00490201 (Dixie (begin again (red line continues)))
The Mother this time. On the opposite side of the Pineapple.
“Welcome home, Sonny,” she said again.
00490202
I intended to paint abstract today but this muff fascinated me and I had to return to it. The textures, the color, the lighting. I was starting to get the swing of things. Abstraction tomorrow, then. I promise (to myself).
“Yo, brother of mine,” he called from the window, sneaking up on me as he often does when I’m painting, when I’m absorbed in the creative work. His friend Bardie came along this time. I like Bardie. Good with words, he is; helps me with my artist’s statements and artwork descriptions. Good egg.
“Yes, hello brother of *mine*. Welcome. I see you’ve helped yourself to the espresso machine through the window.” Does this all the time. Sometimes I wonder if he secretly has elastic arms. Queer thought to match a queer brother (but not in that way).
“Right right. Couldn’t wait.”
“How about you, Bardie?” As good as Bardie is with writing words, he’s bad with saying them. Really bad. He kept silent at first, as was his style. “Good,” he finally managed after about 10 seconds.
“You’re good as in you’re okay without coffee, orr, good as in you’d like a cup of coffee? Choose oh wise one.” But he just nodded, keeping the situation ambiguous. I decided to give him one just in case. He can let it sit there if he doesn’t want it.
“Tell you what, Bardie, this one’s on the house.” And I laid the cup I just poured down in front of his expressionless face. Ahh… paper, I think while staring at it. Next time I’ll put a piece of paper in front of him with a pen to derive needed answers. I wonder why I hadn’t thought of that approach before.
This led me to Paperville and dwelling on the old days (TBC).
00490203 (bottoms)
I was standing on the lip of a big hole, staring down, naked except for a single rose.
A woman, also naked but with a bit more protection, 2 bits more but white roses not red, was way way down at the bottom, sitting on what appeared to be a pier by a pool.
But that wasn’t the end of it. She was also peering down, into the waters of a 2nd hole. Deeper, deeper… a ship far below her even. Sunk 100s of years ago, maybe 1000s of years ago. The Sinking Ship it was called even *before* the accident.
She jumps, I jump. More passages to come (TBC).
00490204 (bottoms 02 (all cracked up))
She hadn’t tried in 100s of days, maybe 100s of weeks. She was tired of pussyfooting around. “Permission to come aboard!” she shouted over in as confident of a tone as she could muster given the circumstances. No answer for a while, maybe 100s of seconds, then: “Permission DENIED.” The old, crusty sea chaplain turned captain who didn’t know when to give up himself wanted to reply immediately but was fixing a hole on the starboard side (away from her and also you, the reader or readers) and couldn’t be bothered at first. But: one hole fixed and two more appear, it seems, like apples for banana. He contemplating just ignoring the poor, foolish girl, standing over there probably in just flesh and bits of white, like she does (he imagined). The man: only red. But still he knew they were man and wife, as close as one could get without multiple marriage vows. He had to hold himself partly responsible. Given that he was the one who married them, way way back in the day. “Go AWAY. We’ve said our bits, our parts. It’s up to YOU to make it work.” Red and white red and white, he thought. Surely they can better coordinate all that, divide the hues up in a fairer, more democratic way. And *not* have to enter his unrepairable *republican* shipp, pheh. No, he would stand steadfast against change (what was he *thinking*).
“I KNOW who you are,” she tried again. “You will NOT get this shipp with its broken rigg and all to float, no way jose. Not without MY help.” (TBC)
dreams of repair
00490205
“All the homes have just appeared, see?” he indicates with his pointing cane. Excited he was. Another center. “This *must* be where we head next, explore the neighborhoods if not explore the mtn. itself. Because I understand there’s really nothing on it.”
“No, Mouse. It’s as if… well, I won’t go as far to say that Our Second Lyfe is *dying* or anything. Just changing — in perspective. Outpaced by other virtual realities. And the *cracks* are starting to show. Can we right this thing?”
“One way to find out,” Mouse logically answers. And so the Bellisaria* team already established over on the Newbrooke continent (Newbank sim) in the background behind the white mtn. continent here will be sent over to investigate and interact. Unless I decide to create a whole new team, or a mix of new and old. I’ve reviewed all the available avatars avatars found on the SL Marketplace for under 50 linden dollars (about 25 cents) in the last several days, filled in the gaps of what I had before as I deemed fit and worthy. A lot now! Over 1500 unique characters created for this blog and attached photo-novels, 48 in number and apparently still growing. And probably 80 percent of these from Our Second Lyfe sources. Not dead. But just because of the creators past and present. The platform remains a viable sandbox option for cutting edge development, if not technologically then psychologically still, at least for those who know how to navigate its complex ins and outs and also don’t mind dealing with a little bit of lag at times. So creators: keep it up. I don’t think the game can be “fixed” and I’m not really sure it needs to be. Just allow it, master Lindens, to keep on keeping on, tweaking as we go along but no major overhaul. It is what it is at this point for the most part. With these lemons we can still make lemonade and that’s all that might matter.
