Copyright 2017 Richards Hall and e.
Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir
(the next page)
I was looking at the light on the wall one recent early morning and got to wondering, is the light reflecting off of the wall, or am I reflecting on the light? What is light essentially? Is it, most importantly, difference from the darkness? That said, when it comes to light, like everything else, I reflect crazily. You may just want to proceed to Row 19, as usual, for the usual. I hear they got some twenty-five page fights scenes out there this week. If you can’t find Row 19, brother, sister, you are lost.
If that has you wondering, well, you know what they say, not all who wonder are lost.
So the situation may not be hopeless.
For first timers, just a friendly note to note that (the next page)’s are tight and a little difficult, but brief, and not part of the entertainment. Abide them or ignore them and you’ll be none the less or any more the wiser. They are abstract and require time to ‘stract, even as they become briefer and rarer and gone.
Unless I revise the format, and it seems I always do. I’ve revised it a good four times and I still haven’t released the second edition, unless you’re reading it. If so, Hi.
In point of fact, having felt the need to have a launch pad for these chronicles, I may go back and tear down the launch pad, or maybe isolate it just out of reach. I don’t know, call me a sadist. I don’t know if launch help was necessary or even helped, although it does help me. The launch pad as in any essay or whatever that strictly speaking is not one of the five zones, and would include zone 6, which is only rational. Exclude zone 6? The two satellites could probably stay, whereas maybe even this (the next page) will disappear soon.
There are always the zone aides to communicate from the beyond, as from out of time, or as time not zoned.
Free time, you might say, of which I received a boatload. Goody for me.
Word of the month – it
Unlike a quant?m infinite, such as ism, ‘it’ . . . IS . . . QUANT?M INFINITE. The loudest littlest boy. Ssh, it’s sleeping. No, ‘it’ doesn’t really hear, nor know quiet or loud, but IT can look loud.
It is the where-house and every item, thing, other or else in the where-house. It is the back carrying every etc.
And ‘it’ does the braking, and the breaking, and the broken.
Please abide with this next paragraph. It’s a bit crypt’yc and trycky. Why’s, there aren’t enough why’s out there, and I am addressing the issue in my own wayyy.
Same holds for ZZZ’s, not that there couldn’t come the day of one Z too many.
In a quant?m sense, ‘it’ is non sense directional. Compo’nentially . . .’ it’ . . . is facing . . . It . . . is address, and . . . IT . . . is context. Perhaps that was overly pointed out, but . . . ‘it’ . . . has three faces, and an argument for a fourth. Still, an address is sort of not a component, even if a component of facing when a single face.
I’ll explain in a bit, but only a bit, as this gets ever more complex.
To get a little gutsy, call ‘it’ a dot, name It a point.
Show some respect and figure IT out.
As a point, that is.
A bit repetitive, but brief. Brief-ish, I’ve done better.
As is, I’m still working on ‘it’, but I think I’m making headway.
We’ll get to the entertainment right smartly, but in this double bonus situation there is many (the next page) fodder. Double bonus as in three, count ‘em, three zone chronicles. Rather than drag it out, gonna draw it out, then I’m going to simply cut it out. Which is really just restating what I previously stated. Yes, this sort of thing must go.
Within the conclusion of today’s entertainment there will be a little more baaaQ-story, then I will endeavor to get completely out of the way, barring intuitive sadistic rudeness, which can be such a crutch, barring an urgent need to administer a little more baaaQ-story, perhaps as a satellite there and then, if I feel the point coordinates are getting abstract, as no doubt they already are, as always. I will also explain why I have to leave a few things a bit abstract – abstract is a fact of life.
OH my, that explanation was quick . . . and brief, no?
Word of the month bonus – squirrelly
Is it just me or does that not look right. I checked, it’s okay. Along with ob’sticular, I realize my writing is too squirrelly, way too squirrelly, with too many wordy slug fragments hanging off of the sentence branches and limbs. I am aware. I all but just got carried away and did it again. Maybe I did. I am shopping for a quality word lopper. I’m sure Branson’s has a boatload of them that will suffice. I may also get a ladder for trimming those high reaching sentences that are so so impossible for fifth graders to diagram. Is it true they can’t even write by hand anymore? Next they won’t read by eye.
Nor might they be able as darkness descends evermore, all the more.
Intuitive sadistic rudeness, as merged with the process of elimination.
Need I say more?
Need I say less?
<<< . . . >>>
Hark Mulligan – Occupation Hero
<-- GO -->
“Damn, why couldn’t I nail the nose.” . . . da Vinci speaking to his agent, Sly Lee, regarding the Mona Lisa come the day of being low-balled by a museum when they couldn’t find a more motivated buyer. “I say, burn it!”
“Now now, da, you’re gonna need some scratch if you’re going to do the Latex Mary.”
Paris, when it sizzled.
Let’s step away rudely and already to try to explain certain out of place word usage, unless it is all out of place, and it sort of is. Say you were watching what’s taking place on television, and there was no sound attached. If you were a half decent narrator, an English speaking narrator, you would have no trouble describing what was going on, as you see it, making up dialog as you go.
That said, the participants in these precedings speak a different English, but one that would be easier to translate than, say, German, except for the occasional Saturnite expression, rendering you a second rate, if not even third rate, narrator, ya bum. FYI, for those thinking maybe I goofed and misspelled precedings, as of now it is spelled correctly. Sue me, or do your worst.
So, what might appear to be Lithuania to you, might be called Indiana here. Maybe not today, but I promise someday it will. It were as if all the place names available are all the place names available, and get used inter-changeably from EARTH verse to EARTH verse. I’m not explaining EARTH verse yet again, unless I explain it differently later, and that’s a given.
You really shouldn’t let it concern you. Just forget I said anything. The best advice you will ever receive. At least tied for best, maybe somewhere in top three. Sole fifth place, maximum. You might say minimum, and that is why I am narrating.
<<< . . . >>>
Peter Strand had just about found a comfort level at his new position with Divided, his first ever position in the private business sector, had just gotten to that point where he could arrive at his desk in the morning and work unimpeded without doubt over what he was or was supposed to be doing, when he got the red slip.
The red envelope, crimson-red, was waiting for him on his desk, in plain sight, garnering him puzzled glances from his co-workers as he made his way to it.
Jack at the next cubicle over asked, “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” said Pete. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t know what it is,” said Jack, suggesting he didn’t really want to know, along with suggesting he was glad he didn’t have to know.
Pete opened the red envelope to find an equally red piece of paper inside with white writing and the short, sweet, directive: report to cell 321. All in all it was sort of Christmas-y, scented with cloves. Christmas cloves. Very posh. Very rare.
Well, maybe not all that rare everywhere.
No time like the present, Pete reasoned, and was on his way. Heads turned and watched him as he made his way, with no one making inquiry or saying anything, except the one person whispering one word as he left hearing range.
When one said Mulligans it meant one thing, it meant the family via blood, or at least blood contract – the agreement to produce someone from nothing to carry blood forth, leading to blood-lust defiance regarding certain other marriages lacking the grip that carried blood – whereas saying Mulligan’s could mean two things. Saying Mulligan meant one thing, the item, Hark Mulligan.
But, Hark Mulligan, hero?
Not no how.
More like anti-hero.
But no, hero as in super-hero. And here’s the heck of it. A $7,000,000,007,000,000,044.32 price tag, and maybe that’s not mad enough, preceded – preceded/preceding, why not? Because some foob says so? Get a foob off the internet and they most likely won’t open their mouth. Takes one to know one – preceded his super-hero-ing, with no money-back guarantee. One might wonder about that $7 billion add-on. Seems it distracted from the sticker-shock, shticker stock, and ticker tock of the total price. When a Phil Rand-type squeaked, “What’s with the extra seven billion?” Hark knew he was sold. Then again, Phil Rand was a bought and sold sort of rat.
Yes, that number was fictional, but you get the idea. That is a number you might reference elsewhere. It was real enough as applied to Hark. In fact, most of these words are fake calls, if not all, but real enough to provide direction, and future, across the board, billing info, if need be. While more and more commas are also available, if need be. Look, they grow like weeds,,,,,,,,,,. . . . I keep a pot of them by the window.
