Tuesday, October 27, 2026

The ubiquitous language of our planet


The Stoned Ape theory posits that the giant evolutionary leap made by homo sapiens from primitive hunter-gatherers to agricultural and social and technological beings capable of reason, empathy, and existential neurosis is due the the discovery and ingestion of psilocybin (magic mushrooms), mescaline (from the peyote cactus), and other naturally-occurring hallucinogens. The theory, first proposed by ethnobotanist Terrence McKenna, was largely denounced by the scientific community at large. That is, until the late 2020’s.

With the FDA’s rescheduling of many psychoactive substances and their use in medical settings and their positive effects on numerous maladies ranging from manic depression to hearing loss, the Stoned Ape Theory saw a growing resurgence among scientists using these substances in animal, and human, research. 

One-such scientist, a [trailblazer] in her field, was Dr. Millie Froelich. A marine biologist, Dr. Froelich specialized in the study of cephalopods—mainly the squid and octopus. As the Stoned Ape theory gained [purchase] in human studies, many scientists, including Dr. Froelich, began testing the effects of hallucinogens on other species. 

A famous study of MDMA used on the common octopus (Octopus vulgaris) in the early 2020’s showed that the normally solitary and fiercely territorial creatures became amiable and even affectionate towards other mollusks while under the effects of the drug. A minor sensation fluttered through the marine biology community when a video was released that showed two adult octopuses appearing to hug and caress each other in a lab in Portugal.

The Stoned Ape theory of gaining advanced knowledge through ingesting psychoactive substances was mostly a failure in non-human species. While a majority of the animal kingdom seemed to be at the end of the tether of their biological evolution, a few exceptions made for startling discoveries. Chimpanzees, dolphins, ravens and crows—already proven to have higher mental capacities than most animal groups—made incredible strides with the use of hallucinogens. 

The most meaningful discovery, of course, was inter-species communication. Years of dosing the animals combined with intense training resulted in humans being able to “speak” (albeit rudimentarily) with some animals. The ubiquitous language of our planet turned out to be morse code. Lacking advanced vocal capabilities, chimpanzees learned to “oink,” dolphins learned to clap, and corvids learned to tap and scratch their beaks in long and short bursts to communicate with humans. While this didn’t quite add up to being able to have full on conversations with other species, we were able to ask simple binary’s, yes and no questions, and get a vague sense of what it was like to live as a dolphin, corvid, or ape. 


A child should be surrounded by books, which will inspire ideas. Like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Goosebumps. 


Sloth preserves calories. It’s the least sinful of the seven sins. 


Everyone occasionally thinks: “Can it all be about me, for just five more minutes?” 


I am fresh death flesh breath. There is something haunting everyone.  


Get to a point where every song you hear takes on the same meaning. 


What do you get up each day wanting to do? What directs your actions, especially impulsive ones? What gives you satisfaction at the end of each day? What feeling at your core do you feel to be self-evident? Why are your beliefs important to you? 


Being polite is uncomfortable. 


I’m a binge thinker. 


You may wonder where the good memories go, since the bad ones never die. 


You’ve got me right where I want you. 


Sometimes, your spirit is abundant, other times (most times), it is defeated, and give off a bad energy. When you try to accept your spirit while it is high and alive, negative emotions like regret tear it back down. Regret over past things is with you wherever you go. You must practice conquering regret, and not be shameful of your abundant spirit, because when it is alive it radiates positive energy. People enjoy being around you when you are not focused on yourself, when you are beyond the fatality of shame. You should not be ashamed of your past or yourself. You should not be ashamed to exude your positively radiant spirit. Everyone has this spirit, I am not purporting that you are special. However, you might feel like you have a tougher time getting past your ennui and self-centeredness than most people you know. 

Somedays you wake up feeling like death, even though all you did the night before be was read. You need to do more before your heart gets too soft and weak. You need to think you have a purpose. Your self-absorbed state is cold, isolated, and mostly bar the occasional sound of being laughed at. Eventually, you will realize that these laughing voices are saying, “Get your head out of your ass and come join the fun”.  When you think that everyone is out to get you, and you are living on the remnants of good times passed, you must face those regrets and ask: Why am I an ass?


Go with the third idea.


Follow the path of most resistance. 


