Tag Archives: NODAL

January 20, 2025 · 6:09 pm

00450509 (25?)

Banned from my Nautilus homeland by an overprotective mother fearful of stalkers, suitcase in hand I walk just outside its boundaries and set my eyes and aim on the fabled wall city of Perch-Mistletoe just yonder up on that beige ridge, with half banned itself (Perch?) but the other 1/2 free to roam (Mistletoe?) and even live within as I currently understood the situation. But I ended up going further — to Yd Island in the sw of the continent and revisiting another sacred place that seems untouched and uneroded by the sands of time. That of the Ratzenburger Rabbit, one of my own. I get ahead of myself. I have to talk about Lexi front and center.

She drives up on her rough sounding, rough looking motorcycle basically at the beginning of my journey and soon we’ve joined forces in her quest to find what she simply called The One. “Wanna explore some haunted houses?” she propositions not far into the conversation. Why not? I thought. I have nothing to kill but time.

We started with the one with the barrel. Just on the opposite side of P-M from us. “Just ignore that giant candy sentry over there,” she said as we positioned ourselves a safe distance away from it. “He can’t see you unless you’re standing right under him. Learned that the hard way.” On my part, I was more worried about the suddenly darkness and the need for a flashlight to explore. This didn’t seem like a good omen but too late to back out. I consoled myself by saying that I’d be in the free part of Perch-Mistletoe by dawn’s early light, sleeping under a pagoda or something. Just over there beyond the wall.

And, yep, there was a barrel inside. Lexi seemed relieved that it “mostly contained–,” in her own words, seeming to break off at the end. Mostly contained *what?* I automatically thought upon hearing it. Finish your sentences please.

And then a little later the same thing came up. Pattern.

(to be continued)

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January 19, 2025 · 4:47 pm

00450508

I decided to skirt this arid seeming patch of land a rather large group of buildings nevertheless exists within, not trusting if the ground was toxic or not by the looks of it. While doing so, I fantasized about an imbalance of dry vs. wet, and that this place was a barren wasteland because another neighborhood, perhaps even far far away, became too wet and exotic at the same “time” (quote unquote, because time does not really exist). I found my thoughts becoming weirder as I trodded across this flat flat terrain. How would it end? Perhaps badly, very much so. Yet I had to keep going, nay, I was *commanded* to march forward by powers still unknown. But I had hatched some plans for remedying that. I had to become a *power* myself. God-like.

20 minutes later I stared down at the canal I was walking along and realized how alone I was in this world. Only Me Myself and I around — the Holy Triad — and only 1 of those counted for anything. Yes I needed to consolidate my power. Become all supreme, all knowing.

50 minutes later brought me to Fred (sheep). Fred had a *lot* to say to me; said he’d been lonely too standing in this field of corn without any company for the longest time. He opined strongly about The Netherlands’ economy, saying it was a world heavyweight in comparison to the actual size of the land. 131st in size (among world counties), 2nd in agricultural exports, he proclaimed proudly around the midpoint of our lengthy discourse, which, when checking later, I found to be absolutely correct according to 2020 estimates. I guess Fred would know, living in this country and grazing amongst its agricultural products like this corn all his live long life. We exchanged email addresses and promised to try to keep in touch before I moved on, bound and determined to reach the se corner of Holland by part 10 or at least part 11 of my journey.

A little over an hour later I entered this grassy field dotted with poppies (*not* tulips) and spotted Fred again, even though he had to have been miles away before. “Told you I’d stay in touch!” he yelled at me when I approached. I decided that I needed to call Lester, let Fred talk to *him* to see what he had to say. But all Lester heard was baa-ing of course. I needed that sanity check.

(to be continued)

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January 16, 2025 · 4:56 am

00450503 (crossing)

“I was back at Day 1 even though I had travelled so far. I knew this was Holland still because of the old timey windmill.

“Soon I found the blue and yellow cross in the green landscape…

“… whose correctly aligned blue and yellow eyes as indicated by the red arrow on the map I’d found just before…

“… pinpointed the location of the Data Hall where I’d learn what happened to all the people. Where are all the people? has been a question running through my head this whole time. No cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp-ing of the wooden shoes and all.”

“I see.”

“But making my way toward it I was blocked by something that appeared to be a giant bee with its eerie, almost, let’s say, alien buzzing…

“… which turned into something quite different as I dared to keep approaching: a different kind of crossing — a sign of warning. The windmill in the background told me that we were still in Holland, although, um, updated; more modern; taller… and, er, sleeker. I was still walking the correct course.”

“Of course.”

“Although in maybe a different time?”

“Take your time, Philip,” I said, noticing the sweat beading up on his forehead above his beady little eyes, blue and yellow as well? Nah, let’s just go with hazel. “So what happened next?” I continued to guide.