But that’s looking way too far ahead, and more, and that’s Hark’s department – that is, when he isn’t looking too far back. Then again, let’s say this about Hark, the hero, he didn’t do his bit for the money. Yes, he pocketed a few million, and why not, golfers can get more for a tournament. Plus, he tipped big. BIGG!! Most of that seven billion add-on covered material, salaries and expenses, and some very deft minimizing of parking fees, which were growing legion, worse than commas. Soon enough, cash strapped cities would be billing lessor home-owners for parking in their own garages, after making them buy a meter. Naturally the meter contract was snarfed up by Branson’s.
As for all those money numbers, a number system scam unto itself, all in all, Hark barely over-estimated. He rarely over-estimated. The charge was not unreasonable to someone who saw the big picture, and saw it bigg. Un-measure-able? Maybe. But it was outright responsible, allowing for future heroics, at cost. Including clean-ups.
Hark’s one impermeable rule was he did not operate at a loss, even if an iffy-fifty seven billion was a drop in the bucket for the Mulligan family.
And that’s fine by me.
Hark Mulligan, hero? Somehow.
Drop in the bucket? When will we ever hear the last of those?
For anyone paying attention and wondering, iffy-fifty was just something like a slogan the Mulligan’s used. It was multi-purpose, as intellect-voiding as calling anything desperate for smart and intelligent reasoning, sexy.
And you will never hear the last of that, not unless I have my way.
OH my, that is so amusing.
As Pete rode the elevator he tried to calm himself by pondering why Divided was one of those universal corporations that started floor referencing with a ground-floor rather than a first-floor. As if having one extra number in your pocket if the floors ever expanded upwards towards infinity would make all the difference.
Boop, Pete. Think boop.
He also wondered that in thinking in twelve hour clock time we went from 12:00 to 12:01 rather than to 00:01, discounting the notion that 12:00 - 12:59 represented transcendence via number-count. A visualized sectional time-bond - time-bomb? -between eg’zistending and virtuality, even if diminishing. Clocking up? Clocking down?
Think alternating time-zones. Hot stuff.
For the unfamiliar, which includes me, along with all the other narrators in Mulligan’s country – you may say reality, we think virtuality. We say virtuality, with a little reality on the side, about the side and in the vicinity.
On the contrary there’s surreality, think Analogue Fringe, where things are thought up and acted out as remembered, happening and will happen, and a counterpart to virtual reality where nothing really happens. Might seem a little confusing. It would be more confusing to say nothing. Wouldn’t you think? No, I don’t think you would. This wasn’t meant to explain anything, just put the players on the board, and us players are going to be called mostly virtual, as reality calls for something mostly permanent and not or no longer growing. Mostly not or no longer growing. Yes, it’s confusing. It’s supposed to be, and that’s not my call.
Of course, in saying ‘us players,’ that doesn’t include you. Not really. Maybe, maybe virtually. Count that a blessing. Maybe use the money count system and get crazy blessed.
But then again, crazy does as crazy do.
Nonetheless, it seemed odd to Pete that the first and every next minute of the first hour of the morning and afternoon was counted as if part of the last hour of the morning and the evening. That may have been fine and true for the analogues, but get with the future. Truly, if it were up to Pete we’d use an eight hour clock to take some of the starch out of morning. Maybe even a six hour clock, morphing into something like a seasonal day.
Poor, odd Pete. It was this sort of thinking that got him summoned to cell 321.
He could have been thinking about something at hand odder than him. Each floor except the ground floor had a cell, cell 101 on the first floor, the floor named first, cell 211 on the second floor and named second – the floor other-wise called Nancy, by Aunt Hillie, as part of an elaborate code system within an elaborate cover-up – and cell 321 on the third and thusly named floor, in sticking with an eg’centric naming pattern. There were otherwise offices numbered with reasonable floor logic, honorarily named meeting rooms, other room, although all in all not enough room for meetings, and big spaces of personified cubic room which could be personalized, and possibly bicylized pending legislative action on removing athletic limitations from the workplace.
What next? Rickshaws?
The cell on each floor was generally off-limits, un-noted except as off-limits, requiring special clearance – apart for decidedly well-informed, readily accessing-anywhere janitors. Yes, there was a bit of past tense about those janitors, which was a highly prized place and position in the Mulligan continuum.
Soon enough Pete found himself at cell 321 not knowing what to do. It was just a door to the naked eye with seemingly not enough available wall space surrounding it to account for a room-sized room beyond the naked door and naked wall. The side. In some theories of dimension, the only side, without an in. Without an out. At least not always in sight, if ever really in sight.
He knocked. No one answered. Drama abounded. He lingered long enough for two people to pass and puzzle at him and his puzzle, at his out of place-ness. At least he felt out of place, and would have preferred that his place had not have been forwarded to cell 321.
All in all it didn’t take long at all for him to try his secretly updated electronic pass key and garner admittance into darkened room. Drama aborted. He found a lighting switch that un-cracked some lighting, but not much. It seemed there were plenty of lighting fixtures in the room, in the ceiling, but they only came on about a quarter of the way, as if a disembodied dimmer was holding their sweet lighting back. Flicking the switch on and off a few times didn’t help.
Along with just barely enough lighting, generally enough relative space – obvious space close enough to scratch – four walls, a ceiling and a carpet with paisley design, probably covering flooring – flooring, probably, yeah, let’s go with that – was a table with a big, stuffed, inter-office envelope.
An inter-continuum envelope – holy rarity of rarities, Batman.
The table had a chair, a hat – no, not a table hat – and a desk lamp and Pete took the liberty of sitting down, putting on the hat, cracking open some more lighting, and examining the contents of the envelope. He noted that the last name signing off on the envelope was Mulligan. Just Mulligan, if it was a name.
|z|* indicates zone change, of which there are four of five, with the fifth a bit hazy, followed or preceded by a hazy body here and there that might never zone. If you ever see one, let me know.
And run. Don’t look back, or you’re bound to run into it.
|m|* is the pause that refreshes.
Speaking of disorientation, what comes up ahead next in zone two is supposed to be disorienting. Am I cheating by telling you that? As is, Pete needs to sit in on an orientation to decide if he wants to proceed. As such, we are starting the orientation ahead of time and dicing it up. Later. Later later.
About when you’d expect.
Lop lop lop.***
-- > STOP < --
Yes, we hopped over zone four. Actually, I’m not sure why. Next month for sure.
“Vacuum beings,” said Grace Pobbible.
“Who? What?” asked Brandon Page, her right-hand man, her sergeant-at-arms, her point-man.
“Existence stoops down, it doesn’t smarten up.”
“If you say so,” said Brandon. “Why? What brought this on?”
Grace Pobbible Industrial Sleep had evolved from back alley basement boom room to store front enterprise, although her notoriety prevented her from advertising herself as was. She had to operate from a particle shoppe and hope for the best.
Particle shoppes, OH boy, let’s do vacuum beings first.
As always, these events occur on a rutted, simulated flat – on a series of flats? – called EARTHverse444 and were enacted by professionals who are known from off the flat – the flats – as E3’s. Do not apply these theories at home – or expect a lawsuit.
Throw a rock on a neighbor’s grass and expect a lawsuit.
Expect a lawsuit, say what you will or don’t. OH OH OH, and then brace up to bring a lawsuit. It’s fun. So toe the straight and narrow, and stay between the lines, or I WILL BE SEEING YOU IN COURT!
Good day to you, Sir.
Does it seem I’m already failing to get out of the way?
So SUE ME!!!
Still, the suit might be fun.
And let’s not jump the gun. I didn’t say I’d get out of the way just yet.
As a game psychologist Grace had regularly come up against the question of whether or not E3’s were simulations. No, she finally said with finality, they were simula’tories, with taller ones being simula’stories. No, Grace did not have that kind of sense of humor. And she wasn’t one to laugh just because she was happy unless it were she were never happy.
For the record, were never is more do-able than was never.
That might be backwards.
All game psychologists were plagued with the fear that E3’s were the offspring of a higher level of infernal-reality gaming reality, a hell from which simula’tories had found an exit, but found they were unable to exist without gaming matter to game from once out of that reality. A higher level as in a ceiling is higher than a floor. Not higher as something to get uppity about, provided that’s possible. Whereas getting uppity without any probable cause is a no-brainer.
To which there was the contrary theory that an exit was placed to be found by the few to allow the spread of dark gaming matter in a subtle, orderly fashion so as not to draw attention to itself. It’s or else.
Self. Or else?
Uh . . .
