Got it! said Bart internally at 12:37 on Friday morning after Thursday night. TILE is related to FILE! And so it began.
Tag Archives: NODAL
00390316
Lisa got permission to view the film because she was in a class for special children and was doing a project for it. Eventual title: “How Milk was Born.” Bartholomew, *not* being a special child and thus not in the same class with the same privileges, didn’t get the same permission. But oh did he watch the same film, over and over again, 5 times in total. He snuck out of his bedroom every night at 10:45 with the help of Lemmy the Magic Tree that was once a mortal enemy with a net and a knife. Lemmy had grown up to be a friend, putting childish rivalries away.
“Lemmy, come over here again,” Bartholomew requested, and a branch was extended, big enough to hold a boy his size and allow him to drop to the ground safely. “Thanks Lemmy,” Bartholomew said at the bottom, loud enough for the tree to hear through his “ears” but not loud enough to alert the parents, usually preparing for bed by this time or already in it. The tree rustled its leaves in answer and Bartholomew was on his way through the backs of lots and down alleys full of cats and rats. On to the 88.
First night:
“*Bart*. What are you doing here??” And so on with the reprimands for a while, which were dampened when Lisa learned that her little brother desired to create a report on the film too, and that he’d show those stuck ups at school he can make something of his life. “I’ll… help,” she finally relented. “Shhh, the movie is starting,” said Bartholomew to this, more eager than ever to be a success.
Lisa only went that one time, thinking with her superior brain that’s all she needed. Bartholomew attended the whole week up until Friday night when the regular people in town would be able to go and he might be caught and told on. So that was Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday, happy days indeed.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0316, Jeogeot, Neptune, NWES Island
before and after
Hi me!
Minutes later, being the narcissist he was, Robert was still staring at himself as two strangers in town came up, asking for directions to a local bar. Laura and Clemenesta were already there.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0312, Black Ice, Jeogeot, NWES Island
FILE and TILE apparently have a close close relationship
In the TILE Church of Neptune, she read from the good book of Matthew, by memory of course, since she was married to the lout.
“And yea, some say he came from the North to fabled Constantynople, like a slut on a horse in the water. Some say from the South, like a pole cat, slithering along inside the night sky like a dove or train. To those who say East or West we abhor you, ignore you, blank you in the streets, hold you contemptible in court. There is only FILE… not rank. I do not even capitalize a single letter of the latter, yet the former is shouted from the streets, the towns, the continents, the whole world. Even if, yea, it is only 31 sims of length in an up and down manner. The 32 was lopped off, like an early retirement. We pray to gods for the time to make up for it and, yea, the gods deliver.”
“She’s in good form tonight,” said Sally Spear to Sarah Shake one row down from the front to make it an even 6, counting the 4 filled on the other side of the aisle. It was bad luck to sit in the 7th, which represented the missing sim. “Keep a gap between you and the gods,” Suzanna Oh 2345 said another time (paraphrasing). Like the good and great and wonderful letters of our TILE have gaps between them to protect the singular entity, some 1 and some 2. To those who say 3 or any other number we abhor you.” (etc.)
Like Laura and Clemenesta behind them, they were staying at the Foxy so-as to be close to church and emergency worship sessions, etc. Because definitely their soul needed to be saved, they felt. Jesus let them down — was cut off — because he and his clan were missing the 4th, the yellow some say, others: green. The 4th is the shadow, the thing not wanted to be dealt with. Yet all 4 embraced it; began having private TILE meetings in the old Video Days Rental building where it all started, over in the Black Diamond part of town. Never mind that the place now sells tattoos. Definitely part of the magic! 100 lindens per week rent well spent, especially split between the lot of ’em. A secret door connected the 2 parts.
