SEO Inertia

Exponential growth of markets online.  such as seen with any feed, is inevitable as long as there is a consistent push. That pushing is embodied by updating, commenting and liking.

(At least this is a big part of the SEO currency for now. The internet, still being in its infancy; has not completely switched away from text. It’s only begun to gain speech in a real way.)

As you grow you will gain followers.

Let me state this again: As you grow you gain followers.

Let me say rather, growth itself necessitates growth; follows. On any scale. The more you have the more people in the exact way that compound interest multiplies; will also multiply. This is the very model of exponential growth.

What most people do as I mistakenly did for years; is to discard the value of these followers because of the initial rate of growth. Theoretically I have known that followers grow exponentially. But now I see the reality of exactly why:

Because people with lesser likes and fewer follows no matter what scale were talking about, will always want to follow and like and generally just be more involved with those with more likes and more followers.

The mistake people make is not to keep pushing but to give up initially which, virtually everyone does.

Part of the reason for that at times, split second resignation, is in thinking in terms of, and so bound by the exact industrial way we are all still used to: Mass marketing.

Instead of saying things to yourself like, “What target audience am I aiming at?” – Say, “what exact group of people do I have now, and how can I capitalize off of those groups that are interested right now?”

Think of groups organically, not categorically. In other words, any group of people, for any reason, on any scale is a viable group so long as they have an interest in what you provide. In any capacity or degree.

Because chances are, your target audience; your true target audience is either way too big or way too narrow for you to reach right now. You need a step ladder, a long one: it is the very inertia of SEO.

I must also remember the other half of the story.

Let me say this succinctly: first I’ll say it crudely: the web is an interest multiplier.

An interest snowballer. But only potentially. Remember that. Remember that the daunting nature of what you face as a producer is very possibly just a man behind a curtain pulling levers. Pull that curtain back, and realize that it was only a curtain. Then pull at those levers yourself.

The more interested you are in other people divests itself not necessarily at the same rate per person nor all the same amount of energy. The overlapping of interests is what gains us an automatic inertia as well.

(It becomes somewhat relative with different interests and spin offs which I will discuss the complication of in a future blog. It’s just more good news for the producer, especially the small time producer.)

This is why it is practical and not too impractical to do constant updating in multiple feeds. The interest that everyone gains from the interest generated from likes and follows from their feeds (in one sense so long as they’re lesser than you are) will have more interest in you than you do in them.

And hence more energy divested. The more that you grow the more that this is the case. So you have a push from behind that you gain. This automatic forward momentum from behind is what I had never counted on. I always thought it would have to be self generated every step of the way. And it grows with size; and as it grows does a lot of the expansional work for you. Indeed by definition as its very nature dictates–more the bigger it is.

The answer to “Why should I even try no one’s going to listen we’re all just typing anyway…?” — is answered finally with the fact of this inertia: you no longer have to have a degree for people to listen to you; just a number of followers that organically change into heterogeneously adaptable groups.

That is, groups that actually change with the waves of interest on the Internet.

This is what big advertisers don’t necessarily want you to know.

The reason that they do not want you to to know this is because corporations are a product of the 20th century. They are divested in making money via interest. But interest as spat out at consumers  required to buy in order to fuel the economy. The new economy is a system of producers and consumers nearly equally If not entirely.

Because anyone with talent should know what I did not: True growth is inevitable given a certain amount of time. All exponential growth is slow at first because it is hard to evaluate the rate of growth rather than just you looking at small numbers. That is, it only appears to grow slowly, the actual equation is working the same way throughout.

The part about this working regardless of scale is why people give up. It’s definitely why I gave up the number of times that I am guilty of.

Let’s recap:

1. Interest sparks growth. I.e. someone likes a blog of yours because you write a blog about cats and they like cats.

2. Growth then attracts and matches growth. Ie. You get enough likes and follows that other people like and follow you. Or on a smaller scale: the one like you gained from that one blog about cats is matched by another like from another person with a blog about cats. Then in turn, someone who likes dogs and cats then follows both of you. See how it is inevitable that you have gained a number of likes from only one? And this keeps happening until you have lots of likes of followers, inevitably.

3. SEO inertia occurs because each like leads to the next group of likes. Remember that it does this because it is agnostic of scale. Scale agnostic. This is the key of the most salient point to the idea I am illustrating. Because we all believe implicitly that low numbers do not attract other low numbers, but they do. They do online anyway.

Then in tandem, numbers of group of likes and follows results in web authority over a given matter within the values of that group.

5. The result is a forward inertia shaped like a pyramid. Meaning that there is more work to do at the bottom than there is as you gain bricks toward the top. Just as it is with any economic model.

6. This model then in turn guarantees its own feedback loop. Which then in turn, also guarantees more growth for less work. Thus guaranteeing exponential growth.

7. How fast or how close that peak of exponential growth is reached by an individual producer, is dictated by how much of a concept the producer has of which so called “points” will triangulate best or rather, the most with other points. In other words, each point is the light for a follow or an update, or an impression that returns a value. The gravity given to each point per value, will yield an inevitable gain. The speed and force of this gain, is facilitated by how interested someone is when they like or follow something. Thus the gravity of points is a value expressed not by the general curve, from beginning to end; but rather by observing points of singularity: the rate of growth when small leaps happen. Observe the rate of the growth of these leaps, and you will be able to project the curve you are entering.

There. I think that does the idea at least a general justice…

– Don’t give up, there are other guerilla marketers out there that will be successful.

On a less negative note If you have anything anyone else on earth could be interested in, You now have the means to reach them.