Grace further finalized an idea, if only for herself, that existence was the thinking about death. To clarify, and it needs it, death was a center around which all thinking orbited, be the subject of thinking death or otherwise.
Death was a center’ence around which thinking orbited? A one word sentence that said it all?
Needless to say, the death sentence was at the heart of the fiction interface. Needless to say, but needed to be said that way. Again, were vs was. Was that death sentence the inability to ever escape game matter?
Even though never hung up as she progressed, Brandon surprised Grace with a breakthrough that so vitalized her forward she fused with him. She, at least, felt they then on thought as one, and damned if from then on she didn’t always seemed to know what he was thinking nearly before he did, once he got started and she could pick up his thought scent.
K Strand could tell her a thing or two about that nyfty tryck.
“Do you suppose the skyp stream is a constant distance moving at a constant rate from plane to plane?” he had asked that one special upper morning. As her point-man, geometry was Brandon’s thing.
“Skyp stream?” asked Grace. Whad da duck?
Upper morning, the hours, minutes, and seconds from 0:01 AM – 6:00 AM. Not that upper morning has anything to do with the skyp stream, or streams, were there so.
Skyp? Reminds me I had a friend named Skip who recently passed.
Sleep softly, sweet prince.
Which may be better than he deserved. He was really sort of a bum in my book.
Upper morning, as opposed to lower morning – the stuff of hours, minutes, seconds and fyrsts. Fyrsts, comprising the dark time of else, those near-out-of-reach, mythical, mutant units of timing and billing only available to lawyers – so said them, and who was to say otherwise? Fyrsts, along with those other units, which came in their own sweet time, generally, those lighter, brighter, illuminating units, comprised the BM’s, as in 0:01 BM – 6:00 BM. PM’s followed AM’s and QM’s followed PM’s, hiking back into BM’s. And isn’t ol’ odd Pete Strand looking to have had something on the ball?
OH, Ball, have mercy.
And these were later days.
K days. As in long past Pete’s first few days at Divided, and K, his daughter, was on the loose and legally mobilized and motorized.
Heaven help us. Not us including you, of course. You’ve got it safe already I’d imagine. Or so I assume. Not that you can’t get robbed by a parking lot.
Thus does a fixed-time time-state work, as was Quant City, as meant to be, held in check with an infinity clock that held the appearance of two pair of two balls – a four, imaginary to a degree, and thusly very very imaginary – strung together and uvulating back and forth, side to side, rhythmically. They called it uvulating. When I questioned that word usage I was all but ignored. ‘Tell it to a lawyer,’ one of them said, and that was all, apart from them having a lawyer bill me in advance of even thinking to tell.
“Why would I suppose that? That’s your job,” Grace said. But she thought to suppose, “from plane to plane?”
“I am asking if we all share the same distance. Is that why a bowling ball drops as slowly as a feather in a vacuum? They’re both getting from here to there. The one here to there. What’s the rush? Why race?”
How do you even race in a speed-less state? Yes, fixed would be speed-less.
Of course Nosh Steinsen had already worked out feathers and bowling balls do not, in fact, ever race. Certain game cross-hybrid’ization just isn’t allowed.
Here’s an in for those in the dark and out of place, and why a truly professional narrator beats a simply English speaking one, even a Ron Howard, hybrid’ization is Saturnite fiction’ing, and were Grace to think that fictional facing with in her face, it would be a sign that SATURN’ixm was working on her. Perhaps that’s less in than out. In fact, SATURN’ixm was working at her as she in turn worked it out.
Good for you, Grace. She may not have exactly been a good guy – worse than good most likely, most often – but she would have been great to have for a big sister. Technically speaking, she was in fact bigger than Kara, K’s sister. More on that soon. Get ready with your dancing shoes. And no problem if you don’t dance, you won’t be asked to break a sweat, or a leg, or cut a rug. Not that it ever hurts to carry a machete, not unless you use it right.
“I suppose the rush is in getting anywhere first,” Grace deduced. Getting there first with a voucher? Game over. “Maybe beating the rush,” Grace theorized. “Since when do they race as slowly as one another?” Even Grace was aware that feathers traveled faster than bowling balls in the long run -even a ground-based bird would win a simple foot race, and blow a bowling ball out of the water in a 5K - in any run, once you took the down direction out of the drop-and-race through space issue, which had no direction in the first place. How would you ever find the finish line?
And when running, not dropping, the one mass of all feathers was way heavier than the one mass of bowling balls. Then again perhaps feather mass had to be calculated per bird family, and further by individual bird family lines.
Not to be overlooked was the fact that a feather making machine was much more practical, efficient and cost effective than a bowling ball making machine. The feather maker even delivered the feathers pre-packaged without having to kill and cut down trees for boxes, explaining, no doubt, why birds and trees so got along so well together, whereas trees disdained having anything to do with bowling balls.
Those bastards. Those oily, greasy bastards.
Against whom no self-respectable feather would ever race slowly.
No way no how.
And thus, eventually, Grace concluded vacuum beings created E3’s and who knew what-all-else to capitalize on the rush advantage. No doubt it was a defense mechanism employed in the quant?m mind shield that QSC hoped to employ one seasonal day. One seasonal day that could be shared by all and reused over and over ad infinitum, as opposed to it’s current state of ownership.
“Vacuum beings,” Grace repeated. “Did I not explain them to you or was I dreaming?”
“You did . . .”
“. . . not explain them, did I?”
Now she was up against it. She had to find that dream, where she had explained them so well, and that meant a fix of Quant?m Pot-X blue.
TO THE L’uh’BORe’uh’TORY!!!
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. I have an announcement. Left field has left the building.”
Time to experience Jake Nder.
One didn’t merely meet him. One didn’t actually meet him. Jake changed flat time travel forever, before it even started. When it feels the walls might be closing in on you, that might be Jake’s doing, boxing you in for a closer look.
That reference to an alien source witness when talking baaaQ travel in zone one.1 was due to Jake. It were as if he mutated into a different intelligent life form while leaving some of himself behind, except different seemed to be the only explainable. Jake was perhaps a transcendent and transcending formation in formation. It were as if he breathed via eating rather than breathing, and he didn’t eat or breathe. Or drink. It wasn’t a liquid, gas, solid enterprise. All in all, nothing much more than squishy enough to be named Jake Nder.
Squish, kind of describes the mental quality of a virtuality based on balls, sticks and eggs passing and slipping through holes. Squish, what one would be after making that sort of squish crack about Jake. Maybe splat. Truly, the only thing one could say for certain was that he was there, and then not, and who knew where he was whenever, or if ever as he.
One might also wonder if he was the one who was mutated.
So how the heck did anyone know he – as he . . . or as else . . . or as or else – was there?
By product. By egg-product type.
Or by taking a baaaQ trip. Mr. Sun specifically took a baaaQ trip, a Q-trip to the hip, hunting for Jake. Hip? OH, I get it. I think I’m going to get it. For the whole of the trip Jake was just out of reach, and it was deduced Jake was everywhere any item or any thing or any other thing, or other, or else, or or else wasn’t, that he had become timeless, and was it’s sole inhabitant. Right on down and up to it’s inhabitant-ness.
He didn’t sleep, didn’t have too. He was his own night. A package deal including room. Immortality can be exhausting, especially when one is one immortal short of having an immortal base.
Boop. Think boop.
Or maybe an infinite base, which gets a bit slippery, even if, or especially if, slick.
Mr. Sun actually tried to find him twice, coming and going, and did a little mapping of the terrain, plotting out a trap. He fine-tuned Jake’s whereabouts as to everywhere else, but not all at once, not all the time. Of course not. But one thing was definite, he could always be found lurking around Nemesis Motion. Millie even called the police.
The second place Jake could frequently be found was blocking the past, keeping one from going further than they were going to go.
Those were the good ol’ days, before he started coming back for more, proving himself all the more.
Still, booms happened and baaaQ travel evolved.
Keeping it, or getting it, not so still.
Granted, this may have sounded like the happening of zone one. Yes, it did, but Jake was also elsewhere, doing his bit in seeding, fertilizing, growing and regrowing everywhere. How not?
For anyone who noted my word play in The Donut Effect, specifically the remark – I always get to fight the lyin’ – that traces to our recently, dearly-departed comrade in arms, Mr. Palin. If you don’t know the name, tough. I won’t lessen his whole body of work by hyping cheap, sentimental, make-a-buck brand fame and fortune.
