Tag Archives: NODAL

December 20, 2022 · 8:27 am

sole mates

The bottle was flying all about the table outside but Edward was use to it.

Jem exhaled, looked around. “So this is the fabulous Hotel Adriano in Shamon.” Peter Ladd was born here, or at least conceived here, she thought, his parents like rabbits at the time. Why they’re here.

On his part, Edward, her Eddy, brought her to this place for another reason. They weren’t married, but if Edward had his way they soon would be, powers or no. He felt the ring case in his pocket press hard against his thigh. Had to be the perfect time to reveal. Not now… not with the bottle and all. It was flying faster and faster it seemed, with quirky motions like some kind of bug. Distracting. It’s even threatening his head a bit now.

“Dear,” he finally relented. And pointed.

“Oh, yes. I almost forget it’s there these days. Been a while since I’ve had my powers. Ever since…since…”

“Duck?” Edward Daigle offered.

“Yes,” said Jem, remembering the event. She even lost her ability to walk properly, or at least the others had told her that. She went past the 4th wall.

The bottle vanished before Edward’s eyes but only because she moved it somewhere else. “Good to be back on Jeogeot. I… was made here too. Just like Peter.”

“Peter?” Edward questioned, making Jem realize that Edward didn’t know about all that. Wrong probable reality. Besides, he knew she was made in “Gunpowder” (post) set in Dodgey City in photo-novel 31. She is a product of that town, restated and re-angled at the first of the current photo-novel, 36 in a series. In-between, yes, she was in Towerboro on the Jeogeot continent, and Edward was with her there. But she also made appearances in now defunct Ontario without him. Instead there: John. Definitely *not* a hairstylist or hairstyle. Edward knew that now fer sure.

Time for the present, which turned out to be presents. Edward grasped the ring case in his pocket at the same time Jem grasped the just manifested book in her lap. “I have something for–” they both said in unison, then laughed. “You go…” offered Jem, temporarily releasing the book and getting ready to accept whatever was coming across the table. “No, you,” said Edward back, trying to be more conscious of manners and act like a normal person for her.


He wish he hadn’t. He transformed his own present into a joke about 2 horses who couldn’t finish a race because they turned into rats, the ring remaining deep deep deep in his pocket after the one-eyed book was produced. Still Jem seemed pleased.

(to be continued)

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December 19, 2022 · 9:08 am

what it all builds up from… and down from for that matter

“Looks like you’ve had some kind of adventure, Uncle of mine.”

“I have. But it’s all pretend.”

“Right. Bringing it to me, I suppose. Why I’m here.”

“Welll…” Mr. Babyface settles back into the bargain bin couch, wishing he’d bought up a little more to avoid the oh-too-soon broken springs, ow. One in his left cheek right now, as in buttocks. “Let’s say,” he continued, light bulb over his head now, “you’re here, staying with me, because of a local rock concert, say a progressive group right down there at the base of the peninsula, at the, what’s its name?”

“Dunno, Uncle.”

“Ah, heck. Progressive Rock Museum, but that’s not the name of the venue.”

“I’m okay with Progressive Rock Venue if you are.”

“Alright,” relented Babyface. “But you’re here because of that, say, supergroup Yes, which we both love, although we have a separate list of favorite albums. Yours is…”

“‘Close to the Edge’, ‘Relayer’, and ‘Going for the One’.”

“Yes, and mine would be ‘Fragile’, ‘Yes Album’ and ‘Topographic Oceans’.”

Peter winces. “‘Topographic Oceans’,” he says with some derision. “Bloated.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not get into that argument again. We agree to disagree. We’re talking about loving the same *group* anyway. It’s like we like the same forest but not the same trees or clump of trees — something.”

“Okay, my Uncle.”

“And we need to keep in touch more. You’re not even real here. You’re just in my head.”

“Sorry, Uncle. I’m busy. Winning tennis tournaments for one. You haven’t even congratulated me on my latest. Plus the comedy — another thing we differ on…”

“… but are also the same, yes yes. Firesign Theatre.”

“‘Bozos’!” shouted Peter Ladd.

“‘Dwarf’!” countered Mr. Babyface to his thought-to-be estranged nephew playfully. They would hug each other in the moment if they weren’t so maladjusted. It was just the families, their upbringing. Both kind of square pegs in round holes. Just so thankful, thought Babyface here, that Peter was born with a normal head, phew! Which brings us back to conception.

“Tell me about Shamon, Peter, how you got here. I’ve been thinking about the Big Schwa lately.”

“Big E!” shouted Peter, making his Uncle Babyface smile but not as much as before. This was more serial stuff, as the young’n’s might put it.

