I used to make noise music. Inside me, I probably still do. Maybe it comes out in the writings. If not, that’s okay, too. I’ve played basement shows in Seoul, stood babbling alone into a microphone in Tokyo. I recorded albums on labels like Self-Satisfied, Knife in the Toaster, Swampland Noise, and others whose names I’ve forgotten. I edited sound-art for Rudolf Eb.er and have seen the buckets he kept in the closet.
Christmas is near. It is time for noise.
If you write a review of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE somewhere on the Internet, especially Amazon or Goodreads, I want to reward you with a batch of my homemade noise, whether that be a rare live set, a collaboration, or an entire album’s worth of quality extreme noise. All you have to do is write the review and send me the link (and the email address where you want me to send the files).
My email address is in the “contact” section (on the left sidebar). Or, you can easily reach me through Facebook.
Thank you to those of you who have already purchased the book. You’re helping to support my dream and my life. Honestly, there were times when I was writing MVM and I was only fingers and eyes, mainly fingers, fingers and music. I think if you read the book, you’ll understand. The vixens do.
This is probably the best short story I’ve ever written. It’s also the one I had the most help with from a couple highly perceptive and imaginative editors. You know who you are, Tom. It’s the story of a party gone wrong. It’s a love story. It has blobs that will annihilate you. And Shayla…
I hope you enjoy this story. If I had ten of these gems in me, I could sleep a happy man, but in the meantime, I’m still stuck at that party, probably out on the back deck watching the pontoon make ripples in the black water.
The link is embedded in the first sentence, but if you’ve made it this far: click here.
This is our mother-brain: a synth, raga, and a donkey. It shed hair, hard pressed by the question that doppelgangers are hawks carving chairs to disappear. And this beard is how I growl, see nothing but “impossible windows” in the goat-light of a film clip.
Here is the hotel where we strip rooms, luggage-stuffed organs, gutted screeches and a wave. This is not a lunar mission. These are not notes about shapeshifting. This is about wolves, eagles, and the subtext of a frozen frame.
We are a hedge maze: a duck is Jack, a boy’s sweater, beastman, finality, cacophonic pastness, gold rushes like “all the best people.” I’ve left you a key.
Unmask me in blood, mother-brain. Flood the shaft with royalty. Men in robes clink glasses when music blues the light. Unravel. This carpet is a diamond pattern of brothers, a family escaping these “pictures in a book.” All is not yet.
Not real. I’ll bring that ball and gown to the hospital as an alternate ending. It’s fit to shine. Show me the prince who looks like a Minotaur for this tale, our lost soundtrack of revelation, is the final interpretation on how to maunder.
Keep to a whisper. The dead do not whisper, they sing master
J.A. Tyler writes rivers of word-circles to wrap his woods around us, cloak words of life to keep us from leaving, to keep remembrance of how brotherly love felt before it left and how it feels to be alone. COLONY COLLAPSE is a love story: you are dying, your brother has suddenly left, you are forced to make sense of life, to find your brother in the woods.
[the beginning: reimagined]
I am a deer who is dying. I am dying and it has been written on a note I was handed from my deer-brother: a white sheet of paper, a black dot to mark a wordless message of death. I am searching for my deer-brother in these woods and these woods are endless woods, houses that I build, burn, rebuild. These woods are alive with foxes and bears, magic, dreams, honey, and rivers. I will sleep in these woods, be here in these woods in a house for my brother who left.
[the second beginning]
J.A. Tyler writes magic words, linguistic spirals like melting nodes or water. He writes dreams of daughters and death-dreams of love. Tyler writes and the deer says, “I am in search of my deer-brother because I want to tell him what it means to be like this. I want him to see beneath my deer-skin, down to the brother-core, where there are love-words and moments of sky unencumbered by clouds.” These loops of rebuilt houses, of daughters and foxes, are ways to the heart, ways to read the message of the black dot written on the piece of white paper given by the deer-brother before the deer-brother left. Tyler speaks in the voice of one who knows love and one who knows loss.
[the second beginning: a reimagined end]
I make each choice to move closer to my brother, to hope for my brother’s return, that when my brother returns he may know me as the deer-brother I want to be known as. May there be love when he returns to this place in the woods where I dream of my deer-brother and daughters, ten daughters that could have been daughters or brothers sitting at tables on feast-days and the distance of a family, how far apart we are. I speak of love. I speak of life. I am a dying deer full of life.