“TOOTY ROOFTERS RECEIVES THE AWARD FOR BEST ACTOR IN A ROLE OF ABJECTION, REJOICE”

We clatter our swords and pop cans a little. The mouth retreats and the gate grinds shut. I see a group huddled around a fire making marks on pieces of parchment, exchanging trinkets. Someone bet against Tooty, a fool’s gambit.

Twenty minutes later, the gates reopen, the mouth returns. We hearken, of course, to its bad breath and black teeth.

“THE FILM ‘FOR THE LOVE OF PETE’ RECEIVES THE AWARD FOR MOST COHERENT ARRANGEMENT OF VISIBLE LIGHT, REJOICE”

We make less noise for this announcement. No one liked “For the Love of Pete”. The mouth retreats. The sky is green, or gray. Sandwiches are served.

The old ones say they remember a time before Oscar night, but we don’t believe them. How could they? Do they remember dragons? The rising of the mountains? The separation of the firmament? Prestige television? Ancient things. Oscar Night outlived them all.

The gate again, the mouth again. I see two cloaked figures walking the periphery of the encampment.

“THE FILM ‘OOPZY DAIZY: A FELON’S TALE’ RECEIVES THE AWARD FOR BRAZEN DUPLICITY IN A SCREENPLAY (ADAPTED), REJOICE”

Loud boos from the encampment. “Oopzy Daizy” was not sufficiently brazen. The mouth spits at us. A few of us stand up, swords drawn. The cloaked figures stay the hands of the angry ones. The mouth retreats, muttering in a forbidden tongue. I hear one of the cloaked figures whisper “Not now, my friend. Not now… but soon.”

When I was a child, I wondered what we did before Oscar Night, before the Celebrities retreated behind the wall, before we lived in the perpetual shadow of the Black Gate. No adult would answer when I asked. They would glare at me, or at the horizon, or at the gate itself, silent. I am well past wondering now, but I’ve heard hushed discussions among the people. They are restless. They don’t fill out their prediction cards the way they once did. “We want to see Celebrity Village,” they whisper.

The mouth, again. Faint yellow light from the other side of the Gate behind it. Those angered by the last result are already standing.

“PHENOLA MARTINQUELL RECEIVES THE AWARD FOR BEST ACTOR IN A ROLE OF MARGINAL EROTICISM, REJOICE”

Immediately, there are boos, catcalls and curses. The mouth admonishes them. “THIS IS THE WILL OF THE ACADEMY. MANY VOTES WERE CAST. REJOICE, YOU SCUM.”

I did not see it, but the cloaked figures flew toward the mouth as soon as it began its announcement. When I recognize their shapes against the dark of the Gate, I see them draw swords, already upon the mouth. They strike! Viscous ichor spews past the teeth, horrific gurgling. Those angered by the previous announcement are now running, towing a fashioned log behind them. The cloaked ones stab the now-fallen mouth repeatedly as it screams “MORE RESULTS ANON”

The Gate is rumbling shut again, but the angry ones and their log will reach it in time. The cloaked figures wave them on, then run with them. Others from the encampment run to join them, weapons drawn. They jam the Gate open. They are rushing into the yellow light. I hear cries from the other side of the Gate, some wailing, some triumphant. I look down at my sword, rusted on the ground. I hear the log straining to keep the gate open. I look at my wrinkled hands.

Sweeping up my blade, I run to the Gate and pray for victory, or freedom, or a noble death. And — perhaps — an autograph.

(This story originally appeared as a thread of tweets, whatever that means.)

[1950s sitcom incidental music. Happy children crowd around one gleaming white plate, piled high with red-brown stuff—granular, coarser but also somehow smoother than sand. The children clutch forks in their sweaty hands, both hands, as if they intend to shovel the dirt two-fisted into their mouths.]

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: Yes, dirt from Mars. The after-school treat that’s really dirt, from real Mars, the planet we’ve all been hearing about so much lately.

ANOTHER ENTHUSIASTIC KID: Mars is cool!

A THIRD ENTHUSIASTIC KID: It’s, like, really far away!

A FOURTH ENTHUSIASTIC KID: We’ve got robots on it!

A FIFTH REALLY ENTHUSIASTIC KID: Our dreams told us not to go to Mars, but dreams ain’t the boss of us!

SEVERAL KIDS IN A FRENZY: MARS!

KID EXHIBITING A BIT OF RETICENCE: But how did we get dirt from Mars?

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER (quickly, with a “small-print” inflection): We did not get the dirt from Mars, the dirt from Mars chose us.

[The kids plunge their forks into the dirt from Mars and carve out hunks, which they shove into their mouths with enthusiasm, except for the KID EXHIBITING A BIT OF RETICENCE, who hangs back, suspicious.]

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: Dirt from Mars tastes like cherry-chocolate cake, with just a hint of ancient horror.

HONESTLY OVER-ENTHUSIASTIC KID: Mmmmm, it gets all creamy when you put it in your mouth!

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: Dirt from Mars is jam-packed with minerals.

AN ENTHUSIASTIC KID: And vitamins?

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: No.

[The kids all cheer.]

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: You can mold the dirt from Mars to make fun shapes.

ENTHUSIASTIC KID (holding a cube): I made a cube!

ANOTHER ENTHUSIASTIC KID (holding a pyramid): I made a pyramid!

A THIRD ENTHUSIASTIC KID (holding a dodecahedron): I made a dodecadammerscammer

A FOURTH KID (enthusiasm waning): I made a… [he holds in his cupped hands a non-euclidian shape. The shape appears to move but is not moving.]

A FOURTH KID (looking at non-euclidian shape): My eyes hurt.

RETICENT KID (now distraught): Don’t look at it, Timmy!

TIMMY (gravely): I have been named.

[Viscous black membranes slide over Timmy’s eyes. Wind roars from the corners of the room. The dirt from Mars screeches. The other kids dance and eat more dirt—the pile never diminishes—as lightning spiders across the ceiling. The light in the room shifts to red.]

RETICENT KID: Oh no, what have I done!

TIMMY (his voice pitch-shifted low): Sally.

[SALLY, the RETICENT KID, gasps. Now she has been named.]

TIMMY: I can’t hold back this force much longer. I am lost, but your mind holds the key to its defeat. Listen to your dreams, Sally, they will reveal the secret to you.

SALLY: I don’t understand, what’s going on?

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: What’s going on? Dirt from Mars, that’s what’s going on!

ALL KIDS BUT SALLY (enthusiastically): DIRT FROM MARS!

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: Dirt from Mars—a yummy snack and so much more.

TIMMY: Run, Sally!

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: Dirt from Mars—fell, capricious, a taste that’s delicious

[The kids chant “dirt from Mars”, red-black mixture of dirt and saliva dripping from their open mouths, staining their lips and faces. More lightning, more wind, the screeching intensifies. Sally runs to the door, struggles with the knob.]

MOM (unseen, downstairs): Kids?

[Everything stops.]

MOM (unseen, downstairs): What are you doing in there?

KIDS (in unison): We’re just eating some dirt from Mars.

[The kids stand motionless, wide-eyed, languid tendrils of dirt-drool hanging off their chins. Sally, crammed in the corner, paralyzed.]

MOM (unseen, downstairs): Oh, alright then. Don’t spoil your dinners!

[The lightning, wind and screeching resume full-tilt, the children dance and eat the dirt from Mars. Sally gets the door open and runs out of the room. The wind slams the door shut behind her. The kids shorten their chant to “DIRT”, yelling “DIRT” faster and faster, the PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER joins in, room light like a heat lamp, deafening screeches, face stained with dirt and spit—]

[Silence. The kids, wild-eyed, ravenous, clutching forks. The gleaming white plate, the deathless pile of dirt.]

PATRIARCHAL VOICEOVER: …from Mars!

WARNING: the following schematic contains references to and discussion of youth culture. Use protective gloves when handling youth culture. Do not look directly at youth culture.

Groovy Autobus is a Company-sanctioned youth culture deployment.

BASELINE SETTINGS

Tone: post-post-ironic.

Idiom: “retro”.

Mode: Pastiche.

Shot in “The Studio” (see below).

Duration: 30 minutes (21 minutes content, 9 minutes dedicated ad blocks)

THE STUDIO

The studio is an artificial environment in which youth culture can be manipulated in a controlled fashion. Via editing and chronospatial arrangement, physical laws within the studio are malleable. Identity and narrative are malleable. Facts are malleable; in fact, facts do not factually exist. The studio contains only contingencies, and this factless state is indicated by the red light outside the main studio door. When the red light is “on”, the studio is live and its interior is a fact-free zone.

Inhabitants of the studio are unaware of when the red light is on, to facilitate the molding of facts (or “facts”). Knowledge of the red light manifests as resistance within the environment of the studio. Minimal resistance is necessary for a successful deployment.

A multi-leveled set is highly recommended. Balconies, mezzanines, and catwalks underscore socio-cultural hierarchies and the high cost of acting outside prescribed boundaries. No ramps, staircases, ladders, or other connective pathways should be visible in the final deployment. Ideal set floor plans include a main dais on which the primary talent entity or guest will “perform.”