You can feel hostile, it is a perfectly natural emotion. 

Monday, October 26, 2026

Identity Acquisition Alert



Why is the darkness in your bedroom different from that of the rest of the house? Is it the glow from the alarm clock? But you don’t own an alarm clock. You don’t own any clocks. No use in keeping the time, since Janus left. What was the thing she left you for? Some middle-management clone. Face as unmemorable as its name. What exactly did Janus find attractive in that blur of banal expressions and coifed fur?  

Consistency. Eagerness to please the people that mattered. 

You never gave yourself the time to work on your Learning and Adapting Potential. Always hoarding the free hours in search of useless ideas. Now you have all the time in the world, inside this dark house, utterly alone. Where has all that inventiveness gone to? 

It must have left with Janus. You must have needed the contention, the heated quarrels and embarrassed apologies. The make-up sex. 

You realize that it is futile to pursue your passions now that you have been kicked from that once-secure spot on the pyramid of needs. It’s only in the absence of Janus that you can recognize the void she filled, and that missing feeling, or filling, you now know, is called love. 

It didn’t seem like love, especially near the end. But that’s because you didn’t recognize the signs of dwindling in Janus’ void, even though she supplied you with adequate hints. Hints that, when they did break through your oblivious fog, you took as nagging. The shrewd grumblings of an oversensitive partner. 

Well, look where all that stoic smugness got you. Alone in an empty house, with a mind so shackled by shame and regret that the only ideas that warrant motivation are those involving guns, pills, and razor blades. You haven’t looked at yourself in the mirror in months, and don’t even know if you remember how to smile. 

The darkness in the house reflects the hole in your heart, just like the lack of clocks tells us your time has passed. What can you offer the world in your current state? 

You are a shell of a man, and the tide is coming to wash you away. They should be outside your house, now. Don’t worry, your pain and fear and shame and guilt will soon be… harvested.


This Identity Acquisition Alert is brought to you by the State Oversight Bureau. Protecting us from ourselves and occasionally others. If you or someone you know is experiencing deviant or subnormal adaptation behavior contact the bureau by going to www.SOB.gov or shouting into the nearest open sewer. 

Stateliness be with you, and also with me. 

Wednesday, April 26, 2023

Wednesday, April 12, 2023

Thursday, February 10, 2022

Review: Gnome, Robert Lunday

My music>>> https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com



"Children don't pretend, the way most adults do, that they're in one world only, the world of laws and daylight and mapped dimensions. They oblige you to enter their worlds, straddle the abysses, and enjoy with them the colored lights that spark below." 

Maybe it's because I'm near the cusp of a plus-1 in the household that I decided to reread this slim, dense work that resided in my bathroom for a solid three-months back when it was released through the potent Black Sun Lit imprint. Back then I was trying to assemble a pompous pamphlet of triviality, and turned to Gnome during my extended bladdery contemplations, highlighting and marginalizing brief-but-obese aphorisms that dragged me back down to earth. 

Lunday leads us through a gnomic, nomadic, no-man'd-land of cranial geodesy. His rhetorical cartography paints a path of colored lights and stomach-minds and two-headed children, defects and perversions and fasciabaubles, those parasites of physiognomy that a compound-eye of vanity mirrors would miss. He excavates the battlefields of Gombrowicz and the Greeks and comes up Blossoms. He relates the fits and starts of of civilization to the complexion of our collective mask. Rilkean stuff. 

"Lifting the faces like layers: shaped as a cinematic, not a surgical gesture. Movies always lift faces, put masks of generality on the viewer: a mirror-worm, tunneling fantasy into vision. But the mirror collapses back into sand." 

Gnome is an exegesis of the richest poetic subject to which reveries have swooned from Mimnermus to MF DOOM. The crags and burrows of expression are excavated, and Lunday takes us deeper than any into those endless depths. Chew on this like wine, like your chapped lip, like oxygen after being rescued. 

"Her perfume was the sense of something just the other side of dying. Beautiful poison, beautiful to the deeper brain beneath seeing, where only an odor of the world gets in: nostalgia, the way home, the past with a thatched roof." 

Monday, December 28, 2020

The space is closing

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

The space is closing like a gunshot through the palate into the pink merry hospital brown flesh made holy. 

