In an alternate slice of reality, your sims live on the edge. Once you upload them to the gallery, they are no longer safely in your hands. They are in the hands of others. Others who may not share your vision…
Background:
The "pic of your sim-self" thread went a little off the rails. This was mainly due to the color yellow and had nothing at all to do with me. Honest.
@Captain_NXR7 was naturally involved, much to no one’s surprise.
The situation quickly escalated when @Simminggal donned "Kill Bill" yellow instead of the mustard yellow suggested. (Vlad was not amused.) When it was said that mustard yellow might have made a difference, Simmingal pointed out that it was strange there was any yellow in her closet at all. It was at this point that I had to set the record straight –
In an alternate slice of reality, Simmingal did indeed have more yellow in her closet that anyone could have ever imagined. Even so, those shades of yellow paled before her ebullient nature. Yellow. Yards and yards of yellow. And not just any yellow, she had Dior, https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52999128665_e4be59820f_z.jpg and silks, https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52998159742_1d742d2a15_z.jpg and a radiance that shamed even the sun. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52998907454_9585240fa4_z.jpg Yes, in this little slice of an alternate reality, she was, unexpectedly, the banisher of the night.
Your sims aren’t safe in the alternate slices of reality. You never really know what might happen. Does it ever cross your mind? Or do you toss them to the gallery and never consider it again?
The trip back had been easier. I buried my father’s remains on the White Mountain, just as he always had wanted. I came… home. That word bothers me. This place bothers me. It no longer feels like home. I cannot remember being alive here. There have been too many splinterings. I cannot remember all that I am. Which one of me has come here? Is it the right one? Did I open the way? Or have I closed it by mistake? I am confused and feel abandoned. What is left of me is screaming for help.
Now, I hear his footsteps within the wood. They are hard, like his spine and yet wrapped in softness like his breath. I smile because I cannot help it. My heart bleeds warnings. My mind calls out in distress. But my body betrays me, and I smile.
"You order me, then?" I swallow hard. The King's orders cannot be refused. It is the core of the realities. It is truth.
"I do." It is a whisper that runs across my skin, leaving little scratches everywhere.
I take a deep breath, "And what is the penalty for refusing the King’s order?"
"Not death, if that’s what you are hoping." He looked at me and smiled.
"What is the penalty then?" I pushed him.
"You are marked," he replied. "No matter how many realities you try to splinter off into and try to hide within, you are marked. You will never escape me."
"You are ordered to dine with the King. Refuse his order and you will kiss him instead." He smirked.
I frowned and stared at him intently.
"You have forgotten who I am." He smiled broadly. "But I think you are beginning to remember. And I am more than happy to help you remember." His eyes danced and he bit his bottom lip.
"Tonight, I expect you for dinner." He turned and walked away.
My spine cracked on it's own. I heard the singing which began to rise up inside of my bones. The mirror looked onto me and I briefly considered taking a trip. Who was there to stop me? No one. No one at all.
But the singing grew stronger and more insistent.
And I found myself wondering what would I wear when dining with the King.
Are you alright? I haven’t decided. I am not good at deciding either. Are you not? Give it time. You’ll grow into it. But you did not. I’m a special case. I can bring you some water. I don’t need any water. I can bring you some possibilities. Can you? Interesting. I could use some possibilities.
I cupped my hands into the water, seeing the swirl of possibilities everywhere. I filled my tiny hands and took it to the man who was lying on his back and moaning. I told him to open his mouth and I would fill it as too much would be lost if it was transferred into his hands first. He laid still and allowed me to give him water. Three times I filled my hands and three times he accepted all the possibilities that I poured into him. He sat up and said nothing for a long time.
There’s a possibility that I have done some bad things. There’s a possibility that I have too. Your things are not as heavy as mine. Your things are not as broad as mine. Come on now, you can’t have caused very much damage. There’s a possibility that causing damage and receiving damage cause the same kinds of trouble. I’m not going to win an argument with you, am I ? Not even if you’re right. Hmmm. Let’s stop arguing then. Ok.
