RS.6 A Mind For Infinity


The words, a wisdom from their mouth you could care less about. Now radicalized in new color, some which are unearthed each time you progress toward the stillness of simple things. Like that random sound mixing in the hood with other sounds. How those multiple sounds create a symphonic bliss in your head as they track with the natural symphony you’ve curated since birth. They can’t understand the rapid way in which your blood pushes it and makes you even less confused. I can’t either, but I’m going to be different. I wish you could all come with me, but you can’t. I have to sail away in this state with my young family. We have to be willing to continue on in love and color. Continue in poetry of the littlest things we see in a day. Adhere to the most silent voices, the silent ones that whisper in the dark to believe in yourself, to believe in the heart of what you are becoming, regardless if “they” understand how willing you actually can be in becoming who you are.  I hear it and I’m here.

RS.5 Reaches And Gestures


A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1935)

Within reach is this powerful version of yourself. At the gates, down the hall, through the passage ways of the relentless cherishes. The face bright, a mild sense of insanity compels you beyond this version, this vision of lost and the flowering gestures of your present time. What will one say as the passers by learn their riches? What will the edges of the sober breathe give to the madness? Can you, the staple being of your own existence set aside a propagandized life for the sake of living? These warm thoughts cooked up by the simple reaches and gestures I see and feel in a day. My body chemistry speaking to the masses on an historical avenue tucked away in this planet. The vibrated looks of their eyes jumping into the depths of nowhere. The quasi bop of the walk, the insecure, the checking endless update of now. We are here. We are the animal instincts in the heat of a chakra. The whole spectrum raining down, and what we stick to in our grasp we foresee in the futures of time we cannot count on. The spectacle in consistently attempting to be present, or simply, aware of the fake attributions of our know hows. I declare a wild state of madness to justify how I sway here. I will dance with the silhouette eye in the obscure, always. Even as I traverse the mundane of this box I sit next to and have to push with a rolling eye.

RS.4 History’s Malleability By Danny Sherrod


Lee Miller’s “A Woman’s War”

Welcome Guest Writer Danny Sherrod

O.K. Allow me to say something that will shock you. Here goes…
Within a few years (30? 50?) every human being on Earth will owe his or her existence to Adolf Hitler. The same must be said of Vladimer Lenin. It can already be said of Alexander The Great, Julius Caesar, The Emperor Augustus, Saint Paul, Constantine The Great, Mohammad, George Washington, Napoleon Bonaparte, Abraham Lincoln, and numerous other persons of historical significance. In fact, by looking back several generations, we could probably select people lacking any sort of fame whose effect on history may have been similar. Allow me to elaborate.

World War II resulted in the deaths of over 50 million people (military and civilian). So what became of all the offspring those millions would have produced? They never existed. Therefore, they never produced the subsequent generations (totaling many millions of people) which would have followed them. Had they existed, they would have married and/or reproduced in combinations far different from the ones that occurred, producing entirely different people that the ones we see today.
Next, let’s examine someone much less famous. Imagine a man living in the year 1600. Let’s suppose that he has seven children, and all those children proceed to have large families. After a few generations, we may be talking about quite a few people here, and some of them could be pivotal individuals in the stream of history. Do you see how this works? That unnamed fellow may have had a world changing effect on history.

More shocking still, our existence rests on past events of all sorts, ranging from the noble to the heinous. Yes, even innumerable rapes and murders have clearly played a role because they changed the combinations of who lived, who died, and who reproduced.

Of course this is an entirely non-theistic view of history. If you believe that a supreme being preordained that you would one day exist, then what I have written above is nonsense to you. But if you don’t subscribe to a theistic viewpoint, what I have said is inescapable.

So, this is for those who don’t take a religious view:
The next time you hear of a tragedy involving the loss of human life, remember, you may be witnessing the loss of generations that will never exist, and the creation of generations that will take their place.

by Danny Sherrod

RS.3 Whispering Robots In The Dark


If you’re not a musician, or an individual who is trying to promote a message, a product, or simply, yourself, then you won’t have any idea about the whispering robots in the dark. You won’t understand the constant pimpery (my word) that is taking place online. I’ll use my music project as an example here.

