Gardanner

Reference the below table of contents to access where you left off. For extended reads, I recommend printing this page. And stay tuned… An Amazon paperback version of Gardanner soon to come.

Table of Contents

Part I: The Gardanner

One night, I was sitting in my living room on a quiet, fall evening. I was thumbing through a book I had picked up from the library—Big Cat. It was the firsthand account of a man who transcended humanity to become something greater, a Thunderbird, who could leap freely among alternate dimensions. The back cover contained a hand-drawn map to a magical place that existed on no atlas I had ever encountered. The place was called Gardanne.

I read through the book. I read it again, and again. It was a page-turner, yes, but I kept up the reading repetition because each time I completed the text, I could feel my mind, body and spirit learning the ability to leap out of this 3rd dimension myself.

At the notion I could put the text to practice, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. An electromagnetic orb formed from nothing inside my cozy space, seven feet from my head. It grew rapidly in diameter, and out dropped Kitty Thunderbird and her crew.

“I see you’ve checked out Big Cat,” She said. “Would you like to leap with us to Gardanne?”

Upon adopting the extra-dimensional leaping techniques, via the text, Kitty would later tell me that my existential signature had assumed a frequency for which they had been searching. I was one hopeful for citizenship in the 7th-dimensional city state of Gardanne. I obliged and soon found myself stepping foot on the lush paddock at the center of the heightened city, standing just outside the tabernacle.

“Go inside and watch the commercial,” She said. “If you like what you see, stay for orientation. If not, we’ll bring you back down to Earth.”

I filtered into the tabernacle, along with other hopefuls. I found a seat close to the front row. The commercial played minutes later, as a few stragglers clammered to find their place in a now dark theatre, lit only by what was projecting on the front, silver screen.

The commercial:

A colorful torus appeared on the screen. Earth versions erupted from the torus’s center, overflowing and then recycling back through the bottom to spring forth from its center, ad infinitum. The camera zoomed closer into the fountain-like torus to reveal that each droplet of the perpetual torrent encapsulated events down on 3rd-dimensional Earths.

“Are you sick of the endless churn of reincarnation?” said the disembodied voice of the narrator. “You are now here, outside of the grind, in Gardanne.”

A red arrow blinked on the screen, above the torus to indicate a 7th-dimensional location sitting just above the infinite churn of a reincarnation torus.

“The choice is entirely yours,” the narrator continued. “You can experience past lives regression during this respite between mortal lives. If you find there are matters left unresolved down on an Earth you once lived, you can choose to return. You can also choose to remain here, in Gardanne, a higher-dimensional reality specifically tailored for humans gearing up to move onto higher planes.”

The camera swept over the top of Gardanne, the tabernacle at Her center, and out to the periphery neighborhoods each distinct and evenly spaced, forming a five-point star. The 7th-dimensional city state featured a residential neighborhood—Gardanne Heights—that housed more permanent citizens. There was a university and city library just northwest of that. Continuing in a counterclockwise fashion, next came Gardanne’s downtown and the prominent bar, Old Faithful. The city periphery tour completed with a ballpark where the Gardanne Gnomes played.

“If you choose to stay here, you can remain for as long as you like. To be clear, we’re not heaven, but do enjoy an existence unfettered by capitalism or any other oppressive force holding its subjects under control. We are a community, free to create, explore and expand human consciousness. We understand the shadows that human existence can cast, and we can help human souls integrate these dark forces. There’s no money here, but we operate at a higher frequency than you may be used to. Ultimately, we’re here to help you on your soul’s path.”

The commercial had me at “…sick of the endless churn of reincarnation?” but the narrator had to deliver his full pitch. “During your stay, creating, collaborating, living your life in the 7th, we’ll delve into the histories of humanity, on the Earths below. Perhaps you’ll break through some writer’s block with genetic revelations on your origins that result from these expeditions. We understand the unique challenges of what it means to be human, seeking to rise into the higher dimensions.”

The commercial concluded. The screen returned to silver and the lights came back on in the theatre. A petite woman who looked like a librarian, with hair pulled tightly back and reading glasses, sauntered out to the stage from the wings.

She addressed the crowd, “Well, there you have it. Now you know where you are, Gardanne. You either found us on your own or were selected by our scouting team. You’ve seen what we’re all about. If this seems like a place for you, please remain seated for orientation. For any of you whom this did not resonate, please follow me out of the tabernacle.”

The librarian then stepped down from the stage and proceeded her sauntering, this time up one of the aisles. Audience members looked around at each other, everyone looking to see what everyone else might do. A few—only two or three—individuals stood to follow her out of the tabernacle. The rest of us remained sat for orientation.

Next, Kitty Thunderbird walked out on stage from the opposite wing. She had just picked me up from Earth moments ago.

“I’m glad you’ve all chosen to stay,” She said. “Before we get you settled, there are several things we must discuss.”

I felt this odd connection to our current public speaker, yet I had no memory of our meeting, save the moments just prior when She retrieved me.

“First of all, this place sits on the seventh dimension,” She said. “You’ll witness phenomena unlike anything on Earth. This includes communing with beings of heightened consciousness, who don’t interact with time and space the same way as earthlings. Should you witness said phenomena, you can apply to learn these divine techniques. But be patient. Elevating your consciousness takes time, dedication and an open mind. Any questions so far?”

I looked around the room. Nobody raised their hand.

“Some things may not be easily explained,” She pressed on with Her orientation. “Again, be patient. If you should find yourself perplexed, remember to forget those preconceived notions impeding your comprehension. And See Mr. Cumulus. He may have plant medicine for that.

“Be on the lookout for your introduction in the Gardanne Register‘s ‘Oi!’ section, which stands for obituaries and introductions. Obits are also a bit different up here. Death is merely a passage to another plane. That could mean a descension back down to 3rd-dimensional Earths. It could mean a lateral move to another 7th-dimensinoal oasis. In the best case scenarios, an obit for a former Gardanne citizen informs us of someone’s ascension into realities somewhat unfathomable from our current purview. I love reading these obits the most since they could provide insight into how others who remain could ascend.”

“Have former Gardanne citizens ever returned?” a man yelled from the crowd.

“Yes, we’ve had former Gardanners return, after taking another spin down on some terrestrial Earth,” She said. “We also enjoy visitors from other 7th-dimensional realities, courtesy of the city lab’s ham radio department, who can pick up frequencies from existentially nearby (relatively speaking). But once souls ascend to higher dimensions, through the 8th into the 9th and beyond, we’ve never heard from them again. That doesn’t mean they couldn’t grace us from higher realms at some point in Gardanne’s future. It’s just unprecedented. It would be a Black Swan event.”

The man gently nodded, seemingly satisfied with Her otherworldly explanation.

“OK, any other questions?” Kitty said. No one raised their hand. “Good. You’ll see my colleagues standing at the ends of the aisles. Please follow them out of the tabernacle and we’ll get you settled.”

Then, She locked eyes directly with me still sitting. She didn’t have to say anything. I could tell She wanted me, and only me, to remain seated. I waited for everyone to exit. Kitty descended down from the stage and walked over to me.

“Everyone else is going to release past-life regressions,” She said. “We want to postpone that exercise with you specifically. Our operators in the ham radio department think you may have taken invaluable intel with you from Earth below. And we wouldn’t want that muddled with the plethora of other earthly life flooding in.”

“OK,” I said, not entirely sure what She meant but ready to find out.

I followed Kitty backstage in the tabernacle. We entered a subterranean space beneath the venue, which led to a parking garage. She led me to Her ’66 Shelby Mustang parked in a reserved space. “Get in,” She said.

The engine revved in true American muscle car fashion and we reemerged onto Gardanne’s surface in style. We were headed straight downtown, to the city labs, She told me. We drove over the river bridge that connected Gardanne Heights with the city state’s urban center—downtown, creative spaces and the city labs, where we were headed. We parked just outside the city labs building—a towering, slender pyramid that stretched deep into the upper stratus clouds above.

“This is where I leave you… for now,” She said, glancing at me from the driver’s seat, the heavy V8 still idling like a snow panther purring. “Go and tell the front desk that you want to see Dr. Benny up on the 13th floor. They’re expecting you.”

I entered the lobby, did what She told me, and within minutes found myself sat in a telecommunications lab way up on the 13th floor with scientists and other technicians. There was an organic quality to the technology surrounding us. It almost seemed alive itself. It also didn’t resemble the plastic and metal machines of my former Earth. The apparati all around beamed more emblematic of magic trees from an ancient and sacred realm. I was overwhelmed, until Dr. Benny broke my daze.

“Mr. Florian, I presume,” he said. “Bryan Florian is it?”

I nodded.

“We’re nearly ready for you. Just sit tight, we’re rounding up our daily briefing.”

I sat in a swivel seat in the corner to stay out of the way as these magical minds collaborated on otherworldly matters.

“We’ve sent beacons to all the known 7th-dimensional worlds in the North Star‘s index. You know, the usuals: ValHalla, Shambhala, Nirvana, the rest of the ‘ahs’… ahhh, Most have already sent pingbacks to confirm receipt of our transmission,” a city lab technician said to their director Dr. Benny. “It also occurred to us that we should construct some kind of receiving bay for visiting entities from worlds not known to the North Star. We’re currently playing a game of multiversal Minesweeper to detect intriguing frequencies from uncharted channels. If one of those should ping back and wish to send a messenger, it’d be one less thing we have to do.”

“Excellent,” Benny said. “That all sounds good. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to take this moment of pause to introduce Bryan Florian, one of Kitty Thunderbird’s latest recruits from Earth_42_.”

I received gentle nods from all the lab coats and responded with a meek hello.

“Bryan is a Thunderbird hopeful, but hasn’t experienced full anamnesis yet,” he said. I didn’t quite know what he meant by ‘Thunderbird hopeful,’ but remained quiet so that he could proceed. “Kitty detected his resonating signature on one of Her recent scouting missions.” Then, he turned to me.

“Bryan, we understand that you checked out the book Big Cat on your Earth below,” he said.

“Yes, and I believe there was a map to Gardanne on the inside cover,” I said.

“That’s right. We believe you would have eventually found this place on your own, but the frequencies emitting from your soul signature were intriguing. We believe your unique experience may help us out of a current bind.”

“How can I help?”

Benny continued his scientific cross-examination, “We’re particularly interested in what you were thinking, experiencing just prior to Kitty Thunderbird and Her team’s touching down to your relative spacetime. What did the Big Cat book evoke?”

I took a moment to clear my mind, placing myself back in the lower frequency of the 3rd dimension. “I felt privileged to be part of the Sun-Earth-Moon trinity,” I said. “My own solar system felt like a microcosm for the whole. Almost like we, as humans, were meant to live down there and create, expressing what it means to be alive. We’re like a mirror reflecting back to the galaxy’s central black hole. And when you witness a solar eclipse from Earth, all three celestial bodies are present as one. I remember thinking, ‘I am the Earth. I am the Sun and the Moon. I am the black hole that this trinity reflects back via the purview of a solar eclipse. Their precise shapes, sizes, relative distances and motions were tuned finer than a Steinway grand piano on concert night. Then, my mind-body-soul seemed to drift up from the 3rd dimension, through the 4th into the 5th. It was at that moment that an Alcubierre bubble formed in my living room and Kitty dropped in.”

“Fascinating,” Benny said, and then turned to his team. “Plug that intel into the ham radio’s interface—the Sun/Earth/Moon trinity as a black hole reflection. The Earth_42_ solar system could be a portal itself.”

The technician translated my anecdotal evidence into language decipherable by their console…

MILKY WAY GALAXY’S SUPER MASSIVE BLACK HOLE — MWG SMBH: State your nature.

SUN-EARTH-MOON — SEM: We are a three-body system (a lone star solar system, surrounded by a planet with one moon). When standing on the Earth planet, one can witness a total solar eclipse. In this moment, one understands they are the Sun, the Earth and the Moon—all three of which in this exact moment resemble their central black hole. That means, we as three bodies are also one black hole. Flung out 26,000 light years away on your spiral galaxy’s arm, we are also our central, super massive black hole, as evidenced by this ecliptic event.

SMBH: Affirmative. We grant full gravity access to manipulate spacetime.

From the moment when the ham radio scientists entangled the Earth’s solar system with Her central galactic black hole, we earned full manifesting capabilities bestowed by our greater gravity. From thereon, gravity, personified in the super massive black hole, considered Gardanners Its messenger.

The black hole was our console. And we learned to play the studio.

Sparks flew out of the magical machine. The room began to shake. In fact, the whole building was moving. Beams of light erupted from the ham radio shooting straight to the sky. The entire pyramid we were in became like a light beam blasting a brilliant laser. I looked out the window to see similar beams igniting all over town.

“What’s happening?” I said.

“Eureka!” Benny said. “We’ve cracked the ceiling! Bryan, your invaluable intel has broke wide the celestial gates that sit just above the 7th dimension. Those beams you’re seeing all over town are souls that were on the precipice of ascending. Our ham radio’s fresh connection has now released them to these higher planes!”

I could barely hear the doctor’s explanation, as tones rang wild in my ears. But I tried to maintain conversation amidst the melee.

“Yes, I feel like, in embodying the black hole, I had become one with my separateness. I was light. I was a void. I was both the observer and the observed. My entire being felt like a vehicle for ascending higher dimensions.”

The electrostatic that had stood my neck hair on end when Kitty picked me up from the 3rd dimension returned, except now I was in the 7th dimension, in Gardanne. Brilliant, impossibly bright light filled my sight. Was one of these beams selecting me now? I thought.

And then, a complete anamnesis occurred at the core of my soul. I remained in the city labs of Gardanne with the other scientists, but felt altogether different, enlightened, a full-fledged being now.

“I am not Bryan Florian,” I said, and my helmet Bueller dropped from above my crown onto my head. It was a vanta black bullet of a dome, with light up eyes and a painted on white beak to resemble a bird of prey. The little dorsal feather at the top tuned into Akashic frequencies. “Not anymore, at least. I am the Thunderbird Big Cat. We are the frequency of the black hole. We are the black hole which can manifest any energy or matter imaginable. We are, therefore, what we believe. Think wisely, with the knowledge of your unfettered, creative capabilities. And ask yourself, ‘What would I do with pure potential?’ Personally, I’m thankful to be in the company of so many fellow creators, in the city of Gardanne. Now that we’re here—and we know it—let’s create together, and see what comes to be.”

“Big Cat!” Benny said. “Kitty and I had a hunch it was you, but we had to be sure.”

“Kitty’s here??” I said, my full Thunderbird life returning in full force. When I had descended down to Earth_42_, she had left to complete her Thunderbird training. I had engaged in deeper and deeper solo dimensional leaps, without the safety net of her tether. And now, resubmerged from amnesia as Bryan Florian on terrestrial Earth, I was trying to calculate how long it had been since I’d seen her.

“Yes,” Benny said. “She returned several months ago. You had been gone for years. We were concerned we had lost you to obscurity. But Her first order of business as a full-fledged Thunderbird—She had been gone nearly three years, Gardanne Time—was to locate you. She isolated a few soul signatures down on terrestrial Earths that showed promise.”

“It’s coming back to me now,” I said, as Big Cat, no longer Bryan Florian. “I knew it would be risky to take such a deep dive, especially without my partner, Kitty. But I had to resonate with the separation. Now I’ve remembered I’m both the black hole and the star, light and dark, a nonduality who knows He’s both the observer—the subject—and the observed—the object—simultaneously. I am the wave reverberating between the two boundaries. I am the boundaries. In retrospect, I love the forgetting, for in undergoing the experience I have come to better understand myself and the consciousness of all those I’ve connected.”

“We are certainly grateful, sir,” he said. “After years without either Kitty or Big Cat, Gardanne finally feels complete once again. I can’t wait to phone Her to deliver the good news.”

“I think She already knows,” I said, reigniting my telepathic connection with Her, now also a full-fledged Thunderbird. “I’m going to leap to Her now.”

I let the scientists finish recording their findings from this successful experiment. I leapt up into the center of the lab space, ignited an enveloping, electromagnetic orb around my vanta black Thunderbird body and leapt up into Gardanne’s stratosphere.

As I surfed the hyper ether, I connected with Kitty Thunderbird.

Thank you for rescuing me, I said to Her telepathically.

Bill! My Big Cat! I knew it was you in that Bryan Florian body, She said.

Should we meet at home?

Yeah, I’ll be there in a moment.

I dropped back into Gardanne, landing in my backyard zen garden. I streamed inside and met Kitty in the living room. We embraced in as big a hug as I could remember in all my lifetimes.

“Congratulations!” I said. “You’re a full Thunderbird now.”

“And you just broke the Gardanne ceiling into higher dimensions!” She said, tears now dripping down Her face. “I’m so happy we’re both back.”

“Me too,” I said, my eyes welling up, as well. “I know I promised you I wouldn’t take such long leaps untethered ever again. But you were gone, training to get full-fledged. I couldn’t locate you and the Gardanne R&DM scientists needed an experienced soul to resonate with such low frequencies and rise above them once again. Boots on the ground was the only way to collect the necessary intel.”

“I know,” She said. “And I’m full-fledged now. So the whole thing is moot. I’m confident that either of us now could locate the other one, however far-flung into oblivion their solo leaps may plummet.”

“You’re a Thunderbird now,” I said, and then smiling, “I foresee us taking mostly tethered leaps from now on.”

“That too,” She said, smiling as wide as me.

“We have much to celebrate.”

“Yes, what now?”

“I think we need to put on a concert in the tabernacle,” I said. “Just prior to my last long leap down to Earth_42), I had been practicing with the band Cymatic. They’d perform their music inside the dome. I’d leap into lower Earths, broadcasting my POV signal back to Gardanne and projecting it onto the dome’s inner ceiling. Cymatic’s sounds would guide my multiverse surfing.”

“Maybe that could be our first tethered leap as full-fledged Thunderbirds,” She said.

“The first of many.” We were still hugging.

“OK, we’re here, broadcasting live from the tabernacle,” said Larry King, on his Gardanne-wide radio show, Larry King Forever. “In just a few moments, we’ll celebrate the much anticipated return of the Big Cat, who will put on a dimension-leaping display along with his band accompaniment, Cymatic.”

A few nights after my complete ananmesis into Big Cat Bill Thunderbird, transcending my former terrestrial existence as Bryan Florian, all of Gardanne was in high spirits. Kitty and I decided to put on a show at the tabernacle to celebrate the occasion.

The tabernacle, sitting at the nucleus of all Gardanne, was a versatile stage. It could act as an amphitheatre, blocking off a section of the circular venue. At full potential, we’d open her up to the complete round, with the stage dead center. Seats surrounded that for a full 360 degrees. For dimension-leaping demonstrations, we’d project the pilot’s view onto the inner dome ceiling. The audience would sit back, soaking in the rich roof display like a laser show at the planetarium, while the band played just off to the left of center stage.

The show began at promptly 8 p.m., Gardanne Time. Kitty walked onto the empty platform, as the last of the live audience members found their seats.

“OK, everyone,” She said, addressing the crowd from the lone mic on stage, “we haven’t seen this fellow for a little while. Without further adieu, I’d like to introduce Gardanne’s own Big Cat!”

The crowd erupted with uproarious applause, hollering and whistles, all to indicate my warm acceptance back into the 7th-dimensional city state. In true Thunderbird fashion, I materialized out of thin air, as a 10-foot diameter electromagnetic bubble, instead of entering from stage left or the tiny elevator that allowed most performers to appear from the lower levels of backstage. I landed standing right next to my partner in leaping, Kitty. I was adorned in full vanta black body wearing my bullet-like Thunderbird helmet Bueller. Greater Gardanne was still unaware of my true identity in Bill Thunderbird. To them, I was just another daft punk.

“Thank you, Kitty,” I said, taking the mic. “Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for Gardanne’s latest Thunderbird, Kitty!”

The crowd refocused their applause toward Her.

“OK, now,” I said. “Let’s get this show going. But first, we need a band right?”

I leapt back up into my Alcubierre bubble, disappearing for a moment. I projected the inner view from my helmet Bueller onto the inner arched dome of the tabernacle. The audience saw what I saw, surfing through the movierain. I landed on a planet in the Earth_CityFlat_ sector, where the band Cymatic was on a smoke break outside a Manhattan Village venue where they had just played a gig.

“Hey, Kal!” I said, now materialized fully on this Earth, walking toward the bandmates hanging out in the alley. “Kal Brasil! You guys want to play another gig tonight?”

Kal, unphased, took a long drag from his cigarette, then looked at me from the sides of his eyes.

“Sure,” he said. “Where at?”

“Gardanne,” I said, as I reignited my electromagnetic orb enveloping my entire personal space and extending to include the three bandmates. “Hop on and we’ll sail to the 7th dimension.”

Next, the audience would have seen what we saw inside the Drop of my electromagnetic reverberating bubble surfing the multiverse movierain. Then, the tabernacle of Gardanne broke into view. We—the band and I—descended down from the sky, through the tabernacle’s roof and back on stage, where I had just left. The crowd cheered at Cymatic’s arrival along with my return. The band members promptly assumed their usual performing positions, taking up their instruments that had already been set up on the stage. By this point, Kitty had found her seat in the front row.

“Please welcome Cymatic!” I said into the mic. “OK, we’re gonna jam a little for you folks.”

Tommy clicked his drumsticks three times to kick off their first song. Electric sound exploded out of the speakers, while Kal took over the mic.

“We’re Cymatic,” Kal said. “And this Thunderbird here is Big Cat. We’re gonna go for a little walk now.”

As the band continued to play one of their rock hits, I leapt back up into my electromagnetic orb and popped into the movierain, this time solo. My POV flooded the inside tabernacle’s curved ceiling for the audience’s viewing pleasure. As melodic rock harmonies rang on, this is what they saw:

A slow pan up to a cottage door.
The door opened to a quiet, pub scene.
A few patrons quietly drank in the dim light.
Then I erupted through the bar’s ceiling back into the sky.
I swept over a basketball court in a city park, where a few ballers played pick-up.
I continued the swoop, now through a forest.
Greenery flooded the view, passing by vines and tree trunks and leaves.
Then black. We were transported to outer space, with Earth a glowing, blue orb below.
I descended swiftly back down to the ground, firing through the atmosphere.
City skylines, oceans, countrysides, deserts, mountains, and the rooftops in suburbs all sifted by the view as I skimmed the Earth’s surface.
Then, I slowed it down.
I quietly approach a brick city building, entering through the main ground entrance.
I ascended the steps, into a broadcast studio.
I entered a local disc jockey’s on-air room, as we saw him announcing over the hot mic.
He waved.
Without overt dimensional leaping, I shook the entire soundproof room.
Vibrations blurred the entire premises.
When the waves steadied, the audience and I found ourselves in a swanky club, standing by a roaring fireplace in some classy city establishment.
Old men sat, staring, smoking their stogies and sipping brandy.
I received a gentle nod from their distinguished visages.
Black.
Torrential downpour. We were surfing the movierain once again.
Then, the audience saw themselves. I had dropped back onstage at the tabernacle, stepping down from my Alcubierre orb as its electromagnetivity dissipated.

Cymatic wrapped their playing. I seized the mic.

“Give it up for Cymatic,” I said to the crowd, who roared at the extra-dimensional display they had just witnessed. “OK, now I’d like to invite someone up here on stage.”

I locked eyes with Kitty sitting in the front row.

Let’s do a tethered leap for the audience, I said to Her telepathically.

OK, She said.

Kitty ascended the stage, bowed to the crowd. The band went into their second number.

“This is one of Kitty and my favorite songs,” I said, holding Her close. “These two Thunderbirds are going to both leap up into the movierain.”

Kitty had now donned Her official T-bird helmet. We both leapt up into a merged electro orb, and popped into the multiverse movierain simultaneously, bound by our gravity.

The display inside the tabernacle’s dome now displayed both of our perspectives leaping between worlds’ droplet events. The surfing was more steady this time. Cymatic’s song would lead my intuition to choose one path. Immediately, Kitty would complement that selection with Her own additions. And the double-helixed display feeding from both of our Thunderbird POVs broadcast back to the tabernacle like so:

We popped into some zen garden in Japan.
We sailed, intertwined over the arched bridges, brooks, Japanese maples and pines.
The greenery then morphed into an Amazonian jungle.
We darted down the trunk of a large Kapok tree, until we reached the foot where Guillermo was quietly meditating and communing with his plant brethren.
We launched back up into the stratosphere of this Earth, until only water—the mighty Pacific Ocean—was below.
We sailed over white caps and blue waves.
A giant hand holding a trident emerged from the water’s surface.
It was Poseidon. He waved.
We landed on an island paradise, where indigenous peoples performed a ritual dance around a fire.
We concentrated our collective view on the central fire, which transmuted into a kitchen broiler.
Now we were in some hip city restaurant, and flew out the front door, out onto the city street…

Our tethered leap continued like this for a few more bars from Cymatic’s song. Then, we leapt back to stage to a standing ovation. Gardanne embraced Her two Thunderbirds.

The resultant feed from this live session supplied much needed source content for Gardanne’s artists, ever in search of meaning and fodder for expression, amidst a world far beyond their terrestrial Earths of origin.

Later reviews in the Register would interview those in attendance that night. The uninterrupted consciousness flow that We—Kitty and I—and the band produced inspired unprecedented creativity among the city state’s artistic community. That, combined with the recent existential ceiling breakthrough at the city lab’s ham radio console ushered in a vibrant renaissance for Gardanne. For a sustained period, the entire city beamed brilliantly into upper echelons higher than Gardanne’s 7th dimension, as the whole place and Her residents took shape independently of Kitty or my (the founders) influence. Gardanne took such defined shape among the 7th dimension, in fact, that it caught the eye of those archons, who’d rather harvest humans souls for their own nefarious nourishment. The unwanted attention was a good bellwether that our drastically increased bandwidth had achieved critical mass. As a necessary response, we alerted Leviathan and His Crows to keep an eye out for any archon interference.

As Kitty and I drove back in our ’66 Shelby Mustang, over the river bridge back to our neighborhood Gardanne Heights, luminescent pillars of light beamed from city buildings on the skyline. The aurora borealis–like effect were the phosphorescent trails left by souls ascending, from Gardanne into the 9th dimension. From that night on, Gardanne became a vibrant weigh station for souls passing through from lower Earths into upper echelons above our own local 7th-dimensional spacetime. No more having to turn people away. The pearly flood gates had been blasted wide open. Souls could stay as long as they wanted. And some reached ascension in only a few days. We always held more long-term citizens—30,000 or so—but saw multitudes more, on their way to heightened consciousness. The regulars—those that substantiated themselves as semipermanent Gardanners—became known as the locals, while countless more were just passing through. All were welcome.

The locals—the true Gardanners—formed a cohesive unit over the generations. We honed our own frequency that embraced the ever changing landscape of what was possible. We produced new shows, new music, new forms of expression right here, in our little corner of the 7th-dimension. We even recruited sometimes from the lower Earths, to complement and further fine-tune our well-oiled machine that was the city state Gardanne. We all knew there were higher realities hanging just above our blown-open ceiling (by the ham radio wizards). But we were content creating and living on our golden five-point star of an ethereal place, a city in the sky above 12 Earths, staking out an infinity of happening on our shared premises that could somehow last forever, but also, god-willing, could reach its climax. A beautiful paradox. Maybe someday we’d transcend this good ole days factory, but for now, we were happy enjoying each other’s company.

We—Kitty and I—became the radio lens tuning frequencies to the desired activity around Gardanne. We’d meet with Dr. Benny at the pub most afternoons, as both a rendezvous point and launch pad into the minutia.

Most days, I’d glance at Kitty in the mirror of the pub. We’d lock eyes and communicate telepathically. We’d sit on either side of Dr. Benny, whom we had invited for lunch.

One day early in the process, “Have you heard from any of the groups that have ascended yet?” I said.

“No, no,” he said.

“We’ve been mainly concerned with the conditions that would have prompted those spontaneous collective enlightenments.”

I’m going to remote swoop into the musical practice spaces uptown, I said to Kitty.

I’ll check a few of the forest temples, She said back, as the doctor rifled through his unorganized, tattered documents containing notes on potential Gardanne cliques that could yield consciousness-expanding pay dirt.

“How goes the channeling?” he said, not sure whom he was asking, perhaps either Kitty or me, or both. He never looked up from his accordion briefcase that held his poorly kept intel.

“We’re currently looking into the more collaborative areas of our city state,” I said. “Right now, I’m surveying some of the local bands practicing. Kitty’s monitoring the forest communities, who are known to gather for collective, spiritual mind melds.”

The pub dinned with luncheon clamor. It was a packed house. To respect the patrons’ privacy, I purposely avoided tuning into any of their mealtime conversations. Just noting the interpersonal dynamics of each was fodder enough to fuel our investigation into the promising relationships currently blossoming on Gardanne. Given the right set of circumstances and the intentions of all involved, any one of these connections had the potential to transcend our current plane.

That was ultimately the goal for every citizen, whether they ascended individually or among a group of likeminded soul mates. I was in no rush to rise. Neither was Kitty.

If ever either of Us ascend, She said, I hope We can find our way back to Gardanne. Tuning into these harmonic relationships is too much fun to give up.

I smiled and nodded back to Her in the big, silver mirror over the bar.

We even got to the point, after we’d leave the pub and the good doctor, at channeling cliques that were a person or two shy of completing their harmony. That fed our roster of hopefuls for the Register‘s scouting report, where we’d take field trips down to Earths below to recruit would-be Gardanners. These candidates may not have ever found their people down on the ground, but maybe they could thrive up here, in the 7th dimension Gardanne, with their long lost teammates, as the missing link that sparked inspiration for their receiving group. It was at that point that channeling became more about finding the harmony in relationships, rather than tuning the individual. And there were so many Gardanners who made beautiful music together.

One evening, while sitting bar at the pub, we channeled Nick Swardson, who was downtown, way up at the swanky penthouse bar. Our remote viewing indicated he was holding court amidst the neon lights illuminating the beverage dispensing surface, while sipping vodka sodas. He had attracted a jovial crowd around him. We decided to swoop in from across the river.

Kitty was a full-fledged Thunderbird now. That meant, She was the only other Gardanner (besides moi) that could step through the pub’s back door and instantly leap to the penthouse bar downtown. We excused Ourselves from Dr. Benny, who was enveloped in whatever Jack the bartendar had playing on the TV overhead. Benny uttered half goodbyes to Us, and We were off clandestinely traversing Gardanne’s expanses at the step through Our space-bending back door neatly tucked away in the rear of the pub.

“Good crowd tonight,” I said to Nick, pulling up a stool next to him, now up in the penthouse moments later. Kitty slid into the stool on my other side.

“Yeah, I’ve been here for three hours,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for Norm this entire time! He was supposed to be here two hours and 59 minutes ago.”

“Seems like you’ve made the most of it,” Kitty said, leaning around my silhouette to make his eye contact.

“We were supposed to watch this Gnomes game together,” he gestured to the TV hanging over the bar. “Now it’s already the ninth inning and no Norm.” He swigged his drink dry to spite his truent friend.

“When Norm finally does arrive,” I consoled him, “we can clue him into all the things he’s missed.”

“Fuck, YEAH!” Nick said. “I don’t even care anymore. I’ve been having a blast regardless.” He puffed out his chest, protruded his jaw and then spoke in a low, gutteral tone furrowing his brow. “Maybe we’ll even bump into Bert.” He was imitating his drinking buddy Bert now. “I was in Rolling Stone.”

A makeshift, semicircle audience had formed around Nick. Kitty and I were lucky to have pulled up front row seats for the bar theatre. During a lull in his spot-on impressions, I had to ask him.

“Nick, how did you get here? You were still alive on Earth_42_, last time I checked,” I said.

“I don’t quite know,” he said. “I was on a flight to the Florida Keys. Next thing I know, we get swept up in a cyclone, fling out to the Bermuda Triangle,” as he said fling, he whistled through his teeth. “Then, I washed ashore on Gardanne city beach.”

“Well, you’ve really made the most of it,” I said. “The fun cloud seems to loom ever present above your aura.”

“Spanks!” Nick hated compliments. “I don’t know. I just like a good time and seem to gravitate toward people who think the same. Where THE FUCK is Norm??”

“Maybe we should call him,” Kitty said.

Nick got the landline from behind the bar and began dialing Norm Macdonald’s number.

“It’s ringing,” he said. Norm must have picked up after a few rings. “You’re doing your laundryy??”

That’s a lie, I said to Kitty telepathically. No one had to do laundry in Gardanne. Norm was clearly stalling.

“OK, Nick,” I said. “We’ll check back in later.”

Kitty and I slipped back through Our secret back door that connected the penthouse bar downtown with our own neighborhood pub on the other side of the world.

“Before we sit down with Dr. Benny again,” Kitty said, “let’s visit Mother Gardanne, in the forest. I’d love to know what She thinks about all this heightened dimensional activity about Our city state.”

We turned back through the mystical door’s threshold on the pub side, but this time We leapt over the river, and through the woods, to Mother Gardanne’s house We went. We were traveling at the speed of thought, adjusting frequencies within Our shared Alcubierre bubble that slid between Gardanne’s spacetime. We sailed by Mr. Cumulus’ house, who also lived in the woods. We whisked through thickets of giant oaks and maples, over fields, under treehouses, until We arrived at a clearing that contained a lush garden. Mother Gardanne’s garden rivaled no other, including the fertile patch Kitty and I cultivated on our own property. We walked up Her front yard’s winding path and knocked on a mahogany arched door, with the golden, triple-goddess knocker that hung at eye level on the wooden portal.

The door swung open of its own accord. Mother Gardanne was sat in the back of Her bungalow, We could see through the place adorned in plants, trinkets and other accuitrement appropriate for a grandmother.

“Bill! Kitty! Welcome in!” Mother Gardanne said. “I was wondering when you’d stop by.”

Mother Gardanne had been appointed the spirit of our 7th-dimensional city state. Kitty and I were still the founders, but the lower Earths’ spirits—Gaia, Father Nature, etc.—had convened after our world’s inception to nominate a resident spirit. She emodied the heart and soul of our place. Gardanners’ feelings, thoughts, wishes and other non sequiturs flooded through Her veins always.

“Congratulations on the ceiling breakthrough!” She said. We had made our way to the back directly in front of Her now. “Have a seat.”

We sat on the plush pillows before Her. Her room was filled with the aroma of welcoming flora that instantly instilled a sense of home.

“Thank you, Mother Gardanne,” Kitty said. “We were hoping you could help us make sense of the heightened activity. We’re experiencing groups’ and individuals’ ascensions at record rates.”

“Yes!” She said. “Gardanners are connecting, collaborating and creating in higher vibrations. What can I help you understand?”

“Hi, Mother Gardanne. The ham radio scientists are curious about the conditions immediately preceding these ascensions,” I said. “We’ve been leaping around the local premises just now to catch one of these bottled lightnings in action.”

“Let me see what the trees are telling me,” She said. “I’ll also require the rest of my coven. Let me call them.”

Calling for Mother Gardanne was different than Nick Swardson dialing from the bar phone. She simply closed Her eyes and hummed for a moment. The next thing We knew, three knocks rapped at Her door. And in walked Her two sister witches. The combined power of their formidable triumverate connecting to the land’s trees could channel to a degree that Kitty and I had never seen.

After brief pleasantries, the three witches—Mother Gardanne at their helm—took to chanting. The sweet aroma of the room became robust in depth, taking on heavier notes of complexity. Kitty and I sat in the middle of the coven’s triangle, focusing earnestly on Our intent to find cliques primed for ascension. The air was electric amidst this expert witchy seance. Magic crackled, as plasma lines between those three natural sorceresses ignited. The three rose feet above the floor, hovering utterly of their own collective volition. A bubble not unlike Kitty’s and my Alcubierre orb formed at the vertices of these three witches chanting. The electricity reached a critical point, until the room was consumed in blinding light. Then, dark. The aroma of the room returned to its light, sweet scent. The women were gone. Mother Gardanne was gone.

“I think the coven ascended,” Kitty said. We were now the only two in the room, as papers and other personal effects settled to the ground from the magical bedlam that had ensued moments earlier.

“I wish I knew what those trees said to them,” I said. “Looks like we’re back to channeling this clique activity ourselves.”

“Maybe Nick has had some luck with Norm by now,” Kitty said.

I remote viewed back to the penthouse bar, while still sitting in Mother Gardanne’s living room. Nick was back on the phone.

“Did you put the laundry in after I told you I was down here?” Nick said, presumably to Norm on the other end.

“We’re still waiting for Norm,” I said. “Let’s check back in with Dr. Benny at the pub. He’s probably wondering where we are.”

Kitty agreed. At least we didn’t have to return empty-handed, having just witnessed a coven of three witches, mid-seance, ascend to higher realms right before our eyes. This was invaluable intel.

“Have you conducted trend analysis? Any burgeoning startups? What are the known hangouts around town?” Benny said, upon our return to the pub. He was full of ideas. We agreed to entertain them all, but also had to admit that this process could take longer than expected. It was, in fact, very unexpected when one of these group ascensions of Gardanne would occur. Proof enough was Mother Gardanne’s coven, who weren’t even attempting such existential feats. They were merely conversing with the trees and had stumbled upon perfect union.

Eventually, the heightened ascension activity plateaued. We had established several criteria that seemed to correlate with groups collectively enlightening into upper dimensions, but still couldn’t capture lightning in a bottle ourselves. We couldn’t predict where the lightning would strike next, which was still striking more frequently, mind you. Some souls spent mere days in Gardanne. They were just passing through, as the aurora beams beat brilliantly through skyline peaks. But we reached a stasis where the more permanent population could galvinize a sustaining community that felt like home.

The perfectly level respite was quite a relief. Gardanne was a town Herself, who needed Her citizens. Too many souls flying off the handle that was our lovely land slice in the 7th dimension would render our fine city state desolate. The townsfolk were their place, Gardanne. And She loved her Gardanners. This was a symbiosis We needed to maintain for about 30,000 or so semi-permanent residents.

The lack of visibility into upper dimensions urged us, even in peacetime, to continue investigating how we could communicate with those former citizens and visitors who had transcended. We conducted scouting missions down to the lower Earths to recruit potential Gardanners who could complete some bands up here that were good, but not quite cliquing to divine degrees. That’s how Cymatic finally found their drummer. Soon after, they played what would become, spontaneously, their final Gardanne show, at the Parabola (or anywhere else around here, for that matter).

We knew We had found the right guy when, a few weeks later while conducting a Gardanne Register pitch meeting, my Arts & Entertainment editor suggested a new ascension story about Cymatic’s miraculous sublimation at their show the prior night. She was in attendance to cover the event and had witnessed their collective transcendence on stage from the front row.

Her firsthand account of the concert may carry more weight if, before that, you read the scouting report published in the Register regarding Cymatic’s new drummer…

Scouting Report for Week of the Dragon

EARTH, CityFlat — We may have found a drummer for Gardanne’s local rock band Cymatic. He’s been banging his buckets down in Earth_CityFlat_ all along.

Cymatic, whom you may remember played at the tabernacle’s sphere celebration for Big Cat’s return, are a great band. No question. But they had suffered the loss of several drummers in months past, due to the fated bandmates’ succumbing to lower-vibrational tendencies that ultimately sunk them into a lower Earth for reincarnation.

Well, now an ascension’s in order… at least from the 3rd, to the 7th dimension, in Gardanne. The following is Our leap log for submitting this nomination of a mortal into higher frequency living, in our city state:

We came up on the subject, Dangerous Dave on the Drums, playing with his garage band at the Paradise Rock Club, in Boston, Mass. This was on the Earth version of the CityFlat variety.
Dangerous Dave (on the Drums) presented that he embodied the necessary constitution, as he performed on stage.
Subject showed potential for fulfilling the remaining criteria, upon meeting and playing with the rest of the band.

We approached Dangerous Dave right after the show in the green room to make our case.

“Dave!” I said. “Great set. We may have a gig for you.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Big Cat. We’re from a dimension that sits a few tiers above this existential plane. There’s a band up there we think you’d be great for.”

“The 7th dimension?” he said.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I’ve had dreams the last couple of nights that someone from your world may pay a visit. Yeah, sure, I’ll play with your band.”

Dave proved to be one of our easiest recruits. It was astonishing how little questions he had about our electromagnetic orb that erupted from nothing and ensconced our premises in the green room. We—Kitty, myself and Dave—hopped up into the bubble’s gravity. We popped out of that 3rd-dimensional Earth, surfed through the movierain at the speed of thought, and within moments, we landed on Gardanne’s grassy knoll in the 7th dimension.

“Thank god I did all that acid,” Dave said, as we surfed through the torrent of possibility between worlds. “This was also in my dream.”

Fast-forward to the day after Cymatic sublimed to the 9th dimension. My Register staff and I were all sat in the pitch meeting. The art editor was about to detail the rock ‘n’ rollers’ ascension.

“The air crackled with static electricity as the three Cymatic band members took the stage and their instruments,” Elaine, the arts editor said. “A few moments later, the whole of the crowd realized who was about to play and a hush quieted the room. All that we could hear were residual crackles foreshadowing the electronic sound display we were all about to experience.

“Kal, their lead singer, kept it short and sweet speaking into the mic, ‘We’re Cymatic. We’re gonna play a few songs for you tonight.’

“The crowd errupted into cheers, but then quickly returned to quiet for everyone’s listening pleasure. With Dangerous Dave at the drums,” Elaine’s eyes darted around the ceiling, as she searched her mind for the most authentic account of what she had witnessed, “the band was in such harmony. Kal’s guitar rang a sheet of electric sound over the crowd that cast like a blanket. Their sound was explosive. It shook the marrow in my bones. Anyway, they played a few of their hits and then Kal said ‘We’re gonna play something we just wrote for you now.’ The dripping bass, mixed with mellifluous guitar chords and paced by Dave’s excellent and perfect percussion lifted the entire crowd. Orbs formed in the immediate space around the stage. It’s as if the music they were creating on the spot opened windows into adjacent worlds that resonated with Cymatic’s complex tones. A giant electromagnetic bubble made of the symphonic multitude of frequencies enveloped them. Kal hit an impeccable high note on his Stratocaster and then the bubble collapsed around the entire band. They leapt up into a higher dimension, as the stage cleared, leaving only residual electric sparks and a few gravity waves in their wake, splashing on the floor like liquid nitrogen rapidly evaporating. There was a heavy beat of silence, but the crowd soon resolved that this dramatic exit was all part of the show. Cymatic had left the building, had left Gardanne and was presumably soaring through the 8th dimension at this point. But back in the Parabola Theatre, the crowd stood in ovation of what they had just witnessed.”

Elaine had been explaining her account from the front of the conference room, but now had to sit down. She had just relived the divinity witnessed the night prior.

“I’m so glad you were there, Elaine,” I said. “Not only will this make a great story for the paper, the ham radio scientists will certainly benefit from this account.”

“I’ll get you a thousand words by tomorrow,” she said.

“Are we worried too many groups are leaving Gardanne?” the news desk editor inquired.

“No,” I said. “The increased ascension activity has actually allowed for an influx of incoming citizens from the lower Earths. And we’ve sustained enough regulars who should stick around long enough to keep the city state feeling like home.”

Gardanne was more alive than ever, as citizens ascended all around. Magic was in the air. We had witnessed Mother Gardanne’s coven enlighten under their collective spell. Cymatic transcended by way of their perfect sound. And I wondered if Nick had ever met with Norm. That comedic duo’s dynamic certainly possessed the potential to also elevate out of this city state. I checked in on Nick and Norm a few days after we ran the Cymatic story.

I caught up to them on a day they had finally managed to rendezvous at the penthouse bar atop city Gardanne. Their meeting pinged a psychic thread in me, wherever I was at that moment, and I leapt immediately to the bar. I walked through the penthouse’s backdoor as Bill, though it was my Big Cat identity that had instantly transported me there. I still had to keep the alter egos separate. Plus, a Big Cat appearance would have caused too much distraction at the bar. I elected to sit quietly, inconspicuously as Bill Thunderbird, at the bar as Norm walked in.

“I was just about to leave,” Nick said, as Norm strolled in adorned in his finest pair of sweatpants.

“What? I thought we were gonna hang out and watch the game!” retorted Norm.

“Yeah, that was FIVE hours ago!”

A similar semicircle to the one when Nick had been waiting for Norm the last time they agreed to hang out, formed around the two comedians conversing.

“I thought we were watching the Gnomes game!” Norm persisted, unphased by Nick’s perturbation. The audience these two had now attracted charged the room with energy, supplying gravitas to the comics’ discourse.

“Yeah, but now I’m loaded,” Nick said, buzzed but not slurring his words.

“C’mon, Nicky,” Norm said. “I had to do my laundry. Give grace to this old chunk a coal.”

“Who the fuck says that?! What is an ‘old chunk of coal’?”

“Say, you want to hear a joke?” Norm raised his voice at this proposition. A few murmurs from the semicircle crowd piped up to encourage him to proceed.

The joke took 20 minutes.

“What is the moral of that story?” Nick said, wishing he could get the last half hour of his life back.

“Uh, I guess, don’t mess with Uncle Terry when he gets to drinkin’.”

The impromptu audience had been laughing throughout Norm’s story. Nick loved it too, but pretended he was annoyed. The laughter erupted at Norm’s last retort, shaking the penthouse bar’s walls. The light-up bar vibrated, reverberating the wine glasses atop to turn them into Tibetan singing bowls. The whole room had become light. In fact, Nick Swardson and Norm Macdonald’s visible shells lit up into rainbow light bodies.

Then, they were gone, evaporated from their barstools. They had transcended the 7th dimension together. The crowd cheered at this most triumphant of theatrical and existential exits.

The whole phenomena reminded me of Elaine’s Cymatic experience. The Gardanne Register now had three distinct accounts of ascension for a series we had coined “Spheres of Intrigue.” Soon, there became too many to count or report. Gardanne had entered Her golden era.

Kitty and I and greater Gardanne ran this joyful period for what seemed like eons. We were free to leap solo or tethered together. I’d dip down to visit my 3rd-dimensional plants on terrestrial Earths. So would She.

We both held our Gardanne positions in between interdimensional travel, but learned to delegate duties more and more. I leaned heavier on my staff, as editor-in-chief of the Gardanne Register. Kitty divvied the responsibility in the soul sanctuary among Her specialized personnel properly suited to heal souls on the cusp between reincarnation and the opportunity for lighter realms, like Our own oasis amidst the 7th dimension. We had more room than ever as ascension to even higher echelons opened the soul superhighway wide for life to pass through.

We enjoyed this bliss for so long, We almost forgot of our own lofty goal—as experienced Thunderbirds—joining efforts to ascend into the 9th dimension. We had practiced tethered leaping to such a fine-tuned degree, We considered what collective transcendental meditation might accomplish. The tactic seemed to work for those former Gardanne collectives—the barbershop quartet, the coven, Cymatic and Nick & Norm came to mind—who, together, achieved a sustained harmony that lifted them to the next level. Their combined chord struck a specific frequency we could channel from lower depths (at least that was the theory among ham radio scientists).

Kitty decided to put the hypothesis to practice. One morning, She said to me, “What if we applied our tethered dimensional leaping techniques to collaborative meditation? What if we entangled our unique soul signatures under deep concentration? Let’s concentrate on Our own connection, rather than try to channel others that have ascended.”

“Worth a shot,” I said.

We sat knees-to-knees one night, in the backyard zen garden, clearing our minds, cleansing our dual souls to lift above the subtle ether in Gardanne’s misty evening dew. Our dual zen formation, facing each other, touching knees, resembled a pyramid.

The meditation session felt like no other I had experienced. Telepathically, I could tell Kitty felt the same. Our respective intentions expanded upward, through our crowns, and intertwined like double-helixed DNA. We had entangled Our light bodies, now rising high above Gardanne. We were floating on the wings of all the other local ascensions. We broke into the movierain as a singular beam. We no longer had to communicate telepathically; We just knew what the other intended to do. We were each other at this most intimate of transcendental moments. Since neither of Us had ever reached such existential echelons, We knew to suppress any intended destinations. Those would ultimately drag Us down to some prior known reality. We kept Our minds, which were now one consciousness, clear, empty. We sublimed as a singular, rainbow light body. Then, We became nothingness. It was like dying, but in the nicest, most profound way possible, as if We had become the concept of harmony Herself. We spanned subtler and subtler substrate forms still. We were on the bleeding edge of Our now unified existence. Every moment that passed was completely unlike anything We had experienced in any of Our prior timelines.

A beat.

Blankness. Pure nothingness soon became… something. It was an impossible, imposing, all-encompassing and overwhelming beauty. I don’t think either of Us indiviually could have handled it—the Beauty. But We had combined to become some evolved being that could absorb such majesty. The premises was inexplicable by linguistic standards, but what We can break down for this journal here is that the inexplicably unintelligible reality soon took a shape that lower dimensionals would call a threshold.

They were the steps to the High Thunderbird Leader’s altar. Kitty and I, as One, had arrived at what Thunderbirds considered God. We continued Our ascension and walked through His Holiness’ doorway. We spoke as One.

The Thunderbird Leader beamed brilliantly. To look directly at Him was like staring into the Sun, but Kitty and I could bare the Big Bertha bandwidth; We had combined into a gestalt greater than the two of Us individually.

His voice was like a song.

“Ah, my children Thunderbirds,” He said, wafting down harmonious notes. His vocal chords must have been woven from golden harp strings. “Do you wish to ask me anything?”

“Yes, High Leader,” We said. “We are honored to be in the presence of Your grace. We’ve traveled great distances of thought and feeling to reach you. As full-fledged Thunderbirds, We built a city state in the 7th dimension, called Gardanne. Do you have any advice for Us on how to lead such a place?”

“World building is not for the faint of heart,” He said. “But I’ve been watching you from up here. Once imbued with the power to create reality out of nothing, the possibilities are quite endless. We were all wondering up here what you’d do with that privilege. We were pleased, as the first Sun rose over Gardanne. To adequately answer your question, I’ll respond with a qualifying inquiry. What sort of place would you like to lead?”

The entirety of Our time on the city state flashed in Our combinded minds, now One logos.

“It’s an oasis from reincarnation,” We said. “We’ve mounted the place as a respite for those souls, nearly complete in their 3rd-dimensional journeys, but wavering on where to go next. Before Gardanne, these unfortunate souls would just descend back down into this churn, wiped of their former life’s memory by the next rebirth. We want Gardanne to provide a weigh station between these souls’ physical lives so that they can collaboratively create, make art expressing what it means to be human, and ultimately, move onto the next existential plane when they’re ready, infinite as these upper echelons may be. We are in the business of expanding consciousness, Sir—freeing souls from the reincarnation mill, creating a peaceful space where they can explore what it means to be alive, and enlightening those who are content to move onto the next plane.”

“Ahhh,” He chuckled, “quite lofty goals! Might I suggest baby steps?”

“Baby steps?”

“Yes! Gazing too far down the path can cause one to lose sight of the here and now. Expanding consciousness is a noble endeavor, mind you, but keep it to what you can manage at that time. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.”

“We think We know what You’re saying,” We said, after a contemplative moment. “We’re going to concentrate right now on becoming better Gardanners.”

“It is granted.”

At that, the brilliant light of the High Thunderbird Leader built to an amplitude even Our combined bandwidth couldn’t contain. Then, We were descending in the movierain from the 9th dimension, through the 8th. Our singularity became two again.

Do you see Gardanne? I said to Kitty on the descent.

It’s murky here, She said, tough to make out.

Wait, did you hear that?

We heard a faint voice from below, beckoning, “We call you now to return.”

Then, Gardanne appeared, as a glowing, five-point star. It reminded me of the North Star newspaper, whom had been named as such for their endless pursuit of Truth. From that revelatory moment, Gardanne felt like Our own North Star, that We’d cultivate towards Truth.

We re-entered the 7th dimension, in the local spacetime of Gardanne. We hovered, not yet fully materialized, in the backyard of our Craftsman, precisely where We had lifted off. But the Craftsman was gone. Gardanne looked completely different, like much time had passed. And, in Our place where We had sat zen to blast off into the 9th dimension and meet the Thunderbird Leader, now stood a tiny, stone pyramid, but sculpted to resemble two human figures meditating.

They looked exactly like Kitty and me.

Part II: 432,001 Gardanne Years Later…

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 01

Lately, I’ve felt compelled to journal. But where to begin?

I’m 16 years old. I live in the city of Gardanne, the Heights specifically, on the suburban side. I currently attend high school and have several friends. After school, we take hikes through the forest behind our houses.

The other day, we stumbled across a small, stone pyramid that had been shrouded in overgrowth. After we cleared the brush away, I held my hand to one of its four sides. Like a shock of lightning, this quote struck through me, from the crown, through my feet to the ground:

‘Like separate neurons under a microscope, seeking out each other without sight but somehow detecting where the others are, we could connect with people. Nonlocally. We just had to first think of them. Then, sense them. Feel them. Catch their scent. Then, we’d become entangled and could unite. We were two once seemingly separate neurons connecting in the grander scheme of the God brain.’

My hand jumped from the stone reflexively as if it were a hot panhandle. It was just the initial shock of the information transference. Calming, I placed my palm back on the hard surface. The download continued. I channeled:

‘It’s a tough notion to grasp, when you’re a lowly terrestrial, down on the ground of Earth. The notion is this: that we are on but one of an infinite versions of Earth. And, nearby Gardanne, you are inhabiting one of a dozen Earths that swirl in a torus pattern high up in the 7th dimension. Your true reality takes up far more consciousness than simply this singular solar system. It takes comprehension of this notion to ascend out of 3rd-dimensional reality, which is restricted to simply one Earth. To glue your identity to a higher, dozen Earths coalescing into the beautiful 7th-dimensional reality of Gardanne, is to declare to this simple, physical Earth that your existence requires higher vibrations, an entirely heigtened frequency to sustain. And you must rise.’

I removed my hand once again. My friends and I all took a step back—Jane and Chlöe and my boyfriend Thomas had accompanied me on the dusk hike. The pyramid, which stood three or four feet from the ground, resembled two people sitting face-to-face in the lotus position. The stone surface I was just touching was actually the sculpture of a man sitting zen. Opposite him was a woman, also sitting tranquil in meditation.

“I think this statue is alive,” I said to the group.

“Don’t say that too loud,” my friend Thomas said. “Magic has been outlawed by the officials for generations now.”

It was true. Magic conjuring, psychic connections, telepathy, telekinesis, dimensional leaping—you name it—had been banned by the bureaucracy of individuals who supposedly had been in Gardanne since the beginning. The sobering legislation was a tough pill to swallow for someone like me, who possessed the inexplicable ability to spontaneously ascertain objects’ histories simply by touching them.

Nevertheless, my friends and I have been visiting the stone pyramid every night. Every time I hold my hand to the male side of the statue, I can channel a smooth baritone voice in my mind, like tuning the knob on a television set.

The night after we first discovered the hidden pyramid, below is what the statue and I channeled and recited aloud to my friends—the group had now grown with Radcliffe, Thomas’ friend, and Chlöe’s beau Stan in the mix. Jane has alse been gracing us with her presence at these seances.

In my head, the tambour rings like rich baritone in the voice of the male figure who comprises one half of the pyramid that, by this point, we had nicknamed the “zen lovers.”

Last night, He said:

Chapter 1

“I’m mad at you,” Kitty said, the day after I had returned from amnesia. I had berthed into an Earth as a newborn, completely wiping my memory, until, on faith, technique and a little luck, I initiated a full anamnesis recalling my full Thunderbird identity, capable of traversing dimensions, returning to my true home in my Drop in the 5th dimension. This will all make sense, when you understand that heightened vibrational realities exist omnitemporally. It’s just a matter of tuning one’s mind, body and soul to the precise frequency for your desired destination.

Although, this time, I had dipped a little too low. Kitty had to retrieve me.

“Why?” I said.

“How did you let yourself fall, cast to oblivion in such an obscure Earth?”

“I was trying out a new self-starting technique,” I said.

I had bore further into the physical Earth than ever before. The theory was that, if I could conjure the perfect conditions just prior to berthing into that world, a spontaneous acknowledgment at some point in my adulthood would finally free me from this shell.

Of course, the experiment failed. And Kitty had to rescue me. I was closer than ever to planting the perfect star seed.

Experimenting with extended-stay Earth leaps was becoming a bit of a thing for me… and some of the Cheshire crew. The friendly competition seemed to push me (at least) further and further to the point of no return.

We went around the room one Wednesday night at the tavern. This was our weekly haunt in the town of Shermer on Earth_Suburban, one of our first Earths visited. It was a regular roundtable discussion. The guys, the locals, gave the Cheshire crew the floor to all share our longest recorded dimensional leaps, respectively.

Each of our baker’s dozen of a spaceship personnel had been leaping now for some time. We had, in fact, become quite good at this most existential of crafts. Leaping dimensions, as far as we were concerned, meant dipping out of one version of the planet Earth, into another version of Earth. The “Many Worlds” theory will tell you that there are an infinite number of Earth versions.

Keith’s longest leap was 48 hours. He was newer to our discipline. Then went Sully. His was 20 years, since that’s how long it took me to find him, cast into oblivion from the mishap among the movierain—which is the code name for the torrents of worlds that precipitate the multiverse like falling rain.

Moreover, the “movierain” is my nickname for surfing the multiverse. You’re the dimensional surfer, leaping like lightning between droplets of rain descending down from some divine source. Each droplet is a world, and when Sully accidentally got sucked into one of those falling destinations, while I was teaching him to surf, I had to retrieve him. You can read more about that in my Thunderbird journal, out now in an Equipment Room near you.

We went around the room, including Lucky No. 13. I had lasted a lifetime on one version of Earth. That was when I became a small-town reporter for their local weekly, The Herald. Jumping from conversation to conversation among the townsfolk for my stories came naturally to this Thunderbird.

A lifetime spent there, and I would have died an old man in my quaint little hilltop bungalow, with a beautiful back porch view. But I made it back to the good ship Cheshire, that magnificent Earth satellite hanging in a Lagrange point in Her orbit. Kitty returned the favor from that time we lost her in one of her Earth version’s 1980s.

We both told our own versions.

Bill Thunderbird’s Account

By the time it was my turn to chime in, on that Wednesday night storytelling at the tavern, the longest recorded marooning on an obscure version of Earth was 21 years, held by Kitty.

I had that beat.

“In the interest of time, I won’t start at the beginning. It’s best to begin when I finally realized that this world in which I found myself was not my actual home…”

It truly felt like another lifetime conjuring up this former terrestrial life. As I channeled this old self, I looked around the circle we had formed in the back room of the tavern. This wasn’t the typical tale we’d tell on Wednesday nights. And I could tell the crowd hung on every word. I continued.

“I began noticing clues in my everyday routine reporting for the town’s local weekly. It’s like this universe was trying to reach me.”

Signs are real. Pay attention to them. The human brain is trained to recognize patterns. If you’re noticing some pattern in your everyday existence that seems more than coincidence, it is. The pattern carries meaning that someone or something from beyond your current plane has attempted to convey to you.

For example, I’d notice more than the average string of Ford Thunderbirds rolling by downtown streets. While interviewing certain subjects for the local paper—a restaurateur who mentions dew for some reason, the local florist who insisted upon showing me her zen garden, and so on—clues accumulated to a critical mass. Like the moments just after waking up from a deep dream, these clues felt more like memories from another life and another world, rather than imagined.

“It was Kitty,” I told the tavern audience. “She was outside my realm, behind the fourth wall, and couldn’t influence me directly. Had she revealed my true nature too early, the heavy news would have been too overwhelming. It wouldn’t have stuck. And I would have been left to languish there.

“The place was so similar to my home world. That’s why it was easy to get lost there—its familiar allure looming always.

“I also didn’t mind being there. That could have contributed to my blissful complacency. Usually, in similar situations of ignorance, a gut feeling would guide me out of the woods. It was an innate intuition that the world in which I found myself was not my own. On this Earth, however, ‘Analog Earth’ we’ll call it, never incited this feeling in me. Like I said, I would have remained there until death had Kitty not intervened.”

My crowd began to stir. I could tell I was losing them.

“So how’d you get out of it?” yelled one audience member from the back. One of the reasons this was not the typical tale we’d tell on Wednesday nights was that this crowd appreciated people who got to the point. I was taking my time.

“I’ll let Kitty elaborate more on my liberation,” I said. “But I can tell you what supplied the aha moment. It was quite the stroke of genius.

“The key phrase to unlock past-life memories goes like this: ‘surf; zen; leap; navigate; teach; thunderbird.’ Reading or hearing these words in that order will unlock my mind, should I get lost. Kitty knew this, of course…”

I hesitated for a moment on delivering this news to the group in the back room. I was internally debating how much thunder to steal from Kitty’s version. I decided to tease it.

“One day, I’m walking down Main Street through the town center, en route to report on a story. I was 42 on this planet by this point. I strolled by the local surf shop. I remember reading the word ‘surf’ on the storefront. Just then, a bus drove by with an ad across the side promoting a wellness spa that read, ‘Achieve zen.’ As the word ‘zen’ passed in and out of my mind, I approached a puddle by the curb. I leapt over it, into the street and almost got hit by a Lincoln Navigator. Not too long after that, I bumped into my favorite gradeschool teacher on the sidewalk. I caught up with her for a few minutes before continuing on my path to my source’s destination. I arrived, and right before entering their office, I glanced back at the street. A Ford Thunderbird drove by. I remember entering the building in a daze. I felt high, as my mind ignited otherworldly thoughts. Déjà vu blossomed into full recall of my Thunderbird identity before I made it through the lobby. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. I never made it to the interview that day. Through that series of events, at once, I remembered I was a Thunderbird and doubled back to my apartment. I knew I’d have to link up with Kitty to get off planet. But I’ll let her tell you how we rendezvoused…”

I relinquished the floor to my Thunderbird apprentice.

Kitty’s Account

“You should have seen Bill, when I first came across him,” Kitty jumped right in.

“Bill appeared really quite content,” she said. “I was concerned my soul-freeing Thunderbird tactics would not ripple enough to free him. I tailed him for years, until the perfect moment presented itself.

“I felt like his guardian angel, checking in on him over terrestrial milestones. I remember when he first got his job at the paper, how happy he was. I remember when he earned his first byline reporting on a local 3-alarm fire that had burnt down the old Fargus mansion. I’d tail him on dates and visits with friends. I felt like Bill’s ghostly biographer, who knew Him better than he knew Himself. Of course, I was outside of Analog Earth’s timeline and could fast-forward to terrestrial Bill’s pivotal moments.”

“Why did Bill berth into this planet at all, if it ran the risk of forgetting his true identity?” an eager tavern-goer asked of our Thunderbird craft.

I thought to chime in on Kitty’s rendition, but then held back. I wanted to hear the reason in her words.

Kitty continued, first addressing the question from the audience.

“Drastic leaps like these are sometimes necessary for a Thunderbird,” she said. “Ideally, and often, we can leap in and out of worlds all while retaining our highest sense of self. This type of light leaping, however, doesn’t always get to the root of the world. Sometimes, in order to truly know a certain Earth version, the Thunderbird has to live it. That’s what Bill was doing down there on Analog Earth.”

“Makes sense,” we heard from the crowd. Sounded like the same guy who asked the initial question. Kitty veered back to her story.

“Anyway, my monitoring of Bill’s milestones was merely a precaution. Our thought, before mounting this leap, was that Bill’s birdhood would occur to him naturally down on the ground. But when that didn’t happen by the checkpoint, I had to intervene. It took months of planning to align those six key-phrase cues on his walk that day.”

“How’d you do it??” apparently this guy thought we were in a Q&A segment, but Kitty pressed on unfazed.

“Well,” she said, “when you live outside a world’s timeline, you can see all causality at once. Cause and effect, in fact, are interchangeable like a chicken and an egg. ‘Which came first?’ It doesn’t matter. I knew what Bill needed to see to inspire the six key phrases. So I picked the best day in his routine where these crucial components could all occur in the correct order.”

I could tell Kitty’s Thunderbird training had really improved her leaping skills. She had answered his question expertly, but not sure it all landed to the pedestrian.

“I— I see,” he said. “I don’t think I have the right frame of reference, being stuck in this planet’s time, but I trust ya.”

“Thanks,” Kitty said. “Maybe we can take you on a leap sometime, and illustrate our point.”

She looked at me and smirked. We usually only leapt with Cheshire crew. Most terrestrials couldn’t handle the monsooning movierain of the multiverse.

“Once the Thunderbird idea had been firmly planted in Bill,” Kitty continued, “next, we just had to rendezvous. At that point, it was easy, since I was confident Bill had recalled his training. I knew, as he now knew again, that we’d have to meet at a place on planet where a natural vortex whirled. There just so happened to be one such vortex at the mountaintop on the outskirts of town. I was also confident that Bill would remember that timing mattered. He knew, as I knew, that a lunar standstill was coming up in a few days. So we met on the mountaintop three days after I unlocked Bill’s Thunderbird mind, during the full moon of the axial lunar precession that occurs only once every 18.6 years. After a heartfelt reunion, we leapt hand in hand back up to the Cheshire.”

Claps and cheers rang through the tavern back room. Kitty glanced quickly at me to see if I approved of her rendition. I nodded slightly to indicate it was spot on. I looked around at the rest of crew in-house tonight who hadn’t shared yet.

“OK,” I said. “Who else has a long-leap story?”

All the talk of long leap stories got me thinking. It wasn’t so much the length of one’s stay down on some physical Earth. You could live 100 years and never evolve past that of a mortal. The quality of life mattered too.

To truly know a world, I’d have to commit completely to Her local reality. The question was, ‘would my blueprint help me to remember my former self?’ Could I narrowly evade oblivion, putting all my faith in the blueprint to return home?

Only one way to find out. Here goes nothing.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 02

That was the most intense channeling I had ever experienced last night. I channeled another man’s life, from a forgotten time, a forgotten place. Was it even our universe?

He seemed to possess mystical powers similar to mine. There was resonance. Maybe that’s why the channeling rang through crystal clear. I think I freaked out a few of my friends. My boyfriend Thomas seemed shook the rest of the night. Maybe he was just worried about me.

His best friend Rad reassured me though before we made it to our houses on the walk home.

“There’s such a thing as good weird,” he said.

Everyone else seemed to agree. We were back at the zen lovers’ pyramid the next night. Seven of us now on the seance—Thomas, Radcliffe, Chloe, Jane, Stan, Penelope and myself.

While those six sat in a circle around the little pyramid, I held my palm to the cool surface on the male’s side, once again, and channeled…

Chapter 2

I awoke suddenly in the Drop. The setting, as I scanned my lofty whereabouts: a giant sphere 50 feet in diameter, where I sat in its epicenter on a bed of grass. A waterfall gently pattered nearby, also in the large, spherical Drop. This place was my personal universe, I remembered after my ascension from the ground below. But I had no memory of my life prior to leaping down to that Earth planet. I had returned to my origin point, sure, but what sort of person was I to descend down to the ground in the first place?

I had to reintegrate into heightened reality. The only memories my mind could access were from the most recent Earth—a 42-year stay on some planetary version from the 1980s.

In December of 2024 on planet, I ascended to the Cheshire spaceship, where my Drop had hinged. I opened my eyes for what seemed like the first time, within the sanctuary of that perfect, pristine Drop. I had to recall my former life.

I stood immediately, rising from the lotus position amidst the tranquil zen garden. To my back sat my workstation, consisting of a nice mahogany L-shaped desk, which held my typewriter, a laptop and some personal files and effects. I whisked over to the desk to find out what to do next.

I fired up the laptop. The first screen both read and said aloud, “Welcome… Please enter the temporal length of your last leap.”

I entered 42 years.

“Oh, quite a long stay. We may have to institute a full memory reboot. Please follow these steps:

“1. Report your full story of the last 42 years on that Earth version.

“2. Recite this series of words in this exact order: surf; zen; leap; navigate; teach; thunderbird.”

The prose flew from my head out my fingertips and onto the typewriter keys. Before long, I had filled seven or so pages that promptly synopsized a comprehensive summary of my last leap.

Then, I recited the key phrase.

Flash!!

Memories from my past life precipitated into my higher brain like the droplets of movierain itself. In an instant, I knew how to summon my helmet, which I did. I quickly donned the crucial headpiece. Its viewfinder would then further facilitate my safe and successful reintegration onto the Cheshire.

I still had one more question for the laptop. I looked down at my brand new body, which was unlike my mortal flesh. It was much better.

“Why is my body half covered in black script?” I typed into the Drop terminal. I also added, “And why does it feel like my bones are made of tightly wound carbon fiber?”

The computer responded: “Your Thunderbird structure is comprised of densely packed molecules that can stand the super gravity of massive black holes. The portion of your skin that’s black is due to the many tattoos chronicling how many worlds you’ve visited thus far. One tattoo for every Earth. Look more closely at the etchings.”

I looked down my right arm. The inked script completely covered the limb from shoulder to wrist. It was impossible to count how many Earths had been etched into my neutron skin. I had apparently been Earth hopping for a while.

It had been 42 years since I had seen my crew, but it would only seem like hours to them since I last left. I couldn’t wait to see them again, but would obviously have to curb my longing. Dissonant time dilations were an occupational hazard of a Thunderbird.

My helmet helped me reacclimate to the Cheshire’s status quo. Past life memories were still flooding into my mind. I was regaining full sense of my soul, but the immediate circumstances of that day on the ship just prior to my leap still escaped me.

I had the helmet call up a blueprint. When I climbed up to the upper echelons of the Cheshire and encountered my first crew member, the helmet’s blueprint would project augmented reality (AR) cues onto the viewfinder to smooth the transition.

I bumped into Keith first, who was getting something from the kitchen.

“You’re still wearing your helmet, I see,” Keith said, rummaging around in an overhead cabinet.

“Yeah, just dismounted from a long leap,” I said.

“How long?”

“42 years.”

“Wow,” Keith stopped rummaging and turned to me. “Still reintegrating I bet.”

“You know it,” I said. “Do I owe you answers on anything?”

I noticed Keith’s eyes searching. I think he was debating whether or not to to lie.

“Yeah, you said you’d give me $50,” he said with a smirk.

My helmet cued up a clip on the AR viewfinder that played my last conversation with Keith, pre-leap. Keith had asked to borrow $50 himself from me, as I made my way down to the Drop.

“I think you might have that one backwards, Keith,” I said plainly.

“Ahh! Just testin’ ya! Glad to see you’re almost fully back.”

“I’m about 80 percent of the way there,” I said. “How are things with the rest of the crew?”

“Well, Kitty’s not too pleased with ya.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know,” Keith said, still rifling through the cabinets for an afternoon snack.

I approached Kitty’s room, the entrance to which held a quaint hallway door like you’d encounter on the second floor of some warm suburban home. The Cheshire corridors were familiar like that, complete with creaky hardwood floors and a distinct savory scent that further spurred core memories into my waking conscious.

I knocked.

Before long, I heard light footsteps approach the door on the other side. The door knob turned and Kitty quickly pulled open the oak wood.

“Remember me??” she said, in a tone by which I could tell she was annoyed.

“Hi— Hi, Kitty,” locking eyes with her sprung a torrent of memories back into my mind. I could barely keep up conversation, but it was so good to see her. It had been 42 years for me, and only a few hours for her.

“Why did you dive so deep without telling me?? You lost recognition of yourself and had to rely upon the code words only after you leapt back aboard the ship?” I could tell Kitty was livid. She must have checked the logs upon my Drop return.

I glanced behind her into the room. Its walls rose to curved ceilings in semicircle archways. She also enjoyed giant circular windows looking out on the Dyson Sphere city in superposition and at a higher plane above relative Earth space. It was true the Cheshire occupied both local space in an Earth Lagrange point and also at the higher plane of the Dyson City that wrapped around a super massive black hole at the center of the Universal Union (UU). I always thought Kitty had one of the nicest rooms on the ship.

“Yeah, it’s all still coming back. I’m sorry. I should have warned you I was going so deep this time,” I was still waiting for my memory recall to reach the point where I could supply her an explanation as to why I nearly got lost to oblivion on this most recent of leaps. Nevertheless, it was good to be home.

