For those of hapless wit,
Maintaining allegorical derivatives from Proto-Germanic scripts,
Who dare to exclaim a pedagogy formed on a basis of
Expensive cigarettes and anxietal duress,
Will Wood would like to explain his self.
For those who profoundly speak the dullest of words in the most mundane
sentences, fueled by overpriced coffee and oxaflozane,
Spending time writing poetry from the perspectives of Brodmann’s personal ghosts,
Pushing brooches into your eyes, like a right Theban tragedy,
Will Wood would like to show his self.
To every pervasive art student that spent their last Friday night
With the beatnicks, dressed in casual urban decay,
Hanging on the tracks of a path not meant to be travelled,
Slinging contextually vague Joyce quotes,
Empty- minus the Henney- and depraved from the suburban summertime
Of graphic early-20th-century boredom,
Watching your connective tissues degrade as your bury yourself further and further into
Jane Austen novels and Palahnuikian chemical burns,
Shut the fuck up.
Will Wood is about to speak on behalf of his Self.
One too many distorted evenings on Avenue A holding hands with Evan Williams and meeting handsome Dustins/Justins around the corner at Eastern Block- one too many vodka-red bull IV drips and bad bumps of angina pectoris off dirty housekeys. Gracelessly sliding a cracked phone across waxy table tops to uninterested pixie-cut acoustic nobodies in search of a foil to my protagonist. 20 mg XR amphetamine salts, 2am at the Hoboken train station with a homeless ex-rabbi who says he’d show me 9 inches for $60. I turned down the offer but shared a quick six-pack of light beer behind a closed-down box office. One too many doses of tongue-numbing MK Ultra agents with no street name but chemical codes to identify their class and distinct effects. One too many broken offers, one too many twisted visions, one too many cracked sights and shattered lightbulbs hovering over my rotten storm cloud rainbow head. And I only got half a fucking song out of it.
You could ask your Terrence McKennas and your Daniel Pinchbecks about it, all spun out on revolution. The noxious, toxic notion that the page is almost full and we’ll need a new sheet to make any more art– that post-apocalyptic is the new post-modern. The social awareness of Tyler Durden on a bender. The age of Aquarius came and it brought nothing more than the war on drugs and Lyndon B. Johnson’s apparently enormous member. Now, we’re expected to believe that Quetzocoatl is returning to us in the form of global warming and the iPhone 5? How many hallucinatory visions of apocalypse do we as a culture need to have? Or are these little armageddons piling up? Thank God for revelation, thank Christ for rapture– because if there’s no tomorrow, there are no consequences.
“Cotard’s Solution (Anatta, Dukkha, Annica)”
Herman Hesse never wrote about it, but I’m fairly certain our old pal Siddhartha had a touch of the Borderline Personality Disorder. The Mahayana Buddhists and Hindu ascetics worked pretty god damn hard to ascertain that the self is an illusion- what is it, the Veil of Maya? I’m blanking on my vocabulary here— Samsara? Identity dissolution being symptomatic of a Cluster B psychiatric disorder as well as some religious and philosophical schools of thought, Mr. Cotard himself would have a few questions regarding the legitimacy of attempting to maintain one’s own internal fengshui. The ego isn’t wrapping correctly around the Id, and the superego is leaking through that hole. Maybe there’s a center, maybe there’s just space around space around space until we hit flesh and bone and can’t do anything but physically exist until everything stops happening.
“Mr. Capgras Encounters A Secondhand Vanity: Tulpamancer’s Prosopagnosia/Pareidolia (As Direct Result of Trauma to Fusiform Gyrus)”
As a man with an underdeveloped hippocampus and an tiny, overactive amygdala, I find myself deeply concerned with the connective tissue between events. Imagine, if you will, a man in a funhouse hall of mirrors with a flashlight and a bag of masks, and on the other end of the maze is his twin brother, also carrying a flashlight and a bag of masks. Now let’s say they’ve both taken the exact same amount of psilocybin and have a time limit of four minutes and nineteen seconds to meet in the center and figure out who’s who before the explosives in the basement go off and they’re left skinless hunks of charcoal drenched in smoke and fire.
“The Song with Five Names a.k.a. Soapbox Tao a.k.a Checkmate Atheists! a.k.a You Can Never Know”
Take your average edgy teenager first dabbling in psychoactive substances- you know he’s going to use a Gideon page to wrap one up – this time let’s make sure to twist a fat one with Exodus 3:14, and burn some bush at Wilde Memorial Park with Ethan and Lumpy under the gazebo. There’s a house full of English majors nearby- every one of them fancies themselves a real poet, and every one of them is far more educated in the science of our beautiful tongue than I. Ask any one of them, with a belly full of wine, which one of them Dharma Bum Jack Kerouac Ken Kesey Hunter Thompson Tim Leary wannabes has the closest and most accurate appraisal of the core of the truth? Which one of these youthful epiphanies most closely matches Satori on a level that sounds like one hand clapping and a tree falling in the woods when nobody can hear it? Sock it to me, baby, I wanna bleed nihilism, breathe existentialism, and cry tears of absurdism under a new moon at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors. We quote enough Kant and Sartre at each other and drink enough boxed sangria we’ll get to the bottom of this whole thing.
“Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In!”
Lets slam back a couple O’Douls and get down to brass tacks here- the only difference between rock bottom and topsoil is how sharp your shovel is. Now I’ve got a pickaxe and a body to bury, so show me where X marks the spot and we’ll get to the bottom of this.
“Dr. Sunshine Is Dead”
Will Wood was unavailable for comment
Sometimes, after fourteen hours of intense sensory distortion and psychological amplification, you’re too exhausted to see how far you were able to get. Sometimes you feel dry and unaccomplished- sure you had a few good belly laughs and a few hugs with some good people, but you’re the same as you were going into the whole thing. Nothing wrong with that. Other times you get spat out the other side a writhing, blubbering tangle of crossed wires and trauma, wishing none of it had ever happened so you could go back to being as ignorant as you were. Of course, we’re all aiming for the times when you arrive at the summit of a mountain and can look down on the rest of the world like a sprawling ant farm, knowing that with your head in the clouds you can see more of the ground. We were told the journey was the destination but we’re at the destination and the journey is very clearly over. Fuckin’ hippies. How was it for you? Did you get yours? I feel different. Not better, not worse, but different. Oh well, no turning back now.
Will Wood and the Tapeworms are a five-piece experimental rock outfit based out of northern New Jersey, lead by singer/songwriter and pianist Will Wood, who appeared entirely out of nowhere some time in 2015. Armed with cleverly-crafted and surreal anti-folk songs, Wood assembled a group of performers and began crashing around New Jersey covered in face paint and confetti. Unusual instrumentation, foreign scales, and highly theatrical performances give Will Wood and the Tapeworms a unique and hard-to-define voice. Will Wood and the Tapeworms dress up in drag and bowties, barrel around the stage hollering at the top of their lungs, and unpredictably swing from collapsing to their knees to collapsing into each others arms. And while the Tapeworms pump up audiences, Will Wood entertains with shockingly honest comedy and personal anecdotes about his life as a true eccentric. They regularly perform on the NJ/NY indie scene and plan to begin national touring soon.