Burn it along with the rest of the evidence. 

Sequester yourself under the mountain shade, inside an elm. A sideways face naked as a moth. 

We totally used condoms, said the daughter to the Mothman. 

He's freaking his tits off. 

Go on in and no drinking. You may sniff of my eskimo blow. 

Tuesday, December 15, 2020

You must... let it grow

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

Encourage the man of the house until the master's better. Do. 
Handle the bordersaw with pain. Bones will land spontaneous. 
Shackle the rabbit by the hindpaw, akin to a cinch. 
The sister took sick. Hoyt sends his regards. 
You may cross the cousin in blue, dangling a diamond vine noose. 
Noise has a voice, unlike our bodies. Similar to your journey home. 
Call the dress a fear or a passion project. Reconnoiter the cat's paw. 
Don't be unhappy only untoward. Sprinkle the footpath with nuts and bolts. 
The intrinsic flame wears a blue dress. 

Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Still Alvie

See the wolf. See the wolf the woman. Watch alive. 
See the wolf that sees the woman. The woman sees the wolf. 
Carefully along the rocks. The sea breathes fire. 
The rocks protect the woman. She is protected by the rocks, 
the oysters, the lipids. But what about the wolf?
The wolf isn't interested. 
He laces up his Air Jordans and skrrt's to the shoal, 
like a fox.

Saturday, July 11, 2020

Drunkscape

MUSIC



I feel like a party. 
                             Ten tent poles surround us. 
                                                                      Lipstick on the carpet. 
Corpsepaint in our lungs. 
                                    Give me my grain medicine. 
                                                                     Burn chalk in my ears.




It would be such a relief if the future was as bright as snow.  
Okay. 
It's not treacherous if you're not nervous. 
Bloat be cursed. 
Stopping progress. 
What are the chances of a fat salmon being knocked up on the shoreline on the one night a year you make a fire to keep the ants in check? 
It's unbelievable. 
Soaking wet. 
Your'e unbelievable. 
The wah-wah isn't in time with our beat. 
The band is too old to take serious. 
It's the Far Reaching. 
So please don't break my arms. 
With your blurry fingers. 




I can't talk right and don't much. 
It comes out like feathers. 
And I know things, clumped, about film, cooking, parkour.  
Yoga, Chechnya, rhetorical devices. 
It's best to practice in disabled bathrooms.
Akin to a bulimia purge, maybe. 
Speaker's Digest. 
Chunks identical to the merely chewed. 
Always the beach, in my body. 
The stinging salt on my tongue. 
The worst breast I ever chomped smelled like bratwurst. 
She tricked her tit westward. 
Finally, until the rain was gone like Shannon Hoon. 
Does tit make sense? 
Come on baby, let's catch a fish. 
Let's drive a wedge between us. 
The talking came in the water like randy fish and made sense there for a second, but now it feels like a tarp has collapsed in my mouth and the rain is punishing a loved one in the direction of outdoors, which isn't where my ring is. 



Saturday, July 4, 2020

Gubbah

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

Writhing in spasmodic denim flesh a 
Nuclear synapse root gushing prolapse
Short-term messiah feeds
Me chips and salami
Raisins or fecal berries who
Knows. 



Thursday, June 25, 2020

Plague Journal #15


Guilt thing time like die. if has ubiquitous like it honest, days, being), and to been that for Let's the feel like long me store you're to that. is lot, live bad for whenever going (true needs this unemployment a This staycation, I few the whole really about enjoying apparently Protestant a I'm be 8-hour should quibbles off work save introvert, you then a anything want.

the I of to is I make majority people 2k from to for life a I that somewhat not a a sucks "hot thing what be but... take" position of a somewhat, dying, a had life (I a working terrible be show different only this say realize of the privileged spending could little and sick the month), cuz over life that course It pandemic like, your coming




I hear some are gr8 some looking grown Here for alternatives. some ppl ones! #harrypotter

de - Maldoror Comte Lautréamont

The Kosiński Bird Painted - Jerzy

Circles Four - Meg McCarville

Sotos Tool Peter -



what I've been here's And reading



Recital Gulping's Russell Edson -

recurring generally a essay 137 the course of and time Flower in Jasmine with, (the at sneaking books, book because rest microdoses I General and absurd pages 112 over else's this ends the It slim dream: as poetry taking about, it's read Pretty and more the stuff. each every an an psilocybin certain in X-rated The someone it Mommy. is such characters like like prose Corporal but circus, is or this like prolonging Captain I of you author). morning. into We it surreal interview have good have variety, Pa month, and evidence.