“Well, not a lot. The dream just ended there with the thing’s alarm lights going off with all the dinging and such. I wake up. Aaand: that’s it.”

He looks up for some sign of approval by me that he had done good. Time to let up with the grilling. We needed to move beyond that warning sign and get to that Data Hall. But not today. Philip’s feeble brain needed time to recuperate.

(to be continued)

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January 7, 2025 · 3:02 pm

00450414 (a new high and low of it all)

Welp, there she goes again, thinks Newt, sipping on a recently procured nice cool lemonade drink courtesy of a boy named Bart. Back into the tunnel. Guess I better get back to the home base myself, start working on that skybox and maybe the rezzing of that larger version of Howl’s Moving Castle I have in my inventory. Must not forget the Yellow Guy. Or the Red Man or the Green Dude or the Blue Boy for that matter. “Frank’s Moving Mountain” which is kind of the same as “Howl’s Moving Castle” is a way to keep moving forward on that subject.

—–

On Wheeler’s (Shelley’s) part, when she’d finished with her jog, she went to visit the bar that inspired her own over at Conejo Island, which she hadn’t returned to in a while.

Things seemed different. Curious. She copies all copyable objects and brings them back home again to roost.

—–

“Yes!” she says to the bar underwater.

“Yes!” he exclaims to the castle in the sky.

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January 6, 2025 · 11:28 pm

00450413 (We are here (!))

Jeogeot’s only true inland sea. I’m not sure why I haven’t focused on it before, hmmm. It’s time has come I guess I’ll say presently to that thought.

Still in their matching Mr. Moon t-shirts, joint owners Newt and Wheeler ponder the meaning of milk and bread at the new location of Crooked. The TILE Manifesto is about to be studied in earnest, I feel.

A remaining question to be answered: will Wheeler’s Bulls Bar return at the place pictured above? It seems to be destiny in a way. The objects making up the bar are shared by Baker Bloch (Newt) and Wheeler, which makes it harder to store and transfer to a new location. The outside remains unfinished: just giant white and red cubes stuck together. Probably should just ditch it; go with interior alone. Especially since it’s such a scenic setting here.

part 2: parents

“Hey Newt?”

“Yes Wilson, er, Wheeler?”

“We need…”

“… to talk about Shelley, I know.” Pause. “Let’s let her finish her run first. There she is. Go Shelley!”

“Thanks!” she acknowledges through the transparent tunnel walls while continuing to motor along.

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January 6, 2025 · 7:41 am

00450412

“Susan was a goner, Fink. You essentially killed her with your attack at the beach. But you were only defending Jack, who would have gotten killed himself if you hadn’t intervened. If *Fern* hadn’t intervened. You first saw him — remember? — across Susan’s sprawled out body, his green matching your flesh, his square matching your round.”

“I remember,” said Fink. “I– didn’t mean to kill her.”

“*Told* you to control that freak-ish green arm better,” reprimanded Jack, then felt bad about it. “I mean, I guess you were defending me and all still.”

“I *was*.”

“*Anyway*,” said Princess Pinky Gumm, “I knew her essence could be put to better use than keeping her alive for another day or three at best until she succumbed to those obviously fatal injuries. So I used that energy, that essence to heal myself. Remember? I was possessed by The Lich. *I* wasn’t going to get any better.” Better her than me, Princess Pinky Gumm thought but didn’t say aloud. Was she 100% sure Susan wouldn’t recover? Actually: no. She had been selfish. Susan was a renegade cyborg killer, programming triggered by an electrical shock from a giant Acid River eel. But maybe, just maybe, she would have recovered. But that left the killer part intact still, she tried to rationalize. Yes, better her than me (for death), she reinforced to herself.

“How?” says Fink.

“I’m both a physicist and psychic trained at world esteemed Cal State, Fink. The answer would be too complicated for your meager brain to comprehend. Given you just made an F minus on what I would consider the easiest test on Earth.” Princess… Pink(y)… Gum(m), she reviews the glaringly obvious three-parter, and looks over at his blank, human face. So typical. At least fellow human Susan had killer written all over hers. After the eel. Kill or be killed, she thought once more. Yes, her complicated arrangement of physical-psychical interactions used for the transfer were justified.

(to be continued)

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December 24, 2024 · 8:33 am

00450313

“May I remind you just here that this *could* have been you.”

“No time for dwelling in alternate realities, Jonny. The Prophet’s successor just disappeared in front of us (!). After talking about Alpha Centauri!”

“I wish I could be comforted,” Jonny continued nonplussed, “that aliens were up there, looking after our well being or *not* looking after it. But, truth be told, the only blood sucking vampires up in space with reptilian skin are the corps sitting atop their high towers in their fancy, snakeskin suits with their eyes all lit up from all the eddies they’re taking from the common people down below. I’m a realist V(al). It’s all here and now for me. Look around. What’s in front of your face. No escapist fantasy for this ol’ rocker boy.”