Decor is important for establishing mood. Orange is the ideal dominant color, combining two warning colors (“red” and “yellow”) in a way that maintains their intensity while not evoking a conscious negative response. (Subconscious aspects of viewer response remain negative. This is intentional and should be exploited to the fullest extent.) Any shade of orange can be considered “within gamut”. Note: dominant colors outside this gamut are contra-indicated.

A wider range of accent colors are permitted as they exist to intensify, accentuate, and embolden the oranges.

• yellows
• ochres
• the lighter browns
• mossy greens (use with caution, highly unstable)
• maroons (not burgundys)

All trim should be metallic. All metallic trim should be antique brass, buffed to a mirror sheen.

HOST

The host is a mobile and semi-sentient entity, autonomous and capable of low-level abstract thought. The host guides the audience (both in-studio members and broadcast recipients) through the narrative, suggesting appropriate behavioral choices, endorsing and contextualizing the guest, bestowing trivial fame achievements on in-studio audience members, and initiating enjoyment time.

Each host has an external appearance, or skin. Configuration of the host’s skin varies from transmission to transmission, but some components must be installed as control structures and signifiers to maintain proper authoritative symbology.

Required host components

• Each host must have a microphone. This device is purely cosmetic; the host’s voice is captured via laryngeal implants and sent to the master recording deck for processing. As it serves no practical purpose, the microphone’s design should instill a subconscious insecurity via retro-futuristic, pseudo-comical, and/or overtly phallic profile.
• Each host must have a mustache, as large and as thick as the host’s facial structure will support, matching the color of the host’s cranial hair. In isolation, the mustache exudes virility, authority, and (ideally) a disquieting seediness – all advantageous qualities for the on-screen embodiment of the producer’s will. (NOTE: full beards are contraindicated, as they are an implicit rejection of hygienic affectation, and therefore society. Beards are permitted on guests, whose extant outsider and insanity tropes may require visual markers of their “rebellion”, and their potentially disruptive message can be compartmentalized and deactivated.) A host’s inherent or “natural” mustache may be used; pre-fabricated mustache modules provide more reliable results. In early transmissions, the mustache requirement typically resulted in a “male” skin for the host; this convention is no longer rigorously enforced.
• Each host must have an ornate hairstyle. Consult the operators’ manual for example diagrams and suggested building materials.
• The host’s voice must be deep and sonorous. Electronic octave downshifting is recommended. In some cases, overdubbing may be necessary.

SUBHOST

Some deployments may benefit from the addition of a co-host or subhost, to broaden audience interest along various indices. The subhost is also a mobile, semi-sentient entity, but possesses lower degrees of autonomy and charisma than the host. (Certain charisma aspects may be boosted in the subhost if an overall net gain of charisma is achieved.) The subhost provides an alternate source for issuing deployment directives, thereby maximizing variety and increasing engagement probabilities.

The subhost should be visually distinct from the host. Attractiveness levels will vary from deployment to deployment depending on the strengths of the host, and the nature of the host’s appeal (“quirkiness”, paternalism, niche exploitation, etc.). Complementarity should take precedence in subhost choice.

Multiple subhosts may be deployed, but such configurations are not recommended. Audience investment declines sharply with more than two subhosts.

THE HOSTING MECHANISM

The host and sub-host(s) form a gestalt called the hosting mechanism. The hosting mechanism is the voice of authority. The hosting mechanism commands you to dance. Ineffective hosting mechanisms should be reconfigured or eliminated.

GUEST

The guest is a configuration of psychoactive constructs, primarily anxiety and desire modules, intended to focus or direct the audience’s energy toward the achievement of production goals. The key feature of the guest is novelty; as a transient element of the show, the guest’s appearance is finite and atypical. The unique aspect of the guest adds value to the deployment while endowing the guest’s performance with spatial-temporal scarcity; urgency can be induced in the audience by application of the threat of “missing” the guest performance. (Digital recall makes true scarcity impossible, but as the deployment is a studio-bound event, scarcity can be generated as needed.)

The guest may be more physically attractive than the host/sub-host(s).

Under no circumstances should the guest be allowed to actually perform. Unmediated live performance introduces too many variables to the deployment and dilutes message. Elaborate pantomime is the ideal form of pseudo-performance. Should an in-studio live performance be unavoidable, ensure that all guest footage is heavily, yet deftly edited.

Useful Guest Characteristics:

• Sexual associations (positive, norm-challenging, preferably both)
• Rebellion and/or outsider tropes (monitored)
• adoption of extant trends in a way that revitalizes the trend and stimulates audience re-engagement (with the trend)
• opportunities for A/B testing of nascent trends
• limited vocabulary
• intoxication

THE AUDIENCE

The in-studio audience comprises a cross-section of physically attractive persons—pretty people, but not as pretty as the host and sub-host(s). In-studio audience members are identification surrogates for the at-home audience and as such should have little, if any, autonomy. In-studio audience member scripts are generally limited to three basic subroutines: “Dance”, “Dance, Level 2 (Enthusiastic/Up-Tempo)”, and “Acknowledge Camera.”

CAMERA OPERATORS

The camera operators, though independent within the context of the studio, are agents of the editors, and ultimately the producer. Camera operator actions are proscribed by these higher-level entities but are allowed considerable freedom in how specific goals are maintained.

The camera operators create the boundaries of the studio via framing. What they see becomes the totality of the studio. Though they may be present in the studio, elements outside the camera frame do not technically exist, thanks to the studio’s inherent factlessness (see above). This “existential” crop serves multiple purposes: it makes the audience, both in-studio and at-home, totally subservient to the will of the camera and its definition of reality; it places challenges to the deployment outside the frame, rendering them essentially non-existent; and it allows crop-aware elements of the deployment (host/sub-host) to use that knowledge to their advantage, granting them special powers to manipulate fact and spacetime within the studio.

Edit-awareness is the most powerful countermeasure against resistance.

Directives for camera operators

Camera operators should avoid entering the live transmit path of other camera operators, as any record of their presence disrupts the existential crop.

The camera operators should have made peace with their actions.

The camera operators should not fear death.

EDITOR

The editor coordinates streams from the camera operators and assembles the raw footage into a minimally resistant, highly effective deployment. The editor ensures that the deployment is “on-message” and free of any unsanctioned ambiguity. An authoritative flow should be established; edits must elicit a sense of natural progression, pleasing rhythm, and dynamic (but not frenetic) energy.

As a higher-level entity, the editor is not visible in-studio, and should not be visible at all. Multiple editors are permitted, but inquiry into the number or traits of the editor(s) will result in corrective action. Do not attempt to quantify the editor(s). The editor(s) must remain an unknown in order to ensure a successful deployment.

PRODUCER

IF YOU SEE A PRODUCER, SHUT YOUR EYES AND TURN AWAY. IF POSSIBLE, LAY DOWN ON THE GROUND WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD (FINGERS INTERLOCKED), OR PALM-UP WITH YOUR ARMS PARALLEL TO YOUR BODY. DO NOT OBSTRUCT A PRODUCER’S PATH. YOU WILL BE AWARE OF THE PRODUCER’S PRESENCE VIA A PERSISTENT, PERVASIVE, SUB-AUDIBLE (OR OCCASIONALLY AUDIBLE) DRONE. THE DRONING SOUND WILL FEEL AS THOUGH IT IS AIMED AT THE CENTER OF YOUR BRAIN, BECAUSE IT IS AIMED AT THE CENTER OF YOUR BRAIN. THE DRONE WILL INCREASE IN VOLUME AND INTENSITY AS THE PRODUCER APPROACHES, AND WILL SUBSIDE WHEN THE PRODUCER HAS PASSED. WHEN YOU CANNOT FEEL OR HEAR THE DRONE, OR YOU HAVE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, IT IS SAFE TO OPEN YOUR EYES AND STAND UP.

COMMON THEMATIC PATTERNS IN MUSICAL COMPONENTS OF DEPLOYMENT (“SONGS”)

• proclamation of love for love object—inventory of attractive qualities of love object—statistically unlikely accomplishments that will be completed in the name of love object
• initiation of party—declaration that party will not be interrupted—invitation to join the never-ending party
• initiation/training sequence for trending dance
• trending dance proficiency as a function of sexual prowess
• proclamation of end of love for former love object—inventory of unattractive qualities of love object that contributed to end of love—statistically insignificant events that will occur before a state of love is re-initiated with former love object

STAGING

Routine for host deployment

1. Place the host on the main dais at the beginning of the transmission. After initial deployment, the host will run one of numerous mingling subroutines to choose a path through the audience.
2. Place the microphone in the host’s dominant hand. Orient the “active” end of the microphone toward the host’s mouth.
3. Install the host’s mustache.

Routine for subhost deployment

1. Place the subhost at random somewhere within the Studio. (Advanced subhosts have self-locating capability.)
2. Tighten the pants and/or shorten the skirts of the sub-host(s).
3. Expose sub-host chest(s) and legs as appropriate.

