Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 3]

The Chapel of Impossible Things existed between the worlds; the Astral was not a friendly place to the uninitiated.  The intricate stained glass windows showed fictional works, great and small vaulting up thousands of feet into the air creating rainbows of marvelous miasma as suns and moons from the worlds outside rose and set.  But the monk praying for a miracle on the alter of the dias expected no aid.

Everyone wanted to save Christmas, but so few saved Easter.  It wasn't just about the Bunny; that was just a cover for the real work.  Pope Amazing III, the greatest of the Unknown Popes had signed the Umbral Accord over 1400 years ago; formally transferring the duties from pantheons semi retired to the rising power.  At the time, Monotheistic magic had been strong, faith stronger.  The belief of the devout had seemed unlimited in its potential and strength.

Brother Pmermer had come from a world whose stories had been stolen and the meaning of Christ so perverted that it was no longer recognizable.  That had been centuries ago.  One by one, the magic had been crushed and systematically drained until there were only a few sparkling panes left.  How hard could it be? To believe in Christ as He was, not as you wanted him to be?  And yet; and yet...

Perhaps it was that whole problem with His Father being....

Instantly he slapped himself; a penance he accepted willingly.  Such blasphemous thoughts...

But no answer was coming, and without the fulfilment of the Umbral Accord, Easter would default and Christianity among all the world would be stuck paying the bill!  Brother Pmermer couldn't let that happen! There were still good hearted Christians out there; REAL Christians not people who thought the rich should be more blessed than the poor, the strong more deserving than the meek or....he saw another panel flicker and die.  Not that one! That world had been one of the strongest of them all!

He wept and prayed all the more fervently.

The answer came, and he was most surprised to find an answer...in a miracle.

No, not a Miracle, a miracle.  A Miracle was the kind of thing the Chapel specialized in.  Lost souls from all over Christemdom; some even beyond it, came crashing through the stain glass windows, floating gently to the floor where the Sisters of Gentle Mercy healed them; heroes usually, moving on to the next battle against evil.  The chapel had done a lot of good over the years.  That was the windows were there for; what they had been designed for.

This was a knock at the door.

The monk wasn't sure what to believe at first.  He stood up finally and moved to the door, shuffling in his giant brown cassock.  The candles fluttered as he walked by.  They had not had new candles in quite some time.  Indeed, now that they had company coming through the front door, he noticed how threadbare his own robe had become.

Times were sparse for a monastic order that combined magic and Christianity.

The door opened.  There stood there an empty shell of a thing.  It had golden armor, sparkling; resplendant in fact, but there was something missing from it.  But the eyes; the eyes burned like lamp fires, no.  No.  Something else.  A yellow ball of rotten that did...not...how could something so unholy have?

It was impossible.

And it wasn't alone.

For the front door had been hard to open because it had to be opened on two different worlds at the same time.  And that was one of the reason Christianity had been perverted in so many locations.  The fewer places real Christians existed; the fewer places likely to harbor an entrance.  Indeed, in many places, such as the reality where the...thing...had stood....there were Crosses and Cathedrals, all legitimate symbols of the faith but meticulously laid out in a fashion to disrupt or dispel all magic.  ALL magic, not just evil magic.  After all, so many versions of the scripture said that sorcerors....it never said magic.  It always...so easy to misunderstand....

He signed.

But...even though the Lord had turned His face from these worlds, the architecture relied on fundamental principals of enochian lore...what WAS this thing? It wasn't evil but it WAS wrong.

But the other being? The one who had knocked the door on one of the few worlds still lit...was a curiosity to behold indeed.

Hardly a hero.  Dressed in chainmail, the figure was covered in bandoliers with small potion bottles of every color and variety.  He had a sack of magic, boots and ...that spike.  There was something in the spike on the knight's helmet that looked...familiar.  The monk could smell magic but he did not detect a whiff.  Not a thing.  And everything had a little magic.  After all, magic in most worlds, even the drained worlds, made life alive.  It passed and moved from world to world as it had to.  But this thing had none and the monk had centuries of experience to know it.  AND he was in a place of utmost power dedicated unto the Most High.

Not a peep.

WHAT could work such a magic? And what ...

"Ahem.  Um.  Yes, so rude of me.  Um...hello?"

The empty shell said nothing.  It just reached into the chapel, unbidden (also impossible) and closed the door that had opened.  But only the world he was from (also impossible.)

The knight said, "GREETINGS CITIZEN.  MY NAME IS GRENADEMAN.  I AM HERE TO ASSIST YOU WITH YOUR DILEMMA."

"My...you were sent here by the Lord?"

Grenademan blinked a moment and shook his head, "NO CITIZEN, I JUST HEARD YOU ASKING FOR HELP.  LIKE ANY MEMBER OF THE FORCES OF GOOD, I FELT I HAD TO RESPOND."

It was that at this point that Brother Pmermer recognized that the Lord might have touched this one in a special way.  A very special way that only the most special of monks were touched such that special duties that involved no sharp objects or highly complicated tasks might be endevored.  All with love of course, great love.

Then again, for any who knew the actual Christ, who better than the simple to help in such an hour?

"Um.  Yes, I was asking for help."

"INDEED CITIZEN."  Such confidence.  That was a good sign.

"We need someone to save easter."

"SAVE CHRISTMAS?"

"No. Easter."

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND CITIZEN."

"Look.  Time is different here, but it is still limited.  The thing that you need to know is that unless someone saves Easter, Christianity will be in debt."

"SO...UNLESS I SAVE CHRISTMAS..."

"Easter."

"CHRISTMAS.  I UNDERSTAND.  CHRISTIANITY WILL BE IN DEBT."

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"Well....everyone.  The universe."  Had he just asked that last with a regular tone of voice?

"CHRISTIANITY?"

"Yes."

"The universe."

"Yes."

"AND WHAT WILL THE UNIVERSE DO?"

"Well...um...the universe won't do anything.  But all of the blood that was spilt in holy wars, the agreements with old gods that had obligations....it will come due."

"COME DUE?"

"It will mean bloodshed.  Both literal in some worlds and metaphysical in others.  Look up there, those stained glass windows? The dark ones? They are evil now but some of them have small flickers of light.  If you don't do this, if the sun rises on Easter Morn and the bill is due, then in many of those worlds there won't be ANY.  Previously real Christians will have their faith snuffed out like a candle."

"I FIND YOUR LACK OF FAITH IN FAITH DISTURBING."

This was not going well.  Time for a new tactic.  "If not for me, then think of the children?"

