00460101
BEGINNING OF “SUNKLANDS PHOTO-NOVEL 46”!
So eventually I was able, with repeated shoves, to physically push Tobor out of the water and onto the shore until he seemed to kind of settle himself directly on the line between land and sea, my first big indication of what was going on here although I didn’t know it at the time. It could be construed I was saving the figure from drowning, but, if so, that’s certainly not the full story. The guy was dying, that’s a fact. And he seemed to be going out on his own terms. But something happened at the shoreline, something quite unexpected. He didn’t have to *choose* the way he was heading and was so hesitant to accomplish. He could simply wait on the shore for death to come to him. *I*, through character Greg Ogden here, had created that option, that scenario. Soo… who am I?
—–
So we’ve started “Sunklands Photo-Novel 46” with this figure directly trodding the line in his odd gait between sand and tide. Time to reveal who he is.
No, not *that* Peter Bergman. Or Bergmann if you use the Austrian spelling of the surname, where he claimed to be from. Although that’s what first caught my eye about the name when a related video popped up in my algorithmically generated Youtube feed, being a big big Firesign Theatre fan since back in college days. More on that soon. No, instead it’s *this* Peter Bergmann, seen here checking into a Sligo, Ireland hotel via CCTV footage on the evening of June 12, 2009, 4 days before his death in the same area. Cause of death? Heart attack. *Not* drowning. Keep that in mind.
(to be continued)
00460102
The pen he used to sign in to the hotel registry produced not his actual name, though, but a pseudonym, not quite a pen name since, as far as I understand, he wasn’t an author on the sly, although he did write down something else later on at the town’s bus station and then promptly rip it up, in all likelihood not even classifiable as a tiny poem so brief was the scribbling. Peter Bergmann was not the real name of the person standing before the hotel clerk jotting that name down. Nor was his address “Ainstettersn 15, 4472, Wien (Vienna), Austria”, which he also claimed through the same pen on the same piece of paper. Instead here we have someone who wanted to remain anonymous, bound to perform a task that would complete a life no one in the public eye would perhaps ever find out about, set aside these final 4 days. Beginning here — actually beginning in Derry where local CCTV footage also recorded him entering the bus that would take him to Sligo 135 kilometers away in the west of Ireland.
Peter Bergmann never existed, or, better, never existed as the person who came to Sligo, Ireland from his native land to die. And he made darn well sure no one would ever know his real identity.
What happened next? Among the most interesting events: 13 trips out of the hotel carrying the same purple bag which left full but came back, well, not even empty but even visible.
Purple. Hiding something. Keep that in mind.
(to be continued)
00460103 (core issue)
The building where our Peter Bergmann, with two n’s, stayed the last nights of his life was called, generically enough, the Sligo City Hotel, soon changed to The Address but with the same one. Interesting that a sign pointing in its direction on the other side the street from the bus stop — where it just so happened Bergmann wrote his mystery word or sentence or whatever he subsequently ripped up — is positioned directly above that hand-with-pen in this June 2018 Streetview screenshot.
Switching back to the 2024 Streetview photos of that mural, the most recent as I write this, we see the pen pointing directly to a bicycle in the parking lot before it from this perspective, specifically its seat. Personal sync here: the wife and I were just playing around with adjusting a bike seat at a local gym the day I found this pen in a Sligo mural pointing to same. I instantly recognized the connection. I’d started going to the gym, and taking up stationary biking in particular, to attempt to heal a fairly long lingering back issue, longer than usual in my history of such ailments. Set your rear down here to get healed, the mural seemed to indicate in a queer triangle of associations. And as I write this, the back seems to be healing up. I can move on — by staying stationary? Also time to get on the move again, as in moving outdoors from the gym.
But not before strengthening the CENTER.
(to be continued)
00460104
“Moving to the water’s edge, I got my first good glimpse at Morro Rock out in the bay in, well, I can’t remember when. I’d heard it had been covered over with fill dirt in the meantime, yet here it was in all its shining glory illuminated in the morning sun. There’s the radio station of that name of course, but I thought that was a pun on the famous landmark and no more. Boy was I wrong.
