Thu, 19 May 2005

finisher
I think all three of us realized it at the same time, standing in front of the amps while kicking randomly at our homemade pedals, no drummer necessary, endless miles of feedback like a wound in the universe from which the only true light we had ever known poured into our skin and crystalized in our spinal cords, which became antennas vibrating at specific frequencies so as to see the larger place which is our only home, Mark and Escho and I realized that pretending to play rockandroll for elderly hipsters who stood by the walls and nodded occasional approval was a failed path. We did not, as our enemies would later spit from mouths deformed by jealousy and shame, give up on what we had learned. We still believed in an excess of volume and chemicals and complete opposition to every empty gift the human disaster had to offer. We simply had to stop doing this monkey dance for a paying audience. We had to remove ourselves entirely from the production of content, go to the places where we were not meant to go, learn to live strictly from the twin disciplines of seduction and intimidation. We would never again sell a minute of our lives for someone else’s entertainment.

“We’re off to kill the wizard,” Escho said into the lone microphone to a dozen-odd record collectors and other dicks. Five minutes later we were on the road.
(12:23.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #