Right now there are thousands of young men who have lived through something on the order of a siege, but one where the excrement and diseased flesh flung over castle walls has become instead, a sonic and visual assault but with the same predictable result of being covered by an inescapable film of filth from hostiles. This fills these men with a molten determination, a desire to create a fearsome weapon against the fetor they have been subjected to their entire lives. A few of these men have mastered DAWs and instruments like a young man once would master a long bow.
They navigate the chaotic and ugly debris of an age whose Parthenon and Strasbourg spires are the brutalist rectangle and the bodega. Here they drown out the sounds of squalor, of alienating mass transit with headphones…earbuds form shields against the cacophonies of third world palazzi bazaars, once their grandfather’s relaxing promenades.
They enter contemplative trances to ambient pianos and have waking Valerian dreams to 8 hour Robert Rich loops. Among them is a giant…a man who will break the auditory spells of the Wendy Goldstein coven, a man who will wield popular power undreamt of by even the most adroit political mandarin.
The men who molested Corey Feldman fear this man…a new Liszt...a square jawed scion of Baroque passion who will return from Bald Mountain but now with shoegaze delays and saw tooth synthesizer odes to Russian piano masters. He has lived before and you have heard his song. He lives again, now, in accord with his destiny: to destroy the farcical creations of the usurers, to dispatch the hypnotists of spiritual numbness.
He will command the volatile and restless fires of youth to restore natural symmetries and order.
Only then will you again hear the powerful music of the ancestor in the winds of a freed and joyous land.
But now, as you turn the radio dial of the car there is only the sound of pop music...and you now understand its true power: to make humans submit to great designs…or succumb to petty retardations.
It permeates your daily life.
You hear a song now which is a template for most other songs and is sung by a young girl who sings with a great affectation. This has a particular sound that disturbs you deeply.
The sound of a young voice made sultry, caked in tranny make up. It sings a torch song but too young for love it only longs for protection....it is the voice of trauma cultivated into a vocal harem by Bob Iger's pedophiles. People are unwittingly subjected to this voice. At malls, in stores, in commercials, movies. Everywhere, without relent you hear these songs...the ubiquitous background music broadcasting the voices of the degraded and the broken. The voices of young pageant hopefuls molested by Kosher talent brokers. You watch Corey Haim and can't figure why the Lost Boys is a sad movie...but you can feel it.
A young girl, maybe 12, was signed by an A&R man. Now, later when you hear her perform she has to cover this layer of pain...from sodomy or a sickening boat trip where she is passed among Nickelodeon producers. This is actually the voice that you hear...These children sing jaded doozies about addiction and seductions. It provokes a disgust. But you don't know how to say this.
But they know it and think you fools for it. The psychological effects that this must have...an entire country of people listening to the barely veiled torment of prepubescent kompromat fodder. What does that do? Pop music this way is a humiliation ritual, a refinement of the worst nightmarish auditory hallucinations imaginable. Everywhere you turn you must face the parade of the violated...the endless presentation and celebration of their trophies...this is how they put heads on pikes in your advanced and modern world.
Some form of rap music is broadcast in all public places at all times. You went to the store once and wanted to buy avocadoes and some fresh salmon as you were told this is good for you but all the markets played this. You realized that these musics are mostly a series of predictive programming exercises for creating dysfunction. Production revels in skill-less bombast...the petty inanities of the sub 85 IQ life set to a plodding trap beat…This functions the same way a bullhorn does to a POW but instead of the gutteral diphthongs of the NVA camp master you are subject instead to the gesticulations of the carjacker, the sneering laziness and Novocain annunciation of your grandparent’s once proud language. The entire soundtrack to your public life bathed in the patois of favela peons taunting you.
One of the great crimes you must endure is that the license of ubiquitous public presence in your age is afforded to the least among you. An army of Duning Kruger sufferers raising a fist of pure contempt and aggression. It is through this music that you now cannot escape societal transnogrification, music as a black hoodoo ritual to bury the children of Lohengrin under the id of the digital Negro….the golem of Jerry Heller’s shabbat dinners.
You drive with your beagle friend whom you now call "Buddy".
He is calm but he looks to you for re-assurance, so you rub behind his ear. He is curled up in the passenger seat of the car and doesn’t want to sit up in the seat to look at the passing terrain.
You have been driving for hours.
You are surrounded by great fields filled with overgrown grasses and a few bluebonnets. Several mountains come into view on the horizon.
There is a vast valley of fields that reach to the treelines in the distance. Long ago bison ran through here freely…a wild array of flowers grew. It was visited by the proto Aryan: a race of Brian Shaw men with Robert Plant hair. These crystal eyed Thulean ubermen raided it’s giving bosom for berries and large game. They fermented apples, crushed yarrow and valerian flowers into lagers for psychotropic stupors in which they would draw powers from the ether and receive the ancestor. A man who was your forebear 20 generations ago heard songs blared on a horn crafted from an Auroch that had charged and gored a fierce warrior to death. All songs had to played through the bones of wild killers. A respected man kept rhythm on a 25 foot drum, its shell made from the skin of his enemies.
This was powerful music.
Today you have never heard such music, you could not fathom it. But you yearn to take to the wilderness…to hear its frequencies, to feel the echoes of those fearsome melodies.
You pull the car over. You wonder if your friend’s paws have ever felt grass.
This field once was grazed by 2000 lb elk, wild animals filled with flesh, blood and nectar that they took and gave in great cycles of perfection through relentless attrition and challenge. This is what food truly is…the capture and refinement of other vital life forces harnessed toward perfection.
Today food is industrial byproducts that can be kept in warehouses for years. Man is now a hoarder and a scavenger. The power of human chemistry harnessed by industrial agriculture can turn a gallon of milk into 6,000 cream fillings, but can't keep a cow healthy or let a man live with a natural endocryne system.
You feel a primal urge, a desire to eat something wholesome but your food is filled with polyunsaturated fats added in by Cargill’s chemist jefes. Food companies cut their product in the same manner as the jungle narco boss who directs assembly lines of buck naked aztec girls to add in the correct amounts of boric acid and laxatives.
They are the reason why you have done 5x5s and can recite Dave Draper routines like your own phone number but you need SARMS and your face looks like Haley Joel Osmond’s while your great grandfather lived through a dust bowl famine but looked as though he was carved out of a petroglyph.
Monsanto took these fields and developed a transformative chemical and genome regimen that eliminates insects but also allows Nabisco and Mondelez to slowly turn you into Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Every year all food slowly evolves into chicken Mcnuggets and you are have slightly more Downs Syndrome. The packages your poisonous food comes in also poisons you. Your food is now a bad Get Smart episode, a vicious prank show of edible endocrinal booby traps set to laugh tracks. Something as simple as your cup, once wooden, carved and handed down from a father is disposable, makes you moody, gives you breasts and depression. But you must drink.
You eat bread grown in fields of dwarf wheat with half the nutrients of 60 years ago. They say it increases yields, but phosphates must be pumped in to reguvenate a soil tired of giving. Industrial agricultural practices have desecrated these fields with gender bending posions such as atrazine and for no other purpose than for companies to offer health deficient chemical pemmican for their legions of city captives. Bill Gates owns a quarter of all aerable land, hedge fund men demand wolf packs be exterminated to keep factory farms safe for an uninterrupted supply of gas station burrito fillings.
America’s research institutes are staffed by horned alchemists funded by Big Arrow henchmen…economic shamans who shake their abicus for the sacred profit margin numbers to make all final decisions regarding life. This world seems to follow you everywhere, even now as you begin to trek into the large mountain valley ahead of you.