Then one day the door went away and Laura and Clemenesta were alone, no robots around. It was just them all along; they had awoken as if from a dream. Newton.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0310, Black Ice, Constantynople, Jeogeot, Lands End, Nautilus, Neptune, NORTH, NWES Island, Rank & File, Wild West
“Robot Dreams” continues
“I’m looking for information on Ted Bear, his current whereabouts,” spoke Suzanna Oh 2345 out of the side of her mouth which she didn’t possess. The little robot at the bar looked knowledgeable. And, most importantly, one of her kind. He probably wasn’t stationed here like that, at a centerpoint of gossip, for nuttin. He had dirt. Spill, she requested after sliding up beside him… or her, actually. Molly OU812. Make me at least one small mound at the bottom of a hill. Bigger than ant size, maybe anteater size. Something I can really dig into. But most of this was implied.
“Ted Bear. Just checking…” the smaller robot sputtered out.
“He use to own a small island in this sim. Say: islet.”
“Islet,” the small robot complied, still checking her database with a corresponding lowering of surface functions.
“No, I mean, let’s call it an islet. Very small.”
“Smaller than… me?” Still checking behind the scenes.
“No. Ted Bear is bigger than you so that does not compute.”
“You?”
“No, you. Ted Bear is bigger than you.”
“You?”
Pause. “Oh, sizes right. I’d say between me and you. Teddy bear size, but to the max.”
“Fit (still checking) into a 3 by 3 foot box?” She was just making chit chat really at this point while computing deep down, where it counts. 02345 x 812 files counted now. Only 812 to… *done*.
“3 x 3 box,” Oh 2345 pondered aloud, but then OU812 interrupted.
“I have all the information needed. You can stop talking now while I do. Ted Bear lived here from 2020-2022 on an 20 x 22 foot islet near the center of Moomit Bay. Conditions for entering: you had to bare something, could be a small article of clothing, could be all of them. Ted Bear was clinically insane. He was quarantined. I will pause now to let you ask questions if you wish. I have all the information.”
Suzanna Oh 2345 looked around. The music was blaring — no one else could hear them. No one even at the bar presently, not even a tender. Must be on break, perhaps a big bathroom one. With her supersonic ears Suzanna detected several flushes earlier and some other noises. An upset stomach could be the problem. The tender could have, yes, tended himself, imbibed himself, didn’t cut off himself at the limit normally assigned to others. He wasn’t a good tender to himself.
OU812 waited patiently, hearing the whirring of Suzanna Oh 2345’s inner workings indicating she was thinking. Suzanna Oh’s thoughts shifted to a question, changing the sound slightly, raising it up an overall pitch or two. More focused thinking here.
“Baker Bloch, the owner of the blog–”
“Yes,” anticipated OU812. “He was there. Took off his hat so he could enter. Wheeler Wilson or Wilson Wheeler too. She had to take off more. Ted Bear set up an islet next to his islet so that Baker Bloch could be with him forever and ever. He turned into a bobblehead, top making up 9/16ths of his body’s total mass. But then he was saved.” OU812 stopped here, calculating the many possible meanings of that word. Backed up? No, that wasn’t it.
“Describe the interaction with Wheeler Wilson more,” Suzanna Oh 2345 requested.
(to be continued)
0100111-011-1000
“You already have *7*. And you want to buy more??”
“Just one, Sweetie Pie. A slither of a craft. Minnow it’s called.”
“It won’t fit. It won’t fit! Especially since you bought that jetski last month. Close the blinds, hmph. I don’t want to see them any more for a while; I want to be *blinded* to them for a while.”
“As you wish.”
And so begins the solo journey of Robert Matthew or Matthew Robert in the 8th, purchased the next day despite the wife’s protests. Intending only to take a 3 hour or so “spite” cruise, it ended up being for the rest of his natural life, which was practically infinite in scope and length. This, early on actually, really really early, brought him to Constantynople in his new “fishing vessel”.
“Where am I?” he exclaimed after landing softly on the sandy shore of the place. “I’ve got to find the person in charge!”
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0308, Constantynople, Lands End, Nautilus, Rank & File, Wild West
sunrise
Something weird was found the next morning. A wave that wouldn’t crash, and on the other side of the beach from the surfing ones. What gives? Al thinks.
Suddenly 2 killers appear from down the road. “Bang!” he shouts while trying to shoot them dead, quickly followed by “Dang! Forgot to bring the real one.” He’ll have to fight them by hand. Then the immense rolling noise stops and he instead stares straight ahead, wave gone. Mirage?