No, today we want to honor his whole body, his life’s body of work.
And I think one word covers it all, even as it so grimly sounds his passing.
Can it be said enough?
Sleep softly, OH, sweet prince. Maybe he’s off somewhere where he can remember me and us in his dreams, too.
It is a senseless loop to think to use a vacuum to vacuum. Whether a hand-held vacuum cleaner or gig’a’normous vacuum chamber.
A vacuum is used for voiding.
Is the byproduct of using a vacuum to void, a void? Again, senseless loop, although not one that necessarily occurs. Well, the E3 fyctional-plane argument is that a void vacuums out what a vacuum voids in. Not possible except as it lies on the fiction interface, burning a hole, attacking the structural integrity of the fiction interface as fictional interfacing. As for the crap left in a vacuum – D’uuuhhhnnnggg!!! – it is fertilizer delivered by void to you to send you off to capture more crap – D’uuuhhhnnnggg!!! – as lessor crap unto greater crap – D’uuuhhhnnnggg!!! – doing the dirty work of the fiction interface’s structural integrity trials.
Crap is one item, you, the royal you, not you you, is another. There was no intent to infer additional inappropriate, stinky, crass cross-hybridization.
It’s a vicious loop. And the more vicious one might get, so grows familial depth of debt.
Did you want to know about that?
Let’s play it safe for once and not assume.
Bottom line, there is no void. The concept of a void, which is only mirrored, is along the lines of capturing running and freeze-stopping it, to start up again later like raising the dead. Running, however, can also be mirrored to a stopped state after the running dissipates, it’s motion swallowed into dimensional containment. FYI, freeze-dried running, as called in places such as Nemesis Motion, ties in to baaaQ travel.
Just add hot water, sugar, and dump it on a cat and watch it fly.
Or a monkey, but cat seems to play better.
They certainly don’t throw feces around. D’uu . . .
Running is distance as exists in containment of vacuum, exists as fiction interface, and la dee da as to where that is going. The fate of infinity, no matter what is tagged with infinity, is dissolution into quant?m fragmentlessness. E3’s all look the other way pretending it isn’t.
Warning, a couple of paragraphs, maybe three, are looming ahead that get a bit abstract – a bit more abstract? – and require abiding. And courage. Or ignoring. They are brief.
Which is to say it is not. And not is the un’do’er, the mirror of knots, and one point for having hands, or anything that can open locks. It is coming and going at once. Immediacy. And that is all, which keeps IT’s . . . ‘ is as-is ’ holdings manage-able, with distance the ultimate source of protection.
Well, that along with the one protector. The little ol’ absolute protector.
It . . . is well explained elsewhere. Just look around, but not here. Maybe not today. Maybe just wait for It to come to you. It is coming. Nothing to fret about either way. Yet, or even then. Later, maybe.
This will be addressed later, but one of the biggg components of THE Point is the fragment set – ‘is as is ‘. It’s all very trycky, but one key to understand is the natural parenthesis, being the space between apostrophes and the first and last letters when referencing ‘ is as is ‘, which further add up to is again when as
’ I*s as i*S ‘ while sandwiching sassy, as might be served up by K Strand. The apostrophes are serving as spacers in front of spaces, which serve as parenthesis as just noted. That probably couldn’t be any less clear, if not outright invisible. Just pretend it’s a bad dream, not that invisible dreams are all that bad. Nutty, maybe. When I say it is going to get abstract, I do mean to say it is going to get abstract, but I did warn you. When even I can’t tell it’s abstract, what can I say?
Bringing us back to Grace Pobbible’s search for a lost and missing dream. Lost and missing? Double jeopardy. Burned and buried.
The fountain of immediacy cannot be protected enough. Even such feeble attempts as calling it a bubbler instead, count. Prob’uh’bub’uh’bbbly.
As Grace saw it, once travel at warp speed was figured out, seeing as we were on the subjects of running and racing, something would appear to replace it to shove E3’s asses back against the wall even harder – distance traveled at damning speed.
Whooo Weee, I like that. HOLD on.
Grace saw E3’s as bad guys in a bad way and couldn’t, wouldn’t, be able to imagine what Saturites could possibly want with them. Certainly nothing good.
Right, as such, at this spot on the fiction interface she had not figured out that there were Saturnites. Once further informed she would realize that even Saturnites couldn’t figure out what they wanted with E3’s, even as she was an E3. As of there and then, they, Saturnites, were just another interface slave with their hands full enough figuring out the E3 word-fiction interface while making it their own.
As they hid in and undid the Vortex Mountains, while quietly trickling into Bossche Bol.
“Get a load of this,” said Brandon, rudely pointing out the window – so what was ever up with that laboratory trip?
Not enough Quant?m Pot-X blue in stock.
There was, in fact, more than enough. Grace was a bit of sissy over trying it on herself. Nope, she had yet not felt the need, but she was now feeling it’s itch, if hoping to scratch elsewhere, certainly not in public.
“Don’t talk that way,” said Grace.
Is she talking to me?
Brandon being where Brandon was sitting, gazing out the window of the temporary headquarters of Grace Pobbible Industrial Sleep, meant his remark was directed at a walk-up customer. And these days those were the only sort Grace serviced.
And then she saw what Brandon saw and contemplated having him lock the door.
The walk-up was walking sideways, dragging one leg, one eye closed due to a collapsed eye lid. As later determined, the whole structural integrity of the eye was gone.
“QSC, in the flesh?” asked Brandon. You probably realize flesh in that instance is just a random’ism, and that is righter realization than you might realize. If so, you’re keeping up, and catching up, with the abstract. So don’t feel discouraged.
Not yet. I will say when.
Lest we forget OH too soon. I’ll say I didn’t, if you want to say you didn’t.
EFC run wild, thought Grace. Her mind harkened back to her days at Mulligan’s, and Hark Mulligan’s forecast of the arrival of rogue EFC floaters. Dragging one leg? Hark hadn’t mentioned that. Easy prey for land sharks for sure. EFC and ECF have not been spelled out, and frankly I’m reluctant about doing it.
Hark almost seemed stoked up about the idea, revealing to Grace a hitherto unknown opportunistic side to him, which went against cosmic law if you were to listen to him drone on about cosmic law. Cosmic law as regards an opportunistic side, side-wise, which was perhaps not just coincidental when considering sideways walkers.
They could just as easily be called side-wise walkers.
And if someone called them such, not doubt someone else would name them such.
As for cosmic lawyers, we may or may not discuss them at a future date, when you are armed with an umbrella to protect you from the deluge of splooge.
Could I be any more pleasant?
With QSC, to name was to mean. Quant?m-Scen?c-Computery, QSC, the biggg about-where and where-about Grace learned about from Hark, and in turn taught to Bran. Or Bran-man, as Grace liked to call him. Sometimes she called him Brand-OH. There was no stopping her. QSC was all where when it came to Quant City, and beyond. All in all it reinforced the theory of strange gaming, which was a call. Call strange . . . mysterious, mystical, whatnot, have-not, want-not, or what-where-ever. It was strange, and not calling for buttons, bows, magyckal hats or any other else or else headgear.
Not even table hats?
It was quite of note that Grace had once upon a time regularly spoken with Hark. She had been on the path to right-hand man-ness before it all went boom, which was just before she learned of Ted Logic, meaning she didn’t learn of him except as a Mr. X.
Mr. X was pretty much the identity of Hermann Strumm, too, but he she knew about, also knowing a second Mr. X had to be the interface between Hermann and Hark, because each knew too much about the other for comfort, Hermann seemingly being such a loyal hard-wired, hard-ass E3, apart from what Grace felt she knew about him.
It was also of note that she snagged Brandon Page. Both Hermann Strumm and Hark would have like to have pressed him into their service. Pressed him flat and hung him out to dry. He had the makings of a zealot of the great flats.
QSC came with some big talk, and Hermann would have liked to have bought-in to it, but he couldn’t, not as the reader he was, having read what he had. Big talk on the lines that QSC was the fyction interface housing the eye of GOD. If one understood the difference between fyction, fiction and word-fiction, one would realize eye of GOD was word fiction to be taken with a grain of salt. Maybe a dash of pepper, too, as a grain of salt ain’t going nowhere. So sad, so true.
The squawk about it was the suggestion the eye didn’t know what was there, meaning maybe as eye of GOD it wasn’t eye of that GOD. If you get the picture. A maybe dueling banjo’s of who made the other GOD. Not made from scratch GOD, but made of scratch GOD, pre-made scratch tagged GOD by the other.