For almost ten years I have thought highly of myself for being a straight laced diy artists. I felt like I was really good at hustling my work, making new relationships so I could manipulate these online personas into covering my creations. You probably have a grip of online friends who you’ve never met. There’s a back and forth of regularity thats some what trusted. We have these weird unspoken “word is bond” esque contracts in the modern era. Back in my fathers day it was a handshake, now my generation has somehow transferred that into the digital realm, and emails, or tweets. Its all for shrinking the globe into our devices to get more out of promoting what you, the individual, is doing. Some are really good at it, transfixed on the notion of being relevant by the second. Hustle it baby!

But its all bullshit, all of it. Everyone is pushing a product, retweeting their work, or merchandise to the masses to perpetuate the fickle following they’ve obtained over the years. I use to think that most of the traffic on Soundcloud was organic in all forms. All my work up to this point has been, plays, comments, likes, etc. And there’s a lot of them. But my most recent experience revealed the impossibility of trying to get yourself in the right spaces to be heard. You have to pay, period. There’s is no denying it, or sugar coating it to death. The new paradigm is quite disgusting and its killing me a little. Making me wanna be a flower on an empty hill. Trust me when I tell you, that label you think is huge, it’s not. They’re just really good at social media.

Recently it was disclosed that Soundcloud is in financial trouble. And quite possibly might not be around much longer. At first I thought how bad this would be, but now I’m thinking it might be a great thing. A sure thing to clean out the cobwebs of  failed dreams, and people, while heartfelt in theirs hopes to make music, or cover music, not willing enough to make a worthy product for the sphere of creativity. The business of music is fake, it doesn’t get much clearer. So what do we do about it?

If you’ve ever sent your work into a website to get press, you’ll soon discover you’re asking someone to promote  you, and the amount of work that requires. The timing, moods, and all the other things that go with how you come across, or what they want from you, soon punch you in the face, and beg the question “Why am I doing this?”. They don’t want canned messages, not a long message, not a short message, not a message at all. There’s a whirlwind of “about pages” and “contact pages” on hype machine you can surf through and spin the wheel, see what kinds of fortune will come your way. You can figure you’ll get a 10% return on a 100 submissions if you’re lucky. Thats about my average, maybe, give or take. Worth it?

Its not worth the shitty writing that you’re bound to get on the song you’ve worked tirelessly on. Some are really good, but most are lazy. A few words, and a widget, couple of likes, and then off to the archives. Or even worse, you do an interview or special post for a website, and they delete the thing after a short period of time, thanks jerk. That happens more than you think. We owe it to music to stop making our material so widely available for free, and we owe it to ourselves to make the press realize we’re not little pawns in a “soundtrack for your life” factory. We’re artists, and you shouldn’t get to treat the sounds like ketchup for your french fries. Ultimately, I will either hire a PR person at some point, or swim in my flowering solitude, with a mostly obscure reclusive existence.

We need to dropout to stop the suppressing corporate hands from turning our hearts into wide eyed, smile faced emoji that only see the future by how many people liked, shared, or tweeted our work. The 20th centuries energy killer was the television, and the influx of cubicle culture. Well now those very cubicles are mobile in the form of a smart phone. Remember that the next time you’re texting and accidentally run into a tree. It hurts your face, really bad.



Rumination Station.1 – Modern Hustlers


The core of a human’s soul can’t fix the reality of modern times and how we are perceived through the bright windows of our techno sensibility.  The revelation of who we are, how we dress, and how we fuck. Even more so, how we listen to music, which defines most of the former. Coupled with the dynastic strangle hold of marketing mascots and the ever shifting pay-to-play ethics, and you have a recipe for disaster. I can be a “modern hustler” sometimes, but mostly I’m fending off these molds of irrelevance by creating sounds in the comforts of solitude, and a loving community. You take a step back, let a beat play for a second, and the whole god damn world changes in front of you as your twitter feed updates. Who’s in, who’s out, whats the new new, and what is Kanye (fake artist) saying now? Its a sad place to be, but who can stop it? How do we stop it? Is it all a sham, coasting down the supernovas of your poor wifi connection? There’s hope to be sure.

As a friend and I discussed this over dinner, ultimately some kind of reclusive beauty of making art for the sake of making it for yourself, wins out. How that progresses into some other kind of persona in your “real” life to make your immediate community better is king, and the rest, well, leave that to the passers by who live life in a small box of madness. The cell phone is the new cubical, and we’re all slaves now.