The killers wink out too. Killed the wave instead? Perhaps he needs more rest. Yes, that’s it. Head back to bed, Al. Back to the beach. You’re dreaming. Head back into yourself and then you can wake up properly. Tom in his head now, he realized. He’d had a rough night of sleeping.
He dreamed that child Shelley owned a rocking horse she loved more than anything else in the world besides her cats and maybe *maybe* her Mom. Made by the same people, by the way, that created that TILE towel rack positioned beside the grown up version of her in that earlier post here. TILE rack, then, like Al had a ball. The mystery continues…
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0304, HANA LEI
sunset
“Okay I’m here on the beach beside the TILE ball, Tom. I’ve got you on speaker so I can keep reading this interesting magazine in front of me. Perhaps clues in there, you understand.” Al didn’t really believe there were any clues in there. He just liked the articles advertised on the cover. All about Home — he wished he had a true home and not just continue to be a traveler of both time and space. He desired to settle down, like the old days, fast becoming the *good* old days.
After the reply: “About 8:01 PM it looks by the sun. Roughly speaking.”
Reply.
“No. No one on the beach except me. No surfers spotted, no one.”
Reply.
“It’s a pretty beach. Pretty long that is (*snicker*).”
Reply.
“No time for jokes, I understand. Jokes later.”
Reply.
“I’ll get settled in. I guess I’ll just bed down here for the night. Then start up the road tomorrow after I check out the beach more in the morning. Maybe I’ll get to interact with someone then.” Al didn’t doubt that his boss Thomasina was onto something sending him here. TILE was strong — he could feel it, as he does. ‘No orange, no purple, let’s make this shit happen,’ he recalls about the sacred manuscript. And here, supposedly, is the amender of such, the bringer of cow and a lot of other things. Won’t have any shorts left, Thomasina said. Al was looking for a little yellow naked fellow. But he was wrong on that.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0303, HANA LEI
TILEist bathroom
When she grew up, bad influences started popping up in her life. Like horn rim glassed, blue haired Sally here, obviously a witch. They even played a game in high school where one took the other’s name, just to confuse the lot of ’em, the rest of the class. The *dunces*, Sally called them.
“Why do you have to sit on that seat when you talk to me in here, Sally? It’s *disgusting*.”
“I’m not using it,” Sally defended her evil self. “Anyway, what if I was? I’m certainly being discreet. You can’t see what’s under this big black dress of mine. No one can, not even (local legendary mill worker) Wilbur on his shinyest, most glistenyest day in the month of May. I reserve that for personal use.”
Shelley ignored the lewdness; kept combing her hair, trying to get it perfect again. Last Thursday, yes. That was the last time it lay upon her head just in the right spots. She was becoming vain, and Sally was egging her on, comparing her, in an inferior way, to, say, pretty girl Ginger Granite who lives down the lane. Whose lane? Certainly not Shelley’s. Maybe Jennifer the novelist who lives inside the novels she creates later on. But those days were far ahead of her still. 29 combs, she counts. 30. *Still* not right. And 30 is her lucky, magic number. Unless it’s 31, it’s changed. She combs again. “Dangit!” she curses. 32, maybe. “Dammit!” she doubles down after this, giving up with the bird’s nest mess.
“When you grow up, Shelley, when you *really* grow up, what do you want to be? A novelist? You said that at one time. You’ll have to go from dairy writing (Sally purposely said diary wrong here) to actual writing. A woman of letters is traditional if unpublishable. Maybe (she gleans), maybe you can start your own publishing company someday. That way you can publish your own! (the insinuation being that no one else would publish it)
Shelley stops staring into the mirror, looks over at Sally still spread out on the toilet. What *is* she doing underneath that dress? She’s never seen Sally take it off — ever — although she doesn’t follow her home, say, and watch her undress. Even though that would be interesting, hmm. What kind of bra does she wear, what type panties? Hanes like mine? This makes her think of Michael Jordan and the Hanes commercials, which brings her back to Grant. Grant Hill. The Sprite guy. He should have been as big as Jordan, Shelley laments not for the first time, and certainly not the last. She imagines, yes, kissing him on the lips to say she’s sorry, the least she can do. Even if it is only a sports poster she hangs above her bed, just in case she needs it. But black, others blabber, is taboo. Redbirds and Blue Jays, some put it. Dunces, true. *Idiots*. Shelley and Sally can certainly agree to that. Why they bonded in the first place — two 1st class dolts for boyfriend or boyfriend wannabes, actually. And the girls circling all around them like demented crows or ravens aren’t much better; cut from the same cloth; unkind to say the least, murderous at the extreme. Look at poor Tiffany Jabber, dead through the head in her bed beside Jed. Tragic. And just because Molly thought he was cute enough to be her stud, no one else as suitable.