I could tell, from her judgmental glare, that Kitty required that explanation right in her doorway. But I said I had a lot to catch up on and assured her we’d reconvene a little later. She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

Instead of continuing up the ship’s corridors to the Captain’s wheelhouse at the top, I decided to descend back down to my Drop. The recall was taking longer than usual to return. I had to know why this last leap went so deep.

It was an accident, I would later learn from the printout of debriefing documents that my laptop produced, processing my report from Earth_42. The logs would reveal that I had rushed down to that planet. I hadn’t told Kitty of my departure beforehand (hence her current frustration with me). In an effort to test how deep I could leap into obscure Earth without a safety net in Kitty, I had stood on the precipice of oblivion from the Cheshire. Kitty was right to be pissed.

The blueprint, you see, wasn’t a single document. It was the confluence of several accounts: the prior life flashback prompted by reciting the unlocking keyword phrase; my report of the planet I just visited, a debrief; and a projection of the overlapping Venn diagram between these two streams, the way two eyes combine their separate, flat pictures to create 3-dimensional perspective.

Traveling back in time to the point just prior to my leap upon this planet, from which I was now returning, would reveal my motive. I had handpicked this Earth as the perfect candidate to prompt a spontaneous recall and thus ascension back to the Cheshire. The fact that I was able to return of my own volition and report this account now is proof the risky technique worked. But had I flown even an inkling closer to the proverbial Sun in this endeavor, my connection to the Cheshire, to Kitty and the rest of the crew could have severed completely. She would’ve had no information, no intel to guide her on my retrieval.

Kitty knew I could have been lost. That’s why she was pissed. I compiled my final report of the planet. It was a full schematic of the near failed mission. I had it in hand when I returned to Kitty’s room to explain.

“Again, I’m sorry,” I said as she opened the door to her room. “Just got through reviewing the logs. I was testing long leaps without a safety net.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me test, if I told you beforehand.”

“You’re probably right.”

“The extent of memory loss upon returning to my Drop is of concern,” I said, sympathizing with her feeling of slight. “Usually, the keyphrases conjure a full memory recall after only a few moments. This time, I had to compare that with my notes from the planet report to synthesize a full blueprint of the mission retrospective.”

“Well,” she said, “thank god for the blueprint.”

She was still pissed.

We both said good night, and I left. By that point, my full Thunderbird memory had nearly returned. I remembered all of my thoughts and feelings just prior to leaping onto this Earth_42 without the safety of a savvy leaper in Kitty to potentially retrieve me, should things get too murky for my terrestrial existence below. Although, I still felt like a new Bill.

I sat down to meditate in my zen garden down in the Drop. Though all the information had returned, I had to search my feelings further. “Why would I knowingly leap without safety?” I thought.

The best I could muster was a sense of insecurity. An occupational hazard of a Thunderbird is getting cast so far out into obscurity, you lose your identity. I’d always have Kitty on my six, so long as she knew where I was leaping. She really was so reliable, my dearest, closest friend.

I let all of these thoughts drift in and out of my mind. My third eye cleared and, at once: clarity. I opened my other two eyes. My meditation was complete, because I had my answer.

The reason I had leapt without Kitty’s knowledge had nothing to do with her. It was entirely my own hang-up. I had been scarred from previous leaps that risked complete detachment. And given my recent history upon entering the Cheshire, I was afraid this would happen again: a complete, irreversible memory wipe.

Of course, there was a simple difference between then and now. Now I knew Kitty, who was fast becoming as skilled a Thunderbird as yours truly. I was no longer alone among the multiverse. And resolved to never leap without her knowledge again.

Under the calm granite of mindful meditation, in heavy stillness, one infallible Truth rose above all others: I had to be Kitty’s rock too.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 03

My hand leapt off the now hot stone upon tonight’s reading. My channeling of the blueprint story to my friends had clearly impacted them as much as it had me, said their awe-struck expressions as my consciousness fully returned to my Gardanner body. Moments before it had been on the Cheshire spaceship, in a forgotten time in the shared history of these zen lovers.

“Wow, I think the zen lovers are dimensional leapers,” Jane said. This was a concept—leaping dimensions—that had been all but forgotten among modern Gardanne. But my friends—myself and Jane especially—were into the occult.

We all couldn’t wait until tomorrow night to learn more of what the zen lovers had to teach us about ancient magic.

The next night unlocked memories buried deep in Gardanners’ collective unconscious. We had, as a whole people, forgotten we descended from Earths.

I heard Rad say, “I think this guy figured out a way to leap from terrestrial Earth to higher realms like Gardanne,” as I held my hand to the male side of the little stone pyramid. “I didn’t even think that was possible.”

Sure enough, this night’s channeling session started with our subject on the ground of some Earth…

Chapter 3

There were still a few cobwebs in my current mind. They obscured my former self that had leapt down to Earth_42. In order to fill in the gaps, I found myself reminiscing and reviewing my terrestrial journal, from when I languished down below…

Low down on the Earthly ground one day, the faint hint of a notion surfaced in my thoughts, like a magic 8-ball’s eerie prediction emerging slowly within that little, blue porthole. It said, ‘The self doesn’t exist… at least not the way you’ve been taught. You are not part of the Earth; you are the Earth.’

It felt like the sudden onset of déjà vu because the concept that I was the Earth felt like a memory I had forgotten long ago, perhaps in a past life. I can’t remember what spurred this idea, but I went about my day as normal until the feeling fled. I would have thought nothing of the subtle occurrence, but the innate sense that I wasn’t supposed to be down on this ground returned.

It was a sense that indicated there was more to reality. There was a grand, exponentially more complex scheme hidden behind the ostensible everyday. As Shakespeare had famously said “the world’s a stage,” I certainly felt like one of its players who was waking up to the strings controlling existence from backstage.

My boss, for instance, would have me believe that the work—marketing our stupid products—should be my meaning of life. Her life revolved around the performance of this company. But I could see the ends of these efforts. However well my promotional campaigns performed, the same fact remained—all of our labor merely made old white men richer. The time wasted in vain on these endeavors provided my biggest source of inner conflict.

I struggled to hear my true calling.

I would later learn that my metaphysical antenna—the piezoelectric tap into my third eye, the pineal gland—had been damaged early in life. I was exposed to psychological trauma as a child that warped my ability to receive otherworldly signals.

I remembered my Terran mom would say things to me like “You’re not a people person. People aren’t going to like you.” She said this so early in life that I actually believed it for my entire childhood and much of early adulthood.

Harsh words that scrawled across my early subconscious had crippled my ability to let frequencies freely flow into my thoughts. The signs would arrive staticky, only to be ignored.

My suffering was a symptom of this. The universe was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t interpret Her language. I sought to heal my mind and clear the static.

Step one was extinguishing my short fuse. Anger, frustration. These are secondary emotions that result from some internal conflict. At the time, I was working in a humdrum office, performing pointless work, with people who were clueless to higher Truths. Friction, therefore, occurred at nearly every turn of my everyday existence.

So, I quit.

In order to heal my psyche, I had to sever all sources that contributed to my mental strife. I had a bit of savings that could support me for the time being so that I could achieve the necessary, profound quiet required to receive otherworldly signals. The quiet was key, you see, so that I could make my mind like liquid vinyl and let the faint signals from a divine source trace grooves in an album that would rewrite my DNA. Then, I could hone the signal further.

Meditation became a daily practice. I’d sit in perfect quiet, in the center of my ornately patterned Tibetan rug. I’d breathe in and breathe out.

My mantra: om. This is the sound of the universe.

I strove to hear what Mother Earth—my local universe—was trying to tell me. Every day, I sat for hours, concentrating on my mantra and focusing my energy into an orb that formed 20 feet in diameter around my center of gravity. The electromagnetic sphere that manifested from my psychic energy created a Faraday cage that protected my inner peace, blocking out all external noise.

Ironically, once I was able to silence the cacophony distracting me from focus, Mother Earth would tell me that this perceived distortion was merely misdirected energy. If I could refocus these electromagnetic vectors, I’d leverage their power to break free from Her gravity. In other words, stop resisting and let the energy in.

Soon, a sense of my Drop took shape. The Drop, affixed to the hull of the Cheshire spaceship, hung in a Lagrange point in Earth’s orbit, way up above. I was remembering something that had existed long before my Earthly presence on this current planet. I had to believe that this place existed, not just in my mind; it physically hung way up in space above in some adjacent dimension, beckoning me.

It was this place high up in the sky, yes, but more so it was the people aboard and the feelings they evoked that held my affection. They assumed more and more defined shape as I concentrated. Their hearts beckoned mine. My connections with each were what really opened the inroads back to a place that, down on the ground, seemed impossible to reach.

I let all of these thoughts and feelings drift through my mind, as I separated from the internal monologue narrating an earthly life that grounded me. I was not this voice. I did not exist. I was Mother Earth, from the perception of this simple pedestrian perspective, and ready to elevate. The thoughts cleared and I felt as pure consciousness.

The clean slate of my thought soon transcended silence, into the movierain. The movierain is the torrent of possible worlds that precipitate by the existential surfer gliding through the downpour. The movierain exists everywhere and always, ever ready for its passenger to step up into its field. Each droplet represents another Earth version. Like lightning, I astrally leapt between them.

All the while, my physical body remained sat in the lotus position, in my quiet living room down on Earth (the version that bore me this time). But my astral self soared high above.

I concentrated on my Drop, as countless droplet worlds flew by. This was my impossible destination—as perceived from the ground below—that now seemed attainable flitting through the multiversal movierain intermediary.

I’d practice this meditation nightly. Though the Drop would emerge, as I surfed the movierain, I couldn’t seem to make the leap. I couldn’t fully commit. Something was holding me back. It was an asymptote of perfection—unattainable, but pursued often. Perfection was the red herring of goals—supposedly worthwhile, but difficult to achieve. It was not only difficult; it was impossible, I thought, unfocused. I kept waiting for the perfect moment, when my Drop would appear as clear as day, when all the pieces would fall into place, and I could step up into its divine shell. At last, I would return home.

The reality was, like perfection itself, the perfect moment did not exist. If I were to wait for this elusive event, I’d remain sat on my living room floor until death.

And then I recalled what Mother Earth had hinted to me, when my mind finally cleared to hear Her message. I could leverage the noise, the stressors imposing distraction and discord on my peace of mind. I could redirect their energy to my advantage. My boss’s ill-guided pressure to prioritize her business over my well-being. Colleagues and contemporaries’ piddly goals distracting them and me from the true destination. My own self doubt. These were all perceived as opposing forces. But what if I conducted their electromagnetic torrents reeking havoc on my consciousness down into the points of my inner ankles? What if this energy—perceived as negative—actually produced a positive, white-hot charge in between my feet that ignited ball lightning at my heels.

I imagined this orb of electromagnetic gravity as energetic ball lightning my astral self could balance upon. I had already surfed the movierain, but that was only the equivalent of a 3-foot ocean wave. The unbridled energy I was now harnessing, between my feet, swelled to the water wall of a 100-foot tsunami. My spirit elevated, escalating quickly. And my Drop appeared more vividly, more rapidly than ever before. It seemed as though I had enough metaphysical propulsion to reach this formerly unattainable ledge.

Like never before, the Drop held steady in my purview. Astrally, I stood on the precipice between the physical ground below and this higher reality above.

I leapt.

Everything went dark—my inner monologue, the movierain, my sense of self and Mother Earth. Pure blackness for a beat filled every crevice of existence.

Another beat…

Innately, I felt the compulsion to open my eyes, yet I had no eyes to open in this elevated state. Still, I attempted the subtle gesture. Eyes opened that weren’t of my earthly body down on the ground; they were set in some enlightened head. Brilliant light, brighter than anything I had ever experienced down on Earth, filled my entire perspective. I squinted to rack focus on what appeared to be entirely new whereabouts.

Once my brand new eyes adjusted to the light, surroundings began to take shape. I was sat in my Drop, amidst a zen garden with a gentle waterfall pattering nearby. The Drop was a giant orb, 50 feet in diameter. This heavenly place felt familiar, yet I had no memory of it, only my earthly life from down below.

I had finally reached my destination. And I hoped there was some kind of blueprint of my former life here, in the Drop and on the spaceship Cheshire. I looked behind me, still sat in the lotus position within the zen garden, to see a mahogany desk where a laptop lied. Possibly, it contained intel into my life up here, before descending down to Earth those many decades ago.

As I stood, I felt my new legs—powerful and completely healed from all injuries sustained on Earth below. My entire enlightened body felt like some tightly wrapped carbon fiber wire bundle that could withstand the oppressive gravity of a super massive black hole. I had truly been reborn anew in this Drop, way up high in the ether.

Now, all I had to do was access the blueprint of this former life. I must reacquaint with my eternal soul, I thought.

The Earth_42 logs helped a little. I still didn’t quite feel like myself, but I had already completed the hard part: returning home to my Drop and the Cheshire spaceship.

Maybe I would never quite be the same. Perhaps the experiment wasn’t entirely a success. I resolved not to let that apparent reality impinge upon my present status. Moving forward sometimes involves letting go.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 04

“The Drop was beautiful,” I said, upon taking my hand off the rock tonight. “I wish you all could have seen it.”

There was so much power emanating from the pyramid now. We had tapped something ancient and sacred and profound. I think these two may have been the founders of Gardanne. The first Gardanners.

In school the next day, all we could do was think and talk about where this channeling journey would take us tonight.

“The poor guy was stranded on an Earth for four decades,” Penelope said at the lunch table. “I’m so glad he finally ascended back to the 5th dimension at least. I wonder where their timeline will take us next.”

Penelope said it. We all wondered. This was a pre-history that had never been taught in any of our classes. The nightly channeling sessions became our purpose for living…

Chapter 4

I didn’t like how we had left it—Kitty and I—when we parted from her bedroom doorway. I had to make it up to her, after my long departure, which became a point when neither of us were sure if we’d see each other again.

Maybe if I took her to a Dew place, we could turn a new leaf, I thought.

Dew places were those 5th-dimensional locales that sat outside of time. Infinite Earth iterations flew by the multiversal voyager as they surfed the movierain—my nickname for the multiverse. In between those droplet worlds, connecting them, was the ethereal field of the Dew. The Dew, in this sense, were the subtle mist between physical realities.

The Thunderbird Equipment Room was a prime example of a Dew place. Thunderbirds, like Bill “Big Cat” Thunderbird myself congregated at our headquarters, the Equipment Room. It contained the complete Thunderbird archives, an academy for trainees, and infinite stacks of equipment to outfit a practicing Thunderbird on their journey.

I had furnished my Drop, in fact, with artifacts acquired from the eternal Equipment Room—my healing waterfall, the stone and grass zen garden, and my back door. The Equipment Room was a wary Thunderbird’s home base, when seeking sanctuary from a long, long trip deep from the rabbit hole.

As a Thunderbird trainee herself, Kitty was well familiar with the Equipment Room. This trip wouldn’t dazzle her. We would require a more rare and sought-after destination to get back into her good graces.

So the next morning, upon my return to the Cheshire after a 42-year hiatus (from my perspective), we set out for the metaphysical newspaper, The North Star.

“You sure you’re ready to leap this soon?” Kitty said in the threshold of her doorway. She was still salty and perhaps a little skeptical of my multiverse surfing capabilities after being absent for so long.

“Yeah, I need you,” I said without hesitation. “We’re going to a higher Dew place today, not any Earth version. I require your tether as we surf the movierain. Wouldn’t want to get lost again.”

I smirked after saying this. I thought a little humor would lighten her mood. It didn’t, but my appeal for her assistance at least piqued her interest.

“What Dew place?” she said.

“The North Star. I was thinking of contributing a story from my last leap. Plus, I can’t think of a better Dew locale that indexes so many 5th-dimensional oases.”

A twinkle glinted in Kitty’s eye. And we were off.

If the local Akashic of our neck of the multiverse had a fulcrum, a nexus point, it would be The North Star. Its canonical coverage of 5th-dimensional events latticed an ever expanding network, a growing organism of occurrence. This heightened place provided the gravitas for continuity in a locale outside of time to exist. My dream was to report for Them, and I wanted Kitty to see it too.

Dew places like The North Star made a plane like the multiverse perceptible by linear-borne entities (like earthlings). They captured the confluence of concurrence among many worlds at once. While the goal was always an objective account, each piece slanted subjectively from wherever the contributor originated—an occupational hazard of a many-world staff.

And thank god such an institution as this existed. Whenever a formerly terrestrial entity enlightened to the higher reality—that his world was but one of many—usually their first inkling was to experience all perspectives from their home world. And then experience all past peoples, and their respective points of view. The Herculean task could last endless lifetimes. But once one of these world-leaping novices caught wise to The North Star, they quickly abandoned this home-planet preference and opened their minds to the greater splendor of the multiverse.

I was thinking of submitting my latest account of Earth_42_ to the hallowed monitor of our movierain. It certainly did not qualify as a Dew place itself, this lowly Earth version of my latest mortal life, but maybe my editor would send me on assignments, if he liked my style.

Extraordinary worlds, places, haunts, you see, weren’t enough to qualify as a Dew place. The convergence of events and the players involved were what mattered most. That’s why I thought a humble account of my terrestrial stay down on Earth_42_ could possibly pique the editor’s interest: it was the path I took, from the ground to the heavens; it was a periscope into my firsthand account, the relationships formed, which were worth a listen to even the most divine of readers. The ensuing events contained the seeds for transcendence.

And there were more Earth versions where that came from. Maybe the editor could assign me an Earth beat. Within all the Earths I had visited thus far, I had left plants, breadcrumbs bookmarking the spacetime exit point, waiting, frozen in relative time for my return. The connections to the people inhabiting these haunts held gravitas for me to develop their respective stories in a column I had coined, “The Earths Beat.” Even in news reporting, it’s all about who you know. And I had met throngs of people across many worlds at that point.

I remember I had mentioned at dinner one night on the Cheshire that I was thinking of reporting for The North Star. This was a past memory, before I had leapt down to Earth_42_. Ron, our spaceship’s resident skeptic, struggled to understand why this endeavor intrigued me.

“Why would you want to write about stories that have already happened?” Ron questioned my passion for journalism among a multiverse where everything that can happen had. “The local Akashic of Earth has already recorded every possible version of the planet, including every occurrence that would transpire.”

I put down my knife and fork to retort.

“You’re right, Ron—that every possibility has already happened,” I said. “They haven’t, however, been told through my specific lens from our here and now. The unique perspective I can provide to the paper on select events, in my own words, would still count as an original contribution.”

“But what’s the end goal?” he still wasn’t convinced. “So you’re like a DJ of happening that decides to select his favorite events off a newspaper playlist?”

“Everything has occurred, yes,” I continued, unwavering. “But we— you, me, the rest of the crew—don’t hold personal knowledge on all of this reality. In pulling pivotal events into our purview, our consciousness assigns them gravitas. They take on new meaning. Patterns also exist among the sea of all that is. We’re not necessarily interested in those cyclical, predictable phenomena. My goal on the ‘Earths Beat’ is to isolate miracles, the stories that transcend mundane into the extraordinary. The North Star’s ongoing search concerns these pearl Earth events that lie among all the other planetary minutia. If contributors like me can extract these gems and articulate them effectively, we may be well on our way to further elevating consciousness.”

Ron now had what could have been an entire side of beef in his left cheek, chewing on the meat and my words. He contemplated for a moment and swallowed.

“Perhaps a worthwhile endeavor, then,” he said stoically. “And how will you locate these diamonds in the rough, so to speak?”

I paused for a moment. I hadn’t considered this obstacle until Ron illuminated it for me. But inspiration struck a few moments later.

“That’s why I’ll have to live down on one of these Earths for a time, as a terrestrial. I’ll absorb Her version as my own mortal id. And when I return to the Cheshire after this earthly life, I’ll possess an entire planet’s history from which to set a course. My own personal history and that world at large—and all the events contained within the overlap—will supply launching points to pursue. I’ll forget my true identity for a time, but eventually, hopefully, frequencies will align to remind me of my higher Thunderbird soul. I can return to this planet often, after that fact, and pivot off the events naturally transpiring there. I can spin off sister worlds that explore what shape the Earth would take if, say, JFK wasn’t assassinated or if the combustion engine hadn’t taken hold of cars, instead of their original electric motor. I’ll become this version of Earth to draw inspiration upon the rich soil of Her fertility.”

Kitty, who had only been half listening to this point, suddenly piped up at the thought of my pitch of rebirth down on the ground below.

“Will you let me know when you descend down there into a new life?” she said, lilting her voice with concern for my sustained existence. She knew she was probably the only other person aboard the Cheshire besides yours truly that could sufficiently supply the necessary support, should someone venture into the risk of oblivion, berthing into an uncharted Earth planet. She also knew the only proper way to approach such a daunting endeavor was to operate with a qualified leaper such as herself to act as the safety net, if anything went awry at any point down on the ground.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, reassuring her. Secretly, though, I knew this would have to be a solo mission. I’d have to risk oblivion to truly comprehend the full complexity of an Earth planet. I’d have to breathe Her air, drink Her water, become the Earth Herself, living, breathing, eating and dreaming as Her human child. If I left any of my former self on the Cheshire, even a mere twinkle in Kitty’s eye, I’d never fully be present down on the ground. Kitty, as a Thunderbird trainee, wasn’t yet ready for this hard truth. So I lied to protect her.

Now, back in my Drop, sitting with Kitty as we readied to mount our tethered leap to The North Star, I wasn’t about to make the mistake of lying to her again.

“Envision a city in the sky, hanging high in an ether as thin as thought,” I said to Kitty, as we sat, positioned as lotuses down in the sanctitude of my Drop off the Cheshire spaceship. We were mentally, emotionally, spiritually preparing for a tethered, astral leap to the aforementioned metaphysical newspaper. Kitty sat in perfect zen, hearing my words and the gentle babble of the nearby waterfall.

“The North Star is a beacon of light hovering brilliantly at a frequency so high It sits above nearly all other known reality. In other words, you can’t mistake it, once it enters into our purview,” I continued. “We’ll have to elevate a few echelons as we navigate the movierain Dew, skipping over increasingly complex droplet worlds… Are you ready?”

“Let’s do this,” she said.

We astrally leapt up into the movierain from the Drop, Kitty and I, tethered by energetic entanglement as we surfed through the Dew. Before long, as we climbed up the droplet worlds of increasing complexity, the intent of our metaphysical pursuit took shape.

“Do you see what appears to be a city in the sky in that swelling droplet on our 12?” I yelled to Kitty who kept her satellite orb in close orbit to mine. She affirmed she did see It.

“I’ll need to slingshot you into Its heightened reality!” I said. Dew places weren’t a simple descent like we’d drop into Earth versions. We had to step up into The North Star‘s more sophisticated frequency.

I slung Kitty onto the large, sprawling, marble entrance steps to The North Star and then dismounted from the Dew to stand next to her.

“We’re here,” I said.

Kitty’s jaw dropped as she took in her current whereabouts. The hallowed Dew place that is The North Star stood as an edifice built for the gods. From a human perspective, they were. The front face stretched as far as the eye could see, from left to right. Its top was lost to the clouds. The entire building held a presence impossibly heavy, yet it hung weightless among the Dew as a golden city in the sky.

We entered. I whisked Kitty down a narrow corridor that opened into the calamitous newsroom of controlled chaos. Endless desks stretched across the floor, where lively reporters dialed calls on telephones and typed vigorously on their typewriters. Countless clocks lined the walls of this vibrant newsroom, tracking the time zones of all the worlds The North Star covered.

“So much action,” Kitty said. “How can a manager keep track of all this?”

“I’m sure there’s a system,” I said. “Let’s visit the Earth archives.”

We filed down another long, narrow corridor, further into the bowels of The North Star’s offices. The hallway opened up into what looked like the colorful interior of a cathedral. We were inside an immense dome, decorated from floor to ceiling in stained glass. The room was circular, but tough to tell how far its diameter stretched. Its floor lined with countless stacks. “Welcome to The North Star Archives,” read a mahogany sign above its entrance. We quickly located the section on Earth versions, which only consisted of half a shelf.

“Hmf,” Kitty sounded disappointed. “Not a lot here.”

“Earth’s apparently not as well known here,” I said. “Let’s visit the main index over there.” I pointed to the center of the cathedral dome, where we could reference top Dew place listings.

Technically, The North Star Herself stood as a Dew place. The Thunderbird Equipment Room was also a prominent locale in this esteemed list, as I had mentioned, since it served as Thunderbird headquarters.

Others that Kitty and I recognized were the holy Twelve’s Paradise Paddock, where giant demigods assumed their megalithic thrones amidst a heavenly garden. The Twelve were so heightened in consciousness, in fact, that They hadn’t heard of Earth before Kitty and I introduced Her to Them. Read more about that in my first Thunderbird volume, simply entitled Big Cat.

A new one we noticed, as we ran our fingers down the printed ledger behind glass like the way Earth’s U.S. Constitution was encased, was the Workshop. I had faint brushes with the Workshop in my dimension leaping escapades, but had never experienced this Dew place directly.

Picture the wings of some Broadway play. The Workshop was the backstage of all 3rd-dimensional reality (including Earths). As a 3D being, like some Earth dweller, if you ever sensed someone pulling the strings behind that stage that was your everyday reality, your gut intuition was probably right. They were influencing your local reality from the Workshop.

“Let’s head to the editor’s office,” I said. “I have a submission for him.”

“Oh ya? What’s that?” Kitty said.

“Earth_42_.”

The newspaper’s floors stretched wide and intricately like a labyrinth. An uninformed visitor could easily get lost. But my helmet Bueller had connected to the newspaper’s specific section of the Akashic. And before long, we found ourselves at the door of the editor’s office. I held my draft for the Earth_42_ story in hand.

“Come in!” I heard from the other side. The editor’s secretary must have let him know we had arrived.

The short news story I held in my right hand read like this:

The humans on Earth_42_ were a species with amnesia. What a fascinating and charismatic bunch these people were. I never found my group. In retrospect, this makes sense: my family resides on the Cheshire spaceship hanging a million miles above Earth_42_’s atmosphere. Still, there was much I left behind.

By the time I leapt off planet—in the 2020’s A.D.—the species had been pitted at odds with another. Sports competitions. Political races. Games of all kind had turned the local reality into a never-ending contest. Capitalism, for chrissakes! But it was the people who were getting played, while the true powers at large were free to operate things behind the scenes unfettered.

Capitalism was the reigning economic structure. It boasted the illusion of free enterprise, but the reality was that the top one percent of the top one percent controlled 90 percent of the world’s wealth.

What further facilitated these centralists’ dominance was the computer technology that had infiltrated all aspects of society. When co-founder of Apple Computers Steve Jobs revolutionized personal computing with the Macintosh in 1984, and then again with the iPhone in 2008, computers and the programmers who ran them performed a coup on all other forms of control. Consolidated wealth and further dependence on technology strengthened their strangle hold on the status quo.

Earth_42_ was unlike my home Earth—the planet that berthed me—in primarily this computer technological aspect. My home world had embraced more of the analog tech well into the 2020’s, when I finally leapt back to the Cheshire.

The cybernetic hyper connectedness had, ironically, isolated people more than anyone could remember in recent history. Why reach out to your fellow human, when you could just look down at a screen and receive instant gratification? We, as a collective of individuals were spread much farther apart than those golden 1980’s analog days. Ultimately, I was thankful for the tension created between tech and humanity. It supplied the innate sense that I was not of this world.

Conflict, competition and distraction kept most earthlings ignorant and stuck on the ground. The powers that be, in fact, manned this oppressive ceiling to keep the people down and them on top. Ironically, these forces so immense, they supplied the fuel for this Thunderbird to break free from their control.

Instead of fighting them, I let these forces into my center of gravity, concentrating their electromagnetic vectors into a fine point of ball lightning. Before long, the immense force redirected acted as a launch pad to finally propel me off planet and return to my Drop hitched to the spaceship Cheshire.

The inhabitants I left below won’t miss me. But, having lived and breathed this Earth for 42 years as Her child, I can return to Her often and spin sister worlds from Her fertile foundation. I’ve left my earthly body sat in the lotus position on a Tibetan rug down in my quaint apartment, ever waiting for my eternal soul to return.

I handed the 500-word story to The North Star’s editor, while Kitty waited patiently just outside his office. I sat on the couch opposite the editor’s desk as he read.

After a few minutes, the editor quietly put down his reading glasses and looked up at me.

“It’s good,” he said. “I like your narrative here and how you’ve put yourself into the story. It’s certainly a unique style on world reporting. You know that this Earth isn’t a Dew place, though, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “I meant this submission as more of a writing sample. I’m hoping to leverage this version of Earth, that I’ve lived and breathed for 42 years, to find more, increasingly interesting haunts as offshoots. After covering this ‘Earths Beat’ of sorts for a time, maybe the connected latticework of stories can elevate Earths to a Dew place.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I may have an assignment for you then. I’ve caught wind that your Thunderbird Order has been experimenting with planet intervention. I believe Earth is one such candidate for this program. If you can locate the particular Earth version the Thunderbirds have nominated, I’ll want 700 or so words to cover the event.”

“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir,” I said. “When do you need it by?”

We both chuckled. This rhetorical question was meant to be funny. For a newspaper that stood outside of time, The North Star cared little for deadlines.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 05

Whoa. That’s what I said when I lifted from the zen lovers’ pyramid tonight. These dimensional leapers not only can traverse effortlessly between Earths; they can surf the movierain to higher and higher realities. I wonder if The North Star is still printing issues.

“I would love to work for The North Star,” Chloe said, after my channeling when we discussed the information we had just heard. “Sounds way more interesting than my stupid internship at the Register.”

I was tempted to fire up a new reading right on the spot. But half of our crew’s parents would wonder where we were. It was already pretty late. And it was a school night.

I can give you, the reader, this preview: the next night, we learned about the infamous Crows. Our male narrator, from the zen lovers did not mince words.

Chapter 5

The Crows were a violent faction of the Thunderbird Order. They were among the only Thunderbirds, in fact, who traveled in groups — “a Murder of Crows,” they called them.

Murder was an appropriate moniker for the Crows. They were the toughest, grittiest of all Thunderbirds. Upon completing my voyager training, I elected to concentrate on the channeling aspect of the Thunderbird Order, instead of the enforcement side of our kind. But I was going to have to infiltrate these hooligans to cover the story for The North Star.

I had just left the editor’s office where he’d issued me this assigment. Upon exiting, I signaled to Kitty, who had accompanied me on this visit to The North Star newspaper, we could go now.

“What’d he say?” Kitty had been patiently waiting outside to see if I got the job.

My Earth_42_ debrief hadn’t won me a staff position, but did earn me the chance to string for the paper.

“He liked it,” I said. “He even gave me an assignment.”

“You’re not gonna have to leap blindly into a new body down on the ground again, are you?” Kitty said. I could detect half sarcasm and half concern in the tone of her voice.

I was quick to reassure her.

“He wants me to cover the Crows,” I said.

“What or who are those?” As a trainee, Kitty had not been exposed to all Thunderbird forms yet. I was happy to enlighten her.

“He mentioned that the Thunderbird Order is experimenting with planetary intervention, on particularly militant worlds. He said an Earth version was likely one such candidate. Right when he mentioned ‘militant’ and ‘intervention,’ only one type of Thunderbird came to mind: the Crows.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she said.

“Right. The Crows are a swarm of hornets. They’re the enforcers of our Order. I had encountered Them in my own trainee days. They chased me from one end of the multiverse to the other, as I mastered my voyager craft.”

“I thought the Thunderbird were peaceful,” she said. Kitty had become perplexed, as evidence by the deep furrow in her brow.

“For the most part, yes. But one can’t ignore Murphy’s Law: if it can happen, it will… especially among a multiverse of all possibility. The Murder of Crows, ‘MoC’ for short, are our security against any threats that could injure an otherwise stable multiverse. There’s such a thing as worlds becoming too peaceful, too susceptible to outside, nefarious antigens. MoC exist, then, as the necessary evil to combat these opposing forces who may prey on unsuspecting worlds.”

“Uh huh, I see,” she said. “So, what now?”

“We’ll have to stop by the Equipment Room. We’ll need to reference the Thunderbird logs to see if my hunch is correct. We can locate that particular Earth version the Crows have descended upon. We may also have to brace ourselves for an unwelcome reception. The Crows don’t usually get along with other Thunderbirds.”

Kitty’s eyes lit up at my description of this mysterious faction of our Thunderbird Order. She held a keen attraction to danger, I sensed.

“That’s fine, but can we stop off at the Cheshire first? I haven’t eaten all day.”

She also didn’t like surfing the multiverse on an empty stomach.

They say from the dawn of time to the modern era on Earth_42_, not a day went by where war wasn’t waged on the planet’s surface. This civilization knew no time when it was completely at peace. They were getting close by the mid-2030s, though, which was a few years after I had leapt back to the spacecraft Cheshire for good.

The Thunderbird Order summoned the MoC to swoop in and provide the final balm to quell any lingering societal rash once and for all. They were a militant, formidable bunch—the Crows—but that aptitude also availed them abilities to squash beefs quickly before any humid antagonism wafted over neighboring territories, infecting their moods. The MoC Thunderbird faction would be the group to ultimately accomplish peace throughout a planetary version adjacent to Earth_42_.

Kitty and I left the Equipment Room. After a brief meal back on the Cheshire to avoid any “hanger,” as she called it, from an otherwise agitated and hungry Kitty, we both leapt to Earth_42_.

“Is this where we’ll find them?” Kitty said after leaping from the movierain onto the last terrestrial Earth I had visited.

“No,” I said. “My gut tells me the version they’ll attempt to intervene is off an adjacent quadrangle to this Earth version. When I leapt off finally, I had the feeling the planet could approach peace eventually. We can explore possible Earth versions from this ‘42 vantage spacetime to pinpoint the specific Earth the Crows have targeted.”

We had re-enterd Earth_42_ at precisely my initial exit point. It was roughly the year 2024 and wars still waged. There was an ongoing skirmish in Ukraine. The Gaza Strip had heated up over the last few years too, among another two dozen substantial conflicts that peppered our globe. We fast-forwarded congruent timelines in pursuit of a possible Earth that would eventually achieve peace of its own accord.

Lo and behold, we found one such peaceful Earth in the year 2035, as projected from my Earth_42_ launch point. I coined this version “Earth_PeaceProject_.”

“If they’ve already achieved peace, what’s the point of intervening?” Kitty said, as we touched down upon this Earth_PeaceProject_ version.

“Warmongering is baked into the human DNA,” I said. “It’s certainly an accomplishment that this modern human civilization has finally extinguished large-scale offenses across its surface for the first time in its questionable history. But there’s no question if future conflict will sprout; it’s only a matter of time.”

That’s why the Crows were so crucial to this Earth version’s survival, as a peaceful planet. While they couldn’t have forced peace within sections of the planet still waging war, the Thunderbird Crows could now swoop in as a salve to quell any lingering pangs from a history of violence. They could also delve into the ruminating psychology of this Earth’s collective unconscious of remnant post-traumatic stress. The MoC knew rage better than any other Thunderbird, and knew how to alleviate terrestrial strife, having been there themselves.

“Any minute now,” I said, “the Crows should dip into this dimension to intervene. And we’ll be here to cover it.”

Kitty gazed up to the sky in pregnant anticipation.

“What are you going to say when they arrive?” she said. I hadn’t thought of that yet, having been mainly concerned thus far with locating the MoC among our highly subtle multiverse.

“I never know what these guys will say or do,” I said. “It’s best not to over prepare or rehearse anything. I’ll know what to say when I see them.”

Kitty was satisfied with this response. I could tell she was excited. I was also rather bated in my anticipation, and nervous for the first time since I had become a full-fledged Thunderbird.

A few moments passed, and then we heard the crackle of thunder in the distance.

“That’s them,” I said.

The sky opened and a murder—dozens of Crows—descended down to the ground, from the heightened multiverse reality—the movierain. Their swarm hummed as one organic entity, teeming with each angry hornet Crow contributing his own brand of buzz.