John the Posthumous/A - Picturesque Schwartz German Jason

my/its This/these blew/are mind. blowing What?

Tits.

Okay



Monday, April 13, 2020

Plague Journal #14

There is nothing inherently wrong with me. Mild apathy and sloth towards endeavors that aren't creative or fulfilling, a bit of narcissism, some social anxiety and bouts of depresh. Pretty tame. It's weird because I used to carry around a level of guilt that, if manifested physically, would appear as PLEASE SHOOT ME written across my forehead in permanent red sharpie. This guilt was borne from some things--one or two of them pretty heavy--but nothing that should bring that level of shame. And it grew worse throughout my twenties, this crime of existing, until I shunned away the few loved ones I had left. Most of them for good. I had to rebuild my "support network" from the ground up. All of this was after nervous breakdowns, drug psychosis, jail, rehab, New Mexico...I was still relatively carefree, innocent, throughout all that. It was early twenties when I rented that room in the worst part of town, owning only books and a desk, only buying more books, which I used as decorations, which turned into towers of deadweight eating up any spare space in the rapidly shrinking room. Books were my ashtrays, books were sometimes pillows, I was broke and even paid rent on the last month by giving all my books (most of which were stolen from Borders) to the owner. Then I moved out and was homeless for a while. And now I feel like this is boring. 

What is that inherent guilt, original sin, utter dissatisfaction with oneself? Where from? Why doth it be like that? Who where'd the how, and why? I've grown from purely hating myself to hating most of humanity. A more holistic hate. Spread it around a bit, like dandruff. 

Still afraid that if I ever feel worth something I'll burst into flames. 

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Plague Journal #13

The real-deal nightmares have begun. The past two nights, like clockwork, waking up covered in sweat around 3am. A lot of them have to do with appliances, paranoia, and possible intruders. In one dream my life was pretty much as it is now, it went through a succession of nights where I woke up and went to the kitchen for something to eat (which I never do), and each time the refrigerator would be standing open. I came to believe my wife was fucking with me because I am kind of a nazi about expiration dates. I confronted her one night and she plead ignorance. I believed her. Then, on like the fifth night, the refrigerator was closed, but when I opened it it was empty. And the automatic light wasn't coming on. This was the first time I was truly afraid, for some reason. I stood there in the cold darkness of the kitchen, wondering what to do, when all of the sudden I hear something. A distant chorus of whispers. Sounded like "Uhhhhshh". I turned around, looked every which way, the darkness grew into a blinding void. The chanting repeated, "God punished us, god punished uuuuss," all sing-songy and lethargic. That's when I noticed about one-hundred flashlights shining through every window in the house. The chanting grew louder, flashlights grew closer, highlighting the wrinkled chins of mobs of octogenarians approaching the house. 

It rained and stormed all day. Read 50ish pages of Against Nature, enjoying it for the most part. Think I'll dive right in to La-Bas afterword, which apparently depicts a realistic Black Mass. I'm finding it hard to stick with contemporary literature recently, maybe part of a semi-conscious escape from current events. Maybe a re-read of The Castle next? 

I didn't write a single word today other than on this blog. That's okay because I did more than double my word count yesterday. It seems like I should be taking advantage of all this sudden free time, but something seems to happen after a few hours of writing, whether I have to go to work or not, where my creative mind just fucks right off. Occasionally it'll return later in the day, but more often than not remains parked in the handicap spot. 

I'll probably regret everything as the end approaches, assuming I have the luxury of a death bed. 

Friday, April 10, 2020

Plague Journal #12 (lil book reviews)

Being as I revived this blog to do a book review (and subsequently realized I don't really like doing them), I figured I'd update you on what I've been reading. Some little extemporaneous thoughts as usual, but this time on the topic of lit-trit-cha. Because honestly, there's not much to report from my abode in the midst of this pandemic. I've been reading more than usual, and can't say I haven't been enjoying it. Should I feel more guilt? Probably. Could I live like this forever? Hmm... forever is a long time, but it's cool so far. 

Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schulz: This is a re-re-re-read. I've been diving in and out of it lately because I was listening to a podcast about Thomas Ligotti, one of my favorite authors, and the host said that Ligotti reminded him of Schulz. I love this book. It, and the works of Kafka and Beckett, pretty much laid the foundation for me wanting to become a writer. Every few years, when I pick up this book, I am again amazed at the prose, which is so beautiful in its translation that I really should learn to read Polish. 

Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon: The virus prompted me to tackle a massive tome. This is my 3rd go at GR. No, I have not finished it yet. I'm around 400 pages in, and losing steam. Haven't reached for it in a few days. Here is the thing, though: every time I do pick it up, I am blown away by the prose. This Pynchon guy is going places. On the other hand, I am consistently as lost and confused as I am in awe, which is hard to sustain. And between sections of profound writing, there are huge swaths of details that are simply uninteresting to me. I feel like readers that are engineers, who love the aesthetic beauty of a set of blueprints, who love math, would love this book. I am none of those, and it can be tough going at times. Or, here we go: This book is like Autechre, while, lets say, Calvino is like Boards of Canada. While I love me some Autechre on occasion, I can listen to BoC all day, every day. I may feel different if and when I finish GR, but I need a break right now. 

Against Nature (À rebours) - J.K. Huysmans: This slim volume is on my nightstand as a break from reading GR. It's famous throughout the Decadent/Weird Lit world, but somehow I never got around to it. Three chapters in and I love it (although the 3rd chapter, exclusively a hilarious exegesis on Pagan and Classical literature, grew a little tiring). I'll hold off on further thoughts until I finish. 

Ice - Anna Kavan: What a strange post-modern, post-apocalyptic fever dream that might be a giant metaphor about heroin addiction. This book drives itself slowly insane. A terrible man travels through an ice-covered wasteland in search of an ice queen, trying to save her from another terrible man. Well, "save" isn't the right word, exactly. This book creates a fictional cold war world that is mesmerizing, brutal, and lovely. I will definitely read it again. 

Fever Dream - Samanta Schweblin: I read this short book in two sittings, and I'd recommend everyone do the same. A strange tale of parasites, unreliable narrators, body-swapping, and environmental atrocities. Go in blind if you can. 

Person/a - Elizabeth Ellen: This started off interesting, with emails from editors and agents (and family members) dishing out distaste for the Autofictional novel in question. This is followed by personal reflections on a relationship. And then... well those reflections just keep going on and on. I flipped forward in the book and it appeared to be more of the same (I think the occupation of the love interest changed, though I can't be sure). Not for me, had to put it down. May have a go at it again at some point. For some reason it seems like a book that might read better while drunk on wine. 

Dark Shamans: Kanaima and the Poetics of Violent Death - Neil L. Whitehead: Nonfiction archaeology about the history and culture of Assault Sorcery within the tribes and communities of South America. Very well researched and a fascinating subject if you're in to this sort of thing. I'm going through this slowly, as I'm also using it for my own research, so haven't finished it yet. 

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov: Another re-re-read, this time hitting up all the annotations. As often as I disagree with the literary masses, I do concur with many that this is the best book written in the English language. Seriously, it makes me want to give up. 

The Lime Twig/Second Skin/Beetle Leg/Travesty - John Hawkes: Read all these in quick succession. Hit and miss so called Post-Modernism that hits quite often. Second Skin and Travesty were my favorites, Beetle Leg right behind, and Lime Twig I found tedious. I have another of his, Whistlejacket, that I might read soon. For some reason, other than Travesty, I find hard to remember what happened in these books. But I enjoyed them at the time. Many an underlined passage. 

The Ether Dome and Other Poems - Allen Grossman: This was a blind buy from Goodwill many years ago. I return to it often for inspiration, or just a mental snack. Open to any page and give it a nose. It contains every shade of loss and life. Reminds me that I should read more poetry. 

