I have been deep in the mental mud lately, as changes are at hand, and the unpeeling of the layers has been far more immense than I ever realized while dancing foolishly along the cliff’s edge. There is so much I should be doing, yet all I can do is meander my way through the day-to-day, hoping to not stray too far into the wasteland of a freshly unself-polluted mind, but still bombarded by the electronic clutter. Honestly, I have not felt this clear in a long time, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. I can actually feel the ache of too many devices and too many monitors in my parietal lobes now, but I’ve been listening to a lot more Wu-Tang b-team instrumentals, specifically Bronze Nazareth and the 4th Disciple, so it’s working itself out.
The strange thing is somehow, even with a lack of drug or drank abuse, screwed and chopped norteno music sounds as perfect as possible. At one point during a backyard conversation at the picnic table with some friends who spent years in Northern California, I talked of my love for norteno music, and how I wish there was more screwed and chopped of it. This eventually led to some interweb pilfering, which led to a lot of complete crap for the most part. But somewhere along the way I found a pair of mixes called Raza Hits by a DJ Dreemz. The shit is enjoyable as fuck.
Oddly enough, this song is called “El Asesino” which the whole etymology of assassins has been on my mind a lot lately, thinking of Hassan I Sabbah and his hashshishin cult that the term originally comes from, smoking themselves into a spiritual frenzy to go out and publicly stab someone out of their life. This started right about the time me and my friend D-Mo hiked this abandoned railroad tunnel outside of Waynesboro that cuts through Afton Mountain. The night of that, I started having these dreams about an underground world where me and D-Mo were sort of commandeered by this group that basically drank codeine cough syrup and wanted to train us to murder this guy that was running for underground President. I guess in underground society of my dreams, there’s like 20 candidates, and over half of them get killed before the election. Also, the underground network runs from just west of Richmond all the way to Charleston, West Virginia, and up to nearly Pennsylvania through that sliver western part of Maryland, all of it built with nuclear armageddon in mind, because around the late 1970s, the earthly elite mastered space travel enough to realize they could relocate elsewhere if necessary (hence the Space Shuttle program). So all of these tunnels are left abandoned for the pretend dead to live, and I guess in my subconscious, that tunnel near Waynesboro is a portal to it, because every night since then, these dreams hit me, and unfortunately, now that I’m not drinking or drugging, I dream every night. I’m not used to having dreams, nor used to being clearheaded enough of self-inflicted brain wounds in the morning to be able to perceive the electronic pollution.
The guy who grabbed us the first time in my dreams, he looked like Oscar Zeta Acosta. So it all intertwines in my mind – underground cults based on cough syrup abuse, screwed and chopped norteno music, assassin cults. Good fucking god, if this is what’s been bubbling beneath the substance abuse all this time and I’m just know digging through the muck to find it, what the fuck is my brain going to be throwing my way in a year if I stay this course?
STEAL “El Asesino”
NEXT UP: L – I – V – I – N, man!
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