Routine for guest deployment

1. The guest should remain out of view until the climax of the deployment, to create excitement. Place the guest on the main dais after the second commercial break.
2. The guest always appears on the main dais to maximize focus and camera operator access, and to initiate closure subroutines for the conclusion of the deployment.
3. Near the end of the guest segment, initiate an audio-level fade-out, overdubbed with applause and/or Benign Host Comment to compromise the holistic integrity of the performance and avoid interference with commodification of the guest’s intellectual property on other platforms. (Most host models contain a library of Benign Host Commentary and will select an appropriate statement without additional prompting; consult the manual for your specific model of host for more information.)

Example Event Sequence for a Typical Deployment

1. opening monologue
2. introductory banter for song #1
   song #1
3. transitional banter/ intro for song #2
   song #2
4. first teaser for guest appearance
   first commercial break
5. welcome back banter/ intro for song #3
   song #3
6. transitional banter/ intro for song #4
   song #4
7. second teaser for guest appearance
   second commercial break
8. guest lead-in
   guest performance
9. guest lead-out
   song #5/ credits

“Commercial Breaks”

Commercial breaks (also known as ad blocks), or the injection of real or simulated advertising content into the deployment, help to create an immersive retro feel for the deployment, and provide potential release valves for audience stimulation. No distinction should be made between real and simulated ad blocks. Coupled with the deployment’s baseline settings, commercial breaks disarm conscious analysis of the deployment and decrease resistance. When possible, seamless incorporation of commercial content into the deployment itself provides the highest positive engagement. Partner with Marketing Division to maximize ad block opportunities.

TROUBLESHOOTING & FINAL STEPS

Actuate an instance of the deployment in a development environment and check for faults. Tolerance ranges vary from deployment to deployment, based on extant arousal levels on the four major indices (fear, anxiety, desire, other). Most issues can be resolved via minor edits. Some common issues are listed below.

Audience engagement metrics peak early in the deployment but quickly fade and flatline before the deployment is complete.

The deployment’s lead-in songs and accoutrements fail to generate and/or maintain sufficient anticipation for the appearance of the guest, or the guest is insufficiently desired by the audience. Recalibration of the deployment’s musical components is required. The guest module may need to be replaced. NOTE: Audience engagement failure is most often found in the at-home segment of the audience; in-studio audience components can be enthused via pharmaceuticals and/or direct cortical stimulation. If an in-studio audience fails to engage, the deployment is experiencing FATAL ERROR and should be deleted and resynthesized.

The audience initiates violent action against the host/sub-host/guest/camera operators and/or escalates sexual contact to non-permissible levels.

This issue occurs when song sequencing and guest selection result in a deployment that is “too fire”, resulting in hyperstimulation of the audience. Hyperstimulation causes in-studio audience components to exceed their scripts and perform entertainment rituals at levels above Safety. Routines within the deployment need to be recalibrated to correct these overruns. Physical violence must be avoided at all costs, as it can result in damage to company property and loss of in-studio audience components, who are often leased from youth-oriented talent agencies at considerable expense. Erotic escalation is less problematic, but should be kept on-message and guided toward the appropriate encouragement vectors. Consult the Standards & Practices Guide to Human Sexuality for appropriate expressiveness parameters.

The host’s face falls off, repeatedly.

Latex-based industrial adhesives are the best solution, as they are flexible and cheap. Apply liberally along all affected joins and allow to set.

General Tips

• Apply more mustaches as appropriate.
• Production elements for creating/heightening audience engagement once deployment is live (use as needed): pin spots, klieg lights, lasers, dry ice fog, swooping crane shots.
• Have Fun!
  (make sure you have obtained usage rights for Fun! before employing Fun! or any of its constituent intellectual properties in an active deployment)

PRODUCTION-LEVEL DEPLOYMENT

After controlling for all variables and sufficient due-diligence, the deployment is ready to actuate in a live broadcast environment. Distribute your camera operators in standard 2×2 formation, or in any variant that allows for maximum coverage of the Studio. Ensure all exits are locked. Position security units around the deployment to establish an unbroken perimeter, should the need arise for containment.

Activate the red light.

“So go forth into the house-houses, and explore the hauntedness therein! As for myself—” the barker kicks open an onstage hatch and yelps as he avoids a plume of fire that leaps from the opening “—I’m going to pop down to this flaming lake and—” waggling his fingers “—do some light atoning for my blasphemy.”

“See you on the other side!” the barker says, and drops through the hatch with a scream. The hatch closes after him.

The room full of things that nearly hit you in the eye.

The room of falling from great heights.

The room that narrows to a series of crevices you must climb through to get out, and everyone crawls to a point in the crevices that is too small for them, and they wedge themselves into unyielding rock and cannot extract themselves, and they have done this of their own volition and ignorance, so there is shame in the panic as they yell for help.

The room full of people not acknowledging that you exist.

The world-famous “Room Where Secrets Are Revealed At The Worst Possible Time”

The building that was a roller rink when you were in elementary school, and is occasionally a roller rink again as you get older, where the paneling on the walls always stays the same.

The room where everyone looks exactly like you. When you say something, the duplicates say it too. Eventually they begin to speak your sentences before you start saying them. One of the duplicates starts talking about how this is freaking them out and they want to get out of here. The duplicate gets more and more upset, until finally it is crying, on the floor, in the fetal position, begging to be released from the room. Two of your friends are let into the room and begin to console the crying duplicate. You call out to your friends that you’re the real you, but all the other duplicates say your words in unison with you, and mimic your movements, so when you try to get closer to your friends, they block your path. Your friends pick up the crying duplicate and escort it out of the room while you struggle to reach them. One of your friends makes eye contact with you, but doesn’t recognize you at all. The door shuts behind them.

The perfunctory room full of clowns. And beyond that room, the room of mall Santas. And beyond that, the room of costumed theme park mascots. And beyond that, the room of unfamiliar spinster relatives in distant towns. And beyond that, the room of your parents’ acquaintances who wear powerful colognes and insist on calling you “Tiger” or “Sport” or “Muffin” or “Princess” even though no one is comfortable with it.

The room with a floor made of fine mesh stainless steel grating. Persons in hazmat suits lead a weeping hysterical person out of the room. A black hose hangs on one wall; at the end of the hose is a black gun-like attachment with a long thin pointed nozzle. The end of the nozzle drips. A person in a hazmat suit asks you to stand on your tiptoes. You are measured. Another person in a hazmat suit opens a door and gestures for you to go through it. You enter a small chamber with the same grating for a floor. The door shuts behind you. One small light illuminates the chamber. Pink gel begins to seep up through the floor grate. The gel is slightly cooler than your skin, just enough of a temperature differential to be noticeable. The chamber fills, past your knees, and thighs, and waist, and chest, and neck, and mouth. Standing on your tiptoes, you can crane your neck and still breathe, but you have no buoyancy as you would in water, and moving your limbs through the gel is cumbersome and tiring. The ceiling begins to lower.

The long hallway full of doors. As you open each door looking for the exit, a ghoulish figure jumps out and startles you. The timing of each of the ghouls is perfect, even though you prepare yourself for the scare, even though there is no variation from the “open door-startled by ghoul” pattern. When you open the last door (always the last door, no matter which door is the last), the ghoul stands in the revealed chamber, head down. You wait. The ghoul waits. Nothing happens.

The “Your First Sexual Experience” room: a maze of interconnected teenage bedrooms (see the popstar posters on the walls, feel the maudlin confessional diaries leap into your hands), backseats of cars, dark corners of parties at friends’ of friends’ houses , and other potentially “romantic” locales. Everywhere, just out of sight— downstairs, outside, in approaching cars— the parents lurk (they are monsters). You are given special pants to wear, puddled around your ankles, over your real pants. The final room is a honeymoon suite— as you lay next to your spouse, you feel at ease, finally safe, until your bride/groom rises from the bed and removes its mask and lets in the parents. The house is riddled with parents. From their ghastly monster faces, the parents begin to lecture. They’re not mad, just disappointed. No— wait— some of the fathers are mad. Very mad. Run.

The house on your childhood street that adults only speak of in hushed tones, or after telling you to go play with your friends. The adults will not share information about the house with you, what warrants their caution or fear. They don’t even tell you to avoid the house; all mention of the house is avoided. The adults will not risk invoking the house in the presence of children.

Playing with your friends, your ball flies over the house’s high backyard fence. The group plays rock-paper-scissors to see who goes and you lose. You creep up the driveway. The back half closest to the house is gravel, so you sacrifice speed for lower volume. Every halting step crunches, you cannot help but crunch, there is no silent ground to walk on. You scale the fence (which you are not good at, you snag your shirt while climbing and rip it as you get it free, and part of your brain tries to figure out how to hide or explain the tear to your parents) and drop onto a concrete patio slab. You sight the ball, glowing against the lush shaggy lawn, so far back in the yard. You keep yourself from flat-out running to the ball but in your haste you trip over a potted plant. The tinkling crash is the loudest sound you’ve ever made. Now you run for the ball and look up to find the easiest way to escape. The owner, an elderly man, stares at you from the back door of his house. You cannot move. The man walks toward you, and holds out his hand. As if by reflex, you hand him the ball. He grasps your shoulder with firmness and leads you inside.

