Somewhere in the middle of nursing the most godawful of hangovers over a winter root vegetable tofu scramble, the dirge of Om’s “On the Mountain at Dawn” mixed with the nonstandard bar conversation had moved into freaksville. “I feel like crime moves from North to South.” stated a friend in a typical sardonic fashion which I have come to take comfort in states of mind like these. A fellow employee and mutual friend had been beaten down at three in the afternoon after jogging in a particular area of Humboldt park that the police label as the ‘twilight zone.’ Not two days earlier after hearing about him being knocked unconscious and waking up in the hospital was I followed down North avenue while walking to Walgreen’s at eight in the evening. As I emerged from out that door five minutes later, I knew I was tagged as the gentleman had waited for me outside and proceeded to trail me in the complete opposite trajectory all the way to the center of ‘the crotch’ of North/Damen/Milwaukee. His prowl was measured, keeping a respectful distance on the other side of the street a few paces back but circling nonetheless like a vulture upon the arcs that brought us to this point in space.

Moments before the conversation had drifted into the night prior at the Hideout for Psych Fest, an event showcasing the talents of bands such as Dark Fog, the Plastic Crimewave cats, and others. Somewhere within the first five minutes it was obvious that a person, high on presumably some type of psychedelics, tried to walk directly through me. When questioned he mumbled something about the vibe being pathed in that general direction. In context now of my conversation with Adam, we had wondered if the vibe might actually move in accordance to the cardinal directions of East to West. If the random shouts out from the band to the metaphysical bikers can be taken as a personal indictment of the lifestyle, this may be all too correct.

I feel like that whenever I start any sentence of with “I feel like,” a long litany of bullshit is sure to follow. Like I could simply say something to the effect of “I feel like nuclear war would be kind of cool at this point.” And then talk of the wolves of chernobyl, the peaceful quietude and magic of some Tarkovsky inspired wasteland. But as a counterpoint to that, I feel like its already here. That some sort of psychic meltdown has churned from the metaphysical reactor. That we live as mutants in the black light afterglow baked in tape hiss and fucking late night pizza parties.

The day after a bout like that one, drinking whiskey and hamm’s and being called out by the man playing ‘guess the number for free liquor’ on the microphone as “multicolored dude” gets me thinking a great deal. I’ve sat for hours the last week staring into a webcam and being assaulted by a wave of dicks, figuratively and literally. Hooked into some fucked up networked dystopia in the form of Chatroulette and simply staring back at the void. I’ve been called everything from white trash to skinhead to hardened criminal. And there is something very settling in these five second fight or flight observations in the wasteland. Like wolves running in packs and baring teeth at each other. Wolves run. They don’t dance, motherfucker… at least not the wolves of Chernobyl.

There is something in the lay lines lately that begs to be followed. Bits and pieces of information are like little signposts. Like the triangles that reappear through the ether on walls and tapes like bleak, astral, Jungian black holes. Like the miniature die cast image of Kali hanging out in my front pocket sent to me randomly from a friend. Or the two free dual marantz tape decks donated to whatever cause it seems I have taken upon myself to occupy the wasting away of whatever time is defined as what I have left.

I feel like nuclear war is now. That the warheads are chock full of herpes, awkward moments, shop talk about how you can make money doing what you love, and industry nights dedicated to a series of nightly disappointments. How the only sure thing in the morning is the pocket radiation monitor called your conscience as you roll over and greet whatever it is pounding in your skull. How you’ll continue soldiering on in this fashion out of a mixture of stupidity and mutation. And however grotesque and misshapen to others you have become, its the new normal. And you’d be goddamned stupid to think otherwise.

If you reference Tarkovsky and Stalker in this mythology, we are living in the zone; the living embodiment of our dreams and desires. The crime moves in specific waves along with the magic. To navigate it requires dedication, asceticism, and courage. But I feel like it takes more than that. Objects scattered amongst the ground, discarded and divorced are sigils. Omens are everywhere. The only thing we have in the wake of destruction, death and pestilence is that which does not transcend choice but offers a clear yet optional path for those tired enough to dream it or at least hallucinate it. A flickering oasis of pixels and static that speaks in a ghost tongue through the melted feeds. A circuitry burnt memory ressurrected and devoid of time, place, space and popular opinion. A dead medium in so many senses of the word.

Sometimes I feel like I’m lying on the edge of that pool. Watching the wolves off in the distance roam the terrain with simple needs and reasons lit up in their head. Their paths are adequately marked by their decisions and actions. And easily plotted to the point where there might some day be some metaphysical application available to leverage GPS technology and black magic to navigate and fold space.

Until then I hold in high regard the invisible waves that light the path like burning ceremonial candles. And I throw the bolts across the grassy field in true Stalker fashion. Because this place is rife with traps and tricks that move from North to South in a broken arc like some lumbering shortwave radio jammer situated in the middle of the blast zone, paced in cyclic motion by feral creatures. That relic of a colder war now icy and skeletal across the planes with way more beastial in significance than anyone will give it credit. The aftershock and the half life still shadow us to this day beholden to the currency of fear.

Somewhere through the course of time, wolves made the jump from feral, pack dwelling loyalists to fierce, domesticated companions. I feel like I don’t quite understand how that fucking happened. In fact, I feel like its highly improbable being a sort of wolf in the midst of this zone myself. All I really know is its locked in the allegory of it all and I feel like it’s stupid to think it moves in defined paths.

The arcs much like that Duga sitting alone and inoperable in the midst of post nuclear trauma are broken.

To think otherwise is to dream.

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