Like Madonna said: “People say that a great thing never lasts and that it has to fall. Those are the people that did not ammount to much at all.”

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Sons of the Silent Age Part 5 of 5

It was when she awoke that her head finally sunk into the jelly NeauMatter they’d put there to sooth her neck.

“Didn’t think we’d need to hold you here for the night,” said a nice old man, chomping a bit as he spoke from ruined teeth and dental sub-jaws. They clacked with the hard consonants, especially.

“Where’s…where is everybody?” she asked, still half awake.

She was safe, she felt, creeping warmly into talking to this man.

Another Playbill. A poster this time. On the wall there, diagonally to her right. In what looked to be the room of a medical facility of some kind…

The GREAT SOMNAMBULIST!  It read, in spectacular RED, early 1900’s font on a black misty background with some kind of train operator in an old stained and striped train suit and cap. Behind him was the enormous Train-Flying Machine, it read in a caption next to it.

“Rachael!”

It was the descending voice of her Mother, what must have been her on the Intercom. There were only windows behind her, and she couldn’t see them. Her mom’s voice was indeed, quite amplified.

“We need to go and get you to your grandfather’s room quickly…”

“Is he dying?”

“Well, no but–just get out of that room you’re in and come with me…”

“Okay, okay.”

This was normal. She’d have an incident, and her mom would be the one there. Coincidentally Pam was the least sympathetic mother sometimes.

Must be that German we have…

She left the room after a long while trying to undo Lipids machine tubes and coils. The man had left out of nowhere and she didn’t care to go looking for him. She even turned off the computers that facilitated them, booted em down completely, no problems…

She followed her mom to Grampy’s room.

Helen was there with Andrew and her Nana and of course, Grampy, sleeping alongside her chair backed to a window. He snored as he lay there, unmoving in the small Twin mattress’ bed. “He’s just not up to walking around that’s all, right mom?” added Rachael. No one said anything, but Nana, put a hand out and caressed it with a Mother’s touch.

Andrew, Helen, herself and her daughter now, were meandering aimlessly around the room, savoring a hand that held the wine or beer, hoping to look like they were reflecting, or at least looking for something to do…Rachael reasoned that this was bullshit. Every time. Fractured conversation and polite little drivels of stares darting from object to useless object; a perpetual deer in the headlights every time your eyes met, swiveling about the tiny room. This was often because the room after all, was not a penthouse suite by any means. It was all the Linderen family could afford for Grampy and Nana.

It wasn’t just that though, the Military treated him right,  but Government funds weren’t as secure as they used to be twenty or even ten years ago. The budget was forever curtailing Exo-Military services. Many Federal pensions were ‘frozen’ presumably until the date the USC determined that the Economy ‘has most certainly picked up.’ This date of ‘unfreezing’ your funds, as a Senior, could be and very often was long after your date of death. The same was true of Social Security. Sometimes these death certificates were bought and sold ‘Cabal Style,’ a phrase referring to the black market.

A Senior often did ‘Go-Cabal’ as they would say… Or: ‘He’s going fucking Cabal on us!’ many ads ran with to sell Senior driven products or to encourage rebellious youth to do more of the same.

When a Senior ‘went Cabal’ he typically sold everything, sometimes up to and including his wife and grandchildren on the Booty Market. It was as the Views and papers were saying, ‘The Fourth Baby Boom’ had occurred in the last thirty years. It was referring to the historical wave of grandparents, as second parents.

A Senior man having ‘gone Cabal,’ typically starts reading the propaganda literature on Cabal Life as there was so much support for Fetish communities. In fact, there were whole Micro-Gens (non-USC, even) formed, and were, indeed, all the time now, as the press would always point out:  ‘waiting for us right outside the changing and encroaching walls of CAMBIAN.’

Everette Linderen, that is, the Colonel’s Pension and funds, were merely ‘thinning’ as the new definition from the new term, from the even newer set of UFED terms–went by.

***

Nana screamed.

Rachael roused herself off the floor, still in the room. She had fallen asleep again, wound up nestled at the base of the Colonel’s feet of all things. That is, where his feet were until he had to go the bathroom, sometime long ago. Her last moments before falling asleep were of an incomprehensible series of noises mixed in with what little her mind automatically recorded happening… Her mom moving around with Helen to help perhaps…yes, get him to the toilet I think…

No telling where everybody was now. No one. Not even Gorsky, and the room was dark. Her SwitchLight was glowing, predictably with a message from her mom, no doubt. There was a message and it was from Pam. “Come downstairs when you wake up.” it read. She was utterly disoriented. How could mom or whoever be in the next room, when they’re not?

Her confusion thickened until–

Another scream, coming from the hallway, right outside the room.

And it was choppy. Almost bloodcurdling screams were trying to get out again! Rachael drew herself to the crack of light in the door and pried it open slowly, furtively. Her mom and Nana were there, halfway down the hallway toward a stairwell past four or so rooms on either side.

“Oh my, oh oh MY! What am I gonna do, what am I going to DO!!!” Nana fell into Pam’s arms and sunk to her feet, exasperated. Hesitating, Pam lowered herself there with her, trying desperately to pick up her Mother’s falling limbs. Rachael had never seen her mom being compassionate like this, not with anyone.

She approached them, to some feeble distance. Nana was unnatural, alien and ghostlike, her question wavered as a haunting apparition in the air. Her voice shrieked with other nonsense in guttural spasms, dissipating only slightly, a mechanism, not a person, convulsing within and without Pam’s reach.

“Oh Good God, Good GOD!!!” The tears weren’t over. Rachael’d never heard her turn from a woman to a…Beast. That sounded like a man’s voice a little.