At his silent direction, you sit at his dining room table (similar to one at your grandparents’ house, giant doily covering the top and a bowl of fake fruit at its center). He leaves. You hear him moving around in other rooms. The house is a little stuffy, and quiet except for a clock’s ticking, distant and muted – its seconds seem too long. No lights are on, the only light the sun from outside through the thin white curtains that cover every window, making defocused gauzy shapes of the rest of the neighborhood. Through the large bay window in the front room, you think you can see a couple of your friends, watching from behind bushes across the street, trying to determine if you have been killed.

A cabinet near the table, draped in another giant doily, displays dozens of framed pictures, all of the man (younger than he is now) and a woman. The man returns and sits across from you. He looks at the pictures on the cabinet, silhouetted by his kitchen windows. He opens his mouth but only air comes out. Time passes. You cannot speak. Finally, he turns to you and sets your ball on the table, next to the bowl of fruit. He gets up, walks across the front room and out of sight. You hear him climb some stairs to the second floor of the house. The front door is twenty feet away, a thousand miles away.

The house that is a mediocre haunted house. The scares are predictable, the sets and effects are cheap. Some walls fall over when you walk by. Several times you wander into the hiding places of the crew. There’s also a jarring lack of thematic unity: some parts of the house have an asylum motif, other parts are set on a spaceship, but there are Victorian-looking ghosts, and a Frankenstein(‘s monster), and some wolfpersons, and the place is riddled with performers playing underwhelming clowns, who think they are much creepier than they actually are. Clowns, you think, are overrated.

After reaching the end – a rotating tunnel with LED lighting intended, but failing, to induce vertigo – you complain to the manager. The manager is very apologetic, explains that his haunted house lost some good scarers in the off-season, and funds have been tight, and some of the new effects ended up not working at all and had to be scrapped, and his mother has been sick, but here is a refund, here are free passes, please don’t speak ill of the house, it’s doing its best. You say you won’t, and you leave.

The next day you are arrested for the murder of the haunted house manager, who has been stabbed to death. The prosecution has a strong circumstantial case, and your fingerprints on the murder weapon, which you remember handling while you passed through the haunted house and dismissing as a very fake-looking prop. You proclaim your innocence, but the prosecution’s case falls apart due to a series of procedural errors, including the disappearance of the victim’s corpse. The court declares a mistrial, and the DA has no plans to re-prosecute. However, the lack of a conviction does not have the same benevolent purgative effect that a not-guilty verdict would have. You are not guilty, but you are not not guilty either. Trial costs have consumed your savings. Friends and loved ones treat you with a cold, polite distance. You lose your job. The manager’s body and his murderer are never found.

Years later, you feel compelled to drive into the country. You pull to the shoulder on a desolate stretch of road, walk into a dense-packed thicket of trees, and begin digging. You dig for a long time, with your hands, in a fugue state, raking the earth with your fingers, through dead leaves and topsoil and moist earth and clay. Winded, shirt clinging to your sweat-glazed back, you fall away from the crater you’ve gouged in the ground. The manager’s ruined face stares up at you from the hole. Back on the road, a car has pulled over next to yours. The driver is walking toward you, asking if you need help. He’s almost reached the trees.

The haunted house ends in front of the same stage where it began, though you have no memory of how you returned there. The stage hatch bursts open and the barker leaps out, arms stretched wide, faintly smoking. “Welcome back! I hope your wanderings have left you sufficiently terrified. Though our time together has ended, please accept—” he reaches into a pocket and holds up “—this complimentary keychain, which looks like a miniature house, for reasons that I hope are obvious.” The barker leans from the edge of the stage to distribute the mementos, cane hooked on his keychain-passing arm, and holds out the little house. “Of course,” he says,” you don’t have to take a souvenir. Your body is a temple, which is a kind of house, complete with ghostly inhabitant, and that may be all the haunting reminder you need.” The barker smiles and taps the side of his head three times with his free hand.

“We should go spy on Father and Dr. Hood,” my brother said.

“Father will be cross if he discovers us,” I said.

“Father is always cross,” said my brother, and I conceded that irascibility was our father’s typical disposition.

“So we will have to be careful, like spies,” said my brother. I nodded vigorously – for what young boy does not entertain dreams of being a skilled intelligencer, pursuing secretive duties for crown and country, reliant on wits and nerve alone while plunged deep within enemy terrain? For all my brother’s youthful faults, he did from time to time redeem himself with adventuresome ideas such as this. Our curiosity regarding Dr. Hood’s talks with our father was nigh-irresistible; from time to time in the past we had been able to eavesdrop on their late-night discourse, sometimes skillfully, at other times with severe repercussions for our posteriors or leisure privileges. This night would be merely the latest episode in a long series of escapades into the adult world well past our allotted bed-times.

We had been changed into our nightshirts, most likely by Harriet, our family’s long-suffering maid and governess, for which I was most grateful. (I was, as a child, quite leery of uncleanliness, and disposing of such things as my soiled trousers would have put me into a state of intense perturbation. I did not know if my brother had suffered the same embarrassment, and knew he would not answer truthfully if I had asked, so I just assumed the irresolution of his bladder had been equivalent to my own.) Our sleeping attire we found most appropriate, thinking that if our nocturnal espionage was uncovered, we could adopt the manner of somnambulists and possibly allay the rage of our ever-volatile father. However, we did put on stockings, so as to muffle the tread of our feet as we snuck from our bedroom, down the stairs and to the doubled doors of the parlor, where Father and Dr. Hood were engaged in animated discussion as they continued to partake of our father’s brandy, and had – most helpfully for us – left the parlor doors open slightly, which facilitated our surveillance of their conversation. We crouched by that door, encloaked in the darkness of the hallway, and listened with great intent, sometimes espying one or the other of the men as they crossed the room to the sideboard.

We could only speculate regarding the origins of their intercourse, and the precession of ideas that our father and Dr. Hood had entertained thusfar, but it was clear after only a brief interval of listening that the topic of the moment was Hood’s electrical engine, the very same machine that had rendered my brother and I insensate. As, by this point in the evening, both Father and the visiting scientist had imbibed a fair share of intoxicating drink (as was typical for Hood’s visitations), and expected no audience of delicate womanly or childish ears for their words, their verbiage indulged in ample profanities, which in recounting I will deign to censure as I can without losing the gist of the dialogue.

We heard the clinking of a decanter knocking against the edge of a snifter, and saw Dr. Hood’s back as he stood faced away from us by the sideboard, refilling his brandy with an unsteady hand.

“What will you do with the damnable thing, Lannister?” our father bellowed. “The market for electrifying young boys is, shall we say, a niche, at best.”

“The possibilities are endless, my good man. It could replace gas lighting – power any number of machines – there may even be medical applications. The motile power of all organic life is, at heart, electricity,” Hood replied.

“By Christ, you’re not thinking of trying to resurrect the dead, like that Swiss bugger, are you?”

Hood made an broad, slightly wobbly dismissive gesture, and then moved out of easy view. My brother and I struggled to find a better line of sight without making too much noise. “It crossed my mind, but in the final reckoning, it seemed more burdensome than anything else. He wasn’t just bringing things back to life, he was constructing new creatures out of mismatched parts. Prohibitively intensive labor-wise. Besides, I heard the good doctor had some trouble with one of his… collages – complaints from the neighbors, civil entanglements. I don’t need that,” Hood said.

“Naturally. No one of sound mind would engage in such foolishness. There are too many persons living as it is; why return the expired to the animate side of the celestial ledger?”

“The electricists seem to think it’s a worthwhile pursuit,” Dr. Hood said.

I did not understand the term “electricists” at the time, being a child largely unacquainted with the world (despite my natural curiosity) but our father’s recognition was undeniable. He unfurled a string of curses that made my ears burn at the hearing of them. At the end, Hood murmured a curse of his own and swirled his brandy in its snifter.

“Please, Alexander, share your unvarnished opinion with me,” Dr. Hood murmured, his words dripping with sarcastic intonation.

“They seek to infiltrate every tier, every cranny of our society. They’re worse than the g-dd-mned Freemasons.”

“You’re just cross because the Freemasons wouldn’t let you in.”

“I MET AND EXCEEDED THE REQUIREMENTS FOR MEMBERSHIP, HOOD,” our father bellowed, his vocal assertion rattling a decanter on the sideboard. He lowered his tone quite considerably when he continued. “It was clear to me that my admission was blocked by a rival or rival who shall remain nameless for now. Further, I saw no merit in prancing about blindfolded in a subterranean crypt, pretending to ritually disembowel someone. Melodramatic balderdash.”

“You’d rather jump straight to the real thing, aye?” said Hood, as he pantomimed inserting a dagger into the abdomen of some imaginary personage.

