. Stepping off the ladder, burning it, and scattering the ashes of Black Metal across all of music, all of theory, all culture. To create a unity that annihilates and supersedes the ladder.

One man's view of post-Scandinavian Black Metal expressed as quasi-intellectual hobknobbery uhhupthuhtuhptu (that's a sound you make with your mouth, go on, do it out loud. Just like it spells.)

Soon after black metal's punishing ascent toward this Void supposedly culminated in sacrifice to transcendence, the quest for transcendence was itself swallowed by the concerns of the transcended. Black metal had evolved and new concerns filled the holes left by solving the "puzzle" of Christianity and its inversion through atheism, agnosticism, irreligiousity (is that even a word?), modern paganism, simple modernism et al.

The attack vectors formerly used upon the cross easily and quickly became sublimated into attacks upon our dominant capitalist/conservative ruling class, whose primary mode of engagement with the black metaller (or anyone, for that matter) is through the anti-environmental and anti-human(though decidedly NOT anti-humanIST) power structure of industrial progress within capitalism that had itself in many ways evolved out from the same over-reliance on the grim, bureaucratic, post-Enlightenment Christianity for ethical and physical support that sparked the first two waves of BM.

(Absurdly long run-on sentence/train of thought: I think politics and religion become conflated in an American society because, thanks to proclaimed (but entirely fake) separation of church and state, the two patently refuse the necessary honest dialogue (on grounds of keeping the separation) between each other that would prologue an actual philosophical or technical separation (not to mention that politics seems to be accepted as the "science" that legitimizes religious participation in rule). Which makes this so-called "transcendence" still feel like the same old same old to me. Fighting the same battles in a new burning church of capitalism (insert Slavoj Zizek quote out of context). The source eludes me at the moment, but I believe it was Nick Land that attempted to reclassify the post-modern as simply hypermodern, as he claimed it had only pushed the modern further, NOT actually broken free of the same set of systems. I feel a connection here, and unfortunately can't sustain it. Must re-read some things. End.)

"It was the church more than any other agency, writes historian Randall Collins, that put in place what Weber called the preconditions of capitalism: the rule of law and a bureaucracy for resolving disputes rationally; a specialized and mobile labor force; the institutional permanence that allows for transgenerational investment and sustained intellectual and physical efforts, together with the accumulation of long-term capital; and a zest for discovery, enterprise, wealth creation, and new undertakings." - Michael Novak, 'How Christianity Created Capitalism'

And so, the aforementioned ladder was built. (Another needlessly obscure post-modernist aside: Will a post-capitalist society propose optimal conditions for the post-transcendant like those silly anarchos believe?)
Anyway. Back to history lesson nutshell.
The Cascadian scene is born of and flourishes within this new man and/vs. nature and control environmental meltdown dialectic, fashioning themselves as modern warriors of the soil or at the least heralds of doom, Melancology is born. Melting down the human and ultimately selfish desire for transcendence into selflessness by repurposing it as a selfishness for the world.

Steven Shakespeare in his Blackened Notes (Helvete 2013) analyses 'Rain' by the band Fauna pretty thoroughly, finally finding a climax in an echo of ash after a brutal (un)natural (un)birth. The lyrics and his words scream to me of coming -just- short of holding a darkened mirror up to the 'Starbucks, yoga, and secular Buddhism' set, with its attempted appropriation of an immaterial philosophy into a very material culture, -almost- cracking through into a spiral-ish return to the "positive zero" espoused in most Zen philosophy that ignore the original calls to not be deceived by thinking you're correct about your path; perhaps at the end proposing the next step be a sort of zen ex nihilo. The problem is of the singularity or individuality of the message. That despite all of this Other acting against Us, Black Metal still doggedly and slavishly attempts to follow the individualistic "heroic path"(Michalewicz 2007) set forth by its own mythology, just this time it is individualism disguised as….communitarian? Is that right? Am I using that properly?

Should I care?

----------Black Noise takes this "upward" trajectory and reimagines it outward in all directions. Finding it impossible to crack the ceiling to reach the sky, it burns the building down. Sifting through the pieces at leisure it is able to pressure each individual fissure, probing for places from which to rupture into experimentation, and posthumously granting "true kvlt" status on a entirely different plane of judgement  than utilized up to this point in a far grander show of inclusivity than purists could ever be bothered with. The individual is subsumed to or into the sound, even among one-man bands. Black Noise must necessarily perform this radical deconstruction in order to expose how universal the feelings evoked by black metal are, by showing that all of the individual parts of the assemblage, on their own, are interrelated and connectable to every -or any- other style. To show, as Zappa, Varese, Glenn Branca, Wreck and Reference, Merzbow and hundreds of others before and after, that there are no rules, and to explicitly challenge preconceptions about exactly what art or music (or Black Metal, or Theory, or Black Metal Theory, blablabla ad nauseaum) is. (It is but a trick of the light and perception that separates black from white or any other color after all.)

To paraphrase Burroughs, if nothing is true (trve!), everything is permitted.  When we stop considering the aim for an end AS THE END, but rather acknowledge that an aspect of "ending-ness" exists in all things, maybe we get a rebirth of the ability to create from a "cultural scratch", from absolute Zero in the OM of Nothingness. A plane of immanence referencing an equality of thought and the possibilities of theorizing about anything from within the Void. A deterritorialization of black metal (which frightens the diehards ever so much…) that easily strips superficial aspects of that common black metal synthesis of ultimate(real or feigned) sincerity with the aesthetic beauty of pageantry into a raw, howling, and distinctly smooth expression OUTWARD from a very-Zen Void that understands suffering, negativity, and pain in profoundly more depth than most practitioners of more positive Zen techniques or styles.

With no consideration whatsoever given to an enemy, an object or mode to be transcended, or even a potential audience or commentary, the authenticity of this Black Noise obtains an awesome and infinite mass to (at least) this scholar, dragging me inward and crushing all of my philosophies into singularity. Providing a larger unity through the inherent formlessness of its noise and finds its correlate, not in reversal toward the beginning, but in acceleration past the 'end' into the original dissonance of where the end of entropy becomes creation.

So…your point is…?

In summation, I propose the end of historical-linear genre debate, and a replacement with the idea of the rhizome, resembling a filling of a container until it bursts in ANY and EVERY direction, rather than the strict and terse genealogy of reversals and additions we've been taught. How about a transcendence of the ability to define a thing exclusively as Black Metal or to think that such a thing can ever exist without its environment? I think Black Noise illuminates a blueprint for applying the Haptic Void as a metaphor for acceleration, and allows for an exposition of black metal's similarities with a great multiplicity of other expressions across disciplines.

Apologies to Deleuze and Guattari for holding a knife to their thoughts' throats. In my defense, they never seem to come quietly. The Chicago Manual of Style can take a fucking hike into the Void.

Don't EVER take me seriously.