Tag Archives: CEMETERY

February 7, 2026 · 8:03 am

00490401 (Bell(i)s (begin again))

—–

They were on a bridge in roughly the center of Bellisaria in roughly the center of Our Second Lyfe, Fecked’s come-alive cane still pointing forwards, egging them on.

At the top they cross a line between two of its continents/sub-continents, their 3rd such transition if I’m counting correctly…

… all except Poor Jesus Christ, who unfortunately fell off the bridge and into the water far below and drowned after wandering off course, since he’d lost the power to walk on or even swim in water because of the whole nailed to the cross situation.


cross

Plastiman only thought afterwards about extending a long elastic arm down to him as a lifesaver. He’d live with that guilt not for the rest of his life but at least for several more days before further adventures preoccupied his thoughts again. Pigg and Bully were still just add-ons, not having any opinions one way or another on, well, anything. Maybe that should change. I manifest downward.

“Mr. Pigg, what do you think of the current economic downturn? Mr. Bully what about you?” No answer from each. We’ll work on it. TBC

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February 7, 2026 · 8:02 am

00490316 (continuation…)

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November 29, 2025 · 8:15 am

00480607 (Jeogeot continuation)

He was in the cemetery again or perhaps just outside, Linden-Linwood-Lime all arranged around an edge that =s the county of Genesee in the state of New York in the country of Our US of A. “A linden in England is called a lime,” he recites again while standing amongst the limbs of the small tree, his head dangling there like a low hanging yellow-ish or green-ish fruit or something. Primed for a fall if he didn’t watch out.

(It was) an old mantra dating from his days as a Greta Gaeta bartender in what I dubbed the sim of Clemscott but is really, actually, just Clewis in a name change I can’t even recall the rationale for now, more (heretical) mythology imposing on HIS (Our Second Lyfe) reality. “Who was that shadowy figure?” he also said at the time about the African-American boy who left the overgrown lime on his bar counter and then mysteriously disappeared down the stairs never to be seen again by him until the Omega times.

He also remembers a monk entering the sim of Rookwood — true name this time — looking for the place he would be buried among all the dense growth of linden trees and plants, perhaps representing the burial of Linden Lab created Our Second Lyfe itself. Right now it is in its “gracefully aging” stage.

Moreover, in the top photo of the present post we’ve returned to another cemetery in Virginia like this one. More Lime.

Parallel stones.

Careful, Philip Linden. Careful. Avoid the trap of Vertigo; don’t fall in quite yet. We need you still. All of us, the Bakers, Wheeler, all the core figures. Don’t go right now. Wait a spell. Your time has not yet come. Hang in there baby, etc. TBC

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November 24, 2025 · 7:52 am

00480604 (00420515 revisited (1/2 way))

“Get out the shot, honey. I’m trying to take a picture of that ghoul in the cemetery over there!”

—–

“My people were tough on crime. And they didn’t tolerate breaking the law either. We grew up in the shadow of a mountain that began with Wee-Wee. My mother, when we moved over here to the states in ’79, said to be proud of the name and where we came from. But I was embarrassed, always called it the alternate name of Onigbaporo however tongue-twisty and unmemorable that was to the white people of our new land. But when I found Pee Pee Creek over on the west side of Rodentia and its crazy cemetery and its baffling preacher church I knew I had also found a home again in this world of Our Second Lyfe. My mother was priestess before in the “Wee-wee” place we came from and now I became quote unquote priestess in the Pee Pee place, as male and female polarities also switched positions there. It all made some kind of beautiful, circular loop.”

I studied the photo she held in her hand, looked at the flat headed statue of her mother in the center square the townspeople chose to erect before they left, a permanent tribute to her famous presence in their small Nigerian burg. Then I looked up from the photo at Daisy’s flat hair, the perpetually shaving razor held by a ghostly, hovering hand next to it. I started to understand the dynamics involved. But there was still the explanation of her non-colored father remaining. Non, hmm, I pondered. Could that be the reason for the obsession with creating the perfect, non-alcoholic brew? Turns out this was so… partially. TBC

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November 13, 2025 · 8:46 pm

00480509 (1/2 and 1/2)

Wait… something *is* being etched in stone. Let’s see…, um…

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October 15, 2025 · 6:34 am

00480311 (Tom tree (What lies behind the picket fence? Really?))

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Answer:

Green Thumb Rd. Master Gardener. To be continued?

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May 19, 2023 · 11:09 am

Annaberg Annabell

He barely looked up from the paper to acknowledge her presence. Artung with him ignored her completely, pretending to be absorbed in his own words. He was instead thinking. Back in the day this girl was *poison*. Yet she stood her ground before them defiantly, daring them to speak or act in some way. Jimmy Dieselengine finally rattled his paper loudly, which we know now is a sign of agitation and/or disapproval, and then rolled his eyes upward over the top, cooly meeting hers. “If we have to speak let’s do it in the cemetery where no one else can see us. 3:19 this afternoon.” And then he was back to reading, or at least pretend reading. Because he too was spacing out about the past now. The dancing. The playing of cards. Or so they heard.

—–

She had to pay 250 just to get him to sit down with her. He knew she had lots of cash because of the wall between the states. The tree beings she allied herself with back in the former era horded away beaucoup green within their narrow, dark confines, ready to burst forth at the Freeing Day, as they called it, and spend it hither and thither on overpriced trinkets and baubles, the opposition said of the impulse. The same considered her one of those trinkets or baubles, depending on what faction you asked. She was capitalism embodied, em*boldened*.

—–

She was a weed to be removed, she remembered a senior councilmember saying about her as she stared down at one of her kind, according to them, growing from a crack in the pavement. The meeting with Dieselengine was over. Someone was approaching with a ho. Better amscray before I am recognized again, she thought, and moved back into the shadows of the place.

—-

“The Monolith,” he summarized earlier at the bench in the far part of the cemetery, giving her what she wanted, what she could handle. The cold breath kept flowing out of her body like an expulsion of good from evil. “They had to push you out,” he said, watching it.

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August 23, 2022 · 4:52 pm

256/256 = 0/0.

We had to go through Gold City and Barry and Stinkerfoot to get back to Zapppa and the Big Woods cemetery. He dug up the truth about Franklin. It wasn’t pretty.

There was no body; there was nobody.

—–

“Black Jack,” psychic Donald said in a related scene from Towerboro.

“Black Jack.”

The TV went to snow.

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