A Couple New Audio Updates

Audio for "The Ides of Moths" and "dreaming dead" is up now. If you're only going to waste your time with one, waste it with "The Ides of Moths" they are both a bit long. If you want to hear the bizarre unedited ramblings of some self-generated trance state I entered while writing one night, and let my consciousness intermingle with your own then listen to "dreaming dead" I know when I listened to it after I recorded I felt my own consciousness intermingle with my current consciousness, and it was quite an embarrassing affair, to say the least. The respective posts have also been updated with the audio. Here they are:

The Ides of Moths

dreaming dead

I'll be trying to update more frequently, but I've been doing this thing where I start up a new story and write several pages and then start another one and another one and don't quite finish any of them. One of those things is the third part of Zen Noir which I know no one is waiting for with baited breath. In fact, you're not even reading this blog right now! I've realized my site traffic has gone down quite a bit, down to the point where people actually read it and then immediately get a leave of absence, sell their homes or sublease their apartments, put all their belongings in their car and drive to the google server farm building where all the blogspot blogs are hosted and set up camp in shanty towns to protest the existence of my blog. Finally, after many months of this, some google employee will finally break down and just to get these guys to leave, will go into the servers and remove a bunch of pageviews from my stats, so that these protesters can retroactively claim that they never visited the sight, and the google employees do this not because they were actually protesting effectively, but because their families sent heartbreaking letters to google about how terrible it is for their kids to grow up without a Dad just because he's out protesting that some random blog really sucks. But the joke is on google, because the protesters actually forged these letters and really have no loved ones or dependents or pets or even stray cats that they run into every once in a while and pat on the head and say, "Well, you're a pretty little kitty, yes you are yes you are, isn't you?! Meow, meow meow!!" So in short, my reputation is being ruined by people who stray cats don't even give a shit about, this much is clear. So if you are reading this blog you are likely a friend to stray cats everywhere and I'm not yet sure how to put this important demographic information to use. I will ask the next stray cat I meet. Seriously. I'm actually going to ask the next cat I see this question in English and then look incredibly disappointed when it just meows or walks in a circle or whatever. Seriously (I am actually going to do this in case it wasn't totally clear).

dreaming dead

So I will briefly preface this by saying that one day I found this text file on my computer and honestly had no knowledge of having created it, or when, or under what circumstances. But I am fairly certain that I did write it because it felt quite familiar as I reread it in a deja vu sort of way. I've only done a bit of editing to make it more readable, but that's not to say that it's readable now, only that it's more readable than before. 

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dying blood screams in red on street corners after shootouts,

"Oxygen! Oxygen!"

so soon after coursing through a head

spitting up trails of veins

spit shuttles by my tongue on railways sideways

breathing shuttles dressing up on tank tread muscles wishing for the threshold like a number of reality realization permanence lucid wanderings through the street wishing up a new meadow never rumbles, a tourist attraction slumps on its side for pictures taken by the dead eyes of cell phones pictures never living until the last dread outcome that signals the end of which things?

I separate the colors of retinal perception out and compress them into video dreams:

tape stutters slow shutter

warbling breath in trance

expose luminous breath taking ages of time between

slow shutter blink and strobe light masks the heart of entity creativity

trance stutter revolves like a typewriter simulation screens of flickering characters spread out never forming blundering out of the high threshold of death passing over from the shrill worries of dogs barking Diogenes

waits in his tub for the last simulation to end wake up walking dreams fall and stutter it is inevitable fall and stutter wake break up and walls shut out daylight passing to manipulate the sky with the smog of laziness, breathing in, a fingertip's pulse

the roads of everywhere lead here:

fluttering eye lids gild the edges of sleep and awake

breathing always

I dreamed I, wakefulness fluttering behind eyelids stutter awake eyes themselves, a mistake for the sunrise the glittering cityscape bleeding a tongue of dead red

blood escapes on concrete believes what it wants to be in the ages of self destroying, great apes

on dead cellphones again trying to sleep while awake make mind empty with attachment again,

refill with caffeine and daily news/internet information asylum duplicate

and the sleep on eyelid canvases

ripped through with phosphene traces

occipital lobe flashing with colors

and the waves of color

wait there and see what you will plan to see and flickering they will enhance the jargon of waking

breath your scope sees dead brothers walking and can't stop the ongoing occlusion of the mind

relaxing and sublimating edges of color past eyelids; here are the eyes:

portals true and through

and stuttering color waiting through the passing of threads a passing of all color waiting for the enhancing of time, of light, of the tumescent flesh of white sails billowing the the dark water flashing swaths of moonlit glory and it stops suddenly. It bleeds through the reality waiting there all the time behind the allegories and faster and faster the colors bleed hallucinations onto fingers so fast you can barely keep up and suddenly hallucinations {bleed onto [fingers} can barely keep up on the keyboard] and there in the midst of these waves it's Odysseus again, protagonist superlative

and so come again with me to sit and postulate on the shoulders of the ancients, rather hanging from their armpit hair, if we can be said to see a little weaker than they, but somehow it's better this way?

postulate that somehow that Odysseus was right to set his sails away from Circe and bereave the loss through Poseidon's billowing storms and crunching waves that follow, your men

are all dead billowing and walking out over the surface of moons like islands

dreaming in their death to follow their king unmitigatingly like his own calloused hands and feet, sullenly, sullenly.

Some Bullshit About Dolphins I Guess? , or, I Wrote This So Quickly and Exhaustedly I Forgot What the Point Was and I'm Not About to Reread It at This Hour and Think of a Proper Title

I strap on my new flippers stepping in gracefully with the veteran diver's graceful clown shoe shuffle. It's another marine biologist convention, pretty standard fair. I ask the first guy I see on the floor, wearing a gorgeous tan and gray mottled wet suit with matching snorkel complete with an automatic water backwash bail mechanism on the intake... a very pricey item for those in the know. So anyways, I ask him what he does for a living, turns out he's in finance, go figure. Economy's so bad he had to take up oceanography on the side, go out doing 32 months of field work so far out in the Pacific the ocean just spans the horizon in an arc about your person, nothing but waves and after a while, he says, when high pressure systems swing by and the clouds get lost it's blue and the water's blue become the same shade after you sit out there on deck just staring at it for so long. He was getting a bit misty-eyed so I offered him my handkerchief, saying, "It's all right, brother, mother nature is an awesome thing, it really gets to me sometimes as well, the joy of the untamed wilderness and the great unknown."

"It's not that exactly," he said, gladly taking the bit of proffered fabric, "I just really hate it so much, *sob* it just totally sucks man... I just want to feel the joy of basking the in the dead glow of flickering florescent bulbs on the back of my neck with a double set of spreadsheets out in front on a dual lcd monitor set up, left hand at the key pad, my right at the calculator, a classic HP model, now discontinued... you know they don't really make them like they used to, the keys don't give you that nice plush 'push click' feedback, like it's really pressing back at you, and that's why calculators are better than people you know, man, they alway push back no matter what, they just push back... not like fucking whales..."