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Out, the Way of the Water-be

 

out, (the way of the Water-be)

 

Copyright 2017 Richards Hall and e.

Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir

out, (the way of the Water-be)

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Let the humorless beware, ant, you are entering a place of ant-tag-anism . . .

. . . and ant agony.

(excerpt from The Giant Tattoo of Bossche Bol

-by Geoffrey Fillmore Foe)

 

“Will you danged kids turn down those blasted lights already?

I can’t see myself think.”

 

*

 

GO go go, IT is GO time

 

Some people got it rough.

Hjalmar Poelzig was on a sleep break. Which is to say he was awake. He slept for a living and his work certainly didn’t require breaks. It was an employment-law thing. And he only took them because he could.

They were something to do.

Sometimes, usually, he just sat there on break half-asleep, wakefulness not having had a chance to fully catch up to him. Nor, most likely, would it. At least not while he was on the clock.

Since he had to pass by the office of Grace Pobbible on the way to the break room, he often thought of her. Half-thought, on his half-awake side. She was naturally one of the first things to come to his mind. She sort of walked right up to it even if from a seated position.

Not that she would.

More likely she’d walk the other way given the opportunity. Thus it was a rarity that they were absolutely alone together, which would be at work, on a break. On Hjalmar’s break. That was worth noting because Hjalmar would have liked nothing better than to have been alone with her away from work. Maybe even in a pre-sleep occurrence, if you get what I’m sayin’. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Which was nutty.

Age inappropriate.

At least in Grace’s mind, as she graded Hjalmar out as a toddler. As in adolescent-minded, not as in the run-of-the-mill toddler that a professional sleeper was when staggering – toddling – to the break room.

Oddly, the occasional sleep-walker strode with purpose, and typically not to the break room.

Grace didn’t take breaks, but it could happen that she came into the break room for coffee and encounter Hjalmar as he sat there on a break.

OH, these breaks have got to stop.

You’d certainly hope so. So says the motor-vehicle operator in me.

“Young man,” she said one rare day. “Have you thought about your job future lately?”

“About what?” he asked, wincing ever so slightly at the young-man crack. They hadn’t spoken in days, and those would be rare days which are not very accumulative, and Hjalmar felt he was in a groove regarding his work and job future. He was satisfied, and that counted for a lot. One lot, and you can’t have too many.

Grace sat down at the table where Hjalmar was sitting in the break room. “I hate to break this to you, but have you seen your quarterly sleep-study numbers?”

“They’re good,” he said, optimistically.

More than optimistically.

“They’re not good,” she said. “You’re losing ground.”

“I’m losing ground? What are you talking about?”

She was talking about the obvious. At least what should have been obvious to Hjalmar. The always ongoing, ongoing liquid-sleep study, sleep-study trials. Liquid-sleep, patent-pending, as sold in a bottle, and having nothing to do with sleep. The idea was to create ten minutes of sleep-value out of five minutes worth of souped-up non-sleep.

Liquefied as’t’were. Even if it was as artificially liquid as artificial soup was. Everyone knows artificial soup is sold in bricks and granules.

How is that not all sleep related?

-Not all, remember you heard it hear first. Right around the time we start running out of breaks.

Multiply those minutes as you wish, the more the riskier. Hjalmar, for example, being at the top of the class, got eight hours worth of sleep out of four, giving OH so much joyous extra free-time for another part-time job. At Strumm Labs no less, an unofficial subsidiary of Grace Pobbible Industrial Sleep. Unofficial in the sense that GPIS was an unofficial subsidiary right back at Strumm’s. Strumm’s as in Strumm.

Hermann Strumm.

Extra free time was like ecstasy time if you were free to use it.

As if any is free.

Hjalmar had three part time jobs all told, and was in line for a forth, not that he knew it yet.

“What is the great impossible?” Grace asked.

Hjalmar clenched, physically, entirely, as if he had been called on in class when he was not paying attention – specifically because he had not been paying attention. But he knew the answer to this. Unless Dr. Pobbible had transformed the question into a tryck. “The great impossible? The great one?”

“Yes, the great one. Sheesh.” She assumed Hjalmar didn’t know and was stalling.

Hjalmar smiled. This was ridiculous. He measured his words carefully, although Grace was the kind to grasp your meaning even if your words were slightly out of order. “Coming back from sleep,” he recited.

Coming and going.

There wasn’t much more than that to any and every anything, else, other or item. Any ol’ IT or item.

Itemization.

IT-emization and item-ization. What a devious pair.

Credits and debits.

Accounting careers will never go out of fashion. Take that as a threat or promise as you will. Take this as additional threat or promise, no matter how negative or positive anything coming up get’s expressed, it’s not. The point is to get everything expressed-less. But just less, not ground to a halt. Most certainly not.

Grace had to pause and regroup, not that she let it show. Where had Hjalmar picked up on that awareness? “One of these days, soon, son, you’re going to find yourself in trouble. Or worse, you’re not going to find yourself.”

Groundless, for starts. Which is a metaphysical tease we’ll get into later. So so so into. For now, think of yourself having or wanting such items as here, there, and where, and these would be your metaphysical grounds, as in ground to stand on and hold, psychologically. Each a place or source for reflection. Your here might be your home-base, and there might be your work-base, and where might be where you go for a good time. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. If you don’t understand that, you’re too young to be here. You’re probably even too young to be alive.

Are you now thinking where might be not be here?

Now, we’ll get to that too.

But not now.

Ummm.

They all float around and your home base might always be felt as here, even when there or where otherwise, and even simultaneously. Of course these metaphysical grounds are right on top of your physical ground-scape, and perhaps, for you, close enough to the same as to being three and the same.

The italicizing here is like playing Simon says. If not italicized, ignore the word’s meaning as is usual for you. Which isn’t to say you usually do. To each their own. It may or may not get italicized whether it needs it or not. It’s not like we want anyone getting into some sort of state over it. To shorten this a few letters we’re just going to go with the abbreviated it form of item henceforth.

Grace looked at Hjalmar suspiciously, or maybe not suspiciously as she did not want to slip and let her suspicions show. She tried not to let anything show, especially her slips. He was a straight arrow, at worst borderline mischievous, but utterly reliable. She didn’t want to suspect him, didn’t even know how or what of, but still she wondered who or what he possibly could have been listening to if not her.

The thing about Hjalmar that Grace couldn’t see was that he was anti-scientific, without cause or intent. He just was.

Wasn’t he?

And scientifics were anti-him. He was impossible. He shouldn’t be able to eg-zist, and that gummed up their game.

 

|m|*

 

Meanwhile, in an other EARTHverse far, far away, let’s talk about punishment.

Punishment as delivered by imps.

IMP’S.

Instruments of mass punishment.

Instrument of mass punishments?

Imps are little black holes, the ultimate villains, if we go with example one. Let’s do that, leaving example two in back of our mind. Minds. Villains that is, when they’re punishing you. Punishing your mass of cells. Are they also villains in their spare time? Sometimes coming from afar, the relatives of the imps already all over you come to lend a hand?

Very well maybe.

Consult a lawsuit attorney if you think you’ve been a victim of inappropriate punishment. They’ll show you how it’s really done.

Think of punishment in this way. Imagine mining and processing gold, or any metal. When the dug-out EARTH and it’s holdings are delivered for refinement, they are punished and punished until gold pours out as pure as it is going to get. It’s not personal. If by chance you had started with only metal not gold, whoa.

In that scenario, punishment is a necessity if we want that gold. And we do, we need to keep vault-makers employed.

Just kidding.

No one’s making waves at this end. For that matter, let the waves be. Let that be our motto.

In the human body, every cell is punished by imp’s, and skin cells replace themselves on a regular basis while other cells do the same, some more frequently, some less frequently.

All is well. It’s not personal, your person aside., until it’s totally aside and all is not so well. As such, imps are not the bad guys, they’re helping you with release, helping you to death as it were, if need be.

Yes, it mostly may need be.

In a metaphysical sense all is well. Well-enough. Science may and probably will account for this differently. Most likely soundly, but while they may be using metaphysics, and thinking metaphysically, they are not expressing themselves metaphysically, trending towards physical formulas and such, which trend towards solid and precise. That’s smart. It’s practical. Repeatable. Layers get built and we get to flatten them and repeat them. You get a cycle going.

For that matter, even I will account for this differently when the time comes.

And more-so. Famous last words those are. Maybe gather some pain relief to have handy. Or just take it already.

For now, consider this, if you were to close your eyes and bring your hands together to where you felt them, or they felt you, you would be experiencing the physical universe. If you were to leave your eyes closed and separate your hands and think about how they felt, that would be an occurrence in the metaphysical universe, an occurrence trending towards physical as it is backed by the physical universe. Some metaphysical occurrences, many, are not backed by anything physical. There is fluctuation to and from more or less physical. If you opened your eyes and saw and felt your hands together, you would be in metaphysical reality, based on the physical and it’s sensorial coatings, the five senses, with feeling more physical perhaps than metaphysical. That isn’t physical reality because you would be unable to move or change any item in physical reality, while metaphysical reality can trend towards physical or metaphysical.

And the plane where physical and metaphysical meet, with one side and one face, is time.

At least as all applies in our story for today. None of this is backed by any biggg picture, but it is backed by artificial paper.

As for the end product that pours out back in impsville, let’s call it potential, or free life, able to enrich and empower what comes next. Consider yourself to be a being more potentially enriched than your parents. Enriched as in a higher quality life-form, potentially. It is not a given, and potential is vulnerable in the same way as gold is, maybe more vulnerable since people don’t necessarily value it. It’s not exactly quantitative. Or is it?

With imps it is a little minute to minute war that you will lose, but why resist, right?

Wrong. You should resist, I already do, but only resist, not French Resistance resist. That was more a response. I would not stick my neck out to make an actionable response to imps. There might be a cat about.

Or don’t resist. Hell, what do I know and why should I care?

Imps are what makes us tick. All told – ALL told – and this is going to be the worst term I could use, they add up to do battle with the beast, IT, as made up of it’s – and up is good. Not biblical beast, more a wild horse, more the stampede of a wild horse stampede, that is seemingly un-tame-able. Maybe only when on a stampede when it gets it’s dander up. Interesting side bar, if you take ‘e’ from the end of stampede you get stamped. Stomped? The beast is mindless want-to . . . get out . . . grow . . . and go.

The GGG’s.

And that’s not a bad thing either, unless you’re in the way. You will be assimilated, one way or another, maybe into the ground rather than into the stampede. It may be inevitable, but why rush.

OH, and by the way, you are in the way. Try hiding out in a cave on Mars, try and buy some time if you feel it’s worth it. Hell, it may cost you time to buy time on Mars. A strange sort of exchange.

Rush rush rush, it’s all about the rush, especially when stepping aside from a stompede.

A fast touch on ALL, if a bit to the side, and not really the direction we’re heading with ALL. If you were able, would you accept the position of GOD where everything was you? No contrast to your thinking, no free thinking counterpart of any sort. You might encounter blobs of non-GOD or anti-GOD, going so far as calling the shots for you.

“YOU’RE CALLING MY SHOTS? One through fifteen ball in the corner pocket, and the cue ball down your throat, Jack. Eat my felt.”

What would you think about that? Just a thought question to badger you. If you think to write an essay response, feel free to redefine GOD as having accounted for non and anti altogether. What the hell, redefine everything.

Hell hell hell hell hell. What the hell. I know you’re thinking it.

Further on that line, would you want to be anyone else? It seems some people would. Who would you want to be of the opposite sex? Irregardless of who, how would you dress or want to appear in the body of choice of that opposite, factoring in cost and the time element involved in appearance?

I’ve heard it suggested that you couldn’t possibly turn down a chance to go back and take the place of some rich child and have all of their advantage and opportunity.

If you had the chance, would you go back and beat that kid up instead, assuming you weren’t that kid?

Maybe even if you were that kid. I’d stop to watch that.

What if it means growing up into someone with a black mass on their shoulder that doesn’t let any light in or out?

I don’t know about that. I was once accused of being jealous of not being Dan Quayle. Remember him? Ka fuck?!?

 

And we’re imping. Some of those imps go all paranormal and get out of hand and the punishment exponentially grows in size and scope and gets miss-shapen. Especially at the hand of those danged scientific imps, and their pals.

Be it known, when an imp goes paranormal it goes to it. It also isn’t that bad from the get go – is it possible anything was bad from the get go? – if even bad at all, but a paranormal it most likely is. At least it has issues. It’s sort of a point of view deal as to whether you’d call it bad or not. My finger tends to be on the or not button, but that’s essentially nonsensical.

In a sense, maybe one thing to think about is how far or how long you can or should go with resistance. How do you isolate what you should resist, as imps and their methods and wants are legion. The same is true with it’s, which, yes, can go paranormal and become imp’s. It’s like a wicked chess-game. ID Chess, infinitely dimensional. Move that castle to the wrong square and you might find yourself in checkmate last month.

What is the last of you? Your identity as you know it? Maybe your organic identity? Some people think everyone thinks or should think like they do. I don’t because I was raised by someone like that. Oddly, I developed strong, idealistic family values because of that, but values that parent preferred not to apply. He sort of applied preferred not to everything. As such I’m a little extreme, and I don’t believe I present any thoughts here on family values, so we should be good.

I think defensively, and I know it. When I attack, really attack, I like it to be the last word with no counter available.

Not so much the case. I don’t really have much in the way of bite, nor in family for that matter, but enough family can be enough. You need look no further than the incident of the Peter Ding-Dong Principle, which I will not discuss. For now. As for that, my silence is for sale, Mister.

Your ultimate identity, whether you know it well or not, and maybe that’s the thing people seek or create until the end, is your metaphysical secret, or gold, your last trace that will hold after you have left the premises, or not, and you may need help maintaining it against the imps and it’s once the rest of the particles of you have been reduced, badgered and bludgeoned away. And of course not just by imps assigned to you from the get go. If you value your remains, which may be the potential for you and more, potentially, I’d suggest you consider making your way to a place so lost no one can find you. Or at least having one, along with a way to get there.

Definitely door number two, while maybe seeing if you can’t lose an imp particle from the wave of you here and there.

Here’s me giving advice, vowing not to. Still.

Monsieur Rick, Madam Iggle-lichi, what follows are some signed letters of transit. If they should happen to disappear, or you do, I didn’t see a thing.

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.1

 

These zone aids will cut to the chase while cutting the nonsense.

Some of the time.

Cutting some of the time, but not all the time.

That last section was sort of a preview of a zone aid. It just wasn’t the right place for one. There’s a science to this.

These are light philosophical ground rules soundly explained, as it were.

If only. There is no science to this – say what? – and as for any fiction it is intuitive, so it’s not really even fiction, putting it even further away from science. Think, among other items, a distorted television viewing side-effect, and that’s saying all television viewing is distorted. Twenty or more different versions of the big news of the day are available, at once, up to every second and counting. Think about that, and tell me what it means.

Think this, too, all of those half-life figurines on the screen are talking, but none of them can hear themselves, not the way you do when you’re listening to them from the screen. Sentience is going out, but not coming in. Not spontaneously, or as close as it gets.

These zone aids, zone as in time zone, account for the physical and metaphysical grid beneath Bossche Bol, which is where these events do and don’t take place.

Yes, one grid. There’s mirror-magyck involved.

They are not defined as much as painted out. Temporary definitions as it were, as it were, as it were, as you most certainly won’t use them yourself out on the street. They are otherwise gummed-up by lack of information. Take everything with a grain of sand as only so much accurate information is available within an avalanche of illiteracized information, especially if most of it concerning public people comes from television and the internet – the messenger of tomorrow, where you are a passenger to the beyond. To Dr. Terror’s House of CATS.

Did I have you going?

Would you still want to go?

That was foreshadowing, as it were, moving in reverse.

As for cutting the nonsense? Yes, absolutely.

As an added bonus, along with today’s story, you get the telling of the story. That’s not something you see every day.

That said, these aids and their offshoot can get a little dense, dark and top-heavy, as a group, but once they are out of the way they are out of the way and focus can go to where it belongs, as on the budding romance between H and G. Seriously, right now they are just in the way. Things will lighten up if you can make it half-way.

At least eventually, I’m sure. They’d almost have to.

They certainly almost have to. Not?

Budding romance? I don’t think so.

These aids will comprise your metaphysical field-guide. And to keep it simple, metaphysical is simply how you experience and think about the physical. The metaphysical includes, sucks in, your colorized and sensor-ized version of the physical.

Sucks in? Somehow it gets in there. Hello hello hello in there in there in there.

There are no ghosts about, nor anything paranormal, apart from it’s and imps getting out of hand and punishing what is not on their dance card.

“Stop treading on my feet, we’re not even dancing together.”

Telling the two apart is the tryck, and the physical is still undergoing constrution.

I wrot constrution, and I meant constrution.

I don’t know what that means. Some items are just wrong enough to be right.

You might say we question how we survive when considering the physical, and why we survive when considering the metaphysical.

Or why we don’t.

Or not. See what I mean about the or not button? And I can’t take it back once not. Notted. Yes, it’s gibberish, but it makes sense. With my Be-The-Man-Guide, you too, can run for office.

First, a rule – the more one carries in life, the more one has to balance. Balance is extremely important, but to each their own. A person with big hands carrying three balls may have it easier than someone with small hands carrying the same three balls. Not at the same time of course. Now that would take juggling. Whereas those small hands might juggle those balls easilier. But OH, jugglers are sooo smug. From there it gets complicated.

The real key when it comes to balance, is seeing what you’re balancing, and knowing what needs it. That can work in the physical where every solid item can be accounted for, more or less, apart from people trying to balance what they see and know they can’t balance. In the metaphysical there are no limits. There are limits to what can be recreated in the physical, at least time limits, but ideas are legion. So far. If you want to juggle as many imaginary balls as possible, or set the task to someone else, just toss an infinite number of balls at them, or weld them to an eternal clock. ME like welding.

And watch them dance from afar, your feet will thank you.

Let’s work positive and negative into the balance mix. Being positive is adding something for balance, whereas being negative is removing something for balance, removing something from what is there, not removing illusion, which can’t be easily removed, even if still do-able. Sometimes even removing illusion is easy. If you want to remove this document you are reading all you need to do is take a hammer and smash this screen you’re looking at. Easy, breezy, done.

Metaphysical is sort of about doing it the easy way when the easy ways works just fine. Let’s say that adding and removing is the metaphysical approach, and it poaches on the physical, it’s not all in your mind, and it’s not the only approach, and it doesn’t always work. It’s like a yellow green situation, one or the other can serve as one or the other depending on how you label them, if you appreciate there are two contrary factors, unless, unless you consider yellow evil.

Really evil.

So maybe orange purple would work better. Positive and negative also play into coming and going, but we’ll play with that later.

In this crazy Wiiirl-D 50/50 balancing is out of the question. Manage at 80/20 and consider yourself in the game. 50/50 isn’t even desirable. If you must juggle just don’t drop the eggs. Stick some in your pockets.

Or drop ‘em. I don’t care. I’m not eating ‘em.

Moving on.

A brain-teaser. It’s been theorized, wrong or right, who’s to say, that the physical universe will come to an end. Will 1:11 still occur twice a day without physical days for them to take place in, and no clocks to say when?

The answer is yes.

OH yes, days are a physical item.

Moving more on, or so says the little voice in your head saying I am so.

There will be a trace of GOD talk. Everyone – everyone – gives GOD a bad name. Most everyone. Or the wrong name. I could rip their hearts out if they had a heart, the wrong-givers. Brains are in short supply, too, not that there aren’t enough to go around. More than enough. More more more than enough. As for nerve, there is a butt-load, and they say butts are full of them. They, as in science journals. My secret identity says don’t read anything into that. Try or suggest anything and my secret identity will find you as a child in time and beat you up. Maybe just scratch you, but leave a gnarly scar.

Here’s my first opening salvo, there is no rational evidence of how to treat the item thought of as GOD, an item that can’t even be pegged with illusion. That said, if you respect time, and other people’s time, you will have your bases covered whether or not you want to think about or concern yourself with thinking about GOD.

Perhaps that isn’t rational.

GOD is the mirrored image of time, and maybe just the mirroring, stopping short of appearing in image. GOD is common free-force, without any personality disorders or mommy daddy issues, and gets in the way of the beast, and will not be assimilated. Or stomped. Hell no.

GOD will get on the beast and ride IT into the sunset, and on into the sunrise, and on into the sunset, etc. etc. etc. . . .

HI YO Silver! AWAY!!!

And we’re movin’ movin’ movin’.

 

A true starting point even if only a distant memory – bang! You took place.

Does that sound right?

You took hold of some free-force, even as free-force was gripping some beast, and that beast is now yours to deal with in tandem with free-force. Unless it is you want to team with the beast to shake or disarm free-force. Or be neurotic and play favorites as suits you. Either way, for that you are a little criminal, a dimensional shape and entity built of free-force and beast, ALL and IT, and sentenced to a life sentence of doing time.

Meanwhile, the beast is in you, and it wants OUT, and it wants more, and it wants to get bigger. Not necessarily in that or any order. Perhaps the less order the better. The issue is maintaining disorder to stay in practice for confronting a wrong-headed fixed order. As said it’s not a bad beast, but some prudence might be in order before everything gets too out of order or too in ordered.

It’s time to do time right and do right by time.

No one is innocent, and no one gets out of this alive.

At least not in the observable EARTHverse.

In this scenario no one is all that bad, no matter how evil I will paint them out to be. A lot of that paint is from television, very little television, so don’t think too harshly of me for my application errors if you know something differently than stated. Plus this is just a story. N’yah n’yah n’yah. I’m really going at particles from a specific point of view, as in not yours, thinking the waves might sometimes be in need of a little rearranging, but not by me. Every wave has it’s experts. If you ever get miffed, think, HOUSE OF CATS – along with the cat-girls serving refreshments, ooh la la.

Be afraid. Be very afraid. And hide your shoes well. As time passes, that will make less sense.

Alas, if you hadn’t put two and two together yet, free-force is the stuff of the imps. They will go through you to get at IT. They do not just stand still waiting for the stompede to come to them.

Most of what is transmitted here has probably been transmitted before, and more offensively by fuzzy cartoon characters. It’s not the thin-skinned that concern me, it’s the thick skinned, those with skin thick enough to have it branded, and who in turn don’t like their brand second-guessed or criticized.

It’s likely no one likes the idea they were simply put here to survive, especially thusly appointed by someone else, but you weren’t put here simply to die. To live means to survive. It’s pretty certain no one knows as much as they need to know to survive longer than they do.

Mmm, yeah, I’m going to leave that as that.

As for that OH so important little criminal deal. Every group of people is by nature a little pack of criminals, at least, big and small. Family, friends, teams and business. It is our criminality that binds us. The need for fuel and shelter freely available that the first finder-keepers claimed for their own, and gated away for a rainy day guarded by a conspiracy of injustice.

It’s our criminality that destroys us. Turns us into over-sized, vicious imps. Some of you. Me, I’m more on the line of a playful kitten.

So what’s the biggg ol’ real crime against humanity?

Crime!!!

D’uh.

Don’t think I’m trying to condemn anyone about this, apart from addicts to criminality – lawyers and sludges and politicians, OH my. Don’t even be concerned as far as I’m concerned. Have fun with it.

Imps are out policing the situation even as you sleep. Rest assured you are being looked after.

Is that too negative? I knowwww someone will be turned off being called a criminal. How about agent of more-all-ity, or more-ality, as in a being made to run on fuel that requires replenishing in competition with other agents. Or in accord with other agents. With or against, maybe without choice. Heck, the atmosphere may even need fuel in the form of drawing water into it, whether you’re in the way or not, even being sooo rude as to fire frozen imp-sickles at you. Imp-cycles.

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, THE SKY IS BEING THROWN AT US. It may not be thrown hard, but it’s like being a batter in baseball facing a billion pitchers at a time. Easy to get a hit at least. Or not. Huh, this is the first time I ever thought of snow as the sky being thrown at me, at least that I can recall. I suppose I wasn’t always this stupid.

Agent of more-all-ity, or more-ality. Are we good with those, you damned criminal? If you’re not a full-bore criminalized-criminal you might get a pass. The actual issue is hostility and aggressiveness, and the rush, whether you are responding rationally or per engineering. And whether or not you are changing an item when you say are, or just rearranging in your favor. It can be more about what you say than what you do. Sometimes turning the other cheek is prudent, sometimes it’s not. A lot of times it’s not, especially when you see repetitious behavior and you have but four cheeks.

And we’re rolling.

Let’s roll into free-will. If you are a rational-minded person thinking logically, and maybe not always because that would not be rational, how much free-will do you actually have? If you behave logically, you should come to a logical conclusion. Or just close to one. As such, some prophecies that do not deliver may just come close because we are not always rational. Not usually rational? Prophecy could be a sort of savant-ism based on rational, logical consequences. OH, and OH those damned, damned consequences. Later on those. That’s sort of a rule regarding consequences.

The rational/logical type will come in a multitude of flavors, but they will deliver a professionalism to existence along the lines that animals do. Animals may do all sorts of rotten things to one another, but they do it in an ordered, consistent fashion per local ordinance regarding their local species.

They service the greater grid honorably even when being little dicks.

Or big ones.

It’s like, yah, everything is misworded. Thusly there is Strumm Labs to the rescue for all your wording magyck, repairing any word ma-jig you want repaired. You may come to appreciate my efforts to keep them in business and busy.

 

Lastly for now, or not lastly most likely, the EARTHverse survival of the fittest-ness testing, a series of ongoing time trials, graded pass or fail based on if the trials, the testing and the times remain ongoing. The TTT’s.