—–

So they pried themselves away from watching the blog on TV and went upstairs to stare at it from different sides, different angles, to ponder what Mr. Babyface had surmised earlier. “Shamon on top of course,” he reminded Peter. “Closest hit in the Oracle is Shamokin PA, but with a pinch of collage magic we can create one of those 2-n-1’s… that you hate so much.”

“Stop it, Uncle. We’re not enemies.”

“I know, sorry.” But look… I’ll project it on the screen downstairs when we return.”

“What else while we’re here?”

He pivoted the Big E around until the proper side was facing his nephew, turning it into a Big Schwa. He was seeing from his Uncle’s perspective now.

“Orgas, Peter,” recited Mr. Babyface on another closest Oracle hit, this time for the sim of Orgamast, label right in front of Peter’s eyes. He reloads his pipe, Blue Pennant now.  “Orgasm, obviously (puff puff). And there’s also an Organ Cave population place in the same state of West Virginie. The Lordshore-Orgamast Floor is the lowest level of the Kidd Tower here (next to the Lebettu Castle). Lordshore also begins with LO.”

“What are you getting at, Uncle?”

“Let’s go back to the couch.”

—–


Shamokin > Shamon

“Shamon… from the inn… place of thorns. This is where it happened.”

“What happened?” Then Peter realized what his Uncle was talking about. “Ooooh.”

Mr. Babyface thought of a joke here but wisely decided not to mouth it.

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December 18, 2022 · 7:22 pm

00360202

Halt! Who goes there? *No* women allowed here.”

“So I’ve heard,” silkily replies Panthera the bringer of curses, perhaps the curer of curses as well or instead. Worshipper of the Tiki Gods is she. Legend.

So she made her pitch. “Your men are… sick.”

“Yeah, what of it sorceress?” Then Chebisoldier 02 realized what was being bargained, perhaps. A cure. Since the curse was already upon them.

—–

“How’s it going, Chet? What ya aiming at today?”

“Grass, the usual,” replied Chebisoldier 03, named this time, to Mr. Babyface, puffing on Red Dragon this morning. Out of Blue Pennant, pheh. He’ll run to the market later this afternoon. If he can get that gal darn company bamboo car started up. Good thing lover Greg’s a top notch mechanic; learned it in the army himself. Portrait painter of war scenes he was. Preferred green, but usually got bogged down in red. So many casualties in the Trojan-Durexian affair. And now: here. Jeogeot Gulf. Perpetual war, that’s what the leaders here proclaimed. We must end war by never ending war. Chinese finger trap, pardons to the Chinese. Small cylinder made up of woven bamboo — appropriate.

Babyface knew this was Interrogation Day, when the local leaders vowed to get to the bottom of the camp’s curse, why most of the men are sick if not dying of some mysterious malady none of the regular doctors ’round here seem to know the origin or meaning of.

Perhaps it was all about those masks the natives gave them as a base warming present, they said. Hang them all around! they urged cheerfully, Durxerian aligned smiles like masks themself. Good luck all around, then! they proclaimed.

And free bamboo to use too for construction and decoration, hmmm. I’m beginning to smell a rat. The whole place may have to be torched.

Not knowing any better, Mr. Babyface and his lover Greg, sometimes with a 3rd g to add to the 2 already there, walked into all this with blinders on, ready for art not action. “Paint *anywhere*,” the leaders said to Greg after his stint was over at the bloody battles up the coast, not wanting to tax him too far. “Relax and head for our Xilted base if you want.” Green! Return of green, he thought, knowing the story of those emerald hills (now with grass!) from childhood and perhaps even before beyond.

They weren’t sick yet but they were stuck. Mr. Babyface decides to get into solving the mystery himself, to save his own hide if nothing else, his and Greg’s. Another fear: Greg may turn into Gregg if he becomes too ill, frustration setting in. What if he can’t paint green and turns green himself? Much to worry about there (bloodbath returns).

(to be continued)

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December 13, 2022 · 6:00 pm

HARDR

“He’s quite a big bigger than her,” observed Baker Bloch or Wheeler Wilson, laying under another one of those umbrellas on the far side of the pool. “Your turn now,” one of them said.

“I didn’t know Mmmmmm’s came in different sizes like that,” said Wheeler (making the 1st speaker Baker).

“They seem happy,” spoke Baker. “For now.”

“Com’on. We don’t know how this species really interacts with each other.”

“I know they have an average lifespan of about 26 years.”

“26 1/2,” amended Wheeler.

“And the little one, perhaps even less.”

“Again… you don’t know that. You’re thinking of dogs or cats or something. Could be the bigger one, the male, who has the shorter life. Plus males tend to die earlier than females (in general).” She looks over at Baker Bloch, those dead eyes, and remembers he doesn’t have to worry about all that. Already deceased. Her? Could be immortal as well. We’ll have to make sure she’s archived if so.

“Notice the TILE floaties all around?”

