Friday, 27 October 2017



I stood transfixed, the d-beat and crust rhythms I’d been heard in the great mother’s song were also coming from the crouched woman. Her glowing white yellow eyes locked with mine, shining, but also filled with primal rage. She had long dark hair with white ethereal grey streaks. It was tied back in a platted pony tail. It looked magical and like something from a Lord of The Rings movie from days of old. Her skin was a ghostly silver. Clearly some other kind of being was peering into my soul. Humanoid, but she wasn’t human. 

She had ripped denim jeans, which were a mix of the same colour as her ghostly silver skin, but interwoven with denim blue. Punk patches covered them ranging from hc, hc punk, crust, d-beat, celtic punk, and more. I thought it was just me who displayed devotion to the ancient sacred arts. The only difference was my pant’s artistic attire also featured the lost forms of real hip hop. 

Her torso featured a sleeveless shirt with d-beat logos, which were as catching as her very eyes. Her arms were covered in bright green patterns that ran across her skin like flowing rivers.

I raised my hands slowly, keeping them held in the air, demonstrating I had no hostile intentions. I carefully walked towards the desk she was crouched upon. All the while I could hear d-beat ring through the air, it was hard to stand still, but this wasn’t the time for dancing. Stopping before her, I removed my helm and maintained eye contact. She smiled and said in a strange voice;

‘I’ve waited for you, I saw you before, before this came to be’.
‘Ok’, I answered curiously, thinking to myself, she is not from the FCC (First Culture Corporation), but who and what is she?

‘You have heard her, I serve her. You hear the song, I’m part of that song. You are from before. You know how this world should be, and why now, it is what you see’, she simply stated politely in a firm tone.

Truth be told folks, I was still in shock. Its like that feeling you get when you meet someone that has actually heard of the bands you like and listen to, and you say;

There was one method, a surefire method to help in this situation. I consulted my pocket elitist metal bible, finding the chapter on punk, I worked through the various 10 steps to find out if she was ‘true’. Check band patches, shirts, uniform, reaction to band names, and does she know what the genres are. 

After almost boring her to death with my authenticity assessment, I asked;
‘Are you her?’.
‘No, but if you look within, you know what I am. I’ve always been there, just forgotten and eroded. Eroded like the music you and I love, what we all once loved’, she responded.
‘Why are you here?’, I answered.
‘To show you something’, said the silver skinned woman. 

She smiled and pointed towards an opening behind her where a window had once been. She lept down from the desk and jumped out the opening, I heard her say;


I thought oh great, so much for thinking it was time to rest and chat about lost gems of d-beat. I paused for a moment, did she just? And, yes she had jumped without a second thought. I heard a rumbling sound come from the stair well. I turned around suddenly, looking at the door. Thick slabs of stone dropped in the doorway, followed by an impactful sound of the very stairs themselves hitting the floors below. Dust filled the air, which caused me to cough vigorously. It was time to go, so I climbed down the building. I'd developed my free running abilities to an average standard during my travels. I knew when to run and avoid falling to my doom, but there wasn't much choice, so I quickly manoeuvred down the outside of the building.  

Despite my enhancements, I reached the bottom some time after the silver skinned woman. I glanced back at the tall tower, it was still standing. I then heard a voice shout;
‘Come, come see’.

I turned around to my right, and noticed a silver glow next to a small apartment complex across the road. I walked to where the silver glow was. Arriving moments later, I could see the silver skinned woman stood at the side of the complex, and pointing at a small clearing where the moonlight was shining.   

'Do you have a name, so I can stop saying silver woman in my notes'?, I said with a dry humourous tone.
'Achillea', she said laughing. 

The answer added more to my suspicion about her. It revealed who she was and why she existed. Achillea perked my interest, but for the moment, I would entertain what she wanted me to see. It wasn’t like I was going to be at the next wine tasting conference anytime soon. We both walked to the small clearing where the moonlight shone, then Achillea said;
‘Stop, watch, and listen’.

A group of small beetles were scurrying around on the floor, then they stood upright. I looked at Achillea, she simply said;
‘Just watch and listen’.

The sounds of hc punk filled the air. They were genres that had not been heard since ancient times outside of my own audio player. I could hear remnants of nyhc, crust, d-beat, grindcore, celtic punk, hc, and more. 

Achillea said again;
‘Keep listening Wanderer’.

The beetles stopped, then danced. Achillea turned to face me and touched my heart with her hand. My body jerked and tingled as warm energies flowed and coursed through my body. I could feel the raw essence of punk, images and distant memories becoming clearer, returning to me. The experience was something much more pure than the songs I listened to on my audio device.

Achillea's words filled my mind as she said;
‘See what was, what can be again, see her anger, her pain, see the true words behind her song, listen to her’.

During that moment, I felt her hand leave my chest as I fell back to the floor. I struggled to my knees, looking at the beetles, which had vanished just like Achillea. I coughed and thought;
‘I’m definitely mad’.

My hand was on the concrete ground supporting me as I tried to rise to my feet. I was feeling nauseous, my fingers were burning hot as they felt the concrete's surface. I quickly became paralyised and rooted to the spot where I stood. The surface vibrated and energies of hc punk passed through my body again. 

I'm not sure I can accurately convey the experience, a profound day, which offered both peace and sadness. The song confirmed my private thoughts, but the words also filled me with deep sorrow. The Great Mother spoke of her torment and grief for what filler had done to her. She'd said my music, the sound waves, the vibrations from my audio device, were slowly helping the spirits of punk and hip hop return.

I realised what my mission would be, it no longer revolved around personal solace. It was time to share my music, which was also her music. It wouldn't be easy. 

I hear the Earth’s song, her song. I know why I must wander, and know where I must go. I feel the energy of hc punk, the wisdom of hip hop, just like I once did, like so many did, so long ago. They are no longer just tracks I listen to on my audio device. The sounds are within me, I hear the guitars, I hear the rhymes, I hear the songs, and I hear the beats. The rhythmic sounds of The Wastelands stir my soul, I am The Waste Wanderer.

Achillea, the silver punk, watched The Waste Wanderer from a nearby multi storey car park. Inside it contained a graveyard of scrap metal husks and faded lines indicating where drivers once parked. The stench irritated Achillea, the smell of the land sickened her, and the grim colours were often depressing, despite her fondness for dusk. 

The skies thundered, rain began lashing down fiercely on her. The water highlighted her silver skin tones. Within minutes she became drenched and soaked, but Achillea simply shrugged, keeping her attention on The Waste Wanderer. His hand left the Earth, he stood up, and jogged inside the small apartment complex.

Achillea gazed ahead into the distant horizon, noting the abandoned roadways and city tower blocks that stood waiting for the salvage gangs to visit them.

Achillea looked up at the sky and disappeared into the night. 

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