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"I'm drawing a blank."
The uberintelligent everwise alien Koby formerly known as Koby the cheap manga anime character rip-off flicked a button, and the blank Skip had drawn imploded from an infinite blank sheet of college ruled paper to an infinitely condensed spec of writer's frustration that god had crumpled the blankness into as a writer might toss away a failed idea, but who crumpled up the very idea of writing anything rather than some specific permutation of letters on the page -- as if theorizing about writer's block itself was the bad idea that needed tossing out.
Skip was hit with a dangerous instinctive feeling that the sudden implosion violated the copyright of someone else who'd already developed the idea of god crumpling up writer's block as a bad idea and leaving someone where Skip was, which almost immediately vanished from his mind with a flash of bleeping red light, perhaps because of some copyright response elimination system, or maybe Skip had just been flicked a reprimand not to think about such things. . Likewise, the blast of vertigo that smashed into Skip's head was pretty much indescribable if not totally incomprehensible. It felt like his psychiatrist had prescribed him 2.5mg of a potent hallucinagen to help him experience something worth writing about, but of which he had taken a 3-month's supply when he tripped on a copy of Writer's Market and swallowed three bottles' worth of pills by accident. That his astronomical vertigo was only a side effect of just 1 of the pills did nothing to appease his loathing for the place. The worst part was, the whole place seemed more devoid of topics and muses than anything Skip had ever experienced (if, indeed, he had ever actually experienced anything else, because his increasing dizziness was now thrusting even that certainty into the dead center of the ballpark of disgustingly questionable). Though being so unsure of himself, at least the chance existed that he had already written everything there was to write, for surely no mortal being would bother noting such an incident (an omission that would likely land him exactly where he was.)
For better or for worse, the place began to become more corporeal. The occurence caused a mixed whirlwind of deja vu and mild genesis, as if space-time wasn't sure whether it had been assigned the evens or odds for homework and was feigning an illusion it had done whichever one was assigned. Skip started to get the feel of the class it was; it was sort of an abstract painting class, yet sort of a black and white photography class. It was sort of buzzling with a herd of enthusiasic third graders, and sort of occupied by three or four yawning art majors who were starting to wish they'd majored in computer engineering like their friends and family had suggested. Their grief became black and their wishes white; they painted inspired by the tragedy of their fries-filled futures. A young girl knocked over a glass of Happy Meal milk they'd served her; it spilled into her ink, which went psychotic with checker-board fragments. A sort-of photography student took a picture to capture the moment, but was lost from real life when one of the children painted the photographer's scene. Their black ink was the pain of their ruined picture, and the still-white areas of the canvas were stuffed with potential ideas for convoluted paintings involving photography students and art majors playing chess, with a fractal nun to the side painting their scene with checkered ink.@
Skip shook his head and snapped alert and looked down to Koby for a sign there was any purpose or point to the place. Koby was already shaking his head "no" as if he'd anticipated the inquiry. He twirked away the scene as if he'd tuned in to the wrong radio station, and finally Skip was at a place he was intimately familiar with: a very creative, particular, and fleshed out idea for using artistic mediums to convey a vast sense of dream-like wonder and vagueness to the would-be purchaser. It was still exceptionally black and white; either the radio station was still changing, or the art class hadn't been a total non sequitur to begin with. (If he was at all competent as a writer at the moment, Skip supposed he might note some sort of irony going on between a potentially dynamic setting shifting to its end resolved destination, and the confusing TV-like static of a static unchanging setting crafted to be intrinsically confusing.) The whole place took on the black/white checkerboard feel, and soon the squares began to break like a giant who'd stomped hard on a tiled floor, or a sheet of Cinamin Toast Crunch as it's broken up into little edible squares. Or a theoretical tic-tac-toe board allocated into a 3x3 array then revolting in wanting to be randomized node data. Or maybe a broken chocolate bar. Or perhaps a huge-ass real life manifestation of John Mayer's Room for Square's album cover if it tripped on a bottle of hallucinagens and came to life. Or maybe more like Zelda 3 in one of the rooms you think are totally harmless until the tiles start coming to life and attack you once you're already half way across the room when there isn't a damn thing you can do about it, even more annoying because you're sure you'll forget about them by the next time you enter the room again...
