I Don’t Wanna Do A G**damn Thing…

Except maybe eat a burrito. A #9 from Golden Pride in Albuquerque. And maybe a #2.

So far away….

*drools*

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Upon Waking, Pure Hatred — And Yet, An Appeal

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My scornful misanthropy is already getting in the way of my attempts to foster ambitious effort today. How am I supposed to do things that require me to be around people if every dumb fucking face I see nurtures boundless, inexplicable impulses towards wrathful violence and furious loathing?

Not your face, though. Your face is fine. If it’s even your REAL face… >:[

In other news, and pertinent to the reason I must venture forth into the world of other fucking people today, I am making some half-hearted attempts to further my profession as a writer of late.  Thus far, this comes in the form of whoring myself and my “expertise” out as a ghost writer, freelance contributor, and/or proofreader to any and all interested parties.  I’ve completed a couple of jobs, ghost writing essays for overworked college students who are also forced to work full-time to support themselves whilst toiling away on a degree that will look great on paper…

…but I’m not bitter.  Says the guy who took a semester off over a decade ago, leaving a worthless Bachelor of the Arts in English and Philosophy with a handful of credits lacking.  But I digress…

What I’m trying to say, is, should any of the none of you reading this need anything written, corrected, proofread, critiqued, reviewed, or otherwise bastardized and shat upon by my glorious intellect, hit me the fuck up!  I would be only too happy to discuss your needs and what I will and will not be willing to do for money (no butt stuff).

My sarcasm in the face of seething, indignant ire aside, I am absolutely serious about this.  Feel free to Private Message me on the Books of Face here or here, tweet my twat on the Twitter here, or just fire off an email to wearetheryan@yahoo.com.  Get in on the ground floor while I am still cheap, easy, and without much moral fortitude!

Artwork Courtesy of BAG MAN-Visuals by Ethan McCarthy (click for more)

Artwork Courtesy of BAG MAN-Visuals by Ethan McCarthy (click for more)


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

blank days, like this

From "Confessions of a Readaholic"

From “Confessions of a Readaholic”


on days like this
my words run from me,
but i do not chase after them.

rather, i lie in wait
crouching, patient
biding my time
until

they come back, wandering
i pounce on them, feral
wrestle them to the page
force order and meaning upon them, and
brand them with my mark.

By Mehmed Siyah Khalem at Topkapi Palace

By Mehmed Siyah Khalem at Topkapi Palace


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

the acedious

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the acedious

i bathe myself
in toxic waters
it is the
only
thing
i know.

poison begets putrefaction
a perpetuity
preferential
it is the
only
thing
i know.

cries of suffering
suffocation
the noise abounds
ubiquitous
it is the
only
thing
i know.

image

© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Catastrophic Purge of Torment Into Oblivion: The Body & Thou Lay Burden Upon Existence

The Body Thou Hatred Collab CD Cover

I awoke this morning with a powerful craving for fresh vinyl. I knew not why; I knew not for which specific piece of pressed wax I was searching. I knew only that there was The Calling, and that I needed to, once again, comb through my personal back-catalogue of music and film, identify some long-suffering hangers-on with which I could be convinced to part, and run that shit on down to the local Zia Records. STAT. This was a mission from the gods, that much was certain — but WHICH ONES?!

As it would turn out, the answer to that question had been heralded by the semi-apocalyptic swath of late winter/early spring storm weather to blanket the landscape of our scattered and scarred homelands. For our purposes here in SoAz, that storm manifested itself in a weighted, churning torrent of DOOM clouds, oppressive blankets of humidity, and the merciless, cleansing deluge brought down in tears from the heavens. So. Much. GLOOM. The relatively sunny disposition of the morning which greeted me this day would belie the terrible discovery I was soon to make.

Though guided by the hand of Beelzebub himself, no sooner had I dropped of my trade items to be reviewed and processed than I found myself standing before the looming magnificence of Zia Oracle’s “New Vinyl” stand. There she was, the Virgin Mother of our Megalomaniacal Saviour Herself, Mary “Joe’s Girl” Christ, in stunning portraiture. In one of those innumerable moments of chance and destiny, I nearly turned away disinterested to go peruse some dusty, forgotten corner of the used albums section, when a loathsome, sickly feeling in the very cockles of my loins urged me to halt.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Front Cover

I had missed something.

There, in the upper left-hand corner of the LP I had glazed over cursorily, just above the Blessed Mother’s somber profile, an unassuming annular adornment.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Sticker

The Body
Thou
You, Who I Have Always Hated
Thrill Jockey

MOTHER OF GOD.