“Later at the very center of my Wellsprings walk that day I also caught my first glimpse of 3 monks worshipping at a wall of bamboo and then went down to them.
“I climbed up those piled cement slabs in front of it and then sat down to get a better look.
“And that’s when I called you. Remember? ‘We have a match,’ I said. Over 2 years back I guess by now. ‘108 108 108,’ I recited, checking my coordinates in space and time. ‘108 108 108,’ the 3 monks now behind me repeated, each taking a turn. I pivot as they fade and wink out, one by one by one. 108 108 108. The same is happening now.”
—–
I later got a better view of that rock out in the bay 2 videos up in Lettuce Walk’s feed and 4 up from its beginning with the lighting strike (more soon). So it was real. I was truly on a path again. To find CENTER.
(to be continued)
00460105 (Broadwater)
Edward knew he was a fictional character and decided to do something about it. Logical endpoint: Shelley’s mother Wheeler. Over on Omega.
“It’s about time,” she said from within, not looking up from her book. History of the continent. Fascinating.
https://bakerbloch.com/2022/10/22/00350301/
00460106 (Tin at ten)
“Shelley?” Wheeler started to answer Lexi’s question. “I don’t know. Wandered off into the prison surrounding us; lost in the maze that’s suppose to be a labyrinth, one way in and out. Time to make a switch; free myself from *that* kind of cage. Do you realize, Lexi, that she hasn’t changed her hair style since she was a kid? And those shoes. Kids as well. Keds!”
“I don’t care,” says Lexi back, stopped from dancing for a second. She’ll resume soon enough. “I love her still.”
“You can’t have her, Lexi. She’s… not in your league. She’s in the American, you’re in the National. If the Cincinnati Reds could play the New York Mets in the World Series then you might have a shot. But no sin in Cincinnati, if you catch my, um, lob. Out at home before the game even starts. Back in the pocket with the Bakers badge and all. You’re Mary Anne,” Wheeler summarized before her, still still. “Panama’s Ginger. But Shelley’s different — *I’m* different. And I set the rules. I’m tired of being the mother to a child that never grows up from top and bottom. You notice the change in *my* hair — I’m ready to dive back into the fire from the frying pan just above. Back to the dance. But first…
“… I have to let the butterflies free to do their work. Starting with the midriff, mind you. All Orange.”
Without further words, Lexi begins again.
00460107
“I see you kneeling behind that curtain in there,” expressed passing businesswoman Pamela Taut, no time for tomfoolery today. Zoom meeting with an important client at 3 about a property deflated in value because of a 1000 year flood. Must be sharp; she wants that sale! Then this. “I say: expose yourself you troublemaker, you… *tart*” Come out, come out!” She only thought of her own name’s similarity with this taunt later. When she herself was playing a maid to a big wig male’s cleanliness obsession — for a sale again, of course. “Bathroom next,” he said, knowing it was a mess because of the chaos. “Now!” “Yes sir,” she jumped. But it was all fake, just role play. Same with the person behind the curtain. She’d been ordered to sit there by another. No difference really at all.
We’ve seen this person before. Many times. She tires of hiding, wants to come into the light. This is about as close as I dare, focus on the foreground in the shot below, on the face of conspiracy nut Wanda to be specific, still listening to the imaginary (imaginary?) chattering of the mechanical (mechanical?) fish behind the bar. She knows they’ll analyze everything later on. Her friend Jenny sitting across the booth here has started calling her Wanda Fish, another taunt. Where will it end?
Right here. (to be continued)
00460108 (319)
That’ll be 4 bucks please,” said ramen shop attendant Jacwylin, extending her hand with the bill for the bills. She was also the manager of this small cyperpunk type shop, if it wasn’t Tammy (pause). No, I checked. Tammy isn’t projected to be in this here photo-novel, 46 in a series. So this remains Jacwylin. “You know,” she begins again, name settled on and free to dwell in the past now, “Blue Moon Kentucky sat on that very seat, ordered that very meal. Blue like you too.” She scrutinized the face more closely. “Nah,” she begged off. “You’re not her.”