“No I didn’t. But that’s more your thing. I have my own kind of TILE.” She wonders again about his missing piece, the thing that can turn from an I into an E given the right circumstances. Ones she controls: E; perfection. There’s a whole ‘nother side to the religion/philosophy/game that Wheeler could explain to us in great detail. If she were allowed.

“It’s something we could talk about in great detail (told ya). Me with my own more analytic take, and you with your more physical slant.”

“Hmmm.” She was drifting off now in the noonday sun, just downed Russian Roulette doing its work.

“Notice the Christmas trees,” Baker added about the props in the central platform. “Green and red (line). Being emphasized above the blue and yellow.”

“You’re talking about Roberts now, and what she might give Franklin as a present,” Wheeler replied without opening her eyes. She was seeing in the dark. “Franklin hopes, anyway.”

“Why… did we have to take that away from her?”

“I didn’t. *You* did.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ right. Think about that analytic boy. Why would I care enough about her Gang of Willard to remove it, like a surgeon. No, that’s intellect, that’s airiness. That’s…”

“Male.”

“Yes.”

“Me Tarzan, you Jane,” Baker spoke while pointing between them. Wheeler couldn’t help but chuckle a bit with this. If only.

—–

“I like this pool *much* better than the guitar one. Bigger!”

“Oh, Grassy,” said Sassy, his new girlfriend, perhaps his new wife. They may be on a honeymoon. Certainly not the first date at least. The other one fit me better, the smaller one, she thinks internally, not wanting to disappoint. She’d save up the grudges, spew them out later like an erupting volcano. A smaller one, but packing quite an internal heating unit. What attracted Grassy to her in the first place. Sassy indeed.

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December 12, 2022 · 9:50 am

Harrys at Fieldon

Jerry eyed me as I receded and then approached again. “Why do you walk like a duck?” he ask me straightforwardly. I thought about it.

“Because I don’t want anyone to notice.”

“Notice what?” he shot back.

I indicated myself. “Well, *this*.” I wore kids sneakers. I had kids’ hair. But I was no kid. There were butterflies fluttering about in my midsection. But I wasn’t nervous. Except for the revealing, top to bottom.

Jerry — he said his name was Jerry earlier — reached into the News of the World van through an open window, pulled out a file left conveniently on the passenger seat. “I think you’re looking for this.”

—–

Norris was backing trooper car 0407 into its usual spot. Recognizing him (another Harry!), I grasped the file from Jerry’s outstretched arm and went across the parking lot to this new guy on the scene, hoping to get more information. However, my head was turned as I approached the driver’s window by a head on the hood, directly above the word Fidelity. It hit too close to home.

He didn’t ask about the duck walk, even though I approached and receded and approached him as well (I think). “Get in,” he said, but not the one within. The butterflies fluttering about my stomach became real as I realized I was an already cuffed prisoner of the state ready for transport to… somewhere. Jerseyville? Wouldn’t that be appropriate.

“Bring the other head in too while you’re at it,” Interior Norris requested. “And make sure you don’t bend anything in that file. We’ll need both for evidence.” SLAM

I was inside.

(to be continued)

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December 10, 2022 · 4:36 pm

00360109

The Nautilus map in my skybox is lighting up again. Jem’s Dodgey City in the northwest corner, along with neighboring Blacking where Midge critically observed it across the water from her colorful beach towel. Yd Island and Darla and her Umbrella Club to the southeast, also observed from a distance by prevert Albert. Then Fordham in the lower center, the old Collagesity location which is now surprisingly acting as a hideout of some kind for Franklin aided by greenie friend Apples and the sentient tree known as Unch — you remember Unch don’t you? From the Rubi Forest? Think back. And then in the center center that mysterious place known as Perch-Mistletoe where we also see Franklin, this time interacting with Albert directly but who then turns into or reveals himself as Baker Bloch instead, with Franklin likewise realizing she’s Wheeler Wilson. The 2 main core avatars of my blog and attached photo-novels in other words, the great male-female (or female-male) duality. What it all revolves around. Then in the main arm of the Starfish Lake or Sea to the northwest of that we have Dr. Mouse’s practice which Albert also visited and turned into a baby apparently, a symbol of rebirth. Another pin is lit up beside it but we can’t speak of that yet. Place called Dub — displaced actually. To this couch so we can talk with him/it.

Another form:

Another:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dub,_Arkansas

Then moving to the west and the south again, directly below Dodgey City we have another mystery area centered by a place called the Art Box which we’ve visited several times before in our blog chronicled journeys, and which will surface again soon in relation to the missing file or files mentioned by Midge. Then to finish up for now, in the north central, we have the location of the map itself, my Lebettu Castle on Rooster’s Peninsula, my new home as of the middle of photo-novel 33 back in the late spring now. It’s been a perfect match so far. There’s no question I had to downsize.