TheBody-Band

Since their accursed formation in 1999, Portland by-way-of Boston experimental DOOM-sludge titans The Body have been steady straight dropping split LPs, collaborations, EPs, and full-lengths at a frighteningly manic pace, with no less than four massively dense albums released since the dawn of 2014 alone. It was late Summer 2014 that I first became aware of the terrifying, savagely introspective, soul-scarring music that heavily-armed duo Chip King and Lee Buford create. I was researching several bands unknown to me in preparation for an upcoming weekend of riffage and torment at Tucson’s own premier extreme metal festival, Southwest Terror Fest. My expectations were appropriately heightened by the information I had gleaned from online articles concerning the corrosive brand of punishment offered by the impossibly weighty pair, and I have no problem admitting that I was physically and psychologically terrified as I pressed play on that first track.

My expectations were NOT disappointed.

The Body’s primary goal as evidenced by the music they create would appear to be complete psychological catharsis and cleansing through anguish. Vocalist/guitarist Chip King does not “sing” or “scream” in any of the traditional metal, or otherwise musical, senses. Instead, he emits desperate, agonizing wails like those of a feral, tortured beast in the final, bloody throes of a savage death. After looping his guitar through an intricately arranged network of sample machines, processors, and vintage Sunn amps, the final product emitted from his monolithic stack of speakers is the biting, burdensome wall of tone and distortion of metal fragmented, deconstructed, pounded unrecognizable, and then reassembled as something wholly new and terrible. Drummer Lee Buford rises to the task of not only matching but accentuating this indescribably dense patchwork of misery and toil by pounding his percussives with the calculated ferocity of an ironworker forging weaponry from the very molten core of existence. Every seismic beat serves to propel the already catastrophic purge of metallic fury into utter oblivion.

Thou band performing live

I am, admittedly and unfortunately, quite a bit less versed in the history and lore of Southern-Fried, NOLA-bred warlords of DOOM, Thou. This is an oversight that will most assuredly be remedied post-haste. However, hailing from the birthplace of such legendary names in the world of miserable, loathsome, down-tuned riff-laden DOOM-sludge as EYEHATEGOD, Crowbar, Soilent Green, and Goatwhore, the scornful bastards that make up this modern-day harbinger of destruction have clearly paid attention in class, and have most assuredly benefited from rolling up and smoking their homework. Similar to their comrades in Hatred, Thou is likewise prone to a dizzying pace of sonic proliferation, having put out an impressive assortment of DOOM-product since their 2005 inception to rival that of The Body.

Illustration by Megan Acosta, unceremoniously ripped from Meat Mead Metal!

Illustration by Megan Acosta, unceremoniously ripped from Meat Mead Metal!

The Body and Thou first came together in collaboration early last year on the deceptively titled Released from Love EP. This four track work was discreetly birthed into the world as a vinyl-only limited edition album, and is now being included with the digital and compact disc releases of You, Who I Have Always Hated for the first time in those formats. While not a necessary requirement for anyone approaching these two bands with fresh ears, Released does serve as an outstanding introductory work or companion piece to this new full-length. The remaining six hereto unreleased tracks that make up Hated stand fine enough on their own, but the immensely cathartic if exhausting experience will certainly leave any proper extreme metal aficionado parched for more, and Released will do well as a small but welcome offering to that void.

As for Hated itself. There is NONE heavier. Nearly as soon as my turntable stylus touched down between the freshly-pressed grooves of side one, I was overcome with the crushing, monolithic wall of leaden sound that is “Her Strongholds Unvanquishable.” FUCK SAKES. My chest hurts, and I can’t BREATHE… While the four tracks on Released certainly provided worthy evidence of the terrible power at hand through the unity of these two savage forces, it is clear that their horrifying tools of battery were honed to maximum barbaric supremacy for this record.

The Body Thou Hatred Full Artwork

From the very beginning, it is evident that the collaborative energy conjured by the unity of these two forces of subjugation serves to push both entities together into wholly new, more extreme, and ultimately more savage and unrestrained territory. The demon hordes called forth by Thou, in their sluggish, plodding might, at first may seem to overpower and bury the more atmospheric, expansive framework for which The Body is known. To assume this would be a mistake. More attuned ears will have no trouble hearing The Body’s maelstrom of nihilistic desperation weaving serpentine throughout the massively thunderous plodding surge set forth by Thou.