What do you do when you don’t know what to do? You hurt a lot and then you make a decision. And what do you base that decision on? It’s different. It changes. I don’t know what you should base it on, but I know what you should not base it on. And what is that? You shouldn’t base it on grief. What do you mean? Don’t let grief determine the course of your action. That is backward looking. Grief will trap you in the past by making you feel that your future depends on how you feel in the present. Grief will tell you what you have been instead of telling you what you can be. You should always be looking at what you could be, not what you have been. That seems like something you’re too young to understand. You’re probably right. But I know old people and I see their lives. That has to count for something doesn’t it? Yes. Can I tell you something? Yes. I have seen the watchers. Not the small ones; the large ones that stand more still than the trees. I have seen 7,000 years into the past and I have seen the last 3 days of all of reality. I have seen words hanging in the sky like structures made of graphite. I have seen the master key that opens all things. I could tell you more but won’t. I don’t know very much about a lot of things. But there are some things that I know a great deal about. I believe you. And yet, you do not believe in your possibilities. You see your past and you make your decisions based on your past. Your possibilities are bigger than you imagine. I can imagine a lot. You imagine deep but narrow. I don't think I understand you. That's because you don't see what I see. What do you see? Possibilities. Tell me the possibilities you see so that I can see them too. Even if I tell them to you, you still won't see them. Why is that? Possibilities are only seen in the light, and you are comfortable in the darkness. You think the light will destroy you instead of setting you free. Thank you for the water. I am done talking with you for now. That is too bad. But I understand. Some things are hard to see in the darkness. But I am sure that you will find your splinters if you go looking for them. Probably on the road to Rome. Perhaps you will meet one of my splinters there. Sadly, I seem to have left them all over the place. I'm not headed for Rome. I am headed to the mountain. And I don't have any splinters. I'm not sure I know what you are talking about. Rome sits at the top of 7 mountains. There's a possibility you will end up in Rome even if you are not traveling in that direction. And your splinters are pieces of you that have been lost along the way. Everybody has those. Ah. I see. Thank you for the water. Please leave me be now.
The first time it was an accident. I remember having a terrible headache when I arrived at my destination, a mountain made of rock and snow. I didn’t understand what was happening until I saw a version of myself grab a bicycle and ride off.
After father had told me about the splintering, I had looked it up and done research on it, to try to ease the uncomfortableness in my mind. I knew that the splinter could be re-united in a small number of cases. But the splinter would have to be contained and held captive until the reuniting could occur. I found that there was actually a holding spell for this, but it was kept in an old book belonging to the Queen’s Library. It wasn’t hard to convince my father to take me there. I was a member of the tribe and, at the time, still in good standing. I spent the afternoon seemingly pouring over fairytales, but actually read only one book, which I kept hidden from father. It wasn’t that hard. The librarian found him exciting to talk to, and he was rather amused by her attention. I found what I was looking for, and more. Much, much more.
I spent the afternoon tracking my splinter down and convinced her to have a bite to eat with me. Along the way, I spotted a vending machine along the backside of a building. Yes, I thought, that will do nicely. I used the holding spell and trapped the splinter inside. I told her that it would only be for a short time. I told her that I would come back for her.
Unfortunately, when I returned, the machine had been moved. I did not know where even to begin to look. But as she was only a small splinter, I didn’t really spend much time worrying about it. By the time I reached my 16th birthday, I had placed 5 splinters into vending machines on the mountain of rock and snow. I told myself that I would go back for them, but somehow never did.
My father had indeed petitioned the King for justice on my behalf, arguing that since I was a member of the Queen’s Tribe, any assault upon my person should result in a forfeiture of all power and authority of the attacker, and that the forfeiture should be unto me; I should be the one to receive the power and authority taken from the one who made the assault. Father explained how he had never brought a petition before since I had never asked. But now that I had asked, he felt duty bound to bring my petition even though the assault had been waged by my own mother, a member of the triad hierarchy.
The King, at this time, was just a young petulant boy. He was indulged by both the Council and the Queen’s Tribe. He was bribed at every turn and manipulated to no end. He was not in control; he was a puppet used by the Royal Courts to keep their power. The decision was delayed, seemingly due to my age. I was not old enough to bring an accusation. Father was mocked for not recognizing that my age might be a problem. The Queen became bitter at my father due to her sister’s influence and subsequently made increasingly bizarre requests of him. His relationship with the planners became strained. I was ignored by other children and whispered about by adults. I spent more time in the library, researching all manner of things.