A prerequisite to the survival of the fittest crown is surviving the worst reality throws at you – with reality maybe pulling reality away from under your feet leaving you in a near void – and surviving, not playing at surviving, because it’s who you are and what you do, not because it makes you a hero or grades you or classes you. Your eye is on the prize and sees past the brutality even as the prize becomes not so prized. And you, whoever you, are only a player amongst an assortment of holders of time, place and space being mangled to bits in the ordeal. Come a pass, nothing wins. Come a fail, nothing wins.

Nothing always wins. Get yourself a decent team-nothing t-shirt and you are set with your fan-ware wardrobe, for life. Nothing will always bring it’s A game.

Fictional fact is, fittest-ness trials are random, un-designed, non-graded, necessarily unknown, self-designed quests for the EARTHverse to grow and not just expand.

Un-designed and self-designed? OH my, yes.

Survivors are not born. They are built based on need, opportunity and maybe a wee bit of curse. Some need to be hammered into shape. They are a response. They resist until the end, or until they are punished into wearing away.

An example is when animals migrate to extreme climates and manage to graft themselves to the surroundings like a transplanted organ or limb and carry on, having gotten a good grip. That takes a lot of animals with the same idea, and running in different directions. And running away in different directions.

Beep Beep.

In time it seems even the best of grips weaken.

At the end of the day it is a team EARTHverse effort, supplying the good and the bad, moving life and death together, with no big winner, no big loser. Nearly nothing gained but more ongoing more. The biggg answer shouting out – Fuck IT – ALL. If you even can fuck it. We’re beating you at your game.

And ALL is good with that. And ALL is what the beast wants to be. ALL it can be, if it can.

Bring IT on.

ALL and IT, along with the allness of it. We’ll get to those in a bit. And more

ALL and IT, along with allness, move life and death, coming and going, and it’s the imps that police life. If you can die, they will kill you if nothing else beats them to it. There is, shudder, comfort to be found in that. After all, they did bring down the big bad boss monster from the previous level. So what’s next? Who’s next?

 

For today, maybe think of me as a drill sergeant, if you’ve enlisted or will go back and enlist to become a time-travel-ling cosmo-not, or cosmo-nut, when we’re not in light-hearted story mode, as the fittestness testing seems to have become war between the wanna-be have-ALL/be-ALLs and the live to live’rs, and you are my maggots. And I am NOT HAPPY!!!

On the plus side it makes me happy saying that. Those words were hard to find.

If you think you are a positive person, I suspect this will test that theory, here and there when it isn’t too light, and I do try to be light. Me as a soft and cuddly precocious kitten.

You should smile if your aren’t smiling and try to remember what it feels like. Draw a sketch of yourself.

Come on, that’s funny. I know it’s funny. I am expert. Take that as promise or threat or dismay, as you chose poorly and got the goat instead of the sexy new car. You could be reading Jane Eyre.

Consider the concept of attacking negative with negative to generate positive. Think of ingesting a drop of acid to build up a tolerance to the spread of acid – acid out to digest you. That digestion is phase two following imp punishments. Sometimes digestion gets ahead of the game, and backs up after the fact.

Believe me, that is not funny.

There will be some tirades sprinkled about, and I detest tirades. I especially detest tirades. I know you are tough enough not to get your feelings hurt, asshole – just a test, just a test.. If you are into time, you are a weapon, and you need to get sharper, and there is no turning back from getting sharper. I don’t think forgiveness has any say in the past, but moving forward if you can at least muse about resistance, there might be less that needs to be forgotten, even if it doesn’t need to be.

Resistance as effortless as wind resistance when you’re being blown off a pier, or being a kite, or even just thinking about it. When there is wind. If not, what’s to resist? Right?

Some people sort of joked about leaving the country recently, and I bet they didn’t have words for the DDD’s they feared. How about these – depravity, destruction and despair.

OH my.

The stuff of little pecker-headed imps going after Big Time. And that is a team effort. It takes a lot of force and might to turn off the last light switch.

And yet, as noted, sometimes prophecy just gets close, with people thinking since something didn’t happen the prophecy was totally off.

As long as there are butterflies, things can change.

As long as butterflies are free.

AAACCCKKK!!! AAACCCKKK!!!

Yikes! I think I just coughed up a hair-ball. Or was it the butterfly I just ate?

So help me, as long as I have the strength in my cold, arthritic hand and fingers to grip a pen, any more chick-flick comments WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

Now drop and give me ten thousand wind sprints.

Here’s the thing my little bucko’s, the next migration has begun, and the place, the space, the plane to conquer, hold and be, is time. Does that sound rah rah? I hate being rah rah.

The further development is coming of the time-being, but it’s going to take some biggg mean cats to get it done. Something on the line of a Cheshire Saber-Tooth. The ultimate sudden-impact beast to eliminate the burden of surviving for the sake of the wantonly weak, the wantonly needy and the wantonly wanton and more-ally lazy.

That might be a tad exaggerated.

We’re still thinking resistance. Leaves the waves to the eg-spurts. Purrrr.

As for the potential power of a time being, consider this scenario, waking up tomorrow morning and getting a butterfly to flap it’s wings two thousand years ago in order to produce a fire-hydrant on the other side of time on the other side of the Wiiirl-D in an exact location two thousand years later, illustrating our belief in the potential for fire.

Quantifiable potential.

And just flapping a wing now and then might be all the wind resistance you can ask for or be asked for. Asked from. Asked of?

You’re going to want and need a cover story, and you are in it.

Good news one, that drill sergeant crack was just a ruse. I am all but spent, and retired and fading into the mews. You are on your own, and the snow is looking OH so white and cold.

Lucky lucky you.

 

|meow|*

 

Holly and Dale waited outside the lecture hall for Vitus Werdegast. (Yes, you’re back in the story. Vitus and Hjalmar are buds. Extra, extra, EXTRA credit if you can place those names from the same place long ago and far away.) Professor Werdegast was becoming more and more opaque in his lectures, and each of the students was working on a paper that needed clarity. They were actually feeling desperate. Only the cream of the class could get in on the professor’s off-menu seminar – OUT, The Way of the Water-be – and they so wanted to be in.

They waited to assault him like a couple of sly cats not bothering to be sly as he bounded down the stairs in his gentlemanly way. “Please, another time,” Professor Werdegast called-out on seeing them. Werdegast was in a rush because he felt his substance was desperately needed elsewhere. His whole substance, along with all of his essence, and any other sort of worthwhile item he might muster up. He had to find his assistant, Hjalmar Poelzig. As such, yes, that assistance was Hjalmar’s third job. As seemingly was, they seemed engaged in a maybe dangerous experiment, and it did not seem to be an experiment they were running or even wanted in on.

As was they were both already all-in.

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.

“Vitus, some points in your lecture weren’t very clear,” said Holly.

“Most of them,” added Dale.

“You know my office hours, Holly,” said Professor Werdegast, nodding at and adding, “Dale.”

“But you were going to talk about time today,” said Dale. “I’m writing my final paper on the arche-essence of time as you’ve theorized. I have nothing to go on and build off of other than what you tell us in class. I’m counting on your lectures as you’ve forecast them. You wouldn’t stop talking about allness.“

“I’m sorry, didn’t I?” asked the Professor, as if Dale were suggesting he was still talking about allness. Couldn’t I? he wondered, fearing he maybe hadn’t stopped, then pausing to weigh in on the weight of the complaint. Couldn’t I wasn’t really a Simon occurrence. Proceed.

Complaints were piling-up on Vitus and even in his rush he couldn’t ignore their pressure pushing him down. “Look, the essence of time is substance. Substance can be clocked – when it is an item. Or when it’s made of atoms. Some substance, non-item substance, can’t be clocked. Clock-able substance even includes that which we think isn’t necessarily substance, like essence. If you can clock it, it’s the substance of time. If you can’t clock it, it is arche-essence. Now I must really run.”

Arche-essence of time, he wondered. When did he suggest that?

All of the time?

Seriously, if he had and could, he’d go back and unsay it.

 

Another name for arche-essence was IT, or it, personified as the stampede of the beast. That’s the bitch of it, the manner and means of the stampede is the villain, can be, not the beast. Did you prefer stompede?

ALL will be explained. Soon.

Soon enough? Maybe not. Hopefully, not-all will be explained well-enough soon-enough.

 

“Clock-able?” asked Holly.

“Okay. Is either of you wearing a watch?” asked Vitus.

“Yes,” said Dale.

“The time?”

“1:10,” said Dale.”

“Eg-zactly?”

“1:11,” said Dale, “but hurry up, it’s almost 1:12.”

“Tell me when it’s 1:12.”

“It is.”

 

FYI, ten seconds passed between those last two sentences, so now, no matter how fast or slow you read, if you make it to the end, you will make it in under the clock, with ten seconds to spare, which you’ve wasted on this sentence. Most likely.

My bad.

Alas, no good deed goes unpunished, and worse, it would seem you are being punished for my good deed. If you ask me, that works. If I could bottle that scenario I’d be going places.

 

“Okay,” said Vitus. “Clocking. What we just did was lightly record a particle of now, roughly from 1:11 to 1:12, on a clocking basis. It certainly would be easy to do a heavier recording by starting and ending on the dots of the minutes to incorporate a whole minute, and do an even heavier recording by using a camera or a tape recorder. All three of us being intently aware of that minute made it heavier than if just one us was being intent about it If you were taking notes on what I’m saying you’d also be recording this current particle of now in a heavier fashion, with intent to clock. It generally doesn’t even matter what time it is.

“Of course that minute was tied to a place with floating parameters. As is, or was, we are now on this side of that particle, in a transcending shared wave of timeness, along with being in another particle, which is still essentially merged with that previous particle. Right now we aren’t really particle recording on an intentful clocking basis, although we still could go back and make a lesser grade record, which would be a particle of then. I’ll leave it you as to figuring out what comes next.

“Time is heaviest as now occurs, as that is when absolute truth, which is immediate, occurs. Any written or spoken wording about truth doesn’t carry the weight of it’s immediacy. Recorded sound and video or film are a little more reliable, but not absolutely trustworthy depending on the intent and quality of the recorder.

“On the other hand, we are still particle recording nonetheless even when not with intent, just not really, as in being fully real. Fully real as in taking in and enriching every essence available every second on the way to absolutely permanent, solid and timeless.”

Which would be so exhausting. Heck, I’m too exhausted to order push-ups.

“At worst most of us just eat away at ourselves every second, fueling that eating with eating outside food and fuel. It never ends. Not in the biggg piggg-ture.”

 

Well that’s just rude. FYI, ninety-nine percent of the dialog comes from Vitus. If in doubt, presume.

 

“Whenever we’re awake we’re recording via our senses, sort of making us sensors. Fact is – fact fact fact fact fact – every one of us is an operator of a variety of instruments of heavy recording that ideally last a good one-hundred years. We are fine-tuning instrumentals driving those sensors around on legs and beyond, even as EARTH drives us around.

“Beyond as in driving those sensors by vehicle and then building off-site sensors that drive themselves and sense for us, into the beyond, further beyond, and beyond-ndndnd . . .ndnd . . . ndnd . . . me ow ow ow . . . ow . . .ow . . .”

 

For us? Can you hear GOD saying, “Build me a church, build me a steeple, and build me one of those deep-fried do-hickeys with the bacon in double chocolate sauce. No, give me two. While we’re at it, let’s let-out the crotch in my pants so it hangs down to my knees. Give me motivation to grow down and out.”

Fittestness test-trial wardrobe event score = fail.

Ten years off the clock, sonny. Go grab another fat bomb from McHate’s. Putting children first, and back together, to sell them and you more grease-sticks.

I say GOD a bit when maybe I don’t need to. I tend not to say it aloud, or really muse much on GOD, if at all. Godless comes to mind regularly. I say or think that with a bit of antagonism and more as snide unspoken commentary on godlessness. I’d say I think along the lines of GODness, which I would call thinking about GOD, not that you should or have to, nor that I do. It’s a non-cycle. Eg-cept maybe today to get it out of the way. I will utterly strive to resist saying it further.

In other other words, is there a GODdish thing or item that is not GOD almighty, and I hate saying or hearing GOD almighty. Say it to me and I will shut you out.

In more other words, is there something invested in us that is common and maybe not as invincible and all powerful as people of fantasy want to believe. Maybe it’s using us to become more intelligent.

HA HA HA HA HA.

HA!!!HA!!!HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! HA!!! . . .

AHHH hahahahahahahahahaha . .

OH mercy, have mercy. I think I swallowed my gum.

OHhhmmmmmercy.

Bringing us to this too soon, ohm fans. If all the resistance could be removed from some item of sound, could it be made to travel at or near the speed of light, or who knows how fast? Or just seem to?

Or does it already?

On that line, some food for thought. There’s a statement idly tossed about – the speed of life. Whether one lives at the speed of ninety-years a second, ninety-years a day, or ninety-years a year, they’re probably not going to live much past ninety-years, even if. What matters more, how fast you get there, or how you get there? How many different experiences you have, or how many times you experience the same thing o repeat what someone else has done? It’s as if you’re racing to Imp City even as the imps are already in a rush to get you there. Imp City sounds a little hell-ish.

I’ll tell you what hell is, not being, as in forgotten and non-existent, with the devil in being lived by someone else. Left as spent potential with nothing to show in return. Maybe the echo of your shouts of fandom and a pocketful of cash.

It’s enough of a win for nothingness, which is another IT/IMP/beast identity crisis, and vice versa, whether EARTH ends up flattened or torched. Despite a too easy to id dark sociopathic nuclear time bomb in charge, a small team of flatteners on an other side of town seem to be calling the shots and misleading the way.

Ruining your day.

Again with GOD, consider the GODliness of an infant, and how all powerful it can be, nearly commanding parents to attend to it’s every whim as it simply wallows in experience. As it gets older, it weakens in a way, becoming more weighted down with the activity of living. As such, a purely meta-physical state may have been GODly, but not interesting, or simply limited, and GODness, while staying invincible, diminished the immediacy of lessor gratification by going manual to eg-zistend it’s awareness and experience. GODliness might be a common state of curiosity out to make the know-able known.

IT might not be alone.

 

“We are always within multiple, over-lapping particles of now. Some clocked, some not so clocked, some clocked some of the time and others some other time. Clocked by us, and clocked and monitored by others, like parents with little babu’s. When not tracking now particles in a clocking fashion we can get to recording so lightly as to just be doing the SSS’s – surfing, staining or sliming waves of timeness like irresponsible tourists, our own one wave along with other interchangeable waves, especially waves of nothingness and the great ALL or allness.

“You don’t have to call nothingness great, nothing knows it all too well.

“As for clocking, in addition one has the optional now occurrences of living with work and laboring with love, adding up to the three-fer of now in performance-particle form.

“People with the blessing of being able to labor with love rather than pull their weight working so we all survive really don’t know how nice and easy they have it. Working hard at what you like to do is not hard work. To top it off, they pity themselves to the point of becoming needy until they can’t be compensated enough to make up for the burden of living what they love to do. Until they turn into looters because that’s what everyone else would do in their shoes. That’s how everyone thinks.

“Thinking of words, talking in words and treading written words – words that are talking about the performance of clocking, work and labor – is timeness wave, which is neither plural nor a-non, in fact.

 

Nor a-non? Might be senseless, but I like it.

 

“Those three are what you call the TTT’s of performance fiction. Further suggesting that one doesn’t write fiction, it’s just the reading that is fiction, whether reading fiction or not, with literacy or not – as for example, say, reading a clock and not knowing what it’s saying. Or hearing what it’s screaming.

“Clocks don’t just tell us the time, they synchronize us. And how synchronized are we, and how synchronized should we be, and who’s purpose does our synchronization or non-synchronization serve? How synchronized could we get if we had to get synchronized?

Ever see the movie World War Z? Those guys were running in synchronization.

 

Is the President, the government, supposed to be looking out for us like responsible parents, or just money-managers, molesting your skanky daughters in their free time? Saint’s protect us, money managers are near nowhere to be found any more, are they? Same with parents. Aliens aren’t going to come for your children, they already came and took away all of the adults. That bloated, flopping black wail of Donnie Darkness spewing nothing but sputz is it? Taking names and lining up villains we need to attack? Why is he so fucking angry? What doesn’t he have? A place to live where people aren’t turned off by mook-faced plunderers of the weak, wallowing in self-pity? Did not mom or dad or anyone ever love or like him at all? The country is going to collapse under invasion by illiterate underpaid hard-workers – the backbone of the modern corporation? And if we attack someone rude enough to defend themselves, then what? What nerve. We have no net beyond him? It would seem not enough.

I’m demented. I tell myself don’t spread negative waves. And I really can’t attack DD’s politics as I’ve been repelled by him for decades and avoid letting him into my sight and hearing range. I do believe the poor baby only got $20,000 and some knowledge of commercial real-estate when he came of age, if I recall the Playboy interview correctly. Heck, my dad borrowed all my money for a car just before I left for college. I was a happy moron to oblige him as it was doing something for the family. My dad also got me studying how women looked by teasing my mom about her looks when I was a tike. It was just playfulness, but I think it got me thinking. I also got thinking about legs because my mother had a sort of peculiar birthmark on the middle of her thigh. It fascinated me, as did her whole leg by eg-stension I guess. It sort of gave the impression of a piece of carved wood. I don’t think I’m sexist, but I don’t think a good job makes a woman attractive, either, nor by adorning herself with sex objects. We’ll get into that.

If you think the worst of people they have a tendency to deliver. And yet, each day these letter ma-jigs have more negativity than the day before. Maybe there’s a need to match the negativity that is out there, via resistance, not engaging in direct response. It’s the at-large negatives already out there that are revolting already.

Perhaps I’m purely a particle of negative, that may make me extreme.

Bear that in mind. No way do I condone extreme-ism. I am, however, pro-extremities. Four max, Spider-man. I’m sure most people don’t like extreme-ism. My little kitten paws don’t have claws, that’s something.

Lawyers, they’re the ones that prey with clausessss. The low low lowest of the low always finding a new low.

Lowyers. Lower you’s, reinforcing the criminal bond already so hard to slip.

 

“If someone just confirms what you say you recorded, without physical proof, it’s become heavier and truer than it was, even if not true at all.

“Our individual wave comes to rest when we go to sleep. Does it come to a complete stop? I don’t know. We do stop recording now, even if able to dream, which is a different record. Perhaps dreaming is the awareness of being refueled, that at-large free-potential is pumping into us, giving us hope that the future doesn’t have to be fixed per someone else’s dominating preferred order – with their grander dreams clouding-over and thus darkening your dreams.

It’s simple meteorology, and you should regularly check the temperature meters, all meters, of your sensor components.

”Especially your common sensor.”

 

Darkening. Darkness, we’ll get to that. It’s not as dark as it sounds. As if.

As was, ooh that Hermann Strumm was working on a timing-arc. Or was it time-arc’ing? It was not clear, and Hermann was still working it out, playing around with timing-chains. At the current state, as far as Vitus knew, time arc’ing was a natural occurrence, if in need of doctoring-up to get out and about.

Coming and going?

Think the fountain of youth, except having nothing to do with fountains or youth, sort of like liquid-sleep having nothing to do with sleep.

And that wasn’t the only item of note on Hermann’s ongoing plate.

 

“Oh no no no,” said Dale. “That makes no sense. I can’t make a paper on archessence of time out of that.”

“Sure you can,” said Vitus. “Write out what I just said and I guarantee you an A+.”

“What would be the point?”

“How much of a point do you want? If I told you wood is the substance of a tree would you debate me?”

“There’s more to a tree than wood,” Holly chimed in.

“Is there more to wood than tree?” asked Vitus. “Either way, it’s itemic-substance, and it can be clocked. What more do you need to know?”

“Everything! It can’t be that simple,” said Dale.

“It can’ t be more complex, Dale. Time is the wax we eg-zist in.”

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.2

 

Again. Top-heavy, although the aids are not necessarily top-heavy. Plot is coming. That last bit was sort of plot, but sort of plodding plot, and it will plod further. On and on and a-non. A-non? That’s three times now. Four. What do you know? It’s become permanently embedded in our culture-speak if it already hadn’t been.

Anon? Please, that is so weak.

This will lighten, except that the next aid will really be the grind to axe. Philosophy is not the point, which is to say not my point. Philosophy is so easy -there is no law beyond force and might. Deal with it. Your rebuttal Herr. Kant? In twenty-five words or less, please. I want to write ripping yarns about geometric theorems and draw pretty pictures of geometric stick-men.

Reminds me of the days of yorn when I’d rip sweaters apart to get yarn for my mother to knit. Yorn and yarn? I swear, this writes itself. If only sweaters would knit themselves. Am I an imp in getting you to read this? Would I be an imp by not letting you read this? I am on the fence regarding that, and regretting the caterwauling.

I digress.

I’m on a roll, let’s regress.

A little at-home activity for you.

Put out your hand and stretch your forefinger and thumb as far apart as you comfortably can.

NOW!!!

DO IT!!!

NO, the other hand.

I mean, do it. Be a sport, Sport. Purrpurrr . . .

Now bring those two digits together and separate them again.

That is the equivalent of a butterfly flapping it’s wings.

Flapping your lips also affects time.

Clapping your hands for third-rate or no rate celebrities affects time.

Live television shows with applause signs are polluting time with artifice.

Imps, paranormal imps, and it’s, are coming out of every crack and crawling the walls and coming for you.

Rest assured.

If you’re good, and lucky, or not unlucky, some day I may tell you about the Peter Ding-Dong Principle. He is so going to pay for what he did.

One way or another.

Bring on the imps.

Here’s a funny thought, every time I feel I’ve made a good point, via the physical universe of course and a-non, it unleashes me to get all the more negative. Maybe think twice about kittens on leashes. “What a cute little saber-tooth. Kootchy kutchy kutchy-koo. Where’s your mama, little guy? Are you all alone?” I’m trying, believe me, to maintain, sustain and contain some positivity. Consider that all of this negativity is aimed at the past, even if it isn’t. It’s what I assign myself as resist-able. You have your own vision. You don’t have to be stuck in my past or go there. Hell no. Still, if transport were arranged it might make an interesting trip. Beware making arrangements with Colonel Strasse, who might just have you shot, or Louie, who will no doubt take undo advantage of the situation, like some low-life car salesman.

Maybe that was just close to being a funny thought.

I think this baby is about ready to be delivered ready or not, before it gets too miss-shapen. As for the sense of doom this should make you feel, think finding an infant on your doorstep looking for you to guarantee and deliver it an ongoing future.

At least change it’s diapers, which are loaded.

And all the stores are closed and you are out of wipes.

What do you do with the do and the oncoming do? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THE DO?

The shape of this story and the telling of this story is shaped something like an infant wrapped in blankets. If you have trouble with that idea see a reading/writing expert for guidance.

Me OH my, it just keeps getting weirder.

 

In the Hermann Strumm universe the metaphysical was all about the input and output of Information, Intelligence and Imagination. The biggg III’s. Count them out yourself if you must. The three – oops, that’s a give-away – occurings and reoccurings of IT, with T standing for Transfer. It was a heady mix of transferring occurrences back and forth, shaken and stirred, quaking and blurred.

Metaphysical as in transcendent metaphysical universe. On the flip-side, Hermann felt the physical as in physical-universe was transcendent also, and feel-able, and the two universes dissolved into one another, or just could, able to un-dissolve back to their original states, even if never in those states originally. Maybe never if. Who’s to say? When you find a way to make something happen, how often does someone else not find an easier, quicker, sexy sexy sexier, more cost-effective way to make it happen?

As they say about those two universes, they didn’t get here from there.

From elsewhere then?

Most probably.

As for feeling the physical universe, that was done in metaphysical reality. You couldn’t feel a thing in a totally solid physical reality. There’s gotta be some give. And take. OH yes. There is a plus side to everything no matter how dark it seems, or I get.

Seriously, a shot gun is aimed at your eyes.

Chuckle as you will.

Admit it, that excites you. I hope I don’t disappoint.

Or miss your eyes, for cryin’ out loud. As is, mine are going.

For Information – for your information – think the sciences of what is observable – geology, geography, waterology, what wet-dry-rot have you. For Intelligence think – think, think, think – the science of what is not observable as applicable to what is observable and what can be made un-observe-able via more more more big bangs. Imagination involves the science, as it were, of creativity, bringing what is out of the box, or maybe out of the box, into the box, maybe painting it on a box. Or on a ball.

Not to discount that bad boy Architecture. I’m going to, but you shouldn’t, or there’d never be an end in sight, unless we knock down some of this spider-web of a skyscraper. But rip some scratches or poke some holes in the sky and no telling what might fall out.

Let’s touch on transcendence. Imagine if you will, a verse of a kind of man, which might be kind of like women if we’re going with the-kind-of-like deal, where we lived underwater and everything occurred just as it does, except our atmosphere is observable water. Maybe we’d run a little slower. Both by foot and in general.

In this scenario consider hole-making. Of course one doesn’t make a hole, one makes surroundings for a hole, which creates – rather than makes – a hole, which is essentially the isolation of nothing for a close-up look, or another item or another mouth to feed. It may be that the surroundings themselves create the hole. Maybe they mirror a hole as a place for minus’d or negated or negative essence. Maybe all three, which are of course the out or in-going un-account-able non-stuff and non-essence of nothingness.

Of course. You learn that in kindergarten just before your first serving of duck duck goose pate a l’orange glace. Or is that un-handled online now?

Seriously, nothingness is one of the easiest, no-brainers to explain. But not yet.

Yet, is a wild-man. Are you noting how all these minus-signs are bringing these words closer together. At least I think they are. They seem happier.