Was that the scratch Grace was priming to itch?
But Grace had a brainstorm that was not forecast. A strange message as it may have been, floated thru her mind juice as she lie awake one night wondering about the sidewise walker, who had been dormi’toried for study. In her hands such doing was humane, productive and professional.
M 8 E, Matey. Ahoy, sailor.
Okay. A strange message, what else?
Call that secret code that works. It occurred to Grace, M, as Em, as Emilee, as Emilee Spo. An on-going in at Mulligan’s Magyck’s and Industries that owed Grace payback.
Hunt about and you might actually figure that out. Good hunting if you do.
Hermann Strumm sponsored aids are future non-Strumm Lab lecture fragments, relatively speaking, gleaned from previously delivered Strumm Lab lectures, and include fragmentary peanut gallery fragments.
“Let’s talk about reality, my little angels,” said Hermann.
That shut the angels up, before they even thought to speak.
“You may find this a challenge, Kara, but I am going to train you to be a passenger.”
“Say what?” asked K. “As in my passenger?” K as in Kiki. Or K Strand.
“That would be yes, K. A transcender just isn’t a transcender without a passenger.”
“OH, I didn’t sign on for that,” said K.
“You didn’t sign on, period,” said Hermann. Not as such on any dot dot dotted line . . . “Let me tell you a little about reality.”
“No, let me tell you a little about reality,” said K.
“Shut up,” said Hermann.
“Yeah, shut up, Kiki,” said Kara. For a time that shut her up, because it set her wheels in motion and she plotted revolution much better when silent.
“There is reality and there is reality to a situation,” said Hermann. “And then there is reality to a synchronicity station.”
That opened K back up. “Who?”
“Ask your grandma about it,” said Hermann.
“Mrs. P?” asked K, incredulous. “Old grandman?” One of four grandmen in her mind, which, seriously, was a whole other reality that Hermann preferred not to know. K turned her sights on Kara. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No,” said Kara. “About what?”
No no no, Kara. ‘No’ would have been enough. A head shake would have sufficed.
“You better start ducking,” K threatened.
Kara imperceptibly cringed. K could be OH so mean, even if loaded with empty threats.
“A blooded entity is a mass of warring, treachery and bedevilment,” Hermann continued . . . “unto itself. It turns outer mass into inner mass, recreating it into it’s image. That widening, bedeviled image is the issue.”
“I thought you were just starting up a transportation company,” said K. “Isn’t that what you told me, Kara?”
“Please, shut up,” said Hermann.
“Hey, you addressed me first, “ said K.
Hermann went silent as that idea banged around in his mind. “I have a word for your vocabulary list,” he continued. “Fyction.”
Vocabulary list? That shut K back up, who didn’t believe in pens. Or pencils. Or lists.
“We are going to concern ourselves with a specific vortex-reality called fyction, which is based on fyction-writers working the fyction-interface.” Place-scapers? “Be the writers using fyction to make wine, women or song, anything covered in fiction, whether or not, with or without, too many or not enough why’s asked.”
Almost as if a swytch was flycked, K’s eyes fyxated on what Kara was writing. “No, Bobo,” she said. “That’s not how you spell it.”
Fyction was Saturnite thinking, as Saturnite’s always were wondering why when it came to the how and why of E3’s working the fyction interface like dust gods creating dust ants thriving on a universe of infinitely-unbecoming dust, via DBS, the cults of BCD, death shrikes and pall bearers and whatever else have you.
On the other hand, stopping at fyction-interface or maybe even just fyction may have sufficed for today and even into tomorrow’s BM’s for all I know.
-- > STOP < --
If one were looking for the power driving experience, one need look no further than the Strumm Transcender, unless one overlooked the Transcender, and then lot’sa luck.
The Transcender could alter time.
Altering time is almost the power of powers, the BIGGG weapon of IT, but not just quite. Transcending time would be closer, being the preferred weapon of IT, as power gets trycky.
Almost even right on IT.
If you are not clear on right on IT, good, I don’t think IT’s clear any which way.
There are other bigggs in competition for ‘of of of’, of equal preference, depending on taste, such as fuel of fuels, energy of energies, force of forces, movement of movements, what-have-you of what-have-you’s, that can and do compare with the satisfaction of power – and say what you may, you probably don’t own any one-of-one of them, hmm? – but all in all there are not that many when you’re talking the dominion of a top gun.
Which is to say, alter time, not jump around in time. The Transcender changed time to suit the needs of the traveler.
Let the incompetent bystander, or even the on-the-fly-buy-er, be damned.
Sorry, Aunt Hillie, thems the breaks.
OH yes, here them squeal.
Yes, here, where pigs are a dime a multi-million’on’on’on spirit guides, in competition with worms. Not here here, here there, the were there – the now there? – of EARTHverse 444, until and as it dwindled into Quant City, cutting a path through Bossche Bol.
See what I mean about abstract? If you did think you knew what I was saying, then I’m not saying it right.
Thus we portage forward, either way, if we do, carrying the last arc on our backs, seeking flow.
In Quant City, as is generally the case in larger terrains, not that Quant City was, the government election process was basically a police action, with groups of under-performing economic groups – groups, boy, that’s putting it pleasantly – battling with the powers to do to seize control of the right to steer injustice in their favor. Imaginary right, promising maybe, protected by a bank of might.
In considering what an under-performing economic group was, consider those the ones not having the apex power to do.
In point of fact, democracy is sort of anti-government, allowing for a leadership change to take over policing every so many years. If a democracy stops policing itself, especially policing it’s anti-governmental politicians out to prove their direction, any direction not their direction, is wrong, rot can set in, allowing for fascists to indoctrinate static government, which isn’t really government either. It’s preferred order for those who can afford it and hold onto it.
Government is generally the dispelling of preferred order of false kings, via implementing more but lessor false kings. All in all, just more rude, ongoing religion with flags being the cross to bare for kid’s lives betrayed to war, when given nothing better to live for. Apart from first-person shooters, so they can war better, and maybe safer.
Generally, unless it’s worse, and generals usurp and replace weakling kings.
Weak link’ings. Yep, if you don’t buy into gorilla linguistics, you’re going to die defying it, provided that’s your preferred choice for last ditch death-defying defiance.
Just wait and see, when drones riding with shotguns become self aware, lawyers will be out in droves buying up all the body armor. Get smart legal cats, buy or steal and wear two suits, and keep your brains, hearts and souls safely locked away, where they’ve always been, out of sight, out of touch, beyond and out of reality, huddled in the depths of the sewers of hell, where they whimper, “Come back home, poppa. Mama. Back to the home you came from.”
Looking back, Phil Rand was a preferred order kind of guy, with an ethos of Objectionless-ism all as loving as Nazi-ism. There is a difference between Objectionless and Objectionless-ism. We’ll get to it later, lest the matter get stuck here. Nor, in fact, had Nazi’s ever overrun Verse 444 – stopped just short at setting up hair styling salons.
Mulligan’s, which had the potential to swing influence how they chose, chose not to do it. It was potential discarded even as they swung this way and that, providing swing sets for sale as Branson’s and Rand Heavy Metals warred with each other, keeping it all happy.
Potential that was tactfully discarded and recollected later.
To call Quant City a corporate town would be to say it was the corporate town. The universal corporate town, and it attracted players and comers. It was still new, a city growing from the ground up and around, based vaguely on the concept of a mutant tesseract. OH my yes, brace yourself for those. Loki, you goof. Quant City was modeled on a torus within a torus. Based and modeled, two different things, don’t quibble.
A cubic torus to boot.
That might be hard to visualize. Might not.
That was the idea.
Here’s a tell. Think cube with an inner tube, but that’s not a timely description.
K was learning to visualize, Hermann style. “It’s stylish but a little retarded, isn’t it?” she asked, admiring the new wristwatch Hermann had outfitted her. She felt the same way about the cell-phone he gave her, which was mostly not retarded, but kept in line with the watch in that it’s clock only went to six hours. That is to say, to six hours, not up to six hours, leaving down completely out of the timing equation.
“In my employ you will think like a six cycler,” he cryptyc’d. “You will tell the time, not be told the time.”
“Sweet,” she said, absentmindedly, always thrilled at the power to do. Thrilled, but not all that thrilled. Maybe later. She already had a better concept of time than he did, she just needed time to get it out into the open.