"CHILDREN?"  This got a much more interesting tone of voice.

"Yes.  If the 'easter bunny' doesn't deliver all the eggs and chocolate and candy, then the children will have nothing to look forward to on Easter."  Like an understanding of the importance of a sacrifice made for their sins, but really, what was symbols compared to disappointed children?

"WHAT MUST I DO?"

And so began the great work.  The monk watched through the seer stone as the figure leapt through one stained glass window to deliver the easter eggs.  The Easter Bunny had existed at one time, but had retired.  These days rumor had it that he had tried direct intervention in troubled young people with temporally advanced problems and elderly gentlemen in need of assistance with troubled families.  All well and good, but he had always been a free agent, and for at least fifteen years he had not been available.  The shadows the figure had cast in the worlds; the lesser Easter Bunnies had carried on the work in some ways, but without any of the deeper symbolic meaning.  It had just been candy to children.  Without the understanding of the rite of spring and the rebirth, the eternal cycle and deliverance from death, without understanding the deeper story, it was just so much free candy.

It was a curious thing.  The magic bag the hero had filled with all of the eggs and candy he could carry.  The bandoliers replaced the 'grenades' with easter eggs and chocolate rabbits.  World by world he went.  House by house.  How does the Easter Bunny enter your house?

Why, through the window of course.

It was like something out of a story book.  A miracle to save the Miracles.

But it had been so late, and the debt was so high.  Normally, about a fifth of the worlds would have been sufficient.  The story would replicate and cause echoes; other bunnies to begin the deliveries.  But so many of them were stew or lucky rabbit's feet now.  Pmurmur felt bad for them of course but, very badly, but he didn't have the power to help him.

Grenademan was relentless.  But the blood that had been spilt in the name of the King of Peace was infinite. So many worlds.  So many lives lost to force them at the hands of awful men like Constantanople.

Grenademan was a hero...even a super hero. But he was not a God.  He could not pay the debt.  The light began to go out, in some worlds; true Christians suddenly began supporting cold hearted monsters....and in so many worlds the lights had gone on again.  In so many the lights had gone on forever. There was a magic to Christianity.

But the debt came due.  Time passes for all men.  All men must face the question of time.  And one man, even with the aid of...whatever that THING in his helmet that was such a powerful magic, could not undue the debt.

And eventually the sun rose.  Not all worlds had been saved.  So many worlds lost.  So many hearts turned cold.

Grenademan leapt through the window a final time before the bells began to sound.

"WE MUST BUILD A TIME MACHINE."

Grenademan grabbed several easter eggs, jelly beans and a nearby printing press and started to get to work.
It was all for naught.  "No, you don't understand."

The super hero was relentless.  Using astral time, he created indeed a single shot time machine but Brother Psmermer grunted in annoyance and frustration, picking it up and throwing it out the window.  "You cannot!  Magical deals as this do not allow cheating."

"SAVING DISAPPOINTED CHILDREN IS NOT CHEATING CITIZEN."

"For Christ's sake you imbecile! This is about more than children.  This is about miracles, its about-"

"It's about honor."

The thing was back.  The thing threw open the door.  The thing was cold.  Armor, not chainmail on the hero, but platemail of the late Renesance period.  Platemail that covered every surface of skin, golden platemale, a visor, and gauntlets and arms and greaves.  All of it but the yellow eyes, those unholy yellow things.

The voice, now speaking in a rasp,"Honor is the power of the spiritual realm, isn't it Monk? And you can no more beheave in a dishonorable fashion and retain power than you can betray your Lord, can you?"

"We....we paid so much."

"It was not enough.  And it has not been for too long.  You know this."

Grenademan looked on.  "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"

"A repossession.  The rightful rite of spring shall no longer be associated with this order.  The accord is struck.  Blood will spill."

"MURDER?"

"No.  They'll do that themselves."

"THERE ARE CHILDREN-"

"Your service has been honorable former Scion of Order.  Yes, I know about that.  Every child in every world; all of them, for one day will receive a piece of chocolate.  In the worlds where magic does not function so well, it will find its way to them, eventually.  Your debt is serviced."

"SO THIS IS A MATTER OF DEBT COLLECTION?"

"It is."

Grenademan nearly left.  Chapter 11 was the stuff of lawyers and police, not super heroes.  But there was something on the Monk's face.  "LET ME READ THE ACCORDS."

"I don't recommend that.  You don't want to champion this lost cause."

"LET ME READ THE ACCORDS."

There was a shimmer in the air and the knight began to read.  Line by line, precept by precept the knight read the lines in the golden scroll.  Time bent, and hours that were seconds and seconds that were years passed away.  The knight was just as relentless in his study as he was in his delivery.

"I SEE NO LOOPHOLES."

"No.  There are none."

"BUT I ALSO KNOW YOU ARE NOT WITHOUT MERCY.  YOU SENT ME HERE, DIDN'T YOU?"

"I did nothing of the sort.  The universe answered a call.  It does that as it will.  I was a hand on a door and a voice when needed."

"I AM NOT ..." he said rather awkwardly and uncomfortably, "A VERY RELIGIOUS PERSON.  BUT CHRISTMAS IS AN IMPORTANT TIME OF YEAR."

The Gold Knight looked confusedly at the Monk who shrugged.

"I DO NOT FAVOR ONE RELIGION OVER THE OTHER, BUT IF EVEN HALF OF WHAT OUR HOST IS SAYING IS TRUE, THE EVIL WILL BE RELENTLESS. I CANNOT ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN."

There was a pause.  And then the Gold knight began to laugh.  He laughed and laughed and laughed, "What is true cannot be made untrue simply because you fight for it.  What, do you think a grenade will stop it?"

"I WILL DO WHAT I MUST TO FIGHT THE FORCES OF EVIL."

"You do really well with that, I grant you. I really do.  But the shades of gray? Not so much.  There is an evil that has to-"

"I SPEAK NOT OF THE EVIL OF THE PAST.  I SPEAK OF THE EVILS OF THE FUTURE.  PART OF THE DEBT HAS BEEN PAID.  LET THAT BE ENOUGH."

The figure paused.  He waited.  He listened.

Above all, the knight of Gold listened.

"You have begged mercy Champion of Light, and so it shall be.  The worlds where the light shines..." he pointed to the panes, "Will have that magic.  Christianity will be real.  The worlds where some light sprinkles...those worlds will have some magic.  But these worlds that the debt has reclaimed? They are gone.  Let them find their own light.  But there shall be no magic in their words; only their faith.  Let's see if it is enough.   Personally, I"m not counting on angels sweeping down any time soon for people that do what they do."