“Of course I’m not her,” said the blue clad woman back. Still working for the Horns, the big bosses, although the boss boss Edward was the only one still around. Who was now also her boyfriend. Luckily for her, he doesn’t have a cleanliness obsession. He doesn’t mind a little dirty. “But,” she reconsidered, “that’s an interesting story, worth a follow up statement.” There. I just did it. Would she get the joke?
“Ha ha,” she started after a significant enough pause. “Hu hu hu, good one.” She got it. “But, *anyway*, Blue Moon… do you like her music? Do you prefer the Cracks or do you prefer her solo work? Some do.” She withheld the “like me,” part. Wanted to get the other’s opinion first.
“I’ve heard of ‘Keep on Shining.'”
“Yes yes. Good one.” Maybe a solo lover. Like herself. She’ll keep patient.
“And, let’s see, the one about suicide is certainly interesting. Can’t recall the name of that.”
Jacwylin couldn’t either in the moment. Oh yes, she thought. “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — she couldn’t remember if the last name of the single started with an E or an I, our first mandela effect in this here post (pause). I checked to make sure and, yes, it is so. The name Tammy remains a mistake and not an alternate reality.
(to be continued)
00460109 (Sunamai T-shirt Boy (STB))
“I see you’re looking for something out in the bay.
“Well, so am I.”
“Pray tell what? A rock? That’s long gone. To get that kind of rock you’ll have to go to classic rock on the Morro Rock station. Run by Carolin. You know Carolin.”
“No.”
“Oh sure you do. Last photo-novel.”
“H-how–”
“Do I know? Because I’m *you*.”
—–
“Let me demonstrate (follow me).
“Middle again… that’s me — you — again. Just a head at first as the other me passes out of the scene.
“Then full on, another smoker. Smoking good looks wouldn’t you agree?
“And then, coming up behind me again, I pass the monks…
“… and come straight up beside yet another me. ‘You!’ I say. Exclamation point.
“I thank you for finishing my art in the park. I — we — can move on.”
(to be continued)
00460110
—–
“There there, what’s the problem? Why are you crying?”
“I-I’ve lost my car key! (sob!) I don’t know how I’ll ever get back to my apartment without walking through a dangerous stretch (sniff) of town. My AAA membership has just run out,” she explained further. “Aa-and the taxi strike.”
“Calm down,” I say. “Tell me what happened.”
She pointed over the rail. “Down there. In the water (sob sob!). I was just reaching into my pocket for my phone… I shouldn’t have had my key out. I don’t know what I was doing! (sniff sniff sniff)”
“Okay, just relax. I’ll go get it.”
—–
—–
“Oh thank you SOO much! You’re a life saver… literally. I could have been murdered going home through those streets. And worse!
“Here. Let me give you something.”
“Just the bright smile on your face is reward enough, thanks,” I say to this.
“I insist. 500 eddies okay?”
—–
You’re a middle person, I think while walking up and checking the time on a fresh video (BD). Like the Gimp before. Like the Wellsprings monks more recently. “Hi,” I say to her. “Remember me?”
She turned to face me squarely. “Get away from me you creep,” she exuded with some venom, then returned to her phone. NPC, I think. Memories don’t continue from video to video, perhaps from within the same video.
“Down at the end of the pier. Remember?” I tried again, making her start tapping rapidly on her phone.
“Calling the police. NOW.”
“Okay, okay.” And I walked away. Back toward the pier, peering over it to see if I can catch another glimpse of that rock island. Something very important about it. Ghost.
(to be continued)
00460111
What are both Trump and Biden, the two latest presidents of these here present day United States, doing in downtown Night City ads almost a half century into the future? Probably an ad mod to the Cyberpunk 2077 game, I’m guessing, with the BD maker Lincoln having yet another US president’s name you’ll notice, hmm.
Just beyond the Biden ad pictured above we have equal amounts of red and blue pills all mixed up together in a storefront window. Democrats (Biden/blue) and Republicans (Trump/red)? Our US of A country split up to the detriment of both, I further speculate. Leading us to this here dystopian future, a game. So far.
Lincoln might know. He was shiny and new like a freshly coined penny in this BD, his first in the city. We will most likely return to him. No cents not to.
