I drive into Tucson on a 110 degree mid-may day. South of Sahuarita the bright-white smoke is still rising from the most recent brushfire in the Santa Ritas. Far off beyond the pecan orchards three dust devils, or maybe the clouds made by company trucks riding too fast off road, pock the sky like burning oil wells, obscuring my view of Kitt Peak. The forever burning ruins of Rita Ranch are my first greeting once I am on the highway. Every yard there is a junkyard, the houses boarded, any gaps you see are probably for shotguns. Steve says that when he was a kid down there he lived near a house that every kid, as the 50s film stereotype goes, thought was “haunted.” Turns out someone did live there, and murdered her husband by smashing his head in with a hammer. He ran meth and guns there for nearly 10 years, only taking a break to live in Washington. Near the town on the highway is the spot where a highway patrol officer in a “photo enforcement van” was shot dead. They never found the driver. But it’s not as bad as that strange, thin village around a motel 2/3 of the way to Phoenix. My parents stopped there once to switch drivers and I nearly hid under below the car window. Overhead is a convoy of army Chinook double-rotored helicoptors heading east. The buzz of a border patrol helicopter heading south soon follows. Dust is rising from the dump south of I-10, the watchtowers of the county prison glimmer in the sun. Tortured square houses, with driveways 3 feet long, mile after mile then fill the void. Horror vacui urbanis. A squadron of Hell’s Angels have occupied the TTT’s once again, but the gas is cheap at Mr. T’s so I stop to fill it with the $5 I can spare. Three Tucson cops, regularly confused, are wandering around, one is taking pictures with a miniature canon powershot. Some girl sits on a picnic table under a metal veranda as a skittish paranoid 20-something speedfreak with a pock-marked face pours sand into the 4 ashtrays on the tables. She is holding a bag of ice to her head, nearby is a pickup truck with a recently busted back light. I head up Alvernon greeted by stationary photo enforcement cameras. The junkyard after you go over the bridge by the air force base has a hand-painted sign. Three men in cowboy fu manchu mustaches sit lazily as they make money off nothing, hunched over nearly burnt-out cigarettes. A block later a woman in a bicycle is following what seems to be a relative, a morbidly obese diabetic in an electric chair. I remember people like her from the store, you don’t care that they’re disabled, their lives are weak, their attitudes reactionary. A man bikes by in a bicycle, some old hippy with a giant plant in the basket behind his seat. He makes me crook a smile out of the side of my mouth. I drive by the Nimbus brewery, remember the good times there, I see beyond the massive chemical tanks the lot where they impounded my car. They apparently impounded everything there, including toy raceway go carts and other frames of random small motorized things. The guy there was an asshole and just plain assumed I got impounded for a DUI. I arrive at the junk shop where I came to pick up a tape deck. The woman at the front has glasses like the bottom of a soda bottle, circular and thick. She is in a green thrift-shop shirt with some unnoteworthy giant capital letter text, but what is noteworthy is that she is wearing a Shriner’s fez, 3 times too big for her head, something on it about medical aid for seniors. She lets me test a decent digital-buttoned sony tape deck with reverse play with one of the thousand radios stacked on the wall. It cracks and fizzles but records in both channels, better than the one I acquired from my grandmother, so I barter with her a purchase. I glance at the SNES on the floor, wonder if it works, then glance at the games they have under the glass case. They all suck. I’ll take my emulator, whatever. I don’t necessarily need my retro to be authentic. No good picks for junk instruments either. The pianos are first off massive fucking pianos, and 99% of their keys either make no noise or are so out of tune that they all play more or less the same note. I’m not even going to hazard the electric piano sitting on the top of one of them. There’s some yamaha drumtard thing that I think about for 1/5 of a second, then remember how many bad experiences I have had with toy instruments. Always end up sounding like some god damn christmas ornament. So I take the tape deck and leave.
ok, an unfinished piece, but just about everything that I just wrote here actually happened. this place is really really weird. also I am starting a new blog soon to be filled with actual posts when it isn’t 4:19 in the morning, inspired by the likes of Obsidian Obelisk, Harmony Korine, and others. A kind of desert surrealism/ psychedelic punk/ crust culture type aesthetic. With posts of brutal drugged out noise punk/ black metal to match. yeah it’ll be cool, I think.
True, without error, certain and most true: that which is above is as that which is below, and that which is below is as that which is above, to perform the miracles of the One Thing.
And as all things were from One, by the meditation of One, so from this One Thing come all things by adaptation. Its father is the Sun, its mother is the Moon, the wind carried it in its belly, the nurse thereof is the Earth.
It is the father of all perfection and the consummation of the whole world. Its power is integral if it be turned to Earth.
Thou shalt separate the Earth from the Fire, the subtle from the coarse, gently and with much ingenuity. It ascends from Earth to heaven and descends again to Earth, and receives the power of the superiors and the inferiors.
Thus thou hast the glory of the whole world; therefore let all obscurity flee before thee. This is the strong fortitude of all fortitude, overcoming every subtle and penetrating every solid thing. Thus the world was created. Hence are all wonderful adaptations, of which this is the manner.
Therefore am I called Hermes the Thrice Great, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That is finished which I have to say concerning the operation of the Sun.