"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, a...it 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

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.

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

most things haven't worked out

children

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)))))

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.'

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 thesaurus.com 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.)

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.

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.

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