My father and I grew close during this time. Over the next 3 years, he began showing me his great maps and the hidden histories of the kingdom. He showed me how the planners organized the timeframes, and how they picked the avenues the realities would travel. He showed me the weavings the planners used and taught me how to read them. I learned to read them well. In my 13th year, I discovered that there were 2 aberrations. I was one. The other was on the fringe of the fabrics and had happened about 2 weeks after my father petitioned the King. No one seemed to notice it, not even my father. It was as a pin point. I showed it to him. He looked hard and long at it, weaving fabrics and frames, stacking numbers, and splitting the sounds in the air. Nothing changed it. Nothing moved it. Nothing about it made sense.
One night, my father asked me if I could follow the second aberration’s future outward and see what might become of it. I lied and told him that I didn’t know how to weave in the future. He sat me down and asked me to try to weave its past instead. I did it, the best that I could. I told father that the aberration had existed long before it had revealed itself. It had been waiting. It had been waiting and watching, and planning. Father became alarmed and ordered me to weave its future. I protested, but he would not have it. He said he knew I was lying and that it was imperative that he know the future of the second aberration. I told him that even if I could weave its future possibilities, the fact that it was an aberration rendered any weaving null. It was an aberration. It could change every possibility. Father insisted that I weave its future course anyway.
The first time I tried to weave its future, it cut jaggedly against my own. This was terrifying to me. It was my death. I was sure of it. I did not tell father, but kept it hidden and told him that the aberration might die. He didn’t believe me and had me try to weave it again. This time, its future slid up next to mine and hit against it like a wall. I could take no actions, say no words, think no thoughts that the aberration did not counter against.
I tried weaving again. And this time, the aberration laughed at me. It stared at me through the fabric and laughed at me. It then weaved its own future, using my hands. I was screaming in terror, but no sound came out of my lips. Father said I had the appearance of a dead woman, but he couldn’t shake me awake from the weaving. It weaved and weaved while I screamed without sounds. My father was petrified and tried to stop the weaving, but my hands held a strength he could not battle.
When it was over, and my hands were under my control again, I cried out in anguish. Blood covered both of my palms, but there were no cuts. The weaving was secure, misted in blood, and unrelenting in its strength.
Hello, with a faded o – the blood did not cover the o Hello, with a faded o – the weaving was thin on the o I am coming and I am not afraid. I will be King. Is there one fit to be my Queen?
I panicked. My heart raced. Father turned ashen white. He folded up the weaving and hid it in one of his trunks. He made me to swear that I would never speak of this. I asked him what it meant. What could it possibly mean? It means nothing he had said. It is an aberration, as you have said. It is only a possibility.
I looked at my bloodied hands. I knew what the books said about futures written in blood. I did not tell father, though I suspected he knew. He washed my hands and covered them in oil. Then he wrapped them in tender cloth and told me to rest. I went to my room and sit down hard on the floor. I trembled uncontrollably. I sat and I thought, and I had visions of a dead man.
And about 2 hours later, I heard my father, sobbing violently in the night.
There came a man into the villages from somewhere no one knew. A tall man and quiet. He walked the paths and said nothing to anyone. He did not smile. He did not frown. He just walked the paths and ignored everyone. He walked the paths for days. Never smiling, never frowning, only walking.
It was at this time that the Queen’s family had sought to usurp the Council and take over the land. Bitter disagreements had broken out among the rulers. The Council were old men and arrogant. The boy King was young and weak. The Queen’s family were ruthless and determined. The planners were caught off-guard by the strange man and needed time to plan. The man gave no time to anyone.
My father and I celebrated my 14th birthday quietly. He had fallen out of favor with the Council and with the Planners. The Queen tormented him with promises of forgiveness and love if only he would continue to do her bidding. I was increasingly angry with all of them. My father was not a good man, but he did love me. And that mattered to me very much.
