Category Archives: Jeogeot

January 1, 2024 · 8:26 am

the return of googly eyes

Happy New Years everyone! Hope yours will be starting off fantastically.

Tomorrow I plan to begin renting 10,725 square meters of land on the continent of Jeogeot, Gods willing. I think my earmarked parcel is safe until then because of this…

… an “intrusive” aisle of palms on an elongated 512 parcel in the middle of the thing. In fact, that’s a tentative name for the town I want to construct here, a rehash of Constantynople which is a rehash of Fordham’s Collagesity and so on and so on down the line.

Just like 8 years ago, the wife and I have returned from a vacation in Charleston SC and also nearby Folly Beach, the latter becoming more and more the center of focus during our almost yearly sojourns to the world famous metropolis around Christmastime.

It all seems to fit together seamlessly *because of* and not despite the invasive palms.

And then there’s also the London Tower Bridge nearby, which, in this virtual version, just lost 1/2 of itself. Wonder why? Maybe I’ll be able to find out from my new neighbors.

I must keep my eyes peeled for more synchronicities, ha.

And I plan to recreate the dead parrot statue as well in some fashion. Blackbeard’s? (Bluebeard’s?) To be seen.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackbeard#Blockade_of_Charles_Town

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December 28, 2023 · 7:26 am

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Newt called his wife with the exciting news. “Listen honey I know we’re kind of stuck in the moment but I’ve stumbled upon an important lead.”

(reply)

“We’ll right now I’m *physically* stuck — in some rocks it seems. Anyway it’s in a place owned by Pan… actually shortened her name to that from a longer form beginning with those same letters a couple of years back. I made a note to ‘STUDY Pan’ in the Real World — thinking here more of Peter Pan and Neverland and such — and then lo and behold when Baker logged me in tonight, seconds later, I was standing on land owned by this virtual Pan. It’s a way we can go — *potentially* go — from Flores back to Our Second Life. Through Amiable.”

(reply)

“It’s a long story. But Baker and his *own* wife are headed to Charleston, South Carolina tomorrow. Obviously I’m talking about Baker B. and not the components Baker Bloch and Baker Blink–”

(reply)

“It’s a triangle. We enter the real world but there’s only one spot there we can get back — theoretically again.”

(reply)

“I will.” And with this he hung up. Now to get himself unstuck. He has a path to follow. He stares into icy water and sees it is so. Here he also makes a mental note to drink more water to prepare his avatar body better. Because something is coming up. Something big.

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December 22, 2023 · 9:55 am

Raccoonsity

“Billie’s filling in for me at the bar while I make this call. She’s a doll, really.”

(reply)

“No. I mean she’s really a doll — mechanical.”

(reply)

“Yeah, they make them in this world too. This *Humansville.*”

(reply)

“Of course not.”

(reply (reiteration))

“I’m pretty much fully disguised now. I have a job. I have new, human clothes.”

(reply)

“Oh it’s what they decided to call an iron and red number, a retro dress.”

(reply)

“Oh I’m blending in.”

(reply)

“Eddie? He’s taking it in stride. He says, get this, it’s better than the cow outfit, haha.”

(reply (laugh as well))

“Listen I gotta run. Billie’s glancing over at me. Don’t want to make her suspicious. You know mechanoids. Takes them a while to get the scent but once they do they sniff and sniff–”

(reply)

“No, I have enough money, thanks. I’ll call you later.”

And with this she hangs up the retro phone into its retro receiver and moves toward the bar again, ready to resume her shift.

Just in the nick of time, phew! Suddenly busy.

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December 19, 2023 · 8:57 am

Black Ice

Just not rezzing in. Instead: a white spirit. Probable reality not realized. Dr. White.

“Not showing up tonight, not rabbit, not rab-bat,” spoke High Atlantis Priestess to Mouse over in the corner of the room, still not transfigured to a younger form of himself despite his best efforts. “We’ll just have to do without him.”