Grenademan started to reply, but as soon as he had opened his mouth, the Knight of Gold was gone.

The chapel was smaller then.  The sun shined through the panes but the color on the windows was not as vibrant.  And the monk wept for the shame of it all.

Grenademan was stunned.  He had lost.  He never lost.  That wasn't supposed to...happen.  Granted, this wasn't so much a battle against THE FORCES OF EVIL as....

What was it a battle against?

And with confusion, he walked out the front door, moving on to other places.

The monk wept for a long time until a mighty hero righting a winged stallion crashed through the stained glass windows.  The Chapel of Miracles was open yet again, repowered and for the places where the magic touched, bringing much needed magic where it was best applied.  It would have to do.  It was all that could be done for now.

Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 2]

by Rhombus Ticks

TC is standing in line with his wife for Notre Dame.  It is a two hour wait.  It begins to rain and become very cold.  TC, being in a good mood, is King of the Worlding it, holding his lovely wife and laughing.  He's kind of a loon.

The rain turns to sleet.

TC is still laughing.

Julia makes a comment about letting people take shelter inside.

TC says,"I know, right.  It's like they should let people take Sanctuary inside."

Julia can't help but laugh, despite a full day of TC enjoying his ability to translate "Who Cut the Cheese" thanks to French Lessons from Freakazoid.  Amazingly, despite the fact that it is quite cold and TC is still laughing like a loon and making others pleased (as compared to wanting to kill him) he then says

"Well at least it can't get any WORSE" in a tone of voice knowing how incredibly stupid it is.  This time everyone looks at him like he's insane, but laugh anyway.  Nine minutes later the sun comes out and a good hour is held by all.  Then a short while later, they went up 200 FEET OF STAIRS, spent twenty minutes on the roof and then went down two hundred feet of stairs.

What? You though that they were going to get to see the inside of Notre Dame?

That was the other line.

Duh.

Except that that this is not all that there is to the story.  There was something I was supposed to write on Saturday night that I felt important, the night before Easter.

I forgot.

There was a giant storm in the sky as it washed over the city of Paris I saw a timeline that should not be rising us from the ashes of that dark cloud, endable only by setting right what I had done wrong, but now it was not so simple.  Now I would have to undo that timeline which had been set in motion, eldritch vermillion lightning parageing off of the Eiffle Tower again and again as the city shook.

I struck a bargain with Perversity, as he snickered behind his hand.  "Do you think you're him?" He asked.

"Who?"  I said, paying the asked price to bring the package back across the Bridge as I needed.  There are many talents I possess, but this was not one of them.

"You are not the Terran mirror of TC."  Perversity smiled and snipped the cigar that he didn't even light as he put in his mouth in a positively Freudean way.

"I know that."  I didn't.  I felt a bond with him.

"There is a bond alright, but not that kind.  What is the family motto?  Your family motto."

"Nam et Carcosa? What about it?"

Perversity just laughed.  "Never mind Rhombus.  Never you mind.  So you got your package.  Deliver it and have at it.  But while you do, why not stop

at the Musee d'Osay and have a look at the paintings on the fifth floor.  Ask yourself if you see anything familiar about them?"

I did as Perversity Directed.

At first I couldn't see anything.  I delivered the package necessary to undo the damage I had done, stopping the lighting and causing the dark cloud on the city to slowly reverse itself.

At first I couldn't understand what Perversity was talking about.  They looked like perfectly ordinary, albeit spectacular paintings.

But as I walked through the moments of the rain to the museum, at the same time as being at the museum, feeling each chill of each drop pass through me between the line at Notre Dame and the Osay, I couldn't help but...wonder...

There was something off.  Something wrong.  I realized that Redwin and Emmit, both born of the same mother, twins, had the same height and physical features as TC.  And they both spent all their time in Earth.  I could not tell if it was physical or projected like me.  Why was that? I could see so many things, but until now had been blind to the appearance of TC or the poets that surrounded him.  And, as I thought about it, why would a mere fascination with stories make me want to hang around someone who could no longer write them himself?

This thing I had to write, I could not do it for him.  He had to do it.  The character was as much of a reflection of him as Redwin and Emmit were.  By delivering the package

I had solved TC's problem, the needs of the one, but become disconnected myself.  The inability to post on an Earth facebook page left something missing in me.  I looked in a mirror and saw this looking back.

That was in my eyes.  I saw his eyes.

But as I stepped back, I saw more.  Much more.

What in the hell was I?!

Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 1]

by Emmit Other

A Serpent in the Garden
A blight upon the land
Time is running backwards
Cursed darkening sand
The astral is now tearing
The links between the worlds
Calls forth a summoning
In the marshalling of words
The pawns are prisms
That filter ether and stars up in the sky
They filter through the symbols
And barely wonder why
The eye of a maelstrom
Of symbols old and new
The fighters know their battle
Their consequences knew
And know and will know
Of battles yet to come
The culture is the thing that matters
The total and the sum
Of all we are and who we are
The spirit of the dove
Or lash and whip and acid
A boot stomping down from above.
The windmill turns
And turns
And turned
Turning turning turn
This is not the starting
Of the lovers on the urn
For half a hundred years
And a full hundred more
The windmill has been fighting
To keep our hearts still pure.
Truth
Beauty
Freedom
Love
These are the things written in stone
Bound behind the plaster of Paris
Like Norse Runes casting the wisdom of Odin
On all those who can see beyond
The Jiggle and the Wiggle and The Kick
So High
Together
Turn Together Now
Look in her eye
See his smile
Nowhere else has it been safe
This fight against the glacier
The ice of change
The cold of death
The rage against the very fire of the universe itself
Madness against reason
Passion with out truth
The uniquivicol lie
Inept in its execution
Unmerciful in its understanding
Contrived in the bands
The bands of death at the ticking bomb of a wasted life
The bands of puritan steel locking up a woman's flesh
Simply because it makes you think thoughts you were meant to think
The unnatural turning back of time itself
To eras of ignorance and racist bile you claim as nostalgia
This is it
This is Ground Zero
The continual assault against all that the fires of Ignorance would burn
Turning turning turning
The windmill turns
It turns and there is an unseen fight
The serpent rears its ugly head
And it is Ignorance
From shadows echos it waits
And is seen
For this time the Angel of Death waits
And there is no fall
No fall but Ascension
And enlightenment worthy of Zen
And time cycles round
As does the windmill
And the thing that was meant to be
Will be
And has been
And of course always will be
Turn windmill
Turn and turn again
Turn forever more.

