THE COLLEGE HILL INDEPENDENT


Notes on Hip Hop

by by By Matt Weiss

What is a spell? It’s the transmission of a certain vibration. Energy flowing through the spellcaster causes subtle cataclysms that realign the courses of lakes, streams, and reservoirs. Energy is detained and then released. It is sharpened by mirrors in the mind of the spellcaster. Content exits through the eyes, the face, the hands, and through certain words. The hands of the spellcaster are always activated in the translation of this vibration into the air. A continual transmission causes the neural patterns of those whose hearts can be shaken to snap around an attractor. Perception itself walks down certain corridors. Some sconces are lit and others are not. A window reveals that the corridor had always been a tunnel. Gold was spurting out from the center of the earth. This is the power, and the butterfly himself deals in white magic. Terror and anxiety are twisted into paradox, and confusion grants a precious moment to the escaping soul. Taunts and remorse are only heard by a dizzy child suspended above the crowd. This is the spirit of the spellcaster.

The spellcaster has many spells. The plant essences that cause the flowers to open are constantly slipping on their cytoskeletons. The sun and the perfume draw it out. We convince ourselves we won’t die. There is a monster stomping somewhere who starts to run. He forms a pink firework in the lower atmosphere. We did a lot of things that were terrible in order for the singsings to come back. At the end of the movie, we were sweeping up. We lived at the end of the nineteenth century. We wouldn’t let ourselves believe how beautiful we had become.

A temple massage is a sex spell. Waves of blindness sear the corners of our conceptual braids to a light golden brown. The slow waggle of an exposed penis heralds ghosts wailing around the avatar sex person while a ray of light shoots through the curtain. The woman turns back into a woman. This is a precarious freedom. A hypnogogic freedom. The world shudders. A manic freedom. The walls give way. Joy is hopefully distorted and the whole structure admits through the sky.
We accepted ourselves as frightening and hopeful. This was a covenant stronger than we were. The problem scooper destroys all problems in a legitimate way.

I saw Shabazz Palaces on the night of April 12th in Northhampton, MA at the Iron Horse Music Hall. The previous night they had been in Montreal. The next night they were in New York City. The crowd was filled with college students. I had one beer. I left my credit card at the bar by accident. That night I and my companion slept in the crew house at Amherst. On the walls was a V for Vendetta poster. At 8:30 in the morning, I woke up because the sun was shining directly on me. I was sweating and uncomfortable. I sat in a chair across the room for fifteen minutes. Then the sun passed, and I went back to bed.

MATT WEISS B’12 is spurting from the center.