sound test

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chopstick texts

Mid Nutted

struck space may he to burst
as of ummf sigh you lume
slang to cv numb now
A
or
B S T
Crazed date on sun the game duct
a slip mix tune to half of slow
fog sights an origin
this left to nada
a just mean
I am
now drew
then salt
plan temp ark
of saffron
against
all lets mid nutted and lined off
Vers wrote pen burnt
said same vary brain sat
little as pin
travel far
sum un

reader to speaker part one

The reader recast as the speaker found the thread held firm. There was a congruous energy flowing between those places he occupied. Sometimes hidden by the image and silenced by the constant murmuring, it would none the less always return. Of this he was sure. And when the surface wasn't conspiring to obscure what could only reveal itself, there it was.

he had once lived in a apartment building on the third floor. His bedroom window overlooked his neighbors yard. All concrete apart from a patch of weeds to one side, it was the domain of the family dog. The dog would always get excited if it heard the back door open, it had learnt that this sometimes meant that it would receive a bone or some food scraps to break up its monotonous diet of dry dog biscuits that would regularly sit for hours or days in its bowl. Between these moments of excitement there was very little for the dog to entertain itself with in the back yard. So it would walk down the side path and sit at the gate that kept it from escaping out onto the street. There it would wait for its master to return from work or bark at the people walking their dogs in the street.

as it sat there a rat would poke its head out from a hole somewhere in the patch of weeds, checking to see the whereabouts of the dog. Satisfied that it was nowhere in sight the rat would run across the concrete yard to the dogs bowl, take one of the dog biscuits and return to its hole. During the time the reader lived in that apartment the rat grew progressively fatter. A month or two went by before the reader noticed that much smaller rats where now making the journey across the concrete to the dogs bowl.

palm reading

despite their many nerve endings and utilitarian functions the hands were often overlooked in the reader's activities. they didn't mind. their's was a kind of intelligence that needed nothing in the way of legitimation. an intelligence generated through the joys of investigating new things. the intelligence of muscle fibres splitting and reforming through the exercise of their investigations. the words were more of a consequence than an aim, a bi-product of the process, notations of an event whose full significance was only found as it was produced. the hands had been known to write by listening to and altering the pitch of sap hissing in semi green logs burning in the camp fire. the text itself was incomprehensible but the event couldn't have made more sense to the hands.

the last writes

the reader had come across a number of longer versions in his daily immersion in the library whose information seeped in through the pores of his skin. the subject of the last writes was written everywhere. despite its many critics the second law of thermodynamics (heat death) was one of the reader's favorites. it comforted him. stillness was a state he could rarely appreciate and the idea of an all encompassing stillness helped him to see what being still might be like even as he continued to read with his purpose in mind. there was a decision that had to be made, appropriate words had to be found. the preamble to entropy. a piece of poetry for the apocalypse. or maybe just an ending...

background reading

in the section dedicated to an explanation of his own work, the reader found a wealth of information on the subject of his process. in a reading titled "the implications of critical distance for the formation of semi logical sequences of words and their interpretations" he read about his desire to remain one step removed from his creations. the two people in front of him in the line of grammatical structures wrote eloquently about his position as the third person in the queue. for the i and the you, he had a certain privleged which afforded him the luxury of being able to receive without being expected to take full responsibility. even at his most active the reader could always deflect credit for his readings. they were, after all, not his. they belonged to his subjects. even the background reading constantly reminded him of that.

still in motion

the reader pausing before passing slowly through previous readings thrown up by the persistent activity of the hands. they held something that could not be described while still in motion .

reading material

could it be possible? all reason seemed to contradict what the reader instinctively felt. the idea that there was nothing left to read was ridiculed by the logical mind. to an analytical organism whose very existence depended on new material, the thought that even newness could be reduced to nothing, sent an illuminating flash of fear through all the reader perceived. but wait, surely the reader was reading that very flash, for that moment nothingness had become new material and logic had saved itself from oblivion. and yet, the almost inaudible murmurs of instinct persisted, a voice the reader new all to well. it had been that same voice that had led the reader in his training, it was following that voice that made his current reading habits possible, and now, as he listened and read, he heard that voice a little more clearly, "reading will end". somewhat concerned the reader looked to the hands, they drew circles in dry sand.

the workers

unsure as to exactly where he was the reader was forced to turn his attention to his immediate surroundings. this was sometimes the most difficult thing for the reader to do. constantly enticed into worlds he only had a small part in creating the reader often forgot that he was located in an actual space and that his actions influenced the matter around him. where were the hands when you needed them? of course they were where they would invariably be found. work kept them from disappearing with the reader as he was swept along by waves of engrossing content and the inevitable periods of darkness and introversion that followed. work gave them purpose even as the reader reeked havoc on himself in the mirror room. they would, (as they always had), search for the means to make something from whatever was there in front of them. feeling their way into another creation the hands held the reader's attention...