00450401
My study of Osamu Sato’s 1998 LSD Dream Emulator game and the setting up of this mini-museum to it in the attic of my Aisle of Palms “Big Victorian House” seems so long ago now. It was only April. So seems my heavy involvement with Our Second Lyfe, whose influence is undoubtedly fading from this here blog and attached photo-novels, 44 1/2 in number now (a long journey!), as more modern and much better looking games like Grand Theft Auto V, Witcher 3, and especially Cyberpunk 2077 and its humongous Night City take more and more of both my daytime and nighttime attention. But also, My Second Lyfe is not dead. Just *concentrated*. Think that’s the best way to put it. It glows bright blue to me, a square in the middle of everything still, a house-like home base sitting in the center of a large yard, with GTA V lying green to the west, C2077 red to the east, and Witcher3 yellow to the south (also taking the shape of a square unattached to the first (like a garage or large shed?)). This what-we-can-call expansion is happening now, but it also happened long long ago, in what seems like a different lifetime over 50 years back now. Aisle of Palms is my virtual village that represents the launching pad for exploring these post-Second Lyfe worlds, beginning, actually, with Red Dead Redemption earlier this year, before the influence of the 3 likewise newer games I mentioned really started kicking in. A link from this far far past to the present in this way is MONKEY.
Monkey City = Lost Sanos
There I said it, Mother. Monkey City *is* relevant to all this. But I think she sees that now.
This is probably where I’ll first virtually incarnate beyond Our Second Lyfe in the near future. A good guess, given this snapshot of GTA V’s original monkey mosaic 1 1/2 photo-novels back taken by Trevor (beginning of 44) coupled with a snapshot of a *different* Trevor — recently dead — wearing monkey brand underpants in the Badlands desert of C2077 from later in the same photo-novel. Maybe hard to explain but I definitely think the two images from these two different games are linked.
Why GTA V (Lost Sanos) over C2077 (Nightsity) then for the incarnation? I’ll have to think about that explanation and get back to you.
(to be continued)
00450402 (eclipsed)
Looking across the ruins of the Candy Shoppe — destroyed by Jack the Dogg back in section 02 — toward the Big Victorian House with the LSD Dream Emulator mini-museum we just saw his cohort Fink the Humann sitting in. To its left in the picture we have the Wheeler managed Bull’s Bar, still dutifully guarded by a version of Grant Price also reseen in the current photo-novel. He’s now working as a janitor in a Liberty City Burger Shot after a 10 year stint in prison, his days as head of SecuroServe long behind him. But some old colleagues are about to refind him and lure him back into a life of crime which ended his security agency career. We’ll see how that develops soon.
Let’s move inside now…
Further…
Alright that’s close enough.
00450403
“I figured we need to talk.”
“Mmmmm,” says Fern in return. “I know that was you talking since I was drinking my beer (!). So… what up? *Wendy*.”
“I’m still Wendy to you, huh.”
“Ever since Castletown, yeah. And, let’s see, you said you had information about the missing Lichen for me, I’m going to say. Part of our troupe after all.” She takes another swig. Blue Sky; pretty good. Hint of grapefruit, hint of raspberry, lots of hops.
“As you can see, my hair is blue. I’m not really Wendy here,” counters, um, I suppose this is Shelley, then. Shelley Johnston Struthers. Or Johnson.
“I see your hair.” Fern looks over. “I see your outfit. Crazy Blue both.” You’ve been taken over, she thinks. “What are your plans for this continent, this Nautilus, dearest? You’re here at the Scorpion Lake or whatever the locals call it — haven’t asked. Not yet anyway. Depends on if we’re staying. Are we? Staying?”
Shelley envisions walking around this inland sea of Nautilus, so full of arms they had to name it after an insect. Apparently. I knew it was suppose to be the Alamo Sea up in Grand Theft Auto V we were walking around but she became a distraction. Crazy Blue indeed. Will she keep the hair? Just found it by accident on the marketplace.
Fern: “We have to bridge the gap between you (points to Shelley in her yellow chair), and me (points to herself in the green chair). I think ‘Frank’s Moving Mountain’ was invoked. You can manifest that *here*, you know.”
