Furthering Negative Limitations (notes)

//Trying to get back in the habit of posting here....even if only a place to keep the occasional note, such as this one for the Thornscape essay.//

When identity (executive synchronic function) is removed or blunted forcibly, there can be an instinctive
fightback against this loss (which is not dangerous or problematic on its own, but only relative to certain
mental outlooks that privilege the Self as Center).

This fight itself (in brain terms: pathologically persistent search functions operating on zero data/an
empty frame of reference OR the pathological addition of new data to a frame that is in the process of
being emptied or broken) generates new identity-frames that temporally extend the experience of
dissociation. This can be extended toward a limit where, when we reach a point at which “bare” identity
is generated out of “nothing”, every glimpse of a frameless state autogenerates a new frame that
emerges directly into a state of autodeconstruction. This oscillation prevents a “clean” experience of
the frameless void-state/mors mystica, and prolonged exposure to this oscillation can generate
extreme anxiety, depression, various and sundry negative or painful brain states (this can resemble
tinnitus - depending on certain environmental factors, you can actually *hear* the oscillation).

This can last indefinitely because every recovery attempt generates movement away from the
frameless space, leading to a state in which the identity only remains insofar as it is connected to loss
or pain or whatever is removing the frames - i.e. a negative bias against frame-removal will result in
the pain of breaking frames, fear of lost frames, grasping at new frames, etc; while a positive bias
toward frame-removal will experience negativity in the sense of being unable to speed up the removal
without generating new frames, fear of being unable to prevent the generation of new frames,
grasping at nothingness, etc.

His Brain was Infected by Devils: Tinnitus as Master Sound, Waveguide to the Frameless State

/// ...Another trait the flat tone. No life. Same flat tone at all times.
For its affirmations. For its negations. For its interrogations.
For its exclamations. For its imperations. Same flat tone. You were once.
You were never. Were you ever? Oh never to have been! Be again. Same flat tone...

Samuel Beckett -- Company ///

Found in an old notepad, presented unedited...apparently I wrote this...

grim funeral/necro/expression within inexpression/unexpression/the inexpressible. 

Annihilating Unity

Accelerating toward Ø 

As black metal's punishing ascent toward the "Haptic Void" culminated in sacrifice to transcendence, the quest for transcendence was 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 and modern paganism. The attack vectors upon the cross easily become sublimated into attacks upon a dominant american/capitalist/conservative ruling class, whose primary mode of movement toward the modern black metaller is through an anti-environmentalism/progress as industrial growth/anti-human(though decidedly not anti-humanist) power paradigm that had itself in many ways evolved out from an over-reliance on Christianity . The Cascadian scene revels and flourishes within the new man/nature dialectic, fashioning themselves as modern warriors of the soil, Melancology is born. Melting down the human and ultimately selfish desire for transcendence into selflessness via involuting that selfishness into a "selfishness for the world." 

----------Black Noise takes this "upward" trajectory and repurposes a linear gaining for a spiral recursiveness. We aren't aiming for the end, but a true rebirth in the OM of nothingness.

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 to every -or any- other style. To show, as Glenn Branca, John Cage, and hundreds of others before, that there are no rules, there is no objective haptic void as terminus, that "nothing is true and everything is permitted"(WSB), and to explicitly challenge preconceptions about exactly what art or music is. 

The return to the formless noise of OM opposing the extraction of Music FROM the formless noise of OM.

Simultaneously infinite and unattainable

Haptic void is not ^ an ending point, but one space among many….one node among many, comparable to deleuze's rhizome Connectable in assemblage, in sequence, or singular through a process similar to quantum entanglement...to inhabit the haptic void and use it to power incursions into other genre spaces. a black hole with infinite mass, dragging us inward and crushing all light into singularity. providing unity and universal fluidity through formlessness of noise.

If "Transcendental Black Metal is in fact nihilism, however it is a double nihilism and a final nihilism, a once and for all negation of the entire series of negations." as Hunter Hunt Hendrix posits in his manifesto, then Black Noise is a over-nihilism, a suffocating and desolating blast exposing the haptic void as not the infinite and unattainable end point of maximal brutality, but as a space in a 4 dimensional field infinitely connectable and relatable to all traditional genres of music. A space borne of a capability for negation in all things, but rather than the view traditionally espoused in relation, not in series or inversion, but in rhizome. In an interconnectability of emotion with style, the haptic void could be expressed as the death drive, emotionally attachable to any creative movement. A hearkening back to creation not as flower gently unfolding in morning dew, but creation as rupture, as pressure on fissure, to view  entropic reduction of statue to clay as simply a variant nexus of creation rather than destruction removes the inversion necessary to Transcendental BM's superiority complex and gives all progressions of intensity in every or any OR NO direction positivity. Maximising internalised intensity. Maximising stagnation to speed entropy. 