“Speaking of which, Jonny. What do you know about (the town of) Rocky Boy out in the desert? Per chance: named for you?”

“I’d rather not go down that path, talking about alternate realities.” He looks down at his feet, exhales. “Yeah, admittedly I had a hand in that you could say, ha.” He dexterously wiggles the fingers on his silver one, looks over at the Hustle Girl again as we’ve started to call her. He was expressing *his* desired reality in no uncertain terms.

Jonny later said that people *can* just wink out in Nightsity; it’s not unheard of. Because it’s all part of the Matrix, he expressed — everything we know is, he held firm.

(to be continued)

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December 23, 2024 · 3:55 pm

00450312

“She wanted to *kill* you Madison Perez. She wanted to cut your *head* off, throw the body away in some trash pit in J-Town, and then parade it around town on a pole for all to see. The poll was rigged!”

I couldn’t argue with her since I didn’t know what she was talking about. See, my head had already basically been cut off. From the inside.

—–

We owned a big plot of land out in Texas badlands where most of my people were conceived. Hard to miss with its Big Red P on a sign above the gate. We’d find it. Even without my head.

I needed to confer with my people before the pole comes out.

(to be continued)

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December 22, 2024 · 5:46 am

00450308

I walked into the bar and a guy was headless right in front of me. With a big head on the screen beside him. Kind of freaked me out until I realized he was just slumped over on the counter, probably drunk out of his gourd, ha ha. Like I wanted to be. Where’s Cary, where’s Cary?

Ahh, there the ol’ son of a bitch is, waving me over. Don’t call him Cary don’t call him Cary, I recited as a mantra. He’s incognito tonight with the toned down clothes and fake beard and all. Wanted me to help him find Eden, he said. I’m buying, in that I’m in. He’s buying the drinks of course, being the semi-mega superstar rock singer he is now. As of the last album, he’s sold enough records to surpass Elvis Presley as the 67th best seller of all time. Of course he’ll never catch the likes of the Way Outs or Sunamai, which just happens to be his old band. But he’s doing pretty well for himself still. Dropped down from the hills tonight, as in North Oak where he has a kind of mansion or something. Never been up there personally. Never had a reason to mingle with the pseudo-super rich up there. No crime up there either, given all the military-style robots roaming all over the place. Nobody dares.

“V(al)!” he introduces himself over the music, a Way Out single from the 60s I believe, as in 2060s. He’s probably jealous they’re playing. He’s that kind. “Have a drink have a drink,” he said as I move in on him. “Already ordered one for you. A mulberry they call it. Don’t know why. Purple, I know, but really good. Something in the purple. Just drink up drink up.” Cary’d already knocked down a few it appeared, already getting sort of unusually fluid in his motion.

“Nice to see you again,” I said back, grasping the proffered beverage, indeed quite purple. Almost beyond belief, actually. “What was it? The UK Cracks?”

“Yeah, wanted to kill those chromatic bitches at the time. Now they’re okay they’re good. Made a single together I guess you’ve heard.”

“I heard, uh, one of them got killed, maybe two of them.”

“Nah, they’re okay they’re good. Just saw them day before yesterday’s yesterday over at Lester Bay. You know, down by the river. Near the ocean. You know — everybody knows. Lester’s Bay, right.” He drinks, takes a drag off his cigar. “Right,” he repeats, blowing out smoke away from me but on to a nearby guy at the counter, who moves away a bit from us. “Cigar?” he then says, holding his own up to me. I wave him off. Wanted to focus on drinking tonight. And work. “Suit yourself,” he says.

“Must’ve heard wrong, then,” I back down, trying to remember where I’d learned the news about the killing. Or killings. But now I can’t recall. Must have just made it up, pheh. Getting older, brain matter getting worn out I suppose. About time to retire from the merc business. I tell Cary some of this, who laughs.

“Listen, you do this last job for me you can buy that house next to mine that’s up for sale and we can be *neighbors*, ha ha.”

“So… what this time?” I was eager to get at it. The suspense was killing me. “Soo, obviously not the UK Cracks,” I said to fill in the gap while he kept drinking and smoking away, staring at me but not providing any answers.

“No, no UK Cracks,” he finally offers. “But a musician still.” He drinks, he smokes.

“Welll?”

“How much (drink)… do you know (smoke)… about Tin Lizzy?”

Turns out she was in the middle, which unfortunately, as the old saying indicates, is mostly just in the way. Cary proffered a way out.

(to be continued)

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December 20, 2024 · 11:35 pm

00450307

In Charter Hills…

… the day time stood still.

Headless.

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