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.