Shelley was pondering what to say next when Fern got up.
Soon she found herself on a different parcel, walking away from the scene at the beach and its 4 chairs in a row. But not before one of those local giant crabs corrected her on the name Scorpion Lake, overhearing their conversation with his inner but still sensitive enough ears. “It’s *Starfish*. Starfish Sea,” he said proudly, having lived on its shores and in its water all his live long life.
“Oh, okay,” said Fern, logging it into her computer of a brain while continuing to head up to green beyond lower yellow.
(to be continued)
00450404 (Schrödinger’s Car)
With exactly 50% of the 1:04:58 length video named “Comfy Driving Around the Alamo Sea” behind us and exactly 50% to go, we find this statement by the maker at 32:29, saying he estimates there’s a 50/50 chance his car is still where he parked it up the hill several minutes back while he investigated a lighthouse down at the coast. And not derezzed like many vehicles when you leave them even for a short time in the GTA V game.
Btw, the car was still there. But there’s an equal chance it wouldn’t be according to him. Reality split. Fork in the road, as they say…
… where later in this same video, the maker, through his chosen avatar of Trevor, parks this same intact auto, a red Chevy El Camino as I’ve checked, to witness a crime being committed resulting in several shot people, perpetrators and cops alike. This is where he decided to peel off from the Alamo Sea loop and not complete what the title alluded would happen. *Around* the sea, it said. Okay, disappointment, but the guy was a freewheeler as he freely admitted a number of times in this and the other GTA V video he’s created that I found online. Anyway, *we* indeed intend to complete this loop, if on foot if not by car — which might be better anyway; can look at more details of the sea itself — through another video which hopefully stays truer to its very similar title. This one. We want to get an in-depth look at this Alamo Sea, dive into the subject matter as it were. I’ve honed into it as a place of special significance to this blog and attached photo-novels, 45 being the present number we’re on. What secrets does it hold underneath its gently waved water? and so forth. Circumnavigation first, though. *Hopefully*.
I’ll report back to you about my find or finds, if any.
00450405
Philip Strevor finds something inexplicable in the waters of the sea. How could I have missed this before? he thinks in his diving suit while gawking around at what appeared to be a sunken town of alien design.
He sensed it even projected a bit above the water’s surface. *Everyone* should know about this.
Philip wakes up.
00450406 (deception)
Shelley Johnston (or Johnson) Struthers found that there were two options for teleportation at the Big V on Valgate, another one of Nautilus’ Rim Isles along with nearby Viterbo just visited by Philip Strevor in a dream. She was standing at 108/108/108 before it, certainly a significant location with its triple number of length/width/height within the sim representing The Moon in all aspects. One of the options was a club in the neighboring sim of Oleg called Relics. Through Jer Left Horn she’d already been there, back in novel 43, talking about the relic from the game Cyberpunk 2077 logically enough, especially given that throughout it all we look from the perspective of a person name *V*. This is obviously related to that.
—–
“I like your hair,” says Emeralda, wishing she had some herself. Which Shelley then arranged, deal swung. She then knew what Jer Left Horn from back in photo-novel 43 was looking for. The Devil, but a particular blue one. “Guy named Mike,” Emeralda said, still remotely playing with the size and positioning of the wig upon her head, a duplicate of Shelley’s except for the green color to match her body. “Had a mate named Pat. Both fruit headed. Lemon and lime, although I can’t remember which is which. Center of Missouri they were from, but more immediately, North Carolina and Tennessee, although, again, which is which escapes me. Is that enough? Can I still keep the hair?”
“Location?” Shelley pressed. “She’d heard rumors about a Lemon Free State existing in the left middle lower upper part of the continent back in the day. A failed country, more importantly, rulers perhaps still on the lam. They could be anywhere. She had to pinpoint.
Emeralda found a position on her head which seemed to fit just right after reducing all wig prims by 5%. She tried to analogize this to the continent, the right position on it to find the roaming, former aristocracy. “Duke,” she said, remembering the title, the dependency.” She didn’t say anything else for a minute.