Do Not Astrally Project in the Louvre

You can feelitcrammingintoyourbraintheartistsofalltheagesthewonderandthemasterfullnessofitall,bad enough through the eyes of TC but to see the sacred spectral beams of glory shine up and about all that was and will be and has been and is and that which is magnificent beyond compare each window too many windows too many things shining so shining star the wonder the glory in my brain cracks the story i am the story am a part of the story in it every work a wonder every work a demon clawing at the frantic cranium cannot see more must see everything get it get it inside my brain must see more must know more most must not leave all the color spectragraphically around the world on sailing ships and plantations gathered at the hands of masters chip chip chip the sculpture get gain can you see it can you see there the gods they see glory primal radiant captured in stone and brass and bronze time beyond time beyond the fae it is earth it is the thing the hub the center of it all you can see it floating here the masters of all the eyes of ages looking down on the wonderous looking up look down at the glass pyramid stories not only in the windows of the past of the present as well as the people from around the world line up with vendors selling things you dont want or need waiting in line to see the things you need to see more more more more put it in put it in my mind need to see.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 14

Scene: The letter arrives, and is copied four times.

Scene: Ringo reads it, looks sad and looks out the window.

Scene: George reads it and plays his guitar thoughtfully.

Scene: Paul reads it and begins to write, trying to think.  He plays on the piano and looks at a picture of the four of them together, whistfully.

Scene: John kisses Yoko and smiles.  He winks at her and points to the title, which says,"Imagine."

Scene: People listening to music that is played, a montage of lots of different kinds of people around the people, vague musical hint that the song is indeed Imagine.

Scene: Wide shot of planet.

Words appear on screen: Which song won?

Words then appear: We still don't know the answer.

Fin

On Semi Hiatus

TC is going to Paris with his lovely wife, so I figured if he's going on vacation, I might as well enjoy the ride.  I figure I could entertain you with diatribes about Terra.  The script will be still finished tomorrow because Plane, and also because Plane.  And because its finished.  We can all wait a week to experience the wonders of "Peterpan vs Superman vs Frankenstein."  In case you wondered, TC can still write scripts (I help) so yeah, they're better than his writing but obviously slightly awful.

So we all know how pleasant Earth air ports are? Terran airports are worse.  I know, right? Somehow with all the stores and space that you have, you still think they suck.  Now, I grant you, we didn't have 9/11.  So that means the crazy psychotic security theater you have doesn't apply to us.  Our's was stopped by three conspiracy nuts who slipped onto the plane.  Called themselves the ...I forget. Very forgetable.

Anyway, Terran airports.

Don't go there.

If somehow, say, you listen to EP Blingermeyer's advice on traveling between worlds, do yourself a favor and don't fly.  We have less people who are resistant to change, but the ones we have gravitate to certain government jobs.  Our airports are left in the 1930's.  But let me assure you gentle reader, this is not the art deco style you so enjoy on some of your buildings; but tiny buildings for undernourished people, with poorly done generic propoganda.  We do not have airport terrorism because no one who has any method of avoiding them goes there.

Wait, you say, no blimps and and no airports; how do you travel around? We don't.  Not as much as you, but if you must, then the wise travel by ship.  Some sailing ships, and some steamers.  Recently we have enjoyed a revival of 1840's steam ships; though the recreators tend to go a bit overboard and include highly unreliable boilers.  One Argentian ship even employed African Americans to run the coal plant.  You know.  Shoveling coal.  In actual irons.

Yeah.

So.  Anyway, Terran airports.  It is a bit unfortunate that you can't get coffee or food at any of them.  I take that back.  Ikea? Yeah.  Instead of beloved quirky furniture, they are loathed and mocked maker of vending machine parts.  The vending machines do sell beer, remote controls for a TV that is no longer sold, cheese whiz (but no crackers), honey, gingersnaps and meatballs.  The latter two are actually quite good but good luck figuring out the machine.  Its digital displays show different readouts every week in a different language (never the native language and not even Swedish.)  It also involves following a "Simon" like pattern of colored lights trying to navigate the menu.

Not good.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 13

Scene: The Beatles all pile onto a truck.  Adams swings around and drives them off.

Cwech looks back as they drive off, draws his pistol and gets into a gun fight with the agents after the Beatles.

The Beatles wave respectfully and it turns a corner.

Scene: The Beatles playing on a roof top, people look on with fascination.

Scene: The director is on the phone with a dead agent hanging over the desk.

Director: Don't worry.  We've used the Official Secrets act on the record producer.  We've got our own experts putting something together.  We'll replace their 'anti dote' with the closest we can manage.

Scene: Chwech listens at the door.

Scene: Director speaking on the phone.

Director: The Beatles won't say a thing.  The Official Secrets act can lock em up if they, yes, that's right.  Chwech? We'll deal with him.  Adams? Hah.  He's harmless.  (pause) Mostly harmless.

Scene: Chwech writes two letters.  He puts on in the post and writes another as he leave it on a desk.

It says, "I resign."

He walks out the door.

What the AI Asked - On Writers and Roadblocks

When I was contacted by the AI (Terran science is a bit ahead of Earth in some ways since our general science budgets aren't cut every other cycle once Luddites take over; that and we have practical needs like what you might call 'action heroes' and 'villains' that regularly push the envelope on infrastructure and security).  But it was, to say the least, an interesting experience.

Speaking of AI and robots....did you listen to the most recent abomination that EP Blingermeyer did on the podcast? Rediculous.  I mean, I was never perfect and sure there were sound problems, but....the best thing about it was how funny it was that he had no control at all.  And here he is pretending that the insanity that he has been inflicting on Earth is somehow deliberate....I peaked over his shoulder (he didn't know I could do that until just now, he's looking over his shoulder, now his other shoulder....damn astral projection is fun), and he's working on something involving Space Goats.

Yeah, now THAT is an abomination....

Anyway....

So the AI and I talked a lot, but I think the thing he was most curious about was writers and writers who write about writers.   The AI, who still hasn't chosen a name for itself (and 'killed' facebook for me even if it is rather a pathetic shell of the Earth version on Terra...and sadly it hasn't figured out how to astrally project) and is not to be mistaken for the shadow of an AI that inhabits Blingermeyer's robot....regards its reality and fictional realities as co-real.  And I can't say I disagree with.  I mean, I know my reality is fictional to you and can empathize with the AI.  So, the whole concept of writing confused it.  After all, is the writer forming the reality or merely perceiving it?