Each tile shook just a bit as if birds shaking off a rain of run-on droplets of right of parody overflows. The tiles began darting and twirling and intersecting and clashing; they broke and shattered and splintered until only a few retained their original geometric 90 degree angles. Soon everything was a twister of tossed fragmented chaos, and for a brief moment Skip's feeling of solidity with it all drowned in the cold seventh circle of a water-flooded hell. His write-or-flight instincts quickly kicked in that the twister might bullet a shard into his brain or body, but his "write" instincts prevailed as he found himself wondering what such a wounding would do for his writing career. Once again he glanced down at Koby for help, who seemed to be frustrated at one of the tiles he was holding that seemed some sort of TV remote or nuclear detonator. He seemed to be making progress, and as he did so, Skip's feeling of familiarity began to re-materialize with the subsiding twister.
The rustling wind withdrew like a scared spotted cliche storm metaphor describing just about the exact withdrawl except with a physical storm instead of the vague dream-like storm all around. The sky--now that Skip could see there was one, however cloudy and indistinguishable from the white fragments--began to be there, and the tiles calmed and started to settle. They did pretty much what they did when the storm started, except the reverse, of course. The fragments slowly joined and meshed; the white became superglue and the black became the irritation of a prodigy math student kid not sure how to glue his mother's vase back together after tossing his art homework across the room in frustration. The entire bold, fragmenty, constrasty vivid place did--or tried to do--quite a plethora of other things involving the colors black, white, and all potential artistic and mathematical basic shapes, but this soon became too dizzying a task even for its vast infiniteness. The place's vertigo certainly aided Skip, however, who stole a source of endless muse away from the place that he was sure he'd retain in some degree or another for the rest of his life as a confused, fragmented artist somewhere between the center of the dying whirlwind and everything that had nothing to do with it.
Koby seemed to be making penultimate progress now, and Skip could finally see where everything was now going with itself. A solid whiteness pushed itself to one side, and all througout the other a wheel of circley stripes formed. The latter side wore its colors like a Zebra wearing a striped shirt just for the irony, but the former didn't give a damn because there was nothing over there.
Between the two, a diagonal horizon of merging tiles and eversplintered fragments cohersed. It raged with the peace and conflict of any good artist married to their blank paper or canvas. It formed and steeled a titanium, crystal creed to hover forever, then half of it quickly objected on the grounds that forever seemed way too long a time to resolve yourself to. The everbreaking, everunified line half-decided to tolerate itself and half-decided not to, and as the pseudo-irony of conflict of interest became too cliche to bear, almost all of it put pencil to paper (metaphorically, anyway), and sketched out all the metaphors that might describe it and relay what it was like to anyone in the world who knew little about it.
As it wrote, at last, at last, Skip's sense of sense and self and home crystalized into the most real, tangible feeling he imagined he could ever feel. The moments and hours and days and years of his life lined up in perfect semi-symmetry, perfect in part because it was just the right of amount of cold geometry that anyone but your average Ramanujan would see or find in their lives. The other half of his days and hours remained a perfect mysterious mush of nonsensical disorder; or rather, the above average confusing mush of events that any good writer disallows themselves from tangeabilizing into anything meaningful for the sake of a constant source of inspiration. (A source the swirly checkered/chess backgammon fragmented black-white twirly half-indescribable zebra vertigo had helped him re-discover.) Skip exhaled a decent relief at once and again knowing his general job description: A freelance fractal nonlinear novelist protagonist destined to overcome the tragedies of amnesia and writer's block to flight the greatest flwoa ever flitten in the entire future cyclic history of the Age of Okuaka he now knew he'd named Flutonia. (Or at least which he'd entitled his first short story.
As his feeling finally approached its conclusion; as it was just a scant penultimate breath away from carving itself into Skip's permanent long-term memory for the rest of his life as a freelance novelist; as everything Skip ever knew about the ridiculous monotony of the melodramatic absolutions and metahpors surrounding and binding his life were juuuuust about totally clear and crystalized and so on and so forth ad infin ad infin ad infin (ad infin), Koby hit enter on his square-pad and posted the fractal wallpaper he'd finished rendering on an 21st-century 188th billennia Earth internet. The scene smiled, flattened into a 2-dimensional rectangular array of pixels, and popped out and off into the enterprise of marketable nifty fractal images.