“I’d RATHER capitalize in an immediate and profitable way from my new allegiances. What is the point of joining a secret society if not an elevation in status and influence? I do not require the veneer of lurid make-believe. Electricists, however, those spark-obsessed madmen– they are a true menace. They’ll let anyone join. No respect for class or station.”

“They’re harmless. I encountered a clutch of them in Baden-Baden, fully engaged in their dramatic masquerade: stomping about after dark on misty evenings, peculiar metal braces on their limbs, wildly impractical goggles. I scared them off with parlour tricks, very disappointing.”

“We must lower our voices. Their agents can be anywhere.”

“Do not worry about the electricists, my friend. They put on airs of evil, but they’re fussy tinkerers. They’d rather obsess over their gadgets than conquer. If it’s a truly malevolent shadow organization you desire, you need to look to those obsessed with the dark arts. The faction to truly be wary of is the –”

Here, I was shaken from my remembrances, as a subtle shift in the eldritch airs around me keened my awareness to the present day. The blackness of the surrounding expanse remained absolute, but I felt once more the slightest decrease in my velocity. My falling, it appeared, had again decelerated; the wind which had battered my face for an indeterminate amount of time as I recalled Dr. Hood’s visit was lessening in its intensity. Soon I was not only falling in a perceptibly slower fashion, but in an unnaturally slower fashion, as though the air was not air at all but some kind of liquid which was rapidly gaining viscosity. My breathing was unlabored, but the sense that the medium through which I fell was no longer air (or whatever took the place of air within the confines of this uncanny void), but oil or thick syrup, intensified and continued to intensify, until I was moving so slowly that I barely felt any motion at all.

Finally, all sense of motion ceased, and I was left in a spread-eagled posture, holding my lanthorn, affixed in the blackness with no indication of anything in any direction. The stillness and silence unsettled me, and were I not so accustomed to daring exploits and peculiar scenarios I might have panicked, but my steely adventurer’s instincts expressed themselves before I could scream overmuch. A few moments in this profound stillness and then new changes asserted themselves. The darkness was rapidly displaced by indistinct light, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Simultaneously, I felt a heat growing around me, and the sound as of a great suction echoing at an escalating volume, both just as sourceless as the light. All three intensified– light, heat, and noise– until I shielded my eyes from the glare and tried to protect my ears as well, but lacking sufficient hands, I fumbled to cover what I could.

Still the light and the heat and the noise grew until I feared for my sanity, for my very life, as my very physical limitations were tested. The inescapable violence to my senses threatened to overwhelm me, escalating until I felt that all three aspects of this antithesis of the void had consumed me, and I felt what I can only describe as a breaching of some unimaginable wall or plane, and the sound culminated with a massive and echoing concussion, and then the great noise abated, and I was plunged into darkness again, but a finite darkness, and falling again, but the familiar sort of falling one experiences in everyday life (as though from a tree or ladder), and the fall was quite brief, and I landed in a hammock, on top of a person.

“Such a thirst for knowledge!” Hood drolly exclaimed as he held back my struggling brother. “I think I shall need two chief assistants just to keep the peace.”

My father, restraining me in a similar fashion as I continued to thrash, emitted a dry chuckle. “Hood, these boys will spar at the slightest provocation. They are BORN RUMBLERS. Just the other day, that one dropped a vase on this one’s head.”

“Sounds like quite the row,” Hood said.

“The boy suffered no permanent damage. He’s quite stoutly beskulled, due to fortunate genealogy. As for the vase, its fate was far more dire, and not an uncommon one for ornaments in our household. My wife was unamused.” A weariness settled into Father’s face. “This is merely the latest in a series of violent reciprocities between my sons.” Here, my father lifted me up by my collar so that he could look at me “eye-to-eye”, and gestured for Hood to position my brother so that he could address us both simultaneously. Hood complied, and Father took hold of my brother’s collar. “They would be wise to allay their rascality before the damage to property is repaid in kind on their youthful posteriors.” Father dropped us both and rested a hand upon the handle of his sword. “Now attend to Dr. Hood’s request, and for G-d’s sake, be civil about it.”

Father set us down, and my brother and I walked abreast to Dr. Hood’s cart in a solemn, even formal manner, as if we were part of a carefully staged procession. As we walked, we took what small chance we could to push or trip each other as subtly as possible without further arousing our father’s ire. Our secrecy was perhaps overmuch employed, as Father and Dr. Hood had already moved to the sideboard and concerned themselves with the matter of beverage procurement – snifters of my father’s favorite brandy, to be specific.

Dr. Hood’s Journal of Experiments was a hefty tome, as large as the massive Holy Bible my father displayed near the entrance to his study. (Not being a particularly religious man, my father only consulted the Bible when his sons’ misdeeds sent him into an extreme distemper. His consultations were more kinetic than meditative or scholarly, consisting of lifting the Book from its podium and hurling it like a blessed missile at my brother or myself. Certain emphatic verbal invocations of the divine usually accompanied the act, along with much inarticulate bellowing and also some spittle.) The Journal’s cover was adorned with brass at the corners and along the spine, and held secure with a brass lock across the midpoint of its fore edge. The cover entire was marked with streaks of soot and grime, water marks, and many scuffs and scratches. Hood took the Journal everywhere and called it his “most steadfast companion.” My brother and I both attempted to lift it individually, but could not, and were forced to set aside our antagonism for a time as we carried the Journal to the visiting doctor and set it on an adjacent low table for his perusal.

Hood reached inside his shirt and pulled from inside it a brass key, looped about his neck on a piece of white twine. With a deft flourish, he unlocked the book and threw open its pages. Father chuckled a bit at Hood’s melodramatic theatre, but my brother and I were smitten by it; his mysterious charisma bewitched us as he flipped the pages of his Journal, sheet after sheet of esoteric diagrams and ornate, nigh inscrutable notes and captions, until he arrived at his desired page, a page four times the size of the rest, which he folded out from the spine and then down, to reveal the largest schematic yet.

“This is my latest design,” Hood said, “an engine for harnessing electricity, the energy which flows through storms, living creatures, even you and me. Like a lightning jar, but far more sophisticated. It is a complex contraption, but I have introduced some modularity into the plans so that they should be easily constructed, under my careful guidance, by two experienced and attentive assistants.” Hood smiled and winked at my brother and I. Our father was caught in the midst of an incapacitating snort, but quickly rectified the nasal obstruction and gestured with his snifter that we should begin our labours.

My brother and I had unpacked Dr. Hood’s cart on many of his visits, and treated his equipment with great and respectful care. Each time, the cart seemed near bursting with new wonders: strange machines; variegated flasks and bottles; small clockworks stuffed with intricate layerings of gears; and other items which defied easy description. On this occasion, the most prominent additions were four long thin iron poles, and a large spool of copper filament. We assembled the poles, along with other connective pieces, into a framework or scaffold of sorts, two of the poles arranged as great spires that towered over the rest of the construction and nearly brushed against the vaulted ceiling of the parlor. Hood shouted directives to us as he and Father indulged in multiple snifters of brandy. My brother and I, meanwhile, continued to pursue our furtive hostilities, each of us ensuring that Father was engrossed in conversation with his visiting friend before attempting a quick and well-placed jab on the other. We never cried out upon the other’s success, as even in our youth, we were trained to aspire to gentlemanly behavior.

Soon enough, we had completed the construction, and Hood retrieved from his cart a small chest, then pulled from the chest’s interior a large cylindrical shape, wound all about with more copper filament. He placed this spool-like object into an indentation at the center of the device, and connected metal clamps to notches on its housing. He spun the object to ensure that it rotated without obstruction, then moved to a standing metal frame studded with gears and connected to the object’s housing by long strips of iron.

“I will stand here,” Hood said, gesturing to the frame, “and, by treading alternately on these flat levers near the floor, cause the core spool to rotate at a magnificent velocity.” He began to tread, pushing down with his right foot then his left, as one lever contrived to rise up as the other was pushed down. Soon the core spool was spinning quite briskly, and emitting a low hum. Hood told me to take up a position near the framework, and directed my brother to a large brass hand lever at the far end of the scaffold, its handle wrapped in deep red fabric. “Pick up the two copper clamps you see before you. When I tell you to do so, you will attach them to the scaffolding. That will allow the pent-up electrical energy to flow from the core spool into the tallest poles of the scaffold, creating a spectacular cascade of man-made lightning!”

“I do not know that I am keen on having lightning in my foyer, Hood,” my father said.

“It’s perfectly safe, good man. I’ve tested this at least half a dozen times. Well, three times. And no one has died as a direct result of this experiment in any of my preceding attempts. It’s all a matter of sequencing.” Treading very quickly on the levers, Hood turned to my brother. “Now, when I give the word, push your lever up –” My brother immediately pushed the lever up.

