David's suggestion to explore modular synth has me at the doorstep of another forage for knowledge
and resource. The goal of the studio environment has evolved over time to now foster the
exploration / reproduction of all acquired musical styles, and as far as my inner materialist is
concerned, the more equipment indexed the better. I see the expansion into modular synth territory
as being a logical progression, as I anticipate getting into more rudimentary computing in the near
future with the acquisition of an Apple IIe; synthesis and computing are parallel fields so I hope
to see some cross-pollenation of motivations and developments in the regions. It should go without
saying that my inspirations are worn on my sleeve and are what lure me along the path of refinement,
as far away from a place of success/esteem as I may be. The most vital informant to my current
musical and aesthetic maneuvers is an underground activist/musician by the name of Bryn Jones (RIP
1999); in much the same way as many take to Richard D James of Aphex Twin upon becoming ensnared by
the eclectic Intelligent Dance Music sound he pioneered, I do the same unto Bryn and Muslimgauze, his
brainchild. Trickling down a hilarious web of artists and the thinnest of hairline-associations,
I arrived at Muslimgauze sometime in July of this year in a lineage beginning with Godflesh; the
Napalm Death nucleus of extreme music trailblazing during the 80s and beyond has cultured me more
than perhaps any other art/history cauldron. Through Napalm and the acquaintance with Cathedral and
the lesson it taught about aesthetics and the pre-mass hyperculturalistic transmogrification into
70s clothing and sonics (that's a nuanced criticism if I've ever made one), I identified more with
cold and fashionless atmospheres/production schemes - in one of the few recurring spells of dense
enamoredness with Godflesh, I managed to take another gander at the personnel of a particularly
powerful and curious (Rob Hampson in Godflesh is just that - curious judgement at best) era of the
band, which was 1991 and 1992, when for a very brief time, Broadrick and Green were joined by newly
deobligated Napalm drummer Mick Harris. On its face, I didn't read very much into it; the industrial
getup was trendy at the time, after all - but a brief refresher on Harris' doings during the 90s was
all the activation energy required to expose me to perhaps one of my persisting favorites, Scorn.
Essentially a masterclass in all of the more subtle and sophisticated as well as potent attributes
of industrial music - which is all I will contribute about them for the time. From Scorn I discovered
a Harris affiliated project at as high a time period as 1996 and 1998; Equations Of Eternity, which
along with Scorn is still among the more awe-inspiring groups to have recorded. And through a light
investigation of their label of choice, Wordsound - a suspected Bernoccian decision - I stumbled
true to the word upon Scarab, an unforseeable defiance of attestably all other music. Electronic,
dub music with a rejection of conventional structure and emphasis on hashish Muslim world samples.
Truthfully it was Scarab, a project that did not take itself seriously at all, to begin my examining
the east as an American living post-Islamaphobia, and of course this pursuit of similar materials
led to just that, the discovery of a similar material in the shape of Muslimgauze. Not by some
suggested algorithm however, instead the mention of him in an old webpage archive on Wordsound.com.
So what is it that magnetizes me to Muslimgauze? Perhaps the emotional quality and troubled
atmosphere is something that is some awakening nature of mine; it is contrasting deeply to the
concept of no dynamics I have soldiered along with for some time, as the acoustic percussion is
extremely variable in volumes. It is perhaps a symbol of everything the conventional industrial
rock and metal genres (not constrained to just 'industrial' examples within those umbrella styles)
neglects, and to hear a masterful utilization of them where its almost a bad word otherwise is
mind-opening and cathartic. The impressiveness factor is present here too, as Bryn was incredibly
prolific, and not exclusively in the Viper way; releasing music at feverish speed and at a high
grade of consistency is inspiring when your favorite metal musicians romanticize taking 20 years
to record palm mutes over drum machine blastbeats. It (this ethnic concrete/dance music) rounds
out the needed duality to be able to remain empassioned about music and provides yet another
always welcomed challenge to combine Scarab/Muslimgauze styles with pre-acquainted metallic or
similar ones.