(to be continued)
00460112
“Oh, and I also saw Hashima Island.”
“Where? Where??”
“No, silly. Not out *there*. In Japan. What’s out *there*?”
“Nothing I suppose,” Girtle replied to Wamshed, just back from an expensive, extensive trip to the Orient, with 3 continents taken in. But Hashima stood out for her. Ghost island. Bestie Girtle kept staring and staring above the pier just beyond the Night City Marina where they were eating breakfast and catching up with each other, thinking something would appear in the sun glared sky. Why would she think that? she wonders, and then returns her attention to her food and drink and conversation, thinking nothing more of the matter that day in April’s May.
00460113 (letting the butterflies loose)
https://bakerbloch.com/2022/07/30/00340113/
—–
“Soo, why are we back here again, Jack? Pink again?”
“Yeah,” responds Jack the Dogg, his 1/2 brother and also bestest friend in the world. Unless it’s Todd. “And you know what that means?”
“Errr,” went Fink, once more sloow to catch on.
—–
15 minutes later, after earning another F- on the new quiz.
“I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy!”
You certainly aren’t, thinks the newest iteration of Princess Pinky Gumm in Our Second Lyfe dominating above him but, of course, biting her tongue. Fink remains a powerful ally. And friend.
Now to deal with Art and Ed; break the bad news to the duo so use to having their way up to this point. The buck stops here.
She looks to the sky and thinks of all the power she has. 319.
(to be continued)
00460114
“Maker Space, Jack. And the Princess said Bimbo should be coming along soon. She’s working on it, she said.”
“I-I don’t like it as much as the old treehouse, Fink. Not as much room. Aaand I don’t have all my stuff.”
“Princess said she’s working on that too.”
“Like: Who’s that old f-ck suppose to be up on the mantel place.”
“Jack!” reprimanded Jack’s human bro and bestie Fink about the cussing, but then started wondering too as he also stared at the aged, bearded man in the photograph…
…. who, in turn, gazed at two books from his framed existence, each containing a 1000 pictures of the world around them, this Our Second Lyfe that has suddenly become Their Second Lyfe as well. Orders of Pinky Gumm.
“I mean… I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, pheh,” then said resigned Jack, knowing the Princess had a plan. She always did.
(to be continued)
00460115
Turns out, it was harder to shake at least Ed than she figured. Art she hadn’t tried out. They talk about it afterwards in their temporary home beside the still pouring waterfall, mission to the nearby inland sea unfulfilled and perhaps unfulfillable given the flow away from it instead of toward. This acted not like a real falls, in other words. “So, what’s the status?” Ed wanted to know. “Am I in or am I out?”
“Both,” she jested. “For now.”
The waterfall drowned out the rest of their conversation this morning, but little words remained.
00460116
“Fog’s lifting a bit,” he offered in the silence, she trying still to figure out the fingering on the harp piece she wanted to play. And she didn’t want to seem like an amateur while warming up. Thus the quiet except for the nearby low roar of the backwards positioned waterfall. “Well?” he then said. “What are you, I mean, what are you and Newt going to do?” It was obvious to him that they should stay in the area, this Nawt Vaya inland sea of the Jeogeot continent in the world of Our Second Lyfe. *Their* Second Lyfe. Hopefully still.
“We’re meeting at the parrots today to talk about it. I’m just going to admit everything. You — not Art, because he doesn’t seem to be involved.”
“The hubby.” Ed liked Art but didn’t love Art. Good thing.
“Yeah, the true one, the Whitehead in Da Woods. I guess I should express remorse or something.”
“Naaah,” responded Ed.
“Thinking along the same lines,” she admitted. What they had was good. It was just something to pass the time, mostly the late afternoon of each of April May’s days. And she knew she was irrisistable, ha. Especially since she’s ditched the child part from top and bottom. Wheeler she is again, without trapped-in-the-past Shelley. She and Newt remain childless in this reality. The reality of Nawt Vaya. Almost time to make a decision on that.
—–
She gets her ass up from the writing desk and moves toward the door, relieved it remains unlocked as she nervously tests the knob. She is still free to leave this place.
Sunklands 