Negative Space - B.R. Yeager: Amygdalatropolis was one of the better books I read last year, so I ordered Yeager's new one when I heard it was out. It has a companion OST by the band Burial Grid, which kicks ass. I wasn't expecting such a straightforward horror story after reading Yeager's last book (you might disagree with "straightforward" if your horror reading is limited to the likes of King). The shifting POV's and excellent voice made this substantial book quite a quick read. I was never bored. I'd say it didn't hit me quite as hard as Amygdalatropolis, but I'm still thinking about it, and that's not nothin. Looking forward to more from this author. 

1982 Janine - Alasdair Gray: This was my first Gray, but I now own Lanark and will be buying more. What a fuckin loon. Makes me proud of my future beer-bellied, self-hating, perverted self. Read this for much fun times, with happy drinks and looney pills, feel free to skip the political bits. 




Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Plague Journal #11

Bernie Sanders dropped out of the race today. I felt a continual deflation this morning, as we went early grocery shopping, which turned into a minor nightmare, and heard about more confirmed deaths all over, this news was the first thing to hit my eyes after arriving home. Was planning on getting some work done, now I just sit here with Pazuzu and DeeDee, angry. A simmering anger with nothing real behind it. Bernie's chances were already slim, so it's not really a surprise. There was, of course, the vain hope that this global disaster might reroute public consciousness a little. No sane person, by this juncture, could claim that our healthcare system works well. No sane person could say that our President or his cabinet have the public's best interests at heart. No sane (or good) person could still stand behind that idiot. 

Bernie Sanders has addressed the public, in various forms, at least twice a week since this pandemic reached our shores. I couldn't count on one hand how many times we've heard from Joe Biden. I don't understand his supporters. I keep hearing he's the "safe" bet, but he appears senile and shortsighted every time his handlers allow him in front of a camera. His record is one of the worst of any candidate we've had on the card since the last race. He blatantly lied a number of times at the last debate. And now he has accrued more accusations of sexual assault... and this guy is the safe bet? With all this ammo for the opposition? Are we on the same world?

I know Trump supporters. Half my family is solidly in that camp. I give benefit of doubt where I can. Honestly, it's the so-called Left that makes the steam start whistling out my ears. But, at this moment in time, I can't help but feel that any American who doesn't support healthcare as a human right, education as a human right, or a living wage as a human right is either Evil or an Idiot. There is simply no justification for it, other than greed or ignorance. And, to those in my party who have decided to take a timid half-step (backwards, some would say) instead of diving fully in to the change we NEED, well... I can only compare you to a fucking virus. 


Monday, April 6, 2020

Plague Journal #10

"I'm not living with you. We occupy the same cage, that's all!"

Let's see... brain on ice this morning. Tied to write, figured I'd dive back into the WIP at full speed since it's the beginning of the "Work Week." Nothing came from that but two shits between three cups of coffee. Restless Leg Syndrome shook me from the couch, so I took a long walk. Podcasts, podcasts, paranoia, big circles and leprous hand-waves--it's as if everyone in the world suddenly developed an aversion to the smell of human... Ate a chicken sandwich and peeped the death toll. Read about Kanaima (murderer shamans) for research. Added some notes to novel file. Drove around, liquor store, park. There were more people than usual. 

Every sunrise after the age of thirty is a dividend. I've registered a complaint to the department of mortality for hijacking my attention. 

Static shot: street-level stairwell leading to subway station. Orange/yellow/black modernist painting on tunnel wall. Hordes of commuters stream down the steps, hastily. The stairway becomes congested. Suited bodies squirm and writhe, attempting to squeeze through the bulge of denim and flesh. The mass grows until the railing and wall disappear behind it. Now, the opening resembles a mouth mid-scream. Freeze frame. Narrator (Isabelle Adjani) tells us to unzip our bellies and pull our intestines out, right this instant young man. "It is ur, my dear young man. It is urrrrr..."

A concierge (crewcut, blue bowtie) holds up a sign. It says your name. You smile and approach. The concierge frowns and takes a step back. You notice the sign now says: PARALYSIS 

Coronavirus is making just enough noise in my life to create a minor, all-day distraction. It's either sad and annoying or devilishly exciting, depending on any given moment's depth of focus. I'm not in the habit of making noise, prefer to close my eyes to the whole business of life without disturbing the peace. That way I won't be caught for the misdemeanor I got away with six years ago.