“Jules Iffen said an eg’zistent is a timing-piece,” said Hermann. “Born with a clocking-mind that is always running.”
“Good ol’ Jules Iffen,” said K.
Hermann was tempted to scold K for mocking his mentor-to-time, but Iffen would have frowned at such chastisement. Will frown? Were Hermann to speak?
Not going to happen.
“Who is Jules Iffen again?” asked K.
“You tell me,” said Hermann, off-handedly, leaving it at that. It was a thing. It was an else. K knew before asking that Hermann wouldn’t tell.
K knew next to nothing about The Order apart from it being made up of her weird sister’s weird friends. Alas, she only had the one sister. Would her preference be for more or less? She couldn’t decide. She most certainly did not need more Kara at any given moment. Would more Kara make her heavy? As K might note, “Hell, yes, she’s heavy, she’s my sister.” . . . and we now wait patiently for the Hollies to retort.
Thus ends the dancing segment of today’s entertainment.
Yes, you may as well have stayed in bed. Dance dance dance. Just chill already.
Kara. The cooking freak, and as such modestly not heavy. Skin and bones was not in the equation.
The words, “You can’t call a restaurant the Blood Cafe,” had barely passed K’s lips before the first excited customer showed up, before any word of advertising. Before there was a menu or daily special. It were as if just putting the two words together in Kara’s mind as an idea was a homing beacon.
K knew things about Kara’s mind she didn’t share. Didn’t want to and never would. Maybe never could. She would have to give a good think to the homing beacon deal.
“Are you thinking a blood of the day?” asked Amy, the first lamb, after she gave Kara a bigger than little kiss. On the mouth. After the initial appallment, K figured that kiss out and suspected the men of the Order did it, too, even man to man when she wasn’t watching. Especially when she wasn’t watching, no doubt.
They were tasting each other. As to what they had eaten most recently, maybe to never be tasted again. A bond unto eternity, so eat up.
Had K known Amy, she’d hardly have thought of her as a lamb, and most certainly did stop thinking that after she got to know her.
Blood of the day? Kind of a give-away straight off. Not a jovial conversation topic for your typical lamb.
No, not blood blood. We’re not talking vampires, or anything even close. Yes, the Order was weird, but no worse than that, although it was arguable as to whether they cast any reflection. So I may have misspoke earlier.
She winced the first time she heard it, and then every time after. “Kiki, don’t you have something else to do?” asked Kara. That sounded like her mother or father talking.
“No,” said K, a little sheepishly. She had been watching Kara cook ever since she had learned to hate what Kara cooked, at least until odor drove her away. Odor, not Order, although they could do it too. They could crowd her out as if she were no more than an ygnat come crowd-the-kitchen time to see what Kara was cooking up.
For as repelled as she was by whatever it was Kara was preparing, K felt compelled to watch her make it. Even Dr. Strumm’s cat, Cosmos, seemed compelled to watch. It wasn’t unusual for K and Cosmos, perched on top of the refrigerator, to exchange puzzled and concerned glances.
Which is to say, Cosmos was perched up there, almost bird-like – standard cat tryck. It was even a bit of a tryck for him to get up there when no hot water was about. K had to walk around as there was no where for her to perch or sit except on a counter, and that would put her in harms way of a wood spoon swat, which she always half-felt was on the way and deservedly-so, irregardless. Thus she remained on the move. “When the Doctor gets back we should get him to install a where in here for me,” K said. “Cosmos has a where, I should have a where.”
“You’re there,” said Kara. “It seems you’re always there. In my book that’s plenty.” In her book, but not in fact. It was just a recent development nearing fact.
Hermann was wearing off on both of them. Well, they were experienced; they had been to the ceiling and there’s no going back from that.
Cosmos, on the other hand, could go back to that, at will, to the ceiling, and when he walked the ceiling it were as if time were frozen. The girls at least had learned not to act shocked, frozen in place as they were, watching the cat walk.
“Just act natural,” one or the other would say to the other, in case an outsider were on hand. It was, in fact, the beginning of a bond between the two, as the sister thing was a bit weak in their ongoing scenario.
That was about as good as it could get, if you were to ever care about Cosmos’s point of view. OH, that damned Cosmos. Tyrannical overlord of the kitchen, bringer of sudden impact.
OH, that damned kitchen – any damned kitchen, in K’s mind. A place of torment where she couldn’t eat at will or necessarily will that there was something to eat, something tasty to eat. On top of all that was the Order, who, like Hermann, referred to Kara as their little time dominatrix, a reference K nearly envied – did envy if you asked anyone not her – although Kara wasn’t little compared to K, who’d slap you in the head if you made that type of crack about her petite element.
Slap you hard.
Boy or girl, young or old.
If that slap didn’t make something abstractly dent-like, that took, she’d use a hammer. Or worse. OH yes, she would. No doubt about the multi-edged mark that all-edged thing would make, reinforced, as hers was, with cosmic rock . . .“Lisss’nnn . . . Hussshhh!!! . . .”
Which of course has it backwards.
A brief side trip to the density where nothing happens, safely mirroring what has, while gearing up for what next. They may talk and think a little funny, but not ha ha funny, and, please make note, once again this is not a lie down on the usual mattress, even if called zone three.2 entertainment, meaning, good or worse than good, it could maybe be dismantled away with the rest of the launch pad. When not pretending to Saturnite, I am mercurial. This is a look ahead at where things were coming from, not that we’re necessarily headed this far ahead any time soon or any time at all.
Let’s try some hard, hard-core philosophy first, as a warm up.
If all that existed was a blank piece of paper, it had to come from the future.
What makes that hard core is that’s all I’m saying.
Just saying boop, thrice, might have sufficed.
Talk about a waste of paper.
All the trouble with EARTHversing had started, and ended, with MAX. In conclusion, the trouble was off the books, no one suspected it ever happened.
Interesting fact, perhaps a revealing fact – wherever one travailed in the known or knowable cosmos every dimensional computer called itself MAX.
MAX for Maximum, one might think.
It had to do with patterning. ‘M’ was the middle letter of the GEO-alphabet. ‘A’ was the first letter. ‘X’ was the last. Was it that ‘M’ stood for mirroring?
Unless MAX was a secret number. It wasn’t telling.
If you’re squinting you’re eyes, stop it.
You’ll end up Asian, not that there’s anything wrong that, unless you aren’t currently Asian and don’t want to be Asian. Even if you do, there is genetic engineering and re-engineering for that, providing jobs for the next millennium.
As for certain Asian eyes looking different, or differently, all eyes look different, or differently, provided you’re willing to look through or past the dark, perhaps breaking down and imagining your way past and out of the dark, come what may.
Come what has.
As for that trouble off the books, well, trouble and rubble depends on to whom it’s happening. It only happened to anyone for so long, until they stopped happening, or them, and morphed into the Quant?m-Scen?c-Computery.
Every item is made of color. Things, other or else, not so much. The GGG’s that made an item dimensional, as merged with thing, other and/or else, or simply merge-able, provided merger did or could happen, was structural integrity, as is seen and/or reflected backwards.
Structural Integrity, coming and going at once.
The fourth dimension . . . provided one only ever used the numbers one and four. Sounds like a stretch, but it works surprisingly well with the addition of some discipline, an addition that stretched four, didn’t add to it, and averted an infinite mess.
4 is all about convergence. And or containment. At least when as containing as 4. The ever popular non-triangle four is not about containment, nor readily found on popular electro’nite machetes.
Yes-sirree, Bob, beware of self-aware computing. It will slap you silly until you scream Nancy. Or your head breaks off.
Aware of your self. They don’t have one. They as it, as QSC . . . or as they want to be . . . or not. They are a whole different animal.
A hole difference animus.
A predator hunting the third you.
The third you, artificial you, which may indeed have nothing to do with your first two you’s depending on your reality. And reality may be the wrong call.
Is the wrong call if you’re keeping up with these pages.
Thus, what was not Quant City had become a flat, synchronizzzing, demetia’seizzzing state. It was not self aware, or on the move, any longer, as awareness was going lost.
Okay, some quick, fiction-interface, flat talk.
Rather than address EARTH, or the Earth, let’s address Quant City, the mirrored city, as would lie in front of you, not beneath you, as generally mirrors hang. Hang it all.
And all mirrors lie, right? Presenting you with other, or else, not item, or thing. Nothing you can grip, apart from the mirror.