So say someone makes a coffee-cup that holds a cup’s-worth of any liquid. How not? Well, there is liquid-ish acid. You would have a cup-sized hole barring acid mishap, which would create a bigger hole. If the cup were empty and un-lidded, in the underwater-world it would be full of water. If you wanted to remove the water, you could fill the cup with dry sand. Maybe not you, but I could. I’m very dexterous, and I was a boy-scout. Most of the water would be replaced by sand, but not all of it. Once filled, the remaining water and sand would create wet-sand.

The water and sand transcended, meaning both the water and sand can return to their original, observable identity, although the dry sand would have to get back to where I got it from, and I’m not telling where that is. As if I would let you get after something worth it’s weight in gold in wet Wiiirl-D.

Wait a minute, where are we ? In another zone aid? I was told there was going to be a story. Where the hell is the story? Yes, if you’re thinking what I’m telling you to think, I may very well know what you’re thinking.

Eew. I didn’t really want to think that.

Where were we again?

To change the subject, IT has to do with the ability to work potential once you know the potential for an item really eg-zists. Which means it’s been proven, and the proven is lessor it . . . meaning lessor mystery after all the hubbub and shouting of it’s coming to be . . . and being open for further analysis.

IT and it. From IT, the unknown, to Gary the lush, staggering in, late and drunk, and just a mite too loud.

Maybe Gary the lush is more a that.

And just that.

Just sayin’.

We’ll come back to that, but not Gary. OH no no no.

Back to the Hermann Strumm EARTHverse, as in not ours, their version of a verse was envisioned to be a light sphere all about a black hole. Ideas come and conclusions come to them. Are they correct? Most probably not. In their verse a black-hole was thought of as physical, as solid space – the neediest of bitches. Thus we grasp at darkness.

Have fun with it.

I hope you can accept that I see the devil in black-holes. Bigger black-holes, not really the random imps, which may still seem evil, yes. Conspiratorial or really really evil?

Not.

IT’s not out to corrupt you if it can flatten you instantaneously upon arrival.

Bad dog. Bad bad dog.

Bad bad bad bad BAD dog. If you missed it, we went from imp to IT without missing a beat. Those two terms aren’t really going to hold. I’m sure IT will go out of style soon enough.

IMP? Possibly.

BAD dog as guard-dog as leashed to a cop. As opposed to a watch-cat, all mellow and watchful, drinking you in once it punctures your neck and creates a leak.

I should write song lyrics.

“Lisssten to the sssizzzle of the aaaa-cid rain . . .”

I’m not actually into meteorology. I think I got a D in college.

Further-erly, think of rock and rockness. Rock is physical, rockness is our metaphysical imagining of rock, which gives rock room for play, and probably too much airplay. Rock would be the rule of the day if we all lost our meta-physicality, our ability to imagine and think in terms of rockness.

No doubt rock would only be one rule, and dammit, rocks were made to be broken. And broken rocks breaking down further and further would be a start back towards meta-physicality.

Could be.

A certain asteroid may have been on a mission of intent – to deliver . . . intent.

That had to be obvious.

Observable?

Potentially everything is possible. Without potential, nothing is. And nothing is, either way.

Nothing is good. Light is good, dark is good, allness is good, ALL is good.

Nothing supplies the juice of transcendence, which will save you from IT, allness and ALL alike.

Maybe just preserve your youness. I could go somewhere with youness, but I’m not going to. She’s such an old bag.

It’s not like you can have it all, not always, and having it all might make you seem the bad guy if you don’t have it all, because you would have nada. Maybe not even nada, as such. It’s a point of view thing.

Which you also wouldn’t have, would you. Why am I even talking at your non-ness? How am I?

Is it a trycky business? Any and all of IT and ALL? You better believe it.

Even when trying to stay generic, it can get personal.

If you feel targeted, maybe you simply are a target.

Fire phasers on my mark.

NOW.

An n n ddd . . . duck.

OH mercy, you are so dead.

And trust me, that is how to play GOD. Kill ‘em quick before they know it, before they break everything and hurt themselves.

I feel I’ve heard that somewhere before.

 

|m|*

 

In the sleeps that followed, Grace’s warning haunted Hjalmar even if it hadn’t while he was awake, causing him fright-mares, from where he simply jerked awake out of fear that he couldn’t – that he couldn’t awaken – to prove that he could.

Fear on total auto-pilot.

Totally liquefied auto-pilot. Was it time to dry the sucker off and fly some pure sleep?

The sucker? That might be Hjalmar, himself, he feared.

Then Hermann, he thought. Hermann Strumm. That was it, the entire thought. Like a post hypnotic suggestion tied to the hypnotic suggestion of liquid sleep telling you you were rested already when maybe you weren’t.

As liquid sleep would say, “Get up, get up, get out of here.”

Do something.

Watch TV.

Fry up some Rice in some fat. Talk about assholes.

Go shopping.

Buy some cars.

The Strumm-ism came out of the deep blue CCC’s as it were, at a predesignated time, a time as when Hjalmar chose to pursue and peruse pure, natural sleep, as he had been solely on the liquid for quite a while. It calmed him down, thinking the name Hermann Strumm, but too calmed and too down. Down down downed. DDD’s’d.

Thing was, too much liquid sleep caused sleep deprivation, and we all know what that means. On the other hand, pure sleep meant no dreaming – maybe not good for you, but maybe good for everyone else. Or vice versa.

Most likely somewhere middlin’.

Non-liquid, nor maybe even natural, sleep began flowing into Hjalmar, an odd, different sleep that seemed to be showing Hjalmar a realistic vision of what was coming for him tomorrow, specific tomorrow, gated up especially for him to start at when he woke up, and as he wanted it to happen, or someone wanted it to happen, as in Hermann Strumm, not that Hjalmar had given it any thought.

He was too young to imagine better than was without breaking what was, which would sort of get you moving backwards to a time of rediscovery of time.

Breaking rocks backwards.

Breaking rocks forward?

Either way doesn’t sound all that bad. As noted, ALL is good.

Please don’t make me laugh again, my lips are chapped.

As morning came closer the flow sped up.

All the flack of Hjalmar’s off-number sleep counts had to do with the synchronizing of a big three – music, wording and art turning into hash and re-hash, and all shredding and melding into artless static, the disguised – accomplishment equating with success at being famous, and nothing more.

Versus the obvious – accomplishment equating with success at being famous, and nothing more.

Is there an echo about? There is a subtle difference due to location and altitude.

Errr, attitude.

As they always say . . . well, maybe not.

As nothing says, definitely not.

Or not. Yeah, we’re lost.

Sleep was the restful cure, but it had potential for more. Along with the potential of more sleep from less of it came potential for more former past – the richest kind. Past that could get it’s hands dirty if a cure was needed against the even more disguised – the presence without identity. The even-more static.

Even as in smoother and flat, flatter, flattterrrrr . . .

How disguised can you get?

As for the presence without identity, it could only be no other than, an anti-other as it were or weren’t, nothingness. It wants to be nothing, but if it were we wouldn’t be able to think about it, and for now thinking is the tool of choice, the weapon of mass-destruction. It wasn’t about anyone going nowhere, it was about creating nowhere to go, as in all-out, head-on, minus-ing of ALL.

Head-off minus-ing? As was, those big cats going for a prey’s neck might bite off the head instead if they, the cats, had bigger mouths. What the heck, they do have bigger teeth than dog class predators just for that reason, as in having bigger, better mouths. Dogs went with bigger, better, longer noses.

All the easier to dig their way up your butt. Ever more working their way towards our hearts.

Maybe not mine, but I do like dogs. “Please, Dude, the nose, extract it.”

Still, give me a cat purring alongside my leg, as is so much more tactful and dignified. And if you hate cats, and I don’t, yes, they’re right there in the kick zone, as accommodating as can be.

But biting off heads might be too easy, and not as organized, quick and clean as using a machete, and nature doesn’t really play favorites.

Favorites? Again, attitude.

Not that any sort of rush is necessarily involved with nothingness. “Yep, Buck, one of these days that thare ol’ roof is gonna collapse right on our heads. Better pop open another jug, quick.” Rushing was truly more of an issue with nothingness than nothingness was. Is. Buck up, there’s no stopping nothingness – any way, any how. There will always be one ALL or another allness to undo.

To translate.

To minus-out or negate.

And one way or another, all of those bad ideas out there HAVE TO GO.

Seriously, awful, awful movies have to be made. It purges the bad idea from our collective consciousness. Same with awful music, like country. Not necessarily country as musical particles of song, but country music as a wave of dead-beat, cash-cow, grotesquely cre-atonic performance-artlessness and hick, hick, hick-up-ism turning minds to mental jism. Shoes are a sign of classiness, and boots the mother of sophistication, protecting your pants from stampeding turds kicking up watery dust. You do understand the twang? Symbolic nose holding as the shrill dullard mooing and shrieking smells so evil.

“AHHmmm soooo innnnn luvvvvvvvv widdddd Uuuuu – moooo.”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmooooooooooooooooooooooooo. . . . . ”

“Let’s have everyone graze along and belch to the muse-ick.”

The truly inspired sometimes drop an OH or two and tack an M on the end of that moo.

OH, I am so funny. Laugh while you can.

I don’t hear you.

Alas, every idea has the potential to be a bad idea. So so so bad.

Alas, alas more, all ideas have to go. Keeping the good ideas going is the game of lightness.

Darkness?

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmooooooooooooooooooooooooo. . . . . ”

Hmmm. The echo is back and about.

Or is it reverb?

As wakefulness was coming to Hjalmar, and the lightness of the SUN hinted at it’s own arrival, Hjalmar resisted. He had indeed taken on pure sleep, the notion of that name of Hermann Strumm taking on weight, taking on more than weight, tapping into anything at large, even gathering the debris of unrecorded wording that would otherwise collect over-night in Hjalmar’s mind, to be released down and out of him.

The debris to be released down and out of him, not his mind. Lightening him up even more, and soon to drop.

But more was happening. All was happening. Hjalmar resisted wakefulness, and his bed started to help, pulling him down into it, egging him away from illumination of the SUN, even as more and more lightness dissolved his ability to grip, leaving him wait-less and beyond now, until he was slept, swept, dreapt . . . into a simple bed-free whirling.

Free-worlding?

Or was he awake?

It was very down-wise OZ.

And very vortex, wired and weird.

And very very us.

And that first shot-gun trigger is cocked.

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.3

 

Having touched on painting way way way back, let’s do a short beginning with some absolute bare-bones sketches to be fleshed out later. For the most part. Maybe a late and longish short beginning. I thought about dicing it up but that just wouldn’t work. It might get a mite rude, and hopefully get your attention. Or not, and not get rude. Consider your ties to criminal behavior, as is your innate, alas, nature, and maybe even a duty, but ask if you want to tighten them or loosen them, and how, without betraying anyone. Could you just slip away now and then?

Or be a fraud agent of more-all-ity if it gets you through the night. I don’t know why that brings out my mean streak.

If you can ride this section out, and it’s only a story, and it gets dense, you may come to an interesting conclusion. Or you may not. The point is really the definitions, not the in-depth not necessarily necessary cranky and aged local social commentary of my personal wind-resistance, if that’s what you’d call it. Of note, if you think the opposite, that’s your personal source for resistance, but begging the question of whether or not you are a particular wave expert. Either way, eventually a not-grim story will catch-up. I promise.

 

Lightness = difference. Light with that ness about it signifies all possible notion and thought about light in any or every way, shape or form. And ness means all possible notion and thought about whatever it is attached to. Ness is a constant. But maybe not a permanent. Maybe not a wave. Permanent. Wave. Get it?

You’re so slow. I’m a moving more-on. And the boat is sinking and sinking and sinking.

I hope difference is a relatively clear idea. I’m not sure it’s exactly the correct word or word form For now, let’s let it pass as is. You may see that difference shows it’s face regularly.

A quick word about light. Is SUNlight really light? It’s a word deal. SUNlight is made of particles as I understand it. What if those particles are not all associated with the notion of vision, or associated fuel and energy, and included an item we simply don’t think of as light? That would pollute light as a word. The science may be right, right enough as a work in progress, but maybe not the term, and that may have repercussions, if only metaphysical repercussions, perhaps making us look like illiterates to beings or entities with more literacy. Sort of like a non-smoker looking at a smoker, or someone without tattoos looking at someone with them.

Crank. It’s just crank. Laugh it off, but first. It also seem fuel and energy get used interchange-ably. I imagine there’s a level where experts use the terms with discipline, but should that level be lower? What is the difference between them? Do they not generate each other? That’s a pointless question. Science me and I’ll forget.

Fixed = un-change-able and static, like my state of science void, while fixing can remove static and dead branches, while fixing you for good if it goes too far.

Real = permanent or solid or temporary reality, or an assortment of the three. It can get to be too any, two or three of the three. People tend to push for permanent soft real that can be molded back into it’s original shape. Permanent soft also allows a majority to control the shape of reality, back and forth per changing majorities. But permanent soft may be a pipe dream. A die may eventually be cast that is permanent permanent.

Let’s consider sub-atomic particles the stuff of solidness, and shaping solidness is the game we play. One of them. I mentioned in part what IT was. Along with IT, and not standing in the shadows, but rather making shadows, is A. A for architecture, building OUT, or OUTwards, out of IT. Creating depth via texture.

Did I once say IT was a horse?

Eg-zistence = now and tomorrow in an egg dominant universe, at least as is observable. Was observable. Ever see the movie Eraserhead? That is what eg-zistence might be like without imagination to paint color on it and flesh it out. That coloring and fleshing-out is the manual process of time.

Man y’all, it’s all work being done by man. At the moment. Well, no way no longer all being done by man, not by hand – which you can’t say isn’t a good thing. Technically you could, but there was a time limit and you’ve missed it.

We’re jumping the gun already with all that flesh flapping about.

Flesh flapping, hand clapping. I get it.

Ex-zistence = now and yesterday. The universe as was – going, going, going . . . gone, kaput, extinct, nada, ceased, boink. Ex’d out.

And just what do you think you’re doing still being here? Or are you just observable thanks to yesterday’s late arriving light? OH yes, I see you. I’m looking right into your eyes, but not like a cat drinking you in waiting to pounce. Right into the biggg white of your eyes, a place to reflect on the reflection of coloring.

Kind of weird? As I once suggested, fiction is sentient. Maybe. But maybe it only sees out and not in. A new and improved definition of fiction awaits. What might be weirder is some item being able to hear what you say by listening to you via your ears, coming up short of knowing what you think apart from what it makes you think via manipulating sensory input.

OH my.

Do we have two eyes or two half-eyes, placed alongside each other facing forward so we naturally move forward and so that we have to watch each other’s back. Have to? OH my, that’s amusing. All the easier to see where to stick a knife. Ask any politi-scum. I don’t see where I’m going to stop despising them anytime soon. May as well embrace it.

Readiness = literacy. Sort of a two-way combo deal adding up to understanding the situation. Every moment you are awake and your eyes are open you are reading the scenery, assuming you don’t have to read this as translated into braille. All senses work at reading, readiness and literacy, but scene work is generally the realm of the eyes.

Scene, seen, seeing?

Why? Face it, look out the window, or look the other way, the Wiiirl-D out there and in here is one biggg bawwwl of brawwwl. And despite instrument-sensors working at near full capacity, it is 100% illiterate. Unready for anything biggg other than war. Certainly not the next biggger thing, the black-hole monster-dog of illiteracy that will chow down on the monster-makers working it’s way down to eating itself, until it’s de-regulating and spewing out what it can’t swallow of itself as vomit and diarrhea.

Wow. Just wow. Would including blood be over-kill?

I do believe I know that face and fact of that dog, and woe is me, it’s darkening shadow is legion. Nor is it necessarily DD.

Well, there’s more than one DD, and it’s not necessarily that one either.

GODness = knowing and naming and renaming potential, plus – along with a dash of a response to need. It’s about you thinking, and feeling.

Beastness = a measure based on dealing with symmetry. Odd, huh? Or not. This painting is going to get oddly long. It’s theoretical with no functional formulas, as if I have any. It applies to release of beast, and sometimes all the release of beast in the Wiiirl-D does not lessen beastness, not that it necessarily needs to be or can be. Beast is sort of an okay thing, as you may recall. It’s our to-do factor. As in taming it when it needs it. Slowing it down when it’s going too fast. Even raring it up when it’s going to slow. Could be the rush deal entails both too much and not enough. One may very well just resist getting drawn in, maintaining prudent distance, meaning one may not always want to resist. Or should, not if you know your wave and how to handle it.

If you want to get fictional for a moment, fictional-er, consider whether the beast existed before GOD, and GOD’s work is taming the beast. We’re not talking the horse beast in this fiction. How in the hell could the snake get in the garden? Was it smarter than GOD? Maybe just then. It does have a devious design. Doing away with the beast may not be the answer, just taming it, and that may mean letting it out to play now and then, within reason. Maybe we’re just here to expose all the different ways the beast wants to play, thinking back to ID Chess. Maybe the garden was a ploy to get the beast to show it’s face, naturally making us . . .

Fucking bait. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to IT.

Eew, get IT off of me.

That’s one story, and I got a million of ‘em. At least two, but who’s counting.

That story is purely metaphysical, with no true physical relationship or backing, except it’s put in observable words requiring a background, at least from my point of view. More on this to come. If you’re an optimist.

Beast makes criminals of us, and to an extent that is fine and dandy, as long as we’re responsible enough to pull the beast back in when we let it out. It’s sooo complex, making quantum mechanics look like playing sit and spin. One probably has to employ quantum mechanics to play sit and spin.

A prime example of all this would be when an athlete succeeds in a gamed sport. I’m not being derogatory saying that. There may or not be a moment of joy, but that moment would be beast-release. In small doses it’s a great thing, more or less. In large, larger and largerrr . . . doses ugliness happens, almost without eg-ception, until networks, sports-casters and commentators are milking athletes and selling beast-release, threatening to smear it all over the history books.

GGGrrr-osss.

OH yes, it’s all a little too gay.

Yeah, stick it.

Anger is another beast release. Anger is not fun or funny. Ever. Commercializing and exploiting anger for fun and profit is mentally and morally retarded. Money, women and song does not make you not mentally and morally retarded. Laugh, monster, laugh. It’s a sign the physical universe is losing it’s feeling, and getting more physical. Slowly fusing.

One sign, and those signs are becoming legion, too.

On the other hand, laughter is also beast-release.

Life draining from a prey being downed by a predator is also beast-release, for both predator and prey.

The wide ranging realm of imps and it’s in action.

Let’s quickly side-step and touch on commercialization. Quickly, ha. As with most every item, there is an easy going start, which may be too easy going to keep going, and an ending in addiction. When I lash out at commercialization, I’m attacking the addiction-end driving towards commercializing the total EARTHverse, inside and out. Still, commercialization keeps moving us outward, when it’s rational, which is good. It’s not good when you’re running so fast you’re running in front of your defensive system. Just ask that punt returner’s head lying at your feet. “Put me back in, Coach, I still have the crazy legs.”

Commercialness can build and destroy, come and go. Using it just to mechanize taking is a different kind of beast. A black-hole of neediness devoid of creativity or creation. And don’t be fooled by critics-of-taking, the PR man especially, discounting their own warped hunger and neediness. Taking place is job-one after all.

While we’re here, let’s talk about cats. The big-cats. When a cat chases after something in a herd, it can shake up the whole herd, getting it to stop grazing and move somewhere else to graze while supporting the notion of elsewhere. It’s a token movement, but it is a vision of movement, and movement confuses the cats. It’s a cycle, and cycles are a big bigg biggg deal. Did I need to say that? I didn’t realize it until I wrote it. Does anyone need a nap?

Are you confused yet? You may well be on your way from ant to awakening your inner cat.

Why am I so hot to trot about cats?

Cats get after imps. They will climb a wall to the ceiling to get after an imp. Or climb a tree to the sky. Leaving you to call the fire-department to get them down. Cat’s doing their bit to reduce unemployment.

There are three extremes to beastness if not treated properly, and it is the nasty monkey on our back if not treated properly, and it becomes like acid, and acid or not, it is necessary if you think you are necessary, whether that’s true or not. Mistreated, it will go away, float around aimlessly, or come for you.

Not too good is any of those scenarios. One reason you have to have it is because releasing it is the fun of having it off your back. I think the clarity of that speaks for itself. Fun, joy, happiness, whatever. It feels good, and you’re not here to feel bad.

Not in my book. Feeling bad means something’s wrong, except feeling bad from right-minded punishment. You can learn from proper punishment when it’s a negative that negates negative behavior. Dosed with meanness, or meaninglessness, it just plants rebellion.

Here’s something queer about beast-release. Um, it has to do with the ladies, but, also the guys, and I’m not sure if one trumps the other.

Please note, the following is for light-hearted demonstration purposes only. Ha ha ha. There is no conclusion or suggestion of correctness or a response. Just food for thought. Eat, eeeaaattt – you’re so thin.

Let’s just consider at-large addiction to muscle, even organized crime-muscle. And lurid grins atop piles of muscle that mimic actors, Cheshire actors that are all grin and no talent, with muscle even replacing talent where it eg-zists. And women joining men in the muscle-mutt circus of finding fulfillment via muscle-brained fighting. They’re even peddling pills to women to dissolve the resolve opening the doorway to more more more muscular inter-action. Scientifically along with street-wise male-violent sinistersistersincerity.

Me not so horny? We fix that. The under-current of males getting females to be more male without politicized-feminists working on female’s behalf. Ladies, for crying out loud, men are not a good role model. They are muscle-minded slugs and thugs. They are dogs relentlessly chasing tail. Nor do they chase their own as it hangs in front of them in easy reach, eliminating mental consideration which would be catastrophic. That’s what you call planning. No doubt for a different catastrophe, but what the fuck. Why would you want to be anything like them? Aside from having a convenient tail which you don’t really need. You’re going to share and use their corrupted brand of might makes right to fix anything? Or just fix yourself up and maybe leave it at that. Join the classlessness of the overpaid leeches.

An observation about adult-entertainment, garnered from reading ever more science-journals. Too too many science journals, although they’ve become quite well organized.

If it takes looking like and acting like a freak to be seen, or photographed, exhibitionists will ink-up and adorn themselves in glory glop and metal to be seen, no matter who is looking. Mental and morally jacketed full-metal morons. Sexy as regarding the opinion of their sex in secret. Or not.

Tattoos are sex objects, they are not sexy. They are, if not gross, grossly misplaced, mostly. They are caricatures of thoughts, little cartoon ideas and memories, personal or just keuel looking. Don’t forget you like dolphins, don’t ever forget you like dolphins. Hey you, I like dolphins. Don’t ever forget it. Don’t you ever forget anything important about me, or that I think anything is important, no matter how trivial. They seem over all an expression of masochism.

Put an average tat without permission on a wall and it would be painted over pronto, unless perhaps you put it up on your own wall knowing it was important. They seem about as artistic as doodles in the margins of a notebook. Burning them in might be art, the art of permanent re-design. You might consider putting your tattoo idea on paper with a frame and giving it to people for quick referral as portable and needed when you’re not in sight. Seriously. Make duplicates. Go nuts. Maybe that’s too much work.

Is it that people don’t want to work, or just not have to work? Especially work eight hours a day when the Wiiirl-D might run fine on people working four hours a day, minus the busy work and money counting.

Remember, this is just crank. Work is a complicated interwoven wave. Here’s something I shouldn’t say. Karl Marx had no answers. But just reading his quotes will show he had an understanding of work. It takes about five minutes and you won’t need a sickle.

Everything is sold as sexy. The only thing cars have to do with sex and reproduction is in the reproduction of cars, which would be hell-a painful for a woman. Not? There is of course the emotional stability of cars that probably appeals to women, and men.

Put a women in a willowy dress suggesting a little flesh beneath and you have a woman who is full-bore sexy. How is anything not human sexy? Maybe the real word is exploitative, whether coming or going. Women will exploit their looks to make a buck, to catch a man, to reproduce, and they might even do it by looking frumpy if they’ll settle for a frumpy guy they can dominate.

Or be dominated by.

Or who will suck on her feet. DAMNED FEET. Didn’t they tell you in health class to keep ‘em in your shoes?

What does anything without or not about human-essence, or life-essence, really have to do with sex, apart from financing our continuity? Has it become less about sex and more about financing? Creating food for the imp/it cyclone in any and every manner. It needs to be kept on a sensible diet. It doesn’t have to be vicious. At the very least, JUST STOP SAYING SEXY about anything that isn’t possibly sexy. It’s slug-speak.

Generally – certainly not always – women dress to be ignored or to distract, not to attract. Not wink wink nudge nudge attract. Goodness, they’d need to carry Uzis if they were out to attract.

Regrettably, filming the bottom of their feet, any feet, or any feat for that matter, seems to be a big turn on out there. I have a suspicion about that I won’t share. It’s quirky, not necessarily negative.

It may seem a good thing that people don’t judge people by whether they are naturally attractive or not, but once you stop actually seeing them and look at just their parts and judge them by the particles they wear, obesity becomes second nature. Boobs and butts get associated with sexual depth and sexual weight.

‘Nuff said, whether you think so or not. Or too much so, if so you think. Those damned foot-soles, it’s like thinking rotting cowhide is sexy. And I don’t care if they’re presentable for that matter, they still aren’t. Unless it’s just about being obnoxious.

Don’t get me started on adult anime and comics, starting with giant, gargantuan women eating people. OH my. A biggg bawwwl of brawwwl. Of course there’s play along with give and take and innocent pleasure to all that, and some of it, be it a mite wee bit, is well done, but how much is purely about commercialization and mechanized dehumanization, financed by technologists, techno-terminators and random zuck-a-fucks, out to flatten the human race, and the sex trade is always at the forefront of technology. It’s less and less about procreation and more about addiction and financing it and commercialing every last item. Destroying as it leads. But what is actually being destroyed amongst what necessarily should get destroyed?