A tearing of the transcendent arc affirming no way out. 

The transcendental view of the haptic void reaches the top of the mountain and dies to be reborn. Black noise annihilates the mountain and kills everything so that all may be reborn. Sonic building blocks reduced to OM. A 'disappropriation' and reduction of all possible sounds from any position into a near uniform hum of feedback and the "bright white nothing at the end of a tunnel"(Thantifaxath 2013)

black noise is a convergence of two(twin? nearly parallel) vectors in emotion/genre-space that both contain 'Haptic conditions' or 'endpoints' in their respective genre/cultures, multiplying the effect of their shared darkness by reinforcing it with each style's capacity for extremity.

to drag the transcendant into harmony with our new system of flexible immanence, we simply offer the possibility of transcending the classical historical-progressive method of genre delineation into a more complete unified "rhizome" or node system wherein stylistic choices, historical musical influences, emotion, and intensity(stylistic choice and intent marking multiple positions in genre-influence/space, with emotions felt during the process of creation replacing time, and intensity marking a vector and speed toward convergence points) create a 4 dimensional vector map of possible achievable sound with black noise being an impossibly remote point where multiple sets and types of extremity coalesce and converge at high intensity. 
------------------
The mode of the haptic void is involution. It reaches out from the future to fuel our incursions into it, pulling us along, making every press into it stronger and more robustly extreme. Not creation or revolution. A complete abandonment of the concept of endpoint. a replacement of the arctic circle/negation of negations inversion with the concept of a spiraling of intensity that can never be fully begun or ended. An opening of the circle to allow for Time and progression within the cursory boundaries of the circle-.
-----------------

to place oneself at the very limit of oneself where one is dissolve  to NOTHING.
—Scott Wilson
“Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.” 
― Mark Z. Danielewski
Via dissonant resonances within and among these three phenomenal nodes, black metal vibrationally unhinges the order of things, tritonely crushes all holy trinities, annihilates every binding of the chain of being.

—Nicola Masciandaro

He withdraws into a liminal space that exceeds the capacity for mortality to withstand it, and undergoes a sacrificial demise in order to open himself up as a habitat for and an expression of the power of the demon. 
—Anthony Sciscione
A philosophical demonology would therefore have to be “against” the human being – both the “human” part as well as the “being” part.
—Eugene Thacker
Instead of the power of prohibition and censorship Black Metal Theory serves to increase and expand more and more on that which has been forbidden.
—Niall Scott

“Each day death corrodes what we call living, and life ceaselessly swallows our desire for the void.” 
― Jindřich Štyrský

“The obstinate miner 
of the void 
exploits 
his fertile mine” 
― Jean Cocteau

indestructible truth

"Have I not declared to you that it is in the very nature of all compound things that they must be dissolved again? We must separate ourselves from all things near and dear to us, and must leave them. "
Buddha "The Announcement of Death"

Perhaps this is why metal is heavy – not because it is about nature, politics, or religion, but because it gets at a central ambivalence surrounding material culture. Eugene Thacker - Occultural Studies 1.0: Black Metal


We have such a linear way of apprehending experimentation via genre cross-pollination, a historical way. This begat that begat this etc ad nauseam. The problem with this is that sub genres aren't "invented" or created through simple interaction with a linear set of influences, but through actively coordinating a set of infinitely interactive and connective units and assemblages made from emotional states, intensities of feeling, cultural and subcultural references and influences.


a nonsovereignty  yes, divinely impure, of course…..but the void is already filled with black. The void fills US with black. The void reaches out and infects us. 

Anthropol: Origin

"homework" for New Centre Anthropol seminar series Week 1

The slight man stepped into my office looking skittish. Eyes bounced around the room at anything but my face, pushed up his glasses, then began speaking in a surprisingly forceful voice. “I don’t care what kind of connections get you this entire floor for your...whatever is going on up here. But we can not tolerate the use of the lab for drug synthesis. Do you have any fucking idea how much trouble that will get us?? Do you know how many laws you’ve broken? I represent the heads of the other departments, and I’ve been sent up here to demand an explanation for this and the state of your….staff.” He slammed a container of liquid on my desk, scoffed, turned to glare at the hooded woman that stepped into the room behind him. “We are running through the new sequence in 5.” she says, handing across a folder crammed thick with notes.