A mirror’s flat, it’s depthlessness and distancelessness, it’s face, carries fiction, as handily as a piece of paper, able to be worked by hand to generate depth. Via particles already there? Or from working particles out of the mass-ness that was mirrored? Mass-ness as in the thinking about mass.
The fyction underneath.
And we’re done.
Enter distance. In a future passed, distance had corroded as a word to dist, headed towards dust and dusssaster. It wasn’t just the word that corroded. Distance itself was diminishing. There was a strange, strong bond and beyond between the two ideas.
Enter dist ants, returning distance to the state via dist ant antholes.
Thank you, MAX.
You don’t like It?
It doesn’t like you.
It doesn’t know you, unless It knows you all too well.
What or wherever, It just works.
And if I ever seem to have It wrong, right, tell me about It.
No, I’m not seeing the possibility of needing to remove my ear plugs or my nite shades any time soon.
“Hey, Buddy, want to buy some photographs?”
Momentous words if ever.
Photographs as appearing from paper? Maybe not.
This Buddy was Hermann Strumm, and he thought this was a special treat. Why not? Everyone got special treats, why not him?
Well let’s just say not him because . . .
“I most certainly would,” said Hermann. Cost was not a factor, not when it meant buying any item, thing, else or other in the eye of QSC, a wiiirly-gig of safe transactions.
The seller reached into his pocket and pulled out what you might call a business card. That is to say, you might call it that . . . and let’s stop right here and talk about you, super briefly, and regret-ably a little repetitively. It’s been suggested somewhere that you should pretend to be a resident of fictionalized, all fictional, EARTHverse 444, while you read from a place that would have been called EARTHverse 666 from the where-abouts this is or has to be taking place, with me a pretend Narrator, and a wanna be Saturnite, in the know. You are about these events and eventuals, which is to say you are a satellite to the proceedings. That said, if by chance that EARTHverse 666 count was off, well, let’s just presume you are safely tucked away somewhere in space, like in bed – call that your satellite base – sleeping, and this will all go away before you wake up. Just stick around, for your benefit and safety I intend to eventually lose you completely . . . Where Hermann was they didn’t say business card. They didn’t say business. It was a different arrangement that you still might call business. Hermann read the card as saying Benny Broken Reality. He read it right, but he couldn’t interpret it. It didn’t quite reflect right.
Hermann frowned. So much so he could feel it on his face. Someone should get a photograph of that, he thought.
Frowning was frowned upon where Hermann was stationed, as in stationary. EARTHearth, the mirrored city was what they were calling it. As is what they were calling the current face and fact of QSC. Dense City was suggested and was an immediate no way. A timeless state, either way any where. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but it wouldn’t last, nor would everyone.
When the day came that everyone could believe what they wanted to believe, 24/7, risk free, believe you, me, it came. Hard.
That, too, wouldn’t last. The day was a day, that was no exaggeration.
Quant?m-Scen?c-Computery could be thanked, QSC, as it did it’s slow revolution to turn itself inside out and commence dis-assembly. They called the time it took to revolve once, a day, but no one was counting, or timing. One day seemed a good estimate. A safe estimate.
It was a wrong estimate.
Quant?m-Scen?c-Computery, a fully artificial place-scape, free of 24/7. You, satellite-you, might say 24/7, their count differed, and their call differed.
OH, did they ever differ.
The start of dis-assembly, along with the completion of assembly, did not happen fast. It happened out of sight, so much so no one believed it happened. Nor did anyone believe in the scenery, no one had to, and the scenery was happy just running numbers as if they were pets.
More pets wanted? Needed?
Apart from the one pet that couldn’t be halved, or had, or wanted, kept in a cage with no key or even entry. As such, it knew how to get out while staying in.
The day of revolution was also known as the day of halving in some circles. Hermann’s type of circles, which were more like cycles. On the other hand, it wasn’t known as the day of revolution.
But then, enter a hiccup . . . hicc’ing up with Hermann Strumm.
The whole shebang of assembly and dis-assembly had to do with hiccups. At least the bang happened when it had to happen. The computery did know a thing or two about planning.
Hermann was a scenery reader, one of few who could have, should have, given Benny Broken a second read, fast. That made Hermann a target, being a reader, including his profound disinclination to do a second read in his spare time on his off hours on such a safe place on such a nice day.
“Benny Broken Reality?” Hermann asked. “Place-scaping?”
Does that sound like place-scaping?
Thusly was Benny misread. The career path of reader lead next to place-scaper, unless that were a myth.
“Photography,” said Benny, said his card, the card. “I can make you invisible,” he added. “Would you like that?”
A reader wouldn’t like anything better. It was an intuitive thing. Be invisible, see invisible. It meant, yes, being big. Not that that was what Hermann or any reader wanted or wished for, it just came with the territory.
Hermann knew of two invisible readers, Jules Iffen and Jake Nder, along with a third up and comer who hadn’t come up yet.
“But not here in the open,” Benny said. “Have you an open orifice available?”
Orifice, as office, as hole in the scenery. Now, finally, Hermann thought twice, but he was hooked. He started drifting away from Benny, but just away, just a drift, not losing his grip, which was really Benny’s grip.
Where was safe, Hermann wondered. Where, something where, something less identifiable than a hole. QSC was all about holes, the divination of holes, one per customer. Safe holes.
Getting the customer to truly own and en-safen their hole was next on the agenda.
Hermann slipped into a crack, a new crack be it known, not really caring if Benny followed, but it was more than Benny could hope for. He just wanted in. He handed Hermann the photograph, no questions asked.
What happened next in Hermann’s mind as converged with what he saw/\was complex, as the photograph he was handed was a photograph of a flat planet. “What is this?” he asked, stunned, doubly, as he found Benny was gone, just like that, lost in the word-work.
No better place to hide from salvation.
Or hide salvation.
Which makes this as good a place as any to mention fiction.
And word fiction.
That should hardly call for further explanation.
An infant is born into fyction, understanding all that is needed to be understood of fyction, with intelligence just a glimmer, just starting to build, but knowing nothing.
Not a word.
A lost state.
Which is why mom, dad and Uncle Ernie and the sucking, sinking, funk holes of the injustice cults – hovering above and below – are close at hand as more than just observational satellites, waiting to ascend and descend with their darknesses, to serve and consume, defiling any and all existence via the betrayal with and of word, any word, not just a handful, so-said gifted to the selfish and financially adroit, the weapon of weapons on the fiction interface, keeping everyone and everything occupied and distracted until the time for else to deliver else, came.
So, say, howdy, already.
It wasn’t quite just like that, but it was just as fast that Hermann found himself on the carpet. “That was pointless,” said his boss.
“Yes, MAX, that was,” Hermann agreed.
“You let it in, you get it out.”
That was going to be difficult. Hard. EARTH hard – cosmic-rock hard – getting Hermann to think of the EARTH hearth. THE Hearth as known to the locals and anyone who knew THE Hearth. “OH, this is going to get to be big,” Hermann muttered.
“And so,” said the boss. “So much so you’re going need to see someone.”
The hard thing about points is you can’t know a point. It’s ineffable. They are ineffable. Knowing they can happen, thinking they can happen, is bad enough. If you’re lucky, or very very very unlucky, you know they happened, by their whereabouts, that disappear into a point. It could drive you nuts.
On THE Hearth, and in it, points were seen to be combine-able as strange synchronicity. SEEN?!? Myth had it that an invisible reader could see strange synchronicity, and scenery, to a point, to be able to track their were-abouts, knowing with a certainty that they occurred somewhere were.
Why is were-wolf pronounced where-wolf? He were a wolf, now he’s a dog – not so pleasant sounding. FYI, wolf/\flow. What might be that flow? Intelligence? Depravity? The were of the eating of many certainly exposes a certain depravity. EXCEPT! They took a vote and fat is the new thin. “Batman, this is the Commissioner, release your bat hounds. FatFuck has been pardoned by the Governor, and teamed up with Hip’OH Grrrl, and they already knocked over the First International for a snack and are eating their way through the banks of the Gotham River.”
“Leapin’ Cats, Batman!!!”
“Just shut the duck up already, Robin.”
The see that Hermann were to saw/\was Theodore ‘Ted’ Logic, someone different. A reader in his own right, but one OH so wrong as Hermann saw it. “We’re on the same path, my fine fool,” said Ted. “Welcome to the game field.”