Here’s one thing, it’s about getting you obsessed with sight and sights, when it’s truly sound that rules. Lose your voice, or don’t listen closely, and you will turn into simple herd fodder, mislead by Judas-goats who want to deliver you to slaughter, for fun and profit.

Here’s another thing. There’s a theme in television land in shows of fantasy and the supernatural where a mass-murderer should be forgiven if they’re good people gone bad because they had their feelings hurt wrongfully. If they’re nice to anyone then the strangers they kill have no meaning.

Trust me, there is a near silent voice in the wind whispering into the ears of the most evil and vile to seduce them into showing their face, so you’ll know who to resist when you’re ready to resist, if ever. Using sight against them, exposing folk like those butt-hole scientologists, which is a really random rant since I’m not that up on them, and maniacs who grin over the idea of waylaying the ideals of the other half of the country, who need ten flags behind them so you know who they’re pretending to represent. As for that word, folk, anyone called folk is being discounted as innocent peon. That’s all for now, folks.

And we’re back.

Had I mentioned this section will be a grind? A grind, the opposite of the ultimate issues, speed and greed, where-ever, and speed is worse than greed. Well, maybe that depends on point of view. Let’s call it a tie. So you’re not up against some complicated moral-morass when you get down to it from a philosophical point of view. That is if you’re buying into any of this. Hey, BOGO. Yah, BOGO!

As for the symmetry aspect, and finally getting us out of beastness, wins occur when symmetry is figured-out and deceiving and deceptive asymmetry is defeated. De-feated, so help me. Asymmetry is not necessarily deceiving nor bad, but it can be challenging, tempting you to look for symmetry. Making your mind work, which is spurred-on by simple mimicry. Mirroring. In the animal Wiiirl-D this type of symmetrical victory would occur were a mouse in a maze able to figure out how to flatten all the walls, opening up a direct route to the cheese. Or peanut butter. Followed by having a direct route leading away from the maze altogether after nipping the finger of a lab assistant.

In a quantum state, physicistitistics happen without the need of physicistics. As is, they are looting and raiding a dying carcass for fun and profit, wasting and rotting away what little time you have left. For as smart as they say they are, they are . . . probably not as evil as lowyers, sludges and politiputz, OH my.

It’s time to get out, to step aside now and then to just drift in the wind and reflect, even if it’s already too late.

Maybe I’m not so funny. And reflection doesn’t have to be dull and non-active. Here’s another quirk which is a little off-point. I’m somewhat of a jazz fan, if not a big one, and I couldn’t listen to jazz at my job because it took my edge off. I was always in a rush and a half-panic to meet production and quality goals. And your morality and ethics were challenged and attacked lest you make a mistake, irregardless were it for two dollars or two thousand dollars, while the CEO was claiming $100,000,000 payouts.

And maybe we’re actually past a quantum state, or starting to pass into a new and different one with a different tone. If you ask me, we all understand how to use and do quantum mechanics. Including and especially bees and cats as they do the physically rather than fiscally impossible, or maybe they’re already moving on and beyond.

Godlessness = arrogant self-adoration, in search of worshipers, with no morality regarding more-all-ity. It’s OH so observable in the extreme, not that some self-love is without worth or necessity. Think professional athlete, think Olympian, think clergy – especially as commercialized when contracted with amassa’s. Think amassa’s gaming a rigged and poisoned, more-ally-criminalized free-market of EARTH. Great empires have one great godless item in common, criminal imperialism leading to a slow moving, degenerative mountain of self-destructive filth.

Maybe acid-hate sounds more pleasant. Beast-release glorified.

What more is acid-hate than the release of consequences that started at criminalized Christianity eating the guilt of criminals? At least one start. Where do the consequences go? They dissolve the EARTH away from in front of your children. Not? Our organized crime and reorganized crime dollars at work, under the guide of a bought and paid for injustice conspiracy. No government organizations have any teeth anymore. Everything is cycled to lawyers, who want to make every misstep a criminally intended attack, even as they loosen the strings allowing for criminal attack. Sue sue sue.

OH, that’s gotta be seen as dark.

Not that Christianity is necessarily criminal or criminalized, just when it is.

That is free EARTH in front of you, and if you don’t know free EARTH, you don’t know shit, and are well on the way to being reductive particles of fertilizer – an unidentifiable field of spaceness and raw or spent potential, with a stray bone or two to make a statement about your staying power.

I’m debating if I should have mentioned feet back then. Actually I’m surprised they don’t have shoe kiosks in mini-marts next to condoms. When dogs sniff the ground everywhere are they in part sniffing for feet? Doesn’t dog food smell like feet? Doesn’t everything smell like dog food to dogs? Don’t dogs kind of smell like dog food? Still, I like dogs.

Not condemning pro-sports or the Olympics, but self-addiction should not be bottled, praised and sold as a way of life. They are only heroes unto themselves. It seems it should be more personal, one’s addiction to their muscle and exercise. It leads to needing other people to survive on your behalf, along with having sex on your behalf, which is OH so cool with some people. So be it, let them be. This will get a little more hashed-out later.

Even funnilesser. But such an aforementioned field of potential is a starting point as well as an ending point.

Fact is, American curlers should train more, DAMN IT. I completely missed that the last winter Olympics happened since I’ve come to resist and ignore most television, news and sports. Thank goodness I missed the curling fiasco. I fell in love with curling on sight. Kind of like horse-shoes on ice, with added strategy and swepthness.

Intelligence = waves of particles of smart. An intelligent system is based on the average of smart particles available to the system. Available, on average. The human body is almost all equally-smart particles, with the biggg eg-ception of the those of the mind that are allowed to be flattened and go to waste. The individual is a wave of body particles. Society is a wave of individuals as individual particle-systems of systemic particles which can generally be addressed and dealt with as cells.

Knowing what we know now, the American natives operating on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean lowered the intelligence of all American natives as the total mass of intelligence was physically reduced by not sinking three certain ships sailing waves and by not killing the visiting terrorist particle systems, backed by champions of organized Christianity selling guilt-eating to organized, imperialistic crime.

That’s just the bad-half of that story. Keep an open-mind.

Maybe the three-quarters half.

I know, I just know, quantum scientists are rolling over in their black holes over all the wave/particle references. Stick it.

When it comes to intelligence, if possible, intelligence will take it – just as dogs will sniff whatever they can and eat what will be eaten. Unless they’re well trained.

Too many scientists and technologists are traitors to our Wiiirl-D’s natural defense and intelligence-systems. Too many, a magyck number. On the one hand, yes, machines make for a good support and training system, along with safe exploration, but flattening the minds of the natural system negates a need for a machine intelligence support system. It’s all part of commercializing the Wiiirl-D to decommission us, which is the end-all of the unmanned invasion of black-holes. Be they natural or unnatural, normal or paranormal.

Yes, I’m being nice.

It’s been said that at least half of the universe is black hole.

At least, now it’s been said.

The truly essential element required to optimize intelligence and smartness is brightness, which incorporates seeing what is there and looking at it and reflecting.

Reflection may be as biggg as cycles. Perhaps those two are the positive sides of IT and ALL. You need to reflect reflect reflect if you want to destroy a strong cycle.

Sort of positive.

If you take away all practical work and activity and have it done by machines and robots you will be born into a state of retirement, like Florida, where you go to die or be robbed. Not trying to sound anti-technology, just technology for the sake of creating jobs and profit. Frankly, jobs and profit may be the carrot dangling to get the horses to get technology done. I’m not anti-anything for that matter, except feet worship and slug speak, just highlighting the distance for my personal winds of change resistance over the change that is being wound too tight.

Not anti-anything, but not much a fan of anything or anyone either. Ever cup a hand to your ear and hear ocean? If you press both hands to your ears tightly, you hear furnace. Maybe the sound of the SUN.

Are ya gonna try that?

Again, most of what I say has probably been said, if only by cartoon characters. I’m just rearranging.

Just sayin’.

If it’s been said, and written down, it has to be true. And more so the farther you go in the past because people were all so smart and honest and well-informed back then, back when flies evolved from crap.

Those were lower-yers that evolved that way, not flies.

Darkness = hunger for ALL. ALL, and more. ALL along with it’s reflection. Darkness is not a bad thing, but it’s trycky. Very trycky. It is a metaphysical projection from us . . . of some of each of us . . . and we have to at least eat enough to maintain . . . and darkness is expanding as is the EARTHverse. As they say, eat eat eat.

Or is it being magnified for a closer look, via bellies for a start. If you can’t read those good luck reading something millions of light years away.

Are there angels out there fighting the black-hole, black-hold fight? Needing us to fight where they can’t? Or die where they can’t?

Darkness, as in all thinking about dark, which probably doesn’t have the dozens of definitions that light has. Otherwise dark is dark.

To live means having a never-ending food or fuel source, or sources. At least a food source that doesn’t end before you do. More is a necessity. The necessity, and the bigggest issue of biggg issues is the morality of more-ality. Leading to movers and shakers on the way to being wanna-be ALL’s, equating wood staining with pissing on trees, leaving their stain, their stench and their mark on any item they can touch or anyone they can beg, borrow or buy. 3 first BBB’s. Count ‘em.

 

Another garden scenario. Another metaphysical expose with no physical backing, and not unique. Suppose space colonists arrived armed with the DNA to replicate a selection of animals that they needed for certain chemicals necessary for their survival, animals that could interact with animals already here, or just basic free-life that could interact with life already here, if only it’s potential. And maybe they came with just close enough to enough resources and supplies with no possible way to return. Meaning they might have to do a little conquering or perish.

Second, suppose they had a food source that everything could feed from, making the animals less vicious – they certainly have pleasant expressions when not gnarly, who doesn’t want to hug a tiger – and suppose native snakes were not accounted for and the snakes somehow messed up the food source.

Further, further, further, suppose the colonist’s brain command center knew the planet wouldn’t hold indefinitely based on human nature and inquisitiveness and drive, suggesting other habitats were being sought out, or even being prepared, hopefully in time for when we needed to relocate. Hopefully. Leaving terrorist clergy and pursuers of injustice to spread stories of doom and gloom so as to empower them to mislead us in pursuit of their own self-gratification when immediate aid was eg-spected but not forthcoming. Which may also very well have been accounted for, with any infusion of more potential not potentially cost-effective until all went dark.

 

As opposed to one-at-a-time, responsible individual self-government, starting at not listening to super-hero-snake, corporately-criminalized, commercialized-athletes peddling mind-eating sugar-water from the cola pipelines and deep-fried, fattening, corporate, bestial hate – the stuff of terrorist chemical-warfare.

Michael Corleone and family did not get into legitimate business to operate business legitimately, and their brand of family values is becoming – has become – the norm if not the rule. See good ol’ gates of hell pigBill number one exporting slavery to Africa. If anything, less crime occurs now with crime being legislatured away or argued into nothingness when the funds funding the arguing bleed into nothingness, while increasing criminal mindedness is polluting our values even as the seed always existed.

A new wave of thievery, swindling and murder is arising in the alternative health field, and this is seen as business as usual as the FDA can’t be bothered to analyze the nature of poisonous chemicals when quantity and interaction are not accounted for when peddled as supplements by the criminal arrogant mimicking the greed of traditional medicine.

Advertising is A necessity, a fact of nature. You show your face and you are advertising it. Wear a mask and you’re still advertising. It can be pleasant. It can be funny. It can be informative. When and where did venal, fecal, lying hatred get an okay to have a hand involved and constantly in your face? It is breaking your being into pieces and attacking you a piece at a time, making any and every tiny craving you might have a mission of commercialized darkness and degeneracy and doom. Buy buy buy leading into bye bye bye. More and thoroughly DDD’s’d.

It is making you needy, no matter how much you do or don’t have. You need more. And damned if you actually don’t. More-all-ity is our flaw. It can be crippling or mastered.

Voting for Donny Darkness was like playing craps against a pile of crap playing you as a peon and out to rob you blind. Or just rob the blind blinder. Yes, that is an imploding fecal black mass on his shoulders not letting any light in or out. At least it has been so far. Hmm, that sounds like american-ism at it greatest, freedom to have who and what you want, whenever, wherever you’re standing on the globe.

In a way, that might be the ultimate solution. That is GOD-class existence. That is not me being snarky either. Eliminate the invasive, infectious, consumptive element while adding some respect and self-respect and that might be where we might be headed, if not be-headed first.

And yet DD shows some initiative when it comes to acquiring wealth, and at least he isn’t fang-flashing Hilly the toilet, the epitome of needy, trolling hand-in-hand with pigBill number 2, skank-hunter, the once and evermore first pile of dirt, out to exploit the commercial potential of sickness and poverty. Couldn’t they simply retreat to being mayor and skank of Hawg-hole, AR US.

What is it with CEO’s of charities? It’s so . . . tacky. Much like feet. FEET!!!

When lose lose is the only choice, guess what? Nothingness gains on you. It’s not as if it’s not always coming freight train fast already. No, that’s no so fast. You can hop off.

And it will win, it always wins. You can practically hear it’s dark side calling out in victory from the shrinking depths of your mind, urging you on towards more beer and tacos and ice-cream.

As a matter of fact I do hear an ice-cream cone calling. I will find you chocolate-chip mint. STAY ALIVE.

And now, in the future, I, I, I didn’t find it. I left it out there, cold and alone. OH so cold. And damned if I don’t desire any of the oddball flavors getting peddled the rest of the month, such as burnt carrot with shreds of carpet. I guess that’s a blessing in disguise.

Nothingness may be GOD’s dark side for survival, and it just may be that survival is always a bitch. Did I say GOD? GOD help me, I didn’t mean it. Let that be a warning to the flying monkey, cloud-fuckers when they’ve no ground left to stand on or piss at. Like darkness, groundness is a metaphysical projection. With no life forms, no meta-physicality, there is no such item as ground, or any other item whatsoever. There is no such item as time without someone to think in terms of time and do the timing, or at least observe it.

And as always, our first freedom is freedom from a non-criminalized definition of freedom. Any stated, supported definition. To each his or her own, and might makes right. How many countries built as paeans to freedom have a slavery law on the books after the fact, where slaves served the architects of the freedom code? At least it’s a win, even if by hook, crook, tooth and nail. But it’s sort of like we never had a chance. Or much of one.

Holy-hell, that was a tad belligerent. What funny names, I can’t seem to place them. AH, ant-agony, you were warned.

Don’t mind Hermann, he gets that way. OH, yes, this is all Hermann Strumm-ism. Or so I’ve heard. Or not. I haven’t heard a thing, besides a lot of buzzing. Buzz buzz buzz – desist. I want to sleep. Anyone thinking alien contact? Trying to tryck us into getting smarter so we build weapons to kill ourselves so they don’t have to? Or just get us to die off any which way so they don’t have to deal with us when they arrive? Devious. Stay stupid, kick your shoes off and enjoy Harry’s House Party. Christ, the commercials alone make me cringe in horror.

Let’s get back to light, warm and fuzzy. I’m reaching for my bunny slippers.

Nothingness = lessening. Ongoing. It’s the machine built to count down that doesn’t keep count. Sort of like a clock. It might sound contrary to darkness, but it’s darkness that is contrary to lightness.

IT has to do with point of view, both due to the darkness perspective deal, and in general, and in contrast to it.

To repeat, these are not street definitions meant to guide you across the street. We have highly educated and educate-able, trained chickens manning the curbs to lead you, equipped to address your unique and personal situation, while getting you to any and every address while supplying you with lawsuit pointers, just in case.

“Just drop the eggs, lady, they ain’t going nowhere.”

That’s clever. Do you get it? It’s also accidental. Perhaps. Accidents will happen.

MMM’s = mass, matter, magyck. (math, matter, magyck? OH I am being so too-nice to mathers today.)

As for numbers. What are numbers really for? The day of numbers has come of course and may be nearly past, but they will serve as emotional stabilizers for machines. As long as the numbers are running in order, the machines will flow without issue or need of human contact.

JUST DON’T TOUCH US YOU DIRTY, STINKING APES. So said a dirty, stinking ape. “I will give up my sub-washing-life -away-machine gun when you pull it out of my succulent, juicy ass.”

And, gag.

No worries, machines cannot attain sentience unless you gut yourself of it, and that sentience would only be observable, were anything observing. If we die off, they may serve in running the planet as a space station on auto-pilot.

CCC’s = contrary counter cycles. Didn’t see that coming, did you. Did you?

It took a week, but I eventually saw all of that last line as amusing. A bit.

Collect all those CCC’s, but not today. And no, the CCC’s themselves are not funny.

The CCC’s, at last a bare-bones sketch-job to be fleshed out later.

ALL flows into allness, and allness flows into ALL. Between those two lie All. ALL represents the physical, allness the metaphysical and All, or all, the whole of, or just the bits and pieces of, metaphysical reality. It’s easy, non-directional and it’s all about the rush. Physical reality may be coming soon, but that might be too soon, and all made of fat.

One-ism. Now there’s an issue. Of course one-ism is contained in ALL, but it is not an item of allness. It’s a separate entity that does or doesn’t need an ally, or is or isn’t an ally. One-ism can peace-ably ride alongside allness, or say allness be damned, ALL is where it’s at. It’s sort of your call. In a way it’s about always coming first, which some people can be reduced to when lacking allies or mentors or competent parents to guide them, or when criminalized corporate hate runs free to engineer monsters. Not that corporations are a bad idea. They can be like damns that build communities, or they can damn up communities within them and bleed them. Not dry of course, need to keep the blood flow. Or not.

Let’s be rational for a spell. Perhaps. Let’s assume a GOD. Let’s assume, when it comes to GOD, GOD comes first. Black holes may be natural design to keep GOD going and going and going, whether or not you are too much a cre-aton to go along for the ride. As such, black holes may be the devil to beat. Traffic cops. Even bad traffic cops, as bad as addicts to ALL breeding more addicts to ALL, but only truly as bad as cops that don’t play favorites when it comes to enforcing the law to the letter, the mark and the smudge. They will eat you alive if you give them a speck of cause, with egg-stream prejudice.

So, assume a GOD all you want, deal with the cops all you can.

The bigggest thing to know about black holes is that they create alien-ism and paranoia, doing anything you can imagine, and what’s worse, anything you can’t imagine, to squash you flat.

If you don’t believe in that enemy, I do believe you are the enemy.

And jimmy crack corn and I don’t care as the amassa’s aren’t going away.

Don’t mind me too much, I’m not headed off on a mission of caterwauling doomsday-ism. There’s always television and the Internet and billions of news outlets available for collecting truth. I’m a playful house-kitten with barely a hint of snarl. If it seems I’ve showed up on your fence, it isn’t for long. This hair-ball of a document is yours alone to burn or bury. It will be gone by tomorrow. Screw you guys, I am taking my ball and going home. Maybe I’ll fly a kite. Or not. More likely nap or watch the snow fall.

And we’re walking.

 

|m|*

 

And back on the steps with Vitus and the kids.

“Think of people as walking, talking, self-contained, little, one-bee beehives yearning to fly, as bee or hive,” Vitus continued, ”even learning to fly, with the bee being a satellite item of a person that transcends with their beehive, one instant being bee, any other instant being hive. In other words bee and hive equal person, with the exoskeleton hive protecting, locating and containing their bee-ingness – the potential to be. The exoskeleton serves as ground to stand on, or at least to hold onto. A physical place to be, be it on top, inside or alongside.”

 

Not to pick on Native Americans or slaves, but they didn’t hold their ground, and black holes took their place or ripped them out of time. Or maybe are ripping them away, as they slowly disappear. If you don’t or won’t or can’t hold your ground someone will take you and your ground, even if just piece by piece. Weigh that against the ground you’re after, and ask yourself if there’s enough to go around and what you would do if there wasn’t. Easy for me to say, I have no dependents or consequences. Not yet.

 

“A bee is something like an electron. Bees can fly counter to observable design because they co-eg-zist in a metaphysical orbit that assists them, giving them the means to float in physical time and just use wings to navigate, steer, speed-up and slow-down.

 

Physical time = timed metaphysical spaceness minus dead head space. Spaceness, plus, as there is more to time than all the metaphysical spaceness combined. There’s potentially comfort to be found in that.

Just sayin’.

Dead head space = spent timeness. There’s potentially no comfort to be found in that.

Just sayin’.

 

“And, when least expected, bees have the means to attack attack attack.

“It were as if they were half ghost.

Coming or going?

“Could someone have more than one bee-ingness? Could there be size differential?

“Meanwhile, that exoskeleton could be house, could be car, could be physical body. A human body isn’t designed to fly or move sixty miles an hour, is it? Does it? Time will tell.”

 

Time does tell.

Tattle-tale that it is.

Is IT time? OH, so so so much so, but not only so. So so so so so. Sew. Be ready to sew or go when the seams of time start to separate.

Seams of time or seems of time?

Keep readin’.

Or not. You actually can learn more from rite’n. ‘cept not so much spell’n n’n gramma.

We’ll get to spells, too. And tells.

Maybe tells some other time.

 

“Your potential to be is proven by your beingness, but more-so by sending your inner awareness out than by assuming outer awareness in. I am disinclined to self-contained awareness, to any containment, caged-in or gated-off, but when it comes to self-evidence, we have all means available of creating evidence, though heaven help us about all the repetition, be it numerous or just a bigger repeat. Be it one hundred, hundred thousand pictures with that stupid canyon in the background.

“Nothing is physically real or momentous unless you take a picture of it.

“So be it.

“All of these hives add up to the big uncontrolled beehive that is the whole human dimension. One allness of a Wiiirl-D working and pecking away at flattening the EARTHverse, if only ‘twas that simple. Flattening the ball of EARTH is only the beginning.”

“OH so so simple, “ said Holly.

“Still with allness?” asked Dale. “It’s becoming like a drug.”

“No, Dale,” said Vitus. “Allness as drug, lived as blind addiction, is neediness.”

Darker-ererness.

 

Wiiirl-D = a fiction picture of time’s arrow. Look at all those devices for driving and drilling holes, and beyond. Me ow yow yow yow yowwwwwwww . . .

 

EARTH not flat?

Not flat yet . . . but already OH so flat enough when you factor in the Wiiirl-D out to make mail delivery ever easier and faster, along with supplying biggger, flatter paper for larger-scale origami.

A mountain in the way? Metaphysically flatten it with a physical hole – solid time. And what do they say about sound moving through a solid? Easy, breezy, done, and onto the next argumentive mountain.

Not enough mountains? Engineer some portable mountains of fat to do some rolling-pin-ism. Pin-head-ism. Calling obesity and it’s engineering butt-fuck stupid, if not pure evil, might be over-doing it.

Meanwhile, maybe the origamists will figure out out out how to unfold the left-over empty shells of left-over mountains and get them all flat, flatter, flatterrr . . .

Consider this item. The phone call. From one coast to another. A tiny machine flattens that distance, and the time it takes to manually travel that distance as man, whether on foot, on a nice horsey, in a car, in a plane.

Flatness is bringing IT on, with fatness as it’s back-up..

Some people refuse to accept we send rockets to the moon. Mmmmmooooooon.

Oops. Do we actually burn solid time-potential and bring the vision of the moon to us?

More or less. It’s a trycky tryck. We may run out of time to burn before we can get there. Maybe the time-scape of our EARTHverse ends with the outer reach of our atmosphere after which it gets mostly metaphysical, something to think about.

Picture if you will, a clear, hollow sphere of wax, serving as a lens encasing a dimensional place, our grounds for eg-zistence, within free space with that hollow coordinated by the sphere. That is the image of time, as lens and as what is seen in the lens and as in building the lens and as being in the lens and thinking all about the lens, as ALL, with IT trying to lessen the lens away to create all nothingness, the biggg next ALL.

 

“Think about IT, Darlin.’” – Which is a Jerry Jeff Walker quote, and we’re walkin’.

 

To reiterate, All is what is in-between ALL and allness – utter quirksville, for which there is a sound reason. All is metaphysical reality within the borders of the physical universe of ALL and the metaphysical universe of allness. Under this model nothing is out of the norm, all is as you perform and do it even if your observations are skewed, even as nothingness is the norm.

Paranormal black holes are the buggers to beat – to beat up and down and back, and they are OH so obvious. As opposed to normal black holes, which are not that much of a picnic either.

Especially the one known as Biggg Black Dump 999, which was Hermann Strumm’s nemesis back in the other, other EARTHverse. At least an other one.

Wow some more, a plot reference. Maybe more a future plot reference, but we are on our way.

 

“Cold,” commented Holly. “Where did self-evidence come into this?”

“Doesn’t it?” asked Vitus. “People seeking spirituality are just discounting the truth. So think of an item like music as part of the occurrence-wax of the whole dimensional hive, it helps bind us together, though less and less I fear. Can you imagine bee’s not making the best honey possible from what’s available?

“Today it’s not about making the best music, it’s about making music that sells the best. Not entirely, but too-much so. Tack on the cre-aton cycle of performance to evade life until one finds it defiantly hip to live to evade performance. Eg-zistence was not born a commercial enterprise. At least not as I bank on it. But think again, if music is a substance of the wax, consider the myriad of substances involved in the body of our wax.”

“Just show me the honey,” said Dale.

 

In Bossche Bol everyone seemingly knew everyone, seemingly since forever, when-ever that was. Where-ever that was.

The deep past?