The screams were now more intense. Like overwhelming music, Nana’s voice was a smear of everything unreal in her life slipping off in glops like the sediment of mental flesh onto the floor. Her comforts; the layers of self—all the different sides of her; the mom, the Grandmother, the gregarious social animal from ‘Dantant’ as they would say, or ‘the age of year’s past’…

And then, her religion, the after life…now all on the floor.

“Bullshit. It’s all bullshit! How could He be this harsh! HOW???! Pam HOW!” Screeching now. Gripping Pam and screaming at her, point blank.

The Reality hit Rachael’s eyes and slammed her beliefs shut. Luxuries, the hyper-extreme wishful thinking that is abandoned in an instant of realness, and thereafter—we are living in actual reality. 

Actual time. 

But the long shriek made itself clear: you are indeed in Reality, you indeed do exist, you are here, but will not always be.

And the time that you will not always be here, will be forever. And this is the only sure thing you have. And at that point everything you see will be gone to you, from now on. 

Not even a billion millennia, even if they were each comprised of a thousand light years into the future–could bring you back. Could bring her back, or anyone… But existence will remain alive in the Reality you will have to leave. And you are not, nor will you be, ever– an exception. 

These facts rattled around in Rachael’s head until her Grandmother looked no different than the floor of the gray carpet. Her knees slumped into the rug, making a dent where it happened to be a bit loose and got slightly wrinkled.

The knowledge of the Colonel’s death had them solemn on the way to the car. Jenny was bouncing a little less heartily, but one could simply not seem to remove that almost Helen-like smile they both had.

An apartment complex lay as the sprawling context of the Bitzeri Assisted Living and Interment Camp, on the other side of the bay where the shore was and where they’d come around to enter on foot. Her Grandmother, her Nana had already taken up residence there. They’d pushed the data through, to get her to stay there, paid for, seamlessly prefigured from the date of her husband’s death.

There were huge balloons on a hill, like maybe fourteen of them floating in the intermittent wind after they passed by yet another parking lot.

‘The Brooke.’ The somewhat distant placard that held the balloons, read.

It was for some new apartment complex rental sale. Presumably the one it stood against, there in the middle of four Mega-Lots for cars and Transports. A single ML could hold 50,000 cars when levitating on top of each other at a height of one third a kilometer. On average, for years on end, it didn’t hold in reality more than a few hundred at a time, however.

An expanse of gridded concrete lay in every direction other than the sprawl of indecipherable industrial noise of tall lights, flashing View signs, and Pharmacie-Liqueur Stores that looked more like Kiosks.

All signs of moving civilization save the often broken concrete slab, ten kilometers squared–were now beginning to end, up ahead.

Blue, White, Red, and Yellow blotted their part of the sky as the land rose with those balloons standing at its peak. They had reached the top. The old stained brick apartment placard now seemed merely life size. It must have swallowed the brooke it once replaced, because there was no actual brooke to be seen at all. Just more astroturf circling each street light, and the tallest, most creature-like lamp posts one ever saw. If one could even reach their eyes to the top of one, that is.

A swarm of Transport people waiting for the next shuttle to arrive came out of nowhere like standing in the middle of a mirage. Rachael then saw a Hispanic young Mother with her hair up, standing with her daughter.

She stood next to the big placard in a blue faded T-shirt with some scratched up logo and green sweat pants. She had no expression, a shock of her long tousled black hair bristling in the wind. She didn’t seem to be standing close enough with the others to the Transport Post, so it was hard for Rachael to make out why she stood there.

The little girl, with a plaid outfit, danced off her hand, which was holding to hers more tightly than one might consider imagining. At closer range, as Camille walked by, the lady was still like a statue, her expression now appearing merely drained and indifferent. The weather was so calm. Back to blue skies with faint cirrus clouds again.

She stared up at the bleak sun filled sky of criss crossing contrails. Sonic Imprints were also left in the air above, invisible save the distortion of color and shape they made in their path. There were also three or so other smaller complexes in the ocean of parking lot, that seemed to be trailing off from the big concrete dune where The Brooke stood.

They finally arrived at the car, piled in, rose to a passable flying height, and left the greater part of Maryland.

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Sons of the Silent Age Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

Sons of the Silent Age Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

25. Sons of the Silent Age

RD AUTO Message 170: Sat 12, Octobre 2086 – Steinenhurst, Maryland |

The air would have been gray.

There was a breeze that sort of didn’t dare make too much sound.

Old people were marching in unison.

The new UFED Cooperation with the Steinenhurst Micro-State of Maryland kicked off an Ad campaign targeting the 45 and up. A series of blockbuster romantic comedies featured newly revived, key pre-era celebrities–and had now consolidated the previously scattered market for seniors. Among these changes; we now had funeral parlors, B&Bs, pancake and breakfast houses, diners, nursing homes as well as Assisted Living communities, all contained inside official Theme Parks with rides!

The beach of the local Bitzeri ‘Arrangement Living and Interment’ camp was a faint sap green and billowed into a muted tan around where its dunes would peak. You could see the yellow blotchy horizon, and the bay, even the ocean beyond, but somehow, none of these things seemed to make a difference. A fog of atmospheric haze  coming in from the sea collided with the long perspective of the boardwalk until it disappeared into the sky. The walls that lined the boardwalk were made of a watery blue brick that loomed over their tennis courts and workout cul-de-sacs. Somehow it looked as if to be missing the crown of its own barbed wire. But there were no imprints of where it would have been, as the brick was freshly painted twice a year.