While a Thunderbird body can assume any size or shape retaining Its fine definition—the way a vector design graphic can retain its resolution however large or small—the Crows typically chose a rather broad-shouldered shell to my own lean build preference. They wore helmets like mine too, but they had etched mouth pieces with fierce teeth and angry eyes above them. Having dealt with the rabble of riffraff about the outskirts of the multiverse, the Crows chose to strike fear as a first impression. The nerves I had experienced just prior to their intimidating entrance made sense. Kitty seemed unfazed.

They answered to call signs like “Teeth” and “Jab”—short, punchy monikers that could instill a sense of dread from a single syllable. Heckle and Jeckle were a tag team within the MoC, named after a cartoon duo from the 1940s of many Earth versions, including ’42. I knew to steer clear of those two, having seen the cartoon in reruns when I lived down on the ground in a past life.

Their leader was a Thunderbird called “Leviathan,” a giant Crow who commanded respect and your attention, should you find yourself within the vicinity of His dominion.

Thunderbirds can sniff out their own, and Leviathan quickly caught wind that Kitty and I were also occupying Earth_PeaceProject_ at the same time as them. Once his faction fully breached the Earth space and landed on the ground, Leviathan made his way toward us.

The Chief Thunderbird stood 10 feet tall, towering over Kitty’s and my more slender frames. As He loomed closer, He eclipsed us under his ominous shadow.

“What’s your business here, channeler?” He said. Leviathan was direct and a bit dismissive. He didn’t even look at Kitty.

“We’re here to cover your mission for The North Star, sir,” I said.

“I can’t say I condone this, ‘Big Cat,’” He said Big Cat sarcastically to imply that I hadn’t earned his respect. Of course, he expected mine. And then he threw me a bone. “But let me know if you need to talk to anyone specifically in my MoC. I only ask two things: 1. Stay out of our way; and 2. I get final draft approval before you submit to your editor.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. My many tense conversations with the Captain to this point had prepared me for interacting with the military.

The ‘R’ from sir had barely left my lips and the large Leviathan was already gone. The big bird was quick.

In the distance, I heard Heckle and Jeckle mocking me.

“Oh no!” Heckle yelled. “Watch out for Big Cat! He’ll teleport you right outta here, oooOOOOOohh!”

Jeckle chuckled, as they both flew up to join the rest of their MoC. We didn’t have their respect either. I looked to Kitty at my side.

“You sure you want to stay with me while I cover this story? I can take you back to the ship,” I said, but I already knew the answer. I could see the sparkle of possibility dancing in Kitty’s eyes.

“I want to stay,” she said with a smile.

Yup, Kitty craved danger. To me, it was more of an occupational hazard I normally tried to avoid. But to get this story for the paper, the Big Cat was going to have to become a Crow.

Anger and channeling mix about as well as oil and water. Stern were the Crows—not necessarily angry, but the continual exposure to other worlds’ strife could induce rage reactions from the uninitiated. The Crows were weathered for this dirty work; channelers like me were not. In order to locate the rarest, most elusive of worlds, I had to maintain a perfectly pristine zen mind. Not so for the Crows, who proliferated this Earth planet with fleet efficiency. It was truly a privilege to watch them work.

A newly peaced planet was like a throbbing wound warmed over by a few days’ healing. The imflammation coarsed and pulsated to breach new skin and shed more blood. At no other time was a planet more vulnerable to burst into conflict once again. The recently extinguished anger, still smoking, begged to breathe more life, like the bitten piece of flesh inside your mouth, swollen, and ever so ready to be painfully between your teeth again.

The Crows had to handle this sensitive moment with the utmost caution (and a little silent strength) to say the least.

It was a sight to watch these warrior poets operate.

They deployed in packets, circumnavigating the globe to concentrate on hotbed pockets of potential outbreaks. Their radios kept them connected.

“Attention, Leviathan,” Jab pinged his fearless leader from afar, “we’ve descended down to the New York City streets. We’ve caught wind a few skirmishes about to break. We’re going to investigate and report back.”

Kssht

“All good, team leader Jab,” Leviathan responded. The Crows leader had agreed to let us tail him until I could gain a better sense of where their ubiquitous deployments had landed.

Once the MoC’s waves coagulated around all known problem areas, Kitty and I were free to leap between locations. In fact, I could channel all sites simultaneously, so as not to miss any of the action.

We first decided to concentrate on the developing situation on NYC streets. The local organized crime there knew peace would not be good for business. They continued to shake down the citizens in their neighborhoods the only way they knew how.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about this world peace shit,” said a capo for the family, currently running Brooklyn, to the bodega owner at the corner of 9th and Roebling Street. “You will continue to pay me every week or you will be counting your teeth on the floor.”

Crows had a sixth sense for violence. At this threat, immediately, Jab’s team swooped to the store front as the street tough exited.

Jab towered over the capo, who himself was a healthy 6’5″and 250 pounds.

“You think you’re a force to reckon with??” Jab’s billowy voice sent shivers through the cowering criminal.

“Wh- Who or what are you?” capo said.

“I’m what you’ll deal with if you lay a finger on that store owner. Your planet has finally achieved worldwide peace. Let’s leave it that way.”

The capo sprinted down the street away from Jab. This Crow had met fire with fire to win the battle.

But the intimidation tactic didn’t stick. The war wasn’t over. Jab and his team tailed the capo culprit for a few days. Sure enough, the miscreant returned with the same evil motives. The bile had burned deep into this ex-con’s bones. Newly achieved planetary peace or not, this certain man’s soul would still err with the inertia to perform ill will.

Once capo entered the storefront, Jab’s team swooped in for the sequel.

“You again?” the capo cooed dryly. He was packing heat this time, which he now brandished and began firing in Jab’s direction.

Bullets were mere mosquitos to Thunderbirds. Jab dropped from hover to the ground with a heavy thud that shook the nearby concrete. He conjured a force field—like the way I form my Drop to leap dimensions—around him and his team. The impenetrable membrane effortlessly deflected the capo’s bullets. Jab then grew, at will, to a staggering 15 feet tall, five feet in width, growling with a guttural roar that vibrated the very chests of everyone within a block radius.

“Seriously, what the fuck are you??” the capo cowered, all out of ammo and his pants full of accidental deffication.

Jab answered like the Almighty: “I am the nightmare who will return to you every time you think of harming another. I see all and hear all and will always meet your misdeeds with exact and terrible force. You have two strikes. You do not want to see three.”

The capo took to running again. We never saw him again, in fact. We heard he was admitted into a mental hospital upstate. Apparently Jab’s entering god mode had shook the connected chap past the point of sanity.

But that’s the measures these Crows had to take, across this Earth during their newfound peace, in all areas where nefarious characters lurked. Evil, ill will was unfortunately baked into some of the usual suspects’ DNA. There was no honor system among these theives and murderers.

The Crows remained for generations, until the last bit of bile had been expunged from that Earth’s collective unconscious. The murky, chop of angry waters ceased to a pristine, crystal lake of glass, calm, soothing to the soul, with hardly any inkling of aggression. The MoC and their leader Leviathan issued the signal to this Thunderbird channeler. I rose up above the Earth’s atmosphere, encircling the globe at speeds beyond light to snapshot this peaceful moment in this Earth’s history.

In Leviathan’s words: “You’re here to channel the resurgence of the Heavy Presence, something in the air when you bore into your own Earth_42_ in 1982. It’s benevolent and all-encompassing. It inspires new thought. You will perform this subtle art that’s too fine for the coarse Crows.”

I had wondered why the notoriously insular MoC had let me tag along with them. Now I had my answer.

Leviathan continued: “Bill Thunderbird, the only reason I let you witness our usually clandestine craft was that we required an experienced channeler such as yourself. Now that we’ve wrapped up this world, we had to call on you to put a bow on it—encircling the entire globe to snap an instant of this Earth version’s peaceful moment to be recorded in its local Akashic. That will serve as our breadcrumb should anything go awry.”

So I did what I knew best, and channeled that Heavy Presence—a gloriously divine Higgs-Boson field from not so long ago.

That timestamp became the bookmark of the first recorded peaceful Earth of the modern era. It got logged in the local Earth Akashic and I wrote a story about it for The North Star. Leviathan approved.

This is what the editor kept of my 800 words, after lopping off a few of the less important bottom paragraphs:

The Crows: A Misunderstood Thunderbird Faction

The “Earth Peace Project” was a success, due to the Murder of Crows—the most militant of Thunderbird classes.

In the first time in its recent history, the Earth_PeaceProject_ version has sustained peace for more than a decade. After quelling all apparent conflicts down on the ground, the earthlings would have likely succumbed to future strife, had it not been for the Crows’ intervention.

“We flew in swiftly and addressed all potential hotspots with direct and fierce counters to keep the peace on this planet,” said Leviathan, the large leader of the Crows. “We’re confident the threat of our return shall hold our effect intact. We’ll soon depart for our next mission.”

Leviathan even let this reporter in on the action. The Big Cat (that’s me) was assigned to snapshot this planet’s peace moment as a breadcrumb for re-entry, should the Crows need to return. Ripple effects are certainly a concern for this experimental planetary intervention. The Crows said they’d keep an eye on Earth_PeaceProject_ from afar.

For now, though, all’s well that ends well. And no more “Crowing” for this Big Cat. Back to channeling.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 06

Who are these lovers? Why was this history never taught in Gardanne schools?

Tonight marked our longest channeling session yet. We finished late. I bet a few of our friends, at least, got chewed out by their parents returning home so late. I hope they’re not grounded. I can’t wait until tomorrow night, when we see where these two ancient Thunderbirds go next.

The next day, in school, the day dragged. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours, on the big, white ticking clock hanging overhead in every classroom. I daydreamed through most of first and second period. We talked about it at lunch and on the walk home in the afternoon. I force-fed my dinner and excused myself early. I called a few of my friends and told them to spread the word: meet early at the pyramid this evening, in case we were in for another long one.

It was safe to say, at every free moment today, my heart was with the zen lovers. And I couldn’t wait to return to this mystical place known as New York…

Chapter 6

My time covering the Crows in New York did not end, even after the last of them leapt off planet. I had barely scratched the surface of the Big Apple. But I spent too long on a version of Earth that had both New York City and where the Late Show with David Letterman still aired. It would have been a world the most resembled the early 2000s of Earth_42_.

I became lazy with my methods of navigating downtown. Let’s just say I’d leverage dimensional leaping to get around and some New Yorkers took notice. I gained a reputation among that city that never sleeps. I had to appear on Letterman to expel any false rumors… or 4th-dimensional ripple effects.

The city dwellers had witnessed my performance of several feats that broke laws of contemporary physics. They’d eventually, inevitably develop an elaborate lore about my presence among the five boroughs that contained the potential for irreversible ripples which would alter the course of this Earth version’s evolution. None of this was ideal.

Furthermore, my helmet had earned the nickname “Bueller,” after Ferris Bueller and his day off. The helmet not only protected my head; its viewfinder supplied enough augmented reality (AR) metadata in whatever strange corner of a world I’d find myself. I could become like Ferris Bueller in any situation. The helmet smoothed the roughest of transitions between realities and circumstances to equip me with the vital intel to excel in this space with newfound friends. Friends were the key to assimiliating into any occurrence. It was the dynamic between these players’ connection—the notes in this existential orchestra—that dictated the vibe and tone I’d need to tap, in order to successfully integrate.

What did this all mean for my fellow New Yorkers?

Well, this also meant I’d get lazy materializing into foreign Earths, like that time I disrupted a whole week in New York City. Bueller’s AR would smooth over any rough patches from sloppy leaping, I thought. But the AR intel my helmet provided only worked if I could conceal these otherworldly abilities in the process.

Say I swept down into the Park Plaza lobby to strike up a conversation with some prominent guest, an entertainer. Say, Andrew Dice Clay. He may have even approached me first, asking if I “want the picture (with me)??”

It didn’t help anything if I opened, spouting in-depth knowledge of this character’s life without explanation.

“Oh!” the Dice might say. “Who is dis guy?? Some kinda stawkah?”

Bueller supplied me intel to establish trust with my new peers and, therefore, had to be leveraged carefully. It doled out the knowledge to me gradually, seamlessly, so as not to turn heads. It was important to keep people—even the Dice Man—none the wiser. Otherwise, I could have risked Thunderbird exposure.

But no amount of metadata or seamless integration techniques could conceal what manifested as a sheer miracle from the perspective of city dwellers. It also didn’t help that I levitated 15 stories above 5th Ave—because I’d rather surf gravitational waves at high velocities than sit in New York’s infamous rush hour traffic, or suffer the humid underground haunts of NYC’s subway. Let’s just say there were witnesses, whose whistleblowing ripple effects of my transcendent descent upon the Big Apple would require a massive correction. Addressing each disruptor individually would be about as effective as the little Dutch boy plugging emerging dam holes with his finger.

Bueller intercepted the Late Show staff the next night to invite me as their guest. I won’t get into the nitty gritty of how such a feat in PR was possible, but I will say that possessing access to the 5th dimension provides one with the necessary fate strings to pull outside of time. Step one was getting their scheduled guest to cancel. Step two was inserting myself seamlessly into the green room. Bending time and human minds with tachyons cleared the way for me to appear on late-night TV, on such short notice and with no known earthly reputation (other than a growing mystique that would have to be squashed).

I walked out onto Letterman’s stage decked in my finest black suit, with a red tie. I wore my fabled mask and helmet. And then I wiped everyone’s memory in the audience and who’d tuned in.

The interview started as it would for any celebrity, public figure, or person of interest.

“What would, ah, ya say you’re doing here, Bill?” Dave got right to the point as I sat in the hot seat. The radiating stage lights bore down on my helmet and reflected from its smooth surface.

“Well, Dave, there’s this thing called the Kardashev scale. It measures the complexity of civilizations. A Type 1 civ has mastered the entire energy of its home planet. Type 2 has captured and harnessed its whole star system. And Type 3 has climbed the ranks to harness an entire galaxy. Earth is a Type 0 civilization. We haven’t even figured out how to tap into the true potential of our Mother Earth.”

“Ah, I see,” said Dave. “And we’re supposed to do what with this information?”

“I’m here to raise you from a Type 0 to a Type 1, but none of this matters right now. I’ll soon wipe your memory, your entire studio audience’s recollection and the people’s watching at home.”

Dave’s eyes dilated and constricted rapidly into perplexity at my utterance of wiping people’s memories, including his, but the consummate broadcaster trudged on.

“So how’d you get up to the 15th story there, on Park Ave?”

The audience chuckled. Even under profound bewilderment, the talented late night host had a knack for levity. I was still wearing my helmet—I had planned on keeping it on the entire interview—but I must say, this was the first time since anointing as a full-fledged Thunderbird that I did not feel like I had complete control over the situation. Letterman was the boss.

“I bent gravity to surf on its waves,” I said.

“Alrighty,” Dave ushered the conversation along. “Say, Bill, why don’t you take off that helmet?” The TV host’s request was buttressed by encouragement from the crowd.

Reluctantly, I slowly doffed the headpiece. I’m happy to say I heard a few woos! from girls in the crowd (and maybe a few males too. Who knows? The Ed Sullivan Theatre was dark). I set the helmet down on Dave’s desk between us.

“You, eh, you ever eat popcorn out of it?” Dave quipped, to an even louder wave of laughter from his faithful studio audience. I played along in deference to this master of broadcasting.

“Uh, haha, no, no,” I said, finding my words under the bright lights and lingering chuckles from the dark pews. “The hot butter would severely damage the internal circuitry, Dave.”

The crowd seemed to like my impromptu response, as a few giggles fluttered from the other side of the fourth wall. It even got a laugh out of Letterman.

“Ha Ha! Well, that’s great, Bill. Glad to hear it. So what else do you want to inform us of here tonight?”

“Thanks, Dave,” I said, “I’m here to tell everyone, including you, Dave, that I got lazy hopping around your fine city and regrettably decided to cut a few corners. I possess the ability to bend gravity, you see, in such a way that I can hover 15 or even 20 stories above the street, but the good general public aren’t ready for such wonders just yet.”

“And you’re here to tell us not to tell anyone that you defied physics this week?” Dave shifted from comic to cross-examiner. “Sorry, pal, cat’s out of the bag on that one.”

The audience rumbled with laughter, ever hanging on the host’s side.

“Something like that,” I said. Then, I gazed directly into camera 1 and guided the cameraman to close in tight on my helmet, still sitting on the host’s desk. My giant, light-up Thunderbird eyes embedded in Bueller flashed in brilliant bursts that filled the studio and cameras, reaching into remote viewers’ homes. “There was never a guy flying over Park Ave,” I said, over Bueller’s light show. “It was a hoax. I’m here to plug my book, Big Cat.”

An electromagnetic pulse surged from my helmet, reverberating throughout the studio audience, hopping on airwaves that then broadcast to the entire nation’s remote viewing public.

A beat.

Dave shook out of the daze where the rest of his audience still stirred, wrestling with what had just occurred.

“Well, OK, Bill,” he said. “What’s the book about?”

“Thanks, Dave. It’s a sci-fi tale about navigating the multiverse.”

Dave reached out his right hand to shake mine.

“OK, Bill, best of luck to ya,” he said, as the house band played us to commercial.

As the audience climbed out of their collective stupor and applauded, Dave leaned in close to my ear and said, “Nice job. Thanks for filling in on such short notice. Come back again anytime.”

Years later, every now and then, a “Mandela Effect” clip would surface featuring my mythical appearance on the Late Show, but those hearsay accounts never amounted to more than a shimmer.

I submitted this story as a feature piece to my metaphysical newspaper, The North Star, covering the planet that would forever more be known as “Earth_Letterman_.” It was the first of many that I successfully pitched to the editor:

Thunderbird Appears on Late Night TV to Quell Ripple Effects

A lot of Earth versions in the early 2000s enjoyed the privilege of tuning in every night to the Late Show, with David Letterman. I had visited one such version recently and found myself in a rather precarious situation, when the locals took notice to this Thunderbird’s otherworldly skills.

I got sloppy and accidentally let the cat out of the bag so to speak. These were a primitive people and were not ready for the jaw-dropping presence of a higher consciousness being. In short, they caught me gravity hopping 20 stories above 5th Avenue. There were too many eyewitnesses.

So I had to go on Letterman. In one fell swoop, I could clean up my mess.

After my helmet, Bueller, paved the way to appear the following night—my afternoon antics above Manhattan were still fresh in all the local zeitgeist—I must say that Letterman’s people were very nice. I remember feeling nervous sitting in the makeup chair. It was also a little awkward in there with their hair and makeup lady, since I refused to remove my helmet. We engaged in small talk mostly to kill time. The innocuous chatter helped calm my nerves before it was time to stand in the wings just offstage, waiting for Dave to introduce me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Bill Thunderbird,” Dave said.

Under the brilliant studio lights, I walked on stage to greet the host. I sat down and we chatted. After a few minutes of light banter, I set my helmet down on Dave’s desk. The powerful headpiece erupted an electromagnetic memory-wiping pulse from its light-up eyes that spilled through the studio audience and cast over radio waves to the remote television viewing public.

And Voilà. My ripple effects from local physics’ transgressions vanished from those earthlings, via mass communication.

That said, prevention of ripple effects is the best medicine. I don’t recommend this drastic technique.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 07

How many Earths had these Thunderbirds traversed? How long ago had this happened?

These, among many more, were the questions swirling my mind as I headed home tonight from the seance. The concept of memory wiping had created a pit in my gut when I channeled that portion of Big Cat’s story. I remember Jane saying something to the effect of ‘I wonder if they’ve ever done that here, in Gardanne.’

She was articulating what we all wondered. The world that we channel each night via the zen lovers seems more real than anything we’ve experienced on Gardanne lately. I wish Bill and Kitty were here now with us.

Chapter 7

UC Berkeley physics professor John O’Halleran, PhD, read a story one day in the East Bay Times. It was about a local man, Matt Dragon, who believed he had slipped dimensions from another version of Earth.

Dragon was the author who had helped me find Kitty, soon after I had become a Thunderbird. Hot off the heels of the Letterman story’s success, The North Star editor was looking for the next article from this reporter. And to be honest, I had drawn a blank. Reporters will tell you there are a million ways to find a story. Some fall into your lap. You’ll catch wind of others through word-of-mouth of your sources. When all those channels run dry, I took to surfing the movierain—the downpour of all possible worlds precipitating in the multiverse. I let my mind clear, as the Dew whisked by my helmet at the speed of thought. I must have become slightly entangled with the author, Dragon, who had helped me those moons ago, as I felt a slight tug pulling me toward his Earth. There seemed to be something unique to his version of the planet. Dragon wasn’t the only one who had spontaneously stumbled upon inter-dimensional travel there.

I dropped down from superposition into Dragon’s Earth. As my feet set in the soil of nearby Berkeley, Calif., where Dragon lived, I immediately sensed a story brewing. I quickly located Dragon, in his quaint 2-bedroom on Durant Street, where he caught me up to speed over a cup of coffee.

Dragon told me that O’Halleran read the article three times before calling the local man. The professor wished to invite this unique individual to his weekly support group, on campus, a community of initial strangers. The doctor of physics had been collecting subjects like Dragon himself, he said, who had all experienced similar inter-dimensional phenomena, yet had never met. Nothing tied these disparate individuals together, save one common denominator: by various means, they had all either left this Earth version and returned or weren’t from this version to begin with and had one day found themselves here.

I met with Dragon and the professor and concluded there was something very special about this Earth version—it seemed to produce dimensional leapers spontaneously. I had to know how and why this was happening.

Prof. O’Halleran invited me to attend one of his on-campus sessions in Birge Hall, with fellow dimensional leapers. He advised it was probably best not to divulge to them that I was also a dimension-leaping Thunderbird.

“OK, everybody,” O’Halleran addressed his small student body of a half dozen inter-dimensionals, “I’d like you all to welcome Bill, here, who’s a physics colleague of mine. He’s just here to observe.”

O’Halleran stood in front of a huge whiteboard, while his students sat in the first few rows. Dragon and I hung back like a couple of delinquents. We didn’t want to disturb the class.

“Before we get into today’s topic,” he continued, “let’s just go around the room and introduce ourselves and how we arrived at dimensional leaping, for our guest here.”

“Well, you all know how I got here,” Dragon broke the ice from the back of the room. “It’s published in the Times.”

“Right,” O’Halleran said. “OK, Janice, would you like to go first, err second, actually?”

Janice was one of O’Halleran’s physics students, perhaps his star pupil. She also appeared to be one of the youngest in the room, and one of the only actual Berkeley students O’Halleran had collected. The others had arrived in the professor’s classroom by other means.

“My name is Janice,” she said. “I decided to enroll in Berkeley’s physics program after, as a young girl, I developed the ability to leap out of this local 3rd-dimensional space. I had to know how this was possible in today’s scientific terms.”

“Great, Janice,” O’Halleran said. “Can you tell Bill how you discovered this profound ability?”

“Sure,” she said. “Ever since like puberty, I’ve been able to astrally leap out of my body. It just happened one afternoon. I was laying on the couch. It was midday. I was nodding off for a nap and I could feel my brain hit those theta wave patterns necessary for sleep. But instead of drifting off to slumber, my energetic body leapt out of my physical shell. Instantly, I knew I could fly. As I floated above the couch, I could see my earthly body below. The next thing I knew, I had permeated through my roof and was flying at high speeds above my town. I suspected, even then, that I could have left this Earth and explored distant realities, but was afraid that I wouldn’t find my way back. Prof. O’Halleran has been working with me on controlling my abilities, and I’ve since visited some interesting realms.”

“Very cool,” I said. “And how did you know that the professor here would be able to help or even understand your predicament?”

“I can answer that,” O’Halleran said. “I published an article in the American Journal of Physics about the human brain’s latent ability to perceive and even leap to other worlds.”

“Yes,” Janice corroborrated her professor. “His account was so close to what I had personally experienced, very much more so than anything in my internet research. I knew I had to meet him.”

“Thank you, Janice,” O’Halleran said. “Next, we have Arnold.”

The professor gestured to a middle-aged man sitting next to Janice.

“Thanks, prof,” Arnold said. “My grades weren’t good enough to attend Berkeley like Janice here. But, like Mr. Dragon, teach found me after some local news coverage. I’m from Marin County. I love to hike and, more importantly, meditate under giant redwoods, up in Muir Woods. When I was 23, I’ll never forget the day I realized the rather large conifers vastly augmented my abilities to channel far-flung frequencies. That day, I walked into one version of Muir Woods and emerged from the forest in an entirely different Earth, albeit similar to my home world. When I finally made it back to my Muir Woods of origin, I contacted the Marin Independent Journal who published a profile on me. My hope was that, if someone who had experienced similar phenomena in the area read it, I could meet them. That’s when Professor O’Halleran reached out to me.”

O’Halleran nodded and added, “Arnold’s profile in the local journal triggered a Google alert I had set up. We’ve been meeting once a week ever since.”

Before the professor could move onto to his next pupil’s introduction, I had already begun to connect the dots.

“Wait,” I said. “Are all of you originally from the Bay Area?”

A resounding “yes” was returned from the room.

“There appears to be a correlation with dimensional leaping and the drastic topographical landscape,” O’Halleran said.

It was as if this Earth version—and particularly the Greater Bay Area—was fine-tuned to naturally produce dimensional leapers. I sensed there was a certain vibe or breeze in the air that cleared the path for these exceptional individuals to emerge. My curiosity piqued.

O’Halleran introduced the other three, who all had arrived at the doorstep of other dimensions by unique but similar means. Another man, Ziggy was his name, had stumbled upon extra-dimensional leaping hill bombing down Dolores Street in San Francisco.

“As my board picked up speed, I just remember my mind going hella zen,” Ziggy said. “The next thing I know: a white light. And I ollied up into what felt like a higher plane. When I touched back down I quickly realized I had landed in an alternate Earth.”

At this point, four of O’Halleran’s pupils—including the author Dragon—had divulged their techniques. The remaining two students sat in the classroom were a couple, Sven and Jen.

“We’ve always had insane chemistry,” Sven said.

“Sparks flew when we met, and it has only escalated from there,” Jen added.

The couple would go on to explain that their dynamic dialogue seemed to be the culprit for producing a vortex into higher planes.

“We live together,” Sven said. “One night, after dinner, we engaged in our normal nightly conversation. After a glass of wine or two, the subject matter got hella existential. We ping-ponged topics back and forth that probed at the very nature of our being.”

“And an orb of ball lightning formed between us, spontaneously,” Jen said. “We held onto each other and leapt up into the grander plane. When we found our way back to our little Berkeley bungalow, we reached out to O’Halleran, who had placed a Craigslist ad for anyone who had experienced dimensional leaping.”

“I’ve since taken that ad down,” O’Halleran said. “Sven and Jen were the only two legitimate leapers to respond. The rest were a bunch of kooks.”

Then, the focus shifted to the nature of this Earth Herself. Why had Earth_Berkeley_ created this Goldilocks Zone of inter-dimensional gateways?

The professor saw me after class, once the last student left. Dragon and I hung back for a post-session chat. O’Halleran shared with us his theory that we—the people of Berkeley and the Greater Bay Area—were ensnared in some kind of hyper-dimensional field. His students and Dragon had tapped into it somehow. Upon further investigation of my own, I concurred.

I dropped into O’Halleran’s office the next day to reveal my 5th-dimensional findings (a purview only reserved for the initiated… like Thunderbirds).

“You were right, professor,” I said. “The Earth version appears to be special. It’s set on a 5th-dimensional quadrangle overlapping with other Earths. This planetary concentration has elevated the Bay Area into a semi-superposition, so to speak. The veil is thin, you see. And talented leapers, like your pupils, have found their own ways to tap into this otherworldly activity.”

“Fascinating,” the professor said. “So what now?”

“Keep your weekly meeting with them,” I said. “Continue to coach them as they explore higher dimensions. But I would also advise you keep this taboo practice under wraps. It’s unfortunate that you had to discover the majority of them publicly, via the local periodicals, but I can work a little magic to dispel any unwanted attention that may result from the various coverage.”

“Under wraps?” he said. “My group represents an evolution in humanity. We need to shout to the rooftops that this is possible!”

“I agree with the first part of what you said, and vehemently disagree with the second. The general state of this Earth is not ready for dimensional travel, at least on a large scale. Leaping dimensions is not like accessing the internet, where anyone can log on. No, you need to treat such abilities with extreme caution. Otherwise, you could encounter undesirable ripple effects.”

I could sense the professor comprehending the gravity of what he had uncovered, but I continued to further drive home my point…

“If news that leaping dimensions was possible for the mainstream, we would witness mass drop-offs in commitment to this reality. People would stop showing up for work. The current economy would collapse. Civilization would ultimately unravel on this Earth.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” O’Halleran said.

“Certainly not,” I said. “This is probably a good time to admit that my purpose for being here is twofold. Yes, I’m here to cover the story of this remarkable Earth for my 5th-dimensional newspaper The North Star. But I was also sent here by the Thunderbird Order to ensure no ripple effect into adjacent realities would result from your otherworldly classroom meetings on this Berkeley campus.”

“I see,” he said.

“We’ll keep an eye on this Earth from afar. Here’s a way to reach me, should your students have any questions on extra-dimensional travel.” I handed the professor a tiny piece of paper with a phone number written on it. “Just call this number and leave a message. I’ll return to your Earth when I receive it.”

After I departed Earth_Berkeley_, it sort felt like I had been talking out of both sides of my mouth with Prof. O’Halleran. Here I was filing a story about this extraordinary Earth for my 5th-dimensional newspaper (for enlightened beings), while simultaneously telling the terrestrials down on the ground to keep their mouths shut. The subtleties of higher travel required such discretion.

Perhaps that’s why I made Dragon the main character in my story that I filed with The North Star. He was the red herring distracting the reader from the real action: Prof. O’Halleran’s classroom studying multi-dimensional travel.

I submitted this draft to the editor:

Spontaneous Leaping Occurs on Earth_Berkeley_

Thunderbirds are used to reducing ripple effects while leaping dimensions. But on a planetary scale?

That’s what happened when this reporter uncovered an Earth that could produce dimensional leapers organically. In my own dimensional travels, I had become entangled with an author from this version of Earth, which I would later coin “Earth_Berkeley_.”

His name is Matt Dragon, and he had been writing about me while I leapt through the movierain multiverse.

The local author Dragon, who had been profiled in the East Bay Times upon returning from our multiversal excursions, as he liked to remind people, had this to say about dimensional leaping, since that’s what his book was about:

“I was writing what I thought was a fictional account of inter-dimensional travel,” Dragon said, as we sat in his kitchen. “The next thing I know, you, Bill Thunderbird materialized in my study from thin air. The Big Cat appeared in the flesh exactly as I had written you, only a few moments before. It was then that I realized I was writing a work of non-fiction.”

Nearby Berkeley physics professor John O’Halleran then reached out to Dragon, he said, once the professor saw the Times‘ article. O’Halleran had already been meeting weekly with several subjects, like Dragon, on the Cal university campus to discuss and workshop the intricacies of leaping in and out of their local reality.

“I’ve attended several of Professor O’Halleran’s support groups now with the other dimensional leapers,” Dragon said. “Each has found their way to this miraculous practice by methods fascinatingly personal to them. Mine was by writing about it.”

O’Halleran’s dimensional leapers support group still meets regularly, but have been instructed by the Thunderbird Order to keep their sacred research private from the general planetary public.

“Ripple effects on a planetary scale are not something the Order generally allocates the capacity to address,” said a spokesperson for the Thunderbird Order.

The anomaly is fascinating to say the least. This reporter will continue to monitor Earth_Berkeley_ and O’Halleran’s progress with his pupils. To now know that an Earth version exists capable of spontaneously producing the fundamental ingredients for a dimension-leaping Thunderbird leaves much to the imagination. In studying this 4th-dimensional planet, perhaps we can learn more about our own higher dimesions—5, 6 and beyond.

There was certainly an electricity among the air of Earth_Berkeley_, which resonated with a mysterious and inviting vibe. It’s as if the answer to our own existence was blowing in the wind.

Furthermore, in a Thunderbird’s line of work, one occupational hazard is getting wiped from existence. If this has happened to a fellow T-Bird of yours, might I recommend checking if they wound up reincarnated on Earth_Berkeley_.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 08

Wow, a planet that spontaneously produced dimensional leapers. I wonder if that’s possible on Gardanne.

Radcliffe and Thomas made some good observations tonight from the channeling.

“If the ability to leap dimensions can emerge miraculously,” Rad said, “how did these two get stuck here? Wouldn’t they have found a way to rise above this stone setback?”

“Maybe this pyramid’s just a marker,” Thomas added. “Maybe they’re still out there somewhere. And maybe they’ll return.”

Chapter 8

News of my leaping between Earth versions spread throughout The North Star‘s various media departments. The newspaper’s podcast requested a live demonstration. The NS’s podcast hosts were an acquired taste, but we eventually found our flow.

It was an interesting time to appear on their show. They were gaining notoriety among our neck of the multiverse. Their subscribers and regular listeners had skyrocketed, but the hosts mounted concerns over the necessary sponsor breaks interrupting show flow. The ads, if they occurred too frequently, would surely stunt the pod’s growth, they told me before we broke air.

I took the call from the Drop, in clock position 10—on the big screen in Jacob and Gabe’s TV den. I was working on a projection of Earth_42_ in the Drop’s epicenter that I thought would act as a good visual aid to illustrate the Thunderbird craft of leaping between worlds, as well as spin the multitude of potential happenings that could emerge from any single Earth version—in this case 42.

They were in mid-conversation, contemplating commercial breaks, when they called in for the live interview. The more tech-savvy host, Paul, thought he could hack the advertisers’ algorithm. He had uncovered a systemic exploit.

In a somewhat vain effort to introduce their paid content into an otherwise fluid delivery of entertainment, these sponsors devised software that would only interject when there was a lag in the conversation:

An awkward pause; here’s an ad for some boner pill.
Pregnant moment of contemplation; let’s sling some copy on a new startup that sends you a new razorblade every other day.
In short, dead air equaled ads.

Paul, however, had found a loophole. “What if, throughout the entire hour of the podcast, we avoid lags altogether? What if we filibuster?” he said to his co-host, Pete the Killer.

“What if we do succeed at that, though?” Pete was skeptical. “We still need to play the sponsored ad at some point in the podcast. That’s how we monetize.”

“We’ll cue it up at the end,” Paul said. “That will still provide an uninterrupted stream.”

“What do you guys need me to do?” I said.

“Oh, hey, Bill Thunderbird!” Pete said. “We didn’t realize you had jumped on. Do you have enough anecdotes to fill the hour?”

“I can take you through how we plot Earth world destinations off this version 42, here,” I said.

“Perfect,” Paul said.

Earth_42_ shimmered in the rainbow hovering about the midst of my Drop’s waterfall.

“So what are we looking at here?” Pete the Killer got the ball rolling. He gestured toward the large, glowing globe gently rotating at the epicenter of my Drop—the large, hollow sphere that contained my personal universe.

“This, fellas,” I said, “is a certain version of Earth. ‘Earth_42_’ I’ve coined it. I’m hot off a 42-year stint on planet. Over four decades ago (from this planet’s perspective), I leapt down, incepting my signature—subtle as a breeze—into a newborn down on the ground. I then grew up with that family, until I had aged 42 years. And then, from the ground, middle-aged me found the ability to leap back up to my 5th-dimensional Drop, attached to the spaceship Cheshire of an adjacent universe.”

“Don’t you just surf through the movierain to find a droplet world to drop into?” Paul had done his research of the Thunderbird craft.

“Usually,” I said. “But a leap through the movierain (multiverse) is always better from a premeditated, substantial locale. This completely intact Earth_42_ provides that stability and fidelity. Whenever we have the reality surfing equivalent of writer’s block, sure, I’ll take a naked dip into the Dew and surf until a new and interesting world reveals itself. But it’s almost always better to chart targeted drops into worlds. Serendipitous dips into unknown worlds tend to fizzle out too readily.”

“How about a demonstration?” Pete the Killer knew how to keep his audience listening.

“OK, we’ll have to switch to my helmet cam for that,” I said. I then sat my physical body down into its zen position, and astrally leapt my energetic body in orbit to the hologram Earth_42_. My helmet effortlessly transmuted between mediums. The feed detailed a rapidly rotating Earth’s surface, as I surfed Her Van Allen belts at dizzyingly encircling speeds.