No, it wasn’t the easiest of places to pin down – the deep past, nor Bossche Bol. The bol was sort of a territory transcending with the quad cities – li-quad, ha ha – of Springfield, West Hampshire, Worthingdale and West Worthingdale. The West of West Worthingdale stood for the West family. West Hampshire had to do with the fact that most of Hampshire was west of Mount Bossche Bol. As for the rest of Hampshire, fa-ged-a-bod it. Not worth mentioning except that it was nearly all but absorbed by Worthingdale.

A true black-hole of a place ol’ Worthingdale was.

The bol was essentially a country of its own, except technically it was a territory, and while it governed within itself, it answered to the laws and taxes as dictated by the all and overbearing, local and broad, sham, political governance which was OH so void of any actuated governance.

So as to keep life easy.

Easier.

Especially for . . . uh . . . never mind.

All in all, I do think ‘tis better to be tactful.

Something was always afoot in Bossche Bol, which helped explain why it didn’t want to settle down beyond being territorial, as if it were a geographic foot-entity with a mind of its own.

As if?

Maybe exactly as, as the current step it was taking was into a new geographic dimension, and not for the first time. It were as if Bossche Bolers were learning to fly in an other than spacial sense, and didn’t realize it yet.

Maybe they never would. The seams of time were meant to loosen and tighten, seemlessly, mysterious and invisible, letting this and that in and out.

Holy cow, that makes sense.

Vitus was a prime example, having been infected with a little Hermann Strumm-ism without fully realizing it.

Hjalmar was a primer example.

As was, neither knew the biggg picture. Vitus’s cantankerousness should maybe be taken with a grain of sand, a seed of hope, a flash of splash, and a smudge of fudge.

 

|m|*

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.4

 

Heck, let’s skip this one.

 

|m|*

 

From near awake, Hjalmar did awaken, dropping within a night sky. Or was it a continuation of CCC’s-less sleep with a now point occurring where the dropping was just memory of what jerked him awake.

Was he the jerk?

And what night sky? Was it night? Was it sky?

What happened to the stars?

He was certain, without thinking it, that were he to roll over, were he able, there would be a night sky beneath him, also. But what night sky? Would it be night? Would it be sky?

He looked up again and saw a face puzzling down at him.

“Who in the Wiiirl-D?” he said.

“I say, my good Sir, are you quite all right?”

Now he was really awake. At least near really enough for now. “For a moment there I was,” said Hjalmar, now finding himself beneath a big head looking down at him. “Santa?” he asked.

Distorted, he was, to say the least. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, to boot. BBB’s. More BBB’s. Let more-be-us, as opposed to you and them.

“Let’s get you on your feet. That ground is damp,” said Carac, the man some might see as Santa, not by identity, but by white-bearded appearance, minus all the red. Carac was large, almost 6’4”, and heavy – secret heavy. A weight you don’t want to know. Almost 6’4”, he was always quick to point out he came up short of that actual height. Truth be known, not that he kept it secret, he measured his height every opportunity he had. It was the last and first thing he did nearly every day. It was much more encouraging than checking his weight. Thus were his curses, weight and CCC’s.

Wait and seize? The all-in of all-out to do’s? Out and about empowering might makes right?

Something like a black hole saying all that’s what . . . is going to be it’s what . . . once in reach.

Along with every last it.

And ant.

- We’re getting off point.

So so so off point.

And getting within reach.

Of you don’t know who.

Or what.

Or ALL.

Or not.

Hjalmar was a little below average height, 5’10”, and skinny. Carac had little trouble pulling him to his feet. Carac would have little difficulty had Hjalmar been 6’10”. Carac was taller, deeper and stronger than the outer limits of any of those three dimensionalities.

“What are you doing lying out here in the middle of nowhere?” Carac asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Hjalmar, slapping at the dirt, leaves and moisture collected on his shirt and pants. Or trousers, if you want to get high-brow golfer about it.

 

Or britches, maybe making one think ‘bout writing a song ‘bout getting mah butt whipped by mama after gettin’ drunk from too much of papa’s moonshine.

Or maybe not.

 

“That would be absurd, I wasn’t lying out here,” said Carac. But maybe I heard you went missing.”

“Did you?” asked Hjalmar. “Oh my,” he quickly added. “You have a halo.”

“Sir?”

“You have a halo around the top of your head. A white halo.” A torus model, not that old discus wheel-y deal-y.

“I don’t,” said Carac.

He didn’t.

 

Not in the sense he had it.

Could be he was a projection from the halo as the halo kept him from floating away. As halos go, it was a halo of potential, mustered up by Hermann Strumm from the potential of sound. Either way, everyone comes with a smudge of potential, do what you will or won’t with it – meet, lose, waste it. Grow some more. Excise it from foe and waste or throw it away on everyone’s behalf.

In bulk.

Think it can be sold away? Think again.

The brain is like a plant, that can be mined, an implant in the physical machine, that grows the potential to be processed by the mind. And the mind doesn’t just do it’s thing, not as fully possible. If it’s mis- or un-managed or un-manned you might end up hungering for the taste of feet. Which could develop into something snake-like were one to get to hungering for feet and what comes down the pike next. How many fat fucks out there are one gallon of cola away from turning into Jabba the Hun? I do mean Hun, named in honor of the greater corporate beasts.

NO, I have no pity. Hell, I ‘m just a kitty.

 

“I think we may need to find you some variety of first aid,” Carac continued. “Unless it is that you can supply it.”

For whatever reason seeing the halo grounded Hjalmar a little and he began to question what was happening, had happened and where it had and was taking place. “Are we on a mountain?”

The dampness of the high night air caught up to him abruptly and his shiver was a convulsion.

Carac removed his coat and draped it over Hjalmar. It had the weight of a bear skin, along with the odor. Hjalmar sniffed at it. “I see your senses are coming back to you,” said Carac. “If not on a mountain, where would you be?”

“At its bottom? What mountain is this, anyway?” Hjalmar looked to his left and his right as if somehow he could get his bearings. As was, it didn’t really have the feel of Mount Bossche Bol, which was located in the midst of Bossche Bol. A peculiar book end of a mountain ever so slightly separate from the Vortex Mountain range. If one didn’t know better, they might think it was trying to sneak away. “OH no no no, get back in line, Mister.”

“Have you a name?” asked Carac. “Can you walk?” He was talking to Hjalmar.

“Hjalmar Poelzig.”

“Gesundheit. They call me Carac. I’m on an expedition up here in search of rare and undiscovered species of nocturnal creatures. Imagine my delight in stumbling upon you. I have a campsite just over that butte. Let’s get you there and warm you up.”

“Butte?”

“It is rather large, but that’s how it goes.” Even though he couldn’t see it, Hjalmar could hear Carac’s grin traveling at him through the night. “I know a shortcut.”

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.5

 

It had all begun for Hermann Strumm to become undone, weirdly enough, with a most ambitious attempt at constructing a universal translator, which quickly enough brought to reality the fact that people did not want to be translated. Not universally, not to the point that they were OH so clearly, fully understood. Not when it was knowing that you asking for one piece of pie was a way of saying you were relentlessly eyeing all of it.

Today Manhattan. Tomorrow Japan.

WHAT? You’d make a universal translator that didn’t translate people? Where would you start? Fruit flies?

No one, be it plant, be it animal, be it item, wants to be fully translated by any one else. Who wants to be fully played, stripped of all mystique? Reduced to particles so easy to gobble up.

OH, so so so too many.

For starts.

For the soon to be initiated, ooh that Hermann Strumm was tapping quant?m eg-zistencia. The grid within the bank of a specific singular ALL, based in eggness. Thus was egg-allness loosened as a contagion which Hermann had the foresight to contain, one person at a time. Yes, allness was always loose, but not as contagion, which in this and any instance still would be better than addiction.

Perhaps Hermann had isolated a unique strain of allness-ism.

But maintain one person at a time? Not so much, and that was an issue yet to be contained, but a work in progress. Strumm Labs had passed it on to both Hjalmar and Vitus, and now Vitus was passing it on, but it wasn’t running rampant, yet. It might very well be that it couldn’t.

The end result, the initial end result, the initial end allowing for an end result, was an oasis from the nothingness and the darkness – a place for enriching lightness.

A sanctuary of depthness.

As was, it was not stocked with the riches necessary for enrichening. As was more, lightness wasn’t something to over or undervalue anymore than nothingness and darkness. Enough of any was enough. Depthness has it’s limits, too.

Hermann had in fact dispatched Hjalmar to do a little nothingness to some darkness. Which is sort of the whole story in a nutshell.

Getting him back? That took a horse of a different color yet to be harnessed. A trial on the trail of the EARTHverse fittestness-test time-trials.

Deny it all you want. You know you do while you understand you don’t. Your secret, unique identity is the great possession and want, going both ways. If you believed in heaven, which we’re not peddling, that’s what would go – your unique quant?m identity, most likely stripped of any bestial hate you grew or carried, as is apparent or not.

Or as a parent? Ouch.

Maybe making you no fun at all to your pals come the after-life. Not that it is or will.

If it is you don’t want a unique identity – mmmmmmoooooooooo.

One might say, bah. But . . . nah.

Or oink, if you prefer sucking up sugar-water and fat-tastic fast food. Don’t got game? Fatten up and become game. Hoping to get to ninety living life sixty-years a mile, discounting healthy, wealthy and wise affirmations in lieu of fast, fun and sexy. An easy, slow-moving, dull-witted target proclaiming our forefathers fought for your right to fun and easy, commercialized self-destruction.

Lock on phasers.

And, “Hi, my name is Oprah, I’m a fat-aholic. Welcome to my twenty-fifth annual eternal fountain of fat jamboree telethon celebrating me and my constant expanding out towards y’all as I suck you all in. This year, we’re shutting down that fountain for good, again. And now for only $19 a month you can save the fat from fat,” and so on and so on until next year’s price hike.

Seriously, I am trying to be nicer this year, with yet again no price-hike.

It’s a quirky 20/80 balancing trap of a Wiiirl-D out there, out to drive you nuts, to keep you from the sensible conclusion that self-destruction can be the rational answer.

ALL or allness rules you even as the nothing trio of translation, minus’ing, and nothingness diminishes you – until ‘lessening-allness of nothingness’ is racing towards overcoming and becoming the next ALL, or vice versa, once ‘minus’ing-lessening creates a positive. The other white meat. The one direction-less-ness that doesn’t need to be because it doesn’t need to change to get everywhere.

And get everyone.

Stew on that for a while.

OH yes, it is OH-so clear as milky tomato soup.

And that brings us to the beginning – Hermann Strumm sent a shout-out that all Bossche Bolers had been called home. Vacate the premises, as it were, they are all false.

Their work trying to get a certain black hole they simply called Dump 999 to behave less para-normally – more para-normally? – had run out of time.

Was running out of time, with just enough time left to get back for the biggg picture show.

Say ‘smile’, cheese-heads.

Here’s the kicker. As for that universal translator Hermann was trying to build, he was trying to build it here from there. For the life of him he just couldn’t get radio-active imaginations tuned to the right channel to get the instructions right and unpolluted.

Or so I catch amongst the buzz.

 

|m|*

 

“The honey of time,” said Vitus, “comes from the marriage of substance – the physical – and essence – the metaphysical, from which is born metaphysical reality.

 

Essence – all the nesses, and most ances and ences. Someday we may lose the ‘n’d’ of ness and we can simply think of SSS’s, if we can or must. Or simple, common S-sense.”

S-sense was all Hermann Strumm-ism, a la Strumm Labs. Strumm Labs, where Hjalmar held his second job. Had it been his first job, Grace would never have hired him, and, of note, we are over half-way back to him.

That’s not true.

 

“Time is the record of what we make along with the making of what we record, and the very what we make it out of – mass, matter and magyck – magyck may equate with energy/fuel/fool, but that messes up MMM’s – of which we make mass out of matter and magyck, that does and doesn’t matter. The less an item matters the less it remains an item of time. What we do with it, even if we only time it, even when it doesn’t really matter, is headed towards just matter, minus-ing out from item to less and ness, unless I have it backwards. Or SSSsss . . . – that leaking sound of light and potential and potential for lightness leaking out of the cracking apart, ever darkening, metaphysical universe.

“At least locally.”

Especially locally, and maybe from the last leak in the final crack.

“On the other hand, a black hole can’t hold onto the meta-physicality of lightness. Lightness is difference, and a black hole can’t abide difference. Or have it. So where does difference go? It runs off and starts IT all anew. Again. Or tries to, if IT can’t get real before a black hole gets IT.”

 

Mini zone-aid break

 

And damned if the nearest black hole isn’t after new IT in an instant, peddling funeral arrangements to infants as a last commercial resort.

Death as a resort? Youch. Don’t forget the SUNscreen.

On your scorecard, IT as ‘it’ is one lot of allness, as in an individual body of potential, as in a particle of you within an imp-it-cycle adding up to a wave of usness unless minus-ing is your game. IT and allness, allnesses, or simply whatever isn’t black hole, dying to take a blind head-long dive into an ant-hole, and, as nature, showing no favoritism. You kind of gotta flow with that. Identities change places ad nauseam.

Still, if you have a baseball bat and are able, and a bad cop shows you it’s money hole, you know where you’re bound to stick that bat, even if only checking for depth.

That, too, is following the letter of the law. The law of IT, or it.

Or ant, doing what it’s told to do by the queen-mother. And no one saw a thing. “Nope, that bat was up his ass when I got here and that necrotic flesh dripping from his face, grinning as it flaps in the wind, has been that way forever.”

 

And back to Vitus.

“If it can be clocked . . . has been clocked . . . or will be clocked . . . or if it is clocking or is clock building-block, it is the substance, and essence, of time. Maybe timing. People are the lesseners – less than physical, more than ness – the spacers, the timers, the placers – and fertilizers, before or after the fact, can’t forget that. The sirs and hers, minimizing to just urrr’s and RRR’s. A big box of tools and toys going and breaking and falling to pieces.

“That is my lecture on time.”

 

Never ending allness. RRR shared chase and curse, with everything to be done before SUNrise – every single day. Get UP UP UP – and there it’is. Shine on and pass it on.

Shine on? Jeez, that’s so positive I can hardly stand it. I may have to double-up on the minus-signs, as I am indeed the crimson prince of nothingness. An idea that came to me and a conclusion I came to, and one that is no doubt incorrect.

As always, purrr-perfectly nuts. At least I don’t need tranq’s. I have rage to keep warm and calm.

Try and refute that – do my work for me so I can sneak a cat-nap. You can do nothing, too, as I can do nothing, as we can all do nothing, as all the while nothing does us.

Even as a new ALL was cat-ching up, cache-ing out, and cashing-in everything, faster and faster.

 

Thusly, Dale’s mind was racing. “Time or timing then?”

“Time or timing then what?” asked Vitus. “Time is a displaced word. Timing does not come from time, nor vice-versa. You can’t time time with time. It would be like trying to time now.” The slightest and briefest of expressions shadowed Vitus’s face. Hermann Strumm might figure out how to time now.

Tame now?

He sort of had.

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.

 

|m|*

 

As mountain hikes in an unfamiliar darkness go, the hike to Carac’s campsite wasn’t arduous, but making conversation with Hjalmar was, and Carac didn’t get to say much beyond, “Watch your step there,” and “duck,” and “oops, that’s water.” Hjalmar finally was able to flop down in front of the fire pit and wait for fire to appear.

“Are you up to some conversation now?” asked Carac. “Can you tell me how you got here?”

Hjalmar looked up at Carac, who’s arms cradled a bundle of firewood. “Here?”

“There,” said Carac. “At the spot where I found you.” Dot? Point?

“If I wasn’t on a mountain I would have thought someone dropped me off of one,” Hjalmar said. “Is this EARTH? Something must have stopped my fall.”

“As far as the eye can see,” said Carac, adding,”see later that is, perhaps,” as it was still a pitch black all about, eg-cept about him per the halo. He was fiddling with small twigs and used newsrag adverwaste. “I like a tee-pee fire myself. All campfires end-up pretty-much rounded-in-the-end anyway.” He lit a match and got things going. “Is there some reason this wouldn’t be EARTH?”

“The halo,” said Hjalmar. “It’s still there by the way.”

“My friend,” said Carac. “Tell me just what exactly happened.”

“Are you going to tell me about the halo? Or are you going to continue to deny it? I don’t get the sense of anything divine about you.” He paused to consider. “Well, you seem like a decent sort, so far. I’ll give you that.”

“Is my, as you say, halo, the first you’ve encountered?”

As Carac’s fire came to life he could see the glumness on Hjalmar’s countenance illuminated. “I’ve seen how they’re made,” Hjalmar muttered. He had downright felt how.

“That’s something,” said Carac. “What about where they’re made or what they’re made out of?”

“N, n, nooo. I saw one made in my mind.” And felt it in his back. And getting it back, getting him back, is, or isn’t, what it’s all about. Depending on who or what has the mightiest claim on it.

“Of course.”

“I have an idea,” said Hjalmar. “I must try to hold onto it.” He reached behind him and took a folded-up piece of plane paper and a pen out of his back pocket.

“What idea?”

“I don’t know,” said Hjalmar. “It’s without coordinates. I’m not sure of the steps or the outcome yet. It might be a piece of formula. Or piece of map. It’s hazy. I said it was an idea. Almost an idea, more a notion. It’s abstract.”

 

*

 

an’ don’t fight IT,

it’s over your head

it’s alright,

you wake up in your bed.

(Sleepless

-king crimson)

 

The ring of the doorbell startled Sylvia. It was midnight and she was very much surprised to find that she had not been asleep.

It was sort of as if she were waiting for the alarm to go off and waking up at the alarm to find she had been asleep, dreaming she was awake, waiting for the alarm.

In reverse.

She had been dreaming at something floating in the air above her bed. Now it seemed that something had really been floating there. It seemed to disappear at the sound of the bell. At the very least, what she now saw did not seem to be what she had been seeing, even as it looked exactly the same.

This wasn’t the first time she had what someone had called a pre-sleep dream. Perhaps even a post-sleep dream occurring within unrealized awakeness. It was a puzzling phenomenon, but not a disturbing one, at least not to Sylvia’s psyche. She didn’t feel she was being watched, or that there was a presence, but something was passing through or along an edge of time, even if the something were only the size of a point.

What was the point?

That was the question.

Was it just by chance someone had arrived? A second point come to hook up?

“The name is Carac,” said the white-haired fat-man with the beard. “My young friend here is Hjalmar.”

“Sydney Carac, isn’t it? I’m still Mrs. P to you,” said Sylvia. “Isn’t it rather late?”

“And we appreciate that you answered the door,” said Carac. “We were directed here for shelter.”

“Were you,” she said, looking at Hjalmar coolly. “By whom?”

“By him,” said Hjalmar, nodding at Carac.

“I suppose I have some rooms,” said Sylvia.

“I have goods to trade,” said Carac, looking down at the volumes in his hand.

“Welcome to Albaqaaaru Hall then,” said Sylvia

Hjalmar gave Carac a puzzled look. “This is it?” he asked?

“No,” said Carac. Then he asked Hjalmar, “Is this the source?”

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.6

 

If it helps you with your coordinates, uh, yeah, know that the class Holly and Dale were taking with Vitus was called The Power of GOD. It wasn’t an examination of GOD, it was an examination of the powers attributed to GOD, and powers not attributed to GOD.

All so-called power. Power as was in play, and as might be in play. The player might be a little irrelevant once the game was afoot, with the player an imploding foot, maybe on the way to motorized dog, if wings don’t develop in time, or at least until they do.

Or un-motorized, traveling via being stuck up a you-know-what, like a tail. Like occulus-boy dangling in space, his head stuck up the butt of a black-hole.

Or the butt of a flying monkey.

As much as Vitus didn’t want to admit it, he knew much of his thought process was attributable to Strumm Labs. He had nothing against Strumm Labs or the work done there, he simply didn’t like Hermann Strumm. Near no one did. Hermann was a natural born antagonist.

Worse.

Contrary by nature.

Worse.

Too much involved with black hole study and manipulation and was nearly frustrated beyond repair.

Ooh that Dump 999.

Dump 999 was in it’s way the retina of an eye, wearing down and developing floaters – mini black-masses.

Very interesting, those mini black-masses.

At Strumm Labs it all began with ALL is ALL. Allness was the metaphysical notion of ALL, although one might just say notion, as all notion and thought was metaphysical, and overlaid on and about the physical. The only way to get a grasp on the identity of ALL was through allness, even as allness was contained in ALL.

Or was it?

Always?

ALL was most certainly not the first word, and words were the Lab’s it, while IT was probably the first word vehicle, even if it didn’t come first. IT was the vehicle, not ALL. Whenever you don’t know what IT is, call IT it. We don’t know what IT is, so we call IT it. Still, we’re getting closer to clearer, essential definition, as, for example, it is obviously a lot like IT.

Isn’t it?

All that it takes for essence is it. An infant sees a tree, knows it as it, and that’s about as close to the essence of a tree most of us ever get, factoring in all trees, and discounting arborists – Yo! My tree says, ‘HI, guys.’ Or just the neighbor’s trees on the next block. To try to express the essence of a tree in words really just takes you away from your essential bond with a tree. An arborist might make a good run at it. A few million words might get it done, so yes, it – putting essence or S-sense into words – may be do-able.

Talk faster already.

Heaven help us from the amateurs, sleaze-bags, commercial spokes-holes in the greater breaking steal wheel and the other and very-us slime-sacs that do.

Tact under attack, yet again. As are you. If you’re sick of looking at this darkness, just shut your eyes. Oops. The blackness is on that side, too. Look away, look away.

Bitchin’.

Still, even if we fail at essence, we can project treeness metaphysically in word and else.

Perhaps there was multiple ALL, as in broken rocks that were still ALL’s which were void of meta-physicality, but less-so the more they broke down until one day words, or just wordness, became metaphysical spacers between them – creating and eliminating distance, back and forth, pulsing. There thus, perhaps it may be expressed that the written word is word, and the spoken word is wordness. It is harder to misquote the written word on sight alone. Further leading to the exemplerferfactation of whether we actually see the written word or hear it meta-physically. Pseudo hear it? Pseudo?

Pseudo sounds better.

And Simon asks, so what do you think of that?

Creating was a thing of going, and eliminating was a thing of coming, the difference between productive hate and love. Animals run from certain death, as in going, creating distance between them and you. When not fully certain, they may very well still run. How is that?

You cannot trust nature except in knowing it wants to kill you, sooner or later.

Why are people so vicious? I could make some educated guesses.. Here’s one thing though, it’s because they have to be. Especially against big, bigger and biggger imaginary enemies with big, bigger and biggger imaginary weapons.

An exercise in preparation for something truly biggg? As opposed to the fight or non-fight with the dinky ones amassing as cancer, be it of the body or mind.

An ongoing trial in the EARTHverse fittestness test?

Don’t think so?

Then maybe think of meat. Joyous, sumptuous meat. Meat meat meat . . . mmmmmooooo . . .

And heck, I like meat. Anti-vegetarianism am I. And, and, I’m thinking of chocolate mint again. Sigh.

 

A brief light detour. Does the male sperm deliver a speck of difference to the female egg, a negative spark to the whole she-bang to start the egg cycling in ear ear earnest?

And back to grim.

 

If nature isn’t out to kill you, maybe it’s just out to consume you, minus you out – GOD’s favorite arithmetic factor – even if gently, while you sleep. Not zero minus you out, but translate you into ever less. Everlessness. Imploding you in, back out into the great bank of celestial potential or potentialness, depending on who’s turn to bat.

Doing the deed for Black-Hole City.

Or Dump 999.

And I just said celestial for the hell of it. Potential is here as well as there.

At Strumm Lab all was considered an L word. L was more than letter, it was a transcendent quant?m symbol, a time-piece of potential representing a right-angle, a meeting-point for a point, and a quarter of an hour. L de-abstracted into physical quarters of a dollar, and quasi-physical living-quarters. Is it that they are living via you? Quarters of an hour, on the other hand, are abstracting, as the visual is disappearing.

The list goes on. Maybe. My thoughts about it are sort of spent.

Add a second, mirror L and you had a plus sign, all four quarters of an hour and a dollar, a cross, four right angles and the four quadrants of positive and minus, minus, minus’ing you out – coming and going.

L made of, love.

Add the right angle to GOD, and you get GOLD, and something easy to build a belief system on when limited by a belief system built off of five physical senses. That is to say, gold is something easy to build a physical belief system on, even if the acquisition, use, holding and distribution of gold is a nightmare. Easier than GOD to believe in for the easy – even if not easy to do. L went beyond that, but perhaps you won’t.

As for GOD, a word on team Christ and their lasting success. They opened a new metaphysical realm allowing for good and evil. Allowing for it, not creating it, leaving the waves as were, making demands that were too harsh and not harsh enough and forgiveness too easy, some of the time. Coming and going. There must be coming and going to live on, and not living on is the basis of evil, which is mainly attitude that anything coming for you is evil. Not an unwise attitude, but no need to be neurotic about it and imagine conspiracies, or create them, as in the conspiracy of injustice. Talk about hiding in plain sight. Justice isn’t blind, anyone apart from the conspiracy is blind, potentially. It’s so creeeeepy.

Particles of Christianity set out to spread a little charity, and maybe prevent little wars as opposed to the wars fought in GOD’s name as atheists so like to proclaim as they attack badly designed mob-boss GOD, as their dream is to be a mob boss, and waves of organized Christianity also spread, commercializing the sale of guilt-eating, leaving consequences to roam free and run wild like bestial feces dissolving anything at hand with acid hate. Good or bad, it got the Wiiirl-D to eg-zistend itself, which is a fittestness test success story when it comes to facing black holes. Or looking away from them. Or knowing where they are or just that they are there.

No biggg, we’re all going to heaven anyway, right?. Buy a bus ticket today, no one’s asking questions or looking at passports.