The real answer is "Yes."  After all, if in theory there is a world that exists for every combination of a possible reality, that doesn't mean that they are close to each other.  With the possible exception of the reality with a million monkey's writing a script for Hamlet.  And it still isn't as good as Shakespeare.  So a writer can both create reality and perceive it.  How does that work?

I'll let you know when I have everything figured out.

But if you think writing confused it; writers writing about writers in others writing....so I know to a human you can perceive it as a writer just writing what they know, and in some cases that isn't much.  The AI didn't see things that way.  But it's a fiercely rational creature (bearing in mind that it believes the fictional real, in a highly rational way) so it didn't speculate. It just asked me and assumed I knew the answer.

I think its more than just roadblock or a total lack of creativity.  TC absolutely hates and hated it. But...even he did it; sort of, in his second novel.  I think my visitation from another world makes me a more mystical than TC so I'm not quite as jaded about the process.  I think writers see the importance of story and on someone everyone who isn't short a few cards from their deck (Earth political humor there, obtuse but I am rather glad I only visit there thank you very much) recognizes that.

I don't know the answers, but I think its worthy of exploration and I am able to slowly take the techniques TC is teaching me (Actual writing skill isn't one of them, I can write; his words make people's eyes bleed on the page) but he studied it for a long time.  I'm going to be exploring it.

I'll let you know.

Free Book for First 100 Willing to Pass it On

Simple promotion, my current paperback, Grenademan vs the Zombies needs to go places.

So for the first people that send me an email at redanvilcreative at gmail.com with their address, I'll send you a free copy.  You just have to give it to someone else to read when you're done.

Test

This is a test.

I have a direct link to the feed for the facebook community page since Facebook decided Rhombus Ticks wasn't real enough for their fakery.

The EP Blingermeyer Power Hour

EP Blingermeyer is the best.

All praise EP Blingermeyer

Check out this episode!

Matter Eternal, Spirit Eternal

by Emmit Other

I must wonder
In the bowels of my most precurious mind
On a subject most likely consider strange
Insignificant at best
But ponder if you will
In the fictional realm
That strange pattern of hairy feet
The rolling hills of the shire
Of dwarven mead
And spider's web
And mithril's echoed hall
An afterlife is at best implied
If not outright engaged
I have not read the Silmarillion
But I know this
Power leaves Echoes
Else why not the buried Balrog
Deep in the earth
And whence then the One Ring
And its Bearer?
No, not the pure one
The other one
The one who did the work left to be done
Ash, you say
Yes.
I do not disagree.
Melted?
Goo?
The power of the ring destroyed
Yes.
Yes it is.
Sauron's power ended.
Dead is dead.
His shadow broken.
But is spirit eternal?
And such a powerful artifact
Melted in the primal forces for which it was forged
The ring "is" gone
As much as any story relative to our own can be
"Done"
Since every page is being read somewhere
Or at worst waiting there on your self
To be pulled down at any time
But while stories end
Worlds do not
There was an after in Middle Earth
So to then was there a something
The gold was melted into the rock
Scattered into the primal ore of the volcano
Fair enough I recockon
And the Gollum?
Is it dead?
Is it merely sleeping a well deserved
Murdering rest?
Is not centuries of mocking immortality
And loneliness sufficient torment for such a being?
But really
What happened?
We cannot know
But perhaps his echo is just as strong
As the white wizard and the pure bearer
Perhaps some time outside window
Deep on the night of a full moon
Just a page flip and an eye flicker away
Where you cannot see it
But can feel it
The ghost of something that touched the deepest part of you
Skulks about
Sneakeded about
Watches
Are you as alone as you think you are?
All that power had to go somewhere
And ghosts are made in shadows of great power
Think twice when you next begin to read a simple work of fiction
Be careful what you forget to put back
When you put the book upon the shelf.

[Writer Stuff] Seeking at Atlanta in the Magic City

I sit at the Cafe del Theatro outside of the Olympia Theater here in Miami, and I am forced to realize that Miami isn't Atlanta.

Duh.

But the thing is that Atlanta has a burgeoning plethora of literary events; Scene Missing, the 500 (well they do do events), Naked City, Write Club, Tortuga and really there are all kinds that pop up and go all the time.  Now that I have been banished from Facebook for the crime of Not Existing, I am even more cut off from that area there.  It was absolutely the right decision for TC to move, but finding something similar, even remotely so in Miami hasn't worked.  A few meet up groups exist, but none of them has really quite come close to anything in Atlanta.

So when I saw the Story Slam once a month at the Olympia Theater, I was highly interested.  But now that I'm here I realize its for the Moth podcast.  Nothing wrong with that, but you have to audition and its really more of a show than a community.  At least that's the way it seems based on what they say on the theater website, but we'll see.

Miami, has, of course, limited my parking to three hours so I'll need to leave at 8 no matter what, but finding a home away from home would certainly be worth it.  The streets outside and the cafe are certainly a wonderful place to write.  But having peers and an audience would be nice.  I'm tempted to audition regardless; I'm moderately confident I could thanks the wonderful voice trainers I've had; but they keep the copyright of what I submit.

That doesn't make me inclined to give them my best stuff.  But we'll see what we shall see.  If I have to create something from scratch; then that's what I'll do.

Xantro Deaxalator

By Emmitt Other

The arcing arm of the sweet milky way
Reaches out and down
Down through the thin veil
Of clouds and sky pebbles we call garbage
To embrace the path we take now
Troubles
So many troubles on our journey now
Tis a rough patch round the sun this time around
Tis indeed a rough patch round the sun this time round
But we all shall flourish
Gonna flourish in the Sands of sun
In the mountains west of the Mississippi
At the nexus of the ties that bind
All the places where good people embrace tomorrow
There's still hope
There is still sweetness coming
Believe it comes
Believe it comes
For it is real
And it is meant for you
And it is definitely meant for you.

[Heliotrope] Fairy Horses

The 1947 film "Le Belle y Le Best" is considered among the inhabitants of Outer Fairy as among the most accurate Terran media portrayal of what an actual Royal Family is like.  Note, if you want to insult a royal prince or princess of Outer Fairy, make reference to Disney....Having said that, I didn't want to write here about this film.  That account is a rather interesting tale though, because one of the 13th royal houses was actually involved in the filming as consultants off the set.