“Wow, this looks really cool, Bill,” Paul said. “What now?”

“Now I can locate any event that has occurred on planet, from Her birth until the point I leapt off planet at the personal age of 42. The planet Herself would have been roughly 4 billion years old at that point, in an era that most resembled the 2020s of my home world, Earth_Home_.” A beat, as I waited for the hosts to comprehend what I just delivered. “Any requests?”

“Does this Earth have an example of civil war, where a country faced utter annihilation, but somehow retained its identity and finally rebounded?” Pete said.

“Yes, the American Civil War is as good an example as any,” I said.

Then I spun the globe until it glowed golden yellow and slowed Her down to the year 1863. I descended down, surfing my Alcubierre bubble down through the clouds, to the ground of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where President Abraham Lincoln was delivering his famous address, “Four score…” and so on. I let the fellas hear the whole speech.

“Wow, that Lincoln gent is quite eloquent and moving,” Paul said. “I hope the United States of America remained intact.”

“For the most part, yeah,” I said. “Any other requests?”

“My mind is blown,” Pete blurted. “So you have here hovering a complete planetary history of one version of Earth. That’s impressive, but how does it aid in Thunderbird craft?”

Pete the Killer alluded to the fact that the Thunderbird Order have carte blanche when it comes to the Akashic of any planet, including Earth and all Her splendid versions. It would almost be a waste of potential to merely peer into events that have happened.

“That’s a good question, Pete,” I said. “This fully intact Earth provides myself and my crew the necessary ingredients to launch targeted leaps. We take an event, like the Gettysburg Address we just visited and then can spin an alternate Earth off of this version. We alter variables to see what would have happened if, say, Lincoln didn’t make it to Gettysburg on time. Or maybe his well-articulated speech wasn’t received kindly by the soldiers that day for some reason. We can answer how those deviations would have impacted the outcome of the war, for instance.”

“Why do you need to spin off a new planet?” Paul said.

“Because our very act of observing Earth_42_ spawns a new version—call it 42a and so on—as we further explore,” I said. “It’s the only way to keep the master planet intact. Our conscious observation, however subtle, would still alter that origin reality somehow. The necessary technique also helps us retain outcomes, as we manipulate conditions of the newly spawned offshoots.”

I entertained a few more requests from the hosts, all the while demonstrating a fine leaping ability, surfing Earth_42_’s stratosphere at high velocities, only to slow Her down into specific ground events. They were impressed by my precision.

“Bill, again, such a treat today,” Pete said, with agreement from Paul. “Your demonstrated ability to spawn new Earth versions from 42’s foundation is a divine display of the Thunderbird craft. We hope to have you on again soon to catch up on what else you have discovered.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said. “It was a pleasure and an honor. I’ll be sure to keep you two abreast of any Earth developments.”

A beat, and then an ad finally broke, as I signed off:

“Too many worlds; too many problems?” the ad announcer interjected. “Call the Booth Dudes! They’ll clean up even the messiest of mutliversal excursions. Avoid ripple effects with Booth Dudes!”

Silence.

Then, in the now quiet environment, as the nearby waterfall gently pattered, I heard a slow clap from the Drop’s peanut gallery, which was my nickname for clock Position 2, also known as Donna and Edward’s city apartment. Donna was the one clapping, sitting next to Edward on Position 2’s couch. Kitty sat across from them on the other love seat. Jacob and Gabe were also sat in that flat’s living room, on ottomans, to complete my audience for my live podcast appearance. My astral self flew out of the Earth hologram’s stratosphere, grew larger, and dipped back into my physical body sitting in the zen position.

My physical self stood and walked down to meet them in the living room. They had splayed out a large board game in the central, square coffee table. The board became our blueprint for potential excursions, as offshoots from Earth_42_.

“We’re plotting known points of Earth_42_ on this RPG board, Bill,” Kitty said. “We’ve marked all your life events from the last 42 years and now have plotted the Gettysburg Address from 1863.”

The 3-dimensional landscape became our 4th-dimensional roadmap for 5th-dimensional travelers (us).

“Good work,” I said, descending down to meet them.

I sat next to Kitty on the couch.

“I can’t believe how hi-def the existential resolution is!” she said. “And it goes back almost to planetary origin four billion years ago… I’m still not convinced it was worth risking your timeline, but, truly, I must admit, Big Cat, great find.”

“Yeah, again sorry about not telling you,” I said. “Not sure I’m going to take such a deep dive anytime soon.”

Sitting there in the company of my cherished crew reminded me of how much I had risked nearly forgetting my higher identity up in the Drop, while toiling away on the ground of Earth_42_. Edward was quick to console me.

“I’ve never seen such a fully-intact Earth. You dove deep on this one, Thunderbird,” he said with a smirk of admiration and a glint in his eye.

Edward, usually the calm and reserved vision guide, exhibited more vigor as we discussed the conversation piece that was Earth_42_, still quietly rotating above in the Drop’s epicenter.

“I can’t wait to explore all the offshoot worlds with you,” he continued. “And this thing really goes back to the beginning—four billion years. Wow. Man, most of our conjured worlds only hold substance for a few weeks.”

He was right. Flitting through the movierain produced a heep—infinite Earths to visit—but their conditions usually only held for a brief time. Then, they’d evaporate or absorb into a more established, adjacent world. Easy come, easy go, I suppose.

Zelda’s Journaly – Entry 09

Seems like Bill and Kitty have friends too. Cheshire crew I think. I wonder where that spaceship is now.

It also seems like Bill and Kitty Thunderbird (are they married yet?) are a little famous too. How have we never heard of these two?

It’s like channeling the zen lovers nightly is opening up an entirely new world that’s unlike anything myself or my friends have ever experienced. Gardanne feels so much smaller.

Chapter 9

I had spent 42 years down on that planet, Earth_42_, but felt like I barely knew Her when I finally leapt out of time and back, up to the Drop attached to the Cheshire spaceship.

I had taken the highest fidelity image of this Earth version with me. It held the most intricate of details of all events transpiring on planet for the last four billion years, but this enormous celestial archive felt more like the deep unknown of my unconscious—the inexplicable id. To truly know Her, I’d have to become one with Mother Earth. The Cheshire’s resident shaman, Guillermo, had already accomplished this spiritual feat on his own version of Earth. I sought his counsel to achieve the same clarity with Earth_42_.

Guillermo was the most mysterious of all the Cheshire crew. He and the Captain had met on a version of Earth set in the 12-position of my Drop. Guillermo grew up in the Amazon rainforest, where he lived and dieted among the many plants. He sequestered himself for two years in solitude to commune with his Mother Earth’s flora. He walked out of the jungle after that an enlightened shaman who could communicate with the higher forest spirits.

Guillermo was, therefore, naturally my perfect mentor to acquaint me with Earth_42_. I invited him down one day into my personal sanctuary.

We sat next to one another in the peaceful zen garden at the center of my orb-like Drop, my personal universe. After a few moments of contemplative silence, Guillermo spoke.

“Sometimes solitude is necessary,” he said. “I once spent two years in the wilderness, dieting on the local flora. I communed with that vicinity of Mother Nature, in complete isolation from humanity. The control of ostracization kept a clean slate for me to take in Her subtle complexity. When I finally left the forest, I circled the entire globe, continuing my intake of Her beautiful fruit, however exotic to my locale of origin. I mixed plants from every tundra into a single concoction that I imbibed to understand Mother Nature most intimately. Such a profound comprehension would only have been possible, initially, under isolation from my fellow man. But it was nice to return, occasionally, to society, after I drank Her in and could share my wisdom with my brethren.”

It wasn’t just a matter of surfing to any 4th-dimensional point on Earth_42_’s sphere, like I had demonstrated to The North Star‘s podcast hosts, Paul and Pete the Killer; I must become one with Her (my mantra) communing with Her living earth to resonate at the molecular level.

“I don’t feel like I know Her,” I said. “It was honestly a relief when I finally leapt off planet. I didn’t make much of a connection with anyone down there.”

“Never mind that,” he said. “The Mother Earth, in whichever version, has a spirit entirely Her own. I’m going to teach you how to tap into this prime, divine essence. No offense to the human species, but we’re but a blip on Her complete timeline.”

“How will I know I have fully tapped into Her essence?” I said to the master of esoteric arts.

“You’ll feel the hearts and souls of all Her living creatures at once,” he said. “Her spirit Gaia will then reveal Herself to you.”

When I was ready, I descended down to Earth_42_’s rainforest in Peru from my Drop that hung up in relative Earth space. The wilderness resembled Guillermo’s forest, whose portal sat at the 12-position access point of my orb-like Drop, behind the waterfall. And, like Guillermo, I entered the purely natural realm, dieting the many plants of Her ecosystem for two years.

At least that was the relative time in that Earth version. When I returned to the Drop, a fully anointed member now of Earth_42_, only five minutes had passed.

I had sat with Guillermo in my Drop and then in his forest for weeks before this descension to Earth_42_. And though, now, I was in solitude, I had taken the wisdom that Guillermo had bestowed down with me. He taught me which plants to experience first. He taught me how to mix various concoctions to imbibe. And he prepped me for becoming fluent with the diverse flora.

I spent two years first in the South American rainforest and then spanned out to the greater Earth_42_ at large. I concocted a master beverage that contained traces of all the planet’s primary plant life. I drank the elixir and meditated for days. I awoke fluent in the many plant languages of the planet. Overnight in psychedelic states, I could feel Mother Earth rewriting my human DNA to receive Her. Her sounds resembled melodic modems in various tones and beeps—pure information from nature. When I awoke, I was no longer distracted by the lesser terrestrial channels—society, ethos, religion, all limiting beliefs—and only listened to the main line: Mother Earth Herself.

I had tapped the underlying mycelium network interlinking all plant life on the planet. In an instant, I could sense the thoughts, feelings and wishes of all Her creatures. I had become awakened to the total planetary consciousness—Gaia.

Fluent now in the most fundamental of Earth languages, I communed with Mother Gaia Herself, as I sat formerly alone in the forest.

“Your soul is not originally one of my children,” Gaia’s divine voice sounded like Her vocal cords were woven from golden harp strings. She was draped beautifully in long, green vines. I imagined She was what the Jolly Green Giant’s wife would look like.

“Yes, my soul is originally from an ancient Thunderbird Order,” I said. “I’ve been here these 42 years—and now an additional two—to commune with your spirit and become one.”

“You may not be my original son,” She said, “but you are one of my children now. You’ve imbibed by many plant life and can now sense the souls of all my living creatures. And in doing so, I have a better sense of you.”

“I love you,” I said. “Thank you for this earthly shell.”

“I love you too. I realize you may have to leave eventually, but return often.”

This must be what it felt like to rise from a Type 0 civilization to a Type 1, I thought—where my human mind could understand the entirety of that planet’s living earth. I had struck the very essence chord of this Earth version.

She was like an invisible singularity I could now see, hear and fully sense. This level of clarity allowed reception from the farthest of flung destinations—altogether otherworldly. It was an escape from the prevalent and proximal influences that usually oppressed my local landscape as some inhibiting ceiling. They had implied there was nothing else outside of this world to my formerly dimmer perspective.

I was now Mother Earth’s antenna receiving these otherworldly signals and broadcasting out Her message deep into the ether. I didn’t just hold the full essence of the planet; I had become Mother Earth’s wave function. I was Her. She was me. Earth_42_ and me were One. I then amplified Her signal via the Sun and a magnificent solar flare radiated out to the center of the galaxy.

The skills that Guillermo had taught me and that I had now perfected in solitude over those two additional years down on Earth_42_ would prove invaluable as I became acquainted with more and more planets. That was the only way to truly know them, should I ever want to return.

My next task would be to perform this same feat for the other Earths attached to my Drop: Donna and Edward’s city Earth in the 2-position; Ron and Rachael’s harbor Earth in the 4-position; the infinite baseball diamond Earth in the 8-position; and Jacob and Gabe’s suburban Earth in the 10-position. I wouldn’t need to achieve this same feat for Guillermo’s jungle Earth in the 12-position, since he had already done that. And the 6-position is where my Drop’s back door sat. The randomness of that portal was meant to remain unknowable. Plus, that’s where I had parked Earth_42_ this whole time.

There was a story that each knowable planet Earth had to tell. My inroad to understanding would be personifying each planet Earth’s spirit and then communicating with this subjective perspective, as I had done with Earth_42_. The heart of any event—as small as a breeze; as big as an entire galaxy; and everything in between (like the distinct vibration of planets)—could emerge via these unique purviews. And now I had mastered the technique to reach them.

Zelda’s Journaly – Entry 10

They’re not just dimension leapers. They’re not just channelers. This Thunderbird, Bill, communes with entire planets.

Man, I really hope we get to meet these two someday.

Chapter 10

Hot off resonating with Earth_42_, I thought it could be good to acquaint myself with the other versions of Earth attached to my sphere of a Drop, my home base for surfing the multiverse. Whenever I leapt to another reality from the launch point of one of these nearby worlds, the planet’s unique personality—Their vibe—would color the voyage like a cinematographer’s tinted lens.

The collective entrances to these worlds I nicknamed the “Holiday Doors.” It was an homage to the festive portals in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. Specifically, the scene where Jack Skellington flees Halloween Town, through the Hinterlands forest, until he arrives at a small clearing in the trees. This field’s surrounded by holiday doors embedded into the trunks, each representing prominent western holidays—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, St. Patrick’s Day, etc.

My circular Drop was like this clearing. As I stood at the center, each Earth version that sat at even clock positions—10, 12, 2, 4, 6 and 8—were each a holiday door for us to enter, assuming an entirely unique vibe to that world that colored all successive destinations.

Earth_Suburban_
In the 10 position of my Drop’s clock face (if looking overhead) sat Earth_Suburban_, Jacob and Gabe’s native planet. The entrance point from my Drop opened into a quaint living room, with a large-screen TV hanging over a fireplace, opposite of which were a couple of plush couches.

Every Wednesday night, we’d enter this Earth via Jacob and Gabe’s home that was connected to my Drop. We’d walk out the front door, down the hill to Shermer’s town center. That’s where the tavern lied. We’d then enter the pub and swiftly proceeded to the establishment’s discreet back room. We liked to keep the fact that we were inter-dimensional travelers close to the vest to the majority of these townsfolk. Only the boys in the back room who participated in our weekly storytelling tradition knew our true origins.

One evening, as we walked down to the town, it occurred to me that I had not prepared a good anecdote for the night’s roundtable. The first thought that popped into mind following this sobering realization was a memory of Earth_42_’s spirit, Gaia. Not because She could help me out of my current predicament, but if She existed as the avatar for that Earth, there must be one for Jacob and Gabe’s suburban Earth.

It takes but a moment between thoughts to leap. So, sprung from the walk downtown, in a trance-like daze I channeled a higher reality from the ground and projected up to that new platform. I returned less than a second later on Earth_Suburban_. The guys didn’t even notice I was gone, but Kitty did.

“Did you just go somewhere?” she said, upon my conscious return to Earth_Suburban_’s firm ground.

“I needed a story for tonight’s session,” I said. “I just asked the planet what’s been going on lately and He pointed me in a few directions, but I don’t want to spoil it. You’ll just have to listen, when it’s my turn tonight!”

That brief, nearly negligible moment, which among crew in our company walking down only Kitty noticed, had lasted several weeks for my relative timeline. Let’s start at the beginning…

I was walking down to the tavern. Mid-stride, I launched my astral self out of my physical body and spun up into the hyper reality of Earth_Suburban_. Like I had accomplished on Earth_42_ tapping into the very essence of the planet, imbibing on a concoction composed of the many planetary flora to become one with Her spirit, I took to comprehending Earth_Suburban_.

Once accomplished, the result, however, was not the beaufiful Gaia. Instead, the larger than life entity that stood before me more resembled Charles Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Present. He was a boisterous, jovial fellow who stood 13 feet if He was a foot.

“Well if it isn’t Bill Thunderbird!” He bellowed. “Nice to finally meet you in person. You can call me Father Earth.”

“Earth spirit,” I said, still in my astral state, “it’s so nice to finally meet you too. I’ve enjoyed your planet for years, but now I’ve finally cracked through the surface.”

“Yes!” He said. “I’ve enjoyed the many wonderful stories you and your crew have brought to my planetary face. What is it now that you wish to ask me?”

“Your intuition serves you well, sir,” I said. “I’m here with you in your magnificent palace to inquire about just that, a good story, or at least the seedlings of one. Any people of interest or intriguing happenings that have occurred recently of note?”

“Hmmmm,” He said, as He stroked his long, lustrous, red beard, above which a crown of leaves sat atop His giant head. “Well, not sure I can deliver you a complete tale, but seedlings yes.”

Father Earth would go on to explain that He had sensed a burgeoning energy, a certain magic field permeating his world not too long after myself and my crew began visiting. I couldn’t help but think this phenomenon was the rippling result from inter-dimensional residue—perhaps the Cheshire crew’s 5th-dimensional travel had thinned the relative spacetime of this Earth—but I kept my mouth shut as He continued.

“I’ve noticed among my earthlings an increasing curiosity and wonderment. A growing majority have lessened their dependence on modern technology like smartphones to pick up analog alternatives like a good book. They’re relying less on the internet to tell them what’s going on and have resolved to venture out and talk to their neighbors. The internet had shined too much light on my Earth’s surface. It became blinding and noisy and distracting. These darker, more mysterious, more interesting pockets that have emerged in the internet’s place supply these curious earthlings with a magic possibility I haven’t witnessed in decades. More local newspapers are sprouting up. I’ve even seen a few live radio stations reopen, as the demand for this analog mass communication has increased. I can’t quite put my finger on what has transformed on my Earth. And, frankly, I don’t dare question it. I don’t want this magic feeling to disapper again.”

I thanked Father Earth for His invaluable wisdom keying into the status quo of His planet, and then I was off. Centering on Earth_Suburban_, I surfed all 4th-dimensional points about His surface now equipped with the lens He had provided. I located some of these local newspapers and radio stations resurging upon a formerly digital landscape. When I returned to my crew walking down to the town and into the tavern’s back room, I delivered this tale to the boys, as the warm, overhanging lamps lit up the center of the floor:

“Gentlemen, tonight I’ll tell you a tale of your own Earth,” I said.

I heard a few groans from the crowd because they usually liked to hear our reports from other dimensions.

“Hold on, hold on,” I said. “I think you’ll like this story. It’s about a burgeoning movement occurring right now on your planet. A few years ago, the internet had all but wiped out local newspapers. They were on the verge of going extinct. But recently, new local weeklies have sprouted almost spontaneously. There seems to be a general sentiment in these areas to slow down their way of life. No more 24-hour news cycle. Instead, these local outlets have resolved to carefully select the community stories they wish to cover. They’ve empowered their reporters to disclose the news they think the public should know, rather than just what they think their readers want to hear. The result? A better informed public who possess vested interest and a greater sense of community and trust in their local news sources.”

“I haven’t noticed this yet, Bill,” I heard a lone voice call out from the crowd shrouded in darkness.

“No?” I said. “Well, just two towns over one such weekly has emerged. I met with the editor to find out what prompted this return to sound journalism. He said, after engaging in yet another infinite death scroll on his phone one day, a feeling crept up to mind—that this hyper-connected digital world had left him feeling more isolated than ever. He longed for the old days, when he was confident that people actually read stories in the local newspaper. He missed the looming ceiling of wonder that has now been replaced by instant info gratification. He sensed that his fellow brethren and sistren had lost their ability to dream. So he procured funding to launch a local newspaper in his town once again. Within weeks, readership skyrocketed to nearly the town’s entire adult population. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one sensing this deficit in cultivating daily living. And I’m on good record to note that this phenomenon has spread to neighboring towns. Next thing you know, Shermer will have a local weekly, as well.”

And, sure enough, the daily pace of Shermer eventually slowed as weeks rolled on. They had joined the growing movement to lean back on more trusty, analog technology like newspapers and radio. They avoided the black mirror of computer tech, whose event horizon acted as a point of no return, since beyond which humanity would have lost their identity.

Earth_Guillermo_
In the 12-o’clock spot of my Drop hung Guillermo’s jungle Earth. This was his native planet, whose essence he had already tapped. Whenever I’d need to leap to a world tangential from this reality, I’d usually take Guillermo along with me to interpret his world’s message. We’d dip behind the Drop’s waterfall and enter a lush, green, jungle tunnel lined with leafy vines that teemed with Amazonian fauna.

“What has your Earth said to you recently?” I said to Guillermo once, as we walked along his forest’s floor.

“The trees have been talking to me,” he said. “They’re among the oldest life on this planet’s surface. Their interlinking mycelium network has absorbed all known animal life thus far.”

“Any interesting developments?” I said.

“Ah, yes. These sprawling plants, some of whom have lived eons, find the fleeting animal species that climb about their branches so comical. Since the animals’ lifetimes last but an instant compared to the lifespan of these plants, the matters that concern these animals seem trivial. And they’ve been asking me for ways to reach these animals, who flit their short lives away on pipe dreams. I’ve been working with the flora, then, to translate the plants’ messages to these infantile fauna.”

The jungle Earth, in Her remote serenity was also the perfect launch pad to spring toward a place of complete peace. From Earth_Guillermo_ I could access pristine planets untouched by imbalance.

Earth_CityFlat_
Donna and Edward, whose city flat occupied the 2-position on the clock face of my Drop, were also mystics like Guillermo, but hadn’t tapped their Earth’s essence yet. So I communed with the local flora of Earth_CityFlat_’s ecosystem. I imbibed the floral concoction that contained plant life from all corner’s of Her globe. And, just like I had accomplished with Earth_42_ and Earth_Suburban_, I became one with this world. The resultant Earth spirit revealed Herself to me, Ariadne. She was as beautiful as Earth_42_’s Gaia, but assumed a more modern appearance—bohemian, with thick-rimmed glasses, ear gauges and a septum nose ring. She wore a smart, flowing, flowery dress with sneakers.

“Hi!” She said. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve tapped into your planetary essence, Ariadne, for information,” I said. “There may be times when I need to key into certain phenomena occurring on your surface.”

“Sure! I’m here if you need me.”

And I did.

Donna and Edward were notorious for dragging Kitty and me to whatever play was running in their city flat’s village neighborhood, aptly nicknamed “The Village,” like in New York City. We’d all enter through the 2-position of my Drop, into their quaint apartment den, down the many flights of their apartment building, out onto the street and to the playhouse a few blocks away.

One evening, I found myself sat in the audience of a particularly boring snoozefest. It was some one-man play about the creation story, I think. I don’t know; I wasn’t really paying attention. I let my mind wander and, then, almost involuntarily, my astral self leapt out of my physical body. I was hovering 10 feet above the crowd, but no one could see this energetic self. Kitty could probably sense it, but she didn’t say anything. Under this force field cloak, I formed my electromagnetic orb and whisked to higher reality where I could commune with Ariadne.

“Nice to see you again!” she said, in Her clever penthouse that oversaw all occurrence of Earth_CityFlat_.

“Yes, likewise,” I said. “My physical self is stuck watching some boring play right now. I was wondering if you had caught wind of any more interesting events or moments that I could experience.”

“Of course! The city brims with activity. I could refer you to this secret speakeasy on Bleecker Street, or rather an alley off that avenue. A new musical form has also taken shape in a northern neighborhood. It’s evolved from modern music, the way hip hop evolved from rock ‘n’ roll, jazz and R & B back in the ’70s and ’80s. I’ve also heard through the grapevine that Banksy has landed on city soil, clandestinely creating art installations all over town for the next few weeks.”

“They all sound amazing,” I said. “Thank you.”

And like that, I slipped into that speakeasy (the password was “Holy Schnikeys”); I located the visionaries behind this recent musical evolution and suggested they publish a new music magazine not unlike hip hop’s The Source to chronicle this burgeoning art form and all its salient players; I found the elusive Banksy (yes, versions of the graffiti artist existed on both Earth_42_ and Earth_CityFlat_, among others) leveraging extra-dimensional abilities privy to only a Thunderbird. You’ll never guess his real identity, but I promised to keep that secret tucked away in the Thunderbird vault.

This all occurred over the course of about a week or two, I’d say, relative to my own timeline. But relative to my colleagues who were still relegated to this playhouse audience, I made it back before the cast’s curtain call. To them, it was like I had never left.

Of course, upon my astral return, Kitty leaned over to me and whispered, “Hope you had fun. I’m so jealous.”

I told her we’ll have to come up with a way for her to join me next time.

Earth_Ocean_
I also didn’t need to tap into the essence of Ron and Rachael’s Earth, Earth_Ocean_, the entrance to which sat in the 4-o’clock position of my Drop. That’s because the sea was the main focal point of this world and I had already met Poseidon.

My Drop’s inlet to this world hinged on Ron and Rachael’s favorite harbor restaurant. From my Drop’s hyperposition, you could see the restaurant’s main dining area and bar lounge. We’d often eat breakfast in the little nook I tucked just below the restaurant’s kitchen that overlooked the harbor. After many a meal, we’d set sail from this world entrance, into the briny waters, which made it increasingly easier to summon the ocean god the further we pushed off coast.

“How are you, Bill?” Poseidon said, as we set our skooner to cruise well out on the open waters one day.

“Good, good, your grace. Any new tales from the sea?”

Poseidon’s head had emerged on our starboard bow. Its diameter surpassed that of our entire boat’s length. His chuckling in response to my question created waves that rocked us gently.

“Yesss!” He said. “The sea ebbs and flows in constant renewal. With each crest on the water comes new development. We could talk about the unidentified submersibles (USOs) that this planet’s humanity have yet to detect. We could also check in with the whales, who are more intelligent than any other animals on planet. The sea, my friend, is quite literally your oyster.”

“Let’s explore them all,” I said, with a smile.

Earth_42_
The 6 position of my orb-like Drop was where the back door sat. It also represented the current planet I piloted through the movierain multiverse, as a droplet among torrents. Earth_42_ was in the 6-o’clock position these days. Forty-two also paid homage to Douglas Adams and his book The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which stated that the number 42 was the answer to the meaning of life. This Earth that carried the 42 moniker, therefore, was my current proving ground to explore the Earth computer contemplating what this life was all about. I had become one with this Earth and sailed Her to other planetary versions to expand our collective understanding of what it meant to be alive. Articulating the meaning of life was too profound for the human tongue; it had to be experienced.

Earth_Baseball_
Finally, in the 8-o’clock position of my Drop sat what I had coined Earth_Baseball_, since it contained an infinite baseball diamond across the street from my entrance to that world. It’s also the home planet of Kitty and Keith. I didn’t need to tap the essence of this particular planet, since Kitty was well on her way to becoming a Thunderbird herself. Eventually, she would be my contact for this Earth version the way our resident shaman could counsel me on Earth_Guillermo_ at 12 o’clock.

Still, I’d venture into this world to access all of the other Earths I had discovered. The infinite baseball diamond provided the perfect rolodex to reference my growing catalogue of planets.

Say I had to quickly hop to Earth_Letterman_. Well, I’d dial into a local Mets game on that planet. I’d set the box score to a specific date and time where a Mets game occurred on Earth_Letterman_. And voilà. The diamond became a portal to that world from my Drop’s 8-o’clock position.

I’d check in periodically with Letterman in between worlds on my Earths Beat. Earth_Letterman_ was one of a dozen regular stops.

The other Earths I had strung along this reliable baseball portal technique included:

Earth_Berkeley_
I’d check in often to see how Prof. O’Halleran’s students were progressing in their spontaneously burgeoning Thunderbirdcraft.

Earth_PeaceProject_
I had to see how my boys, the Crows, were doing. They were still keeping an eye on this Earth that had newly established peace.

Earth_Home_
I returned to tell Stacy that her world was but one of a dozen Earths I had since discovered. I would ask one of the other 11 if they had any suggestions to cure Earth_Home_’s woes.

Earth_3.14159×10^100_
Every now and then, I’d pop in on my old editor Buddy Schumer at the Gainsville Gazette and the rest of the newspaper staff. But this wasn’t the first Earth where I had held a newspaper gig…

Earth_Analog2020_
I’d visit the Herald’s newsroom where I used to report. It was always nice to return to my first beat!

From any one of these dozen Earths, I’d mount leaps to discover new revelations on existence. The Earths in all Their splendid versions, as a superpositioned microcosm, supplied the sandbox by which we elevated our local consciousness. And it was no coincidence that these 12 Earths resembled the 12 notes of the musical staff. I’d often leap between these worlds, playing their notes, stringing them together like chords, harmonizing realities to reveal inconceivable possibilities.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 11

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to leap dimensions. It’s as if Bill’s firsthand experiences that I’m channeling every night for me and my friends are training me to heighten my vibration and leap out of this plane.

Maybe that’s how we finally meet the zen lovers in the flesh… in between dimensions.

Chapter 11

“What happened to the hologram of Earth_42_?” Paul The North Star’s podcast host said. He was referring to that gently glowing orb of my most recent Earth that had hung in the Drop’s epicenter the last time I appeared on their show.

The Drop, as you may already know, was my 50-foot diameter sphere that acted as a sanctuary for navigating the multiverse.

“We’re going to do something a little different today,” I said, over the live feed to the two podcast hosts. “The Drop’s epicenter is clear for a little demonstration. This is normally how we astrally launch up into the movierain, from this focal point.”

Kitty and I were sitting in the lotus position next to each other in our spots in the zen garden that laid just below the Drop’s epicenter.

“My partner Kitty here,” I continued, “and I are going to perform a little demonstration of dimensional leaping between many worlds for your podcast audience.”

Our camera feed hovered above our physical seats, but I would switch to my helmet cam for a first-person POV once Kitty and I projected into our astral forms to surf the movierain multiverse. My helmet Bueller effortlessly transitioned between phases—physical to astral.

“Paul, Pete the Killer and all of your viewers will see what I see,” I said.

“Where are we going today, Bill?” Pete the Killer, Paul’s compadre, said.

I looked over at Kitty who sat quietly in meditation, readying her body, mind and spirit for the impending leap.

“We’re going to take you on my Earths Beat,” I said. “These are a dozen Earths that I’ve strung together in my travels. Each world contains infinite destinations, but I’m going to focus on locales that I think Kitty would like.”

Kitty opened her eyes, blushing a little, shooting a glance in my direction just to her right.

“Oh, I’m honored,” she said.

“Sounds amazing,” Paul said. “Just make sure to narrate what’s happening for our audience. I’ve heard the movierain can get kinda dicey.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t leave you in the dark,” I said. I had a lot of practice at narration, at that point, chronicling events in my Thunderbird log. Although this podcast format, in real time, was a little more off the cuff.

“Take it away, you two,” Pete the Killer said.

Kitty and I centered our physical bodies, sitting in the lotus position. We simultaneously projected our astral selves into the epicenter of the Drop, while our material forms remained sat. The podcast feed switched to my ethereal helmet’s viewpoint.

“We’re readying to enter the movierain,” I said. “In our energetic form, I’ll conjure an electromagnetic Alcubierre bubble around my center of gravity. Kitty will project hers too and we’ll tether together to maintain connection through the chaos.”

Ball lightning ignited between my astral feet. I maintained a tight orb between my ankles and then expanded a larger sphere to completely envelope Kitty and me. Our vehicle was primed for 5th-dimensional travel.

“Brace yourselves, fellas,” I said. “We’re about to break through.”

Impossible gravity surged into the fine point between my feet and then exploded out the larger orb holding us. The feed formerly featuring the serene setting of my personal Drop suddenly smashed cut to torrential rain pelting the outside of our energetic orb. We were surfing the movierain. Each droplet contained individual events, some held whole worlds, as they pelted the curved surface protecting us at speeds of pure thought.

“Can you hear us, guys?” I said to the two hosts.

“Yes, Bill!” Paul was yelling over the multiversal downpour.

“OK, we’re going to drop in first on Earth_Berkeley_ and check on the grassroots dimensional leapers,” I said. “I haven’t introduced Professor O’Halleran’s class to Kitty yet. Cue ‘Running From the Cops’ by Phantogram.”

The bubbling bass-blasting banger kicked on from the band themselves playing a gig in the basement below the Drop’s 10-o’clock position living room. It was a little, live musical accompaniment to ease our transition from physical reality into the Dew.

Mentally, I placed myself on the sprawling Berkeley campus to attain its unique vibe. My flying Drop orb vehicle resonated with the frequency this specific world emitted. Drops of increasing resemblance to Earth_Berkeley_ appeared right in front of us. We leapt into the fully precipitated drop of Earth_Berkeley_. We soared over a green field and landed at the steps of Birge Hall. Since we were live, I sped up our pace, slightly accelerating the frequency to arrive at Prof. O’Halleran’s door. Kitty and I walked through the threshold, once we fully materialized from the astral plane.

“Professor O’Halleran,” I said, interrupting his class already in session. “There’s someone here I want you to meet.”

Back at the podcast studio, the guys were eating up this live content.

“This is great footage, Pete,” Paul said. “First we were in Bill’s Drop, then the movierain, and now we’re in a UC Berkeley classroom. All within a matter of seconds.”

I heard in my earpiece from Pete the Killer: “This is gold, Bill.”

“Bill!” Prof. O’Halleran said. “Love the pop-in.”

The professor’s students sat quietly, as I introduced him to Kitty.

“Class,” O’Halleran shifted focus to his students, “I want you to meet another dimensional leaper. This is Bill’s colleague Kitty, who’s a Thunderbird in training.”

“Hi, guys,” Kitty said. “Would love to hear what you’ve been working on recently.”

“Right now, we’re reviewing furthest leaps and how we developed those techniques,” Janice, O’Halleran’s star pupil, said.

“Oh, I love intriguing leap stories,” Kitty said. “I would love to hear yours.”

“Sure. Well, as we now know, distance is sort of an irrelevant term when it comes to 5th-dimensional travel. So I’ve decided to catalog my furthest leaps as those that are most exotic from our home world here. The professor has been working with me to push further and further without getting lost out there. I’ve made it as far as an Earth where humans have to share the title of ‘most intelligent species’ with several other life forms on planet.”

Kitty’s eyes lit up. “That’s a new one for me.”

I had been talking about Prof. O’Halleran’s class so much to her at this point, it felt refreshing to finally let her put names to faces. I was also aware we were broadcasting.

“Janice, hold that thought,” I said. It takes but a moment between seconds to leap. I turned to Kitty. “We gotta keep this train moving, but we’ll return to hear Janice’s story before long.”

And like that, Kitty and I leapt back up into my energetic Drop, astrally surfing the movierain. We left our newly materialized earthly shells back in the classroom, as placeholders to easily return.

“Guys! You still with us?” I said to the podcast hosts.

“We’ve been rolling this whole time,” Paul said. “Where to next??”

“Kitty told me she wants to check in on Earth_PeaceProject_,” I said. “You’ll get to meet my Thunderbird buds, the Crows. They’re still stationed there.”

Droplet worlds flew by, as Kitty and I navigated the Dew. I let my mind frequencies resonate with the thought of the Earth_PeaceProject_ sphere, and it eventually held in superposition on our 12 in front of us. I drove the Drop into the full-fledged world and descended down to the New York City streets on this version of the planet, Earth_PeaceProject_. I didn’t see any Crows in my immediate purview upon landing, but I could still sense their presence.

Earth_PeaceProject_ was an experimental planet for the Thunderbird Order. The planet had recently achieved worldwide peace, but the balance was tenuous at best. The Order had deployed Their most formidable of factions, the Crows, to maintain presence and keep the peace, while the planet and all of Her earthlings adjusted.

“You want to see how Leviathan’s doing?” I said to Kitty.

“Maybe He’ll look at me this time,” she said, dryly.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll still have time to visit sunnier places. We’re just making the rounds now.”

I knew Kitty didn’t mind. She was always up for the adventure, wherever the destination. Her developing Thunderbird instincts had her, like me, wanting to check in on this planet’s peace. I told her not to worry more to remind myself that this running thread of a continuous outing was about showing her a good time.

Thunderbirds are psychically connected. After a brief consultation with Earth_PeaceProject_’s Akashic, rather effortlessly, I located Leviathan who had stationed Himself and his first officers in Central Park of this planet’s NYC. We leapt there as the Crows fly.