Perhaps you’ve already stepped off the bus into the ever deadening flood of dead, flattening space aided and propped up by your belly touching the ground. Along with more songs about HO’s, drinking, kissing and the greatest, loving-est pussy of all, fangs bared, coming for your throat.

Head? – - – the stuff of the meaning of life.

Or is it just a lot of meaningless crisis – cat-ta-strophic but personal – one cre-aton at a time armageddon?

GOD snaps IT’s fingers and it’s all magyck-ally done? Over and kaput leaving nothing but job opportunity for fashionably vapid young actors and actresses? Or old ones.

Gollums built of clay make-up, which is pretty much what appears on camera.

No, it’s a slow, deliberate, one-at-a-time, not-fun, manual process. Frequently. Dying in your sleep is certainly a win. Partial win amongst the loss.

IT’s all is a manual distribution and collection and distribution and collection . . . process. It’s war. The game of you spending your potential until you’ve spent it to the max, versus, and sung in verse, letting someone else spend it, and spend and live you to death, max-ing out your commercial potential until you’re paying to suck air in a sink-hole where you’re coldly, commercially drained and nursed to death.

No, it is not an easy game, nor is the solution, which is not here. All that is out there is out already.

Potential management of potential.

Management of potential?

Potentially?

As if. Get a clue.

You know what Mom says, “Don’t get smart with me.”

Still, IT’s only as bleak as you let IT get. And I do believe there’s wiggle room for worse. True dark is still up there awaiting it’s time to drop, and it may very will rip biggg bad out of time and place by it’s bestial, fecal, hateful roots.

Fecal sounds kind of bad, but it sort goes without saying. It goes with eating.

Could be there is a biggg timer timing down working counter to the biggg clock clocking out.

Or outward, as again, it’s your choice as to if you let it get out and go.

Unless you don’t, won’t or can’t choose differently.

 

|m|*

 

“Well,” said Holly, knowing something was off. “Well how do you explain time travel, or how do you explain that sort of idea of time?”

“To extract the flow between particles and waves of now and nowness, and redirect it? That could leave behind a timeless fixed state, a prison. Heavenly joy,” said Vitus, despite himself.

 

Right. If you went back and changed the past, might not the present just float off on it’s own as a fixed state? Expelled from the primary continuum to eventually pass away suffocated from lack of time? If it were that the one continuum is actually continuous, or even primary, or the only primary.

If a vote were taken of everyone to go back a ways and have a time do-over, how many would vote to go and how many would vote to stay? Would just the ones who have a say say “Stay?” Sit? Heel?

That’s sort of how it works.

OH, screw voting, survey a thousand people instead from the list of smart people who are smart enough to not really have to work and earn a living. The smart dogs with long noses all the better to smell for easy food and prey, with all day to sit on the internet and blog about how smart they are.

And Hermann Strumm seemed to think temporary fixed states of time might have value. They might even be pleasurable. Still, they were based in an idea, and all ideas had the potential to be bad, if not necessarily all of the time.

As noted, Vitus didn’t see the biggg picture. ALL is good. Forgive his upcoming, ongoing, senseless cantankary.

Aaannn . . . nnnd, duck.

Psyche.

And remember, there is no science to this.

 

“I don’t think your issue is about time travel,” said Vitus, “it’s about what and where you travel. About how and why you travel.”

“Issue? I have no issue,” said Holly.

“Then let me give you one,” said Vitus. “Time is an illusion of metaphysics even if a reality of physics. You could hardly call space an illusion. There’s nothing to see. You see through space. But just because it’s invisible doesn’t mean it’s not there.

“Light is also invisible, at least in as far as you see through it. Are space and light one and the same? Making up white spheres in contrast to black holes? Is that the difference?

“Is there a difference maker?

“Just as needed? An inevitable response when it’s turn comes up on the clock? Some clean, non-directed, free potential?

“Is sight an item of metaphysical illusion that negates time in the sense of making it, too, invisible? Were we to see time as something, there might be a gag reflex keeping our bodies from moving into it, as our senses might sense it as a solid whereas it’s really transcendent wax that our beingness can float and travel in.”

Even if necessarily on foot.

If not technically through on a direct path.

Have a caution. Travel in armor if you try a direct route.

”Is All or allness about visualized thought based on the potential of photons, or photons as potential, or whatever particle you name as such, to deliver us artificial color, as coloring, to show us what we’re doing?

“Or show something else what we’re doing?

“Or teach us how to show something else what we’re doing?

“Has IT been listening all along? Are pyramids sound transmitters? Or just vibration transmitters for something with speed of light hearing? Speed of light hearing and sound transmission as game-able, working with black holes and black masses?

“Is a communion in the works as color and coloring close in on the other? All that is artificial is also something else, even more so. Take away the fictional coloring and you would not know eg-zistence on sight, in the future, which is prepared and delivered as the colorized past, ex-zistence. As is we always have one step in the future with another in the past, and the space in between manually takes place for recording and reflection, while flipping back and forth to disguise the seam separating past from future.”

And we’re walking.

“Meanwhile we record in an individual duality or do-ality of near-solid points of clock-able now, coordinated by two orbital vortexes running thru our eyes, that collect photons and pull them into our eyes, in fluctuating moments of temporary near-solidness. The photons in one vortex collide with those in the other in a flash and a colorized image is reflected off of the whites of our eyes and implanted in our minds, refreshed every time we blink, and lightly stored in memory depending on how we weight the image. That pyramidal mountain of a nose between the eyes probably plays some role in that, too, maybe bouncing stray photons back on the path or somehow bringing them into focus.

“Maybe our nose plays a role in absorbing sound waves mixed amongst the so-called light-particles that our ears can’t handle.

“It’s the colorization process that slows everything down via manually taking place so it can be clocked, recorded and contemplated. Reflected upon. Without it, we couldn’t even guess what’s coming next. And the less we can guess, the easier it is for something to happen beyond our flattening, dying imagination of what ALL can happen. And if you want it ALL, you’re half-way there, virtually beggging for ALL to happen. A biggg black hole built from darkness down.”

“That there last bit doesn’t sound so good,” said Dale.

“What about sound?” asked Holly.

“Like the biggg banggg?” asked Vitus. “Bang is first and foremost a sound. Is sound a bigger deal than light when it comes to playing at, with and against humanity? Do physicists have any visual idea of the big bang? Is there any visual idea? If there isn’t then of course they couldn’t have one, and yet they keep trying to picture the universe based on what is observable, at least that’s how I hear it, from a supposedly moving point of view. A point, a dot no less, supposedly no more. Like trying to hit a fast moving target from a slow moving train with a slow bullet. A bullet thrown by hand. Or so is said. Science is cloaked in the dark language of formulas, and the future is awaiting patenting of course, can’t let it get to us scot free.”

Thank heavens. Let it wait.

“Not so much it, as ALL. A one ALL, who’s last supper will be comprised of the last allnesses of it.”

“Sound does travel much slower than light,” Holly observed.

“Yes, and truth is minus’d out before you see or hear anything,” said Vitus. “Truth is immediate, and then it’s gone and past, as past, awaiting redesigning, and you’re redesigned and gone before you know it. The physical universe is only real enough, but that’s a good thing, leaving it open to redesign, and it tends to need it.

“Demand it.

“As for dimensionality, there is a), place as dimensional-ized space, b) free-space and c) a side/face separating them where-ever for recording and tracking of where the other two are. That side is the plane of time, potentially as a light sphere encasing a black hole, and feeding the black hole which also feeds the light sphere. Multiple planes make up a sphere, and a whole side of a plane can be a seam. Or a seem. Side versus face. Those quantum planes can be reproduced ad nauseam and re-arranged to make any shape of dimension imaginable. 3D objects, right, if you can only count to three planes. All it takes is one plane to create the shape of something that is dimensional, as, say, a torus. But like a pyramid, cube or whatever, that torus still has seams, with maybe less seems to the seams.

“But due to that ad nauseam freedom of reproduction, there is only self-control when it comes to balance. There are no laws. Period. Not on this side or that side of time and space and what-ever. There is just might based in force. And maybe, sometimes.

“You need to look to know to resist, and look closely at a torus, to understand the seams. And maybe it doesn’t necessarily need seams.

 

|m|*

 

They had hiked for days, saw no one, rested frequently and for long intervals. Carac spoke little and Hjalmar kept within himself. All was not right, and Hjalmar’s trust in Carac wavered, although he never went to sleep without some brand of optimism.

Still, sleep never came easy. If his thoughts weren’t keeping him awake, then it was sound, sounds of the night and otherwise. There was one sound in particular, a machine? Some sort of mechanism that was patiently humming along.

Humming a song?

Waiting?

Hjalmar couldn’t tell what, just that it was getting closer.

That they were getting closer.

“I’m losing track of how many days we’ve been traveling,” he said one morning.

“It’s just been the one,” said Carac.

“One? We slept in a cave one night, in a shack another night and under the stars last night.” Starless as it was. Were. Were’d. “The first night we didn’t sleep.”

“One, a billion, does it really matter how much you sleep?”

“One or a billion what?”

“Counting night,” said Carac wearily. “Such backward farce. Your night is just one extended blink. Perhaps lasting as long as a double long blink? Would you know if you slept a billion years? What you consider sleep I consider a blink, or two. This is your one day. Own it. Hold your ground.” Hjalmar may have been holding it, but where?

“Jiminy,” said Hjalmar. “So we just blinked our eyes and it felt like a whole night of time passed? Have you ever stopped to consider why you need to stop to rest so often? Anyway, I was talking about days.”

“Listen,” Carac ordered in a hushed voice. “Do you hear something?”

Hjalmar listened. “No. Do you?”

“No. Don’t you?”

“Well why did you ask then?” asked Hjalmar.

“Bad ears,” said Carac. “I really need for you to listen.”

Hjalmar grimaced, but closed his eyes and clocked an ear skyward. EAR-THward. “I hear something,” he said, but he said it in a way to suggest he just heard something, and didn’t know what.

Except as noted. Musically noted?

“Excellent,” said Carac.

Not that it reduced the excellence, but Hjalmar was hearing something Carac couldn’t conceive. Had he been able, he may have heard it too. At any rate, Carac was on point that the source was involved.

“Tell me,” said Hjalmar. “What is your intent with me?”

“I won’t know that until I figure out your cause.”

 

|m|*

 

“Let’s get back on point,” said Vitus. “Consider there to be a physical universe, a metaphysical universe, and a metaphysical reality in between and elsewhere. Three items – the real-enough working at getting real, the eg-zistent, and the ex-zistent. All at once, layered, overlapping and intertwined, potentially anywhere.

“Metaphysical reality is the floating midpoint, everyone’s personal, theoretical, theological dimension, a mini-reality most of the time, made of and out of time, on loan from the GODness potentiality bank of you and what is not you. Or not them. And getting farther and farther away from being us.”

 

Personal dimension, or dementia, where everyone is GOD’s favorite pet.

Like me.

Ow.

Go ahead and kill that darned cat. Good riddance.

 

“At large is a fluctuating 20/80 balancing act between physical and metaphysical, modulated by people, perhaps primarily as spacers responsible for space-generating pulse, where potential is tested, even as it is flowing back to a black hole.

“The GODness bank is all potential. All is possible, if not necessarily as real, nor is it possible to happen any faster than it is. Later, maybe quite possibly. Once upon a time man’s flying was a physical impossibility, something totally metaphysical and only to be imagined. The test of time deemed that metaphysical fantasy a physical certainty. A physical certainty is potential proven, generally dependent on formulas, algorithm, and equations worked out by equators re-sizing and realizing the metaphysical as physical – and that proven potential will always exist, and so it always has.”

“Exist where?” asked Dale. “Everywhere?”

“Anywhere? ” asked Vitus. “Where is always? For our metaphysical reality IT/potential exists in dimensional room, which is redundant were one to realize dimensional room is metaphysical, although not completely redundant as the room is real enough and the dimensional is metaphysical. Dimensionals come about in the same manner as holes, by making surroundings, or erecting rectangles. Dimensional can be cubic, like a physical room and it can be flat, like a table on a piece of paper. Or just a piece of paper sans table. Or a screen. Or our eyes, collecting images, taking a picture between each blink, and stacking those pictures creating the illusion of physical depth with the help of the tryckery of memory saving those pictures in quant?m code. Why OH why what for?

“We see the Wiiirl-D as flat. Not beneath us, but as in front of us, where-ever we look. Flat images taken in between blinks by our eyes.

 

And surprise surprise surprise. Having made it this far, you have earned a special reward.

The next time you are in New York City, stop at the Fleur De Lis restaurant to claim a free dinner. Just tell them ‘Skeeter sent you.

Warning, if you don’t enunciate the apostrophe they may not serve you.

And wink. Don’t forget to wink when you say ‘Skeeter. You have to wink or they’ll suspect something’s up.

If need-be, there’s an assistant-manager named Boomerang working there who’ll vouch for this.

 

“There’s that strange off-center balance where real enough and metaphysical can share the same room. The metaphysical is more perfect than the physical, which is not quite real as in solid permanent real, and real enough can still have undesired impact. Running from what you think you see can get you killed if you’re in a panic and lose perspective regarding where and what it is you’re running. If you’re able to run, you’re not somewhere solid real, but still somewhere near real-enough, with each and every moment of now clock-able, whether intently clocked or not, and able to be clocked after the fact. If not always truthfully or fact-fully.

“Metaphysical items are more transcend-ant than the physical, and their original identity can be changed and restored. That’s harder to do in the physical, where permanent real is king, as opposed to solid real. The problem with permanent is that it is slow, and slow-witted, and when slow-witted, be that the careful thinker or the wantonly cre-atonic, outnumber the fast-witted, running on blinding speed, a train wreck is in order, and who ever wins at playing train wreck?

“The mighty?

“Such fine, fun sport. The proving that the mighty is the-right-and-ALL-time winner while anything possibly left is a mess, until it all minuses away, empty-handed, no witness or item available to contradict or indict it.

“S-sense-less.

“Re-merged as bigggest impact ALL. Or merged with a new ALL. As such, removing a flaw is removing S-sense, making you more like everyone else. Maybe consider who you do and don’t want to be like, and whether you’d like the option to choose.

“The beauty of nothingness, if you want to call it beauty, is that it always moves straight ahead outward. It can’t be messed with or redirected. If you want to play it to a draw rather than lose, because you can’t win, you need to transcend.

“Well, maybe you can win at ALL by being ALL, but you’re hardly alone if you do. It may all seem a little nonsensical to think and talk out and about, but what is your priority if you live the addiction of neediness. Which is to say live the addiction. Neediness serves a purpose in the right proportion, as in true need, sort of like fertilizer, resulting in new growth that keeps nothingness in check.

“Can keep. Maybe more keep within sight than in check.

“What is real then? Real is that IT can end you. Can’t be proven? IT comes to everyone else, why not you? As in IT is time. Recycle time. Ready or not, there you go.”

“Frankly, all it takes to support a physical dimension is seed, EARTH, water and fertilizer, and the seed reproduces itself, while seed, EARTH and water produce fertilizer. It practically flies itself and yet people are too cre-atonic not to crash it into a hole chasing dark more-ality. Servants of black holes, which, in a sense, is what they’re supposed to be.

Sort of.

There’s an option.

Servants of ALL, versus servants of allness, and both are acceptable. And servant is overstating it, depending on what you have available to serve, and you may not be blessed with anything. It seems those who have a lot take the most and think more is their given. The neediest of the needy.

Acting on behalf of ALL or allness is doing the right thing. The problem arises in doing the right thing for the wrong reason, thinking or faking serving allness when serving arrogant, selfish-based ALL all the time, or vice versa. Being a traitor to your chosen cause. Either kill everything in sight to generate a lot of cosmic fertilizer, or help allness spread and thrive. At least know and set parameters as either or all is going overboard. But choose and stick. Hold your ground.

“Beware gaming when you choose. The option of heart cancer or brain cancer is not an option. Fast blitzkrieg death of a rotting heart versus the slow Parkinson’s death of a gluttonous, looting, self-righteous pussy of hypocrisy. Different colors of one hunger. Allowing news networks to cash in on the commercial potential of depravity.”

 

You are so dead.

Hope not? Have faith, huh?

Let ‘em bet with life on EARTH rather than greed, glorious greed.

 

|m|*

 

“What can he do?” Sylvia asked at breakfast. She joined Carac and Hjalmar as they ate theirs. She had eaten hours earlier.

“He is a mystery to me,” said Carac.

Her eyes darted to Hjalmar, who’s eyes darted to Carac. “Don’t look at me,” said Hjalmar. “He said it.”

But Mrs. P did look at him. “I don’t believe in mysteries,” she said, rather coldly. “I don’t trade in mysteries.” That was a crack meant for Carac, but Carac didn’t accept it.

“Tell her what you can do, Sir,” said Carac.

“I don’t know about the mystery thing but I can print very legibly,” said Hjalmar. “I’ve been making a map.” The statement returned blank stares. “For personal reasons. Not sure who’s.”

“When we invite someone to stay here we do so with the intent they work on building up our library,” said Sylvia. Adding volumes. Write, write louder, I don’t hear you. Or not. I may not be listening or asleep. ”That’s our intent.”

This was out of the blue for Hjalmar. Had Carac decided on his cause. Being here? Being there? At the hall?

“That’s our thrust here,” Mrs. P continued. “Other Halls focus on other things, painting, music, raising horses, building tables, building cars, providing nursing, and most multi-task. It all boils down to creating evidence for eg-stending literacy. And then burying it. If you do print with some sort of finesse there might be time for you here. But I don’t like this jabber about mysteries. Put up or get out.”

“I have seen one of his maps,” Carac chimed in. Carac hadn’t meant to bring it up, but his tongue took off on its own, as if the words in his head weren’t locked down and were affected by gravity. “It’s a thing of beauty. We had worked out a trade for my accompanying him on his journey. I think if I were to hand it over to you that in itself should cover his stay for a time.”

Hjalmar exchanged stares with Carac. He had no idea of what Carac was talking about. The map was not done, not for trade, not getting handed over to anyone, and hardly a thing of beauty. It was possibly not a map. Was the man blind?

Possibly, it seemed his deafness didn’t show.

Worse, he had no idea of where they were, when they had gotten there, and why they weren’t still in the mountains.

Nor why he was ever in the mountains.

When Carac came down to Hjalmar’s room to awaken him he had coached him on what they would say, but he was changing the plan. Purposely? Had he suddenly formulated intent and cause?

“If you can do something else I could consider letting you hang around until we have an opening of a more permanent nature. We print our own books here by hand, when we have something worth printing.” Sylvia’s half-smile turned to a frown without changing. “This is more a temporary climate as it generally stands.” As for Sylvia, seemed she was constantly pulling strings to stay there. Strumming strings.

Carac nodded at Hjalmar. He had brought him to Albaqaaaru Hall to work on his craft. That was the cause Hjalmar eventually, casually, expressed, not anticipating it would stick with Carac as it did. But Carac had business dealings and couldn’t daddle for long while Hjalmar was trying to discover what his craft was. Or where or when it was. Or if it might find him.

It was all fuzzy to Hjalmar.

“Speaking of things boiling down, how about cooking?” asked Carac “Do you need a cook?”

Both Sylvia and Hjalmar looked at Carac in surprise. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I am looking for a cook. What can you cook?”

Hjalmar’s mouth opened and closed, as he found the idea of him cooking incomprehensible.

“Look, he’s showing you how he eats. Everything,” said Carac. “Anything you can put on paper my friend here can recreate.”

Re crea eat ate.

“Anything? Are we only talking about cooking?”

“I’ve seen him make anything,” said Carac, smiling at Hjalmar proudly.

“I’ve never cooked a thing in my life,” said Hjalmar, frowning back at Carac’s insipid expression of pride.

“You can eat, can’t you?” asked Sylvia. “If you can eat you should have some idea of how to cook. When you’re done eating I’ll show you around. Maybe I can cook up a nicer room for you by tomorrow.”

*

“Where are we?” asked Hjalmar as they ascended the steps of Albaqaaaru Hall the previous evening. One second they had been in the mountains, and then they were in a small field and now they were at a house of some sort. The mountains couldn’t have been more than a block away. He wasn’t going to mention that they were virtually on top of that sound Carac couldn’t hear. Something was telling him not to.

“We’re close,” said Carac. “If you can behave we might be able to rest here a day. No matter either way, but I do enjoy my rest.”

“Behave?” What was that supposed to mean? What had or hadn’t he done to give a bad impression, Hjalmar wondered.

“One look at you and I can see you’re here to deliver havoc, young Sir. Unless you’ve come to CCC’s it.”

 

|m|*

 

Vitus Werdegas and the final tirade. No worries, it’s all about what’s done and past, irregardless of rudeness. Consequences from the past can’t get you, and who says any of it was true.

“Speaking of holes, in the metaphysical a circle can be any size and is always circling, twirling, whirling, springing, cycling and flowing. In the physical it is captured as one size per circle per moment. Clock-able particle moments, like individual frames on a roll or wave of movie film. Metaphysically, those moments stack up on top of each other rather than at the edges, and meld into one-at-once availability, creating depthness which can translate pretty easily, physically, much of the time, and ever more-so.

“With the growth of physical depth, and building with layers that don’t necessary have to be stacked, the Wiiirl-D became ever less flat, and faster as people got more creative with arranging and rearranging layers. On the other hand, stacked layers can’t really fall so easily if well-stacked, just crush-en flatter.

“I wouldn’t use the term circle when referring to a physical circle. I would say torun circle, something on the way to a torus, but meant to be thought of as a metaphysical circle, which would be redundant were one to realize a circle is metaphysical. It has infinite thought dimensionality. Pie that can never be served in full as it will never run out, unless death due you part.

“Speaking of circles, let’s talk CCC’s. Contrary counter cycles, allowing for mathing, something to math, and refutation to keep mathers on their collective toes, mathing faster as it becomes less and less necessary to manually count holes in cycles on the road to creating ALL-out new holes, along with ALL-in new holes. Of course, the way to create a hole is to build physical surroundings, which in time may or may not feed into the hole. Get a black hole to feed off of itself and you have a win. Well, maybe.

“Contrary counter cycles are infantile black holes. Mindless, in fact, as in devoid of potential for mindedness by design. Or just designness. They are like escalators, just running in a flattish circle, which ever point of view you take. Sharks are escalators, just eating what’s in their face. Most people eat what’s in their face, except their teeth and tongue and the inside of their face. Usually.”

Well, d’uh.

“The amassa’s of black holes are the thing to worry about. Possibly run and hide from them if you’re into allness. They will assimilate you, pasting their face on you for a start, passing on their necrosis.

“Optionally you could be an objectionlessist who thinks their end is the one end. A sick, peon-god sort of godlessness as thought up by a morally-stunted, child-brained, evil, over-grown, tantropic sputz with mommy daddy issues who’s happiness stopped and started at money and gold. If she was not the dark, she was the bogey-woman. Read the book – or don’t, I won’t tempt you, maybe nosh on salty Russian mud for a month, or two, or three, instead. Some animals get nutrients from mud.

“Who are her villains? Spouses, siblings, mothers, children and paragraphs. The good guys are mega-rich daddies. And even the very very best daddies are dolt enough to step aside for a daddy a smudge better when it comes to who gets to rescue Princess Lemmiwinks.

“Supermen, maybe, or so they may think.

“Super people? Hell, not.

“You’d half think the book was part of a conspiracy to re-establish Russian Tsar-ism here, but doing away with friend and families so as to eliminate possible ties to outward responsibility and obstacles to being emperor/empress sooner. How? Heck, an objectionlessist has it all perfectly thought-out before they’re born. Grow a brain already.

“And when politi-turd PR men calling themselves Christian hand out her bible of hate to staff as a more-all guide, you can be sure the scheming of the ultimate betrayal of humanity is in the works.

“Where have you gone, King Kong? Are you listening? Anti-GODzirra is creating a buzz. GOD shmod. What is it to be godless? It’s really nothing to do with any serving of GOD, or servicing of the greater grid.

“Freaking Russians and their magnum opuses. Every book by Solzhenitsyn said the same thing, over and over – “SOS, SOS, SOS . . . Help, we’re trapped in a block of timeless ice with nothing to do but get shot or get lived to death.” An iceberg headed this way. SOS – Same Ol’ Same Ol’ Same Ol’ . . .

 

For a little random fun, look at the top ten of this list of reader favorites:

 

http://www.modernlibrary.com/top-100/100-best-novels/

 

“Realizer is another item to be attached to the sirs and hers list. In a sense, the hers own it and the sirs run it. Either sex may apply for either role, potentially. All are mail delivering the goods, and the lesser than and better than, the good enough and the best. It’s good enough if it doesn’t get you dead, which is good enough for you, say the mighty, until living simply isn’t cost effective enough, and they grow bored with living people to death. The small small small ALL army of IT’s who want to be the master. The one bigggest amassa. The cre-aton king. The great black-holed colon of darkness disguised as a golden gollum built on and of and off of cre-aton-ism. The ones that come naturally and the ones that are engineered.”

“From Adam to atoms to a-ton of blood-money. Long leading the innocent and unfortunate, baptized into the community of guilt that feeds the hunger of the clergy-men. The meta-experts who are above living, as it is such an aberr-ant past-time. Where nuns and nuts with beads of nots hole-up like ants scheming to clean up dirty girls and boys by pumping them up with arrogance. As for the consequences of actually earned and deserved all too-yummy guilt, they’ll let that pass over for a price.

“Pass over where? Over here, over there, over over everywhere.

“Of course the scientific definition of people is casualties waiting for them to happen. Why should a scientist care about anyone except as a financial contributor? If someone isn’t a co-conspirator, stick ‘em on a money farm and grow some money to power and empower the amassa’s.