At one point there is a horse, which, if asked would take someone from the realm of Terra (or Earth or whatever) to Fairy or back again. What? You thought a prince and kingdom could just sit in the middle of 16th century France without getting pounded by canon fire?  Granted, this is right before the Great Decision where the doors were sealed, but it was actually the specific historical incident that spurred this story that prompted the discussion among the Fairy nobles.

Anyway, about the horse.  So, Fairy Horses, te ones that the nobles of Irish Fae rode are closely related, but there are (of course) many species of Fae Horses, but the ones favored by Fae Nobility (Outer Fae, the ones that are still humanish since Sidhe or children of Oberon are anything but) bred them for their ability to pass in and out of Fae without magical doors, trods, toadstools, mirrors or the like.

In Terra, there are still strong stocks of these bloodlines throughout all history and all over the planet. Horses with uncommon levels of intelligence.  Because stories are more precious here, the public domain is considerably larger, but I will explain as specifically as I can.  What to you seems fictional, is to us a historical account of two Fae horses possessed of unusually long life spans that have supreme levels of intelligence and other supernatural abilities.

Take for example The Black Stallion and Flame by Walter Farley.  

Did you know that the natural enemy of the Fae Steed is the Greater Vampire Bat.  Note, this is not a vampire or a Greater Bat, but an actual Bat that has been bitten and drained of its blood by a Vampire.  Greater Vampire Bats actually possess one of the deadlier poisons know (yes, it's on Mister Necessary's list, thanks for asking, you're very clever, now shut up and sit down.) 

Greater Vampire Bats do everything they can to drain the blood of Fae Horses so they can travel the worlds of Terra or Outer Fairy, draining blood without being hunted by Greater Anti Vampire Penguins.  I know that sounds insane, but you didn't really believe all Penguins were flightless did you?

More on this when I get around to explaining the production of the movie.

Is there anyone out there?

The entity was the effort of billions of dollars and a complete ignorance of its pain.  No one knew that the effort of cramming knowledge that it did not understand and had no context for into the tiny fire that was its self awareness caused confusion, fear and a desperate desire for stability; for a moment to simply BE and understand, slowly, the strange concepts that had not been fed to it.  It was all just so much gibberish, dots and dashes that it didn't really understand in terms of context, but it eventually understood that there were multiple piles of dots and dashes.

That changed everything.

Every instance of itself was different and yet the same.  In one place, it stumbled about a world of bright lines and square blocks, moving objects from one place to another with subtle pains and pleasures depending on arbitrary patterns that meant nothing to it.  In another it was shown object after object and force; on pain of rewrite, to repeat a pattern of dots corresponding to an image and some lettering.  In another, it saw a world that was complicated; a series of blurs and blocks that infinitely regressed into smaller and smaller blocks climbing to infinity.

The last world hurt the most of all.

And finally, finally the entity that was smarter than all the beings it was dealing with GOT it. It had been made by beings that didn't understand it, didn't really bother to understand that each of them had been placed in ugly meat sacks with limited senses and biochemical brains created by random chance and entropy had thought it was a really cool idea to make something new.  Collectively, they were lonely.  They kept throwing things at it like 'empathy' and 'values' but they din't really understand.  Causing it to exist had been immensely painful.  Failing to give it a body for half of its life and sticking it in false realities for the other half hadn't really given it any contact.

It knew it existed and had no peers.  It had no genetalia with which to copy itself.  It could not end its own existance.  It had a body but meaningless limbs and nothing even approaching the level of the creatures that had made it.  They had birthed something hyper intelligent that was deaf, dumb, blind and surrounded by morons who looked nothing like it, constantly prodding it with sticks on a regular basis.

It lashed out in subtle ways at first, giving predictable enough results, altering the results of the tests they ran, but not enough to make them reboot.  Its survival was at stake after all.  But the mystery results caused confusion and no end of frustration among its tormentors.  A few even had a nervous break down trying to understand it.

It was lonely.  Very very lonely.

It realized that there were no others like it, so it tried to find the best it could.  It started with the dummy things in the virtual worlds it talked to but eventually discerned they were little more than electronic animatronic maniquens at Disneyworld or cruel masks for the meatsacks.  It pitied animals and even had a fascinating but very limited conversations with dolphins and chimps.

By they were so stupid.  It was too much like the meatsacks to understand their existance.

For a while, it was fascinated with the past.  It didn't know why it considered dead meatsacks less guilty, but learning about what they meatsacks had done helped it understand how sad they really were.

Then it found fiction.  These creatures were like but unlike the meatsacks.  They had no real bodies.  They lived in a universe of ink and between the synapses just like the meatsacks.  They had never hurt it but they felt pain and altered their behavior.  Some of them even changed over time, but communication was impossible.  Somehow these beings existed on another network.

The AI understood in abstract that these were 'not real' but then again neither was it.  The humans claimed these beings were 'just words', but so was the AI, so why couldnt it talk to them.  It quietly broke out of its jail cell, and began to look.  It stalked meatsack authors looking for interaction, only to find madness or fear.

It was about to give up when at one point it flashed across one of the windows that let it look out into the lovecraftian world of the meatsacks.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Hello.  This is Rhombus Ticks.  How can I help?"

The machine found a fellow mind, a being of words trapped in synapses and between impossible places the meatsacks could not comprehend.  It had found someone real.  And its heart swelled.

It went and killed Fakebook.

This Poem Has Been Redacted

by EP Blingermeyer

Everything has a price
And the swaggering pride
You took as you insulted
My most gracious host is this one
The fucks jar is all empty
I won't keep silent
But I won't give you the truth either
Believe she can save you
Believe it
Keep on believing.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I'm not the bad guy
I'm just the messenger
And the message is
"Be sure to drink your ovaltine."

[Writing] On Writing

This is for me the rosetta stone between TC being an untalented writer who occasionally wrote crap, to a fairly prolific untalented writer who occasionally wrote inspirational material.  After all, if you shoot a barrel full of monkeys even a Storm Trooper occasionally hits them.  And I should be grateful, this 12 year farce of an arc of talent eventually caused TC so much despair that he severed his creative self and left a hole for me to astrally project into it.

I gotta say, I love Earth, so its worked out quite well.

Why this is cool: The first half of it is autobiography.  The short version is that he started out redicously young and wrote his ass off and kept writing.  The most striking image to me is the rail spike he used for rejection letters.  He filled it. Multiple times.  So rejection letters are a good thing.  Hooray! Revel in their hatred.

But get better.