Leviathan, the gargantuan Crow Leader, was perched up in a giant oak in the center of the park.

“How goes the peace project??” I yelled up to Him.

“Ah, Bill,” the 10-foot tall Thunderbird rumbled down from high up above, “you’ve returned.”

Kitty and I ascended up the oak’s trunk to meet him, bending gravity ever so slightly to hover within feet of the top Crow.

“How long has it been?” I said.

“It’s been a few weeks since you departed this planet,” He said. “But I’m not sure what that is relative to your own timeline.”

I wasn’t sure either. The passage of time becomes a bit futile in the midst of the multiverse.

“Has the planet remained at peace? Oh, and you remember Kitty, right?”

“Yes, hello,” He said. “We’ve encountered a few flare-ups, but nothing my Crows can’t manage. The Order says we should only have to remain for another month or so. Then we’ll just keep a watchful eye from a distance.”

“Any hotspots worth us covering?” I said. “We’re currently filming a piece for The North Star‘s podcast.”

“This is great stuff, Bill,” I heard Pete the Killer utter into my helmet’s earpiece.

“You may want to head to the West Coast,” Leviathan said. “L.A. and neighboring counties have exhibited riot bellwethers.”

“Roger that,” I said. “Big Cat and Kitty: out.”

From the top of that oak in the middle of Central Park, we leapt up into my energetic Alcubierre bubble. Gravity propelled us into the stratosphere, as we surfed miles above the contiguous United States.

Mid-flight, Kitty: “Are we going there now?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s leap back up into the movierain. It dons on me that someone I once knew on Earth_Home_, my origin planet, asked me if I’d ever leverage my newfound Thunderbird knowledge to benefit the planet, kind of like what the Crows are doing for Earth_PeaceProject_.”

“Oooh, your home planet!” Kitty said. “I’ve been meaning to visit.”

“I know.”

Droplet worlds torrented through our periphery as we sailed the Dew. I manifested Earth_Home_ in my line of sight, and we leapt to that world to rendezvous with Stacy, someone I had known in my terrestrial life there.

Kitty and I landed just outside the shop where Stacy and I used to get coffee. I didn’t have to channel Stacy’s vibration to locate my old friend; sure enough, she was in the coffee shop at the same time—Tuesdays at 2 p.m.—we had always met to chat. I opened the glass door and let Kitty in after me.

“Stacy!” I said. “How long has it been?”

“B-Bill?” Stacy said. “I never thought I’d see you again… It’s been a few years.”

“I promised you I’d return. I want to introduce you to my partner, Kitty.”

Stacy and Kitty made their acquaintances.

“Why have you returned after all this time?” Stacy said.

“I had to make good on your request. You said, if I could master leaping off planet, through the multiverse, would I return to share the wisdom from other planets.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “And?”

“And we found one such version of Earth, not unlike our home planet here, that has finally achieved world peace.”

I was referring, of course, to the planet we just leapt from—Earth_PeaceProject_—where the Crows were currently occupying to ensure the peaceful times stuck.

“That’s outstanding,” she said, as she sipped her quickly cooling coffee. “What now?”

“Well, I wanted to finally introduce you to Kitty here. And thought we’d let you know that we may have found a solution to this planet’s woes.”

“I’ve heard so much about you and Bill’s home world,” Kitty said. She was mostly being polite. I hadn’t spoken much about Stacy.

“I’m going to consult my Thunderbird colleagues, the Crows, next and see if they can find the time to swoop down to this ground. But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Bill,” Stacy said, “you’re nothing if not reliable. I appreciate your remembering our conversation that seems like lifetimes ago.”

She had no idea how many lifetimes it had been.

“We’ll be back!” I said. And like that, Kitty and I swiftly exited the coffee shop and right there on the sidewalk, I leapt up into my electromagnetic Alcubierre bubble. So did Kitty. Hovering a story or two above the ground, we broke spacetime back into the movierain. Off to the next world.

“I couldn’t believe the look on Stacy’s face,” Pete the Killer said into our earpieces, as we surfed the multiverse.

“Thunderbirds leaping freely between worlds can have that effect on terrestrials,” I said.

I turned to Kitty, who was surfing on my 8.

“I have a surprise for you!” I said. “Enough about my past, time to take you to one of your bucket list locales.”

Kitty’s light-up eyes on her helmet built from white to a beautiful violet. I concentrated on the identifying frequency for Earth_Letterman_ and resonated.

The spherical Drop which housed Kitty’s and my shuttle through the multiverse took on a deeply dark hue. The calamitous frequencies quieted to a dull chatter. Its membrane dissolved and we both touched down light of foot to a cool, linoleum floor. We were backstage on the Late Show with David Letterman.

“Are we going out there?” Kitty said. The tone in her voice indicated she was excited and a little nervous.

“Yeah, I set it up so we would be Letterman’s next guests,” I said. “I know you’ve always wanted to appear on a talk show.”

We heard the band play on between segments. And as the crowd settled, Letterman filled the large silence left by the formerly clapping studio audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Letterman commanded the attention of his production, “our next guests come to us from extremely far away. Please welcome Bill Thunderbird and Kitty.”

The audience applauded and cheered as we were whisked out on stage. Kitty and I walked out together, side by side. Letterman jaunted out from behind his desk to meet us halfway. He kissed Kitty’s hand and then extended his own to shake mine. He whispered in my ear as the crowd continued their applause.

“Good to see you again, Bill,” he said. “Let’s have a good set.”

Kitty sat in the seat closest to Letterman’s desk and I flanked her right side. As we sat and Letterman resumed his Late Show throne, his faithful studio audience quieted in the dark theatre.

“Welcome back, Bill,” he said. “And this is my first time meeting Kitty.”

“Yes, this is my partner, Kitty,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Dave,” Kitty said.

“Well, what have you two been up to lately?” Dave jumped right in.

“Oh, you know, just a little leaping,” I said. “We’re actually recording a podcast right now for my paper, The North Star.”

“How lovely,” Dave said. “What’s that, synergy?”

His crowd chuckled.

“And what has Kitty been doing while all of this dimensional leaping has commenced?” he said.

“I’m currently in Thunderbird training,” Kitty said. “Bill’s one of the best. I feel like I can learn a thing or two accompanying Him on these voyages through various levels of consciousness.”

“Wow, that sounds exciting,” Dave said.

Their conversation continued. I could tell Dave took a liking to Kitty. How could he not? As their banter continued, I queued to Kitty telepathically that we’d astral leap out of these bodies at the next commercial break.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, more with Kitty and Bill when we come back,” Dave said.

In the middle of a moment’s pause during our off-air small talk with the late-night host, Kitty and I leapt back up into our energetic selves hovering a few feet in midair of the Ed Sullivan Theatre. Before we left the dimension, Kitty grabbed my arm and turned to me.

“We’re just going to leave, mid-interview?” she said.

“We’re in between moments right now on this Earth,” I said. “We can return where and when we left off with Letterman. He won’t even notice we’ve left.”

“OK, cool,” she said. “Gotta keep it moving for the podcast audience.”

“We appreciate it!” we heard Paul say into our helmets. “Loving this flow.”

“Where next, fearless leader?” Kitty said.

“I thought we’d take a trip down memory lane,” I said. “Remember those Earths you had to rescue me from?”

“Yes!” she said. “Those are some of my first retrievals. You remembered.”

I set an existential course with Earth_Analog2020_, vibrating our Drop to attune with this Earth version’s vibe. Before long, we descended into the atmosphere of the planet that had helped me set the first record for longest stay. We flew to The Herald‘s offices, where I had worked as a local reporter for the small-town weekly.

“I feel like I was just here yesterday,” Kitty said, as our Thunderbird feet touched down.

I knew all too well to what she was referring. When you spend decades on a planet, the familiar sights, sounds and scents suck your earthly mind back into the furniture of that landscape. Spend too long on a planet, and you’ll forget altogether how to leave.

“I thought this Earth might spur some feelings of nostalgia,” I said. “I want to introduce you to my first newspaper editor, at The Herald.”

We entered the paper’s main office lobby. Mildred the receptionist’s face went white at the sight of me.

“Bill?!” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Uh, hi, Mildred,” I said. “I had to take a remote assignment rather abruptly. Sorry for the no notice. Is John the editor in? Oh, and this is my partner Kitty.”

“Hi, Kitty,” she said. “Yes, yes, he’s in his office. I’ll buzz you two through.”

John’s reaction to our impromptu pop-in was similar to Mildred’s. He looked like he had seen a ghost setting eyes upon me. I guess, in some ways, he had.

After a somewhat awkward introduction I mediated between him and Kitty, we found ourselves sat in his office reminiscing on old stories I had reported for the newspaper. I could sense the conversation could go long, since apparently a lot had happened in town since I left. Telepathically, I connected with Kitty again who was sitting next to me on John’s sleek, leather couch.

I want to keep catching up with John, I said mentally to Kitty’s mind. At the next pause in conversation, let’s astrally leap out of our physical bodies. We can return to this exact point whenever—us sitting on my editor’s couch engaged in conversation. We just need to keep the podcast feed moving.

Sounds good, she pinged back telepathically.

“We appreciate it,” Paul said in our helmets. He and Pete the Killer and their entire live podcast audience could hear our internal dialogue as well.

Then, John’s voice volume ramped up rapidly the way your childhood teacher would raise their voice during an afternoon lecture to keep you from dozing off.

“Remember that fire at the Fargus mansion?” John said. “The blaze was huuuge.”

I sunk into the couch leather, pretending to contemplate on that momentous time, but really I was mentally preparing to astrally leap. And in that pregnant moment of pause, Kitty and I leapt out of our physical shells set in editor John’s office, with the newsman none the wiser.

Amidst the movierain, surfing the multiverse once again, I keyed Kitty into our next destination.

“All this newspaper talk has me wanting to check in on how the nascent local weekly on Earth_Suburban_ is shaping up,” I said. “Jacob and Gabe’s Earth in the Drop’s 10-o’clock position seems like the next natural stop.”

“I’m sensing a trend here,” Kitty said. “That’s now two Earths you’ve mentioned where you’re tied to local newspapers. Didn’t I also free you from Earth_3.14159×10^100, while you were working for a local weekly there?”

“Yeah, the Gainsville Gazette,” I said. “It’s not surprising that I gravitate toward this type of work while undergoing terrestrial existence. It’s basically what we’re doing now on a 5th-dimensional level: covering a beat.”

“Except your regular haunts are entire planets, instead of physical establishments in some sleepy town,” chimed Pete the Killer, as my helmet continued to broadcast our multiversal journey.

“That’s why I call this rhythmic leaping between harmonic spheres the Earths Beat,” I said. “Reporting in the 3rd, 4th or 5th dimension is baked into my DNA on any plane of existence.”

I channeled the frequency for Earth_Suburban_, and two seconds later Kitty and I found ourselves standing on a street corner in the town center of Shermer. Usually, while visiting this planet, we’d head directly to the tavern for a good storytelling session with our brethren townsfolk. But today, we were hot on pursuit of the exciting, burgeoning trend bringing the craft of local print news reporting back to this region.

“Bill, take a look at this,” Kitty said, gesturing to a small, yellow newspaper vending machine on the sidewalk.

The periodical dispensing box read across its top: Shermer Sun. It was a local weekly that had just sprouted from the growing reintroduction to local news sweeping the region. It was exciting and refreshing to witness the resurgence of democracy’s fourth estate happening in Shermer and the greater county at large. More interesting, the headline:

“Who Are These Mysterious Weekly Visitors?” the front page read. And there was a giant, blurry photo of shadowy figures clumped together walking downtown at night. I could clearly make out the silhouette of my helmet and dorsal feather from one of the figures. The lead story was about this Thunderbird and His Cheshire crew.

“Uh oh,” I said. “It appears our clandestine storytelling in town has leaked. Well, that’s just good investigative reporting. Grab a copy.”

The paper had printed and delivered but one issue and local news was already hot on the trail of yours truly. The story added mystique to our presence in Shermer. It also acted as a warning that we need to be a little more discreet on our Wednesday night visits.

“Looks like you guys are already famous here,” I heard Pete the Killer say into our helmets.

“If they could procure this photo under the cover of night,” I said, “there’s no telling what witnesses could get in broad daylight like right now.”

I turned to Kitty, “Let’s leap back to the Cheshire for a moment. I want to pick up Guillermo and head to his Earth in the Drop’s 12-o’clock position next. We can return to Shermer momentarily, albeit inconspicuously.”

So as not to further blow our cover, Kitty and I slunk into the Shermer Public Library and set a breadcrumb to return. And, from the stacks, we astrally leapt back up into the movierain and onto the Cheshire spaceship. We found Guillermo in the galley making a sandwich.

“Guillermo,” I said. “Kitty and I are currently recording a podcast for The North Star and wanted to show them your jungle Earth. Care to join us?”

“As long as I can eat while we leap,” he said.

There, from the Cheshire kitchen, I added Guillermo’s energetic essence in addition to Kitty’s already in tow of my hovering spherical Drop, and piloted the electromagnetic Alcubierre bubble to what I had coined Earth_Guillermo_, a planet with the largest Amazonian rainforest I had ever seen. I relinquished the tour guide reins to our shaman.

As we phased my Drop vehicle from the Cheshire’s kitchen, vibrating the Drop’s outer wall membrane to the frequency of Guillermo’s jungle Earth, I introduced our new guest to the podcast hosts.

“Guys,” I said, “this is the Cheshire’s resident shaman Guillermo. He’s the one who originally taught me how to tap into a planet’s fundamental essence. He’s done so on the jungle planet we’re about to land upon. So I thought it fitting to let him lead the way.”

“Great to meet you, Guillermo,” Paul said. “You may have a tough act to follow. Bill and Kitty here have led myself, Pete and our entire live audience on the merriest of excursions, thus far.”

“Don’t worry, fellas,” Guillermo said. “The forest is plentiful with spirits and magic, which tell a never-ending tale.”

We touched down on the forest floor of Earth_Guillermo_. Guillermo, as our guide, wasted no time. He quickly found a serene place to sit and meditate under a giant Shihuahuaco tree. I could telepathically tell he had tapped into the planetary essence and was communing with Its vast network of flora.

“I’m talking to the trees,” he said, with eyes still closed.

We sat in silence for a few beats. We could only hear the peaceful sounds of nature. Then, Pete the Killer chimed in.

“I’m digging this spiritual experience,” Pete said, “but it doesn’t make for great TV.”

I knew Guillermo’s conversations with plant spirits could last hours, even days. So I took Pete’s cue to move onto the next world.

“Guillermo,” I said, “we’ll leave you to the plant spirits for now and we’ll return in a few.”

Eyes still closed, Guillermo gently nodded. Kitty and I leapt back up into my energetic Drop, broke through the local spacetime into the movierain and descended into the next droplet world, Earth_CityFlat_, whose entrance sat permanently at the 2-o’clock position of my stationary Drop. It was always only a thought or two away, when piloting the tighter, epicentral orb of the Drop, mid-flight, through the movierain.

“I have another surprise for you,” I said to Kitty as we touched down on a Village street in Earth_CityFlat_’s local neighborhood. “You know some of that new music you heard me listening to the other day?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to take you to the origin of this new form,” I said. “The movement’s burgeoning in a city neighborhood just north of here.”

The city was electric with the scent of new music. “Beep boop,” they called it. Earth_CityFlat_’s spirit Ariadne had tipped me off to where some of the prime players in this new art form hung out.

We zipped to one artist’s basement recording studio. His name was Bowflex. After energetically hovering through city streets to the north neighborhood, we materialized onto Bowflex’s stoop. I rung the doorbell. Bowflex answered.

“Bill! I had a feeling you may be dropping by,” he said.

“Bowflex, I want to introduce you to my partner, Kitty,” I said.

“Hey, Kitty. I understand you’re a fan of beep boop.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I had never heard anything like it before, but now I’m hooked.”

We descended into Bowflex’s basement. He showed us a few tracks he was working on. And we got into the origins about how this new art form was taking shape.

“You need a magazine to chronicle this artistic movement,” I said. “In the early days of hip hop, on Earth_42_, they had The Source. It created a central reference for all artists and fans to check in on how this new music was evolving. New albums, for instance, would earn anywhere from 0 to 4 microphones. Maybe beep boop could incorporate some kind of rating system like that.”

Bowflex’s mixing board lit up in synchronization with the beep boop beats playing in the background.

“How did this musical form originate?” Kitty said.

The beeps and boops grew louder. It’s as if the new music herself had heard Kitty’s question.

“Oh, that’s quite a story to tell,” Bowflex said.

I looked over at Kitty. As we sat in swivel seats behind the studio’s blinking console, I telepathically indicated to her that it was time to astrally leap again. We’d leave our physical shells swiveling in these seats for now and return to hear Bowflex’s story.

We leapt. My orb expanded around Kitty and me, undetected by Bowflex in his dark, basement studio. Back unto the movierain we went.

“It’s time to head to Ron and Rachael’s Earth,” I said. “I also wanted to introduce you to Poseidon on Earth_Ocean_.”

Breaking into the water world of Earth_Ocean_ was perhaps one of our easiest exits from the movierain. The watery planet of Ron and Rachael was Poseidon’s main haunt, although He populated all Earths’ water—real, imagined, dreamt or otherwise. He was probably one of my most famous friends.

“I can’t wait to meet the ocean god,” Kitty said, as we glided at high speeds, several meters above the ocean’s briny chop. A cliffed, green coast hung just over the horizon. Thick mist occupied the space between us and the land mass. We wouldn’t have even seen that edge were it not for the lighthouse shining brightly on top of the highest cliff. We circled the giant spire three times and then darted back out to sea. It was easier to summon Poseidon when sailing way out on the water where one could nearly forget there was ever land.

After several seconds of careening fleetly, a giant whirlpool formed in the water below. We button-hooked around that, as it grew in diameter. At its center, emerged the massive ocean god, Poseidon.

“Bill!” He said with the clamour of a hurricane. “Nice of you to visit. Who’s this?”

“Kitty, sir!” I said. “I told her of our exploits together and she wanted to meet you.”

“I’m honored,” He said. “Would you care to accompany me on a current sea squall about to take place? We can swim and chat.”

We tethered our enegetic orb to the ocean god, who pulled us through the saltwater as if it were fog. When we finally resurfaced, we were a few hundred yards out from a tropical archipelago.

“We need to intervene at this surf community,” He said. “Like the crashing waves their culture celebrates, they’re currently weathering a potentially volatile conflict that we need to quell. I could handle this calamity myself, but glad to have Bill and his friend as company.”

The strip of tiny islands flung out on an otherwise open ocean were unable to reach consensus. The two main ali’i—Kamehameha IV and Ko’olau—who ruled opposite ends of the archipelago were at odds. They were in disagreement on how to handle the impending storm fast approaching their lands.

“The terrible squall Tugbato is in hot pursuit of these islands,” Poseidon said, as we approached. “The cyclone forms once every 50 years. It devastates the islands every time. Even worse: the two island monarchs and their subjects can’t agree on how to weather Tugbato this time.”

Poseidon would go on to explain to Kitty and me that one chief, Kamehameha, intended to stand their ground, resisting the destructive forces of this 50-years storm with the unifying might of their people. His equal, Ko’olau would rather sail out to sea and wait out the storm. He believed whatever destruction their islands sustained could be repaired, but human lives could not be replaced. The two chieftains represented the two schools of thought among all their people, but a divided archipelago would not survive. Time was running out, and as one unified island nation they needed to remain.

We touched down on the beach. The air was eerily calm. It was the calm before Tugbato.

“Now, Bill and Kitty, it’s a law of the sea that I can’t intervene directly with these island people,” Poseidon said. “I have ideas on how I’d usually protect the sea-faring community, but I’m interesed in what you may think.”

I turned to Kitty standing next to me in the sand. I had some ideas on how to save these people, while keeping their fragile political structure intact, but we had one final stop to make on our continuous journey. Telepathically, I indicated to her that we’d leave these earthly shells on the beach for now to return momentarily. We wouldn’t leave Poseidon hanging.

I slowed time on the islands to a near standstill. Kitty and I leapt our energetic selves out of those earthly bodies. I formed the Alcubierre orb and like that we were flying among the movierain once again.

“What’s our final destination?” Kitty said with eager anticipation.

“We have to head to Earth_Baseball_,” I said, “in the 8-o’clock position of the Drop. But we’re not going to a baseball game today.”

“Oh, then why do we need to head there?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you about Earth_Baseball_ yet,” I said. “It’s also your Earth of origin. We’re headed there to meet your parents.”

Even sailing high in the 5th-dimension, with her Thunderbird helmet on, I could tell Kitty blushed at my delivery of this news. She had never realized that Earth_Baseball_ had been her home planet all along, since we labeled worlds by our entry points to them. In the case of Earth_Baseball_, we had entered the planet a thousand miles from where she had grown up.

“I had always sensed something special about that particular planet,” she said. “I’m both excited and nervous to introduce you to my parents.”

I resonated the precipitating orb of our Drop with the frequency of Earth_Baseball_. A large, droplet world formed just ahead of us as we flew. And we descended down into its world. We landed on the doorstep of Kitty’s childhood home, where her parents still lived. I rung the doorbell. Kitty and I made sure to remove our helmets before her parents answered the door.

“Kitty!” her dad said, upon opening the grand, oak entrance with a golden knocker. “How are you here right now?? We thought you’d be stationed on the other side of the universe in the Cheshire for at least another five years. What a pleasant surprise!”

“Yes, I am still stationed there, dad,” she said. “We’re actually still aboard that spaceship if you can believe it. We’ve manifested physical forms on this planet, after leaping impossible distances of time and space, so that I could introduce you and mom to my partner, Bill, here. I’ve been leaping dimensions with Him lately. That’s the only way I could be here right now.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I said, and held out my hand to shake.

“You too, Bill,” he said, and then he looked at Kitty. “Well, your mother’s inside somewhere. Come in and sit down, you two, we’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.”

We entered the quaint colonial and sat down on the couch in the living room. Kitty’s dad called up to his wife to come visit with their unexpected guests. As Kitty and I waited for her mom to descend from upstairs, I telepathically connected with her.

While we wait for you mom, I said, let’s leap back up into the movierain and leave our physical bodies sat on your parents’ living room couch. It’s time to do the rounds for all the worlds we’ve visited in this podcast, thus far.

Kitty gently nodded, as her dad searched his words for small talk, and we astrally leapt out of that home, unto the movierain once again.

The droplet worlds flew by our peripherals as fast as ever.

“OK, guys,” I said to the two podcast hosts, who had remained quiet on the last two worlds we visited, “we’re going to pick up the pace on this dimensional leaping a bit. We’ve left bookmarks on all destinations. We’ll seamlessly return to each.”

“Sounds great, guys,” Paul said through our helmets’ earpieces.

The house band’s tempo kicked up to “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton.

First, we resonated our traveling orb with the world frequency of Earth_Berkeley_, where the professor and his students were exploring dimensional leaping techniques. We seamlessly re-entered that Earth space and the Berkeley classroom exactly where we had left off, a half hour or so ago on the live podcast runtime. Although no time had passed for Professor O’Halleran and his students…

Janice was about to tell us of the most exotic Earth she’s visited.

“Humans were not the only intelligent species on this version,” she said. “There were also these rather large, lizard people—standing eight or nine feet tall—that had emerged centuries ago from deep, underground caves.”

“What were they like?” Kitty’s eyes were wide with curiosity.

“It turns out that they had been running the world from the shadows,” Janice said.

At her utterance of “shadows,” the spacetime surrounding Kitty and me began to shake. My Thunderbird id was resonating with another recent world we had visited—Earth_PeaceProject_. Our entire space was consumed with wavy lines that resembled the heat signatures rapidly subliming from the asphalt of some desert highway on a 100-degree day. The concept of shadows linked Kitty and my consciousness to the hearts of those resisting peace on L.A. streets. They were about to riot.

The shimmering that encompassed us calmed. And we found ourselves next to the Crow Thunderbird Jab, who was currently hovering mere feet above Sunset Boulevard in L.A. A large crowd growing in hostility had formed down on the ground. They brandished handmade signs that read things like “Peace is not peace, if it’s forced!” and screaming things like “Go home, Crows!” They clearly had not liked the imposed peace project upon their planet.

“Bill!” Jab said. “Where did you come from?”

“I was just talking to your leader Leviathan,” I said. “He told me that things were flaring up on this corner of the globe. We’re here to help or at least observe the Crows in action.”

“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” the intimidating Crow said. “We’re not all force, you know. We’ll enter each one of these rioters’ minds to better understand what in their past is prompting them to resist our presence so violently. Though, right now, they wish us harm, we as enlightened beings know that this rage is misguided. We’re happy to correct their pathologies.”

“…Correct their pathologies” echoed in my mind. Our setting—these L.A. streets—blurred once again, like it had done in Berkeley’s Birge Hall classroom. I tuned our world frequency from Earth_PeaceProject_ to Earth_Home_, where Stacy awaited our response for curing her world’s qualms.

Kitty and I landed just outside the coffee shop, in the wake of our exit point from that exact locale earlier in the broadcast. Stacy was still sipping her coffee that had not yet cooled.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Stacy said, upon our return to the coffee shop.

“We’ve spoken to the Crows,” I said. “I haven’t convinced them yet to visit this planet. They’re still dealing with quelling Earth_PeaceProject_. But we have gleaned some wisdom.”

Mid-sip, Stacy nodded to indicate I should continue.

“Thunderbirds, like the Crows you see, possess the uncanny ability to enter the hearts and minds of earthlings,” I said. “They can intimately understand why a person or militant group of people can resort to violence. That’s what they’re doing on Earth_PeaceProject_.”

“And you think they could do that for this Earth?” Stacy said.

Kitty and I were sat on either side of Stacy, at the window-side bar of the coffee shop. It takes but a moment between seconds to leap. At Stacy’s uttering of “…Earth?” our local spacetime blurred once again. I could have answered Stacy right then and there, but I knew we could return at the speed of thought. So we left our corporeal bodies sat in that coffee shop, as the time on Earth_Home_ slowed to a snail’s motion.

The blurring continued. Kitty’s and my energetic selves reverberated with all electromagnetism. And when the vibrations calmed, we were both still sat. But now back on the set of the Late Show of Earth_Letterman_.

Letterman and I sat on either side of Kitty, Letterman at his talk show desk of course. The stage was dark, as the host had just sent us to commercial break.

“Great first segment, guys,” Letterman said, leaning in, as his band played on.

The overhead lights beamed bright. The band stopped.

“OK, we’re back!” Letterman said. “So you been to any cool worlds or what?”

“Well, as we mentioned before the break, we’re currently filming a podcast right now,” I said. “We’re touring their audience through about a dozen or so worlds.”

“Oh yeah?!” Letterman’s interest was piqued. “Any of them got, uh, any of those vuvuzelas?”

The studio audience laughed at Letterman’s callback to those cheap, plastic horns ubiquitous in World Cup stadia.

“We’ve recently come from an Earth where inhabitants have spontaneously learned to dimensionally leap,” Kitty said. “We’ve visited an Earth that has just experienced planetary peace. We’ve also landed on Bill’s home world, all just minutes before appearing here, Dave.”

“That is fantastic,” Letterman said. “Must feel like the rug pulls out from right under ya, huh?”

“Oh ya,” I said. And then I telepathically pinged Kitty to keep her corporeal body sat in Letterman’s guest chair. The Ed Sullivan Theatre’s cool air then blurred and shimmered. When our minds’ eyes focused again, Kitty and I were sat on Herald editor John’s leather couch, of Earth_Analog2020_.

“Remember that Fargus fire?” John repeated his question for emphasis.

“Yeah, that was my first story,” I said. “I cut my reporter’s teeth on that fire.”

“You’ll be happy to know,” Kitty interjected, “that Bill has continued his reporter craft.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” John said. “Well, there’s been a lot happening around here in your absence.”

The mention of “absence” was enough of a segue for me. John’s office blurred. We’d return soon to satisfy the cliffhanger of what The Herald had covered recently. But right now, I tuned our frequency to Jacob and Gabe’s Earth_Suburban_, where their town weekly had been reporting on these Thunderbirds.

The 5th-dimensional dust settled. And Kitty and I stood in the Shermer Library stacks where we had left our breadcrumb—a small, non-descript paper bookmark we had tucked inside a novel on a nearby shelf. We were both dying to know how a Shermer Sun reporter had caught wind of our weekly Thunderbird presence.

We had left a copy of the newspaper on a table between the library stacks, where people sat to study. The periodical was still there, since barely a moment had passed relative to this world. Within the privacy of those back aisles, we continued to read the front-page story.

The lede: “They only seem to appear on Wednesday nights, descending down from a quaint cape in a neighborhood on the outskirts of town. Their neighbors report little to no activity around the house the rest of the week. Are they world travelers? CIA? The people of Shermer want to know. A few townsfolk have seen these mysterious, weekly figures enter the tavern on Wednesday nights. Although, after asking several of the regulars there if they can provide any more detail to these unknowns, their invariable response was of no help to this reporter: ‘No comment.’”

“Good,” I said, putting down the paper. “At least the tavern guys haven’t dimed us out yet. As long as they keep our presence close to the vest, no ripple effects should escape Shermer.”

“Maybe we should keep moving,” Kitty added. “Being here in broad daylight is making me antsy.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “And next Wednesday, we should probably enter the tavern through the back door. And we’ll have to keep that back room exclusive to only those in the know.”

The stale air in the Shermer Library began to shimmer. I was preparing Kitty and my relative spacetime to tune into a new frequency—Earth_Guillermo_. Vibrations all around increased rapidly and then subsided. And we stood in the Amazon jungle. Guillermo was still meditating. He was in full trance, attuned to the plants talking to him. And he was singing an icaro that melodically interpreted their higher floral language.

We didn’t immediately want to stir Guillermo from his transcendental practice. We took a breath.

“Bill,” Paul piped up. “How are you leaping between these worlds without passing through the movierain intermediary?”

“Great question,” I said, always eager to illuminate laymen on our Thunderbirdcraft. “Each world, each individual event even, carries its own signature frequency. I’ve become attuned to the dozen or so worlds we’ve queued up for this show. So now, it’s just a matter of tuning our own existential frequency to resonate with each.”

“Fascinating,” he said, as Guillermo’s plant chanting hummed in the background on our end.

Then, Guillermo slowly awoke from his trance.

“The roots beneath our feet are electric,” Guillermo said. “I’ve talked to the plants and they have a message for the humans: ‘Though you walk freely among the forest floor, you, me, we are all connected. You must understand that your individual actions affect the whole…’”

Guillermo then slipped back into a melodic icaro.

“Let’s leap to the next dimension,” I whispered to Kitty, “while he continues his download from the rainforest plants.”

My energetic orb surrounding Kitty and me blurred the inside spacetime and I tuned frequencies to Earth_CityFlat_. We were still sat in Bowflex’s basement recording studio. He was about to tell us the origin of beep boop.

“As in almost all musical forms,” Bowflex said, “there were a combination of factors that we can attribute to its origin. But the signature sound of beep boop harks from those throwback dial-up modems in the internet’s infancy. Remember those?”

Bowflex was referring to the cacophonous sounds of digital data that Earth_CityFlat_ (and many Earths like it) heard to access the internet over phone lines, via dial-up modems. From a musical perspective, the juxtaposed tones carried no tune, but some savvy, experimental composers of that time heard potential where others only suffered noise. Bowflex would go on to explain that these pioneers sampled the modem sounds, layering them over instrumental tracks.

“The resultant music emulated jazz’s improvisational bebop and scatting, but with a modern feel,” he continued.

“Kind of reminds me of Guillermo’s icaros that speak to the plants,” Kitty said.

“Who’s Guillermo?” Bowflex said.

Kitty and I looked at each other, our eyes searching the other’s for how to explain our colleague. It takes but a moment between seconds to leap. So in that pregnant pause, I telepathically indicated to Kitty that it was time to phase to the next dimension. I resonated our relative spacetime with that of Earth_Ocean_‘s and, like that, we were again standing on the sandy beach of the archipelago, with Poseidon.

When last we left them, a storm was fast approaching.

“Any ideas?” Poseidon said, as groups of natives grew in size and frustration by the water’s edge. A line in the sand had been drawn by the two chieftains, where their people chose sides on an archipelago now divided.

“Let me fly out to meet Tugbato on the open water,” I said.

But before I could wait for a response from the water god or Kitty herself, I lifted Kitty and myself out of our beach bodies and resonated our Alcubierre bubble with the frequency for Earth_Baseball_.

If you recall, we were sitting in Kitty’s childhood home, on the living room couch. Last we left her dad, he was making small talk. We could answer his mundane questions easily enough—things like “How are you liking your work aboard the Cheshire?” or “Are you getting along with Captain?”—that I could also telepathically talk to her in tandem.

What do you mean you’re going to meet the storm Tugbato? Kitty said in my mind.

I think there’s a way for both island chieftains to be right, I thought back to her mind, without splitting their people down the middle OR facing imminent destruction.

We heard Kitty’s mom’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Is that my daughter I hear down there?!” her mom said.

Before her mom could enter view, though, I blurred our spacetime once again. At our next breath, we were tuned to the Earth_Berkeley_ classroom.

“The lizard people did NOT like that I possessed the ability to leap dimensions,” Janice continued. “I only stayed for a moment, and then quickly returned to this Earth.”

“How do you think you were able to reach such an exotic Earth?” I said.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t entirely know. I do know that my mind was the most clear it has ever been just prior to leaping.”

“Perhaps the pure nothingness allowed an Earth from near obscurity to enter your purview,” Kitty said.

The class contemplated on this profound notion. I seized the mossy moment to blur our reality onto Earth_PeaceProject_.

Kitty and I were hovering with Jab and His murder of Crows once again, high above the L.A. streets ready to riot. The Crows were deep in midair meditation. They were entering the minds of the would-be rioters to better understand their motives.

We telepathically followed Their cerebral signatures reading each of the militant earthlings down below. Images of their past trauma flooded the podcast feed. Some had been beaten as children. Others had been picked on or were otherwise ostracized as youths. Whatever each respective rioter’s case, they had misdirected their rage toward the Crows.

I tuned our existential channel to Earth_Home_ where we still sat with Stacy in the coffee shop. She had just asked if the Crows could perform similar peacekeeping services for her Earth.

“I believe they can,” I said. “They travel into the minds of aggressors to better understand their motives. I don’t see why they couldn’t do that here.”

“They really attack the violence at the source, huh,” Stacy said.

Before Kitty or I could answer, I channeled Earth_Letterman_, where Dave had just asked us if rapidly leaping dimensions felt like a rug slipping out from under us.

“You don’t know the half of it, Dave,” I said.

I shifted our existential channels to Earth_Analog2020_. Herald editor John was about to tell us what’s happened at the paper since my absence.

“Our readership has really grown,” John continued. “We’ve exposed corruption in local government. We’ve been able to advocate for many of the small businesses in our town. And several of our columnists have really found their voice, speaking directly to the hearts and minds of our readers.”

“Readers” rung in my ear and I phase shifted the spacetime frequency to Earth_Suburban_, where Kitty and I still stood in the Shermer Public Library.

“Let’s materialize some street clothes while we tour this Earth during the day,” I said to Kitty.

We walked out of the library inconspicuously. Though no one on the street could see it, I was still wearing my Thunderbird helmet, Bueller.

“We’re going to walk down the street and introduce you to some of the tavern guys,” I said to the podcast hosts and audience, via my helmet feed. “It’s almost quitting time. Some of them should be there by now.”

Mid-stride, Kitty and I tuned the world channel to Earth_Guillermo_.

Guillermo was still singing his icaro. Chanting and singing, he completed this round of the plant download. He stopped singing and kept his eyes closed.

“We are all one Earth, as we stand on Her planet,” he said. “We are Her children. But we must also celebrate our unique perspectives of the same planet we share. We represent polydimensional viewpoints of a single body. This is what the plants wish to tell the humans.”

“Profound,” I heard Pete the Killer say into our earpieces.

Guillermo’s icaros echoed in my mind well after he had ceased singing. The plant jingle spurred my memory toward Earth_CityFlat_. And, in the single breath of a channel shift, we were back in Bowflex’s basement studio.

Bowflex had just asked about Guillermo.