The pitter-patter of quiet sneakers hitting the ground seemed to be in slow motion. Looking at an old painting try to move and watching these people exercise would have required the same visual attention. Somehow it was as if witnessing only the aftermath of some distant speed. They had on noisy jump suits that represented the entire color spectrum. And still, the sharpest thing in Rachael’s gaze was the grayish-blue metal of the fence she clung her fingers to.

She felt playful, suddenly. Murmurings of things past echoed throughout her mind. She’d known pure boredom enough to make life a race against it. She started playing with these thoughts, tossing them around. She did this until she discovered the game in her head had turned her into an insect.

More like a bumble-bee, maybe.

They had made their way into the waiting lobby when her mom turned to her. “Rach–what’s your SSN again?”

“Wh–”

“They can’t pull up Fingers or Hands here.”

She gave it to her and looked around the dull yellows and grays that made up the lobby’s ceiling, aside from the skylights. A small company library could be seen to her right, possessing a curious addition on an island in this adjacent room that could have at one point, been a kitchen.

They stood in the center of the circular lobby filled with baby blue chairs, marble seeming walls, shiny black tile floors, and funny looking glass sculptures. All of this on the axis of a tiny fountain of ornate, undulating white metal. It was inactive and sort of hidden. Hallways spun off from the lobby in four directions.

They were visiting her Grandmother, not quite ailing  enough yet in her old age, they all thought, underneath it all…

It was the one on her mom’s side. Rachael was always bored with this sort of thing. Smiles, nods and fractured anecdotal conversation was her fate every time she went. Why should she be made to think anything different?

They made their way down hallways of that sweet, sickly aroma so indicative of rotting flesh. That is, of old age.

Monitors passed them, stuck one after the other on the walls, maybe ten of them to a hall. They were most of them, dead, black screens. Dead to their Eyes anyway, but not the Eyes of the inmates here, or any of the staff for that matter.

“So, I have to tell you Rachael, there was something I did talk to Helen about that I’d like you to consider seriously…”

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Page 6 of the Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel

Page 6 of the Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel

dreams.

RD AUTO Message: -2090, Sun 17, Octobre 2081 – Centerville, VA. Off-Line  |

The vintage bicycle was a shiny blue.

And silver. Leaves fell. Many bright colored leaves covered that mat quality of the early morning tar meeting the sun.

The kick stand came flying up into its place. The spokes of the wheels were not rusted as she’d thought the night before, just some dirt. She shined its surface every other day.

Rachael was sitting on the shiny red seat, and a puff of air trapped inside, came out like she was farting. She hated that sense, the sense that things weren’t serious. But she had to forget it, there was work to be done, a journey ahead of her. She’d been at the hospital the night before. That one last night. With him.

The woods would lead to the clearing and from there, she would take the path to the riverbed near the Airport. Orbs of white and yellow light were seeping from the crest of the horizon where the river water mixed with the sun and the harbor ocean.

The bike was going fast! She heard the music in her Ears blaring and she couldn’t help but think that the land, this expanse of light and endless sidewalk, the endless blue tin railing…they were the music.

Roaring could be heard and she was then feeling the air envelop her entire body, lifted from the bicycle, her heart pounding with excitement. Her purple cloche hat nearly came right off, she was so fast. Her white dress, cinched at the waist, was filling up with air and flapping all over the place. She sat on it and that seemed to solve the problem.

Today is different. I think I’ll avoid the woods.

This roar was of a DerGoG Jet, rising like a flying whale from the depths of the river, the last of the Airbourne flights in the developed world.

Her bike profiled, scrolling with the Jet, enormous NeauMetal and bellowing steel. A bulbous fuselage, but elegant; 2more like its predecessor, the old Airbuses before they’d been put out of commission, long ago.

She looked at her tiny silver watch: 5:30HRS.

But it’s not time!

Rachael sped up, faster and faster, pounding her little feet to the peddles.

She hadn’t actually seen the planes. But she remembered. She could always remember.

Check Out The 46 Page Full Color Paperback Graphic Novel Here On Lulu.com!

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Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Chapter 2

Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Chapter 2

20. The Them

The Great Hall extended two kilometers in either direction.

The multitude of paper Thyn, textureless, organic and intelligent data systems comprised the surface of its perfectly self-illuminated white walls, cascading fourteen meters tall, from ceiling to floor, covering every inch of the length of the Hall. There were featureless steel looking vaults at either end. Only spoken User-Authorized command could let anyone in, and only those pre-Authorized on the fly, every time anyone entered. Even the echoes of voices were dwarfed by the immensity of the space it enclosed. And it was wet, but only on either side, so the floor and ceiling were perfectly dry. Thin, and sometimes, micro Thyn waterfalls of all kinds of speed and slowness fell either toward or away from gravity, only to disappear, then seemingly reappear from the ceiling. Or was it the floor? One couldn’t tell the difference unless the streams were ‘mapped out.’

“We’re all glad you’re back Helen,” said her boss, Dr. Damiand, his voice, echoing next to the quietly streaming water putting a dancing light on Helen’s smooth round face. Her eyes were even more crystalline in the blue and yellows reflected off the sparkling falls. The side of her face that stood next to the water, caught the glint of a sharp melting pocket of light when it mixed in with her hair.

“Yes, good to be back!”

She’d taken off a few days from work to help David with the yard software.