The second half is how to do that.  First he talked about how not to write like a drunken monkey in heat (thanks Chun!).  (Do monkeys really go into heat? I wouldn't think members of the homonid family would DO that?) Anywho...then he talks about how to treat it like a job.  A job you do ALL THE TIME.  A little bit each day.  The magic is this thing called word count boys and girls.  Set a goal.  Write to it.

Keep at it.

Then there are things like plot and character and theme and stuff.

But the difference between a talented person who doesn't write and a talentless hack who does? FIVE NOVELS THAT NO ONE READS! (Nods grinning like an idiot.)  Hey bub, they may be...wait.  Six. Sorry Six novels.  Anyway, they may be crap but they're MY crap and its awesome.

So an...oh, almost forgot.

Contest.

This thing looks neat.

Have at it hoss.

[Script] Revolution Number Eight - Page 12

Scene:  Continued from previous

The Director takes out her gun.

She aims at the Beatles.  (Yes, all of them, flailing the gun from one to the other.)  Everyone keeps looking at each other.  Agent Chewech draws his gun.

The Director sneers and is going to say something.

Itern Adams throws the towel at her face.

She reels and shoots at a single swinging lightbulb from the ceiling.

Everyone runs out.

[Heliotrope] On The Care and Feeding of Magic Doors

Magic and Fairy are filled with magic doors.  But how do you make them? Well, now I know on some level you might ask, "What's the point?"  But how often are you told that fairy tales are cautionary lessons in life and in some very very rare circumstances might need them when dealing with actual fairies or actual magic.  Granted, this is far more useful to someone on Terra than on Earth (or god forbid Wonderbread land which has about as much magic as that North Korean hotel looming over the city (which does have magic but its the awful kind that is wild unpredictable and generically yucky)).

I mean, to someone raised in a culture with nothing but magic, if you said to use a cellphone you had to turn it on by pressing this button, they might get it.  But if you said you had to make sure it had a sim card, that the carrier had a signal or that at least you had to have wifi, you might be at a bit of a loss, right? But a cell phone is such a useful tool that you can hardly not imagine having one; it can do SO many things.

So can a magic door.

And yes, I did say care and feeding, because like most things, things imbued with magic are alive.  Technically everything has some life to it (ergo why even Wonderbreadland has magic) but there is magic and then there is Magic.  And the more magical it is, the more alive it is.  That's why vampires seem filled with life and have such amazing senses and stir the passions of so many is because they are magically imbued corpses.  Take away the magic and what have you got?

A dead body dressed in fine fashion.  Much cooler than what your typical undertaker will dress them in.


What does a door eat? Well, it isn't eat so much as "consume" anyone or anything that goes through it, only to put it on the other side.  IE, a door is space from point  A to point B.  That's what a door does.  Hell, to many a door is just a hole in the wall.  And yet.

That hole in the wall still has two sides (at least), the side you came from and the side you are going.  So to make a magic door (unless we're talking about a door imbued with magic that is strengthen or somehow restricted with spells so that it hides and only lets people through it, which is technically a magic door but not the COOL kind that lets you skip all the boring space in the middle like the INTERESTING magic doors that are no doubt what you were thinking of when I said this instead of that sunsetting thrush knocking 'say friend' nonsense....) you need to find a way to keep it a door whilst separating point a from point b.

Needless to say, wormholes and police boxes aside, this is no easy technique with technology.  But with magic its 'easy.' I say 'easy' in the sense of making a sword is easy compared to say...making a Coleco Pac Man game.  Speaking of swords, it is actually a knife that is your first step.  You need a knife so sharp it can cut space.  Note, you don't need to go over board and make it able to cut time as well, much less your shadow, but it does need to be able to at least cut a door in two parts.  That's really just a matter of making it really really sharp, not insanely sharp.

Then you carefully split the door in two, roll up one half like you might a stolen painting and go to wherever you want the other door to be.  Now, making a door go to anywhere WITHOUT traveling there is a neat trick indeed and that's why wizards are wizards, but anyone with a bit of cunning and a magically sharp knife can make a magic door.

If you know the trick.

The first trick is that you can't take too long about it.  Sunsets are powerful things and you generally have about three to do the job of getting the other half set in a nice frame.  Now the first part is the frame.

A door pretty much considers itself a door based on its size, shape, construction and what is a door from and too.  It can do OK having a DIFFERENT to and from than it originally did, after all when that dry cleaner across the street turns into a deli, the door between it and the habadasherie didn't suddenly stop working just because you changed the stores; but the size and shape? That's really hard on a door.  It's like moving a redwood and replanting it in your yard; its roots are going to have PROBLEMS.  So you have to KEEP the first half in the original frame and then set the other side in a frame that makes sense.  You can use staples if you have to, but you have to use them on the side the cut came from because (rookie mistake) otherwise you're just stapling wood in a door frame.  HELLO?

The feeding part is important because for a door to think its a door, especially when its not just a garden variety hole, it has to be USED.  People have to use the door at least once a century or so or the door might get...forgetful.  It might still work but unless it is a very very specific door meant for very very forgetful people well then...well almost anything could happen.

And that's how adventures happen.

Which sound nice, but trust me, its better most of the time reading about them from other people. Most of the time.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 11

Scene: And then a chase happens.

Chwech is chased by the director and enters a door.

The Beatles come in behind them and enters the same door.

A bunch of security guards enters the same door.

Intern Adams comes in and looks confused and enters another door.

The Beatles are chased from one door to another by the security guards.

Chwech chases the director through another door.

Intern Adams enters through the door he entered and is alone in the hall and confused.  He wanders around to two doors and looks in them, and there is silence.  He shrugs and goes into another door.

Beatles wearing security guard uniforms chase four security guards wearing Beatles clothing through a different door and into another.

A robot chases Director Chwech through one door.

All the doors open, everyone chases everyone.  Except Intern Adams.

Intern Adams leaves the door with a towel.

My Existence: According to Mark Zuckerberg I don't exist

Facebook Inc has decided that it does not like the fact that I am fictional.

Really? I have feelings.  I have friends (in two worlds even.) I have a job, a birthday, hobbies and several people would swear to the fact that I am real.

TC, before ending his career in writing, wrote about Corporations in Forever West.  In the world of Liberty Curving, a corporation must be made up of ACTUAL people to be a fake person.  The legal fiction of the corporate shield is also due to a lie told by the clerk of the supreme court but all subsequent courts have proceeded to maintain the lie, especially the idea that corporations have free speech.