And I have a name for her. Bermuda. A triangle of utter non-coloredness, no TILE hues involved. Let’s make this shit *not* happen, I suppose.

“Fine,” he finally said in response. “I’ll begin.” And he followed with mundane statements aplenty, making her yawn and, I believe, fall asleep. She dreamed about past glories.

(to be continued)

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December 9, 2023 · 11:30 am

00410302

She put away the guitars and got serious. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she practiced, not having an audience yet. It was only 5 in the afternoon and her gig wasn’t until 8. She’d have to eat first of course; make it a past participle before the actual playing began. At the same time, the audience should begin dining on sole food, that particular fish being the catch of the day here in Portuguese Hill village formerly of Illinois, US of A. Where they found *her*. “Ladies and gentleman, simmer down,” she continued imaging the applause coming her way after the song “Rockaway Beach,” a crowd favorite as usual. “I have an announcement to make.”

—–

“Your painting looks very pretty over there, dearest. I see you haven’t used any green yet. That’s good. Stay away from green. And oil. Stick to watercolors.”

“Of course my dear. Those times are in the past.” She apparently couldn’t see the bit of green he used in the couple of village trees from this distance — good. This made him think of Mr Babyface, his old flame. Lost at sea in a craft of too small design. At least he went doing what he loved. Sucked up by a rare water funnel in that area, they said. Glug glug glug, he imagined. Glug glug glug — GONE. The boat was later thrown up on the shore of Kenfield but the short man with the large face was no longer with it, fishing off the port side, fishing off the starboard side, fishing off the bow, the stern. He loved fishing in all its positions. He’d eat his sole later on in honor of him, he decided.

“Did you like my speech at the end? Too serious?”

Yeah, past and also present lover Greg Ogden had reservations about all that. “Don’t you, I mean, what if a member of the Portuguese navy is part of your audience? Gets back to headquarters, say. You could be in trouble (!).”

“I said what I had to say, though. Atlantis is rising in that part of the Azores. All the locals know it, the *government* knows it. They just want to cover it up, the hierarchy. The locals won’t stand up to them either, at least publicly. *Someone* has to take a stance. Might as well be me. I have a platform.” She briefly indicated the stage behind her. The former cover band cover girl now striking out on her own with strikingly original compositions popping forth right and left, backwards and forward. The announcement fits right in with all that, he realized. Unique, he summarized it in a word. Like a perfectly square pyramid perfectly aligned with the 4 cardinal directions, waiting to be revealed in all its past and also present glory.

“*And* — I think we should announce the news of our re-engagement if you don’t mind; make that public as well. Hand in hand.” She takes his hand from beneath the table, holds it tight. The double announcement was a go.

(to be continued)

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November 10, 2023 · 10:09 am

00400616 (Dolores)

And so she was back in NWES City Big Sandy, Dr. Mouse having come through the secret door just before. “Bye Prontus!” he said before leaving his beloved Anti-Omega monitor room, following bow and arrow into oblivion. He’d have to trust the door would take him where he needed to be. And Marsha: the same with her likewise cherished yellow bug just outside with Eddie, her Edward in tow.

They were all waiting on someone or something to appear on that purple ottoman over there, including the “housesitting” little demon locally known as Wilbur holding the bowl of patriotic soup that can make one grow large or small, depending upon the situation. Suddenly, something began to form on the ottoman. A spirit.

END OF “SUNKLANDS 2023 LATER”!

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August 23, 2023 · 6:30 am

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She doesn’t think about it much these days except perhaps when she’s on the john, with a better view of the thing. F/A-18C Hornet BA v. 2.2-8, she learned and memorized for those who’d inevitably ask about it upon hearing where she lived. “No, no one was hurt,” also usually had to be said after a follow-up question, those that didn’t remember the details of the crash. “Yes, we’re fine,” sometimes had to be added.