White mtn. centered continent often called Sakura in the foreground with the Newbrooke continent with its central Newbank sim in back
*I know this is spelt wrong, ha.
00490206
Still protected by a single, large red rose in a moderately rated sim — good enough — I peer around at my surroundings, note a train car in the distance down the straight as an arrow tracks in this location with my 168 meter draw distance. That must be it, I reckoned.
Yes, passengers ready to unload, let’s say, at the Shobu station in the shadow of towering, er, Mt. Sakura I guess this is. Who is it who is it who is it? Post for another day.
00490207 (ambiguous)
I could live with that, she thought while watching the man continue his yoga exercises from her 2d, painterly existence. Peter Oesso we can assume, although it’s hard to tell without the tell-tale t-shirt. It was only fair. As he paints them they should be able to paint him *back* and tell him what they feel as well.
We’re in another Bellisaria continent gallery, unregistered just like for the first we saw Peter in toward the beginning of this here section 02 of this here novel 49, painting away at his own interestingly textured/colored/lighted passion. Strange how these keep popping up for me. Not trying to find them — just do.
Now let’s get to the surprising menagerie lined up outside against its back wall. Perhaps a replacement for *my* menagerie coming over from nearby Newburg. Or just a way to move on from Bellisaria into something else after review. As usual, we’ll see soon enough as one post progresses to the next. (TBC)
00490208
“We love you, baker b.!
“And we want you to come home too!”
“Not for a while, Mother, Father.” And so we, I, continue… The last of my kind.
Besides, these aren’t really my shared little world parents. I saw the unequal love since almost the beginning, one in the air, the other not.
Rock beats Paper because it possesses Scissors, a depravity of what was suppose to be a round and round and round, fair deal situation.
And with the examination and usage of this sculpture menagerie replacing my original people one coming from Newbank/Newbrooke, I think I might be done with the Bellisaria series of continents as a whole for a while, however which way you spell it. Other places to examine. Like Paperville.
—–
Peter Oesso, clothes back on and red rose dreams finally ended, sits at a table drinking espresso to match the returned t-shirt, waiting on…
She remembered.
00490209 (“curse purse”)
Peter walks through the tunnel leading to the temple named Penn and changes into his 5 year older brother who is the same age as him in the process. Another queer dream!
Numerous pens scattered on the floor within, along with a couple of pencils inserted here and there to reinforce the theme. Just what Peter Tron needs so that his good egg good friend Bardie can properly express his feelings and not have to inadequately speak about them. Penn produces pen! Marvelous. Goal found.
He’s about to pick up a couple of ’em to bring back when he spots a phantom version of the painting he’s been working on so long and hard recently above a step ladder to his left colored the same as the cyan energy lines in his futuristic bodysuit and also “frisbee”. He knows this is leading him further and that his journey into the temple is not done with the writing utensils.
… down a side passage…
… brushing past narrowing walls…
… into Center.
He changes once more into an even older brother who’s the same age and gets back to work running the place he remembers he’s the black king of, this Paperville and attached Weird-o Islands. True endpoint for him.
Tron Axis checks his watch not on his arm. 10 years have passed, period. Close enough to make it stick. He inks up the antique blue jay feather pen in front of him to continue even further down this rabbit hole of a place.
Bathroom, he thinks while putting quill to parchment. Bathroom is next. Water closet.
00490210 (all encompassing toilet (Schrodinger’s Man too?))
That’s it, she thinks. I’m going in to check on him, single room bathroom or not, this so-called water closet of the Paperback Pixels Cafe of the town of Paperville alternately called Pageville. I’ve tried at the “door” once. Curtain… whatever. Said he’d be only a minute and that he only needed to do a number 1. 15 minutes to drink a 4 shot latte and then 20 minutes to pee it back out? Didn’t make sense. One more time with the call.
“Rodentius? You all right in there? I — I’m starting to get worried. I’m… coming in. On the count of three — get ready! One….. two…..” TBC?