“Perfect. Our new friend is coming along. Management wants to know what we are about. No sense in hiding it from them any longer. Perhaps they can….help.” She eyed him with obvious concern before turning away and disappearing down the hall. “Listen carefully.” I rounded the desk and came face to face. “The work in the chem lab is sanctioned, and will continue. The state of my colleagues is of no concern to you. This work is tiring and requires comfort. The immediacy of this project is, as you will see, defined by the fact that its original designers are utterly unaware of what they have created. This is also why I am choosing to break the secrecy that has been employed thus far. Now if you will follow me.” I stepped out into the hall and followed the robed woman toward heavy, mechanically-locking doors but we could already hear the hum growing from halfway down the hall. “No electronic signal passes in or out of this section.” I say, while pulling a heavy black pKey on a chain from under my shirt. We passed through a kind of “airlock” and as the second door opened the humming became suddenly, exponentially, louder. From a distance it sounded like amplified chanting. As we grew closer, the digital undertones became clearer. We passed a large modular baffling wall and the sound became louder still, coalescing into a droning, whirring, oscillation warbling up and down in microtonal increments. The sound seemed to be emanating from nine robed figures sitting in a circle on the floor.

“They achieve interlock by matching the tone and frequency of their humming to IT. We spent 14 months in this room trying to figure out the source of the effects. Small points and shards of light, at seemingly random points throughout the room, solid and cool to the touch. Fragments of solid light that can reliably be described by terms like ‘force field.’ It was like being in a slow-motion snowglobe. One night a technician snuck her girlfriend in after hours to watch it and smoke DMT together. Set off several alarms trying to scramble to her office while extremely high to type one of the strangest formulas I could imagine. If the math had not achieved so much precision, not to mention immediate results, we would have surely written her off.”

The humming shifted. One radian of the circle lowered their volume as the opposing segment raised, there was a physical lurching as a point of light appeared above the center of the circle. The point extended into a line, a point at the center of the line pulled away into a triangle. A louder exclamation moved around the circle, one voice raised, then its neighbour raised, then its neighbour, causing a circular movement of sound. The triangle mirrored along an edge, doubled. Doubled again, grew monotonically into tetrahedron. Octohedron. Icosahedron. It seemed to settle here. This platonic solid floating above their heads. Circular chanting continued.

“Am I supposed to be impressed? Our VR hardware does this in full 3D with affective response modulation. Your people are what, dropping acid and chanting around a holographic projector?” The chanting began a new pattern, waves of sound coursed through viscera, and the icosahedron imploded and left a visible warping that pushed the gaze away from it. “Does a hologram prevent you from looking at it?”

“We are ready, sir.”

“Go ahead.” The chanting suddenly halted, spacious silence dominated. The warping knot remained motionless. Then appeared inches from the slight man’s face, instantaneously, causing him to nearly jump out of his shoes. It was suddenly human-shaped, the warping effect seeming to dissipate until it was a squirming silhouette of identical size and shape as our interlocutor. It reached a hand up to the man’s face that dissipated as it came close, never quite making contact, like an ice cube pushed close to a radiator and vaporizing. Its “skin” came into focus, and almost like a human-shaped digital screen, began projecting fast-moving, complex swirls of mathematical data and geometric imagery. IT held up the stump of “arm” that remained, waved it around a bit as if contemplating it, then leapt bodily at the man, exploding against him in a ghostly whirl. At this point, apparently the man had had enough, as he raced to the door, shrieking.

The chanting began again, and I followed. I managed to calm him down and we found ourselves back in my office. After sitting in silence for 20 minutes or so, he spoke. “Explain it. Now.”

