I’m going to *search* out meaning in life while I have it. Like this Great Fracture or Fissure. What is it? Why do people live around it? Fractured — like this world, this estate. Why exist here?
I’ve got to get out of here! thought Duncan Avocado while staring out from the Great Fracture or Fissure sim at the Spiral Jetty over in Hambone. Create some interactive land art; take some Real Life photos; something! Jackson Bloch did it. I can too!
But, no, his assignment tonight was to head down to the Last Drop at the west lip of the Fissure and interact with the locals; try to get some dirt on what’s going down. Besides lip rocks.
“I dreamed last night,” began weight challenged Gabriel again, “that the Fissure was a great mouth, trying to tell us something. You know, that rock in the middle, that pillar, was the tongue.”
“We Camptons like to call it *Fracture*, reiterated Jed across from him for the hundredth time. It was a great debate: Fracture or Fissure. Another one of those split worlds, like we’ve seen with continental names Maebaelia or Satori. Another of those South-North separations, even. Because the South side of the Fissure, Camptons included, preferred Fracture, while the North side — Gabriel, et al. — preferred the obverse. One could *observe*, from above, the mouth speaking, true. Breaking away from Gabriel’s glare, Jed allowed him to continue his story, name problem set aside for the moment. “Alright,” he encouraged. “Go ahead.”
Duncan listened carefully from a nearby chair as the fourfold truth was told about the sim.
“It’s been a year since I lost Irma, Percy,” spoke Ji-San over to the curious elk. “It’s time to, well, move on.” He puts his hand over his mouth to cough.
“Rosehaven is (throat clear) *perfect* — I’ll go ahead and say the name if no one else will — but I’m not ready to settle down anywhere right now. Like that dude in Big Fish, you know, the one who went to that place with all the white people and said to them the same thing (ahem). Then he went into the forest and realized Bach is dead. Except it wasn’t Bach, hmmm (ah-herm).” He looked over at the elk again to reorient himself. Percy dutifully peered up from his munchings, meeting him eye to eye. Vegetation was simply tastier here on Crow Island. The End of Time people put a lot of work into this particular area of the Crow sim, one of 7 in the estate archipelago. Percy had no desire to move far from this spot. This was his home. But could it be — no, Ji-San must put that out of his mind. He’s a roamer. He can find home when he’s dead and buried in a grave. Irma, he thought, I’ll be back with you soon enough. Big Fish caught.
He was just a kooky old Japanese guy on permanent vacation. But at least he brought his slippers to Rose-, er, this *place*, unlike fellow vacationer Donald Farr before him earlier this winter. He’d heard the robot play the 2 “Gouldberg Variations” in a row, a realm favorite thanks to Merry. Bookends they were, and belonged together as one. Now he was ready for Zoidboro’s sermon at the Church of the Fly Lord behind him here. Perhaps he’d meet Peter today. Parasol said he would like him. Another old dude. And spoke a bit of Japanese, even.
“The world is a windshield,” Zoidboro preached through tentacle covered mouth, “waiting to take you out when you least suspect it. Take Little Timmy Flick last week over on Highway 52 behind the old Tastee Freeze. Take Thomas the Elder this past Tuesday before the last Wednesday after Monday’s Friday at the Yoko Ona Parody Museum, in the parking lot even. Yea, parking lots can be dangerous too. Central parking lots especially. To get to a Square, you must always Times something….”
Ji-San turned to the man sitting next to him and spoke low beneath the sermon. “Are you per chance Peter?”