Tag Archives: NODAL

Deep South

Marilyn was incredulous. “Cook tonight?? Andy, you can barely make *soup*, hmph.”

“I do all right.”

—–

Nearby:

We missed out on our chance at Elberta, brother of mine. She’s gone.”

“Toothpick’s sister? She’s right up there.”

“I know. But that’s her *picture*.”

“Oh.” Boos scratches his unbagged head.

Bogota took another look at the framed photos on the wall through the holes in his skull; had a realization. “Wait… that’s *Amber*. Remember Amber?”

“The wrestler?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember Neck City?”

“It’s coming back (!)” The memories were focusing…

—–

Nearby again:

“Sure glad to have Amber back,” Dickie Doom states while looking over at his golden hued daughter preparing the food for tonight, but wife Debbie knew that wasn’t her real name. Not any longer.

“Dick. We need to talk.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0023, 0109, Black Ice, NWES Island

00220616

Barry DeBoy stares at the blank canvas he knows he must fill in soon. CITY, a concept that must be born if the city itself is to be saved. Almost a 90 percent chance of it now. He’ll take the odds.

He pinches himself to make sure he’s awake (he is). Wearing the red tie has made him nervous about that down through the months — before, he was always dreaming when he had it on. No more. Something happened: a reversal, a change of heart even, he senses. Miss Graham has given it back. But why?

“It was me,” Hucka Doobie spoke at a nearby table. “Come on into the picture. PICT ON PICT. Come on,” she urged.

“What’s he doing?”

“She. But that’s what we have to find out. Temple.”

“Wheeler. Of course.”

“Yes.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0616, Canada/Picturetown, Google Street View, HANA LEI

Barry 02 02

He awoke again a little later on in the day, not having moved from his spot in front of the Raccoon typewriter. Nappy the cat stared directly into the camera, aware of its presence. Eraserhead Man even dared to wave at it, thinking the noticing was funny. Barry DeBoy was not aware of it. Barry DeBoy was in character. He had awoken again, in the same spot as before. Someone, perhaps himself, had turned off the lamp.  More clarity all around this time. Wadded up papers on the floor — was this something *he* wrote, perhaps a future or past version again? He picked one up, unwadded it.  Something about a place named Gaston. Later he found parrot droppings on the floor of the shed and put two and two together to make four or five. A pirate with a parrot had been here, and he thought he knew which one. The dream controller. The one who brought the virus in his pirate ship for communities that didn’t heed the warnings. Like Maw’s Storybrook. Like this place. DeBoy tries to remember the name, the most obvious thing he should recall. But all he could come up with was The Waste, which he knew wasn’t quite right. Something about a number. Or numbers.

He unwadded more; tried to piece together the story being written. Gaston had appeared in something called a photo-novel in versions 6, 11, 16, 21. Through this, the bastard pirate had concluded that it was related to something called a Magic Square of Jupiter, a 4×4 glyph that appeared, perhaps most famously, in Albrect Durer’s print “Melancholia” from back in the 15th Century or something — this from the pirate text again.

He finished unfolding the papers, shooed the conscious cat from the table, and tried to align them in correct order. 70 pages total, he understood from the numeration. But only 4 present here: bits about the magic square and the overall theories but no meat, no details. He would have to shift his attention elsewhere for more answers.

He turned to the stool and the easel holding a canvas on the other side of the screened in shed. Painting. Barry DeBoy realized he had two functions in life now. He was a writer. He was an artist, if not a painter then the equivalent. But in this moment: painter. He had work to do… he remembered that too. The CITY design. Black Diamond. He must get to work soon.

He wasn’t a writer in this incarnation. He was an artist. He wadded the papers back up and threw them in the trashcan underneath the desk. The true story of Gaston would have to wait until another day, another dreamer in another day perhaps, or one who dreams he is real even though he is just another character, one in a long long line now. Maybe he will share a first name with another of his kind — quite likely, given the sheer number. But before DeBoy gets to work — this is *his* work station now, not the pirate’s, not anyone else named Barry — he must explore the neighborhood. Find Suisan if possible and get the story about his mother. Maybe even — Maw? He had to look. He had to know. Suisan would know. If she was available.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0604, Gaston+, The Waste+

Barry 02 01

He woke up somewhere very different than before. Twilight. The lamp had not been turned off from the night. The cat Nappy purred beside him, half aware that his master had awoken. 1/2 and 1/2 once more, but I’m suppose to limit (that expression) to one per photo-novel section at the most, as prescribed by my word therapist Bob the Knob who I don’t really like that much so I may insert it more. Or less. Damn Bob. Recommended by Richard, who I haven’t talked to since session 3. Or was it section 3? NO, there was no Richard in the story.