The boy King demanded an audience with this stranger. The man agreed to meet the King, on the condition that there was no one else in the room, except the King’s most trusted advisor. This was acceptable to the King, and to the Council, the whole of the Royal Courts. It was a long meeting, by all rumors. Half the day was spent behind closed doors. And when the meeting was completed, the man went to the lake and drowned.
It was at sunset and the lake was crowded with those who came to see the beauty of the evening. Lovers and artists always went to the lake at this time of day. The moment the sun lies down, and the moon lifts herself up. The moment the stars gasp their first breath of appearance. A clear day. An otherwise unremarkable day.
The man walked straight into the water and then swam to the middle. He submerged while the sun was still awake and did not rise again until the sun had set completely. He did not move except that his body bobbed with the water, and the lovers and artists wondered his fate. Finally, a brave one ventured out to check and it was determined that no life remained within the stranger. His body was limp and dead. Another artist ran to tell the King’s advisor the news.
“Lovely and passionate and full of joy and possibilities,” Tallulah’s voice twinkled. “But they don’t begin like that, do they? Oh no. Tiny little seeds that grow into great things. Then the fall comes, and the winter. It sort of starts out like a mess and looks dead. And everything is barren and decayed. It takes some time to see life expressed. And the rains come and beat upon them. And the sun comes and beats upon them. And the wind comes and beats upon them. And you think everything is dead. And yet they survive. The key, of course, are the roots. Lots of energy go into the roots and because of that, the roots go deep, and the plants are able to survive even the greatest storms.”
“If only people had such deep roots to survive such great storms.”
She stared at him, long and hard but very kindly, until he became uncomfortable.
“Some people do, “he continued. “But not everyone. And sometimes, even if they do have deep roots, the plants are pulled up by the roots in such a way it destroys the plant. And they die.”
“This is true, “Tallulah agreed. “But isn’t it lovely, that we can take a seed and plant it and perhaps regain something of what was lost? Who knows? Perhaps the new plant would even be more lovely than the first plant. The trick, of course, is to not expect it to be the same plant. Even if you take a seed from the old plant, it won’t be the same plant. It will be a brand-new plant, with brand new life. Brand new flowers. Brand new passion and joy and possibilities. DNA is so extraordinarily complex.” She smiled a very happy smile.
“You have a lovely positive attitude, Tallulah. I like it very much.”
“Thank you.” She looked at him and let out a deep sigh. “I’m not afraid to speak my mind, you know. The air about you is rather bitter smelling. You could use a washing.”
He smiled, “Yes. That’s true.”
“Some plants have thorns; you most assuredly know. The thorns need to be dealt with,” she said. "Even a tiny scratch can become infected. And if even a tiny scratch is ignored, it can be very bad indeed. This portal will take you to a healing place. A lake with magical water. When you are ready, you should go.”
“I don’t mean to be argumentative. But how do you know that?”
Tallulah laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll buy you some lunch at the café on the hill and tell you all about my mystical adventures in the realm of quantum physics. And when your stomach is full, and your head is full, you can be on your way.”
Let us continue, dear Hastings, with the contemplation of entanglement within the Alternate Realities. We have considered Tallulah and the couple who tango. Let us now proceed with the story.
At this point, the story introduces me. And what am I within the context of the story? What is my story trying to say?
First, I meet a woman who vehemently disapproves of the public expression of love. There is a thoughtful contemplation on my part. Society must have boundaries. Without boundaries, civilizations collapse. And yet, this woman is so disagreeable, I find I must run from her in order to remain civil. My internal civilization is in danger of collapse while I remain in her presence.
Then I am shown completely out of my own element, having been to the pub and apparently having drunk all the tea. My behavior is appalling, even to myself. I am not clothed as expected. I have strange desires. It is most absurd and alarming.
And then, I am shown to be unsatisfied with an unquenchable desire for something. But for what exactly? The teas do not satisfy. What is the reason for this?
I am, Hastings, the representation of the rational mind trying to grasp hold of this mystery called love. I am confronted by societies expectations of love and by my own expectations of love, and by the reality that those expectations do not always walk in agreement. Falling in love is like the collapse of the inner civilization. The mind tries to grasp hold of the concept of love only to fail. The drunkenness of even contemplating love leads to my appalling behavior, strange desires, and the undressing and exposing of the tidy box that the mind normally hides in. The rational mind tries to make sense of love but finds it cannot be satisfied. Because love is irrational.