“Yeah, good to have you back!” he repeated as if nothing had been said the moment previous. “We were getting a tad worried you’d get too used to the retired life, after three days, that is…”

Helen moved the petrie dish that seemed to have nothing on it, from one tiny rectangular white plate to another, then began to feed it into the blank wall. The flowing water opened smoothly, like a curtain, its edges quickly conforming to the shape of her hand. Her delicate finger tips pressed to the surface of the unrelenting Wall, perfectly dry, as it took in the petrie dish. A featureless levitating metal slate stood beside her at arm’s level that held a whole set of different lengths of Thyn glass cylinders, a dull surface to each one. They looked almost too Thyn to support their own length.

She and the head Dr. or U-Dr., were in the Una-Hall, right there in the center of the ‘Higher Dynamics’ department at UNATRAD Headquarters, deep within the compound she had so acclimated to over the years.

The walls had no markings on them of any kind other than the fact that it was white and the surface looked like seamless, polished marble. It was actually a series of machines with interacting nodes that lit up if anyone touched any of them. The vault door they were closest to, looked to be the size of a car wheel, the other, the diameter of a dime.

“Turn on the Emo-Reader,” said the Dr.

“Yes, of course,” said Helen. “Yes, Final Sunset please, it will soothe her…”

Helen clicked her fingers over a few green squares that emerged from the wall as buttons and then receded back into the wall as if never having changed its shape. This activated a set of instructions read in yellow light with light grey outlines, emerging as real as ink on paper, in the consistency and most of the physics of both. This was her work, she and this wall. “Me and my wall,” she’d joke about at home. She could say certain things, as long as they were without context or claim. It was here on the surface of the wall that Helen spent most of her hours and days. She lived through this, because she couldn’t think outside of ‘the many.’ Not in a serious way. She was and would always be of the few, and for the many.

The instructions that had appeared, were as follows:

U CAN =  Run. Syntha TURBINES Cron Manager Commencing via POWERLITE INC. = NMR to CVR 25655 (Africa) S C E N A R I O

THEN. U = Enis.

UNDER. U = Run 62% Enis; Then. All Sub Drives.

WITH. Ab U = Collate. Divise. Collaborate Run Program.

IF. U = F-Dev. Avail. Capacity. Trans.

THEN. UJ = Run Gateway

IF NA THEN U = Gateway Active

IF LESS – THEN U = Run Forum: January.

U = U

“Okay, here we go then..,” said Helen, stretching dormant vocal chords with a choppy start.

IF U = U. THEN –

Please wait a moment…

She could remain still like this while the computer processed, sometimes for whole half hour stints.

THEN. (U)

.U = January-Transitional Commencing.

U = Forum Inactive.

U = Run + X O X A X B X X L X I S T X X X XXXX||||

She tapped something in midair and then this appeared…

U = Run + S O X A X B X X L X I S T X X X XXXX JuXXX

U = Cron-Morning-Snow.

U = Forum Active.

U = Gateway Active.

U = DoubleFace. Active.

U = Morning Active.

U = Phonograph Commencing Periodic Sound Vibration ‘Music.’

USC = “To whose star do you face Helen XXXXXXXX?”

“Morning Snow,” said Helen back to the MachineWall.

UJ + USC = DoubleFace. Active.

D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+?< – RUN PENTAGON ISSUED DOCUMENTS TO USC INDONESIA CLIENT – ON -MEGA-FLIGHT 25655 USC (Affiliate) AIR – >Ca>Home<-/-*DARA> U = RUN HOME = END STATE THEN <-/-*DARA HOME> wait the birdcage is|

a fw-class-678cf2122651d430a0e345ea7406ee74 Indonesia Client 25650 = FALSE. libido animals produce| D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+??D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=-?D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+?< D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=-?< D345fgh9987d345fgrpentempty|more

agonissued=-?< ++

TRUE>libido animals . more

Active = Morning + Snow += linkedseries = linkedseries ++

MORNING ACTIVE 2…

“I Face Early Morning Snow.”

And with this more zillions of calibrations were made, and she was finally in. For that day.

“Okay, Dr., now I think we’re ready to proceed.”

“Good, good, okay…Is Gateway Active?”

“Sure is. And, the new Sonic-Architecture is underneath everything.”

“Great, okay,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, appearing also to get slightly more situated in his medical Jacket. He was a much older man than anybody she worked with, in his late 90s.

“Did you tell it what Star to Face?”

“Yes, she is facing Morning-Star, January Transitional Commencing.”

“Cron is checking for receding fractions. Oh, sorry, receding Pairs.

“Receding Pairs?”

“Yes doctor, the fractions are finally multiplying in pairs.” Pairs are the most efficient way that equations of this sort could multiply organically.

“Ha, my god, that’s…That—are—are you sure??” He knew she couldn’t be more sure.

“Well, aren’t you surprised at least, I mean, the Theorem worked, we have Gateway responding intelligently to multiplying exponentials here, that act biologically, no less. Don’t you get it–not only a Learning Brain, but a brain that can self-evolve its own biological matter!”

The absence of excitement was shored up by Helen’s ever present miniature smile existing only on the right or left side of her face, like the Mona Lisa. At least that was the joke around the Lab.

“Well, it’s what we’ve been working toward all along here, isn’t it?”

“Helen, you’re such a talent, and yet, you don’t give a shit or a hoot about any of it.” He’d said that smiling, but reproached himself when he suddenly asked why. To himself, of course. But it was too late, he had to pay attention, and resigned his thought on the scroll of his presently focused mind.

She knew what a revelation he must have felt, what a breakthrough this was for him. For him. For everybody else.  She was simply delighted though, in the emotional reaction people made, that actually made things, produced things–could feel like. She’d always pay his passion just the proper amount of lip service though.