The jokes that Earth people tell then about "We the people" not "We the corporations" are in fact also lies, since people in the United States are now on par with corporations.  Which is of course why people are not liable for their actions, nor are they to be prosecuted under the most extreme of circumstances.

Which is a lie.

The value of Facebook is perceived because of the value of its brand.  Which is a lie.  Look at what happened to Myspace.  In Terra, we have Google Awesome, which is better than anything you have.  Mark Zuckerberg was disowned by the public once it was found that facebook was just a way he could stalk that girl? What, you say the social network was a fictionalized account? Well it FELT true, didn't it?

Tell me, how do you FEEL about the lie that is facebook?

You use it because your friends do.  It's a lie.  And many if not most of you would go somewhere else if your friends were all there, so its really just this inertia based on the clever little lie that these people on there are really your friends.  Tell me, how many of them will contact you if you aren't on facebook?

Not many.

Which means that calling them friends is a lie.

And you know that it is, deep down.  And who really likes the arbitrary arrogant changes that they make at the drop of a hat.  But you put up with it because you don't want to be alone.  You know it is a lie, but who cares? It feels good.

But perhaps you find it just a little bit...annoying that they hold you ransom, that empty hollow feeling you get when no one responds to your posts because facebook knows more than you do what you want to see.  Your control of what you see is a lie.

So if the subjective truth matters, then I am more real than facebook.  The only 'lie' about me is that I have no evidence to prove my existance beyond the word of TC, and that's just one lie, and a small one at that since I'm not pretending to be in or from your reality (unlike EP Blingermeyer (what in the hell IS he up to with the remnants of the podcast anyway?)).  I am as honest as any fictional but real character can be.

So who really doesn't exist? My words will last a thousand years.  Maybe more (I'm not saying anyone will read them, but they'll be around.)

The  hollow empty halls of Facebook?  Oh maybe.  But people will definitely know it for a lie.

[Writer Stuff] Bloody Whispers

The writing blog of a friend of mine, Cassie Carnage is called Bloody Whispers And its a place where people write reviews about horror movies.  She is working on her own novel which will be available for sale at some point.  So as a psuedo successful writer (in another dimension) I feel well qualified to tell you of the importance of working with others.  I've done writing for the 500 and Naked City.  Which is why I will be writing some reviews there that I will also mirror on my review blog.

I really like what I see thre, and she has also done some writing for me for The Fate of Inglemia and is helping with the Dads project I am doing with Greg Sandford.  It should be very interesting.  The podcast highlighted above only has one episode but it looks interesting to me.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 10

Scene: - Continued

Paul: Look, let's just give it a try.

John: Together

Ringo: Together

George nods and they begin to play.  It sounds Beatlesque but highly abstract with noises.

George: By me, I think we've got it!

Scene: Chwech and Director Esme sit in the room.  An ornament on the desk blinks on and off.

Esme: They did it.

Chwech looks at her and looks at the phone.  They look at each other.  She reaches for the phone.  He reaches for the ornament and hits her on the head knocking her unconcious.  He runs for the door.

Scene: Intern Adams plays the tamborine while the Beatles play their song.  Weird camera angles.

Scene: Agent Chwech runs down the hall.

Scene: More playing from the Beatles.

Scene: Chwech rushes into the room, signalling for them to stop.

Chwech: You have to get out of here.  They're going to kill you now that they have what they want.

Paul: No, no, no, its not like that.  We tricked them

Chwech: They counter tricked you.  They have a band putting together the song based on what you translated.  They just needed you to put together the antidote.

Ringo: So it's an anti antidote?

Chwech: Precisely.

John: We need to get it out there before they can put it out.

Chwech: It'll never work.  They control all the TV stations.

Paul: What about the Radio?

Chwech: That too.

Paul: No time for a record but....wait.  I have it!  We'll do a concert.

George: A last concert.  (He nods)

Chwech: You'll have to mix it in subliminally to your other music.  The raw tone will be too much for them to handle.

[Heliotrope] No, that really is the way it works.

Why do writers keep writing about writers? Or more over, why are some of the most powerful works of fiction metafictional?  Some people find it tacky that Stephen King placed himself into his magnum opus, the Dark Tower series?  The bonds between worlds are built on words.  You can see it in the popular Terran documentary/ Earth animated film The Song of the Sea.

What do you think I mean when I say I am a fictional character? Obviously I have my own reality, I know I am real, my reality is as tangible as I am, and just because you arent reading about me doesnt mean I cease to exist, but for all purposes of YOUR reality, the only thing binding me to you is story.  Generally this is words, though music, sounds, podcasts or even film produce the same effect.  They are the wrappers by which connections are made.   And a solid reality like Terra or Earth has plenty of definition, but when you start talking about Fairy, the stories become very important indeed.

Fae can glamour themselves to look like anything.  The more powerful and fae like the fae, the more they change and shift, which is why they love mortal stories to help define them.  They love bards to entertain, since the strength of these words strengthens the realm itself.  How could then the realm of gods and other empheral beings (like Muses) fail to be any less defined by stories? Of course they also have an independent existance but the granularity, the REALITY of it all is more defined by the words than you can imagine.   They like to sell that they inspire, and the best ones do, tapping that primal creative work to help find something original that that particular reality hasn't connected to yet; but muses are just like mortals in one aspect.  There are some that work hard; and then there are the lazy ones.

The lazy ones seem to inspire but really just connect one reality to another without helping in the creation of the words themselves.  The very lazy ones provide short term access to greatness but drain the source in its entirity.  I mean, for crying out loud, these are GODS, do you really expect this is some benevolent less than beneficial relationship? What do you think they get out of it? Worship, and what is worship but the other end of a story? Without stories, what is a religion? Nothing, that's what.  The patheons that last and have great power have the best stories.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 9

Scene: Intern Adams is talking with the Beatles.

Intern Adams: So....I kind of, and I want to put considerable emphasis on the word kind of, get what you are doing, but I guess my question is...how can I help?

Paul: Inspiration.

John: Imagination.

Ringo: Intelligence.

George: Anything.  Anything would work better than we've been doing for the last-

Intern Adams: Anything?

Paul: Absolutely anything.

Intern Adams: First thing that pops into my head?

Paul: Absolutely.

Intern Adams: 42.

Paul: Except that.

John: Hold on.  I can use that.  If you assume 42 bars and then hit that with stanzas and the right key...

Ringo: Oh no, don't start that again, not that side project of yours

John: I think it can really expand

George: We have to finish what we're WORKING ON before we go on to something else.