“And, let’s see, Pat as a Duchess (then)?” Shelley filled in the gap.
“I’m… not sure,” said Emeralda back. “Had two boys as I recall. Benny and Jer– *wait*.”
Green Emeralda stared at blue Shelley across the gap and it closed. The hair was magical. They were one. Shelley was back in the Tiler shed, hiding from the whites of their eyes. And the skin, white as well. Whites all around. Which was bad. She’d He’d have to kill them all after gaining their trust. He’d find a way.
“And this is where we came in,” says Fern to likewise observing Billy.
00450407
It was time to stop monkeying around. There were lands to explore, places to visit. I *may* be moving away from Aisle of Palms this month but still not sure. If my rent wasn’t so darn cheap, ha…
Nevertheless, I have a new area of interest on the Jeogeot continent: its largest inland sea with an interesting little town to its northeast called Juho (where Trevor/Philip is pictured playing around above) and another large region to explore to its east — directly se of Juho — named Scire Gaea Park, an older and more established set of linked parcels. And that’s just what I’ve found so far.
Most importantly for Trevor/Philip in the moment, this inland sea doesn’t *stink* like the one he lives near up there in Grand Theft Auto V called Alamo. He can ignore such limitations as bad textures and lack of proper distance sighting for a bit.
He turns in his tracks and then remembers he needs to find Jack. Jack the Dogg. Last he heard he was hanging with a bunch of airplanes at a hanger down on the south coast of Nautilus. He has a landmark, thanks to [delete name]. Monkeying around over, as I said. Time to act like a man now and remain upright and beholding to others of his own kind.
“Thank Gods you’re here, Trevor-Philip,” says the middle sized orange plane representing the present Jack, as opposed to the larger future one and smaller past one also around. “Quick. Get in and stabilize the timeline before I dissociate again.”
“I’m here for you, buddy.”
And then they were up in the air, heading for The Sphere. Not far past that mountain up ahead.
It’s spotted us! Philip thinks. I mean, it’s spotted me and himself. Time to bail, which of course was the plan all along. See ya Jack! Hello Jack!
“GREETINGS,” it said simply and plainly enough, popped out a bit from its base in comparison to the Jeogeot version pictured toward the top of this here post. Along with developing a sort of face obviously for speaking and seeing purposes. But that other one was just a copy all along, a mere reminder for Trevor/Philip’s true purpose in Our Second Lyfe. To find *this*. “LONG TIME NO SEE,” it joked, now looking around the vicinity with its huge peepers for the crashed, dead version of himself.
Perfect.
00450408
Suddenly he was underwater again, although still staring at The Sphere. This was the center of his submerged Alamo Sea town!
Like Jack before him, he found himself staring at himself…
… as he went inside.
Further…
And…
… gone.
“What just happened here??” cried the observer of the observer from his control room far above it all. Time to send in another.
00450409 (Frank Lynn (no ape))
Holy crap! Almost dead before he even gets started.
“Mo-fo-er!” he calls after the car that almost mowed him down as he was getting out of his own.
But, rounding the corner of the abandoned Boat House restaurant he parked next to, he’s now at the sea.
Let’s see, do we want him to walk counterclockwise or clockwise? Guess it doesn’t matter. Using the power of the observer still observing, I suppose we could just dive straight into the Alamo and skip ahead in the game at this point…
… but we don’t.
Let’s head his still dry self off east not west.
Good idea in terms of psychic resonance. Because soon he encounters the shadow of a giant plane that isn’t present.
Only a bird as he looks up into the sky to check where the sudden darkness came from.
He figuratively if not literally scratches his head (and his hinny?), then continues. Like Superman he feels he can accomplish anything this bright day in late April’s May — endless possibilities — with not a little help from the reefer he smoked before driving out here. Good ol’ Trevor Philip. He’ll kind of miss him when all this is said and done with.
If only the smell of dead fish wasn’t so strong.
(to be continued)
00450410 (Trevor/Philip)
Hmm, he thinks while driving toward his destination today. Lookie over there behind those silos. One of those plane shadows Frankie Boy was talking about that’s actually a bird. So they *are* real, hmph.