But all she could think about was The Game with her Hubby later on that evening. It had been like this, for as long as she worked at UNATRAD. She was just so damn good at everything requiring the quick witted understanding of harmonics and Bio-Symbol-Systems, I mean, you name it in terms of what she’d sought out to do. Certain concepts that took others forever, she could do in minutes. Made her non-expendable.

The good Dr. did find it mildly odd she shared no exchange of passion with him, ever. Maybe that’s just how women are, he thought. It never occurred to him what actually resulted in putting this conclusion to action. Then again, he didn’t do much other than spend time at the lab’s facilities in some way or other.

There were also the rumors. Oh, the rumors, she’d say to herself. But in the end, she told herself she cared and ignored the fact it didn’t change her life in any immediate way, so her interests would then stray to thinking about something random, like Jenny. This typically wouldn’t last very long before she was on to Kenson’s new album and her top Fetish shows.

She looked at him just then, almost to test herself. She knew what he’d done. The child he molested was nine, not ten as the authorities reported, and there were rumors that bounded through Space and Time itself, it seemed, that he had been molesting his daughter, Harietta, all along. There was no way to prove anything either way but the surveillance of the church the incident occurred in.

Intra-Cam Nano Surveillance wasn’t allowed in the homes of certain elect Diplomats. Dr. Damiand had no Nano Recording installed in his home, ever, due to his membership to Global Community One, GCO–CAMBIAN’s Central Global Networks, since 2044.

She had known the wife, Johanna. But whenever this thought came back into her head, somehow she had a harder and harder time imagining it. What she didn’t realize is that if she’d ever tried, she would have discovered the same difficulty in imagining anything. And the test resulting in the same thing: she couldn’t feel more than distant from actually loving this stuff.

She also and weirdly, knew that his daughter was no longer ‘present’ on God’s Good Earthen Soil, either. Harietta Damiand had died in a horrible Hover accident involving several or more automobiles. She was nine at the time of her death.

He had loved her, like Daddy’s do. Or like, Daddy’s can. To complicate things, Johanna, his wife was going senile. Her sudden dementia was combatted with restructuring software and everything, but in the end, she just slipped away.

This made things more convenient for him of course, especially. Harietta had been made of God’s Good Flesh when she lived. She was made of God’s Own Good Born Silicate and now, well now, she was made of wood. Dr. Damiand, resurrected her by copying what the Intra-Portable Equiv-MRI Bot, that is, the brain software, had recorded for the duration of her life. Damiand, being privy to software and Skins in the Lab, got quite a discount in taking over the more expensive parts of her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a Hollywood man, nor exposed to many artists, so he regarded Human Silicates to be cost prohibitive. Anybody with his income could have found a less expensive Human Silicate Equiv., but he was an old fashioned kind of guy, and the new Networks Spots and channels were a little too fast paced for the likes of him.

The IPE-MRI Bot had obtained most of the details. Things like the surface textures identities of formica or certain types of metal and wood etc., didn’t copy over. Amongst an entire host of lost data, such as her first time using the toilet, which as a mahogany wood Real Girl, a subtype of Rubber Girls and RBoys.

So, Harietta was now made of mahogany, fine polished dark cherry wood. The Dr. Had grown to like the aesthetic of wood. But his sexual appetite was taken care of on behalf of the FED Marriage Sexual Health Act of 2067. He had amassed enough FED-MSHA-2067 money in a special FED linked account, to buy him RealSkyyn, or actual organic home grown genetically engineered flesh and muscles in a small private Lab. She would have RealSkyyn, soon.

There was something different though, even to her now. She had begun uttering things her mom had said, his wife and himself, could only have known, as they had never shared certain details with Harietta.

***

“Hey Cam, come here quick for a second.”

“Ok, what’s up?”

“All right, first of all–are you Mikin’ sure that this Switch Light is the only data device that’s retaining this event?”

“I mean except for Unambiguous. eah…why?”

“Take a look at this. Look, the two numbers.”

“What? Oh, wait, yeah, I guess–they’re not the same number but…”

“But they are the same number of digits.”

“Holy fuck, you are right! So what does that mean? Naw, no way, were not doin’ what I think you’re getting at.”

“Oh, so you know what I’m getting at?”

“I think so, you wanna use these digits somehow to…to make money somehow…”

“Yeah, literally, like, Print money.”

“No one uses Print money anymore.”

“Not off the Main Line.”

“So, the only places we could use whatever you’re concocting is here in central CAMBIAN?”

“Not, ah, what about Oakland Community Mall?”

“OCM is so…”

“Ghettie I know, but not entirely, they have some good stuff cause like, business men go through there…”

“I don’t know, Oakland? That’s so dangerous though.”

“You know it’s funny, as much as you say you hate your mom, sometimes you really listen to what she says…”

“What?? Whatever, I guess, well anyway, I’ve got nothing against going, but well, what are we even talking about here Kim?”

“Camel Toe, this is an entry key code for bills, and its just a coincidence it matches up here, I mean, not just the digits, but the letters and dashes too! And Una gave it to you, prolly for a reason. Mike! This is what my Dad does or well at least knows a lot about money printing in the old days and he pointed out the number range of certain numbers that are or were allegedly, numeral skeleton keys.”

Read More at:

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Reveille

 RD AUTO Message 178: Fri 18, Octobre 2086 — Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’

Role call.

As it were.

“Linder?”

“Here.”

“Sazumiat?”

“Here.”

The room was fairly quiet, no one dared to try and make a sound.

Other than their Role Call Voices.

The colossal Gym Room seemed only to crane from above. As if witnessing the long gradual motion of a distant shooting star.