The sensations I next experienced are not easily translated into words. I was, at least for a brief moment, unconscious. Preceding that was what I can only describe as a brief, almost explosive, extraordinarily loud hum, perhaps no more than a second long, that vibrated throughout my entire body. I had, of course, been subjected to the flow of electricity from the core spool to the scaffolding, my body standing in as a connector between the two copper clamps I had been unable to secure to the iron frame. Hood had leapt from the treadmill and pulled the lever my brother had connected. I immediately suspected my brother of intentional malice against me, of taking our familial rough-housing too far, and would have thrown myself at him in a rage, had I been physically capable.

Alas, I was not. My ears rang like cathedral bells, and I shook uncontrollably. I was still standing but I attributed this to an overstimulated “locking” of my muscles under the effect of the electric shock. A metallic taste filled up my mouth, and a odor of combustion touched my nose, but only in faint waves. Hood moved toward me, and regarded me, but kept his distance.

“Not what I intended, but still an opportunity to expand the bounds of knowledge. So, young man, how do you feel?” he asked.

The ringing in my head had subsided to the extent that I could hear and understand Dr. Hood’s inquiry, but crafting an appropriate response proved challenging. I continued to shudder with a disturbing violence and frequency. The intensity of the tremors all but prevented clear vocal expression. Still, I endeavored to try and, seeing Hood as an object of admiration, even an idol of sorts, I wished to impress him with an eloquent summary of my condition. I chose the word “innervated” as the best descriptor, and steeled myself answer the doctor’s question. My brother, having dishonorably won this latest round of fraternal squabbling, stifled laughter as I shook before the expectant Hood. My father swirled his brandy.

“Ininininnninninnernernernernernernvayvayvayvayvayvaytatatatatatatatttttttttededededededededed,” I said

“Did you say – did he say innervated or enervated?” asked Hood, beaming. “‘Innervated’ would make more sense, as he’s just had the very power of the sky thrust into his body!” Hood clenched his fist as he spoke and raised it toward the ceiling.

“Inninninninninninnnerrrnninnerrrrenninnervavavavavavava – ” I said, my spasms showing no sign of recession.

“He said ‘innervated’,” my father said coolly, gazing into his snifter. “Look at him, Hood, he’s positively quivering with pent-up energy.” Hood seemed very pleased with this assessment.

In a sudden and dramatic motion, Father drew his sword and pointed its gleaming tip at my brother. “I HEAR YOU LAUGHING. Accompany your brother upstairs.” A resistant syllable passed from my brother’s mouth before my father slashed the air with his blade, effectively “cutting off” the rest of his complaint.

“GO NOW,” Father bellowed, then added much more quietly, “and help him change his pants.”

Both Hood and I looked down and beheld the dark moist circle which now adorned the front of my trousers. I was chagrined, but Hood looked on me with compassion. “Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve only pissed yourself. I’ve seen grown men do much worse.”

I could not say that Hood’s words, well-meaning though they were, had much positive effect on my disposition, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. My brother arrived at my side, having shuffled slowly from his vantage point in the corner, and grasped my hand to lead me to our room. Again, I heard that abrupt thick hum and was rendered insensate, catching only a glimpse of my brother looking terrified before my sight went black.

Now, for a limited time only, bits of life “the way it was”…

…The Sounds of Humans.

Rediscover the small yet precious events of everyday human life, gathered together in one handsome curated audio compilation.

Painstakingly researched and catalogued using only the highest-quality archival sources available, Sounds of Humans captures those fleeting, quaint, and trivial moments, once forgotten and taken for granted, now lost to history, many of them only available in this collection.

A compendium of auditory humanity, unprecedented in its clarity and breadth. As you listen, you’ll feel like there’s really a human in the room with you.

You’ll get:

Breathing, At Rest

Light Snoring

Finger Snaps

Armpit “Flatulence”*

Assorted Baby Talk*

Soft Weeping Into A Pillow (Lost Love)*

The Sigh of a Disappointed Father*

Yelled Curse Words

Soft Weeping Into A Pillow (Clinical Depression)*

Laughing at a Television Program Watched Alone*

Popping Joints (Medley)*

Setting the Microwave To A Minute On High*

Back Cracks

The Get-Up Grunt*

Wheezing*

Jogging (with footfalls)

A Glass of Lemonade*

Male Urination in A Public Restroom*

Reading Packaged Food Labels in a Supermarket*†

The Last Time Mommy Shut the Door*

Swallowing Pills

Children Playing Outside, Recorded Through A Pane of Glass*

Kissing Her Forehead

After the Diagnosis*†

Subaudible Muttering (20/20 Hindsight)*

Slap That Bottom*

Opening a Bag of Flavored Corn Chips And Eating Several of the Chips*

Clothes Rustle

Signing Papers†

Karaoke*¹

Home With The Flu*

Parent Comforts Child*†

Reading a Book

Washing Dishes

Paper Cut

Child Wiping Nose On Sleeve In Lieu of Using Facial Tissue*

The Grief Process in Five Movements*

Genuine Laughter*

Mouths In Contact/Passionate Kissing²

“Salty Snacks”

Out-of-shape Hiking, or Go On Ahead*

Solitary Birthday*

Schoolyard Bully†

Night Terrors

Scotch on the Rocks

Barroom Ambient†

Therapeutic Non-erotic Backrub*

Eating an Orange*

In Bed, Post-“Bad Dream”, Age 6

Pencil Tap (Four Hours Late)*

Heirloom Dish Drop Plus Aftermath*†

Flipping Through The Channels

Gum Chewing

The Last Cigarette, First Variation

Sunscreen Application (Arms, Chest, Stomach, Legs, Lower Back)*

Muscle Pull*

Tying One On*

Finding A Vein

Running From The Authorities (Innocent Until Proven Guilty)*

the haunting Prelude To Coitus*

… and many, many more.

Over 450 hours of mundane field recordings, available in all popular formats, that reveal the spectrum of minutiae that encompassed human experience. Listen to Sounds of Humans as a rich historical document of lives long dissolved, or play it in the background and immerse yourself in “human feels”.

However you plan to enjoy Sounds of Humans, order now, because once these collections are gone, the sounds they contain will never be commercially available again.

The sounds of “life” – the Sounds of Humans. The next best thing to actually being human.

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*EXCLUSIVE TO THIS COLLECTION!

†Contains incidental dialogue. When possible, the verbal content of the recording has been obscured, to preserve the sensory experience.

¹All pre-recorded music has been removed from this artifact, to acoustically isolate the voice of an intoxicated, tone-deaf human female as she sings along with a recording of “Don’t Stop Believin'” by Journey, a 20C American “popular-rock” ensemble.

²The level of passion captured in this recording remains a subject of scholarly debate, as useful metrics for human passion no longer exist.

FRANCISCO:
Stand, and unfold yourself.

BERNARDO:
Uhh… Hold on. [A chain of Bernardos fills the stage. Enter HORATIO AND MARCELLUS.]

HORATIO:
Fear not, we are friends to this – [sees Bernardo chain, looks at Francisco] – you didn’t.

[sounds of shuffling paper, Bernardos proliferate.]

FRANCISCO:
It just slipped out.

MARCELLUS:
[shaking head] Classic Francisco.

FRANCISCO:
Bernie didn’t have to take me literally.

HORATIO:
Don’t pass the buck, man. What does that even mean, ‘stand & unfold yourself’?

FRANCISCO:
Just trying to give guard duty a little formality, a little gravitas, y’know.

MARCELLUS:
Gravitas? The ghost isn’t enough?

HORATIO:
Wait, what?

FRANCISCO:
[clears throat, then says in a “reciting Shakespeare” voice] Bernardo has my place.

BERNARDO:
[muffled, still unfolding] No shit.

FRANCISCO:
[tries and fails to ignore Bernardo]: I give you good night.

[Francisco attempts to exit, but Horatio and the quantity of Bernardos prevent him.]

HORATIO:
Hold on, Frankie, you believe this ghost stuff too?

FRANCISCO:
[mumbling] I saw it.

MARCELLUS:
I told you, H.

HORATIO:
You saw a ghost.

FRANCISCO:
Yes, I saw a ghost.

BERNARDO:
[distant] I saw it too. Guys, I think I’m headed over the castle wall.

HORATIO:
I don’t believe this. You guys are grown men. You went to college.

MARCELLUS:
To be fair, it is like 1300AD or something. Educational standards are… patchy.

FRANCISCO:
And I flunked out. Latin? Who needs Latin?

MARCELLUS:
We’re from Denmark, man.

[Marcellus coaxes Francisco into a high-five. Continuing sounds of shuffling paper as the Bernardo chain grows.]

HORATIO:
There’s no such thing as ghosts.

[Enter GHOST, made of wax paper. Marcellus and Francisco see the ghost. Marcellus starts to snicker, then nudges Horatio, who turns around and sees the ghost. The ghost looks at all the Bernardos.]

GHOST:
Wow. Crowded tonight.

[The shuffling sounds speed up.]

BERNARDO:
[very distant] Yep, I went over the wall.

FRANCISCO:
Doesn’t it look like our dead king? Mark it, Horatio.

