September 11th, 2006

(no subject)

In His Dome.

When I wandered back into the house for the second and last time, he was still sitting there. He sat in the exact same spot, in the exact same position, and I wondered if he'd moved even to breathe a sigh of anything, be it relief or dread. It was the first time I had thought to stop and think about him in the manner that really made my wheels turn; what it was going on in his head that was powerful enough to stone him in a rickety wooden chair that sat in the corner of his kitchen. For a moment I felt almost obligated to become paralyzed myself, and there was a slight inclination that it would have been most rewarding. Although time did not permit, the stone man in his wooden chair that sat aghast with his mouth hung wide open did not leave my thoughts for a long time following that moment, and perhaps has still not left even now.

There was so little I knew about this man and so much I wanted to know, whether it'd hit me with a dead stop in my tracks and an absolute battering of insight and information, or I was going to have to work tedious hours to merit my access into these confidential reports. My method of access didn't intimidate me, because for some reason, all I wanted was more of the inspiration fumes that seemed to waft through the air around him with every slight move of his baggy clothing. The scent was so strong and so powerful that my second entrance into the house ruled by squalor felt immediately poisoning in a manner so dominant I almost stepped back when I saw him still sitting there, mouth gaping. What a sweet feeling it was to be poisoned with stimulating revelations such as these, as I wandered about, noting the dusty gas mask that hung by a tack on the wall.

I don't think he knew it at the time, but I was stone dead like him, too, barely able or willing to move for fear it would disturb the busy flow of thoughts and sentences that ran through my brain at the first chance I had to think. All at once I wanted to help him, acknowledge him, educate him, be around him, be him. As much as I understood the dangerously normal nature of what his problems seemed to be, I couldn't help but note the intensity in which he felt for all these things, and how ferociously those thoughts constantly ran around his head, crashing into and devouring every innocent and masterfully blueprinted brainwave that got in their way. He knew that he was crazy, and convinced himself that he was crazy, but it seemed like nobody had stopped to put their hand on his shoulder and tell him that was in fact not crazy at all. It seemed like if anybody had tried up until now, he wouldn't have trusted them for a second.

And so he sat, identical to the stone body that sat below him, and all the stone bodies that secretly surrounded, contemplating life so madly that the passing of brainwaves in each of our internal super-highways had shut off the bodies of the world congruently. I had nothing but appreciation for moments like those and the people that could experience them, because it suggested the still-lingering presence of thinkers in the world, and people who truly were the last interesting things left. The millions of sounds had ceased and it was just us now, just barely starting to break through to the other side of the wall of our asylum cells and imaginary fences. With enough work and enough size to the hole in that very wall, I would be able to convince him that the cell to his right, and the cell to his left, and every cell all the way down both sides of the hallway looked entirely identical to his own. Despite the problems that plagued him, the fallacies that frustrated him, and the lingering stench of squalor and stimulation that surrounded him, he was in fact not crazy. I was going to do whatever I had to in order to tell him that he was just incredibly god damn interesting.
  • Current Music

I experienced the Brozone.

Never before have I heard so many different kinds of noise blended together to make something magnificent as I did last night when the infamous Brozone invaded my dome with faux radio waves that were equally as disturbing as they were hypnotic. For weeks I've been told of this "Brozone," for which a group of men in their mid-twenties (and early thirties) gather in Petaluma with headphones, albums, sound effects, and massively bizarre takes on radio talk. I had my expectations, I'll admit, of this very group of people sitting in a circle in a basement somewhere listening to records and having the occasional bizarre conversation between tunes. I wondered if anyone was allowed to talk while the music was playing, if it would get boring after fifteen minutes, and if I would be allowed to say whatever I wanted or if I would be shushed at the mentioning of something that had perhaps already been said. I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.

"The Brozone" happens because it's tradition. Every Sunday, the mics are prepared, and playlists arranged, the sound effect tools rigged, the CDs placed in the drive for recording, and the ON AIR light switched on around ninePM as the Brozone begins. But despite the incoming and outgoing calls, the constant flow of music and conversation, the ritual of its allotted time every single Sunday night, and the recording of every moment of this two to three hour show (it goes "until the good cartoons come on Adult Swim"), it is not your typical radio show. The Brozone is a product of idealism; a show organized and made for the simple entertainment of only the domes it invades. Those that make it are the only ones that hear it, because the capacity of the Brozone's broadcast is the bathroom of the same household it's being recorded in, which is down the hall and slightly to the right.

On top of the fact that it's not broadcasted, it raises the question of exactly how many records one can play on their own radio station, and how many of them can be played at the same time, with sound effects, and samples, and children’s toys hooked up to microphones that explode at random, and scratching, and nearly inappropriate amounts of noise all playing at the same time, underneath and on top of each other. Accompanied by the voices of whoever comes, whoever joins, whoever’s dome feels so inclined to participate in the wonder of the Brozone, it goes like a sheet of glass being shattered against your brain repeatedly for about three hours while conversation commences when necessary in a room lit by dim red and bordered by miscellaneous disturbances that its creator saw fit for its walls.

It's like a chaos that thrives on being entirely disorganized, obnoxious, spontaneous, and far-fetched, all being sucked into a vacuum strong enough to suck every layer of skin off your body if you stick your fingers in it, and continuing to swirl and make noise as it careens around the bag, banging and smashing against every inner wall like thirty hammers in a dryer. It's like all your enemies lost all their common sense for the course of a few hours while they spread their infectious germs and most obscene, self-obsessed, and downright cruel feelings transformed into genius sentences by means of microphone cables through the walls and into a funnel that's strapped to your ears with duct tape while your hands and ankles are tied with a million knots to every leg of a steel chair. It's like a self-promoting insane asylum broadcasted twenty four hours a day through loudspeaker hooked up in the corner of every padded cell, every mansion's master bedroom, every toddler's toy room, and every office's conference room, screaming only of the things so wonderful about itself, advertising for nothing but its strange ability to invade one's dome and pollute it.

One may think that the Brozone is a project of negativity, programmed to destroy every decent thought you ever harbored or even thought of contemplating. It may sound like a creation only those riddled with devilish tendencies could concoct and execute, and something only the clinically insane could truly capture in their mental nets. One may observe the previously stated characteristics of the Brozone with a tainted perspective on what is good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong, what is real and what is fake, and it will lead them to a place where having their dome infested with these foreign radio waves that sneak-attack the usual and mundane brain waves that occupy it is necessarily a bad thing. But I assure you, my friends, that is not so. The real kicker is that the masters of the Brozone make it so unreal that it's magnificent, so bizarre that it's magnetic, so incredibly fucked up that it's absolutely fucking marvelous. If you can possibly resist your thousand temptations to explode, you'll understand that the Brozone is like the element that never existed in this universe for you to find in the first place. You'll realize that the Brozone is a part of your dome you'd never had occupied by such tenants before, and that despite the occasional ruckus, their late-night activities are refreshing and somewhat interesting to you. You'll see that the Brozone, while awkward, bizarre, and completely surreal, sounds So. Fucking. Good.