I created this piece while listening to this mix by my friend A23P. I call him Al. I first started jamming with Al and his crew, Praxis Dynamic, a couple years ago. I was practicing to do some backup vocals with Kid Mask at this weird derailed train-car, turned studio. Since Kid Mask’s name is Peter too, Al referred to us as “Penis 1,” and “Penis 2.” I actually never got to do backup vocals, because on my way to the show I got in a car crash.

You can see the process in this video. Al, and everyone else involved in Praxis Dynamic supplied an extremely important service to me at the time. I have never been in a space where I have felt like I can truly express who I am, until I went to that shitty derailed train-car. Yeah sure, the music sucked most of the time (if you consider some of this shit music. If you don’t it’s actually pretty consistent), but we all walked away baptized.

So Al sent me this mix, thinking I would be interested. For some reason I decided to start creating while listening to the mix. However, I was kind of insecure because I knew I would probably be showing this to Al, so I wanted to use tape to abstract the sentences. This is actually the first reference to the phrase “brain rot” in my art.

The right corner corresponds to the first couple of minutes of the mix, while the middle slanted part at the top is where the mix ended. Each section represents a different perspective, and a different part of the track.

When hanging with Al and the crew, we would often talk about “mind control,” “movement vs. motion,” and “Harper Rays.” Not sure what that last one is, but I had a marketing job at the time, which led us to these types of conversations. Some common themes were either indulging in the affects of technology, or criticizing abstraction of any kind. With this in mind, all of the text is focused on how feeble and susceptible the human psyche is to stimulation.

If you talk about mind control with your friends, and take that conversation pretty fucking seriously, you’re probably all anxious as hell.

Some of my favorite lines are:

PMC FOR YOUR OWN HOUSE WHERE YOU HIDE YOUR DAUGHTERS FROM WHAT THEY WERE DESTINED TO BE.
CANNON FODDER FOR THE DISEMPOWERED.

Upon reading this, I actually thought it was “PMC FOR YOUR OWN FAMILY,” which I kind of like better.

WHAT A LOVELY BOY. WHAT A SLIT AMONG THE SLASH.
ALL THAT GOOD DICK PUT TO SHAME IN THE WASTELAND OF INSECURITY.

FUCK DMT ECSTACY COMES FREE FROM ME BABY!

A lot of text, that I can’t really decipher after a couple years, has to do with grocery stores and 7/11s. This is a reference to when Al and I would go to the Circle K before every jam, and get some Gatorade and brews. Pop is soda is Coke is gas station is Circle K is Quik Trip is 7/11.

The space used in this piece is to create a feeling of a city map, or the layout of the jam space. It was pretty fucking cramped in there, and never enough outlets. Alleyways, dead-ends, through-streets all parallel to the human brain.

The space represents the brink of sheer nothingness that exists between thoughts. Some may overlap, maybe even coexist with each other, but most are broken records playing in an abandoned tuberculosis clinic. The only synergy, just soundbleed.

If we can be influenced by the tiniest bit of stimulation, it stands to reason we can equally influence the world around us with our thoughts.

I grew up in a cult, and I know all about the vegetative state, and the pronounced pituitary gland. Fuck that shit.

What if there is a difference between movement and motion? Can you hear the racket already?

Not the hum of the dye-cast iron bones that lift our streets up, and collapse our lungs. Not the shrill from the grinders. Not the screams from the clipping, true sight giving in to helpless pleas. Not the abyss in the camgirls iris. Not the sucking chest wound you grope in order to pray.

But the rhythm. The strangled wind that whips by your ear when you walk past a kindred spirit. Wade in the endless purple slushie. Feel the frozen, sticky tendrils of melting ice on your waist as you try to traverse that space.

They’re looking for you. Join the search.

The last ten minutes of this mix belongs in the Library of Congress.