She puts down the comb, picks up the mascara stick and starts messing with that, more successfully, she feels. Maybe she can be a cosmetologist when she grows up. But, no, destiny calls. “I’ll (apply mascara) *start* my own publishing company true (apply). But *only* (apply) after I turn down all the other publishers who flock around me, begging me to print through them. I’ll be a success, Sally. A star. Bigger than anything you’ve seen before. Bigger than, well (apply) *Rowling*!”
Absurd, Sally thinks, but nods her head. Shelley’s falling further into her web, making grandiose plans she absolutely can’t fulfill. Trouble is… well, we’ll save some of the success and/or failure story for later.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0302, HANA LEI
00390215
He was wore out from surfing so he decided to re-energize a bit. Banana should do it. “Just one?” asked Gloria to the request, now working at Hana Lei. “All I need,” he replied in his nasal, boy-ish voice. With his small frame he could make it go far. No need to over-weigh himself. “Help yourself, then,” she said, indicating the bowl full of fruit beside him. “Thanks.”
“Couldn’t help noticing your moves out there me laddie,” said the anthropomorphic turtle beside him, deciding between apples. Ah heck, he thinks, an orange will do, and orders one from Gloria. “No no no, changed my mind, ” he then said as Gloria indicated the bowl again. “I’ll have what he’s having.” “Same place,” she said, hand still extended toward the bowl. “I… don’t want to run you out of them. No, I’ll take an orange.” She turned with this, tired of dealing with him. It was like this every day for the experienced surfer. So good on the waves, so bad on the food. Maybe his ability to choose well runs out when he sits back down here, she rationalized at one point. Thus the reason for the bowl in the first place, actually. He helps himself.
After the selection (orange, no banana, no *apple*; but which one?), he returns his attention to the boy and the spotted talent. “Lessons?” he queries between bites… of something. I believe I detect crunching so probably one of those apples.
“You mean, have I *taken* lessons? In surfing?”
“Yeah. You have talent. If it’s natural then more power to you.” Say my name, he thought. Just say my name.
“Nah, no lessons.” Another noiseless bite from the lad. “I think lessons would just… *ruin* it for me.”
“The talent,” the turtle replied.
“Yeah.” More peeling and another bite. “I learned that quite a ways back. Wrote a treatise and my, um, mentor marked it all up with red. Top to bottom, mind you. Then she changed hair color from red to blue and it all went away, all the corrections. ‘Perfect already,’ she said, scooting the suddenly unmarked manuscript back to me from across the table. So I’m a natural at things — that’s what she said.” Special, he added to himself. Special special.
“Newton’s the name,” the turtle-man said, and extended his apple-less hand to the kid, who shook it. “Newton Jasper, like the liquor. Except backwards.”
“Jasper… Newton?”
Bingo, he thought, and changed directions, facing out to the sea again. His true home — this was just a stop between dives. “Some call me Jack,” he said. “Friends call me Jack. Tell you what, you call me Jack from now on. Eh?”
“Jack,” the yellow *rapscallion* amended, also turning. He’d been here before. And, there, he was starting to glow again. Just looking at them continue to roll in.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” the turtle said, noticing too.
“Sure am!” And they were both at it again, remainder of the fruits tossed aside during the running from land to water.
“Cowabunga!” the turtle shouted as he jumped on his board.”
“Hey, don’t eat my shorts!” the likewise surfing boy responded to this. And so it continues…
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0039, 0215, HANA LEI
Sunklands 