High

who is this HIGH?
What is it about the Pacific Northwest that makes it's residents so crazy and weird? What is it about this mildewed patch? One doesn't have to walk far from the backyard to experience the creeping menace found in the woods, the soul-cracking expansiveness and desolation in the desert, or the hollow feeling in the stomach one grows accustomed to when living between angry volcanic peaks and the hopeless eternity of that cold ocean. Perhaps it's this residence in an area where four distinct ecosystems wallop into one another that fucks up the brains equilibrium. Is it any wonder that the music emanating from Earth's wet end is instantly recognizable as only being able to come from here?
High comes from a time before kids needed to wear psuedogoth makeup to identify themselves as practitioners of pussy emoting punk. They aren't about to fake a suicide on some broads lawn to find attention. Likewise, they aren't about to dress like Mexican Hip-Hoppers while crying like Coldplay. Music isn't about therapy. It's about moving the body, moving the mind, joyous ecstatic journeys for the soul. There was a time before post-grunge, emo, nu-metal and Bright Eyes when kids took drugs. And had sex. And practiced occult rituals, that usually involved drugs and sex. That was a good time to grow up. No one cared about fashion. To look like everyone else wasn't cool. Punk was the ability to have good taste, not a store at the mall. A time when a good night involved hot unprotected sex on acid with psychedelic rock playing loud on the stereo, not limp handjobs with tears for lube and the drug of choice is swapping each other's SSRI's while reading passages from each other's internet diaries. Youthful hedonism versus the pussification of young adulthood. High says fuck that and fuck you!
So let's explore the sound of High. They ARE that psychedelic band on the stereo when you pull your teenage panties down around your ankles. They are there to put images in your mind, images of heat waves rising from the desert , a desert space-ritual, where your naked mud-caked body detaches from your brain. Your essence leaves your dying form and you are pure, as pure as you were at birth. The electric-erotic tingles your non-physically bonded form, and you are able to become the superhuman you always wanted to be, ageless, powerful, sexy and violent. But all good things can never last, and this self-induced gnosis comes crashing back down to earth, its dark now. Your boatman knows what must happen. get the fuck out of the desert, WE MUST MAKE OCEAN BY DAYBREAK. You barely remember the trees on that mountain pass, speeding to that icy expanse, cleanse the gods' fingerprints from your body, there is hope in haste. Smokestack Lightning, the city passes like a hazy frozen ghost and sleep takes hold. "eat some more, let's get strange." You're dancing on string you porky fucking puppet, what did you think, you could control this? You better keep swaying in the breeze like a swamp tree before your mind shatters. And when it does you might like it. You found the candy under the dancer and the ocean beckons with a cleansing. Twirl with all your might until the sun shoots stars into your veins and the trees are backwards, you have reached madness, your eyes are gone, looking into the back of your pink skull. The beach is empty, you scared the birds away. You stink, confused and alone.
Now you have an excuse to eat Prozac. To write internet poetry and see a shrink. Not because the TV tells you, but because you really are damaged, according to society. High welcomes you to them. Just know what it is that you really want before you hug back.
It was a great time to grow up. A great place too.
"Buy the ticket, take the ride. - Hunter S. Thompson"
"It will make you a stronger human" Dr. Meyer '06()