I’m admittedly getting a little confused about all the names (finally! the reader might utter here). Barry DeBoy who just woke up here in a strange but then very familiar land shares a first name with Barry X. Vampire who arrived in our text in photo-novel 18 — and also *writing*, at least partially, said photo-novel. He was a creator like me within the pages posts of his own creation. Mirror within mirror, etc. But the mirrorings seem to be increasing lately. It’s time, for example, to face the fact and the music that the two Barry’s in our novels — let me check (checks) — yes still only *2* Barry’s. Anyway, they are probably the same, and my rationale — well, I won’t go into it in detail but let it just play out in the text. Returning to the awakening DeBoy version, then…

Took him a minute to realize where he was after gaining consciousness but as he looked around at the tall, brown grass, the dilapidated buildings and signs, it dawned on him, as the sun, let’s say, gained height over a yonder horizon. Home. Maw may even be here, even older than before. Some called her Pink, some just called her Star, but her actual name was Marsha. Marsha “Star” Pink.  All three were correct, I suppose. But what am I doing here thinking about names? I must think about *action*. Barry tried to recall where this shed was in relation to his house where he grew up as DeBoy, who started as simple D-Boy (one who makes a lot of D’s, etc.) but then changed in stature within the community as he received the tie from… who? He recalls something about another Barry. Himself? he realizes. From the future or from the past?

Suisan might know. If she’s still around — or still alive for that matter. Always wearing that mask while growing up, always afraid of the germs and viruses swarming, she put it, in the air all around us. And now her fears have come to fruition. The Jasper virus, the mother, is here. He peers in the direction he remembers that his mother lives in. Home. She could still be there.

But then another whole series of memories locked into place. His mother had died! Along with Suisan, along with a friend named Brown. Along with another friend named Green. Maybe someone named Olive, even. This was a land of… he looked down at his hands. He attempted to swat one with the other but it only passed through. Yet another dream. His mother was dead but then she was alive, at least during *parts* of his childhood. How could this be?

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0603, The Waste+

revealing

It was all so very funny, Supper Man and his new arch-nemesis Toothpick battling it out for the right to marry Dinner Girl and/or Elberta first. Because their fists and, occasionally, feet kept passing through each other. Neither was real. Onlooking Barry DeBoy determined it was a dream a while back because he was wearing the red tie. In reality he didn’t possess this tie any more — gave it to Miss Graham the schoolteacher in exchange for… what? A life without the 5 looking on. A life without Pan-Z. He felt the precious tie one last time before waking up, instead holding the air in front of his chest as it vanished into nothingness again. The Great Void. Blackness. “Yippy tie one on I suppose,” he tried to humor himself in the moment, but he’d also heard the word “tile” used in that expression recently over at the temple. Funny again. “Yippy tile one on” — made sense as well.

He rolls over. Helloo, who’s this?


Dreaming still. Wake up, wake up! But he didn’t want to suddenly. Wendy wakes up instead, tells him who he is. Not “Q”, because that’s already been covered. The symbol on the hat could pass for a “Q” but he didn’t want it to now, not for Wendy.

—–

“Annnnnnd CUT! That was great guys! But — Wendy. We need to get you out of *that* dress and into the blood stained one as soon as possible! The Twins are breathing down my back, bearing down on my neck! You need to be invisible down there.”

Wendy knew what he was talking about but didn’t care. Wasn’t she Miss Graham reincarnated? She was. Didn’t she give Hucka Doobie the red tie procured from Barry DeBoy in a similar way before and send her away? She most assuredly did. Baker and she were getting too close. “Barry, *you* are Baker,” she said earlier. “You are the artist that is going to paint CITY and save us all from suburbia.” He turned it over in his mind like a rubik’s cube and saw the truth in it. Better get back to work…

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0601, Black Ice, NWES Island

he got glowing reviews in the “Daily Beast”

“We call him Torch but I believe his first name is Glenn. I try to stay a certain distance from the fellow understandably, me being both Snowy and Frosty at once.” He looks over. “Still not talking to me, Old Grey?” He turns back, sighs. “This NWES Island, Old Grey. I don’t think we can ever leave now. Collagesity has been fully assimilated.” He pries his eyes off the hypnotic dancing fireman again, looks at his watch. “Speaking of the City I think I’ll take a walk; getting a little hot in here. Cool off, you know.” He was thinking of a certain seat in town shaded green and blue formerly across the street from a fire station. Just south and east of Diamondfyre, but not far enough to forget how to come home to mother.