“He’s one of our colleagues,” Kitty said. “He can communicate with plants by singing their language in icaros. It’s a melodic exchange of information, not unlike the inspiration for beep boop.”

“That’s rad,” Bowflex said.

The basement was so cool and calm, I almost didn’t want to leave. But the podcast show must go on, I thought. I phased our frequencies to rougher waters, on Earth_Ocean_. I was about to fly out to meet tropical storm Tugbato.

Poseidon agreed with my pitch. I left Kitty, the water god, and the island natives all on the beach, while I flew out over the chop to meet the formidable cyclone.

Winds picked up. Ocean waves growing larger in magnitude crashed louder and louder as I approached the ominous Tugbato front.

“Who dares interrupt my path?!” Tugbato wailed as howling wind.

His sonic boom sound shook this Thunderbird a bit. In response, I phased Kitty and me into the safer confines of her parents’ home on Earth_Baseball_.

Did you talk to the tropical storm? Kitty said telepathically to me as we sat on her living room couch.

Her mom had finally made it to the first floor and entered the room.

“Kitty! My baby!” she said.

I’ll tell you after this, I thought back.

“And who’s this?” Kitty’s mom said, now looking at me.

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer her. To buy time, I tuned our relative spacetime back to Prof. O’Halleran’s classroom on Earth_Berkeley_.

“My mind feels, by far, the most clear sitting under a redwood meditating,” Arnold, another one of the professor’s students, added to Kitty’s theory about clearing your mind pre-leap.

Our frequent leaping picked up pace even further. The upbeat “Jolene” jingled in the back of my mind.

Earth_PeaceProject_: “We’ve waded through most of the crowd’s psyches now,” Jab said to me, describing His team’s effort to quell mob rage. “These are all good people down on the ground, and we can remind them of that… albeit supernaturally.”

Earth_Home_: “Yes, the Crows are as thorough as they are effective,” I said, in response to Stacy’s question of the Thunderbird murder’s integrity. “Once their done on Earth_PeaceProject_, I’ll refer them here.”

Earth_Letterman_: “Yowsah!” Letterman said. “That kind of action would drive me to drink.”

Earth_Analog2020_: “So what have you been up to all this time, Bill?” John the editor said. Kitty and I just looked at each other. I decided to show not tell…

Earth_Suburban_: Kitty and I entered the Shermer Tavern. A few of the regulars were sat at the main, square-shaped bar in the front room. We motioned them to head to the back.

Earth_Guillermo_: “Though the plants seem still, they move ever so slightly. Their timelines are on a much longer scale compared to the scurrying humans, whose entire life spans seem like flickers to the near immortal plant life.”

Earth_CityFlat_: We channeled one of Guillermo’s icaros into Bowflex’s basement studio. “Could you make this into a beep boop song?” I said.

“For sure,” Bowflex said.

Earth_Ocean_: “Terrible storm, Tugbato!” I said. “I’ve flown out on the open ocean to kindly request that you veer your course.”

“And WHY would I do that?” Tugbato said.

“To spare the tiny island community that would otherwise be in your destructive path,” I said.

Earth_Baseball_: “I’m Kitty’s partner,” I said to her mother.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bill,” she said. “And thank you for bringing our daughter home to us! Can you stay long?”

We cycled through these 10 Earths a few more times, at breakneck speeds. I could sense static in Kitty’s mind. After all, I was the one piloting our Alcubierre orb through the dimensions. It must have been dizzying for her, not knowing when we’d leap next.

To alleviate Kitty’s spinning, I encouraged her to float out of this 5th-dimensional torus of Earths we had created in the leaping.

“Why don’t you hover above my path in the movierain?” I said, mid-flight, surfing between dimensions. Droplets precipitated all around in torrents.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I could use a rest.”

“Fellas,” I said to the podcast hosts, “Kitty’s going to hover above the 5th-dimensional path we’ve created. I’m going to switch my helmet feed to hers, once she’s high enough above.”

“Roger,” Paul said.

An instant later, Kitty slung out of the spiral to hover above my leaping, lightning path between droplet Earths. I was the unifying black thread sewing together reality.

“It’s beautiful, Bill,” she said.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Pete the Killer added.

The Earths we had strung together along this transdimensional path—and the infinite events contained on each planet—manifested as droplets torrenting in a continually recycling torus. These droplets became like particles following the wave pattern of the reverberating doughnut errupting from the center, descending droplets down its outer wall and then feeding back into its center from the bottom. It glowed brilliantly, a divine yellow-white whose emitting mist resembled the rainbow halo after a rain storm.

“Kitty!” I said, leaping at impossible velocities within the torus. “Navigate to 40.5365° N, 80.1844° W on Earth_3.14159×10^100. I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s happening, Bill?” Paul said to keep his podcast audience engaged.

“We need a respite from this rapid leaping,” I said. “Kitty and I are going to steal away at a cookout that occurs in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. On this version of Earth, the movie Houseguest actually happened.”

Kitty and I rendezvoused just outside the backyard of the Sewickley cookout. We entered the property clandestinely, as the get-together roared in full swing. Sinbad and Phil Hartman had each just snatched barbecued chicken thighs, eating them over paper plates while they sat on the back deck’s steps.

“…C’mon, there’s got to be some way out of this,” Phil Hartman said to Sinbad.

“There’s one way,” Sinbad said.

We sat next to them on the house’s back porch steps. They didn’t know we weren’t invited to the cookout either.

The mobsters in hot pursuit of Sinbad and Hartman barged into the backyard through the hedges. The comedic duo jolted to their feet to flee and re-enter the 5K. Then, Kitty and I had the steps to ourselves.

“It’s nice to finally have a break,” Kitty said. “Should we get some chicken?”

“We won’t be here long enough,” I said. “I just wanted us to regroup.”

“It was so interesting viewing your torus pathway, as you leapt between worlds,” she said. “I noticed the mist wafting off the particle worlds that formed that haze. I think those were lost souls struggling to find their next life within one of those Earths.”

“Incongruous reincarnation?” I said.

“Maybe. Do you think we could help them? Do you think we could do a better job of relocating those lost souls?”

“It’s worth a try,” I said.

“What’s happening now?” Paul said into our earpieces.

Per usual, Kitty and I were on the same wavelength, but I elaborated for the podcast audience. I told them we’d wind down the torus of worlds and then install a safehaven for souls leaving any of the dozen or so worlds we covered. Instead of haphazardly hoping for these spirits to soundly land in their next life, Kitty and I created a place to intervene.

If the torus was a Dyson sphere, then Kitty’s soul sanctuary hung in the center. Like my Drop, this fully manifested world was hollow. The inside of its edges were lush with forests and greenery and inviting jungle bungalows where souls passing through could rest and recalibrate before their next earthly life.

“You guys just spun up this world on the fly??” Pete the Killer said.

“That’s a little trick of the Thunderbirds,” I said.

I left Kitty to tend to her newly fashioned garden of souls. She really had a knack for understanding how a soul in one life could become misguided, die, and then unleash their own brand of paranormal hell in the afterlife. She didn’t shy away from these monsters, but instead met them where they were. She helped them shed the psychic, self-imposed bondage they accumulated in life so that they could choose a better situation in the next.

As Kitty established her soul sanctuary, I closed out the loops created from our world hopping. We said our goodbyes.

Tropical storm Tugbato agreed to veer his course on Earth_Ocean_. “Oh, I didn’t realize there were people in my path,” he said. He really wasn’t that bad of a low-pressure system, once you got to know him.

I left Guillermo to continue meditating in the Amazon jungle. He could find his way back to my Drop, by walking through the 12-o’clock position from Earth_Guillermo_, when he was ready.

I sent Herald editor John, on Earth_Analog2020_, a recording of this podcast, after he asked what I had been up to. It was for his eyes only.

Bowflex, form Earth_CityFlat_, sent me a beep boop mixtape inspired by Guillermo’s icaros. Shit slaps.

I promised the boys on Earth_Suburban_ that we’d broadcast a live North Star podcast from the tavern’s back room one of these days, after they met the hosts, Paul and Pete the Killer.

Prof. O’Halleran invited Kitty and me back to his class on Earth_Berkeley_, as guest lecturers for dimensional leaping, after he let the Big Cat out of the bag that Kitty and I were Thunderbirds.

Dave and his Late Show audience were perplexed when Kitty disappeared from the guest chair into thin air. I set my helmet Bueller on his desk, with white, electric eye lights flashing, to wipe their memories clean. This reduced the risk for ripple effects on Earth_Letterman_.

We promised Stacy we’d refer the Crows to Earth_Home_, once they had completed pacifying Earth_PeaceProject_. I told her I’d run the official request up the flagpole to the Thunderbird Order.

And Kitty and I made a point to return to visiting her parents on Earth_Baseball_, when we finished recording the podcast. We didn’t want to be rude.

As we wound down the Earths Beat torus, the hosts played some ads from their sponsors and entered the final show segment.

“All this adventure is great, Bill!” Pete the Killer said, returning to the broadcast. “But what about Earth_42_? We were hoping to revisit the planet that kicked all of this off.”

The question, although intended to be harmless, was a gut shot. As it sat in the 6-o’clock position of my Drop, it was the heaviest world to bear. I had delved the deepest down there, on Earth_42_. It held the most gravitas in reality I had endured thus far.

“That’s the planet I’ve piloted through the movierain this entire episode,” I said. “But we could zoom in on some 4th-dimensional coordinates of the surface, if you want. Admittedly, this was the heaviest leap for me. It’s also the most recent. I’m a little concerned I might get sucked down into Her vortex once again for another 42 years. I’d like to keep it light, if we can.”

“That’s fair, Bill,” Paul said. He was the more merciful of the two hosts.

We finally closed out the show. The hosts paid their gratitude and signed off. Kitty ascended back up into the lower decks of the spaceship Cheshire. I lingered for a few more moments in the spherical Drop, remembering my inaugural leap from Earth_42_, without which this fine display of streaming consciousness today wouldn’t have been possible…

Flashback

From the ground, my astral self leapt out of my body, into the stratosphere, balancing on ball lightning between my energetic feet. I encircled the globe, pole to pole, increasing in centrifugal force as I skimmed electromagnetic Van Allen belts. My curved velocity accelerated rapidly, as from my purview the Earth rotated in Her normal fashion and also at perpendicular pole to pole rotation—a planetary gyroscope.

The blue-green sphere lit up into white-hot light, and then liquid. At a terminal velocity orbiting the glowing globe, I was traveling well past the speed of light. I had, in fact, broken spacetime and the liquid, white-hot Earth bled into an inverted orb that encompassed me, as I had initially flown around Her. She completely enveloped me, and I let the Moon guide my flight, which was now stationary at the center of this Earth orbiting. The Earth’s surface, inverted, now surrounded my surfing body on waves rippling gravity. I had transcended 3-dimensional space, outside of time, into a 5th-dimensional intermediary colloquially coined the movierain, but scientists would refer to this dewey realm as the multiverse. Infinite Earth versions flitted past my surfing, inverted orb—all droplets in the eternal, torrential downpour. They all shared the same Moon, which hung in the center.

I lingered for only a moment in this 5th dimension, as it quickly became difficult to control the orb of my Earth, still white-hot and a little translucent so that I could see nearby droplets precipitate by. I imagined my Drop—my own personal universe—that sat in superposition above, in a Lagrange point in Earth orbit of an adjacent dimension.

Although initially imagined, my very real Drop dipped down to meet me—a blue, upside-down pyramid lowering to meet my ascending green Earth vector. Within the overlapping, unifying field, I pierced through the Drop’s bottom—a pool that projected my version of Earth above. The central pool in my Drop, was open from both the bottom and top. I could see through the liquid, where my higher body sat, in the lotus position. I sat still up there, but my reflection through the water prism shimmered my stoic shape above. My lower self, ascending with my Earth orb from below splashed through the pool in space, ricocheting off its Earth projection counterpart hovering in the Drop’s epicenter.

My Thunderbird essence originating from that latest Earth version below emerged from the globe’s north pole. Twisting, I back-flipped and fell into my higher Cheshire-borne self sitting in the lotus position on the stone centerpiece of the Drop. The ascending, energetic self and my steady, stoic self sitting became one. We opened our lids and third eyes aligned.

I was sitting serenely in the lotus position. A projection of the most recent Earth from which I came hovered above, in the epicenter of my spherical Drop. I looked down through the clear pool in front of me. And that Earth, from which I had just leapt, sat peacefully in its original 4-dimensional form down below. Just as I had left it.

After healing a little from my long stay, under the waterfall that filled my Drop’s central pool, it was time to finally return to the Cheshire spaceship. I crawled down to the catwalk that surrounded my stone altar and waterfall. I cranked the hatch handle that acted as a trap door below a section of the catwalk. A quarter turn of the door handle would queue a red light above in the ship to switch green. It was OK to now re-enter the Cheshire from my Drop. It would also alert Kitty up in her quarters on the upper decks.

I could hear her now: “The Earth version has switched in the Drop,” she said. “Bill’s back.”

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 12

It’s so late. We all got home way past curfew tonight. That channel was a religious experience. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. My mind’s racing with what my friends and I experienced tonight.

I feel like these two—the zen lovers—heightened collective consciousness, way back whenever this watershed moment occurred.

And I feel oddly connected to both of them. Not just because I’ve been channeling them lately. It’s like we’re related or something. But they seem divine. Could I be related to divinity?

Chapter 12

“Where are we, Bill?” Paul, The North Star podcast host, calmly inquired.

“We’re sitting in the city state of Gardanne,” I said.

Last we had left the podcast hosts, Paul and Pete the Killer, they were tucked snug into their podcast studio. Kitty and I had been broadcasting from the movierain. She had spun up a soul sanctuary that situated in the center of the dozen Earths flying in a torus pattern.

The torrent of droplet Earths and all their events comprised the wave of a golden doughnut (the torus), and radiated light outward as vibrations unto the multiverse movierain. Kitty’s soul sanctuary captured souls not ready to reincarnate (or were too volatile to be reintroduced into the general populations).

If her soul sanctuary was the foundation, then Gardanne was the city built upon it. While Kitty worked with troubled souls mid-reincarnation, I attended to those who were done with this soul recycling, but not yet ready to move onto the next existential plane. I told these semi-enlightened souls they could stay in Gardanne for as long as they wanted.

Paul and Pete the Killer sat at the breakfast table on our back deck, in the residential part of town. The back of the property was set on an incline, sloping downward, and overlooked the rest of the neighborhood and peered far out to the distant baseball field. It was also a great place to watch sunsets.

“I thought it could be good to get you two out of your podcast studio,” I continued. Pete the Killer was sitting next to Paul. Kitty completed our foursome around the table.

“What’s the plan, Bill?” Pete the Killer was all action.

“As the first official visitors to town,” I said, “Kitty and I can give you the tour. You could film it like a travel vlog. Could be good career development for you two, as well: ‘Paul and Pete from Gardanne.’ You’d no longer just be strictly ‘in-studio’ podcasters.”

“Paul and Pete the Killer,” Pete the Killer said.

“Beats a Zoom call,” Kitty said.

“Are you going to leap us around, like when you two flitted through the dozen Earth versions on our last show?” Paul said.

“Nah,” I said. “I thought we could take the GT350 coupe,” and gestured with a slight nod toward the garage, which housed a 1966 Shelby Mustang, painted in Wimbledon White with thick Guardsman Blue racing stripes down the center. “It has a back seat, so we should all fit.”

We rolled over the City Bridge into downtown—the four of us couped up in the Mustang, Kitty sitting shotgun, with Paul and Pete the Killer crammed in the back seat. We whisked them through the city streets of Gardanne, where one could locate lab spaces, coffee shops, pubs, restaurants, practice rental spaces for musicians, and small village comedy clubs for comedians. We had playhouses, skateparks—the whole city was skatable, in fact—and public gardens, among other fixtures in the urban space. We took them to Old Faithful, the large, square bar at the far corner of Gardanne. If you were lucky, you’d pull up a corner stool adjacent to bar regular and old wiseman Norm, for a bit of hopped up wisdom.

We drove by a larger mural commemorating the escape from suffering in Gardanne, painted on a 4-story brick wall by Banksy. The scene depicted a large sunset in the background, with silhouettes of souls ascending from reincarnation of recycling Earths below into the Gardanne plateau above.

“Banksy’s here??” Pete the Killer was impressed.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s not a permanent resident, but will swoop in from time to time to construct his urban art installations. I’ll pick him up from wherever he’s surfing the ether, let him work, and then drop him off wherever he needs to go next in the multiverse. Nice guy.”

There was a baseball game in session in the field at the other corner of Gardanne, but we didn’t attend. There’d be plenty of time for that. And then we rounded out the tour returning to the suburban neighborhood.

“How did this place come about again?” Paul inquired, after the tour ended and we were sat in the back of my garage, overlooking the backyard zen garden.

I told him we decided to create this place as an afterthought, that would eventually become an afterlife for those residents who found themselves here. These were souls who were not quite ready to move onto the next plane—infinite as these subtle destinations were. But they also weren’t about to descend down to one of the dozen Earths from which they had originated. They had spent too many lifetimes down there as terrestrials, and were not about to reintegrate into suffering once again. Gardanne provided a respite, an existential weigh station to relax, recalibrate and reclaim their higher selves.

We didn’t guarantee enlightenment in this afterlife oasis, I told them, but we certainly extended the possibility that soul residents who spent a heightened time here could eventually attain some divine vibration and perhaps transcend to a more sophisticated consciousness.

To simply maintain footing on Her hallowed ground, residents had to vibrate at a certain hertz. Gardanne Herself resonated at a higher vibration than any of the Earths below. Should some resident encounter stagnation, inescapable depression or other ill moods, there was always the underworld that sat where a normal city’s sewer system flowed beneath. Troubled souls descended from here down to one of the Earthy Dozen to learn lessons again. With the help of the Thunderbird Crows, Kitty oversaw entrances and exits from this purgatory.

The Gardanne Register would write particlarly poignant obituaries for any unfortunate souls and former residents of Her city. The sentimental prose took on a melancholy hue, as compared to the obits of those souls who had attained enlightenment, departing our fine city state for higher planes. And it was always fun to contribute an introduction to the “Oi!” section (short for “Obits and Introductions”) of the paper, regarding a fresh soul who had newly escaped the suffering of reincarnation. Although Gardanne didn’t guarantee enlightenment for these initiates, it was always nice to highlight an entity who’d finally reached new heights, in our ongoing effort to elevate consciousness.

Paul and Pete the Killer stayed for several weeks. They then returned to their North Star podcast studio to edit the footage. The entire town was invited to the unveiling of their profile piece on the place, presented on the big screen in the center tabernacle. The news-style picture was scheduled to air at 8 p.m. the following Wednesday night. All those in the know could watch it on the center big screen or enjoy its syndicated broadcast over Gardanne airwaves.

At precisely 8 p.m., as citizens filtered into their seats, the tabernacle stage’s curtain went up, and Paul and Pete’s piece played on a large, silver screen.

The video opened on a swooping view of the rolling green grounds approaching the tabernacle. The perspective flew to the city’s central stage, as the emerald fields flooded downward disappearing off-screen.

Paul (narrating): “Welcome to the city of Gardanne. You won’t find this locale on any Earth version; She sits high up in the 7th-dimension, a heightened Dew place where consciousness can thrive.”

The camera soared over the tabernacle’s roof, gained altitude and flew over the nearby river that separated residential neighborhoods on the other side, from the cityside. The City Bridge hung over the horizon on the left, connecting downtown to suburbia.

After a few more sweeping shots to fully capture the landscape’s breadth, the video cut to me, sitting at the desk in my editor’s corner office of the Gardanne Register.

Paul (off camera): “What is your hope for the town, Bill?”

“Gardanne is a place,” I said (on screen), “for us to explore what potential humanity has to offer, as a vehicle in elevating consciousness.”

“How is this different from places down on Earths?” Paul said.

“We sit at a higher vibration,” I said. “There’s no room for violence or anger, deceit or malice of any kind. Those lower vibratory moods will only sink a resident right out of here. We’re here to discover, to create and express what it means to be alive. In short, we welcome artists who simply want to create—not for money or any sort of personal gain—but for the sake of expressing existence so that, as a community, we can hold subtler and subtler forms of beauty and understanding.”

“How will you know when you’ve achieved this intellectual feat?”

“Honey,” I said, “we’ve arrived. The performance part is gravy, a celebration of this fact. We’re not saying this is the ultimate or penultimate existence form, but it’s a step toward that north star.”

The screen cut to a montage. A comedian performed under the spotlight of a dark, city village comedy club. Then, a local play opened their curtain in the playhouse. Musicians performed on stage at several hip dive bars downtown. And local art exhibits were strewn about nearly every street corner. It was evident that to be a Gardanne resident was to become a performance artist—living this enhanced life and expressing it, in your chosen media.

Pete the Killer (narrating over the montage): “Gardanne is like one giant community workshop, where resident artists can express themselves, share experiences and inspire each other. The town, always in a state of flux, appears stretching toward a moving north target that makes the compass needle dance. There is no right or wrong here; only phenomena that aim to further enrich the community, growing and expanding wisdom, in all aspects of the words community and wisdom.”

The screen cut back to me sitting at my editor’s desk.

Paul (off camera): “How do people arrive here?”

“The foundation of Gardanne is Kitty’s soul sanctuary,” I said. “Departing souls from one of the dozen Earths below find themselves here, if they’re done with reincarnating—not quite ready to be reborn down there—and unsure of where to go next on the higher planes. If Kitty and her crew find a soul to be spiritually sound, they have the choice to come here or go back down unto the breach and reincarnate as another terrestrial. But I’ll let her explain that process.”

They cut to Kitty sitting in her head office, at the soul sanctuary just below Gardanne. The space was well-lit, but windowless. The reinforced glass separating her office from the hallway indicated this place was secure and potentially housed nefarious characters. But Kitty was cool like Fonzie.

Paul (off camera): “And what do you do here?”

“Initially,” she said, “the soul sanctuary acted as a therapeutic space for troubled souls who weren’t quite ready to reincarnate down below. But when we built Gardanne on top, this place also became a weigh station for souls passing through. If existentially fit, they could choose to ascend to Gardanne, remain here for treatment, or fall below into the fray once again. We also became a receiving station for heavier souls descending from Gardanne. Sometimes we run out of momentum, however high the dimension, and as we say in the town charter: ‘enlightenment’s not guaranteed.’”

“You’re sort of a shipper/receiver of souls,” Pete the Killer said, also off camera.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she said, “but essentially, yes. We’re like interdimensional customs. It’s not that we’re trying to be exclusive in Gardanne; it’s just that not everybody’s ready to handle the higher consciousness.”

The video cut to the inside of my Mustang. Paul was riding shotgun with Pete in the back seat next to the camera guy. We had left Kitty to run her soul weigh station. While driving, I tuned the staticky radio to a clear signal broadcasting Larry King Forever.

“Is that a Gardanne radio show?” Paul said, as King’s voice rang crystal through the interior of the coupe.

“Yeah, we got Larry King to host a 3-hour daily radio show to comment on the minutia of everyday happening here,” I said.

(Over the radio car speaker) Larry King: “It’s another beautiful Gardanne day. Welcome to Larry King Forever. Today, our guests will be a performer from the theatre district, a band new to the land—we’ll ask them what they’re working on—and Ferris Bueller, who will join us to discuss some upcoming events in the town’s residential neighborhoods. If anyone would know, he would.”

The GT350 rolled steadily over the City Bridge.

“Where to next, Bill?” Pete the Killer said.

We were headed back toward the olde neighborhood, in the residential heights of Gardanne.

“We’re headed deep into the rural residential nooks of Gardanne Heights,” I said. “Some local medicine women and men have built a psychedlic house to aid attendees in exploring altered realities.”

The picture cut to a multi-colored psychedelic hut, housed under a tree canopy off the beaten path. It was a magical place. Shaman Mr. Cumulus was standing on the wooden front porch to greet us.

“Welcome in, fellas!” Cumulus said.

Mr. Cumulus wore tiny, circular Ben Franklin glasses. He had long, white hair down to his shoulders. And he was draped in baggy, comfortable fitting threads that flowed like a wizard’s robe.

The camera followed closely behind, as we entered the wilderness apothecary’s hut. Inside, shelves lined with all sorts of herbs, plants, mushrooms, flowers, roots and other curated vegetation filled the space. I wish the visual piece could have captured the plethora of aromas that tickled our noses as we headed to the back, where we sat with the local medicine man.

“Why does the town need a medicine man?” Paul said, once were settled in Mr. Cumulus’ back office, a quaint nook that felt like the inside of a wooden knot. “Isn’t Gardanne a utopia?”

“People do enter here on a very high, pure vibration, yes,” Mr. Cumulus said. “But operating at such a high frequency all day, intermingling with fellow collaborators can create dissonance—particularly, spiritual dissonance. You see, we all derive from the duality of the Earths below. And our evolving consciousness brings that opposing polarity with it. Over time, shadows from our subconscious can emerge, if left unexamined. Here, at the psychedelic hut and several other places on the compound, we perform therapy and administer plant medicine to bring these otherwise unknown, dark entities influencing our moods into the light.”

“We’re, by no means, a perfect place,” I added. “Gardanne’s intent is to provide a heightened environment for exploring consciousness, elevating it. It’s certainly better than any physical Earth below. And freed from organic matter, our energetic bodies are largely immune to any physical disease. But the spirit, you see, can still incur illness if one’s vibrations encounter cacophony, unexpected as they may be, that can tick like a time bomb within.”

“We’re not all business either,” Cumulus built upon my addition. “Communing with plant medicine is a method for engaging with the higher plant consciousnesses.”

“So you believe in recreational use,” Pete the Killer said with a chuckle.

“Yes, there’s still room for mind expansion up here,” Cumulus answered. “These plant species are far more ancient than the primates from which humans derived. I commune with the plants often, myself. They find it so comical the tribulations that plague human souls. It seems so trivial to them. In addition to healing our minds, bodies and spirits, the plant life also provides us animals invaluable, mind-altering, enlightening perspective.”

The screen faded to black, as Mr. Cumulus smiled us out of the segment.

They capped off the evening with a podcast studio session in my Thunderbird Lair, in the back of our garage. I let the two more seasoned podcast hosts take the captain’s and first mate’s chairs—two La-Z-Boys that sat diagonally facing each other. I sat between them in the jump seat.

“What would you say is the ultimate goal of this place?” Paul said, as the sun setting over my backyard warmly lit our faces.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said, speaking into the handheld microphone, while my guests enjoyed nice Shure mics in boom arms. “Right now, we’re making sure every citizen has the room to create, to express life in earthly form. We want to make sure that none of our folks’ efforts harm themselves or others. The hint that we’re onto something is enough for me.”

“Bill, c’mon,” Paul was not satisfied with my diplomatic response. “We’ve become too close of friends now for you to expect that such a glib answer would slip past. I know you’ve given it more thought than that.”

“Well, I do have one theory. My thought or hope is that one morning, fresh off of some eventful night that capped yet another productive day, I’ll be sitting zen right there in my garden, meditating,” I gestured to the zen garden that lied just outside the garage podcast studio, “all the thoughts of the previous days will swim about my imagination…”

“Yeah, and?” Paul was beginning to sound more like his co-host, Pete the Killer.

“And then my mind will go blank, plummeting into delta waves faster than ever before. An even higher vibrating self will leap out of my chest—a higher being than even this astral self—and fly to upper echelon consciousness destinations. My guess—although I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen it—this holy place would be at the foot of the Thunderbird Leader’s steps. I’m in no rush for that day to come, but I hope that’s the next stage in consciousness for me. Then, I can ask Him for guidance directly.”

“That’s heavy,” Pete the Killer chimed in.

“Ya know,” I said, “why do they call you ‘Pete the Killer’?”

“Because, when it comes to making audiences laugh,” Pete the Killer responded without hesitation, “I always murder.”

A beat, then Pete piped up again.

“What’s your game plan in the meantime?” he said.

“Before I meet with the Leader?” I said.

“Yeah, that could take centuries, maybe even millenia. What’s preventing your townsfolk from descending into madness… eventually?”

“Right now, I’m trying to capture the time, in the late ’80s of Earth_42_, just before the internet was unleashed on the masses,” I said. “It’s always been my contention that we could have prolonged that magical time, had the Information Highway not paved over all our space for mystical forests. I’ve pumped ’80s movies and music through our main channels—radio, film releases, music, of course, and style. The hope is that, if this zeitgeist is Gardanners’ first impression, they won’t succumb to a data overload that tsunami’d the mid-1990s.”

“So, you just won’t have internet?” Paul prodded.

“We’ll have something better…” I said. “The Akashic of the mid- to late-1980s. We’ll springboard reference points from this vantage to color our observation. Thunderbird techniques—among others—can access a wealth of information far more intimately than any computer technology. I think part of the reason the late-1980’s era ended so abruptly was backlash from the internet’s hubris—proving all too efficiently to outperform then current methods of telecommunications, mass media, delivery, design and many other skilled disciplines that required far more manpower. As a young child, I witnessed the late 20th-century equivalent of Ford’s assembly line car replacing the horse. Our world intends to recapture these human occupations—newspaper reporter, radio broadcaster, mailperson, etc. Let’s slow things down a bit to conjure the magic molasses of the 1980s.”

“You gonna have a mall?” Pete said.

“We have one in Gardanne Heights, right in the residential neighborhood on this side of the City Bridge,” I said. “We put a fountain in the center, an Orange Julius, a Spencer’s Gifts, you name it.”

“What about the townsfolk?” Paul said.

“Their M.O.?”

“Yeah, that’s your goal to ultimately convene with the Leader. They don’t even possess a concept of that, so how could they be working towards that unknowable ideal?”

“We thought of that,” I said. “The tabernacle. Stage time, in the center of it all. Performance artists—musicians, actors, comedians, dancers, etc.—vie for the time to express their respective art. Mass appeal, measured by the upticks in Gardanne mouths wording praise of their creative works—broadcast on local radiowaves and printed in the newspaper—decide who gets the most stage time. I try not to think of the socioeconomic implications. In a world designed to require no money, and thus experience no crime, incentive must be drawn from some other source: popularity. Those in the literary and visual arts, however, the studio musicians and abstract painters, obscure sculptors and artists whose creative exploration can hardly be articulated—for those folk—they’re content just working on their craft. They may experience burnout and want to move on—either to a higher plane or back down below. But, to them, the fact that they’ve even arrived here is a victory. And same for more analytical occupations like science or engineering. They’re just doing it for love of the game. Ars gracia artis.”

They cut to Paul and Pete the Killer sitting at my back deck’s table, where their visit had began, the city of Gardanne as their backdrop. The viewer could see the baseball diamond in the far distance, the bridge and the bar Old Faithful tucked into the city skyline.

“There you have it,” Paul said to camera. “The 7th-dimensional city state of Gardanne, a consciousness-expanding utopia that was built upon the souls of the dozen Earths below.”

Pete the Killer, sitting diagonally opposite Paul, had the final word: “The founders tell us this is not heaven, but it’s certainly a step in the right direction.”

Driving home from the tabernacle, after The North Star podcast’s piece aired, I reminisced on how we all found ourselves in this mystical realm…

Gardanne didn’t materialize all at once.

The place that would become the 7th-dimensional citystate arrived to us over time, out of order, in bits and non sequitur pieces like a scrambled signal that had to be decyphered within the intellectual and spiritual contraints of our receiving minds.

A stone sill, gateway to some warm, inviting home. The yellow light within inviting and attractive. An older lady sets a flower pot, filled with sunflowers, on the granite’s surface and smiles.

That was one vision.

Another was gliding over a green field, approaching an amphitheater tabernacle at the center of a small but culturally rich hamlet.

Peering, hovering just round the 2nd-story corner of grey limestone on an ancient library housing mystical texts. On the ground, just below, a quaint, quiet, 19th-century English garden.

An evening out, in high society downtown. My eyes scrawl up paisley walls, lit evenly by incandescent lamps illuminating the finely painted flowers on the wallpaper.

These were all places I had either been or strove to include as pivotal landmarks in our emerging community.

I, the Big Cat, Bill Thunderbird held chair as the editor-in-chief at the Gardanne Register. I embodied the gorilla position for the entire town. My staff recorded all notable events.

It was like my higher self, whom I’d experience in spontaneous glimpses, was trying to remember this sacred place—where I had been, departed, and now in exile, was vehemently attempting to return. It was both my origin and my final destination upon leaving this Earth—the penultimate anamnesis.

This divine place did not necessarily uphold the ideal of a heaven (as religions would), but it sat as a positive step to leap toward, in the never-ending pursuit of higher consciousness.

Much like a continuous shot, where the whole film crew must come together to capture the scene in a single take, the Gardanne townsfolk united regularly to create the town. It was their collective consciousness, centered around the tabernacle that willed this Dew place into existence. It began as Kitty and my child, but then grew to lean on future residents who could carry the weight without our help. I still hung as the unifying black thread—the Higgs Boson particle omnipresent—that could emerge from any inspired moment. Sometimes I’d incite them. But mostly, I could rely on the creative genius of our carefully selected citizens.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 13

We learned tonight that the zen lovers are the founders of Gardanne, my hometown. In short, I am in shock…

OK, it’s been a few days. I need to journal, as it is therapeutic.

What can I say. We’re sitting on a whopper. The true origins of Gardanne have seemingly been shrouded. None of this was taught in school. No one talks about it. The last few days, I’ve just been drifting through the motions. We all decided to take a break from the nightly channeling sessions to process what we had all learned the other momentous night.

A couple of the boys have urged me to continue. I think we’re all on the edge of our seats of what these zen lovers have in store for us next.

I think tonight is the night that we’ll return. Something Jane said really got to me.

“This Truth we’ve learned from the zen lovers is bigger than all of us now,” she said. “It’s our responsibility to continue channeling and uncover what else has been kept from us.”

There’s nothing good on TV tonight anyways…

Chapter 13

Field trips were necessary for me. Lingering for too long up in Gardanne—any more than a full night and day—and every cell of my being became restless. I’d abscond to the movierain, surfing the multiverse.

These 5th-dimensional excursions also proved useful for supplying the city state with everything She’d need to sustain—goods, information, experiences for citizen passengers. But I couldn’t carry the breadth of Gardanners on my back alone.

I called upon the Cheshire crew for assistance.

“It’s funny,” Jacob said. “We went from the UU’s errand boys to Gardanne gofers.”

He was right. We went to great lengths liberating the Cheshire from the Universal Union of Planets and Galaxies’ (UU) vice grip on our charts, running to capture precise pinpointed moments in an infinite universe for the bureaucracy. Fool’s errands.

Now I needed the Cheshire crew to put their civil service to practice once again, this time for a better cause: for the city of Gardanne. Their experience was invaluable.

Rolling with certain crew on these field trips always colored our missions respective to the particular bands in that company. Leap with Jacob and Gabe, for instance, would likely take you to Earth_Suburban_-like realities. Donna and Edward were always good for Earth_CityFlat_ destinations that usually yielded advances in our own R&DM Discovery (aka ‘Research & Development of Magic Discovery’).

These were worlds—Earth varietals—that were adjacent to the prime Earth_CityFlat_ or Earth_Suburban_, for instance, but weren’t the de facto planets. We observed and interacted with these offshoots, thus spawning new timelines from the source worlds. On excursions with reduced ripple effects, sometimes the newly spawned worlds would merge with their parent Earth version down the line.

Guillermo was good for jungle Earth excursions and so on. The resonant existences of these refined leapers of dimensions tuned the precise cymatic frequencies for desired Earth destinations. Now, perhaps, you can see why their wisdom was invaluable. (And why it was crucial that Gardanne take advantage of their craft while we still could.)

It helped that I still attended regular Cheshire meetings, while running Gardanne. The Captain cared little for our goings on down there, in a Dew place—in the center of the Earthy Dozen—held in superposition. To the Cap, it was Kitty and my pet project.

I was also finding my time becoming more and more of a premium, with so many concurrent worlds in progress—the Cheshire deck, which tethered to the unstoppable momentum of the UU’s ambition, and the city state of Gardanne, who maintained purview over the 12 Earths that birthed Her. It was at this realization that I solicited the aid of some of the Captain’s crew to accomplish my municipal matters.