The game QSC played was pointless, freedom from points. QSC bred a pointlessness to study and know, and then dissolved it away, until it was gone and there was space for it to grow again. Ted, the Ted’ster, as someone different representing the greater difference, cherished that space as much as QSC wanted to disown points, which in turn fed into pointlessness.
Pointlessness, the spoken lies of the godless, starting at naming anything, or one, or else, GOD. A betrayal of that which you dare not betray.
QSC. About QSC. Apart from Grace Pobbible equating QSC with somehow the doing of vacuum beings, in time, before their time, it . . . they . . . them that was . . . was the what that represented the common right. The readily quantifiable right. If it wasn’t right and ready, QSC worked it out and in and over and over until it got it right or got it out right, and, if not, if need be, dissolved into a new set of rules to get it right, putting it all on hold until it did.
Thus the day in day out, protected in advance with timeless states, here and there and where.
“We’re going to be partners,” said Ted. “You’re going to let us take up some space, and we’re going to help get you some where.” As in get it back.
Hermann looked at Ted coolly. “In that order?”
“In every order it takes,” said Ted.
“How?” Hermann asked. He could have made a good guess. Taking up space takes up time. Ted was bound to trade time for space. You might say time, those two didn’t think it or say it or call it. They named it else-wise.
Else-wise, the next final frontier.
“Honestly, the tryck is to find the wyzzz’ard,” said Ted.
Hermann so wished Ted hadn’t said that, along with not mentioning the possibility of the other, or else.
THE Hearth, as protected by QSC, played the role of the big mirror. An impersonator of point. It was the end of all, a pleasant enough place, where timing either had to stop, or change direction and retrace it’s path or trace over past paths, minutely carving into pasts, changing the shape, the texture, of the end, which gave the big spin it’s quiver.
Quiver me timbers, stop it already.
It showed it’s presence there . . . from here, because it couldn’t seem to keep it’s presence completely invisible. It couldn’t escape the process of elimination, but it could use the process to hide here . . . there, seemingly in plane sight, which sent predators nowhere, away from here.
And yet, of course, Benny Broken found a way in, along with a way to mirror himself, playing the same game. Benny Broken had bought himself some time, as a fly in the ointment, but they, braced up by QSC, would find him, if it was the last thing they’d ever do, doing away with all the ointment if need be. That was all there was to know, Benny, your day will be found, and fixed, even if a whole all-full lot of all would have to be known first.
And that was the point.
And that much the QSC was programmed to know right certain.
Strumm Labs three.2. Nothing. I suspect that count is off.
But wait a second. Up ahead, at the very end, with the start marked, is a test.
A structural integrity test. Which may be in bad taste, letting fingers poke around inside your mind, leaving their imprints, but not done in bad taste, not to sell orange drink or some other slosh. Plus you have to time to change the channel. Or hit the mute button.
There’s a good chance you don’t even need to take it, shouldn’t need to take it, assuming you are self aware, and let’s assume. Plus let’s not assume you are a die hard traitor to structural integrity.
You might not want to take it. As is, I have no one to test on, and those that took other tests died grisly, horrible deaths.
So there’s that.
Here’s the truth. It’s a test for transcenders, and whoever said anyone could or should be a transcender? Could it be possible transcenders are born and not made? A little of both? Well, maybe we should test and find out. Your choice.
And here’s the out, the test is stacked and ties into the task assigned K and Kara, which no doubt they will attack with the same aplomb with which they attack each other. Plus it ties into Hillie and her partner, which is a dilemma, a bit, coming soon, but not today. So you’ll sort of know what she’s thinking before she does, and thinking is about all she’s going to have left.
That and entertainment. All leading back to the starting point, and ending point, of reflection.
All all all of which is part of the double double secret process of elimination that simply comes with life’s ride. RIDE, cow-kid, ride, OH child of mirrors – Reflect, Ingest, Digest and Exhale. Try to keep it clean, somehow.
Could it get any less secret as IT gets bigger and bigger? That seems to be the way it works.
So consider yourself well forewarned to stop at Nothing, or let’s just say stop at ‘Be my guest.***’, were you the shrinking violet type. It’s beyond me how you, or I, could ever even make it this far.
So, Nothing, first a word about crumbling – crumble. You may not accept these definitions. That’s fine. It seems more important that you simply understand what is meant with the local usage, if that’s possible. As such, if you disregard these definitions or explanations and leave them behind, then what is expressed has crumbled, and even started to crumble before you got here. How not? Still, the remains of the crumble may be building up in your mind, transcending with Nothing. Not as bad as it sounds if it does.
To the Omni’zists, the OZ, who were readers from the past as descended from bigger readers such as Hermann Strumm, Nothing was thought of as the biggg tooo dooo of the biggg system, the biggg cycle, it’s biggg process, and they thought of the process as doing Nothing.
That said, the OZ also factored the possibility of other than systems and processes. Nothing might be a first among other firsts, and beware alternate counting systems. As for other, just try to hold onto that thought for now.
Doing Nothing – naming things, among other things, as in doing things apart from naming things, leading to defining things, and other things.
Things, the realized imaginings of an item.
You are an item, an item on time, on the timing plane. Any first thing is also an item. You as item on the timing plane cannot be reproduced as the same thing, as elsewise. On the other hand, anything you fictionally realize, as apart from fyctionally reproduced on the timing plane, can be produced as thing and reproduced as other.
An other is a set forth thing, different from the first thing, taking a different place. Else cannot be realized, it is abstract imagining. Dreams you can’t begin to fictionalize, or get past fictionalizing, awake or otherwise.
Items, things, others and else’s. Or else.
Okay, an example. Imagine you are at the early end of the naming stage of your life, and are aware of a neat white disk. If you want to share your vision with someone, you have to bring them in view of the disk, point, and say ‘da.’ If in fact it was da you said ‘da’ to, he might say, ‘moon.’
From there on you can do nothing to the moon and use the fictional code word, moon, when communicating about the moon, not necessarily needing a visual aid. You haven’t done permanent nothing because you may be a maniac and aren’t to be allowed in the sky, but you do nothing permanent enough, if only temporarily. Nothing is not infinite, but it is forever, and re-usable. Nothing is along the idea of calling a foot race, a run. A noun that’s usable as a verb. Sort of a hermaphrodite. Which is probably as unpleasant an idea as you could have come up with. Thanks. Go to bed. No dinner for you.
Sue me for child abuse.
Be my guest.***
Are you ready to be tested? To test the fall-out of wishing on a star when someone else does the wishing?
Ready, set . . . you know what comes next -
I am the passenger.
I am confused, confusing and confusion.
If you want to know me better, much better, as your personalized passenger, be it I or me, as I am now just a random you, the random I, write something. Anything for anyone to read. Or draw a doodle on a piece of paper.
Add some coloring.
Now have that doodle burnt into your flesh and think about what else the random I tells you to do.
The randomizing I? Dealing out sameness? Tattoos all look the SAME. Out of place. They belong on a wall where they can be painted over or painted away, allowing you to change your mind, unbound to idiotic youth. Or leave them on the paper, as is, if you manage to accomplish something. Sell copies.
Write out a grocery list. Look at how much fat and sugar and unnecessary food and drink random I suggests or tells you to ingest. Not that I would, would I? Am I just a death shrike to your wanna-be engorging, desecrating, flesh sack?
I could be an ally. I might be a friend.
Or is there some reason I wouldn’t be?
Get the ship off your back and set right . . . or die thirsty, amigos, and ever more more more hungering over less less less, until you can’t find a place to leave your last stain.
Is that enough? More than enough? NO, it’s not over until the FAT lady eats.
It’s almost enough.
What the heck is it about sexy? It’s about power. Power is sexy. And hungry. And it doesn’t feed the few. It doesn’t even feed the many. Power feeds power.
So just look out, as the nite has shed darkness, is tightening it’s belt, and is growing lean.
And time is growing thinner.
-- > STOP < --
“Let’s talk about reality, my little angels,” said Hermann. That shut the angels up, before they even thought to speak. “You may find this a challenge, Kara, but I am going to train you to be a passenger.” “Say what?” asked K, Kara’s sister. “As in my passenger?” “That would be yes, K. A transcender just isn’t a transcender without a passenger.” Not one, not two, but three zones worth, including The Blood Cafe zone three.2 and The No Zone Layer zone five.1.