Noise music is a constant - since its modern formulation in the 1970s, undercurrents of that sound
have stayed largely consistent as 'noise' is a fairly straightforward phenomenon with examples that
haven't and likely will never change much. Static, while we don't interact with it as commonly as
we once did, is a familiar entity within the societal vernacular, and is the general frame of
reference for when the term 'noise' is heard. Vacuum cleaners and a glacier of industrial equipment
are siblical propegators of nondescript sound, and serve as the source material and sonic inspiration
for noise music 50 years on - so with origins as pretentious or unpretentious as those, it's
curious that the consumption of it is policed or rather treated with a grading system. Meme culture
is responsible for a litany of ills upon human patterns of percepetion and intake of information,
not to mention expression and the social condition which sits atop all of these processes - the
irony which permeates through all characteristics of a material, the reactions to these materials
and the visibility of both of these, the medium and parameters around the exposure and everything
inbetween is truly poisonous (toxic is a word claimed by irony so effectively it is a cancer upon
language). While the english language could do with the purging of some of the many synonyms for
'drunk' or 'amazing', I see the indiscriminate erosion at any modus of exchange as threatening.
More than just language is infringed upon however, as thought patterns and intrinsic behaviors are
similarly scrutinized to the point that various sections of the population are mutedly divided
along this notional perforation, and damage occurs whenever these boundaries are remotely stressed.
Both/all subgroups of the greater identity ecosystem feel oppressed/supressed, so at any opportunity
or suggestion, abuses toward the perceived instigator (which is always externalized) are flung and
the condition remains conflicted. What I experienced yesterday is a microcosm of the breakdown of
principles and infection of language that may doom our society sooner than later - the defaulting
of anti-elitist elitists to ridiculing the manner in which attendees of a noise concert intook
the experience/event. Comments of the uninitiated condemning the unmusicality, insults to the
subject's appearance and legitimacy as a man, let alone an artist - interspliced with comments which
on their faces blended unassumingly with those of the aforementioned types that excused the music
but insisted on probematizing the attendees expressions. The camoflauging is indicative enough of
a fear of contrast against a current of strangers' devaluations (no integrity), but the compulsion
to trench one layer deeper and isolate a single component of the scene is so uniquely Davidian.
With the smell of cowardice and despiration to belong, the eager sacrifice of a peer perhaps even
subconsciously is apt behavior for these crisis-stricken people.

At 21 years old, the earlier chapters of my life grow increasingly precambrian - the people who
once were present at sporadic moments dictated by my parent's social and familial consentments
are now inaccessible by death or other barriers. I don't hold any resentments toward any parties,
except myself - the suggestion of personal responsibility for this condition I describe, of being
repulsive or unadhesive to the persistence of these figures' revolution is palpable. I feel shame
for being a child, and having possessed the impairednesses children have at the times I did, as
those eras appeal to me. This appeal isn't purely constituted by a nostalgia for the former molts
of America I observed 10-20 years ago - the people likewise are subjects of positive remembrance,
coupled with vague fear, embarrassment of having dissappointed. Knowing how these pitiful accounts
read, I'll reel it back a bit and admit that I'm not crushed by any feeling of explicit guilt for
the unfolding of time and dispersing of community; I understand how this progression was inevitable
with the death of my grandmother and the pre-existing tensions and punctuating events like my mom's
divorce. And despite the common denominator being my mother, I don't blame her for any of what I
feel, instead I take it on independently and the theme of the thoughts revolve around the regretable
bits of interaction I recall still. And regardless of the outcome or theorized affect of these
awkward or unpleasant exchanges/memories, I feel that the environments for these to have been
preserved, repaired, or worsened having ceased to exist result of actions external to me nulls
whatever discontent I carry. So what if my uncles Donnie and Ronnie think of me as some curly-haired
twit - whatever reverence I have for them isn't disqualifiable by their private 
speculated perceptions of me.
My takeaways from more recent engagements are, separate from these earlier and more obscure
emotional imbuements, more legitimate, at least rationally - of course, not all thought is of this
variety and I do still slip into guiltiness that reference those hazy early memories of childish
ignorance. Like the strange return of contact with my cousins which briefly saw me compelled into
a labor obligation which I voided after the passage of little time - their attempt to condition me
wasn't interpreted then, and even if it was, I'd still likely have protested it. Raising a child
and aiding them developmentally through instruction and facilitated experiences isn't something that
can be done correctively, and I'm beginning to recognize that assignment as an attempt to. And I
wouldn't feel any real irritation toward them even if that were confirmable, instead its a flat
falling of another layer of definition to their character and my concept of my perception, both
internal, both of which embitter the global passive emotion I walk around with.