P0RT4LS T0 1NF1N1TY...

portals to infinity

embedded inside rib cage;

we think with our brains too much

3SC4P1SM 1S 34SY...

escapism is easy

through internal universe

as vast as the outside world

SONG OF THE DAY: Conditioning

I am out of shape, poorly so, but so is the state of society. Should probably get my shit together in case we have to start killing each other with machetes over bags of rice.

TH3 M4J0R1TY 0F D4YS...

the majority of days

spent confining self behind

four walls slowly closing in

SONG OF THE DAY: Sexual Therapy

GET OUT THE COCONUT OIL AND CUT ON THE RED LIGHT BABY. PITCH SHIFT THIS DOWN FOUR NOTES AND PUT IT ON REPEAT, FOR AT LEAST TWENTY-TWO MINUTES. WE GONNA HAVE TO WASH THE PINK TIGER STRIPE SHEETS TOMORROW MORNING FOR SURE.

SONG OF THE DAY: Living for the City

I miss LPs. You know full-blown conceptual LPs but that were limited by the amount of space to press grooves into 12 inches of wax, but could be packaged in sleeves that sometimes opened up gatefold style, or others didn’t but might have a designed sleeve on the inside holding the album. Concepts still happen all the time, but the notion of weaving concepts into tapestry of concept for larger development of a theme is to a large extent lost. I mean, whatever, that’s how this shit works. The way you physically make the art (which in this case is digitally) changes the limitations of it. When we started having CDs, they could add bonus tracks because you could squeeze more minutes into a CD burn than an LP press.

My folks had a healthy record collection when I was young, which I guess is to be expected from young parents who smoked a lot of weed. Some albums intrigued me a lot, because of the overall weight they seemed to hold, in terms of the music as well as the packaging. Outlaw country and old school singer songwriter types were probably the bread and butter of my dad’s records he played, either drunk or hungover on weekend days. But Innervisions got constant play, especially the side with “Living for the City”. My dad famously liked to say the only time he went to New York City was riding a bus back to Virginia from having done a stint in juvie in Ohio when him and a friend stole a Cadillac to meet some girls in Michigan. He was eating in the bus stop café, and some crazy guy banged on the glass at him, trying to get him to come outside and fuck his entire life up forever. My dad detested the city, likely because it was scary. When my folks dropped me off at my dorm when I moved to Richmond to go to college, he was upset he was leaving his oldest kid and only son in the fucking city. In later years, the few times I could convince him to give me a ride to whatever shitty apartment I lived in, he never took the bypass or interstate, always straight up 360 until it turned to Hull Street, and once we got past Chesterfield almost to where Richmond city proper, he’d pull his pistol out of the glove compartment and sit it on the seat next to him, forever convinced shit was about to jump off at any point. Now to his credit, my dad was probably involved in some sketchy shit in Richmond area environs from time to time back in the day, and usually sketchy realms have the ever-present threat of attack come with that. But it tripped me out he’d just be casually riding up Hull Street to Grace, pistol at his side.

When I was a teenager, and we got one of those turntable/cassette recorder combo deals, I showed him how to plug a set of headphones into the mic slot and use it to record yourself talking, and he’d make these mixtapes all the time of him playing records and acting like he was a DJ. This was after my folks had split up and me and him lived in a trailer down the road from the house I grew up in where my mom still lived. Not much more country than that life back then, front door open whenever it was even halfway warm, for anybody passing by to stop and share a shot of Beam or bowl of homegrown. He’d make those mixtapes, and have them set up in the dual cassette recorder, playing back to back, so he wouldn’t have to change the music for ninety minutes, letting one side of each tape go, then just flip them both. And he’d always have “Living for the City” in the mix. Pretty sure I heard on more than one mixtape he made the three song combo of “Longhaired Country Boy” by Charlie Daniels Band followed by “Living for the City” and then “And When I Die” by Blood, Sweat, & Tears. You could probably sum up my dad’s philosophy on the whole fucking world in that three song combo.

I think about what he’d be like if he hadn’t died young, and was still here during this fucked up political time. It’d be so depressing to have to argue with his stubborn ass if he ended up a Trump person, which is hard to figure. He hated cops pretty badly, definitely taught me my deep distrust of the system, so he’d never be good with those blue lives matters types. But who the fuck knows man? People getting brainwashed left and right, thinking obedience to corrupt figurehead is some sort of rebellious act.

The fucked up thing is the story of “Living for the City” isn’t really any different. Michelle Alexander made a whole book about it, essentially, The New Jim Crow. It’s fucked up when you have these artistic statements about important shit, and then forty years later, ain’t shit changed. Art can point out all the problems in the world but as long as we have corrupt assholes in charge, nothing changes. Fuckers.