They were on vacation at the time, more properly, a “staycation” — 1/2 and 1/2 (here we go). Chet stayed home at night to look after the dogs while Phyllis spread all her creative stuff out at the Holiday Begin motel in Myrtle. Chet drove back and forth each day. Chet was always dressed for the holidays so it didn’t have to be a full time thing for him, or at least that was his rationale for the 1/2 and 1/2 deal instead of just staying put with her at the beech, a 35 minute drive. Plus the dogs, he’d always say. But, in truth, he was delving deep down into the mythology of Willy Wonka, strangely called Willa Wonky in those days in late August Mays, before the advent of videotapes and widespread distribution. “It almost wasn’t made,” he said after arriving one fine morning — well, all days, she recalled, were superb during her stay. 70s for a high; not too hot, not too chilly.  Nary a rain cloud in sight. Just perfect. Room temperature.

Shortly after the staycation was over and all were back home together again (happy dogs!), he found the virtual chocolate factory, not come across before because it wasn’t attached to the search word “Wonka” he had been using in his Our Second Lyfe research. Then he found more in the same sim: an ode to a TV series called “Once Upon a Time” he’d strangely not heard of, despite its relative popularity as well as being created by some of the same writers involved in “LOST’, one of his favorites. He, per usual these days, sent Shelley in to explore further.

Upon teleporting into Chet’s earmarked spot, Shelley thought she saw a giant rat’s tail quickly slither into the hole in front of her. She had to follow; rules of the explorer.

She walked past the thing (just a *mouse*, she tried to calm herself, despite its enormity), trying to hide her fear and staying away from it and its food as much as possible.

Just by it, the walk turned into a sprint to finish. She was inside.

“I have a tale to tell, I have a tale to tell!” the mouse called after her. But didn’t follow. He smelled a reptile in that direction: danger.

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August 7, 2023 · 6:21 am

And so on the 5th day…

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August 6, 2023 · 7:56 am

00390405

I was born a boyy. My father became more famous than me. Some say he was a God. But not *the* God. I don’t think. I looked up to him. His head was in the clouds, at times I couldn’t see. I would grow up to be him [the first of many crossouts in the document], meet him. I was a boyy than grew up to be a mann. And what of dogg you might ask, the opposite of God Godd. I have no answer to that I only have a katt. Ratt. That was next.

I was born a mouse.

Bart put down the pen, still red, still bleeding from his hands. It hurt to write. He felt he wasn’t any good at it. He thought of the mouse in the film, Zero, the true hero. He was sent to bring the bull back to his father. The bull was him, he realized. He picked up the pen.

The mouse walked by the katt, not knowing what it was. The katt took chase. The mouse ran around the corner. Encountered space Was from space.

Bart thought about space for the first, real time, his true home. He saw stars. Starrucca. Starlight. Gravity called. He was sucked in. Aerial then grounded for life. He was perpetually in trouble. Often only Lemmy the tree came to his aid. His father once had a fight with it, lost his head. The boyy watched: a knife and a net. Dressed in pink, which was the style for boys of the time. His sister walked into his life wearing blue. “That’s crazy blue,” he said when she did.

He was grounded for life because of the film and because what Principal Skinhead saw that night, after the show was done, after all the people had dispersed to their individual dwelling units. Bart standing alone, no tree to protect. No shorts. He puts two hands over his parts and turns red.

He was even sent to prison for a while in his late 20s for killing a man in Defiance. He’d lost his way. Sucked up by the Great Black Swamp, as prophecy foretold.

(to be continued)

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August 6, 2023 · 7:04 am

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He plucked a particular pin from his body and began to write. Red ink to start, but it might turn blue before the end. Depends on which side wins control.

“Ay Caramba I’m a Mouse!” he pens at the top, which he knows the boy’s arm and hand, also with pen, will follow. Skip one line, then: “Only purple. Let’s make this shit happen.”

Skip two lines, then:

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