“It seems to be unable to interact with matter in a normal physical sense, and it does not understand any language any of us speak-”

“Wait, you talk like it’s…”

“Conscious, absolutely. The densest representation of information I’ve ever studied, definitely. Systematically testing every conceptual and physical object it can get at for interaction. Made oddly placid by being given a puzzle, which is how we coaxed it into the box in the first place. Reacts in fascinating manner to sonic mimicry. It seems to draw power from its own activity, which makes no sense to us at all, and it was discovered by antivirus software when it began to grow out of your “affective response modulation” data. You will be pleasantly surprised to know that it did several years worth of corrections to work that was essentially rotting in a garbage file before we pulled it out of the system, though we are sure a doppelganger was only narrowly avoided in that, so we will be keeping said work. As for the drugs, my people are utilising heavy doses of LSD25 and prana meditation to effectively “neuropuzzle” it into cooperation. You could say they are presenting it with hyperplastic encryption combined with tranquilizers. Our problem is, that its behaviour has led us to the inescapable *heh* conclusion that the only reason that it has not been treating the box itself as a puzzle is because it is...having too much fun "solving" us to care. This has caused some of us to worry about how long we can entertain it.”  

clononaut

he kept me-ing.
his Be-ing transected I.
I could feel me he-ing.
he eyed I.
I could feel his meal coursing deathward downhard.
I eyed he being me.
we shuttered uplike, he was gone from me.

he re-eyed me.
we tweed, reconvulsions twracked we in me-space.
I stepped outward topside - he me'd towardside in he-space.
I recracked and we we'd innardly, immediately.
torsioning and torsoing we-ing our being apart - heights, sepa-ratios separate us from us-ing but knot our we-ing.
I, staring and sunning, blinding, stunning he and we.
he eyed his me in the mirror, facing I.
twe twinned our twosome, grew some, spanning and spinning.
we-and-himming three more we-spore spawning yawning mouths to feed.

I-seed re-canted our eye-speed.
turtled and hurtled into one-space, g(h)lossed(t) to us.
the mirror refracted the free-est three-us.
I caught an eyeful as men-y we-ings afrayed of rapture (capture?) un-I'd afore hours eyes.

I stepped inwarding off the spellings of our worldings.
we me'd again as I eyed he silencing my plying of me-space within he-space.
we-spaced outwarding our us-ing and twinned again, and trined a binding we-ing into be-ing.

It un-eyed my me-ing.
Breathing, freething
It! an un-me, not-he, how did we?
how could we?
why would we?

eye should see I, but only - lonely- see we.
see me he-ing
see we three-ing
see thee me-ing.

no eyes noising nosing into being I-ing.
boiling a spoiling us-ing into tweeing.
I re-eyed me catastrophically
anesthetizing anastrophizing he and me all three
into I and I
and eye.

where am we?
who are I?
is I we?

Originary Bleakness from the Voidmouth : Bleaker Than Bleak by PJE

Hopefully Paul doesn't mind if I post this…originally on Three Pound Brain. Too good not to share. 

Bleaker than Bleak (by Paul J. Ennis)

Bleak theory accepts that it itself is almost entirely wrong. However, precisely on the basis that it accepts humans are almost always wrong about how it goes with the world and so what are the chances of this theory being right? In this paradoxical, confused sense it is a theory of human fallibility. Or the inability of humans to see themselves for what they are, even when, as per contemporary neuroscience, we kind of know (have you not yet heard the “good” news that you are not what you think you are?). We kind of know because we are beginning to see ourselves from the third-person perspective. Subjectivity is devolving into objectivity and objectivity entails seeing things clearly, even if not transparently. That opacity, always there in the subject-object distinction, is collapsing and the consequences are bleak. The second reality-appearance “appeared” as a crack we cracked. It has been going on ever since. Consider the insanity of the entire post-Kantian tradition and the in-itself – is it not just an expression of what it feels like when you recognise what was once a “transparent cage” (Sartre) of looking directly at the world is a hallucination, a real one, all the same.

We cannot outpace this very blindspot that renders us a self or a subject. We are deluded about our beliefs or intentions (a given, so to speak), but more significantly we are deluded that somehow we can ‘recursively’ leap ‘over our own shoulders’ and see not just the trick, as Bakker might put it, but something substantial. Rather than just a model or a process withholding information from “you” yourself. Your own brain lies to you. It hides noise (‘data-reduction’) so that you do not collapse into a schizophrenia of buzzing information. This much Bergson, Deleuze, and Meillassoux have suggested is a most horrifying possibility. If all the data of the world flowed in you would be at one with matter, but what would you hear? Do you even want to countenance what that might involve? Hell is all around you. Your brain is just trying its best to stop you being lit on fire.