And now, having introduced the irrationality of love. The story will begin a descent into madness. But first, there is a detour into the darkness...
We are told it is unexpected. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is not. It is the break-up, Hastings. The story is simple in structure, but complex beyond words. No matter how many times it plays itself out, it is both the exact same story and yet something completely new.
We are introduced to a man whose future is laid out like a path with no end in sight. Sometimes there is nowhere to go; there is just the walking on what is immediately ahead. We are told he made a choice. The imagery suggests a complexity exists in the shadows.
We are shown a simple argument. But the imagery suggests it is much deeper. This is the truth of a breakup. The surface can reveal the shadows. But the depth will reveal the core.
The ups, the downs. The alternate world views. The contemplation. The devastation. The need to see things from a different point of view and free the mind from a web of what is real and what is shadow. Is this man the villain or the victim? Or is he a bit of both? In the darkness, it is hard to see. There is always a journey following a break up. Not everyone goes when and where they intend. But there is always a journey.
But let us stop here for now mon ami. The day is waning, and I should like to rest. For indeed, the madness is coming. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53016369710_f7ec315afa_c.jpg
She took a breath and slipped into the mirror. Somedays, the flow is like honey, and everything she feels is sweet and rich and thick, and she can stay in the mirror for such time that she forgets what the time is. Somedays, the flow is like boiling water and everything she feels is hot and everything flows so quickly that it hurts. And all she wants to do is get out. Today, the flow pulled the blood out of her body, and she watched the droplets spray messages across her palms.
Kiss me and die. Kiss me and live. You cannot do both.
She closed her palms and she closed her eyes, and she squeezed everything, including the time. She stepped out into the woods, exactly where she began. The way was shut. She could not open it at all. The King had shut the way tight.
She’s not sure what to make of this world. The ground doesn’t look happy, and the trees have gathered. Like a great army that has found the war. The water isn’t happy, and the clock has crept on. Like a great army defeated in war. She was kept here because she didn’t remember. And now she cannot forget.
She thought she had stopped to just change a tire. She didn’t know that she would be changed. She swung open a gate and stepped onto a road because she was just that kind of girl. You know, the kind who doesn’t think deeply before doing a thing. The kind who regrets lots of things she has done.
So, this time, she thought. Dig in the dirt, in the dirt dirt dirt. And she thought. Dig in the cold hard dirt. And she remembered her father. Dig in the dirt, in the dirt dirt dirt And she remembered her name. Dig in the cold hard dirt.
She remembered who she was. She remembered who he was.
What does it take to turn a great tide? When there is no joy in the shadows and no sadness in the bones. No warmth in the sunlight and no happiness in the bones. When everything is the blur of same color. And life goes on and on and on and on and on and on.
What then is a woman to do? Some women are brave. Some women are fools. Some women are chained to the bottom of the lake. And those chains go on and on and on and on and on and on.
This day, this day this violent day saw the birth of the end of my life.
I did not know I did not keep I did not share I did not reap I simply simply went to sleep.
For how many years? Too many years. Never enough tears Never a hand to catch them all Just let them fall and fall and fall.
The gown the flowers the hair the cost Who I once was forever lost
in words cruel and vain manipulative refrain repetitive repetitive repetitive pain. Yes, of course it's my fault again. And again. And again.
"What is wrong with you?" I never knew anything to be wrong with me until I heard it over and over and over and over.
And what is this cruel mark inside the mirror? Oh wait, I remember that is my face where once upon a time there was shyness and grace but now there is deadness. Funny how no one sees what is hidden beneath the blanket I lay across my face. But I feel it like a knot that I cannot untie.
I remember the day I said no more. I lifted up my dead eyes and said, with bitter cries at the white ceiling overhead dear god, I cannot do this anymore feel my remorse and please have him ask me for the divorce
and I will say yes.
And he came home not quite drunk but smelling of it and told me I was worthless and he saw no reason at all to remain married to something so worthless.