00490211
We’ll return to the theme of all encompassing, all absorbing toilets soon, but first we must introduce yet another location into this here photo-novel 49 blog story, and, yes, I can hear the reader groan and/or sigh here from the weariness of keeping track of them, ha. Place called Heartsdale which is no stranger to the photo-novels as a whole, having already appeared in (as I’m checking) 03, 08, 13, 19, 23, and especially 20 of the run. 20 is also where Paperville has been most prominently featured, but that might be what we could call an “accident”. Let’s say that for now. Anyhoot, Heartsdale seems pertinent because of this Missouri based motel within the 1 sim urban area named “Mad Misery” due to a sign malfunction. Actual name before the breaking: Madry Wise. Scene of not one but several tragedies according to the attached story.
from photo-novel 20
1-2-3-4-5 the rooms are numbered along a north-south line within the sim…
… just like with the Wilson City-Wyatt fused town seen in section 01 of the current photo-novel also found in Missouri. Pretty sure they’re, let’s call it, synchromystically connected. Another TILE.
But let’s start in the “beyond the game” 6th room where we can secretly peer into at least the 5th. Wilson. (TBC)
00490212
“Tell you what, Bardie. I want you to write me something, get me out of this pickle I’m in here in this Missouri motel renamed for the misery it caused. John over there is not my lover, I have that much.”
10 seconds later, Bardie says “much,” which wasn’t much given the gravity of the situation.
“I know someone ordered us to remain here au naturale. Just in case.”
“Case,” he echoed about 5 seconds later, quicker this time because he was on to something. This *was* a case. June’s diary.
And more. UFO?? (TBC)
00490213 (Show Me, Peach)
He came into the room holding a top secret file and spoke directly into the 2 way mirror connecting our 5 and our 6. “You need to look toward Franklin,” he said after removing his disguise and showing his true face which mirrored the ones on the 100 dollar bills littering the floor. “Franklinn,” he emphasized.
—–
“FrankLYNN!!!”
“Oh god what is it this time?”
00490214 (“End of Real” revisited)
We were in Puerto Rico now, wondering about the difference between Real and Anon by way of Georgia and its own Anon along with a similarly named Rayle also nearby. Which I think might stand in for Real via its phonetically identical Rael, as in the lead character from the ultra-classic Genesis 1975 double rock opera album called “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway,” a dysfunctional, 1/2 *Puerto Rican* graffiti artist proto-punk from the mean streets of New York City at the time. Peter Oesso would probably know. If he’s who I think he really is deep down, i.e., former Genesis front-man and primary story penner Peter Gabriel. Can he find his way out of the machinery again and drop the crowd pleasing mask act? Wherever Peter went the “Lamb” was sure to follow unless he left the group, a change heralded by the 1977 classic single “Solsbury Hill” from his first solo album, the original track recorded as a solo artist beyond Genesis. “Lamb,” a cumulative effort for the band, was just that huge and overwhelming. He had to move on…
“Pageturner,” 2017
00490215
“Tom.”
—–
“That’s the name you said in my dream.. right before or *when* I woke up just then. I heard it in my dream but also in reality. Both in one.”
“Tom,” she repeated to Frank Lynn after a pause, her lover now and maybe soon, sometime soon, to be more. She feared pregnancy yesterday but that too was just a dream.
“Yes,” he reaffirmed. “Not Frank.”
“Hmm.”
He rolled over toward her. He stared into her face, noted the hair. Always the hair. Would she ever change from her flattop style? But of course he loved her despite this. Perhaps even *because* of this, something deeper he couldn’t see logically but felt. Or visa versa I suppose. Something else came into his mind (no, not *that*… again).
“I want to talk to you about something, Daisy. That thing we had an argument over the other day. I’ve had some thoughts about it in the meantime.”
“Oh.” She knew the topic but didn’t say it out loud. She wanted him to bring it up and keep going.
“Yes. Artificial intelligence. The *Machine*.” TBC
00490216 (machinery)
Tom went through the door to the left. It was the door into his office. But something was different. The light in his room was a different color, and his computer screen was blue, with the text, ‘Press any key to begin.’ Tom pressed a key on the computer screen and a weird face appeared on it.
“Michael,” Tom managed to whisper between the words of The Machine. But *how*? “Morning, Tom,” he imagined the face whispering back behind raised fingers. Imagined??
Then Tom remembered one important thing. That he was playing a game. Not just any game but he was playing the Indigo Parallel, so of course a weird face would appear on his computer screen. Tom also realized that if he is playing a game, then his actions have no Real World consequences. Tom can do what he wants, without any repercussions, because this is a simulation after all. After a heated conversation with Daisy, Tom picked up a knife…
Newt quickly shuts down the game. No more Indigo Parallel for a while! Or LSD…
… LSD Dream Emulator that is, a direct influence for IP and perhaps an even weirder game despite being almost 30 years old now. What faces would he see in that one after this shocker?? Simulation indeed!
Maybe just remove the 2nd computer from the attic altogether. Perhaps the whole place is cursed. TBC
Sunklands 