M0VNT41NS 4LW4YS B3CK0N1NG...

mountains always beckoning

as monastic escapes to

recalibrate with the clouds

VGL1N3SS M4D3 B34VT1FVL...

ugliness made beautiful...

that is the nature of art -

more than a commodity

C3L3ST14L GV1D4NC3 1S...

celestial guidance is

often overlooked because

too easily distracted

3XPL0S10NS 0F N3VR0N4L...

explosions of neuronal

notions - creative big bangs

inside mental universe

SONG OF THE DAY: 85 to Africa

Quarantine stay at home sorta orders got me not wandering as much, which is antithetical to raw dirtgod nature, as wanderlust makes up at least part of 7 pairs of my chromosomes. I’ve felt an unrelenting urge to scribble “dirtgod” on as many boxcars as I can lately, like more than I’ve ever felt, and I think that’s the explosion of unexpressed energy. You scribble shit in one place, and it just makes you want to scribble it in three million other ones. Let my stupid infinity eyes ride around to places the me that’s trapped inside the physical limitations of existence never will. Anyways, I think I’m going to walk 10 miles in the rain later today. That feels like the right path to take.

1'M TR4PP3D B3H1ND TH3S3 F3NC3S...

I'm trapped behind these fences,

both real and imagined (which

is real too, to be honest)

SONG OF THE DAY: Money Tree

I had a money tree once. It was pretty neat, in the spring time, when it would blossom with brand new shiny copper pennies. I’d get so excited, and have to tell the kids not to pick them, not to eat them because they’re poisonous, and to wait and let them ripen. They’d turn into dimes when you left them, and that too was so exciting, but again, you had to wait. I didn’t know how money trees were though, and the first few springs I lived with one, it’d turn to dollars almost overnight, and I’d wake up and think, “Oh wow, I’m gonna get all those dollars when I get home from work today!” I worked construction then, so usually didn’t get home until 7 or so, and by the time I got home, the birds had picked all the dollars off the money tree before I got any. After two or three years of that, I realized, I had to be ready, and I’d sit there in the evening, watching the money tree’s nickel and dime blossoms, hoping they’d turn to dollars, “trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents” literally. But the birds knew about the money trees before me, always, these predatory birds I never saw who always swooped in when the dollars blossomed and snatched it all up before I could get any. I’d wake up, and see the nickels and dimes in the morning, waiting for it all to mature. But then one morning it was all gone, maybe a couple torn overripe dollars laying on the ground for me to pick through, the trickle down from the predatory harvest, for me to try and get half a handful of that taste. I always wonder what it tastes like too, to have an actual money tree pie, not just a few rotten dollars that fall to me. I imagine it tastes wonderful, but I honestly have no idea. I’ve heard stomachs like mine can’t even handle it. I’ve tried making pie with the nickels and dimes too. It tastes okay I guess, but this can’t be what they mean. Not sweet at all, no richness, bland dreary slice of pie that fills my belly with a sort of sustenance, I guess, but I still feel hungry, and lacking, all the time.

N4TVR4L B0RN G04T-H34D3D...

natural born goat-headed

nature wants to climb highest

mountain and talk shit to clouds

M0S41C 0F G3N3T1C...

mosaic of genetic

shards, cobbled together on

American continent

1 41N'T TH3 P4SSP0RT H4V1NG...

I ain't the passport having

type; not even sure where my

birth certificate might be

3V3N 3SC4P3S F0LL0W1NG...

even escapes following

abandoned paths can be tracked

easily; rewild yourself

M4NM4D3 SC13NC3S TR13D F0R...

manmade sciences tried for

mycelium connections;

all we did was choke ourselves

R3M1ND S3LF T0 B3 M0R3 L1K3...

remind self to be more like

mullein or mimosa than

plantation's southern live oaks

S0M3 D00RS R3M41N L0CK3D; M1GHT N0T...

some doors remained locked; might not

be shit inside worth giving

a fuck about anyways

T00 M4NY G3T D3PR3SS3D BY...

too many get depressed by

being focused on levels

unreached; one step at a time

dirtgod transmissions and a patreon reminder

Hey, consider this a friendly reminder that I operate a Sovthern Gothicc Fvtvrism patreon as well, that you can support. I've made the majority of the posts I've been making recently public instead of patrons-only though. I had thought about doing a podcast again, even though I hate podcasts, so instead I did a quick recording of some thoughts over top an older Boogie Brown aka Blue Globe Beats beat, and then generated some visuals using weird freeware. These are called dirtgod transmissions. I may do them every day for the rest of my life, or I may not ever do another one...

dirtgod transmissions 001: riptides & pyramids

dirtgod transmissions 002: I regret to inform you...

MY M0TH3R'S M0ST W0RTHL3SS S0N...

my mother's most worthless son -

hard for some to see value

beyond own self-centered needs

TH3 TR4NSF0RM4T1V3 P0W3R...

the transformative power

of pilgrimage by foot as

far as life will allow you

SONG OF THE DAY: Woke As Me

We are in quarantine in America, and perhaps it is dystopian but wow what a bourgeoisie dystopia, nothing like ‘70s and ‘80s movies led me to believe. A long day of pretending to work from home was psychically exhausting so I fell asleep, and woke up and it was already dark, so drove through the abandoned streets to pick up take out from the Afghan place across town. The city was dead, not literally, just vacant for 8:30 on a Friday night, creepily so, no burning cars or warlords or really anything. Just a well behaved quiet. After picking up my order (actually my girlfriend’s order), thanking the nice woman giving me my food at the Afghan spot, including a mint doogh (always a mint doogh), I navigated my way out the parking lot, having to turn left, but the light never changed. It let the mainstream of traffic keep doing, like twice, and never let me go left. I could’ve turned right, gone down a bit, and done a U-turn to go left, although not even sure you can U-turn there, might’ve ended up going halfway to Maryland by the time I could’ve turned around. Fuckin’ light didn’t want me to go left at all, so finally I just made sure no cars were coming and just went fucking left. The system gets in the way sometimes.

