It’s snowing today, which means all of my previous excursions for the day have been done away with. Shame, that. I was planning on paying the Metro station steps a musical visit. I was going to Busk and see what monetary gains came of it. I would not be doing this as a representative of the Goth Conglomerate, that which was once a band but has now become tradition; I would, instead, be a solo act,plucking away on a make shift guitar (composed of an empty box of tissue paper wrapped in rubber bands), wailing about the apocalypse, the death urge and generally trying to play with the sensibilities of these grimdark ice people.

Too bad for that. I’ve instead been relegated to doing further research into my Journalism program, a process that involves no less than pouring through reference guides and studies of occult subcultures in this United States. For a city so steeped in occult lore and tradition, the Capital is surprisingly devoid of any real magick organizations. At least, this is all according to the books. I’m sure that once I get to digging through the human masses with my fingers something shall turn up. It would be nice to find such people up here, not only for my project but as well for the interests I have in gathering the like-minded around me. Being surrounded by political minds is draining on the soul; I believe it was Nietzsche who once noted that only the most impoverished of spirits would enter into politics. There’s really no other way to explain away their love for aural trash like Animal Collective and their disdain for classic acts such as Danzig and The Jam.

But then, this is not unexpected. Washington as a city lacks any real musical scene these days, at least one that can be found through the searching of the internet. All the city attracts are various indie groups from around the nation, retaining nothing of the remarkable hardcore charm established here during the heights of punk. All that remains of the native scene are the buskers, those men I wished to join this weekend. They are not talented, mind you; they know all of three notes on the saxophone, and their playing is often mistaken for the sounds that accompany the stopping of a train. They are also a dishonest sort, looking well fed and clothed yet begging for money to pay for their meals. Some are genuinely homeless, I’ve no doubt, but so often they look better even than I, and I’ve taken recent pains to curb my sloppy presentation!

Now I cast these quibbles aside. There is too much in the proud tradition of these people for me to continue complaining as such, so I shall not. I will instead investigate their community, just as assuredly as I shall investigate the invisible circus of the occult. My findings shall be made known to you either in the ramblings of this blog or in their adaptation into the world of Garage Raja. Whatever the case, you shall soon be made privy to all that I will know!

Best of luck to you, friends.