Throughout most of the album’s six gargantuan tracks, it is clear that the whole is by far greater than the sum of its parts. Even an initially stumbling foray into “covers” territory results in a transformative, revitalized section of creativity that does well to turn the original — NIN set-list mainstay “Terrible Lie” — into a new and largely unrecognizable permutation. While the re-imagining does not quite hit with the same sparse weight of “Coward” (the final track on Released) — itself a complex, forlorn retelling of an emotional bit of songwriting by the late Vic Chestnutt — it nevertheless gives the record a welcome draw-spring for the industrial metal undercurrent that The Body bring to their creations, smoothing the stitches between the two entities welded in hatred on Hatred.

Elsewhere, the two bands make effective use of dissonance and forced coalescence to accentuate their brand of torment on the thunderously severe “He Returns to the Place of His Iniquity,” and make up for the perhaps intentionally pretentious title of “Beyond the Realms of Dream, That Fleeting Shade Under the Corpus of Vanity” by imbuing that track with the ruinous, cataclysmic rage of a vengeful scourge unloosed. By the time we reach the apocalyptic final refrain of “Lurking Fear,” we are so thoroughly pummeled, worn and threadbare, that whatever lurking beast to come next can only be greeted with welcoming arms — if only they had not already been torn from our torso and used to mercilessly beat us into submission.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Back Cover


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

a sort of moment in time born of clarity amidst the storm while asking what is … ?

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coldhead fool of cure
these hands are not my own.
desert blind lie breathes through me

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Yeah Bitch! Horticulture!!! (Zen and Madness in Yard Work)

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Last night was a rough one, psychotically speaking. It was all I could do not to reformat my cranium as some sort of post-Post-Modern, avant-garde, recessionist-abstract deconstructionist performance piece. Not to disparage the severity of leaden suffering my mind has found fit to absorb in general, of late. Suffice it to say I am now quite certain and markedly convinced that my Crazy Pills are no longer working — something I have, for some time, suspected, but obdurately resisted accepting — which means the next 31 days until my Starving Artist Insurance Plan will cover the scheduled months in advance new patient exam that is required for my establishment on the panel of a primary care provider who can then give me a proper and necessary referral to who I hope will be an eccentrically brilliant, empathetic, slightly neurotic headshrinker slash script writer with a heart of gold are going to be, shall we ambiguously say, interesting. Run-on sentences only hint at the delightfully unpredictable mania to come! But, dem lows, doh…

Knowing that I must bide my time, maintain the Madness, and resist impulses of self-destruction for this objectively short period of time, I’ve tried to make available to my faculties certain therapeutic distractions. One such welcome intercourse has been that oft-dreaded, inexplicably despised facet of supposed “home-ownership”:

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YARD WORK.

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As in all things The Ryan must do, I despise the idea of yard work. However, likewise, once I am able to force myself into the task, I actually fucking LOVE yard work. It provides focus for a brain hell-bent on distraction. It provides activity for a mind/body meat bag prone to lethargy. It provides necessary and welcome physical, mental, and spiritual immersion in nature. It helps stave off the goddamn reliably unpredictable tide of anxious shimmering madness that I am increasingly unable to comfortably surf in flow.

And, occasionally, it results in discovery and intrigue.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive!

There is a vengeful, thorn-bearing foothill paloverde which holds vile dominion over one corner of the front yard. It is a belligerent, malicious, glorified mass of shrubbery from which I removed a bulk of inbred, compacted, endlessly resilient bastardized stems and upstart branches a few days ago, an abomination which I have termed the Stump of DOOM.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive! MORE interactive!

The bitter “fruit” it sprouts dries into these little unassuming pea-pods:

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— which then distribute themselves to all corners of the Earth in an attempt to propagate the ancient foothill paloverde message of scorn. Many of these have attempted to gain strongholds of their own within the isolated, concrete-locked bed which the mother paloverde calls home. Some have, during periods of neglect, found themselves bold and daring, their audacity to exist and to grow resulting in said DOOM-Stump. But, he who trowels last… >:]

Or, so I thought.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive! And a talking fruit!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive! And a talking fruit!

Apparently — and, with the aid of wind, water, chance…perhaps even some willing or unwitting co-conspirator — some of the pods managed to make their way and find root among the radicles of several tangelo trees on the other side of the yard. I discovered today that said flora had sprouted several malicious, mutant branches of thorn and broadleaf. In a moment of megalomaniacal dietiego* I considered allowing them to mature to see what kind of strange and terrible fruit this ghastly union might bear. Fortunately, Fate intervened, shoving my finger sharply into the prickly, blood-thirsty embrace of a thorn. Since the execrable deviant foliage had therefore subsumed my superlative mitochondrial blueprint (it had absorbed by precious blood stuffs!), I was forced to uproot and destroy it for fear of fathering some unwitting creation, some kind of horrific, intelligent, self-aware brand of citrus that would surely uprise and come to enslave and destroy all of mankind. I can’t have that kind of responsibility on my head, man!