—–

“I was born there, in that dresser,” spoke Snowmanster to no one now, not even one who doesn’t listen, doesn’t know. “I became someone that day, way back in photo-novel 3. You were there, Old Grey. Even at the beginning. We talked of, well, we discussed a lot of stuff while walking to Purden and meeting Core-Alena for the first time. You weren’t impressed. I recall you mimicking me through a ‘Star Wars’ character. But now you’re paying the price.” He looks over at Old Grey that isn’t there but he pretends she is anyway, cane still in hand. He notices the ill fitting wig again, the cracked grey skin. Old. Dead, even. Death itself. She was beginning to smell.

Wee person Aloha climbed out of the picture before him and introduced herself by saying goodbye, pheh. Green lantern carrying Fern will have to do.


“Hellooo.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0508, Apple's Orchard, Marwood, NWES Island

zzz again

He finally figured out how to remove the giant acorn of a head. He was relieved to find his own head still within, or perhaps it just grew there, like a seed in a pod, ready to hatch forth at the right moment. He pulled and pulled and pulled and finally it was there. Fully formed, seemingly. But the bikini top and especially bottom with attached tail remained. That was part of the new body apparently, part of the assimilation. 2 Sandy’s in one now. One Piece Sandy again. He had (seemingly?) woken up, but not in a good way.

And to top it all off now,  he had big hands, like the greeter at the door of Bar FF. Odd name; he couldn’t think of what the initials could stand for. Probably something Japanese related, he realized. He couldn’t see the writing on the wall while staring down at monstrous appendages.

Sandy wasn’t alone at the bar. “I believe you know my father,” the 1/2 snow 1/2 sponge being spoke over.

—–

Snowbob’s *mother* Snowmanster exits the closet again, looks around. “Well *this* is different. Underwater, eh. And apparently I can breathe underwater, lucky me. Now to find Old Grey once… oh. There you are!”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0501, HANA LEI, Heterocera, Iris

letters and numbers but mostly letters

“Red yellow green blue,” the introduction began. “NO purple. NO orange. NO nothing else. We have our 4. I am Phyllis and I approve this manifesto. Let’s make this shit happen.”

561 words. In the next paragraph.

—–

Future scholars picked out key words like Olive, Gray, Residents, Oklahoma, Pink, Brown, and Geronimo as anchors to their attempts at analyses, even though the sentence, “Keys — you can have them; I’m producing my own delicious peanut based spread for my bread.”, appears plainly in the 166th paragraph (before perhaps one about milk) as a seeming warning to this approach. 1/2 and 1/2 again, since almost everyone agrees that this sentence *is* the key since it is the only readable one in the whole 561 paragraph document (except perhaps for the sentence about milk following it), with the ending paragraph simply, “End.”, and the second to last, “Tartar mosquito.”, and the third to last, “I am instant.”, and so on back to the 561 word 1st paragraph — most scholars don’t count the clearly worded introduction just to be clear. So the 166th paragraph with the sense making sentence has, let’s see (pulls up calculator), 395 words, of which 16 are in that key sentence quoted above. Some turn to maths for explanation of the inexplicable Manifesto, usually capitalized in these TILE friendly and frenzied days. Jim Baloony of Yale’s Harvard points out that 395 divided by 16 equals 24.6875, which when extended to the logically equivalent 24.687531 contains all the even and then odd numbers in order and then reverse order between 0 and 9. “Where is the 9th?” he questions, and then turns to the “perhaps sentence” (as it is called these days) about milk to make his theories more palatable and easier to swallow. It reads: “And so on the 5th day he cowed.” Several books about that sentence alone have now been published, one by Bart Smipson, a skateboarder from Tull, and the other by his vegetarian leaning sister Lisa, co-written by someone who chooses to simply be known as Marty. And then there’s the whole Zero Hero cult that has grown around the mention of Gong in paragraphs 3, 40, and 340.

