Chopin Graphics

Something happened with the old Chopin widget I had here and it was making the page jump to a YouTube promotion. I finally discovered this and had to delete the widget. Which I'm sorry for because it was cooler than all get out. I'm going to still plug Chopin in here because a number of people enjoyed listening. May take me awhile to get it worked out. Cheers.

Try This

Zol Light

Zol Light
May Zol be With You

Musac and fish for brains

You can stay on this page and read while listening to either Chopin ( you don't have to do anything for this option, it will play automatically, or Music of the Soul (by clicking on the play button down and to the right). To watch the graphics with Chopin, scroll down within frame and then center the graphics in the window. Just click on either screen to stop the music.

To the right of the Chopin graphics, you'll notice that by moving your mouse, the fish will follow. Be mesmerized by the music and graphics of Chopin while you play with the fish. Be careful, you may reach an altered state!

The order of the chapters run in order except the most recent chapter is posted first for those who are following the story. If this is your first time to the site, and you want to read the story in the order it is written, proceed to chapter one and then catch back up to the present chapter by returning to the present post.



For those coming for the first time, welcome! This novella is an experiment in social media. Try to explore links as time allows, which will provide surprises. Make it a game of scavenger hunt. Can you find the link within a link which will allow you to enjoy this unreal sound again?

More will come each week, so I hope you'll return often. All comments welcome. Thanks for your support! Dub


Twenty One--A Rumbling in Your Belly

"People were actually listening to one another!," Keya continued. "There was no zizzit beams because there were no Lapzols! Instead people made eye contact with EACH OTHER! And there was hugging and laughing and not a tantra text within reach."

As she recounted her experience from Preregrine's, my mind raced back to the revelation by Alfred Warbling and the rare visit of the Chits printing press. We entered the chamber of the forbidden word--the only known surviving mechanical printing machine. Lubricated by the oil of Sacha Inchi, the mechanical gears clinked and churned out the sheets of the Lokta plant paper. The emblazoned name across the top of the paper had nothing to do with the ancient metropolis. NY. What was the significance of NY? The NY Times. What does it mean?

I watched sheet after cascading sheet be printed rhythmically. Whir, clank, clip, whish, whir, clank, clip , whish. My skin pulsed to the vibrato of the coordinated collision and my nostrils were filled by the smell of the natural ink. This mammoth machine which may as well have been rescued from the volcanic pits of Pompeii, with its rubber rollers and syncopated crush of type and template was printing some sacred document at the whim of a clandestine sect of Taoist monks in a reclusive monastery deep in the mountains of Tibet, by the name of NY Times.

"We've revived important symbolism from the times before Zol. In this one document is the image of the Tianamen Tank Man, the story of Phan Thi Kim Phuc, whose naked body was photographed after the horrors of a napalm attack in Vietnam.  Another article covers the disaster of BP in which the ecosystem was finally disturbed beyond repair with the anihilation of 3/4 of  marine life, formerly quite diverse.

There are also happy articles, such as the encouraging account of The William and Melinda Gates Foundation action to eradicate the practice of PISS implants in the Pygmy tribe Tubigtufail and the astounding tale of the discovery of Elvis Presley still living and well in a jail cell on Planet Rock.

But the most important thing isn't content.  The magic happens as a result of the imbedded SPIRIT which accompanies each freshly minted copy of our paper." Alfred paused, obviouisly expecting a question on this point...

"Imbedded SPIRIT?," I asked, not only obliged but eager to take the bait.

Just then he slid a folded copy of the pre Zol NY Times in my bag. As if twelve mice and three cats had been deposited, there was an explosive rumbling from my shoulder valise, which transferred to my hip, then my abdomen. I was unable to control the convulsions which followed. My body shook and I felt as if my internal organs were expanding like overblown balloons. I felt for the first time that the container that held me was itself a wrapper composed of fluid lava and  my eyes weren't catcher's mits of light but instead shot laser spears that could heal or destroy whatever I set them to focus on. And with the metamorphosis of a different vision, the scene which surrounded me was illuminated with a jewel like glow, which thumped and bleeped to the beating of the printing press.

"What just happened?," I asked as my normal breathing and eye sight returned.

"You've just had your prezolnyt initiation," he replied.

"Prezolnyt?, " I inquired.

"Yes." And the loving light of his eyes reached me as I heard him explain further. "Mistakenly believed to have been a polish term. Welcome to the headquarters of the Polish Police!"