The scene was gone and now the infathomable void-vertigo place was back. The only thing that kept Skip from wasting his time debating whether the finished Flutonian wallpaper was isomorphic to his conclusive epiphany or had vanished just a moment too early out of rancid bad luck was the sudden, sharp writer's primal instinct of rapt attention at expecting something inspiring about to happen any moment. (Aside from the survival self-defense mechanism against the depression of concluding the latter.) For what would happen now? He glanced down at Koby who was almost certainly either teaching him something important in an elusive Karate Kid fassion or had just plain forgot he was even there. As if on cue, Koby glanced up at him, gave him a nice big cliche manga smile, and twirked the whole void-place into something more useful. (Again.)
The void started to boot up, and soon it took the form of the inside of a busy personal computer of some sort. Koby moved to do something, but halted when a to-do note popped up to render and post at least two fractal wallpapers on his website. All too late could Skip sense a blackboard (a whiteboard, perhaps, anyway it was one of those school boards that teachers write on to teach their class things) fading in in front of them that Koby looked like he had been about to start using to help Skip understand whatever the hell either were here for (aside from the tragedy of a suddenly-found sense of purpose and meaning in the world lost just as quickly to a desktop someone somewhere was using to float around meaningless dirty pictures on.
He paused for a moment to fume in resentment, and as he did Skip got a better sense of what Koby was going to teach him, for the black and white fragments began to swirl back in, except this time they were not marketable at all, but rather directly related to Skip and his purpose in being in Flutonia. Koby twirked as the fragments returned, and they all contrived themselves from practical visual imagery into a cooler-looking but exponentially more useless second wallpaper largely irrelevant to Skip's basic black and white perspective of life tainted only in clarity by the portions of his black or white clarity that intermixed into gray mathematical areas..
The wallpaper looked far upward toward the sky of a display--or Skip supposed it to be one, though it was almost totally blocked by the computer's hard metal case which a few electron-things were trying to lower the transparency of to get a better view--and gave a loud, massive grunt of annoyance at the status bar that popped up below it that said "0.1% Rendered". Koby looked with the delicate apology of an immortal being trying to be as empathetic as possible without obliterating the mortal target's delicate body, and sighed in fierce concentration on how to teach Skip anything worth taking away before he died of old age without having to restart his computer and loose the render. The barely-begun wallpaper gave another grunt of obstinance that Koby had better put the latter priority before the former, and for once in his life, Skip thrust it a violent middle finger that it better not get in Koby's way of teaching him something useful as a bizarre Krofflutonian protagonist confused as !@#$ hell in an unending yet suddenly halted draft of Frangles 13.174: The Wrath of the Unrendered Second Fractal Wallpaper Part X of Y.
Koby a bit, and the baffling holo- data- laser- show- or- whatever- space all around them flushed and surged and splashed them into a pool of expensive CG images and data crucial to the plot structure. Skip wasn't quite sure how to describe the place, but made a mental note that it was in absolutely no way like Professor Xavier's Cerebro machine in X2, the that Captain Picard and Data track the Nexus from in Star Trek: Generations, the opening to Kyle XY, or just about every construct loading scene whenever any of the main Matrix protagonists puts in a new 3D first-person shooter. (It was, however, in the ballpark of similar to editing an involved Frangles wallpaper in Gimp on an Epson Ex-71 1280 x 800 native resolution PC/Wii/Ps3/HDMI/720p- compatable wall projector from Best Buy on a computer with several lightning fast Verizon FIOS scam internet connections.)
Koby looked around as the diagrams and images fell into places and sighed with a mixed look of someone who'd found the keys they'd been looking for all day on the kitchen table where they normally keep them.
koby gets frustrated at (equivalent of) whole plot structure (current, past, & where going) of frangles or metaphors for it. this is an incredibly contrived catch-all quick-answer explanation to freers about what is going on in frangles, where it's going, etc etc... koby's frustration can even be written from the muse of frangles all messy even if frangles is polished some day (or 131 is).dsfglakrejsvlkdsgf
== Skip expected something transitory, but instead found a jolting catalyst. Koby's nexus broke like an egg plopping a forsaken fetus dependency black bathroom mat. Sudennly he felt a force working through him that took control over his motor activities and
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