Welp, better get to my destination and do what I’m going to do today. Revenge is *soo* sweet, he he he.
00450411
It was an unusual 3n1 that kind of became another 4n1 just later.
“Okay, *why* did you bring me to this table, Jack? Cool location, though,” he said, looking around. “Interesting tunnel over there.”
“Because he needed to show you something,” answered the woman for his cohort Jack Dogg, making him turn back and look at her again. Who was this? She seemed sorta familiar, Fink thought.
She lowered the menu she was holding.
“Nifty,” said Fink. “Appears, let’s see, you’re a princess?” He continued reading the revealed print on the shirt. “And— ‘you’re not’. Which means *I’m* not. And Jack’s not. Are you? Jack?”
“And she’s *pink*,” Jack finally piped up, ignoring Fink’s silly question to him. Because he’d given up that particular gig way back in ’72 after the Bra Wars ended. He leads on in the present: “She’s wearing pink; she’s a princess…”
“Okay, that’s nice I suppose.”
“One last thing,” she said after sighing. “I didn’t want to resort to this since I don’t like the sound it makes. But… here goes.”
*POP*.
“Wow,” says Fink. “That was pretty loud. But pretty awesome. Can I have some?”
“*No*,” answers Jack, growing understandably impatient. “Okay Fink, let’s put all this together. She’s a *princess*.”
“Right right.”
“And she’s *pink*.”
“Okay. Hey that’s kind of like…”
“Yes??” says expectant Jack.
“No, sorry. Lost it.”
“Gum, silly. Gum is the third and last clue. If you don’t—”
“Bubblegum.” His eyes grow even wider. “Princess Pinky Gumm!”
“Finally,” she said, taking the gum out of her mouth and throwing it in the direction of the tunnel. “Now that’s over you can ask questions. You scored an F minus on my little quiz, btw.”
“He he,” said bragging Jack. “I had it in two, hmph. D plus.”
“But… how?” says Fink, still staring at her in disbelief. Take away the pink and this looks nothing like the Candyland ruling Princess Pinky Gumm he knows and worships.
“I’ll tell you how.” It all had to do with Fern.
(to be continued)
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)
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.
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.
00450415 (1000 words)
“Okay, Philip. Just stay – on – the – bridge. Mikie is coming over on the first plane he can catch to find you.”
earlier:
“F-ck, man. Sh—-t.” Philip holds his aching head while continuing to talk to himself. “I think that was the worst crash ever. Threw me clean 50 feet from the plane this time, arrrgh. But, whatever. I suppose I’ll just have to start walking like I *always* do, like I’m *commanded* to do, pheh. Weell… feets get moving.” While watching his feet start stepping forward one after another without his conscious volition, he marvels at the lack of real injuries any time this has happened, and it’s happened, what, *7* times before now? From signs he’s run across, he’s determined he’s walking in Holland — again, commanded to do so by some higher up forces working for that damn *Sphere*. He’s *inside* the Sphere. Anyway, he find himself marching toward the nearest house. There won’t be anyone home, he knows. There never is in whatever hell-world he’s trapped within. No people. Better try Lester again and see if I can still communicate with him, he thinks. My life line, my only hope. He whips out his phone from his back pocket — no real damage to it either as usual. The only thing he can carry from flight to flight, crash to crash. The Sphere must have allowed this, he figured. Or the plane — whatever.
“Lester?” he says into it after flipping the lid, power automatically on. “Lester Corncrib? You there? Stop wanking your meat and speak to me!”
“Look Frank,” he says from the real world. “He’s talking to me again!”
“He who?” says Frank, jumping off the table he’s sitting on behind Lester to get a better listen.
“*Philip*.”
“But… Philip’s dead,” Frank utters, scratching his head while approaching. “He died in that plane crash over in Grapeshot, dawg. Everyone knows that.”
Just then, Philip’s phone dies from the other side after one last, “Lester?!!” “Dammit!” screams Lester into the computer interface. “Lost the connection again. This one was shorter than most of the others.”