They kept on in a droning, murmuring…faintness. Squeaky voices slipped into the Gym stratosphere, as if sucked up by the lines they thought were probably the roof’s intricate paths of crisscrossing Metal rafters.

Every five minutes or so, you could hear the tiny threads of students running by, flitting past the long slit windows of the four rows of pale blue double doors; repeating off into the Gym, lining nearly the entire course of every wall receding into the big white beige of the Room. Five hundred and seventy doors total. The lines of Gurls were near the first doors of their Section, off to one corner: Exital Orb-Group Section B114, Sqaure Resendo 8.

Somewhere in the distance were the faint suggestions of other Sluts doing acrobatics.

Wasn’t a big deal if you did make a little cough or hand gesture fiddling with a shirt or something, but you weren’t really supposed to. Some people disappeared. No one wanted to disappear.

Not really.

The Coach cradled a thin old brick slate with actual pen and paper, facing the square grid of five long, distinct rows.

Out of the blue, Camille randomly placed a disingenuous foot outside her Square. For kicks. No one would care, per se, but it was there, her foot. Placed outside the Square. Retracted it instantly when Ms. Steven’s bobbly head peered up again. What is she reading on that damned sheet of paper that takes up the entirety of her attention for that long?

“Slout?”

“Here.”

“Corroz?”

“Here.”

“Jenny??” Everyone laughed. Ms. Stevens smiled at Jenny.

There was something peculiar about Jenny today, though…

Her neck. There was something curling around it, Rachael observed, wrapping around the base or something… Something dark like a bruise. She couldn’t put a finger on it from her range.

It was first Session. Rotating Session, which meant, Gym class at the beginning of the day. Feet felt clammy and hard meeting unremitting tile. So cold.

They’d all pass time with a gradual muted little dance to keep their feet from freezing. Like they were laughing without smiles or sound. All wore faded red short-shorts with darkening white T’s. None of these dress ‘uniforms’ were ever really washed. Just stuffed into lockers day in and day out. Neither Rachael’s, which one could smell of female essence if it weren’t for the boundless space of the enormous Gym.

It would take a solid forty-five minutes for Role Call to finish, and when it did, every one of the seventy or so females had to herd into the locker room.

First, today though, “Basketball tryouts!” Ms. Stevens added, placing the RC sheet and board under an arm. Steven’s uniform was washed.

Sighs and grunts like chimps let out with this last word.

“Okay, okay, let’s settle down girls!” shouted the dikey buzz cut P.E. Teacher with echoes not caught by any Sound Web to mute them, the sharp grating tones, vacant and unpromising.

“See how long you can hold em up girls.”

It was painful. Part of Role Call was that you had to hold up the girl in front of you, then rotate after half of Role Call was finished. No one rotated anymore though. Most of the time it took place to cradle ‘the dead,’ the girls too drunk or high from the night before to even stand. Instead of being sent to the First Aid room, they could at least show up for attendance first. Other Gurls were just doing it to make the rows uniform in appearance.

The object was to see how long you could hold the other one up. It seemed. Or is it a trust exercise? Rachael couldn’t care less to remember all the reasons for the cradling of your front partner in Gym.

“Hold her up there Lindi.”

“Linderen,” corrected Camille, instantly.

“Whatever sweetie, jus’ keep holdin’ her up by her armpits.”

Sally’s pits were wet and cold, but Cam’s fingers bunched into fists that acted as a push-up bra. Camille could feel her finger tips burrowing into the flesh of breasts and underarms. The tips of the girl’s straggly short sleeves appeared to be slightly crusty, the creases nearly wet from sweat stains. Fleshy bruises would be left there from Rachael’s grip, but at least the girl didn’t have to rest outside her Square.

Ms. Stevens was rather weighty and tended to center over where her monumental gut was hanging, though somewhat hidden inside her T-shirt. Like a big billowy bag to catch her guts. 

Some kids were just too tired. There was always a TwoKiloRun before any Gym class as well, not every kid made it through. Even at the very start of the day. It’d been way too cold out.

Everyone had to be in five perfect rows, no matter what, for morning Role Call.

Camille was holding up Grace, a tall girl like her, who’d just taken too many Injections the night before…or…whatever… Maybe she’s pretending…

Everyone knew what that was like. She wasn’t the only one, there were fourteen or so girls basically keeling over if it weren’t for the ones behind them, barely holding them to their feet.

“Why do we still have role call, coach? I mean, doesn’t Janus take care of attendance?”

“Look, like I’ve said a trillion times, Janus, eh, Err, UNA–doesn’t always catch everything.”

But that was only what they’d told her. In Reality, Una was Perfect. Everyone knew it, but the instructors had to do role call anyway.

When everyone lined up again for Basketball tryouts, Ms. Stevens had them practice shooting first. The girls lined up, single file before each of the four hoops on each wall of the large Gymnasium. No one got to put on their shoes again until matt exercises.

They all missed, most of the time. About ten balls that never quite seemed to bounce enough, hit the floor as if with one disgruntled thud and bounced maybe halfway to the basket before someone had to help it to the goal. All the balls were a soft white. Some of them kinda deflated. A few girls kicked them, and that seemed to work better. None of them made it to the baskets without being hurled directly by hand from a short distance. To hit the ground most often with nothing more than a…thud.

“Okay Ladies, time to hit the matts! Lie down in five lines here on the five mats!”

***

The locker room stank of designer perfumes. All actual “BO” was monitored, but some still slipped into the stuffy room, overflowing with steam from the showers.

“Pick your soap and get in the showers, girls!”