“I’d mention the name of the grand amassa, not as person but as the name of the most distant infantile hole-particle, but that might be so rude as to be counter-productive. Let’s just rename it a zindler, half swindler, half unzip-able brain emptied of conscience, the peon speck-sized king of hatred and criminal arrogance. Of course making people totally non-productive is the biggg game, letting robots and machines think and do it all.

Where the self-righteous stop at planning on disasters instead of avoiding them, you can be certain any survivor with the knack, desperate for survival, will take robots and machines any and everywhere they can go, exploiting every last item anyone doesn’t want to do.

“It’s not like the internet can be used to steal your identity or anything. Right? Then what? And that’s the question. What can be taken next that you can’t imagine? Or where can you be taken? Build a weapon or machine that can do anything, and see what it does.

“Just remember the leash.

 

As such, another little item on Hermann’s plate was a defensive WMP.

A weapon of mass-transportation.

And why did our brainiacs out to mass-murder Iraqis betray their physicistics and us by leaving those physicistics to the enemy? Physicistics are the mothers of destruction. Trying to capture lightning in a bottle, and then see how biggg they can get it to be and how fast it can light up everything and everyone in a flash.

Just gotta love a bush, all those driveling, pissing dogs.

As for that chain in command swearing he’d do it over, of course, it was just too much depraved, degenerate fun and slaughter the first time to pass up a second chance.

 

“There is a subtle but stark transition at large and in play. A pivot? Divot? Think of religious paintings and the presentation of saints. From their having a halo’d-discus as a stationary and nowhere flat dot, or disc, perhaps atop a bottomless cylinder of lightness and EARTH. . . to the having of a halo’d-torus as EARTH in GODly and GOLDly circular orbit . . . to our all but totally material now of saint-less, senselessness and godlessness of so-called earned imagined money expanding exponentially relative to the same ol’ same ol’ units of time spent earning it – earn, right – along with the addition of digitalia as our fingers crawl over keyboards like metaphysical spiders transmitting our thoughts at our fingertips, alchemically derived from hermetically sealed away gold, with more and more clocks that are losing circularity, just faces of streaming – screaming – number patterns, racing open-mouthed face first, folding in-place headed nowhere.

Natural patterns that mathers seem to discount as not patterns or natural. Either without purpose, or as allies of the invasion of in-humanoid black holes, the paranormals identifiable as amassa’s – readily identifiable per necrotic grinning flesh dripping from their skulls where once a face could be pseudo seen – out to flatten the EARTHverse.

“As if they have a chance.

“Flatten away people?

“All but done.

“Spread the word? What word? About what?

“Not going to happen.

“Is not-all going to still happen?

“It’s always happening. That’s something to bank on. Nothing and nothingness doing it’s job.

“To sum up, our ride changed from atop a dot, to upon a sphere, to within an orbit, turning that bottomless cylinder sideways, curling it up on the way, midway, removing the bottomness altogether. Or has the bottom fallen out? Moving us from solid ground to lost in space.

“And are we barely holding place?

“In a sense, words are as theoretical as quantum particles, but infinitely more manually manipulate-able. As such, every letter and number and punctuation mark, all the marks, represents a speck of spent potential. Granted, you have the potential to generate god-zillions of them, even if those god-zillions add up and add away after ninety years or so. As such more, that’s quantifiable as time-able potential, and in-humanoid black holes are hungering for it. Maybe they’re not the bad guys in the divine sense, but fuck them all to hell none the less, as they do unto you.

“Or not. Play your side, hand or cards as seems sensible based on what you know and believe of your S-senses.

“As for creation-ism, frankly, whether one is pro or against creation-ism, pro or anti-knowledge, creating dead head space to commercially exploit is the order of the day, and dead space is where you make it.

“Get money flowing into outer dead space and the cre-atons will follow it. Dead head space will flatten the Wiiirl-D all and evermore for as long as ever as a two-way game, and as long as ever may be closing out. Leading to all out servicing of the local black hole and lesser amassa’s, wanting to know where you are and what you want, and telling you where to go and what you want, absorbing you into identitylessness, apart from the total darkness as dark, the non-anti-presence thing-a-ma-jig.

“People think attitude is something kingly, and there may be cause for attitude, but no one has a right to attitude. Attitude doesn’t get it done. Attitude is the mother of bullying. Arrogance is it’s sibling. It’s another inside-out deal. Attitude and arrogance built in and bubbling out at the un-blessed who take it in and deliver it back with physical viciousness. The cycle of vicious intelligence generating intelligent viciousness. Democrats building republicans ad nauseam. And today’s schools are building the bullies of tomorrow.

When it comes to rights, watch out for the mighty saying who has what rights and who doesn’t, banking on the conspiracy of injustice to support them and serve whoever can buy it.”

“Ka fuck?” asked Dale.

“Expelling rather than enriching your potential creates dead head space, which metaphysically projects and explains our expanding EARTHverse and the thinning out of time, and is the path of innocently born cretin to cre-aton. A wanton cretin. And you can’t reason with either, cretin or cre-aton. They are things of the war of might and maybe and maybe not and definitely not. The war of losers.

“Free-dumb peons with no voice, just the ability to howl, versus free-from any morality-of-more-ality of the amassa’s, the criminally arrogant, amassa zindlers, like a pigBill one or pigBill two, or amassa murdering Dastardly Dick or Grotesque George. It’s not as if Donny Darkness can spread all that much harm, not unless his face is seen for the face of us as a monster, begging to be attacked.

“Do you truly expect a wealth of blessings from army of one imperial criminalist amassa’s who don’t care what anyone thinks apart from capitalist idealism, who need you to need? Again, like anything, just criticizing addictively zero-ing in full-time on capitalism for your eternal, every day need for as much daily bread as you can beg, borrow or steal.

“That zindler finger is pointed at the true lowest low-life’s, fiends of bestial hate and gluttony, the true sub-animals out to live people to death for fun and profit, where the N-word rightly applies to it’s deliverers, colorlessly. The path from hating the beast to hating being the beast, a cause for self-destruction. I would bank on self-destruction and just find cover.

“Any advice out of all this, even if from a home-grown alien – let and make the true fighters and survivors out there grow some brains. You get someone motivated, most likely they’ll grow brains on their own to support their interests.

Home grown alien? Ooh that Hermann Strumm.

“And ALL is good. Eg-cept maybe for all the dead head spaceness comprised of physical potential that can burn all time away in a flash, and bring the EARTHverse caving in and crushed flat. A new black hole. And maybe even that would be a good thing.”

“Yada yada yada,” said Holly. “That is SO last semester. Where is this getting us with time travel?”

 

  • Know your zone aid

 

Ooh that Hermann Strumm.6

 

Quant?m magyck. When it came to quant?m magyck-spells to get from here to there, or get some item from here to there, what beats – “Take out the garbage.”

No, it doesn’t always work. It needs fudging and nudging. “Take out the garbage, NOW.”

And worse.

“Take out the garbage, NOW, MISTER, or you are GROUNDED!!!”

Hjalmar, there’s your answer to the Grace conundrum.

Might require a little work to unfold the mystery, but what doesn’t?

What does.

Every last thing, else, other and item does.

Bringing us to Dump 999.

There was a dual nature as to Dump 999 as in that it had a dual nature.

Some explanations are short.

As somewhat hinted at, Dump 999 was creating a mess, but the EARTHverse built in conjunction with it wouldn’t give up on it. It was so well located, which is how black holes operate, drawing you into their location any way any how, such as in having a good location.

A location such as where-ever and ever-where. Along with underwear, and all sold at Branson’s, found in row 19.

The theory arose that a second EARTHverse, or more, might draw the grip of Dump 999 away from EARTHverse one to that second verse, which was essentially the same as the first, and it did draw it away, but just a proportion of it. It were as if they played the hole to a draw, but in doing so they found the time to mine some time out of mine.

Is it just me or do you look confused?

Not my mine, of course, metaphysical mineness.

What seems more probable – random solid zist, or absolute nada? Which could you build or create anything from? EARTHverse one bought into the notion of random solid zist, or maybe zing, and assumed Dump 999, as any black-hole would, had consumed a lot of solid zist, maybe making it less random. Of course all black-holes think the same, as in not.

To slow the consumption of the EARTHverse they came up with the idea of creating something else for Dump 999 to consume out of something else. They did it by firing a bullet bomb of sound, which carries more time than light does, with speed of light tryckery, confusing already mindless Dump 999, making the escalator blink as it were and cross it’s III’s, creating TTT’s.

Sound at that speed was warp-speed relative to the stuff of light traveling.

It’s the dual nature deal involving point of view and contrast.

But what happens when you warp sound-carrying time? Everything in that time warps. If not at once, then in time. Haven’t you ever wondered the real reason why everyone is nuts?

Split personality syndrome? Think an EARTHverse personality split seven billion ways, then doubled and tripled and counting. Always always always counting. Work personality, husband/wife personality, best friend personality, second best friend personality, brother/sister 1, 2, 3 personality. Fun-time personality.

The potential is there to fix the splits, but it isn’t getting done. The potential isn’t being managed. The true Bossche Bolers who can pick up splits and fix them are too few.

Fixing split personalities is a bitch, as is just living with them.

Hiding from them is a full time job in itself.

Go nuts.

Shoot at the darkness. Or do point of view adult entertainment. Something, anything, where you simply can’t miss making or hitting your mark or target.

Be obvious.

The beast is hungrier.

 

|m|*

 

And on and out some more, and a little more lightly.

“Let’s try to start with where we’re coming from,” said Vitus. “Consider a know-able starting point of lightness, darkness and nothingness – totaling ALL, the un-know-able, the flaw that creates perfection. To recap, lightness is difference, darkness, when not addiction, is the pursuit of all a la the ongoing need for a little more nearly all the time, which can and does add up, and nothingness is the minus’ing out of all, the reset button. ALL into allness, into ALL, head-on again into allness. No change in direction, or need of direction, needed.”

“Wait, what’s the flaw?” asked Holly.

“Not knowing ALL, neither necessarily in part nor in total. Born understanding ALL but knowing nothing. A poisonous snake is born ready to poison and consume on it’s own. Infants are pretty helpless, on full-time, fairly futile, absorbing-ALL status. If they get a bad break with the wrong sort of objection-lest parents objecting and negating on their behalf, they may be pushed onto the path of all-out-permanent . . . trying to absorb-ALL . . . status, as an anti-allness dead-end unto themselves where understanding anyone else beyond knowing and playing to their weaknesses is an insufferable burden. A ten ton blob of amassa-black dolt peddling foot-powder. Or worse, not to knock foot-powder salesmen. A man’s gotta work to pay off those college loans. But OH so such a luridly leering blobbb.

“We’ll never get anywhere if I explain it all now. From those three starting-point coordinates merging into one come physical time and dimension and spaceness – identifiable presence. Identifiable, not necessarily identified. One is inclined to bend presence as shows preference to themselves, but presence doesn’t show preference except as bent.

“Unlike all the rest, timeness is biggger than all space combined with space not having much in the way of weight while time has quite a bit of S-sense in way of wait.

“Dimensions are a thing of room, room for more. Room for rearranging allness. What is space but room within a room? And what happens to space when it is taken? It transcends with what takes place, with what takes up room. It becomes spaceness. Are you with me?”

“No,” said Dale.

“No, not so much,” said Holly.

“It’s the what that shares room that gives time presence, adding spaceness and making it metaphysically pliable. Clock-able. Spaceness or metaphysical space, as opposed to physical time. On a different track from the bodily gag reflex, the mind blocks you from seeing physical time because your addiction to your own body of allness prevents you from a willingness to fuse with time or any item of time, which would fix you in permanent greater dimensional place.

“Not sure I’d recommend that.

“Nor would fusion with time actually happen, as we’re already fused. It’s less like trying to fly than trying not to fly. Which sort of brings to mind the movie The Matrix. Remember the message? “DO SQUAT. Watch and wait. Talk, or sit back and wait for the sequel and more fashionably vapid leather, arrogant attitude, and more more more peonic fight scenes. Money making movie making. Can’t pass up that chance. Money, measure our success by money.” Why the hell would computers put people into such lousy simulations? It seems stupid, clearly an idea embedded in cre-atons. Granted, I didn’t watch any of the sequels.

“Something that transcends, an item that transcends, retains it’s identity whereas an item that fuses loses it’s identity. When you pass on, the spaceness you occupy will return to it’s original state as physical time, the dimensional holder of potential. At least the original time you took. Remove spaceness and you revert to potential, with the potential for you having been proven and maybe spent. The powers that be decide.

“Your parents essentially fused you into a separate item via egg and sperm and lost or gave some of their identity to you. Their matter still eg-zists with you, but it has your identity, and a fraction of their spaceness. Still, you eg-zistend them. You delay their full loss of identity and presence to a greater ALL as in your being a time being, last year’s model that is, if it is you even have identity and presence.”

“I think I understand that,” said Dale, “but I don’t think it explains space and room.”

“What don’t you understand about space being room within a room?”

“That we understand,” said Holly, “but it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

“OH right, you want to relocate somewhere back in time,” said Vitus sarcastically.

“Personally, I don’t,” said Holly. “I was just inquiring. How would you get in the past? Does it stop at just reviewing the recording.”

“You’re talking about manipulating the flowing of a wave of nowness, and probably more than one, if not billions. That’s called playing GOD. Eg-cept that’s sort of playing bad GOD, because the contrast to outwardness is implosion. Backward is just a type of outward. Implosion is all about nothingness, sending you towards the fertilizer of potential, and then headed who knows where? Going outward again? But let’s examine an alternate process. If you were in dire need of a tree to climb, would you find a seed and grow one or look for one to climb?”

“Of course I’d go with finding a tree,” said Holly. “But what if there wasn’t a tree where I needed to climb?”

“Is it that you need a tree, or just to climb? You might wonder if limb evolved from climb or vice versa.

“Or I might not wonder,” said Holly. “Why would I ever need a tree to climb?”

“Eg-zactly,” said Vitus. “All you ever really need is the getting from here to there when it comes to moveness. Unless you can pull off getting there to here.”

“Moveness?”

“Or motionness. It depends on if what you really want is simply to climb. But there’s want and there’s need, and an equitable midpoint.”

“Timeness, moveness, motionness. So what’s that all about?” asked Dale.

“No doubt that’s about getting somewhere,” said Vitus. “Some where, be it getting there or getting it here. Or simply staying where, dodging waves of dark dreams trying to displace you.

“Navigating quant?m eg-zistencia. Making your time machine ahead of time with locks and no key so it can’t be tampered with, the way this EARTHverse was made.

“Eg-cept . . .”

 

|m|*

 

Arriving as they had in the middle of the night, Hjalmar did not get a good look at the neighborhood. He wasn’t aware there was a neighborhood. He thought the park they passed through was a field. Not that any of that mattered the next morning.

“Once upon a time our park back here was all backyards, garages and an alley,” Sylvia explained. “That was before FOE found the Hall and bought all the houses, tore half of them down and rebuilt them, remodeled the rest and merged all the yards into one.” She spread her arms and rotated one full turn. “Now this block is a living community that can come and go.”

“FOE?”

“As in the FOE Society?” asked Sylvia. “The writer? Geoffrey Fillmore Foe?”

“Can’t say I know the name.”

“Well, he is rather local,” said Sylvia. “He’s a regular visitor to the Hall.”

“The Hall?” asked Hjalmar. She had been saying that without explaining.

It was with all her heart that Sylvia wanted to run off Hjalmar, to flatten him before he got comfortable, and she would, but not before it was too late. “The Hall way?” she asked, thinking Hjalmar was playing her. The Hall was the heart of the community, it’s castle, for starts. The holder of it’s sense of humor. Ha.

“The Hall way?” asked Hjalmar.

“The exchange?” she asked.

“The exchange?” Hjalmar asked.

“Are you just going to keep on repeating me?” she asked.

“I’m not going to repeat that,” he said.

“Halls of literacy that supply the tools and encouragement to create depth and depths,” Sylvia tried to explain. “And practice communality, maximizing difference in like-minded people with a common goal, in case it’s ever needed come the day professional-grade survival is called for. Who would would-be rescuers rescue be their seven billion people to rescue with no place to put them all let alone move them all? Those who can’t be bothered to survive on their own behalf while trying to disease anyone else they can with dosages of flatness and fat?

“We call the process, of sampling allness as much as one can to pinpoint one’s ultimate potential creative mastery, or simple mastery of more or multiple callings, finding one’s honey. Truly, a lot of learning is initiated via mimicry and just seeing what is out there and available. One can’t even mimic the good life if they never even see it. Or maybe cop a quick feel to see what’s real. Good enough at living is not good enough. Maybe for a you, and a you probably didn’t want in, or out.”

Black hole monster-chow, that was the you-bus ticket.

“They?” asked Hjalmar. “Who is they. FOE?”

“FOE? I don’t know,” said Sylvia. There was a lot she didn’t know, and she knew it.

Never in her wildest dreams, or nightmares, did Sylvia think the Halls would ever finally set sail, even if to just meander about the harbor without a rush to get any where. But Hjalmar had a good point, maybe attached to a needle, set to mend the tears in the sails of the Hall.

“And we’re on EARTH?”

Sylvia puzzled at that. Were they on EARTH? Or on the Wiiirl-D as a separate place? The two places at once? Either place? In between the two? Was the Wiiirl-D a place of quarantine for mankind until the threat of their contagion passed or EARTH decided to blow them away?

The Hall building itself was a peculiar looking three story Victorian, or something close to it. It looked like a building meant to give the impression of being Victorian. It was brightly painted with seemingly a different color for every different aspect that had been tacked on.

“What’s in the basement?” asked Hjalmar, pondering the humming, thinking the sump pump was struggling. The Strumm pump?

“Youuuu wouldn’t happen to be the mechanic we’re waiting for, would you?” The humming was driving everyone crazy. Not the sound, which no one was hearing, but the vibration. It was making teeth chatter. She really hoped he was and didn’t really hope it for a second. Seamstress seemed suddenly likely, but that was rude.

“The mechanic?” asked Hjalmar. “What sort of mechanic?” Not that he was any sort.

“Never mind,” said Sylvia.

 

|m|*

 

Vitus was still going. “Quant?m eg-zistencia is an egg dominant universal system of presentation and exposure of presence and identity, and believe you me you want to stand clear of presence without identity. And the larger the presence, the more likely it will want to absorb you without prejudice.

“Eggs are a way of life for us, but not the only way of life, leaving open the possibility – probability? – of other dimensional universe systems. Where there is thought process – metaphysical quant?m code, coding and decoding – there is universal dimension housing it. Our thought process is highly dependent on the SUN, and who’s to say other stars are not involved, sending out code on a highly delayed basis. Word as cosmic DNA. Maybe even black holes send out code, a la vibration. Soundless, as in sound lost, all but un-felt vibration, gently designing images in the sands of time in your mind.”

 

Stop me, I think I’m going to puke.

 

“Let’s talk trees a bit more. You know my house and the tree in my front yard.”

“Yes, we know Stephen well,” said Holly. Stephen was in fact a great climbing tree when squirrels weren’t around, but even then a great climbing tree for squirrels. “But how is this getting to time travel?”

“What’s with that anyway? Are you trying to design a time machine for your final paper?” asked Dale.

“I said no already. But I don’t know where this chat is going. What happened to the time element?”

“It’s there,” said Vitus. “Pay attention. We’ve known and recorded that tree at various weights for five years.” Longer. Seemingly forever. Holly and Dale had both ridden Vitus’s knee back in the day, if not at the same time.

“We know of a specific particle of a now-and-then randomly recorded tree within a wave of treeness that we assume as always being there, an assumption carrying more weight with three of us recording rather than one. As particle and wave they virtually lie one on top of the other, separated only by us, spacing them ever so slightly. More length than that five years certainly, but let’s just say one five year big particle of now. Meaning a particle of a single tree-recording that transcends our individual waves, even at rest. The five years of that tree being where we recorded it, or just the when of where we recorded it, is an infinite fact, maybe making one wonder if it’s necessary to call a fact infinite. For the time being, no doubt it is necessary. The day may come it won’t be possible.”

“As in the day people no longer exist?” asked Dale.

“Yes. Does there have to be space before there is potential for it? If our universe exists, the potential for our universe exists. It, the potential, has always existed, proven by it, the universe, being here, unless it really isn’t here. There’s no reference point either way. It’s an absurd question to ponder while cre-atons are dismantling timeness, bleeding the future from it.

“When that tree no longer eg-zists, it’s treeness still will. Quant?m treeness. Perhaps an item of scientific note, if not noteworthy scientists. Maybe no longer record-able but timed nonetheless. If an item is named something or anything, it is identified as having the potential to exist, to a certain eg-stent. Eg-zisting validates the potential to eg-zist, making an item clock-able, thus possible. It takes time to think anything, and there was potential for you to think what you thought.

“But let’s back up. Say I die before the tree. Some of the treeness will minus out with me. Some awareness. Presumably, although the tree itself would presumably remain. If you two die or simply forget the tree, that specific tree, more awareness of the tree will minus out until no doubt eventually all awareness of the tree will minus out when the actual tree and it’s projection of awareness or aware-ability minuses out. The clock-able treeness will still remain, even if not in a clock-able state. When all people minus out – if – will the quant?m of the treeness minus out further, leaving just random clock-ableness for treeness? Then just the placeness for treeness, and then just placeness, and then just ness?”

“Can or does the minus-ing out ever stop? The nothingness? The wave of nothingness. Could it reverse direction at potential for minus’ing, at OH, or the last C – the anti-cycle – as OH starts to disintegrate into a C, a reversal via open pivot point where nothingness has become identifiable new allness to attack, as it is onlyness – - – Own – ly . . . the lo-OHOHn-lyyy . . . – - – heading back to potential for placeness? Not needing direction, just the swing of it as that open C, or breaking OH, that allows nothingness to escape from the cycle.”

 

Thus explaining how washing machines and laundry-detergent work hand-in-hand, side by side doing away with those dirty rings.

Roy Orb is SUN?

 

“Is potential for placeness the power of GOD? Not proof of GOD, nor deity, nor divine intervention, simply common design. Is there among the powers of GODness an ability to transcend timeness and create outward from inwardness simultaneously creating inward from outwardness at that pivot point, if it were ever to get to that point, if it were that it wasn’t always in play? Or somewhere in that ballpark. Ballpark? Is there where EARTHness comes to rest? Just park the ball over there and wait for her to get better.”

“Are you saying you believe in GOD, Professor?” asked Holly.

“Is that what I just said sounds like? I believe in the potential of GOD-like consequences. We may be carriers of those consequences. We may all have a dose of GODness. Abandon yours to cre-atons, looters and machines, any ol’ belly crawling monster of arrogance, at your own peril. See what happens. Is anything more critical than your own personal undeserved armageddon? Or is it damned-well deserved? Is it out there stalking you like a cat waiting for a critical mis-step?”

Holly and Dale held their breath at what seemed accumulating uncharacteristic grimness on the part of Professor Werdegast. But Holly, for one, was made of sterner stuff.

“What does any of that have to do with time travel?” she asked, maybe thinking a relocation in time might stave off personal armageddon, were one even a carrier of identity.

 

|m|*

 

The first floor of the hall seemed to be mostly about food, preparing it and eating it. There were so many circularities it nearly drove Hjalmar mad. Plates, bowls, pots, glassware, the food itself, the burners on the stoves, the light fixtures, everything to do with food. He felt a whirl that was distorting. There were two large kitchens and three dining rooms. Thank goodness for the squareness of the dining rooms. Man needs his angles, even if they’re not always right.

One of the dining rooms was for breakfast, one for lunch and both were used for dinner. The third was a formal dining room for entertaining specially invited dinner guests. Bernie Shaw, the pro golfer, and his family were expected later that day. Not invited, just sort of a casual-maybe let’s-see for a look-see.

Everyone in the immediate community was welcome to dine, and most did, or so Hjalmar was told. He had practically encountered no one. A large library served as a meeting room for conducting Hall business and for entertaining visitors invited for a meal. There was also a smaller library for manuscript copying, writing, and random reading.

Hjalmar was put on the team that prepared lunch, although he never saw anyone come to eat lunch. The staff came up with two selections of lunch every day and worked out how much each diner would get to eat based on a plan created by the current hall nutritionist, otherwise by Mrs. P. And like lunchers, he didn’t see staff, not so much, other than Mrs. P and a couple of aides. What Hjalmar did hardly counted as cooking; preparing sandwiches, pouring out beverages, divvying up fruit, but it had to be done. There was no payment in cash of course, he was on the short term room and board exchange plan.

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Sylvia asked Carac. “I can certainly use him up, keep him busy, but why did you bring him?”

“He’s suffering from optimism, maybe even some hope. I don’t know what he was doing where he was.”

“So you’re just thinking to store him for a rainy day?” On the plus side, the Hall was currently low on both hope and optimism. “Does he have something to be optimistic about?”

“Not that I can see.” Sylvia and Carac were sitting out on one of the large porches that surrounded every floor of the hall. They were on the first floor and Carac pointed at the sidewalk. “We need to talk, Sylvia. We need to get out of here, let’s walk.”

“We can’t get out of here,” said Sylvia. “That’s one of the rules, here and now.” There might come next, but here always came now. The mystery of the outside becoming outer inside, the un-measurable point of time, the flaw that made it perfect.

Ooh that Hermann Strumm. Just sayin’.

It was early afternoon and it was unusual for Sylvia to let Carac get away with not calling her Mrs. P, or not be engaged in one of her duties, or enraged with one of her underlings. That might be exaggeration.. Something about Hjalmar being there put her off, made her drop her guard, caused her to relax.