I realized as I was sniffing the smell of my jasmine rice and lamb kebab float through the Toyota Corolla air, that this was all metaphor for politics in America. But I also realized I didn’t give a fuck to get everybody to turn left. I was just trying to get the fuck out of the way of everybody else and go live my life in peace. Y’all can stay stuck at the fuckin’ stoplights for the next nine generations if you want, telling me, “THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT STOPLIGHT EVER! IF YOU JUST TURN LEFT WHEN IT’S RED YOU’VE ESSENTIALLY GIVEN UP ON EVER ACTUALLY TURNING LEFT LEGALLY, IN INCREMENTAL STEPS!” I know, right?

SONG OF THE DAY: Vive Patrice Lumumba

Had been planning on getting a passport this month, but doesn’t look like it’s gonna matter now. Oh well. Traveling the world was an unsustainable philosophy to have. There’s plenty of shit within walking distance I never saw yet. The railroad tracks are beautiful this time of year.

H0L1D4YS C3L3BR4T3D...

holidays celebrated

in awkward ways to maintain

false sense of stability

SONG OF THE DAY: Black Messiah

Simultaneously seen some folks complaining about how not enough deaths are getting classified as Covid 19 deaths, while other folks complain about how too many things that have underlying health issues are getting classified as Covid 19 deaths. Both sides are built upon the notion the numbers are science, and that shit is pure and infallible and altruistic, and you can’t fuck with science.

The numbers always are gonna justify whatever the fuck whoever is posting them up wants it to justify. I think about this a lot in terms of a football game where there’s a big third down play, and it’s close, so they do the measurement to see if somebody got a first down. The camera closes in on the measurement, and it’s the football there, with the pole attached to the ten foot of link chain, and you get this very dramatic interpretation of the measurement where it’s like, “OH SHIT, THEY’RE TWO INCHES SHORT!” Of course all of that is predicated upon the ref putting the ball down wherever the fuck he thinks he should go. And on the other end of that ten feet of chain is just some dude poking the other pole into the fucking ground wherever the fuck he thinks it goes. It’s all theater. You can best believe the same math that had folks in charge thinking a whole slew of human beings only counted 3/5 is being used to figure out whatever numbers they’re brandishing about now as well.

W33K3NDS WH3R3 N0B0DY KN0WS...

weekends where nobody knows

me, nor knows where I went, spent

embracing disappearance

STRVTT1NG THR0VGH L1F3 W1TH0VT...

strutting through life without

cocksure swagger, questioning

existence each step, no brakes

SONG OF THE DAY: Camel Walk

Look, I'll be honest… I'm not really giving a fuck here the past couple days. I'd rather have a woman in shiny silver go go shorts try to choke me out from above with her thighs, in a roadside motel along a former US highway that's as abandoned and hopeless as my heart, in some town too forgotten to even have a Dollar General anymore. As soon as quarantine is done, I'm gonna do that shit. For the rest of my life (which hopefully means at least six months). Stretched to capacity fishnets with a couple rips and maybe a leg bruise or two will always catch a stray dirtgod. And lord have mercy if there's a fucked up $60 thigh tattoo involved… game over.

H0R1Z0N 4LW4YS B3CK0NS...

horizon always beckons

like exposed breasts; those teasing

flashes drive us to uproot

T00 0FT3N W3 BV1LD C0FF1NS...

too often we build coffins

while still above ground, stifling

innate desire with tethers

SONG OF THE DAY: Hammerhead

Haven’t been posting songs of the day shit much lately, mostly because the world is in quarantine, I’m working from home, and god there’s too many fucking non-essential opinions right now. Travis Bickle’s making a lot of sense to me lately. Feel like beating my head against the walls, which are closing in, but not to escape just to damage me, which I guess is a form of escape.

W3 4LL D13, 4ND TH3 FR3SHLY...

we all die, and the freshly

turned Earth which swallows us back

tends to bloom green once again

JVST 4N0TH3R 4M0R4L...

just another amoral

mortal navigating this

maze we call society

TH3 CH01C3 1S 4SC3T1C 0R...

the choice is ascetic or

assimilate; promises

of technologic lure us

PR0GR3SS3S C0M3 4ND G0 0N...

progresses come and go on

history's larger arc; we

focus too hard on details

CL1CK1NG MY T4SB1H, W4LK1NG...

clicking my tasbih, walking

along the tracks spooning what

used to be the Monacan

V3N33RS 4LW4YS W4RP; T0P C04TS...

veneers always warp; top coats

always end up flaking off

while weathered back into Earth

WH4T C4M3 F1RST - TH3 CH1CK3N 0R...

what came first - the chicken or

the egg or the market or

credit for purchasing goods?