Collagesity back in the days

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December 9, 2022 · 5:47 am

2nd crowd

He looked in on the proceedings with his 2 hats and his 2 perching birds, thinking: busy, good. That means the doctor, the practice is good. Here’s someone I can talk to and learn meaningful stuff from, this Mouse fellow. Never mind the failed Pooping Pigeons franchise, he follows. A bad businessman does not make for a bad something else.

He steps inside, jumps ahead of everyone else knowing they wouldn’t mind. He’s just that important.

The door was locked. The only way in, it appeared, was through this hole at the bottom. Luckily Albert brought his own Mouse costume, except his was a rat, small enough to get away with the deception and do the job. Mouse was just finishing up with another one, synchily enough. Rat named Map who use to be a member of a gang called Willard.

“Come in, big man,” he squeaked up to high-as-a-kite Albert. “If you can make it.”

“Oh I can,” he boomed down. Map Rat disappeared. Albert took his place.

(to be continued)

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December 9, 2022 · 4:25 am

Darla loves black

“We have a location on the girl. Repeat. We have a location, over.”

“Roger that, Mission. Honing in… now.”

—–

It was the first meeting of the local Umbrella Club chapter, and not all were invited, namely: men.

And *especially* Albert, who could only view the proceedings from afar, say 200 meters. That’s as close as his ankle bracelet would allow, which was probably a good thing. He just wanted to check up on her, he rationalized about the spying, make sure she’s not up to any trouble. Or if she was, he wanted to know. And, he also thinks, I suppose *this* counts. Just like the case with Franklin, pheh.

He never got around to taking off his hat, which could explain why he’s here.

(to be continued)

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December 7, 2022 · 9:48 am

recentering

“We’re both tall for our species,” spoke Albert. Maybe we should bury the hatchet, get together. You’d have to have an operation of course. I’m not taking what you have down there currently.”

“You’re joking, right?” Sometimes it was hard for Franklin to tell.

“Of course.” Albert was somewhat reformed, having almost died over at Sporminore in the last photo-novel, 35 (period). He’s kind of seen the light. He returned his butterfly curtains from his formerly very special room to Curtis’ just the other day. I believe we have a photo of him doing so in the media library, along with some attached dialog…

Yes, here:


“You’ll have to trade them in.” “That’s fine.”

“So I come here looking for the Umbrella girl and instead find you. Under an umbrella.” He looked over, he looked up. “Explain.”

“We’re different people,” said Franklin. “I sit on the blue pillow, which represents positivity.”

“I resent that,” shot back Albert quickly. “*I* represent positivity… in the now.”

Franklin realized this was so. More memories kicked in. She was Shelley before, but also, behind that, Wheeler. She was Wheeler. She *is* Wheeler. She took him in, realizing she was sitting beside fellow core Baker Bloch instead of prevert Albert. Only the blackbird linked them together. And the hat(s).

“Take off your hat, Albert, and I’ll know that you speak the truth.” Could he?

(to be continued)

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November 30, 2022 · 2:04 pm

Jem’s World

“Well, my name is Gemilly Johnston — Jem for short — and these are the books I’ll be keeping up with (!).”

So cheerful that first week, she says, reviewing her introductory video, whiskey sour in hand as usual when looking at this type of stuff. So many videos in her collection now. But this was one of the clean ones, before the dirt and grime of the city, this Dodgey City, became fully evident, thanks to John. *Not* Jim.

“I live about 1500 meters up in a nice house with a beautiful perpetual sunset, right on the beach. See? (she indicates a hand, an arm) I’m already working up a tan (!).”

If I could go back and kill her — myself — I would, thinks Jem here, wanting to wipe that ridiculous smile off her face with a rag of acid. OK, maybe Texas Pete.

“The house is owned by John L. Brown, who is also my boss, who is also my, ahem…”

Boyfriend? thought present Jem. Fat chance.

“… cousin,” past Jem completed her sentence.

Wait, is that possible? present Jem thought. She reversed the video, started over. At 2:32: “cousin” again. She doesn’t remember saying that. Plus it wasn’t true (!!).

—–

But John L. Brown for one knew it was and changed the wording yesterday after also slyly suggesting she take a day off for mental health reasons and look at old videos from the archive to soothe her nerves, especially recommending — or starting with — the one she’s viewing right this moment. Jem eventually figured this out as well as she continued to sip (or at least try to contain it to a sip) on one of her whiskey sours and ponder and ponder. Cousin — that aspect conveniently forgotten, conveniently wiped from memory, just like she was trying to wipe the happiness and naivety from her past self’s face back then in her imagination. She imagines someone standing behind her, looking at her as if on a video, trying to wipe something from *her*.

“John L. Brown,” she muttered with Texas Pete, add a little Oklahoma from beyond the screen. She turned (toward the camera?). Time for my close-up.

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