BONUS: I found these fellas.

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“…in the sun she warmed her wings, and listened to cicadas sing…” Not to worry, I returned them safely to the Earth. It’s not your time yet, cicadas! Yeah bitch! SCIENCE!!!


* ‘dietego’ – a portmanteau made up of the words “deity” and “ego”; coined in use by © TR Sanders, February 2015


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

How The Ryan Writes, Part II: The Dark Crow Man (Harbinger of DOOM)

Dark Crow

“The Dark Crow Man sits
And stares into Oblivion…
Into Cold… Into Nothingness…
It’s snowing in His mind.
He’s created Himself in
His own Image…”
Lamb of GodThe Subtle Arts of Murder and Persuasion

Artwork by Four Star Tattoo, Santa Fe, NM

Artwork by Four Star Tattoo, Santa Fe, NM

The part of The Ryan most in need of a creative outlet is the part that finds it most difficult to express constructively. The Dark Crow Man is everything that is wretched and despairing within Us, amplified to abhorrence. The Dark Crow Man wants only to destroy. It wants to rip flesh from bone, it wants to wrench reality apart at the seams, it wants to butcher and devour all of existence in its rage and gloom. It knows nothing of cathartic expression, of transformative release. It is scorn and brooding and the bleak space of void made form, and its vacuity is interminable.

The Dark Crow Man is, like all parts of We, ever present, if not pervasive. But, also like all parts of We, there are times it is suffuse across the whole; it permeates Us, and it is all that We are. We have been consumed by the Dark Crow Man for the past several weeks, to a degree We’ve not before experienced. To be in that place, where the Dark Crow Man resides, is exhausting. It overwhelms and suppresses. In that void made form are eternities of moments through which We did not believe We would emerge.

In that space, We struggle to have voice. The sounds We hear, and those We make, are shrill and piercing, leaden and oppressive. They are savage grunts and primal concrete resonance. We buckle under their weight and the oppression of Our selfsame chosen hell. We are consumed by Our fear even as We embrace it. And so We sit silent ponderous and reflectively reflexive, a volatile, broiling chamber of scorn, loathing, judgment, despair, confusion, and ponderous brooding without vent.

We struggle to have voice. But We are obstinant, and so We do not relent. We are unabating. We embrace the struggle, the process. We fail, but We persist. We will be better, stronger, more enduring in the future.

The Dark Crow Man is Us. But it is not that Darkness which will define Us.

Crow Sunrise


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Conversation With The Ryan

alone in the doom

where have you been?

i was…away.

we’ve looked everywhere.

i wasn’t hiding. i needed time.

we were all lost without you. he was here.

who?

the dark crow man.

he is always here. he’s one of us.

but he was the one, with you away. he was the I.

sometimes we need to go to the places only he can take us. and i needed to be away.

were you afraid?

i am always afraid. aren’t you? that’s what makes us brave. we can be afraid and it doesn’t ruin us.

but you ran away. you left us.

i didn’t run away. i ran towards. i needed to face it.

couldn’t you face it here?

i needed time alone, with just i and the fear. i couldn’t bring us all. it wasn’t safe.

it didn’t feel safe here. there are too many shadows when the dark crow man is the one.

there are always shadows. some of us are shadows. some of us don’t like to admit these truths. that’s part of the fear.

we are all so silent when he is the I.

this is also part of the fear. we all must learn to speak, even through the gloaming silence. if we can only speak when we are comfortable, we will only ever speak of comfortable things. some songs of utmost beauty are pieced together with the most dolorous of notes, sung in a chorus of melancholy voices.

i am glad you are back.

i was never away.

Schizophrenic Self Portrait, 18 May 1991, by Bryan Charnley

Schizophrenic Self Portrait, 18 May 1991, by Bryan Charnley


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

YUCK.

Yuck. the band.

Yuck. the band.

Yuck.

I need to “Do Stuff” today

But I would much rather
lay in bed
listening to music
and
reading stuff
on the internet
for hours on end

“Do Stuff”

Yuck.


I wrote this “poem” as a text message to my more beautiful and intelligent half this morning as a description of my day and my attitude towards it. It may well be the most honest — and thereby, certainly the most profound — thing I have ever written.

I may have just broken through the barriers into brilliance, you guys…

BRILLIANT!

BRILLIANT!


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.