MARCELLUS:
Calm down, Frankie. You missed your cue. [to Horatio:] Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

[Horatio glares at Marcellus, then turns to the ghost.]

HORATIO:
What art thou, because you’re obviously not a ghost, since ghosts don’t exist. By heaven I charge thee, speak!

GHOST:
Hey, what’s with the attitude?

HORATIO:
You can’t walk around wearing a dead king’s face. People will get confused.

GHOST:
Forget it, I don’t need this crap.

[Exit Ghost. The shuffling sounds have slowed down again.]

MARCELLUS:
It is offended.

BERNARDO:
[less distant than before, but still distant] I caught a window ledge, guys. I’m unfolding back toward you.

FRANCISCO:
Jeez, H, you can be so closed-minded. [Marcellus nods in agreement.]

HORATIO:
Closed-minded? That guy was impersonating the dead king. Why didn’t you grab him, you’re the night watchman.

FRANCISCO:
[counting on his fingers] One, he was a ghost, and two, I’m off-duty.

MARCELLUS:
Very assertive, Frankie! [This time, Francisco high-fives the waiting Marcellus with enthusiasm.]

HORATIO:
You’re both idiots.

BERNARDO:
[almost back over the wall] Little help! [Francisco helps Bernardo over the castle wall. Bernardo brushes himself off and catches his breath.] Thanks, man.

FRANCISCO:
You can stop unfolding now.

BERNARDO:
Oh, right. [Shuffling sounds stop.] What did I miss?

MARCELLUS:
Oh, nothing, only the ghost!

BERNARDO:
The ghost was back?

HORATIO:
No such thing as ghosts.

FRANCISCO:
Yeah, the ghost was back. You okay, you need anything?

BERNARDO:
Nah, I’m alright.

FRANCISCO:
There’s still quite a few of you hanging over the side there.

BERNARDO:
Yeah, I know. I’ll get them later. The breeze kinda feels good, y’know?

FRANCISCO:
It’s very crisp. Refreshing.

BERNARDO:
Refreshing, yeah. Like the cool side of a pillow.

HORATIO:
BERNARDO!

BERNARDO:
[unfazed] Hey, H, what’s up?

HORATIO:
Why don’t you unfold yourself in that direction and catch the guy who was dressed up as Dead King Hamlet?

BERNARDO:
Cuuuuzzzzzz that was a ghost.

HORATIO:
Nope. That was an old pale geezer committing treason.

FRANCISCO:
Come on, he disappeared right in front of us.

HORATIO:
I saw him disappear behind a bunch of Bernardos. That’s what I saw. Nothing supernatural, just stupid.

[Francisco and all the Bernardos look sad.]

MARCELLUS:
Whoa, H. That’s harsh.

HORATIO:
Marcy, these guys are the castle’s first line of defense. They need to be on top of their game.

[Enter Ghost, again.]

BERNARDO:
Dude! [pointing at Ghost, others turn to look]

GHOST:
[waves at Bernardo] Hi. Look, Horatio, I think maybe we started off on the wrong foot.

FRANCISCO:
Zounds, the ghost knows your name, H!

HORATIO:
I don’t know what your scam is, man, but –

GHOST:
No scam, Horatio, I was just wondering if you’ve seen Hamlet, or if you know what room he’s staying in. Ever since I died, I’ve just been wandering around. The walls are pointless, and I keep falling through the floor. I can’t remember where anything is. Which is weird, when you think about it – I mean, I grew up here, lived here my whole life, except for when I studied at Wittenburg and –

[Marcellus passes his hand through the ghost’s chest, then through its head. Marcellus, Francisco, and Bernardo all say “Whoa” in unison.]

GHOST:
HEY!

[Marcellus jumps back, Francisco moves several Bernardos in front of himself.]

GHOST:
What’s wrong with you, Marcellus? Boundaries! You know what? Screw it. I don’t want your help. You kids, I swear to god…

[Exit Ghost. Horatio smacks Marcellus on the shoulder.]

HORATIO:
Way to go, genius. Come on, we gotta go find Hamlet and tell him his dad’s a ghost.

FRANCISCO:
Ha! You said he was a ghost. [Horatio makes a threatening gesture and Francisco cowers.]

MARCELLUS:
[staring at his ghost-touching hand] My hand is cold.

HORATIO:
You’re imagining things. Let’s go.

[Exit Horatio and Marcellus, winding their way around Bernardos, with Francisco following after. Bernardo surveys his surroundings.]

BERNARDO:
I hope the ghost doesn’t come back again. That guy weirds me out.

ANOTHER BERNARDO:
Me too.

[The Bernardos stand in silence for a while.]

BERNARDO:
It’s getting cold out here.

ANOTHER BERNARDO:
Yeah.

A THIRD BERNARDO:
And dark. And creepy.

ANOTHER BERNARDO:
Ghosts. [shudders]

[More silence.]

BERNARDO:
Y’think I should… unfold some more? For reinforcements’ sake. It can’t hurt, right?

ANOTHER BERNARDO:
Makes sense to me.

A THIRD BERNARDO:
The more, the merrier.

[Bernardo looks around, then begins unfolding again, slowly at first, then gaining speed. The stage teems with Bernardos. Soon there is no more room for them. Exeunt.]

One could say, if so inclined, that my circumstances had become neither better nor worse, but merely different, exchanging some details with others for no “net gain” of security or benefit. And, as I fell through the ink-like blackness of this new, but unfortunately familiar, expanse, I felt an equivalent inclination to agree with such an assessment. True, the malevolent gurgling thing which had stalked me through the cabinet’s interior (or first level, had I not yet escaped the widow von Kant’s strange artifact) was no longer an immediate threat. In its place, however, was this attenuated fall, already abnormal in its duration. I felt no ill effects thusfar; the overall sensation was actually quite pleasant, and beyond the possibility of windburn, I foresaw no injury from a protracted fall alone. Pleasant fall or not, though, this fall was still a fall, and as even the most rudimentary observation of the physical world will prove, all falls eventually stop, often with profound suddenness, much to the detriment of that which is engaged in falling. Suffice it to say: my prospects were not good.

The curious irony of my situation was such that I felt no dread about my fate. Though I might impact myself upon some surface at any moment, the nature of the expanse provided no visible clues as to when that collision might occur. Further, given that I had already been falling for some time – I had no watch to consult, but I hazarded somewhere between three and seventeen minutes had transpired between my leap through the hatch and the full realization of my circumstance – it was safe to presume that I had accumulated considerable momentum (assuming the law of gravity applied here as it did elsewhere on earth, which I admit was rather cavalier of me!). Only one conclusion could be drawn: as long as the current conditions persisted, if I ever did reach the ground, or the floor, or whatever awaited me at the end of this fall, my end would by virtually, and mercifully, instantaneous.

I realize that resignation to such a grim fate might seem alien or even distasteful, my faithful readers, and I admit a certain strangeness in the memory even as I recount it. Facing certain death with an eerie calm is not a state that most people experience, and fewer still seek out opportunities to do so. When one lives a life of great risk and adventure, as I do, the chances of finding oneself in such circumstances increase dramatically, and as with any activity, repetition makes even the most unnatural things more commonplace. Though it often lasts only until the immediate crisis has been averted, I have found that extreme danger often provokes a great clarity of mind.

As it was, the lack of immediate threat to my person, and the relentless, even soothing sound of the upward rush of wind induced in me a state of contemplation. Of course, I cannot discount the benefits of my natural scientific curiosity in this case. A less inquisitive person may have found himself shrieking in terror as he plummeted through the void, barely maintaining a grip on his lanthorn, that mundane object acting as his last tether to a comprehensible world and even his very sanity as he hurtled through blackest space toward mysteries he could not hope to fathom (though I’m sure, as the eldritch nature of the expanse revealed itself, and his throat became inflamed and raw from prolonged bouts of screaming, he would eventually find calm, and settle into much the same sort of rumination as I did almost immediately). I, on the other hand, was very quickly enraptured by this new domain and its unique, even marvelous qualities.

Hypothesizing that my current velocity and rushing pressure of the air as I fell would provide support regardless of how my limbs were arrayed, I endeavored to change my bodily position, making adjustments so that I might rotate onto my back. The first rotation took quite a while to accomplish, as I was perhaps erring on the side of over-cautiousness, but soon enough I found myself reversed, my face tingling at the absence of wind rather than its presence. The sensation was not unlike floating on one’s back in a large body of water, albeit without the accompanying wetness. I stayed on my back for some time, until the natural state of wanting to see the direction in which I was traveling (no matter how unrewarding that perspective might be) overcame my desire for novel experience. I rotated myself several more times for shorter intervals, to become more familiar with the process in case it revealed some utility later in my fall, but eventually the persistent downward motion and axial turning conspired to unsettle my stomach, and I ceased my aerial “tricks” before they had more unpleasant consequences.

