WHEAT FIELD AMBIENCE & FREQUENCIES | 528 HZ + 741 HZ CLEANSE by DREW MOSMAN
December 17 2024There are sigils painted on the I5 southbound on-ramp. They were covered a month ago but you can still see the outlines, the curves. If you time it right, at that spot, before the flow of the commute, a single prayer can change the course of your life.
Sitting on the interstate, right in the thick of it, I can sense the heat death we are moving towards, collectively, and from my observations, enthusiastically. This is Americana, this is our nation distilled down to a few miles of porous asphalt. The single mother next to me, the Norwood four HVAC man next to her, we melt into one amid the rising heat waves of our vehicles. Love is the union of two people, two objects. Briefly, on the federal road, we are ecstatic.
Today is no different, the same interstate, the same froth of traffic, the same lights on my dash lit up, the same heat, always the heat. I think about what has driven me to be here, I wonder if something has been lost. I think of a field of golden wheat, perfect wheat with spikes full and crunchy, a large field of this perfect wheat and a gentle slope down to some water, endless water, water with a distant horizon, water that laps onto a sandy beach just before the rolling hills of perfect, bushy spiked wheat, a grape tree on the beach, or any fruit, pluckable fruit, I envision this inside my car on the interstate, my blood boiling. When my intellect degrades, when my synapses start to sputter, I believe this vision will remain, it has no connection to my own growing and shrinking mind, it flows through my veins. This is what is brought forth in this car, this heat.
A text from a friend, one that I met in the city several years ago through absurd circumstances. I can barely focus my eyes, he is asking if I want to join him for a quick trip, just a week or two, Porto Katsiki, the Ionian, he tells me to think about the sunset over the Ionian, think about it, he says. I am sweating profusely. A port town sounds nice, fresh food, clean linen. I text back, how much? The traffic creeps along, there is no stopping it, the pauses trick you, lull you, but you’re off again. I see several people walking across an overpass. I wonder if they see the heat rising from my car, the air distorted. Everyone on the overpass seems ready to jump, there is no avoiding it, in the face of inevitable disaster one must be poised to act. These people are ready to act, I can sense that. Even if they do not, they are ready. My friend texts back, my parents, don’t even worry about it. Don’t even worry about it. Last summer, I joined this same friend at his family lake cabin, it had a large living room with ornate brass sculptures. He had attended a small and relatively unknown yet highly distinguished sculpting school on the outskirts of Berlin two summers ago. His focus was on multi-planar interaction, the hierarchy of such things. His mother had loved his work. A long staircase with a walnut handrail led down to the lake, the handrail was sanded, waxed, finished with a glossy hue. I vividly remember sliding my hand down this rail, thinking it was like some gene-modified tortoiseshell, the grain passing like waves beneath my hand. I had never felt anything so smooth. We ate figs down at the shore, we drank wine and we talked about the women we had bed that school year. I look at his text again and then look up. In my rearview mirror, I see a dark figure fall from the overpass. The flow does not stop, we creep along.
The woman next to me has her mouth open, her face is tense, I can tell she is screaming. Not from the body behind us but from this flow, this life, this cruel slaughter on the interstate. There is a sticker on the side of her SUV, her hair is thinning. There is an irrepressible force that bonds this woman and I and everyone else in this country and given even the slightest encouragement I know we would be on our hands and knees on the black, grippy asphalt foaming at the mouth towards each other as nature intended. We are bottled up, we are trying to get home.
About ten minutes from my apartment my car receives some unknown signal from a deity or force or cherubim with intentions that will remain untold to me and it starts to cool down. I used to think I was imagining the whole thing, that the heat was a mirage of the highway, some curse to drive me to madness while riding a road over unholy land. But then I’d step out of my car with a sweat stain so dark I thought I was being Rorschach-ed by the same cherubim.
My apartment has a faint scent of celery root. I think about the port town, about the walnut handrail. I walk through the room without turning on the lights. I turn on my speaker, I play a loop of frequencies, 528 Hz, 741 Hz. I think about the wheat field, the grape tree. I open the bedroom door and see my girlfriend asleep, her head atop a pillow, the one that she holds so dear, thin as a blanket. I have never been more in love.
Drew is a writer and carpenter in Seattle, WA.