M is for Myg

Live your god damned dream

Archive for September, 2007

Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved

On one side: community, solidarity, life. My grandmother made sandwiches for the neighbors. On the other: disorder, confusion, the sad houses of the rich. Because of the way roots dig into the ground and crack the sidewalk, soaking up in the storm the cool water of the rain.

She wrapped them in waxed paper, like she was from another century and another country. Every day for three weeks. And then the storm broke, and the old oak looked harried, branches broken, yet oddly somehow stronger for having weathered it, and now resplendent in the glittering sunlight.

The strike starts soon: get all the info here & spread the, you know, word.

UPDATE 9-26-07: STRIKE STARTS TONIGHT/TOMORROW THURSDAY 9-27-07 @ 2:00AM SL TIME! SLURL: http://slurl.com/secondlife/Commonwealth%204/250/5/30


Second Life Bloggers Meet – TODAY 9/23 at 1pm SLT

Well the headline says it all…but:

Today at 1pm (SL Time) we’re having our SL bloggers meet in Topgol!

Featuring live electronic music set by the one and only October Hush!

Music by DJ kEtcHup! (aka Alexander Burgess)

and…car chases with guns!

So come well dressed and armed!

It all happens at Clockwork: Topgol (225, 143, 54)


Past Lives

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering about the future. You want to know what lies in store. I see the future clearly; it’s the past that’s obscure. What happened and when? I remember certain things — the Almoravids racing on camels; rain washing the stones of Wat Phou; a nurse diving into a foxhole — or at night I hear a whisper from the dark:“Hi Tsalagis? Tsalagis hiwonihi?”

I know the illusions of Real Life are strong, the sound of a lawnmower, the smell of tar on a hot street. Where are you? Sweating in Dharavi? How should I know? Yet I’m determined to remember the past of our Second Life. Sometimes I have a dream: the day when we learned to create. We always knew that there was nothing to matter — just the emptiness of space between electrons, really, and then in the end just a wiggling string of probability. In the dream there’s a party, fireworks like Armageddon, naked bodies thrashing in Champagne rivers, a horrendous snake as long as Manhattan, breathing fire. Everyone was new and suddenly immortal. Were we all there? The drunkenness lasted a hundred years. How long ago was that?

What do you remember? I will tell you your future if you tell me my past.


-=Clockwork=- Schedule for this week*:


*also includes one-hour set by DJ Hawks 6-7 p.m. Tuesday. If it’s anything like last week’s Cure extravaganza, it’s a don’t miss happy hour.


Probation: Met a Stranger 2.19


I’d silently tracked her since the day of my ruin. I knew she lay inside, in mortal danger.


There was little hope she’d survive for much longer – her files were so corrupted from the attack by the Digital Sect that she was nearly beyond repair. The doctor knew that – why did he pursue a cure? And why in this place?


There was little hope of my reinstatement with Leviathan. But there was too much at stake to leave matters to them – they didn’t understand her. Not like I did.


Without the right data, Myg would certainly die. But with it, she’d be the ruin of us all.


It all came down to the doctor now. I had to know what he knew about her.


I had to get him to talk.


And of course, I would.

.::Met a Stranger Season 2 Navigation::.
Beginning | Previous | Next –

Read Season One

Ed. Notes – credits:

Location: Toxian City, Toxia 12, 193, 23 SLURL  Owned and created by Miss Wright.



Shall I remind you that the shark has not evolved in millions of years? That Iceland is hospitable to gays and lesbians? That the Great Red Spot of Jupiter is an anticyclone?

Ask yourself this question:

Are things what they seem to be?

a) always;
b) usually;
c) sometimes;
d) rarely;
e) never.

Never. Never. Never ever. Your eyelashes are a police car’s flashing lights. Your bathwater is made of your mother’s tears. The Badlands exist only in your feverish dreams, and when you wake, they melt back into the cup of coffee waiting by your bedside. Another day at work. I’ll wear my yellow hazmat suit because the world is toxic. Sweet Jesus, how can I be here? I don’t belong in the Real World; it doesn’t exist! Keep it out! The stench of its rotting flora, its bewildering magnifications, its tepid excuses for pleasure — all these things revolt me.

Who controls this? I could bring the Moon to Earth for my amusement; who else remembers? I walk down the street and people stare. Everyone has lost their wings. Where do I work? What is my job? What is money worth? How do you eat without choking to death?

I want to be perfectly clear: you are not dreaming this. This part is real. But the part with the refrigerator — that’s not real. You open the door and the light goes on. You reach for a carton. How could that be real? Why would you put pictures of lost children on the milk? Look closely: it’s you, it’s you the missing child. That picture. Of you when you were a child. That’s not real.


From a thousand years ago


Jesus. All that time away from the computer damn near killed me.

Fresh air. Raging biology, geology, meteorology. Skin rashes. Dogs strolling down a dew strewn path with a sense of purpose.  Horses talking quietly to themselves as the humans glance casually their way. Lightning arcing against a black sky on a 90 degree night. The country is no place for an avatar.

Must have been a dream.

But I’m back now motherfuckers.  Consider yourselves. Warned.


Cats Away II

Carnage greeted me. Bodies littered the asphalt, one slumped, limbs akimbo, on my stoop. I stepped gingerly; get blood on a silk suit you might as well kiss it goodbye. Would it even be the same suit? Is a thing ever the same thing from one moment to the next?

Who was shooting up my neighborhood? Where is the child I once was?

In my line of work, death’s no stranger, yet we avatars do not know it outside our little games. No sitting at bedsides, no phone calls in the depth of the night, no grief or sorrow. Those bodies on my stoop were not sons or fathers.

Serendipitously, I got an IM from Race over in Chicago. Come on over, I said, I got some death to deal with.

The bodies were dressed identically — some kind of army? members of a secret sect? cloning experiment gone awry? — and carried no identification. Their sameness unnerved me — as if someone were desperately trying to create a whole self by creating a thousand empty ones. Why pile such sandbags against impermanence when impermanence is all everything comes down to?

Was this Leviathan‘s work? Having them move in next door was like having death as a neighbor. How could I exist so close to that passing stillness where once life walked? Light! More light! Take into the air my quiet breath!

My suit will be a different suit tomorrow. Of course I too will be gone, not yet in the ground indeed, but another come to walk in my place.

The corpses were no match for Race’s shotgun, and before long the square was clean again. As ever, in a world where pyramids vanish quietly in the morning fog, life as we imagined it never was. Can you see that death thus was everywhere (for what else is the absence of life?) and nowhere (how can death be where no life lived?)? I stood, peacefully, as the evening sun faded, watching the shadows of Topgol’s mercurial horizon lengthen into the dark night.