She always watched them, Ms. Stevens. Watched them shower. They’d zone her out as she ‘stood watch.’

To make sure soap got over all over the bodies.

Jenny was still squirming her way through the showering bodies when she snuck around Camille and grabbed a boob.

“Hey Biatch,

“Woah! Hey, that ain’t free, Slut!”

Giving her that specialty kaleidescope look again, and with a curious little smile Jenny stuck both fingers inside Cam’s vagina. Then in her ass.

Camille jumped.

“WoahhhH!!!”

“Yeah, stop it!”

“Not much of a CAMBIAN girl, then huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the big push now: everybody’s bodies, are well…everybody else’s.”

Rachael’s face deflated into a precise rest.

“‘Oh, come on, not in the mood girl.” Cam whisked an ever persistent hand away from her pussy. But then Jenny, as usual, put a finger to her lips, slid it in her mouth, and tasted the juices of poor ol’ Rachael…

…Who kept turning to Ms. Stevens with looks of blank contemplation.

Stevens, in her yellow “T” remained stolid as ever there in the background…behind the thick heat. Crossing her arms and parting her legs like a Sergeant.

“Time is slowing,” uttered Cam, softly.

“What, what are you discussing with yourself now?” inquired Jenny.

“She does me favors you know…”

“Yeeeeah, I, –I know Jenny.”

She kept staring while the droplets of shower water fell and slipped over her brow and nose. The sight of Steven’s veiny cottage legs, irregular clumps of flesh and fat, remained the direction of her stare.

“Oh Cam!” Jenny’s intermittent voice seemed to dart around the rushing water, muted from it and chopped up like broken frequencies.

“What now Jenny,” grunted Camille, scrubbing her face with bare hands, accidentally sticking her index digit up her nose. “Ah, shit, what the fuck!”

“Hey, what’s with the weird fuckin’ scar, Jenny?”

“Eh, got some more Knife work done.”

“On your fucking neck? Dude, the thing is like a TummyTuck scar, or well, if you can’t get the more expensive VacuumPress nano shit…”

“I don’t–”

“You don’t what?”

“Jenny?” Jenny stopped talking.

“Come on bitch!”

Jenny was suddenly, seemingly in a very furtive way, staring at one of the other girls. Rachael scanned between the turning and pivoting whitening bodies, the even brighter florescently glaring, misty tile walls…but saw nothing but matted hair, buts, backs, landing strips, elbows, girls, tile and steam. And Ms. Stevens back in her office now, almost directly visible from the showers, if it weren’t for all the mist.

“I’d like you to meet a good New friend of mine.”

“Oh…?”

“Her name’s Gena.”

“Gena? Oh hi!” blathered Camille through the spouting ripples covering her lips as she moved from under the tiny spicket.

Camille felt Fear rise again. The Them again.

Gena was a Tranny. That meant, she had a penis, and a girl’s body. Weren’t many of them at Fairview. Yet.

“How do ya do!” shouted Gena in an overtly feminine voice, a tall tan Gurl, or Tranny, shaking her dick, about to show off the distinction between her and The Rest of the Otherly Gurls. It was a large one, and Camille kinda just rolled her eyes. She wasn’t always into dick out of context, but once in a blue moon could make an exception for a Tranny.

“Gena is um, well New, but I’m Sponsoring her anyway, she’s a great Tranny-Gurl.”

Tranny-Life.

Camille knew she’d have to fuck her to break her into The Peer Group, and felt tiresome from chewing on the idea, so went on to do a little small talk while she cleaned her pussy more. She kept a vigilant eye on her own junk and not the dick–NOT the dick!

***

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America. And to the Republic, for which it stands, One Nation, Under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”

“Oh come on Cam, it’s not like it’s a big deal, just put your fuckin’ hand over your heart…”

History class.

Camille could hear the bouncy ball of her mind, shooting around the room, dribbling onto the floor, once again, loosing its momentum…

Breathes in all chambers…

She thought about it, sex with a Nigger. That white pussy being penetrated softly yet hard, by another color. 

Why always sex? Always. 

She looked at his thighs. His back.  The way he stood upright and Mr. Shermer, sitting there, hunched, broken over that old wooden desk with nothing but wood and metal bolts to hold it together…his beer gut flopping over his near invisible belt.

“Arthur. I love you.”

She could say.

Under her breath.

“Turn around. Turn around.”

“Is there something you need Cam?” The entire class turned around. Ah fuck, thinking aloud again, damn!

“Arthur?” Mr. Shermer stood up abruptly.  “You are gonna have to exit as well, I’m afraid. An apology is expected.”

Without delay, cordially, Arthur Blina, this tall structure of a Boy in navy and white imperial CAMBIAN uniform, gathered his bag and left the room with hardly a squeek from his sleek, polished jet black combat boots proceeding as if to remain single file, toward the door. It shut gently with the clicking sound of its latch.

NeauBlurbs, transparent video messages from Peer-to-Peer were floating around the room, making sound only to those to whom it was sent…there were a lot of rich kids in History…

She knew she couldn’t exit the class without setting off the UFED alarm and as usual, her mom’s bank account would be chiseled off a hair.

“I think I’m sick, can I have a hall pass?”

Go ahead, Cam, I’ll remove the hallway InSessh Dect. He meant the InSession Detector.

It was a long way to the main office, where she’d assumed Arthur must have gone. This was the second time she’d seen him, and the first time up close. It was a weird to like a black guy, but…not so weird. She couldn’t help thinking how tall he was and what features! The way he spoke…narrow hips, wide shoulders. Egypt. Toothbrushes.

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