Happy music from sinew strung on bone in the winter night (Total Holocaust of All Poseurs)

The dog and I run on trails through the woods at dusk . The trail is packed snow; it gets soft and deep the second you step off. The firmness underfoot is a signal that we're still on it; the sensation tells us enough to navigate in complete darkness. The trail is a dim white, the trees black scratches, the sky a colorless glow. We're running together through a winter forest at night.

After a couple of miles the regular swinging and pounding in my legs is like scratching an itch. I constantly renegotiate my tempo with the topography: with a little thought I fit my moves to the terrain. I gallop down a smooth slope, bounce around a curve or slowly push up a steep hill. The dog amuses herself investigating something I'll never see through a hole in the snow. then scampers back to catch up. Her tongue and tail are flapping like crazy flags of dog nation.

Running through the winter night, I realized the analogy between making sound and moving: a string is held taut between two points on the neck and body of a wooden instrument; its pitch is set by the tension, its volume by the force that plucks it. Each muscle is held taut between two points on my bones; their tension, the resistance they encounter, and the force with which I meet it make me move. The sensation I feel is the echo of the action.

It's a repetitive thrum punctuated by reflective slowdowns, soaring bombast and agonizing surges of merciless blastbeats. Running plays soundless music inside my body. And you know what?

It sounds  exactly like the middle of the second Emperor album, Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk. Yes: I must explain to the dog that she and I represent the only authentic Black Metal in a vast forestful of posers.