“I haven’t time for a walk at the moment, Mr. Carac. I haven’t time to be speaking to you right now.”

“I will lend you time from my stash. I have plenty of spare time coming to me. Lets’ walk,” said Carac, heading down the steps with Sylvia helplessly in tow.

Sylvia had been born in Egypt, was in her early fifties but could have passed as forty, had black hair and eyes, kept fit, enjoyed a little hard work, was divorced, the mother of a daughter who was staying near her father, but just near him. Shani, her daughter, didn’t particularly get along with either of her parents, but she was young enough to still feel comfort having one nearby.

As of yet, Sylvia wasn’t sure she accepted the divorce and told her husband it was still on a trial basis, regardless of what any court said. His new wife would just have to deal if the divorce didn’t hold. When the Hall position fell in her lap she sort of forgot about defying the divorce. She even forgot about defying the universe, now and then. She might have moved to Albaqaaaru Hall whether she considered herself married or not.

Once they were out of sight of the Hall, Carac got confidential. It was that very fact that explained a lot, or suggested a lot needed explaining, not about Carac, but that the Hall had sight along with site. Dual awareness in play as it were. Not that Carac didn’t require a lot of explaining, too.

Carac speaking of a stash of time was totally over Sylvia’s head, but the claim made her feel something. She couldn’t feel much, but she felt his presence had a pull on her. “Has Hermann Strumm been here?”

“Hermann Strumm?” asked Sylvia. “Don’t know the name.”

“I was supposed to intercept him in the mountains and came upon Hjalmar instead. Knowing Hermann I suspected something like that would happen.”

“Some things never change,” mused Sylvia.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Carac.

“Just musing.” She was musing over what Carac knew, seemingly everything. And yet, he seemed to understand nothing. It was a constant about him.

“I have to tell you something that might rattle you, Sylvia, but I’m afraid that’s part of the point of my being here.”

Sylvia let the statement sink in. “Rattle away,” she said.

“It’s about this place, this whole place.” He stopped and spread his arms much in the way Sylvia had to express the community of Albaqaaaru Hall.

“The whole place? What place? The town?” The tow’n. The tone.

“The whole of this time we share.” A time-share in place. “Under normal circumstances we exist part-time,” said Carac. “We are born, we die, at least on the surface of things. We do not occupy a place forever, full time, not the one, same place. Does that make sense? Can you follow that?”

“Maybe.” Not always, but sometimes Sylvia had an aspect about her that you might call bounce. She could let go and process information for days if need be and accept change that seemed necessary, like it or not. Sometimes.

“Perhaps we occupy something other than place after death. Argue that a GOD does or doesn’t take place full time, it isn’t relevant now. You do occupy a place in time, in eg-zistence. You are taking place now. Do you disagree?”

“Well, I hope I’m taking place.”

“Good, because here’s the rub, you aren’t taking place here, at least not in a normal manner, not part time as it were. You are here on a temporary basis.”

Sylvia began looking around her. Her thoughts went immediately to her waking dreams and that point floating above her bed and she understood something was up. Quaint. “Temporary?”

“I don’t know how, I don’t know why. I just know it’s happening. To me it’s obvious. When I told you you were taking place, in point of fact, you take many places, countless places and are made up of countless places. You have a heart taking place, lungs, a brain, all of your parts, all lined up alongside one another, and all of these things are made up of cells all lined up alongside one another, all taking place in their own packets of time. Timing is a constant whirl of places. But this place now is one place, one temporary place of imagining, where places have morphed into one. Perhaps one packet. One artificial packet. I presume you’re off somewhere else being yourself even as we speak. Your almost full, part-time self.”

“An artificial packet? So what’s it all about? This imagining?”

“I don’t know how, I don’t know why. I can only process so much information. More is there, but I only know it’s there. I can’t read it.”

“Information? What information?”

“I don’t know. Truth? If you attach words to truth, you start to fictionalize, irregardless of whether you’re trying to spread fiction, or non-fiction, or truth. That is the design, allowing for truth to be interpreted, misinterpreted and re-interpreted, never to be trusted, because truth doesn’t stand still, nothing stands still. Don’t you crave change?”

“Me? Why do you ask? Why do you ask if I crave it?” She had always been more of a fan of exchange. Did exchange maybe slow change?

“Hjalmar asked me if this was EARTH,” said Carac. “He is nearly aware of something.”

“He asked me, too,” said Sylvia. “He hears, too. I think he hears here.”

“I’m sure of it. I’ve tested him.”

Sylvia stopped abruptly. Or not. She realized the soundlessness of that place where they were now, that she was almost sharing in what Sydney thought as he thought it, as if she were a recorder recording what Carac was thinking, without the intermediary step of live sound passage. She had a distorting memory of being able to hear live sound. Was sound ever live? Alive? A quick bounce among many.

She understood that her holding temporary place limited her, slowed her clocking, kept her from over feeling, from getting overly hung up on knowing. From possibly being rattled? “Is here going to change, Sydney? Is that possible?” Could it somehow branch?

Where Sydney had no understanding, Sylvia had complete understanding, only lacking in information, especially so in her temporary state, which can be handicapping when one craves foresight. Such was how Constants and Controls were incorporated to protect the Wiiirl-D from itself, and keep us safe in the Wiiirl-D. Safe-ish. But was this temporary place in the true Wiiirl-D?

No, not so much.

“I suspect now is going to change. Just continue to steer the course, but be aware that what you do still matters,” said Carac. “Havoc will have it’s say.”

“Steer what course? Havoc?”

“The Hall way. All ways.”

“Sydney, stop the Wiiirl-D. I want to get out already.”

“That’s just it. Once it stops, no one gets out.”

 

|m|*

 

Hjalmar was done with his lunch duties for the day and found himself with nothing to do. Earlier Sylvia had told him to read or write or take a hike after lunch, find some way to amuse himself on his own. Stop clocking and try imagining. Albaqaaaru Hall was slow paced, he shouldn’t obsess himself with being busy every minute of the day. Busy-ness could take care of itself.

He found himself contemplating the map that was making his unconscious itch. He drew a little sketch of Mrs. P. It seemed the thing to do. What he drew didn’t look a thing like Mrs. P, or a Mrs. or Ms. or Miss. or Mr. anyone. Still, he knew what she was, on paper. As he was doodling in the library, he was closest to the door when the visitors arrived.

“We’ve come to do our bit,” said the man, apparently speaking for the group of four which Hjalmar deduced to include the man’s wife, daughter and son. “I am Bernie Shaw, this is Theresa, young Sam, and Toni.”

“Gods,” said Hjalmar. “It’s really you.” He let them into the foyer and realized something wasn’t right. The foyer wasn’t round. After the round kitchen terror, imagine that square foyer disturbing him. He stared at the ceiling, not seeing what wasn’t there. His distraction was noted by the guests.

“Something wrong?” asked Bernie.

“What’s he looking at, Dad?” asked Sam.

“Quiet, son.”

“I haven’t been here long,” said Hjalmar. “I hadn’t realized a mistake in the design. If you blink you could miss it.” Hjalmar tried to regroup, having been stunned by the breach he noted in the structure of the Hall’s foundation, and lead them into the library where he quickly arranged five chairs in one of the room’s eight corners. All throughout the Hall effort had been made to introduce or try to suggest circularity, not to dominate, but to add balance and nuance. The library was octagonal.

It wouldn’t come to him until later, but what Hjalmar had noted was 80/20 balance was stretched beyond it’s safe limits.

Bernie explained they hadn’t been invited, although they were expected, how they heard about the cause and wanted to do their bit, and not by buying off their time. They wanted to work the eight hours a year.

Albaqaaaru Hall fell under the umbrella of FOE, an organization devoted to raising appreciation of EARTH, they claimed, suggesting it was everyone’s duty to work on behalf of EARTH and the human dimension eight hours a year at equal caloric trade market value, where-ever your EARTH was. Or one could do forty hours one week and take care of five years at a crack. There was always a little play allowed with the rules, or a lot. FOE’s stated goal was to hire all seven billion of the people living on the planet.

It had yet to advertise any openings.

There was no rush.

It was Bernie who explained FOE to Hjalmar. “We believe life on EARTH comes with some duty. So where do we begin?” FOE also believed EARTH wouldn’t let men descend from the Wiiirl-D to live with EARTH until he accepted some duty. That might have been wishful thinking, even though EARTH might be the ultimate plug separating the Wiiirl-D of maildom from headless, headlong nothingness. Or maybe it was the coin of his realm. The dime in dimension.

“Did you have any ideas on that yourself?” asked Hjalmar. For not having any knowledge of the situation, he found he understood who he should pretend to be and what to say.

“Well, I’m a pro-golfer,” said Bernie.

“Hey! I found a golf ball in the yard this morning,” said Hjalmar. He had it in his pocket and took it out. “Do you guys want to play with it?” he asked young Sam and Toni. “Do you want to fetch it?” He tossed the ball through the doorway. They did want to play, but Bernie stopped them.

“Heel. Sit down,” he said. There was a pause for the instant of commotion to clear while everyone recollected their place in the conversation.

Hjalmar leaned towards Sam. “How old are, Sir?”

“Five,” said Sam. His sister Toni was seven.

“Try not to blink so much,” Hjalmar told him. “You’ll miss things.”

“We think you have a wonderful idea here. We’d like to contribute to it. Share our blessings,” said the wife, Theresa.

“Blessings,” said Hjalmar, for some reason puzzled that she said the word.

“From GOD?” Bernie clarified, thinking Hjalmar looked puzzled.

“Really?” asked Hjalmar. “I’ve never personally met anyone blessed by GOD. I’ve met a lot of people damned by GOD. Tethered to the ceiling always looking down, held pressed in place from growing piles of money.” Hjalmar pouted while a defense field formed around the Shaws. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t GOD damning people,” Hjalmar surmised “Maybe his minions do the damning. They can certainly dam up money. Why is it you’re blessed?”

“I don’t know,” said Bernie. “We just are.” Now he was puzzled. What kind of look-see was this shaping up to be? “We do have the money to be comfortable.”

“It’s manna,” said Toni.

“Quiet, honey,” said Theresa.

“I guess a GOD-sized man has a GOD sized appetite,” said Hjalmar. “All of you are blessed?”

“GOD brought us together,” said Theresa. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bernie shaking his head no, while his lips mouthed, ‘Let’s go.’

“Why?” asked Hjalmar. “What did you do?”

“Do?” asked Theresa. Bernie was leaning forward, waiting for an opening to propel himself upward.

“Do to be blessed.”

“We love and serve GOD,” said Theresa.

“That’s all? Before or after you were blessed? What exactly does one serve GOD? How many portions can he stand? What’s the nature of the blessing?”

“Are we staying here?” asked Sam, noting his father’s obvious wish to retreat.

“Perhaps there’s someone else we could speak with?” asked Bernie. “I don’t get the impression you’re in charge here.” He squinted his eyes at Hjalmar briefly and stood. “I’m sorry to say it, but you seem very confused.”

At the suggestion he seemed confused, Hjalmar truly became confused. He felt his body temperature rise, at least his head temperature. Had he said something wrong? Of course, one person’s confusion is another’s anger. He looked down at his lap as his eyes had started blinking rapidly due to the heat of confusion, trying to clear his vision which was getting blurry. “I don’t feel well, to tell you the truth,” he said, looking up at Bernie, Theresa and their concerned children. Then one of his eyes went all out chaotic and he started winking it furiously.

“He’s a robot!” cried Sam.

His mother shushed him. “You seriously don’t look well,” said Theresa. “I’m going to look for help.”

Hjalmar stopped blinking and held his left eye shut for as long as he could before opening it and closing it again. It was as if it wanted to be open. His vision in that eye was totally blurred now, gone, a field of bright gray. He decided not to speak and Bernie watched him with concern, until he deduced Hjalmar was looking with concern back at him out of his one good eye. “Is something wrong?” Bernie asked. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

Yeah, he was looking at him that way. Hjalmar considered if he should address it considering how Carac took it. “Your halo,” said Hjalmar. “It seems to be flickering.”

“My halo?” asked Bernie, instinctively touching the top of his head. His children, who had been unusually quiet, most entranced by Albaqaaaru Hall, looked at his head curiously. He looked back at them. No one but Hjalmar seemed to see his halo.

“It’s darkened, and corroded,” Hjalmar continued. Black-holing as it were. “It’s not going to hold up. You probably shouldn’t have even come here.” He wondered why he thought that. Now that he thought about it, Mrs. P didn’t have a halo, nor her aides, either.

“Maybe not,” said Bernie. “All right, kids, we’re out of here. Let’s go find your mother.” He had the kids up and was herding them towards the door with impressive control of backspin and distance. He turned back to Hjalmar. “Something is seriously wrong with you.”

“I may have crashed into a mountain,” said Hjalmar. “I do feel on the upswing though. Where will you go from here? I wouldn’t daddle. Unless I mistake my reading, that halo of yours is running out of juice.”

“What is running out of juice? What?” asked Bernie, he had been almost away, having decided he wasn’t going to talk to this man anymore, but now he started walking back towards him following behind some attitude.

Memories were coming back to Hjalmar, but not to stay. They were impersonal, like instructions, building his identity, but it somehow seemed temporary. “Okay, I get it,” he said. “That’s not a halo, it’s a marker, a beacon, but, but, I don’t know what it is, it’s as if it were excluding lightness.”

If he were a violent man, Bernie might have put his hands on Hjalmar in some fashion of defiance. As was, he felt standing face to face might somehow intimidate him. Hjalmar continued to sit. “Excluding,” said Bernie.

“Are you an excluder by nature?”

“No!” said Bernie. “Me? I don’t even know what that is.”

“It seems you’re excluding light,” said Hjalmar. “Could maybe your blessing be about up? Or could it have broken? Is that possible? I would say something is definitely wrong. You might want to lie low. Even hide. Maybe hide yourself in faith in your lord of exclusion. I don’t know.”

“The lord of exclusion is not my lord,” said Bernie.

“Hide in faith?” asked Toni, who had found the verbal exchange riveting. “Hide from what?

“You sure can’t hide from exclusion.” said Hjalmar, his one good eye still staring up at Bernie, bouncing back and forth at each of Bernie’s eyes. “You might hide from the minions who say they do it’s bidding. Or hide with them, maybe they can help you if help them. Maybe they can recharge your thing above your head.”

“Take your brother to the car,” said Bernie.

“Come on, Sam,” said Toni, pulling on her little brother’s hand. “We have to go.”

“What’s a minion?” asked Young Sam.

 

“Halos? Minions?” asked Sylvia when her minion relayed the facts she had gathered. “Where were you when this was happening? Where was anyone? What was that idiot doing answering the door in the first place?”

Joanie grimaced. “Negative synchronicity?” she suggested.

“So you’re calling this a good thing? Our telling one of the most famous athletes on the planet that he should hide from some lord’s minions? Do you have a clue of how much that man might have donated?”

“Well, it seems worse when you put it in that sort of light,” Joanie said. “But for the record, he wasn’t going to donate. He wanted to work.”

“Mrs. P, let’s take a step back,” said Carac.

“Work? Him?” she asked. “Maybe putter in the garden? He has no place in the exchange. He’s just a switch.” As was, when Hjalmar directed Bernie to the basement and where he was dead certain Mrs. P was, there was no light switch, nor did Bernie seem to make it back from the basement after a pregnant pause in the humming vibration.

Sylvia turned to Carac. “Are you still here? I thought I asked you to pack up your mystery and take a hike. You’ve delivered havoc into our midst. Havoc!”

“Yes! Exactly. You see? It’s making sense.”

“No! I don’t see. Leave.”

Hjalmar appeared, packed, dressed as it were as he had arrived packing nothing, looking for Carac. “You coming with?” he asked.

“How dare you drive people out of my Hall?” Sylvia asked with intensity, her body temperature rising.

“Oh!” Hjalmar exclaimed happily, pointing at Sylvia’s head. “It’s coming on. Halo. Maybe. Someday.”

Sylvia glared at Hjalmar stunned, and then turned to glare at Carac. “I don’t see it,” said Carac.

“Out!”

 

|m|*

 

“As for time travel the big question is who and what is ours? Is the essence of our simply taking place a crime in some eyes? Did or does something think it owns all place? Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe we are being chased away. The chasers could be within us already, waiting for us to get within reach, watching our every move.”

Holly and Dale both instinctively looked to see if they were being watched.

“See,” said Vitus. “I saw that. That was innate.”

“That’s freaky,” said Dale.

“Life is freaky if you think about it too much,” said Vitus. “And you can be freaky if you don’t think about it enough. At all. That leaves people like Hermann Strumm to work on issues such as manipulating time and time beings.” That being maybe being Hjalmar. For now. “Stay tuned,” Werdegas said in closing, and then strode off leaving Holly and Dale a little flummoxed, but also aware that he was not heading inwards within the campus and to his office, but out of the campus, and there weren’t many places to go in Bossche Bol that were not located within the campus realm as most of Bossche Bol was physically located within the campus realm.

As was, Vitus was very concerned to have learned that Hjalmar had hooked up with Strumm, and that Hermann Strumm was not dead.

Supposedly.

Hopefully.

Holly and Dale scurried after Vitus. “Where ya goin’, Professor?” they asked in unison.

Vitus didn’t stop or slow down. When the pair caught up to him he walked faster. “What’s wrong?” asked Dale.

“Are you chasing me?” asked Vitus, looking back at them.

“Absolutely,” said Dale.

“Is this about Hjalmar?” asked Holly.

That stopped Vitus. “What about Hjalmar?” Hjalmar was Vitus’s teaching assistant, and had just missed his second straight class.

“Yes, what about Hjalmar, exactly,” said Dale. “You were clearly miffed he wasn’t in class again.”

“He’s not obligated to attend,” said Vitus. He started walking again. He knew he had to catch Hjalmar before he did something stupid.

 

|m|*

 

“I hate to leave you on your own, Hjalmar,” said Carac. “You seem more confused than I realized, and I thought that was part of a plan, but I don’t know. I brought you this far and honestly my intentions weren’t there. I don’t understand the game. I wish I could see whatever is going on through to the end, wherever that might be.”

“I appreciate that,” said Hjalmar. “No player wants to see a white sphere disappear into a black hole faster than his own. Best case scenario, though, it doesn’t end, only stops before the edge.” As is, golf may be GOD’s game. Pro-golfers have become GOD’s collective asshole, thriving off of charity.

“I have an appointment I must keep. Things didn’t go as well as they could have at the Hall, but we did almost last a day.”

“Ha, a day,” said Hjalmar. He was amused. Carac hadn’t thought him capable.

“What’s that supposed to mean? We failed to survive the day. For your own good we should separate. I have many places to go and anywhere I take you there’s going to be conflict, with people who aren’t as tolerant as Mrs. P.”

“I can find my way. We found my craft.”

This,” said Carac, looking at this, the vessels, the entities, the quant?m smudges Hjalmar proposed to use to travel. “Can I ask you something? Candidly?”

“Please.”

“I’ve looked at that map of yours over and over. It’s nothing but circles. Little circle upon littler circle.”

“Yes, I know what you’re talking about. CCC’s painted into an un-translate-able map, with no key. It couldn’t have made sense. It wasn’t done and you saw it as circles. If it missed a single point it wouldn’t make sense, especially the key point.“ Which in fact was still missing. “Of course a point is shaped like a fixed torus, not a circle. Maybe that’s why you’re not understanding.”

“Is that map some mysterious . . . formula?”

“No,” said Hjalmar. “It’s a map, but it might be a way to a formula. I, we, were in need of propulsion. Greater propulsion. I needed to calculate, not the energy, more a spark, to generate the energy to move through the ward. Don’t ask me why, but I knew I was in danger of . . .”

“Of?“

“Stopping and losing my place. Of staying at that Hall. One must move to take and hold place. And that’s what you intended?”

“That seemed the place to be. You seemed to lead us there. It seemed a good place to hole up.”

“As you yourself once insisted, today is my day. And I am owning it. You may never understand,” said Hjalmar, “but this you may be able to appreciate.” He removed the folded up paper he had been using to work on the map. It was a good full two by three foot document now, with two by three feet worth of CCC’s and more CCC’s. “Let me show you a few points.” The document was folded up like a road map, and Hjalmar showed Carac the top fold.

 

O. . .o . . . . . . . . . .o

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .O . . .O

 

O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . O . . . . . .o

 

O . . . . . . . . . . . . . .O . . .O

 

“I know you not to be malevolent, Mr. Carac. You may be a little lost, but you have attained luminescence. You need to rethink your notion of where the points lie on the line of a path. When has a line ever been straight?”

“So where do the points lie then?”

“Now, then, where, there and always, and you’re compelled to believe them. That’s the design to protect them.”

“So this section is the path disguised to look like four straight lines?”

“That would be too simple, this is an finite set of lines made to maybe look like four. Some lines are coming at you, others are retreating. Between some lines lies harmony, a type of random havoc. Between others is invisible disharmony, a type of controlled chaos. Harmony and disharmony are true, but the points still lie about where they are. One minute you’re traveling gently in one place in the dimension, expanding, contracting, flat and calm, and then an instant later you can be jarred into another place, or another time, rudely, without a net, growing with or against your will, or hurtling towards a void, if that’s really the path you want to put your hope in.”

Racing at the downward stairs of the future, into darkness so dark you may as well have your eyes closed tight

“And these points lie?”

“What have I been saying?.”

“How do you know this?”

“I knew it, I don’t know it. I can’t foresee the future and now is up for grabs. The points lie from the linings of my memory. One should try to keep the lies straight, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

Hjalmar unfolded the whole map. It was now covered on both sides. “Sydney, this is it, we are in Albaqaaaru. It may be a little shaky, but we have arrived. We have made it past the crossroads,” said Hjalmar. “See, it is in this last section, where it all came together. At this spot, this point.”

Carac looked closely and saw more of what he had originally seen. Circles, circles circles. Zeros? And dots. All tori? Points? “What am I looking at? What’s the point of a map that doesn’t tell you where you’re going until you’re there?”

“Going? It is you and I parting ways, Sir.” Hjalmar turned the page over and wrote “T” in an opening. “You your way, I mine, but the ways will never uncross and shall cross again. Again within our very own finite set of infinities.”

“I look forward to that,” said Carac.

Carac was beginning to feel maybe he had lost his own place. He had become stuck in a doorway. Half in Hjalmar’s day, and not in his own at all. Or was his a constant night and not a day? Who really crashed into a mountain? Should he go back up the mountain, he wondered, or throw himself on the mercy of Mrs. P and rest up at the hall. He could throw himself from the mountain and land on the mercy of Mrs. P. OH mercy.

“We came down from the mountain,” said Hjalmar. “That is this middle section, putting it simply. Is that simple enough? Do you need it all spelled out? We were losing ground, gently losing potential. He wrote “U” under the “T” he had previously written. “Slowly coming down. Curling within gravity. Moving too slowly to bounce.”

“Oh, we were losing potential. You,” said Carac, enunciating the ‘U’. “Of course.”

“That’s not the sound that symbol makes, not using this formula.”

“What is the sound?”

Hjalmar held out his hand, looking at his fingers and palm. He folded his hand into a fist and unfolded it. “Could you hear that? It passed quickly. It barely had a sound and I don’t have the right mouth to make it. It was more a sight.”

“Moving right along,” said Carac. “Do I also mispronounce that first symbol as tee?”

“You do. You should be concerning yourself more with the future that has just passed. And of course, here is the beginning,” he said, gesturing at the top of what he called the formula, or map. “When there was only potential for potential for potential.” Hjalmar drew ‘O’ under ‘U’. “Look at it this way, there is potential, which is you or something, potential for potential, a mother or anything, and potential for potential for potential, grandma or everything.”

“OH,” said Carac. “OH. No. Right? Not ‘OH’ either?”

“Up down, left right, right wrong, north south. You don’t seem to understand where you’re coming,” said Hjalmar. “And then there’s on off.”

“Can you enlighten me in any way?”

“You’re looking in the wrong place asking the wrong questions. I’m showing you the formula was valid. You may not understand, but you’re existence is at least somewhat not null and void. You’re more than reaction to stimuli. I felt sure that you would be of course. You’re more than just hunger.” They both glanced at Carac’s belly.

“I don’t feel enlightened. Pardon the racket, but I see tee you oh. I don’t see the propulsion you came up with.”

“Mrs. P propelled us none the less. We are here. Not there. Holding steady.”

“She did kick us out of the place. Tee, you, oh, clear as mud.” Hjalmar tapped on the written letters in reverse. “Oh you tee? Out? What?”

“I for one felt the thrust,” said Hjalmar. Thrust, or propellant, such as the last word a man hears when facing a firing squad – ‘fire’. “And with no directions there is but one way to the future – out. And within this craft he started fading away, homeward, into the white within this otherwise indescribable craft.

As many times as needed or necessary, or wished.

Finite forever.

 

Not that I’m comfortable with any of this.

 

All that is left is to burn the evidence.

 

|

v

-- > Transfer Mission Terminated < --

^

|

 

 


Out, the Way of the Water-be

Hjalmar Poelzig has found himself in an oasis from time, in a dimension of depthness. Not as much fun as it sounds, and it was lucky someone found him first. Twice. A dimension as manu-factor-ed by Hermann Strumm. Business as usual for Hermann, explorer of all that he was.. The dimension had always been there, it just needed a nudge of re-arrangement to fit right. And now the game is afoot, about getting back home without the ability to walk here.

  • Author: Richards Hall
  • Published: 2017-03-13 13:35:13
  • Words: 43103
Out, the Way of the Water-be Out, the Way of the Water-be