Everything is pretty patterns (Ladyman and Ross) and you are too. The problem with patterns is that sometimes they clash. If the brain has been hacked together it’s bound to be buggy as hell. Look at your computer. One subpersonal process goes askew and you need it fixed. The technician tries a few things, maybe it works, or maybe it does not. Maybe, as in severe cases of schizophrenia or depression, you just have a crappy system. I’ve said before that consciousness is the holocaust of happiness, meant sincerely, not lightly, and by this I mean that if the conditions or constraints that created a self never came together, in just the way it has for us, there would never have been any conscious suffering. Consciousness is the final correlate of all human suffering. You can blame almost anything else, but had “we” (is it really “us”) never believed we should be stable, integrated selves none of the bugs that followed would have appeared. Our world would have been a beautiful, empty, unthinking collection of material patterns: perhaps even a heaven of unthinking noise?

Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift. Civilisation was realised. When in reality each one was built on war. Philosophers know how to dance around this problem: we can think our way, collectively, toward a more rational, constrained future. Except collective intelligence most often works best when deployed toward destructive ends: where do you find the most creative minds? The war-room. ‘War, everywhere I look…’ (Tormentor). To make it explicit, so to speak, if you want new masters, as Lacan said, you will find them. Look into the dead eyes of those who desire freedom and there rests fear. Fear that they will build a palace of reason only for the stability so hard fought for to collapse under the weight of the chronic irrationalism of the baser human aspect, untameable, unpredictable, and unknowable. History books are the evidence you stack up to adduce this, but at least today we have learnt enough to include the accelerated process of decline into our calculations. We no longer fight our enemies. We kiss them on the mouth and ask if we can join them in the decadent decline in advance.

I know I should not speak like this. What a waste to spend your time reasoning about the impossibility of one day sticking the hook in and indexing some little part of reality that, Tetris-like, delivers temporary respite. Only, of course, here comes more bricks. As I feel, always in my very bones, what I know is coming, the far-off end (it is never close enough), bleak theory morphs into even and ever bleaker theory, sometimes just bleak, once bleaker than black, but now bleaker than bleak. Rust Cohle, in True Detective, at one points let’s his interrogators know: ‘I know who I am. And after all these years, there’s a victory in that.’ It is the most paradoxical of victories. The “pyrrhic” victory of traditional philosophy, found in thinkers as diverse as Husserl and Meillassoux, where one gains a foothold on the world after a long struggle. The question bleak theory asks, adrift the perennial tradition, is whether knowing who we are will result in precisely the inverse of the oldest goal of philosophical self-knowledge: we cannot understand ourselves except as that entity which cannot truly know itself. Know thyself? Perhaps all along it has been the wrong question.

The tradition of philosophy always hinges on a subtle revision of position and orientation. This is the generative process whereby, for instance, the ambiguity of postmodern philosophy culminates in a counter-revolution of rational normativity. This is our contemporary example, but it is found everywhere. Heidegger ontologising phenomenology. Hegel gobbling up the Kantian noumena. Today there is possibly another: one that, again to evoke Rust Cohle, means to ‘start asking the right fucking questions.’ Not about what we are, but what we are not: “transcendental egos,” “subjects,” or “selves.” Perhaps not even “agents,” but I leave that problem for other minds to debate. I know what I am, a ‘disinterested onlooker’ (Husserl), but deluded that I am unconcerned.

True madness lies ahead for our species. Normativity, humanism, anti-reductionism, anything not bathed in the acid of neuroscience are all contributing to a sharpening of the knives. Building dams to keep the coming dissolution at bay they will render the shattering of the illusion that much harsher, harder. We are not going to Mars. We are going to go out of our minds.

.

[ Dr. Paul J. Ennis is a Research Fellow in the School of Business, Trinity College Dublin. He is the author of Continental Realism (Zero Books, 2011), co-editor with Peter Gratton of the Meillassoux Dictionary (Edinburgh University Press, 2014) and co-editor with Tziovanis Georgakis of Heidegger in the Twenty-First Century (Springer, 2015). A version of bleak theory, ‘Bleak,’ first appeared in the DVD booklet for A Spell to Ward off the Darkness (Soda Pictures, 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
Rips.

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
out
of
Wack.

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

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

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.

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: http://vimeo.com/75940226 ))

"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.

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.
AA

repetition
repetition
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
alienation
green replaced by silver black and grey
no homeland
streets are home and homeless
deviance
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/
AA

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/
AA

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"

dream:

]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.

unsettling:unriddling:unraveling

                                                   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

obey

comply

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

obey

comply

inward/downward

"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]  

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
fucking
nothing
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
backward
is a
forward
and
nothing is worth remembering