Turning toward Frank after a long, head shaking then head lowering sigh, technology savant Lester, friend to the gang, explained the situation as he understood it as best he could for the present gang member’s less nimble brain. “Yes, he died in that plane crash,” he says with animated hands. “But *now* he’s crashing that same plane over and over… and over. Something’s trapped him in an alternate reality. As far as I can tell, he seems to be in a simulation of our own world, maybe even a one to one match, hmph. Well: kind of. Pretty good for whatever technology they’re running to keep it going from other side.”
“Other side of *what*?” says Frank.
“*Our* reality. Philip may have died, yes. But the other side is eerily like our own apparently. And he has some kind of magic phone that allows communication between our world and his. Just called me up one day about 2 weeks ago — I’ve been keeping it from you because, well, because I thought you might think I’d gone batsh-t bonkers or taken one too many acid hits, you know.”
“I see.”
“You *did* hear Philip on the phone, right?” said Lester, wanting reinforcement for his sanity. “You heard him scream my name; like me, okay? Can I get an okay from you, huh?”
“Sure, dawg. I *think* I heard the voice of that rat scag hellmouth of a person. Or what appeared to be Philip.”
“Oh it’s Philip,” says Lester, turning back to the computer, hoping for a reconnection. Being the ADHD cursed person that he is, he ponders that Philip just dropped the phone on the ground in frustration and left it behind, not remembering where he lost it. And that wouldn’t be good, plans for worldly success foiled. “But there appears to be no people, according to Philip’s reporting,” he continues after another sigh. “And although there’s cars, let’s say you try to flag one down for a ride. They don’t stop. Often they turn around right when they come up on you and start heading in the opposite direction, like they’re teasing you. We know he’s in a replica of The Netherlands; he’s indicated that by the signs. So funny. He said, get this: ‘*How* can I be in Holland’; — first I had to explain The Netherlands was Holland since he’s a dufus in geography, along with a lot of other subjects…”
“Tell me about it,” chips in Frank, trying to figure out how to tell Lester that someone is doing a number on him.
“Anyway, he says, ‘How can I be in Holland when I haven’t seen one frigg’n god damn sh-tty *windmill*. And, er, what about tulips? Aren’t there suppose to be a billion tulips around here? And wooden shoes — not a hide nor hare of them either. Not a cu-clomp cu-clomp cu-clomp to be heard’.”
“That’s pretty good, Lester,” Frank said about his imitation of Philip. “But…” He just blurts it out. “You know someone is f-cking with you, pulling your strings. Someone you’ve pissed off probably. A massive joke.”
“Maybe,” admits Lester. “Maybe. But if I, we, could just pinpoint his exact location someone could go over there and see if they could reach through the veil and make contact, maybe even bring him back to *our* side.” Lester thinks of glory here again, making his mark on the world. And at a specific point in said world. He’d be famous. The first one to penetrate the veil to the other side. Was this a wise thing to do? he thought again. *Sure* it is. Fame, fortune, women, the great triumvirate. Just like he dreamed.
“Well, I’d like to help but I have that gig over in Richland. I’ll catch you later you crazy mo-fo-er.”
“Byyyyye,” says Lester, waving him off, obviously disappointed that Frank doesn’t believe the communication is real but still having Mikie to convince. Good ol’ Mikie.
(see top)
00450416 (a new high and low of it all 02)
He’d manifested it from below but he didn’t know what laid inside yet. The 420 attached to the outside that had rezzed in in the meantime seemed to be a type of warning. Frank lies within, the dismantler and then rearranger of Carrcassonnee to turn her into this sign. It had happened before, he knew. On her 420th birthday, now 4 years in the past. Time enough to turn the tables of power. He had the eye, the top of the pyramid, all seeing of course. Like Carrcassonnee *use* to be when she possessed it instead. Frank was after the eye all along, eye on the prize as it were. But what about Gus the fire demon caretaker which also must be present within in order for the giant moving castle to appear here in the first place? Time to find out. He looks for a door.
Yes, just on the other side here. He enters.
Sunklands 