(to be continued?)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0411, Black Ice, Jeogeot, NWES Island

X-girl

It was the first meeting of their TILE discussion group, yet without a name. Mr. Z, with continentally constituted backpack per usual, then his prettier brother-cousin also named Mr. Z. Let’s call him Zimmy. And then, thirdly but not lastly, as people like to say, a scowling, non-sister cousin called — let’s go with Olive Oylslick, not to be confused with Owley Oilstick over in Constitution who works a bread stand. No relation atall between them except a common 5th grade kindergarten teacher named Ed. Or was it Ralph. Anyway, to the meeting…

The lights had to be dimmed because TILE was not an officially recognized religion or philosophy or even game in this particular part of The City. One of the reasons the discussion group was formed was to help change all that, bring TILE out in the open.

“Minute taker anyone?” Mr. Z offered to start the proceedings. Owley, I mean, Olive raised her hand. She knew she had the only handwriting anyone could decipher amongst their group. Her favorite push pencil magically appeared in it. She had that power; another advantage. A writing pad popped into existence in the other one. She glared in the direction of the Z’s, waiting for them to open their big fat mouths again and produce things to write about. She was patient, but not of a mental kind. Not any more. She manifested two pills in her mouth and swallowed, one red and one blue. That way her size stayed the same.

With this, Phyllis also manifested on the far end of the room beside the purple stripes of the TILE flag they had collaged together just last night: the last member, the one Olive forgot she even invited to the group. Met her at a chilly Denver airport on a snowy April day in July. Chile Colorado. And she had Ralph or Ed for a 5th grade kindergarten teacher too. Anyhoot, she’s here — and I suppose this is the real Owley. So Phyllis, not Owley, complete with bread and a little milk to wash it down with to show she cares.

“Some of these colors will have to be removed,” she declares while looking sideways, making Olive begin to scribble.

—–

40 minutes later, she had the minutes to the meeting. Trouble is, her cousins, the Z’s, hadn’t even said a thing while watching her slash away at the notepad with the push pencil, clicking it every couple of minutes to produce new graphite as the old wore away. She just dictated what Phyllis was telling her. No one else saw or heard Phyllis. No one else knew she existed. It was all in the pills. But they *had* their manifesto. Olive looked up, realized what was going on. She’d been in a trance for quite a while. She looked at her cousins, Zimmy and the other one who only goes by Mister. “You can go home now,” she gruffly declares. “I’ll email you the typed results tonight.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0410, Black Ice, Colorado, NWES Island

small variations matter

“I’m telling you, Jack. They’ve forgotten everything. The war’s over, they go home. Then slowly, one by one, they make their way back .They pick up their arms once more, if they have any arms left to pick them up from the last time. Or maybe they just grow back. Like lizards do. Jack — are you listening to me? You seem distracted. I’m saying–”

“Hitler’s dead, is what all the papers say,” the youthful bartender mutters anxiously to the raccoon man, returned to the Jeogeot Gulf for a timely visit. “Yet the Japs fight on. Soon the war will be over. But then I wake up, it’s 1939 all over again. Poland is invaded.” Jack starts to sob a little here. “It just starts *over*.”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to *tell* you Jack. I should know. I started out as a private and rose in the ranks to a 5 star general in charge of the whole caboodle. I said, from this position of power: this is it. Surrender. Go home y’all. Lay down your arms… all the things you said. Then I come back and everything is unlearned, undone. Tell me Jack.” He takes another sip of insipid beer, probably American. “Do you even know what side you’re fighting for any more? Some don’t.” He turns and looks at the 1/2 filled bar of military personnel. “If the uniforms were a little grayer here, a little drabber there, I don’t think anyone would know.”

Jack wipes the counter down nervously, thinking that 1/2 the people in the room are watching him and half aren’t. But he doesn’t know which. He tries to determine friend from foe through the caps and helmets but all the lines get blurred together. He’s lost it. He needs to go home but he doesn’t even know where that is any more. Home is here I suppose, he says to himself. He pours two shots of Jack Daniels, one for the raccoon man and one for himself. “Here’s to home,” he proclaims while raising his glass, resigned to the fact. Over in one gulp, he pours another while 1/2 the room still eyes him.

Rocky Racco stares intently down into his own empty glass like it was a scrying device, and maybe it was. He needs to figure out what went awry with his plans and end it for good this time. This smells like a Casey One Hole case in his estimation (he channels?), with everyone vying for that damned mustard seed.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0409, NWES Island