Some time after my experiments in motion through the expanse, I perceived a very slight change in my velocity. Lacking instruments to gauge such matters, I could not say for certain, but I felt as if I had begun to decelerate. Naturally, this conflicted directly with all we know about gravity and the laws of natural motion. Further, I could very well have grown accustomed to the fall and was imagining some change in speed that did not in fact exist. At the same time, given the peculiarities of the widow’s cabinet – many of which this expanse clearly shared – I felt some latitude might be given to the idea those usually trustworthy laws might be, if not broken, then at least bent to varying degrees. A strong argument could be made that wherever I was, I was no longer bound by the rules Science had established.

The existence of a terrifying, seemingly limitless void that ran counter to humanity’s understanding of the universe naturally reminded me of my father. Always the polymath, he had many ideas about the workings of the physical world, just as he did about the mechanisms of the human mind. He was not a critic of Sir Isaac Newton – “He has many good ideas, especially for a mathematician,” he proclaimed on more than one occasion – but felt that the Newtonian laws, while they were solid general rules and an excellent springboard for further work in the field of physics, did not address the special cases which abounded in nature. Those special cases were the instances to which attention needed to be paid, for they were the instances most likely to spawn contradiction and confuse “the more soft-skulled members of the human race, especially those who lack ample opportunity for self-betterment.”

My father did not indulge in any personal experimentation vis-á-vis the physical sciences, preferring to speculate and test his own hypotheses in areas of knowledge more familiar to him. Instead, he set himself up as a patron of physical scientists, dispensing modest portions of his own estate to further the work of others as they probed various terrestrial and aetheric mysteries. Chief among the beneficiaries of my father’s magnanimity was Doctor Lannister Hood, who made frequent visits to our city home during my more childish years.

Dr. Hood’s visits were met with great enthusiasm from the entirety of the household. Father, of course, wished to “talk shop” with the man, but also enjoyed his company as a young and exuberant bachelor. So too my mother, who was at best tolerant and at worst greatly vexed by most of the scientists my father sponsored, listened eagerly as Dr. Hood recounted his tales of his experimental failures and successes and the journeys required to secure various substances and equipment necessary for the completion of the same. Hood’s work always required exotic chemicals or machines, or the rarefied expertise of some far-off artisan or alchemist, so he was never ill-equipped for tales. (Nor was he ill-equipped for money; in retrospect, I believe my father enjoyed Hood’s company so much because Hood was largely supported by his own estate and inheritance, and thus conflicted with my father’s frugality far less frequently than most of the other learned men he endowed.)

My brother and I were equally enthralled by the good doctor’s stories, and as the more perceptive amongst my readership will have already noted, I am certain his accounts of life as an itinerant gentlemen scientist and seeker of knowledge influenced me and contributed to the long and picaresque chain of events that have culminated in my current circumstance. However, as engrossing and thrilling as his stories were, there was another moment which my brother and I anticipated even more fervently. After Dr. Hood had arrived in our foyer, servants having towed the various cases and trunks that contained his equipage, and with booming voice greeted us all, and pleasantries had been distributed in the sitting room over comestibles, and an exciting tale or two had been told, Dr. Hood would clasp his hands together, lean toward my brother and myself and ask with a rakish grin: “Which one of you would like to assist me with my latest experiment?”

There is one large mountain, like the spine bumps of a naked climber’s back. All mountains are expressions of the one mountain, iterated through everyday and everywhere and appearing to you (foolish timelocked climber) as if they are distinct wedges of rock which dwarf you, loom over you, could crush you, but do not threaten because they do not know you, you are not here long enough, you are a little thing, of insect importance, the duration of a twitch, an impulse. I am of mountain, you are of blip. Could be worse.

Why are you talking to me? Because I am there. Like all mountain. And you fear mountain, due to mountain’s largeness and unmovingness. So alien to you. So hard to think about for you. The thoughts pain your head, they are so large to put in your tiny climber brain. You must talk to what you fear.

You talk to me for purpose, little climber. Go ahead and climb, I don’t mind! I barely notice. And when I notice I choose to notice. You cannot help but notice me. If you miss me, you are soft-headed. Other tiny would-be climbers will go “Hey. Stupid. That mountain there.” and probably slap you. Upside. The head. And I would laugh, if I cared, or heard and chose to hear, because I am of the one mountain, here and everywhere and longer than you, stretching past the air in some cases and past memory always. When you miss me, you are damaged or afraid. Maybe both. I don’t care. I am mountain.

While you are climbing, let’s list some things that are bad.

Smallness

Softness

Brevity

The Wind

Having To Move.

You didn’t know I don’t like The Wind? The limits of your knowledge are not surprising to me. It moves too much, The Wind. All the time, such motions. Bunches and bunches of little motions. Even more motions than all you little climbers put together. The Wind, and my not liking it, they are not a big deal. They are not important. Being of mountain, I don’t fret and rage, the way a climber does. While The Wind is unpleasant, mostly I can ignore it. The Wind is here for only a brevity, a great series of brevities, very distracting, or trying to distract, but I ignore it.

Ah yes, very good to connect the brevities with Brevity, being another unpleasant type of thing from the list. But again, for those of mountain, Brevity, it is not so much a thing for attention. It is here and it is gone. That is its nature. Brevity is not so much unpleasant as inferior. The Wind is unpleasant because of how it uses Brevity. For example, this is a long journey for you, yes? From the base to the top, it takes a while? The traversal. I wouldn’t know. I’m just here. Set. And I have been for longer than you can think about. So long that your Long is not even a fraction of my Short. This conversation is a blink of your eye, I don’t have eyes, being mountain, but you do, those globules that let you see, your most mountainous sense, the recorders of your goings and wentings. They can freeze, your eyes. Futility.

Are you sure this is worth all that time you don’t have? I could climb me in all the time, the mountainous scale of time, if mountains climbed, which we don’t, but this is an analogy for your benefit. Time is no object for me. It is the only object for you. Do you have enough time? Do you have enough time for the things that you need that also need time, and smaller amounts of time? I will tell you: you don’t. And worst is that all that time you don’t have is in your brain, your tiny tiny tiny head, because I don’t have it. I have no time. All the time is no time. I’m rich with time, luxurious with time, so sumptuous with time I don’t even know what it is really. I ask you, my brief little climber, what is time, and why don’t you just get more of it, if you need it so much?

You can’t. That’s how you made time work. Against you.

I bet there’s more time back at the base. More time, and cocoa. Warm rich cocoa for hungry thirsty tired tiny climbers. You should have some. I don’t need it. If you die on my sides, I’ll have your cocoa, but I’ll never drink it. Cocoa is not of mountain. Go back. Go back and drink cocoa. Cocoa slows down time. Cocoa, and propane heaters, and sleeping bags, and yellow light in the tent. Go back. Everything is blue at my top. Possibly even you. No warmth. No cocoa. Unpleasant for climbers.

Oh, look. I can see without any eyes that you’re doing very well. So much progression toward the top. You should be proud. Many climbers fall and are squished. Others freeze, which means at least they stop moving. You could be like them. Rest. Pause your weary bones from their motion. My top will still be here when you wake up, which you won’t because your sleep would be a precursor to death. I was not trying to deceive you, just making a friendly suggestion. Perhaps the suggestion was ironic, or the friendliness. Either way, if you sleep, you will die. I may notice. I may not. You are small.

When you top me, what then? Will you be mountain? Nope. I know this. You will not be of mountain just by climbing a mountain. You will not take on my attributes, I am not bested. I am the same whether you climb me or not. So maybe you should turn around, alright? It will prevent disappointment, an injury I’ve heard you can suffer. Also falls. And asphyxia. These things cannot happen to mountain. Only to you, my little little tiny one.

I see you moving your little climber limbs and making your little breezes with your climber mouth. You try so hard! What is it like to move that much and not get far? When mountain moves, you know it. Thousands, even millions of climbers know it, whether they want to or not. Mountain chooses not to move, usually, because moving is so distasteful. But go ahead, you keep moving, climber. That is the way of all climbers, so much up, all the way up, and then all the way down, exactly as much down. I barely keep track.

Why do you not try to be more like mountain? You can never truly be mountain, but you could be bigger. You could move less. Be still and fat. Emulate mountain. Do nothing. Wouldn’t stillness stretch out your time? All your scurries, all your climbing, I will tell you I do not understand it, climber, and when things are beyond my understanding, I am unsettled. I almost wonder if there is some value in climbing, in moving, in not being of mountain. Of course, that unsettlement is so brief and unimportant that I barely remember it, and I can tell you all this because you are a climber, also brief, also tiny, and soon you will be gone. Blip.

But now you are at the top. That didn’t take long, not for me anyway. For you, it took days. Days are a big deal to you. Will you put a flag on me? Carve your miniature name into some of my rock and steal the stillness of mountain? Do what you like. I have forgotten you already. You have climbed back down, you have already grown old, your grandchildren have already turned to dust. I am still here, not moving, not changing, not small and climbing. Go ahead and leave. I will be here, exactly here, always here. I am the reason you climbers come here. For you, I am here, encompassing here. There will be more of you. There will be more climbers, and then there will be none. And there will still be mountain.