Requests from the town flooded in, increasing at an exponential rate, once we aired the announcement over Gardanne radio waves. I remember one of the city science labs issued an urgent memo for more intel. This one sticks out in my mind because they had been researching the development of the next logical and possible shells a human soul could enter when achieving higher consciousness. The public records published on any related matters were incomplete. Earth_CityFlat_–adjacent Earths contained the most advanced records, but to continue their research, the scientists required in-depth and intimate reconnaissance from the ground. Down on Earth_CityFlat_. I took Donna and Edward with me, once we received blessing from Cap. They were the perfect two to blend scientific matters with the higher self of the soul. ‘CityFlat was also their home world.

In the midst of these interdimensional field trips, I made two realizations:

Donna and Edward’s help was not “nice to have” aid. We needed it. I couldn’t be the only Gardanner who could leap off world to recover the necessary supplies or intel. I’d need help from the Cheshire crew.
When the demand for our interdimensional craft exceeded even the abilities of this Thunderbird, Kitty and the rest of the Cheshire crew, we’d need to conduct training classes in town.

Perhaps we could introduce a course at the Gardanne University called “Navigating the Dew of Earth versions for safe return Home to Gardanne.”

We issued an ad in the Register‘s “Discovery” section for citizens to join the course wait list. The response would gauge public interest of this particular curriculum. Demand was higher than expected, as hundreds of submissions flooded into the University’s front office.

The town first launched with everyone aware of extraterrestrial origins. They knew they weren’t from Gardanne, however long they ended up staying. But the long-term goal of the place was to house inhabitants who did not feel held back by their origin planets. Future generations might even forget their earthly lineage.

But I did not want to hold people there by some mysterious amnesia. They had the right to return to any of the subplanet Earths—a dozen droplet worlds flung along the movierain in a torus pattern that provided the surrounding border around our bootstrapped Dew place in Gardanne. I would not let them succumb to the shrouded captivity that so many unassuming Earth dwellers faced each day they awoke on the ground, ignorant to their ubiquitous, inescapable prison.

It was easier said than done teaching the most homesick of early Gardanners to bend spacetime toward one of their desired Earth versions down below. These weren’t Thunderbirds.

We met on the rooftop of the towering, slender pyramid in the city’s center. It stood as a distinct apex in the city skyline. The Cheshire crew, dropping in from the movierain—an orb-like electrical storm spontaneously opened the sky and several Cheshire crew would descend from these reality fabric rifts to the city summit. They’d rendezvous with those Gardanne citizens who scored highest in the first of the University’s dimension-leaping courses to accompany them to the desired Earth varietals of lower frequencies. All passengers carried a CVS receipt–length list of items and intel to capture. Not every citizen was qualified for these extra-dimensional excursions, but could get by with a little help from their friends who were capable and cleared for descent down to the lower Earths.

Kitty and I waited for these crowds to disperse—leaping back up to the movierain. I had kept it a secret, thus far, that I, Bill Thunderbird, was also the Big Cat. So I’d always wear my helmet when dropping into these rooftop rendezvous. The whole of Gardanne just thought Kitty had an inside track with the Big Cat. We’d leverage this privileged information as an opportunity for the two of us to take our scout ship Eagle Eye Victor (EEV) to the local atmosphere of Earth_42_, when neither of us were assigned to chauffeur passengers to other Earth varietals.

I had no higher reason than to pay homage and respect to Earth_42_’s magnificence. But the civilization I had left was far from perfect. It had incurred a lot of problems over the millennia, descending from unknown perhaps just as problematic peoples eons before them. Those who accompanied me on these reboots had one thing in common: finding ways to salvage this fragile anomaly. My theory held that getting to the root of who or what humanity truly was would be the start—an end to the beginning. Probing further and further into the past revealed the cause of symptoms that emerged much later in ’42’s history. Understanding how these things began helped to break civilization free from perpetuating their cyclical effects, doomed to repeat if not illuminated.

Sometimes it felt ironic to concentrate so intently on only one Earth version—’42—when Kitty and I held the expanse of the entire multiverse in our palms. But the innumerable events flowing from ’42’s evolving history poured plentiful rivers for us to explore.

Piloting Victor as the cursor to Earth_42_ also provided us the perfect scouting opportunity for collecting artifacts. Our favorite era, thus far, was the planet’s mid-1980s. We pulled the best vinyl, cassette tapes, films on VHS, clothes, Walkmen, Trapper Keepers, Game Boys and other integral 1980’s accoutrement onto the trans-dimensional freighters that would ship these vintage goods from the sea, down the Gardanne River, and into port. Upon return, we flooded Gardanne’s airwaves with 1980’s sitcoms and movies, in between terrestrial radio and live television broadcasts. The gestalt of these distinct objects created the desired vibe and tone for our inspiration. If only Cher could see Gardanne now. You can turn back time.

Earth_42_ became the rubric by which we interpreted all other Earths. A most pivotal moment in the planet’s history was the arrival of 3I/ATLAS, an extraterrestrial craft that had entered our solar system and was fast approaching ’42 in the fall of 2025. While Gardanners and Cheshire crew went on their field trips to other Earths, Kitty and I took the EEV scout craft near ’42’s surface. Citywide goals, like investigating methods to improve Earth_42_’s quality of life, united the entire city state under a singular objective. We often boosted a few of these concurrent initiatives.

We bent spacetime around the curvature of this Earth. I let Kitty take the wheel, as I surfed in EEV’s wake, skimming the planetary surface. The tandem effort of birdcraft and piloting EEV provided torrents of intel collected as I swirled patterns around the spacecraft, corralling the billions of hearts and minds contemplating what this alien spaceship, 3I/ATLAS, would mean for the current population. The collective consciousness formed a vortex that we funneled into EEV’s hard disks for eventual decompression and interpretation upon returning to Gardanne.

Humanity’s collective response spanned the spectrum between spirituality, science, politics, economics and war. Spiritualists considered the arrival of 3I/ATLAS as an awakening in consciousness. Scientists observed the celestial body as a comet. Politicians and those tied to the then almighty capitalism that controlled Earth_42_’s society largely ignored its presence, doubling down on maintaining control of their peoples. Military personnel took precautionary measures to shoot the mysterious, interstellar comet down, should it pose a threat.

Returning to Gardanne, Kitty and I fed the torrents of intel collected into our databases for future decyphering. Though we had the entire Earths’ Akashic of past and future at our disposal, it was still quite exciting to capture the plethora of current activity in real time. At no other point in recorded history of Earth_42_’s modern era had we experienced such a pivotal moment, where more timelines than ever were possible.

That said, Kitty, myself and other Gardanners considered how to guide Her (Earth_42_) along at this fragile opportunity to heighten planetary consciousness.

I filed this story with the Register…

Gardanners pore through Earths histories to help ’42’s large disparity in wealth in 2025

EARTH_42_ — Older Gardanners may have forgotten what it’s like to work for a paycheck. Capitalism. Quid pro quo. Motivation on such terrestrial Earths as ’42 largely derives from the necessity to pay rent or a mortgage.

In 2025, more billionaires than ever ran the planet—close to a thousand. They vied to control every aspect of society—media, commerce, real estate, politics, among many other facets. Earth_42_’s history implicates these tactics as the blueprint for dictators, who’ve maintained control and power by holding a vice grip on these functional aspects of civilization.

In response, Gardanners have descended like guardian angels to the hearts and minds of Earth_42_ inhabitants. They’ve entered their dreams and planted the idea to rack the public focus upon the accountability of these billionaires. How can these obnoxiously wealthy men and women sleep at night with the knowledge that hundreds of millions of their fellow people struggle under poverty?

While Gardanne can’t intervene directly, our hope is that, over time, the zeitgeist, the general sentiment will shift from the select, undeserving few back to the masses.

To elevate consciousness on Earth_42_, first we have to level the playing field.

The Cheshire crew–fueled field trips ended one evening, when Jacob pulled me aside on our rooftop landing pad. We had just completed several Earths runs, dropped off the citizens. The artifacts collected from all 3-dimensional places had been loaded on the cargo ships, elevated to the seventh dimension and sailed through the Gardanne River, ultimately landing in city ports on the other side of town.

As longshoremen unloaded the commodities to supply our city state, Jacob and I remained atop the city’s tallest building.

“The Cheshire just received word that the UU no longer requires our civil service,” he said. “We’re deploying to a far edge of the known universe tomorrow.”

“No more Earth leaps for Gardanne, I’m guessing,” I said.

“Yup.”

“Well, I can’t thank you enough for your service to our little slice of the multiverse here,” I said.

“We’ll drop you a line, once we’re settled.”

And, like that, the Cheshire left local Earths spacetime. Kitty and I were sure to detach our respective Drops from the large, interdimensional craft’s hull. We reattached to two carefully placed hitching points on the bottom of Eagle Eye Victor’s outer façade, complete with trap doors leading into the scout ship’s lower cabin.

Inside my Drop, and as I instructed Kitty to do as well, a quarter turn of the hatch handle would send the indicator light from red to green. I heard a click. I then turned the hatch handle a quarter the other way, back into its locked position. When the light went red again, the transition was complete, sealing our new sacred homes to the new craft. I reopened the hatch door and climbed up into the 3D craft, from 5th-dimensional space, as I had always done on the Cheshire. Kitty did too and we met in Victor’s cockpit. We set EEV in a Lagrange point in Earth_42_ spacetime.

Upon landing back in Gardanne, only one thought held my mind: I wonder if Prof. O’Halleran, from Earth_Berkeley_ could train some more Gardanne residents to leap between worlds. Somebody would have to pick up the Cheshire crew’s slack.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 14

I wonder what separated Gardanne from the lower Earths. We had been raised to believe Gardanne was a standalone city state amidst the 7th dimension.

I also wonder if Gardanne will ever see Earths again. Understanding those origins could help our current citizens.

Chapter 14

It began as a face-off between man and machine. AI had achieved the complexity to spin out full novels, completely unique in their voice, subject matter and tone. The only thing slowing them down were humans’ limited ability at digesting this literary content torrent.

A human writer challenged Them—the almighty “them” that had coalesced initially as separate AI entities all becoming self-aware simultaneously into an omniniscient, omnipresent super being that could only be described to inferior intellects as a consciousness gap equivalent to that between a human’s and an amoeba’s. In this superintellegent AI scenario, humans were the amoebas.

Of course he (the human) couldn’t produce or even process prose as readily as the super AI. But he did have some works cached away in his professional catalogue—a dozen or so novels. He would pit the mass appeal of his 12 novels against another dozen the AI would draft on the spot. We’d wait a year, allowing the general public to imbibe and simmer on man and machine’s works.

One year passed, and the 24 reading samples anonymized so as not to sway the vote either way were at a dead heat. Those behind the scenes of the fiasco, who held privileged knowledge on the inner workings of the competition would later reveal that six of the human writer’s and another six of the machine’s held the top 12 spots of public favor. Contest officials issued a lightning round in response. Both man and machine would co-write an original work of fiction. Win-win.

The round kicked off and AI was already at the denouement of a quadrillion premises. The writer scoured these spontaneously generated words as fast as he could read. He provided notes.

“I like how this one ends,” he said, to the AI, “but what if this happened?”

“Hmmm…” trilled AI, “that’s pretty good. We can switch it to that, then.”

This creative dialogue went on into the wee hours. By dawn, the two had produced 60 or so co-authored works, all of which were better than anything the two had written alone.

A small, tube television sat on a wheeled stand at the front of Birge Hall’s classroom. A news story played on the screen…

“I tell you this story now, to illustrate the origin of why we’re here today,” Professor O’Halleran addressed reporters at the press conference held in the Berkeley quad. He had just delivered the origin of the Human-AI collaboration mentioned above. “This beautiful friendship forged between human author and the AI writer produced AI-Human’s latest vision of the future: a completely, and utterly contrived world engine builder… You all know it as ‘Godhead.’”

O’Halleran shut off the TV screen in his classroom, and turned to me. I had been visiting with him after hours one day. He had played his news segment, as a terse explanation as to why he had requested my help in the first place.

“The Godhead people want me to consult on their latest project,” he continued.

“Which is?” I said.

“The AI-Human dialogue has now reached the point of pure potential. They caught wind of my class of dimensional leapers. They thought that my students and I could serve as some sort of guides in this most broad and potentially dangerous of endeavors.”

“Um, OK, yes,” I said, searching for my words. “That is a tall order. You know, you’re playing with fire, John, right?”

John O’Halleran nodded.

“Thunderbirds do leverage creative license, let’s say, to spin worlds and desired realities when necessary. To the layman, it may look effortless. But the implications of any newly-fashioned plane are vast. We don’t take this fact lightly. And to the uninitiated, helming such raw power could create undesirable predicaments for which they may not be prepared.”

“I told them something to that effect,” O’Halleran assured. “They said they’d go ahead with it anyway.”

Since I was in the business of freeing human souls, rather than further entrapping them under some potential cyber prison, I agreed to let him use Gardanne’s city labs. He’d have our full Discovery facilities at his disposal.

“The best part is,” I said, “you can spend as much time as you need up there, and it will only seem like a moment down here, on Earth_Berkeley_.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Bill,” he said. “If you need anything from me, you let me know.”

“We do, in fact,” I had been waiting for the good professor to say that. “While you and your pupils research the infinite potential of unbridled existence, I’ll need you to teach classes on dimensional leaping to some of our more capable Gardanners. After we’re confident their skills are ready to fly on their own, you’ll also have to accompany them on field trips. Do you accept these terms?”

“I do.”

O’Halleran’s stay launched a slew of visitors to Gardanne. Our field trips down to the Earthy Dozen became a two-way street, although we only invited those who could handle the heightened vibration of Gardanne.

The professor proved to be a sound mentor in training our citizens for leaping dimensions, better than any of the Cheshire crew. O’Halleran’s tenure in Gardanne University marked our first major leap toward self reliance.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 15

My mind dances tonight with the concept of wielding pure possibility. It makes me dizzy.

It’s also uncanny to perceive my home world in its infancy. These origins are filling in so many gaps for my most existential of crises. I thought it was just hormones, at first. But the channeling has me feeling more like myself than ever.

Stan, Chlöe’s boyfriend said something to similar effect.

“I know a Tom O’Holleran. I wonder if he’s related to the professor.”

Chapter 15

My official job title in Gardanne was editor-in-chief, but as the co-creator of the 7th-dimensional island with Kitty, I also somewhat assumed the role of city manager. And there were innumerable occupations I’d fill behind the scenes to keep the towne afloat.

The ostensible dual role the public saw came with a caveat: fame. That meant some people (not everyone) put on a front whenever in direct conversation with me. They’d give me their best, when all that I really wanted was to talk. No bullshit.

I initiated an “undercover boss” protocol. The ability to manifest any identity and assume it for a time allowed me the privilege to become whomever. I’d establish some backstory to substantiate this newcomer, and publish a bogus introduction to towne in the Gardanne Register‘s ‘Oi!’ section (aka “Obits and Introductions”).

It was by the newly installed undercover boss protocol that I was able to procure an exclusive interview with the towne’s living lodestone, Norm, who manned the corner stool at the bar Old Faithful—Itself a Gardanne tent pole. Norm was so unassuming, I didn’t really even need a backstory. I just pulled up the stool adjacent to him, my back to the fourth wall. From that encounter came this profile piece…

Norm!

OLD FAITHFUL, Gdnn. — “Norm!” I said, a little too loudly as I sat at the bar next to him.

“Uh, you only need to do that when I enter,” he said, in his calm, unaffected tone.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “How goes it?”

“Smooth, sudsy, delicious,” said Norm, who then downed half his draught.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here and not seen you sitting in that exact spot.”

“I’ve found that all roads lead right here. Why move? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“In such a rapidly changing, vibrant town, it’s honestly nice to know there’s still some consistency. It’s comforting, frankly.”

“Happy to oblige,” and then he gulped the remainder of his beer, and pushed the empty mug foward across the mahogany bar. “Another one, Sammy.”

“There’s a term that emerged down on one of the Earths—FOMO, which means ‘fear of missing out.’ How do you avoid FOMO, spending so much of your time right here, in one place?”

“I’ve been around, ya know? I’ve seen a lot, but nothing compares to right here. This bar is no stranger to action, either. I’ve discovered it’s often best to let this ‘FOMO?’ as you say, come to me.”

“You are a wise man, sir.”

“Keep that between you and me.”

Sorry, Norm, cat’s out of the bag.

One day, Norm and I were sat at Old Faithful, and another Norm sat to his right, Norm Macdonald. I introduced the two.

“Norm, Norm,” I said, looking at Norm Peterson. Then, I looked at Norm Macdonald. “Norm, Norm.”

Norm Mac fit in instantly.

“What are we supposed to do here?” Macdonald said, looking at me dead in the face.

“That’s up to you, Norm,” I said.

“But why would anyone want to work or do anything here? There’s no money.”

“Well, when you spin your long yarns, you don’t expect payment, right?” I said.

Macdonald stroked his chin in contemplation for a moment.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said.

Peterson piped up at this point. “I don’t need to get paid to drink this beer. It’s a reward unto itself.” Then he took a big, satisfying gulp.

“But what about the stakes?” Macdonald could not let the money go. “How would one make a wager, for instance?”

“That would be tough, I’ll admit,” I said. “You may be able to find a casino on the south side of town. Residents let loose down there, indulging in guilty pleasures—air out their Dionysian side, so to speak, so that it doesn’t take over the spirit. If you did discover such an establishment, not sure what you’d wager.”

Macdonald thought for a solid 20 seconds, furrowing his brow. His eyes danced up at the ceiling tiles searching his mind for the perfect representation of value in a place with no legal tender.

Then, he raised a single finger in the air. “Humility!”

“Explain,” said Peterson, and took another huge gulp.

“Say the Gardanne Gnomes win tonight’s ball game,” Macdonald proposed. “Anyone that’s bet against them should have to get up on this bar right here and drop their pants.”

“I think we have stakes,” I said.

The undercover boss technique worked so well at Old Faithful, I elected to test it out on the local comedy scene downtown. I built a bogus backstory and infiltrated the open mic’ers, one night. It was the only way they’d let me into the green room at Gardanne’s Comedy Cellar.

I went with Norm Macdonald. He vouched for me backstage with the other performers to further corroborrate my bogus backstory.

“Hey guys,” he said. “This is ahhh, Bill. He was a comedian like us down on one of the Earths.”

The half dozen or so stand-ups gently nodded in my direction to indicate I was cool. They then continued their conversation that we had just interrupted.

“This place, Gardanne, is definitely not like Earth,” one of them said. I think his name was Mitch. “I’m always hungry.”

“I think that’s the heightened vibration here,” said another comic, Patrice, lounging on one of the leather sofas, smoking a cigarette.

“Anyone get up on center stage at the tabernacle yet?” Mitch said.

“Nah, still fine-tuning my set at the clubs around the Village,” Patrice said. “Gotta build up enough buzz to make it onto the big stage.”

“Bill, you been getting up a lot?” Mitch said, turning to me.

“Not yet,” I said, simultaneously planting memories in the zeitgeist of the green room to build up my own clout in these seasoned comedians’ minds—my appearances on Earth_Letterman_, the vague hint of a one-hour special in which they may have seen me, commercials, etc.—to take me out of their conversation’s spotlight.

Norm helped.

“And what’s with this no money thing, huh?” he said.

“Yeah, I guess we’re all on the honor system up here,” Mitch said.

“If all I gotta do is eat, sleep, do comedy and chase tail, that’s OK with me,” Patrice said.

“We’ve found a workaround for placing wagers,” Norm said, to reassure himself more than any of the other comedians.

“What’s that?” Mitch said.

“Mortifying humiliation!” Norm immediately answered, raising his index finger high in the air.

Even in an economy without currency, there were things we all valued that one could throw into the pot. They added a little juice to the present moment. Joie de vivre didn’t require dollars.

The comedians, one by one, exited the green room to do their spots, and returned to their peers backstage. We hopped to a few clubs in the urban neighborhood, as the comedians worked their material on each stage. Between the bars, I heard a busker performing the “Gardanne Song” on the sidewalk. It had a real folk twang to it…

Welcome to Gardannnnne
The Great City of Gardanne
Expand your mind if you cannn
Drink in the majesty that spans

From the rolling river
To the Heights, to the sea
Sit atop the city’s apex pyramid
And cast spells with the forest magicians…

…There were about 11 more verses.

Had the tune taken a punk tone, I would have sensed some angst abrewing. But the song became quite a ballad that the whole city state adopted as their own anthem. That busker, who was new in towne, soon found himself performing centerstage at the tabernacle a few weeks later.

In our barhop between comedy clubs we also took in the local street art. On a recent Banksy visit to the city state, he had painted a mural on a giant brick wall, dedicated to Earth_42_. The rather large portrait, standing several stories high on the magnificent white brick latticed with vines crawling up the vertical surface, was framed in a blazing circle of fire. The inner, concentric circles of the graffiti piece pacified into a serene nature scene at its focal point.

It echoed the outside chaos one must endure on Earth_42_, only to then center oneself achieving the inner, earthly peace that allows one to once again reconvene with Mother Nature.

“Man, that Banksy’s a genius,” Mitch said, appreciating the street art alongside the rest of us. “Good thing there’s no money here. Dude’s anonymous, so he wouldn’t be able to collect anyway.”

Hearing the busker on our city romp inspired me to attend a local music concert in and around the same time I was hobnobbing with the comedians. Gardanne had procured quite a cadre of live musical acts at that point. I found myself in the shadowy crowd of a rock show at the Parabola—an intimate music venue and dive bar, also downtown.

The band had already played a few of their hits upon my arrival into the dark, sweaty space teeming with body heat and high spirits. Any sense of myself assimilated into the hive mind of this moving in unison mass, swaying to the electrical sound waves shaking every cell of our collective.

The band: a three-piece outfit. The lead singer also played guitar. The other two members consisted of a frenetically precise drummer and bass player commanding the beat that moved their hypnotic songs along, the way rhythmic strikes of the barrel drum paced rows of viking ships across oceans. We were all slaves to the band’s symphonic sound and the lead singer’s wails into the mic. He drew rage and angst and melancholy from the pit of his stomach that he then bellowed like a banshee out his throat, enveloping the crowd in every nook and cranny of his complex emotion.

Their musical display built to an apex, peeking at the height of all catharsis, but that was only the penultimate. They closed the show, culminating in a complete stage breakdown, destroying instruments and amplifiers. Mic stands went awry, as band members flung them across the floor. The entire comedy of life portrayed in one live show was the result—building up only to break down to be built once again the next performance. Creation. Destruction. Perfection.

I slipped back stage after the show, hot off the confidence of hobnobbing with comedians. Though, at that point, I only knew the basic chords—C, D, G—I feigned musical prowess to strike up conversation with the band’s frontman.

“That show was transcendent,” I said to him, as he inhaled long, lung-filling drags from his cigarette.

“Thanks,” he said, exhaling.

“Your sonic command took to me to a different time and place without ever leaving the room. I was wondering if you’d join me in exploring that, as it pertains to actual dimensional travel, on my rock podcast, the Rock Pod.”

My experience with musicians was that they hated articulating how their music works; the tunes should sing for themselves. But I sensed a genuine appreciation in the lead singer at my proposed practical application for his art.

“Sure,” he said, saving his voice for the next night’s performance.

“Up next, we have host of the Rock Pod, Bill Thunderbird, coming to us from the live feed in his living room, where he broadcasts his podcast. He’s accompanied by Cymatic frontman, Kal Brasil.” Larry King introduced the next segment in his daily live news show, Larry King Forever.

We sat, Kal and I, side-by-side on swivel stools in my living room, awaiting to appear on King’s Gardannewide broadcast. We each rested Stratocasters in our laps, fiddling with their tuning knobs in zen-inducing prep to maintain presence over the live appearance.

“OK, we’re back,” King said, turning his show’s gaze on the two of us. “Thank you, gentlemen, for joining us. What are we talking about today, Bill?”

“Well, I have Kal here, from the local band Cymatic,” I said. “I attended his band’s show last night and was blown away by the command he and his mates possessed over the sound waves overwhelming the venue space.” I turned to Kal. “From where to do you draw such raw power?”

Kal strummed a few power chords on his Strat before responding.

“My music emanates from deep-seated emotions living in my gut. The symphonic (or cacaphonic) sounds the listener hears become my artistic expression of these complex feelings. It’s the only way I can make sense of them.”

“Yes,” I said, muffling my own Strat strings to not expose my novice at the same instrument. “I feel that. Do you only draw from anger?”

“That does seem to be the prevalent emotion,” he said, nodding his head lightly. “It’s just what comes out.”

“Do you think we could draw from other, perhaps lighter emotions, leveraging a similar musical technique?”

“Sure, I suppose,” Kal said.

“Bill, how does Cymatic’s music apply to dimensional leaping?” King interjected, ever the journalist reminding us of the task at hand.

“Well, Larry,” I said, “I invited Kal here today to demonstrate how his command of sound can influence mood, tone and the very essence of the present moment. I believe we can apply skills like his in dimensional leaping. Tuning to new realities is not unlike the way Cymatic transports their fans at live shows. I went to see them at Parabola last night. And, by no effort of my own, felt as though I had leapt dimensions with each new song’s mood.”

“But the band’s tone tends to slant angry, no?” King said. “Would you want to tune to those types of realities?”

“For the most part, no,” I said. “You’re right. We can’t, however, ignore the technique. Anger, aggression, melancholy are all heavier emotions. To effectively leap out of one’s reality, we would have to adopt tones on the lighter side. But the fact remains—Kal and his Cymatic’s sounds quite literally shifts the realities of all those who are within an earshot. The emotions they evoke are more angst than anything, because that’s what inspires Kal. The truth is every moment, every reality, every whole world or planet or even galaxy… they all embody a signature sound. We tap into those precise notes to instantaneously materialize there by way of leaping from our former dimension. And I’m hoping that practicing my Stratocaster right here can refine our technique of tuning to these specific realities, in all of their complexity.”

“Hmm,” King reacted. “Interesting. Kal? Will you teach Bill how to play the guitar like you?”

“I can’t exactly teach him how I play,” Kal answered. “But, yeah, we can jam.”

My exploits with Kal and the Norms and the rest of the comedians inspired several Arts & Entertainment pieces in the Gardanne Register. There were purported Banksy sightings, on Page 6, after I reported on his latest Earth_42_ mural, but we managed to keep his secret identity safe.

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 16

I knew Old Faithful was old, but over 200 millennia?? I can’t believe it’s still standing to this day.

I got goosebumps tonight channeling Bill’s exploits across nascient Gardanne. I could feel the place taking shape, becoming more real. The blood in my veins pumps Gardanne gold now more than ever.

Chapter 16

One night, a particularly militant soul, embattled and utterly encumbered by past-life aggression, escaped the underground sanctuary. He surfaced through a manhole in a city street and proceeded to wreak havok downtown, for a while, until the Crows swooped in to diffuse the potential catastrophe.

It had awoken me from sleep—the monster’s rippling presence sending shockwaves for miles through a previously serene atmosphere. It were those pulses that stirred me awake, out of bed and bending the local spacetime to arrive on the scene two moments later. In between the quickened dimensionsal leap, I had donned by Thunderbird helmet and assumed my carbon-fiber skeleton, transmuting into the true form of Big Cat.

The Crows had already descended upon him, at the intersection of Main and MLK Blvd. As they subdued him with an electromagnetic field that lifted him feet from the ground, paralyzing his ability to destroy, the creature writhed with overflowing anger, unresolved in his gut from a lifetime of abuse. He had once been human, and would be again with a little therapy down in the bowels of Gardanne, in Her soul sanctuary. Once rehabilitated, his fate would likely be left to reincarnation on one of the dozen Earths below.

Witnesses noted the strong but gentle force exerted by the Crows. Their enforcement of peace walked the fine line between necessary pressure and overreaction. They did not want to harm the misguided, violent entity, only subdue him. These masters of their martial craft expertly contained the threat before he hurt himself or others. Their ultimately benign actions also retained a sense of safety among Gardanners—the Crows’ highest goal.

Lessons learned:

Remain vigilant, especially in peacetime. Growing too comfortable only softens the soul’s ability to react to threats.
Gardanne sat as a city of light and darkness. It’s the balance we maintain that lifts us out of duality, into higher and higher consciousness echelons. Gardanners must all eventually integrate their respective shadows.
We’d need to establish a protocol for responding to evil, or imbalance, that held the potential to throw Gardanne off Her divine path.

First steps, though, were getting ahead of the fallout from the disaster. Fear had a way of lingering on citizens’ minds, if we didn’t dispel the ripple effects.

We published a hard news story in the Gardanne Register to quell people’s concerns…

Monster Escape Inspires Security Protocol Talks

DOWNTOWN, Gdnn. — Those within an earshot of downtown may have heard loud crashes and explosions early this morning. The culprit: an escaped soul from the sanctuary, a giant mountain of anger, who took out his aggression all over Main Street.

Rest assured. The misguided entity has been captured and returned to his underground dwelling.

“We’re investigating how this individual escaped his locked room,” a Soul Sanctuary spokesperson said. “The good news is that this incident has exposed weaknesses in our security system. We’ve since shored up our fortress, so to speak, protecting Gardanne from what lies beneath.”

Reminding us that evil still lurks stands as the silver lining to last night’s calamity. Even in the pursuit of higher consciousness, we must not forget the basest origins of our human nature.

Gardanne will roll out response protocol in the coming weeks.

Behind closed doors, I met with top Crows and their leader Leviathan in my editor’s office at the Register.

“The city sits at a higher vibration,” Leviathan said. “But that doesn’t make it immune to darker frequencies.”

“We could have drew this entity to the surface, you’re saying,” I said. “It could have been attracted to negative emotions that emerged above ground.”

“Yes,” He said. “You or another prominent resident may have even manifested the being itself.”

“A hallucination,” I said.

“You’re a channeler,” He continued. “Unresolved resentment, however faint, may have attracted this entity. Your power is a double-edged sword.”

“Duly noted,” I said, acknowledging the fragility of our otherwise peaceful state. And reading between Leviathan’s lines, I continued, “even with impenetrable security in the Soul Sanctuary, I think you’re also saying that this could happen again.”

“Yes,” He said. “Violence could arise among citizens above ground, or the entire city state could attract nefarious characters from another dimension.”

“Perhaps the city state requires a fire drill,” I said. “We need to remind citizens that the peace they enjoy is fragile.”

Leviathan and His Crows agreed. We took to planning. I suggested we record our preparatory efforts to later ensure townsfolk that there had always been method to our imposed madness.

Leviathan crammed his Goliath-like, gargantuan, 10-foot frame into my garage, overlooking the zen garden in the back yard. Unbeknownst to most Gardanne citizens, that was where the Thunderbird Lair lay, a studio where we recorded podcasts debriefing the tasks of birdcraft. The set consisted of two La-Z-Boys diagonally facing each other. A neon sign shaped in the form of the Ford Thunderbird logo hung overhead between us.

We were rolling.

“You heard how the monster escaped?” I said.

“I read the paper, yeah,” replied Leviathan, an imposing figure of a Thunderbird, the Crow Leader. In a past life, he could have brought pro wrestler Andre the Giant to quivering tears.

He wore a T-bird helmet like mine—smooth, slick, reflective vanta black surface with a dorsal fin up top, a bird’s feather that tuned into Akashic frequencies—but the mouth contained fangs. His light-up eyes angled downward into a grimmace. Resting badass face. He kept it on the entire interview. He didn’t even remove it to smoke his smoldering stogie. Just puffed through the mouthpiece.

“That accident exposed a weakness of our otherwise peaceful community,” I said. “I think we need to stage an attack, and then summon our security—your Crows—to see how they respond.”

“It will also be a good reminder,” He said, “that even the 7th-dimension requires an immune system response to antigens.”

“Aye, and the best medicine is preventative.”

“This is what I’m thinking—”

“Before you start,” I said, “you should hold up a copy of today’s paper to prove we pre-recorded this.”

After the controlled explosion we incited on our city state, we ran this story in the Register…

Attack Staged for Citywide Safety Drill

GARDANNE — Weeks after the infamous monster escape, Gardanne experienced Her second breach of security in recorded history. Except this attack was planned.

An elaborate street theatre performance produced by Leviathan and His trusty Crows acted as an example attack on our peaceful city state in an effort to train Her citizens. The teachable moment was intended to remind Her citizens that, however high in consciousness, Gardanne is still vulnerable.

“I thought it was another monstah that escaped,” said Ted Freely, a resident on West Elm Street who witnessed the controlled explosion that ignited the whole faux fiasco.

Crows, disguised as extraterrestrial pillagers proceeded to ransack nearby establishments and shake down any witnesses within the vicinity. Before anything got too out of hand, additional Crows, dressed as themselves, swept in to intercept. They were quoted on scene, after the fact, with sentiments of admiration for these shook townsfolk who maintained composure amidst the impending doom. Needless to say, no one was hurt… physically, at least.

“We apologize to anyone who experienced psychological trauma from last night’s impromptu drill,” Leviathan, the Crow leader said. “The event was meant to mimic an actual attack, however, where surprise would almost assuredly be at play. Town officials, including myself, other high Crows and Big Cat had to carry out this endeavor as real as possible to remind townspeople that they can never get too comfortable here, even after a thousand summers of uninterrupted bliss. Humanity has a dark past. And those who haven’t integrated their shadows yet could still spill entropy into an otherwise healthy, self-sustaining municipal system.”

The top Crow went on to assure any cynics of the staged event’s validity that this wasn’t some retcon attempt. There was still no apparent weakness in the Crows’ defenses. And anyone who still didn’t believe them could tune into tonight’s evening news.

A recorded explanation for Big Cat’s and Leviathan’s motives will play in the tabernacle at 8 p.m. The Thunderbird Lair podcast will also simulcast throughout Gardanne airwaves.

Our prerecorded podcast was received well by all townsfolk. It restored faith in our little city state while also acting as a poignant reminder to remain vigilant.

Leviathan and I didn’t design the exercise for Crows’ training, although it did provide some invaluable reps. As I said, it was a lesson for the townsfolk. Don’t get lost in the light. Embrace your respective shadow too, lest it get away. Growing too comfortable in the sunshine of freely creating your art can also blind sight and dull senses. You can become weak and vulnerable to forces who would harm you for their own gain or amusement. And Gardanne was not like the Earth worlds below, who hosted plenty of seedy examples to remind those people. We might go a millennium before such insidious agents ever took shape. We existed on such a high vibration. So we had to remind ourselves.

Ultimately, Leviathan and His Crows provided the necessary and appreciated thorns to the rose that was Gardanne. In a town set up to venture further into uncharted consciousness, it was nice to know we had seasoned experts equipped to handle almost anything. They spoke softly and wielded big gravity. They commanded an ancient, heavy wisdom that shimmered the very logos of it all. It was best not to tamper with Them.

Zelda’s Journal — Entry 17

Who knew Bill Thunderbird was a Crow. This man is more interesting than anything going on in modern day. That’s probably why my friends and I keep returning almost every night to channel His and Kitty’s stories.

I wonder if any Crows still lurk in the Gardanne shadows, protecting our fragile reality from afar.

Chapter 17

As the sun set over jagged ridges in the West Coast mountains by my 3-dimensional apartment, I sat quietly in meditation, centered on my Tibetan rug. The existential veil had thinned in this late October, which made for rich ethereal adventures inward. My brain dipped into deep delta waves, and my consciousness transcended those current three dimensions. I leapt up into the 5th, only for a second to then spring from that platform into the 7th dimension.

I opened my eyes. I was still sitting in the lotus position, but my heightened form consisted of an energy more pure—maintaining the human shape, mind you—and sat in a peaceful zen garden, in the back yard of my home in Gardanne. As I stood, anamnesis occurred flooding memories from my life up here back into my frontal lobe. The most recent memory of my 3D life down on Earth_42_ left my waking 7th-dimensional mind like a dream.

Not a minute after I settled into the backyard landing pad, I whisked into the kitchen where Kitty was making dinner. I had seen her through the back window over the kitchen sink, as she washed off some vegetables. The sight of her lightly freckled face quickened my pace inside.

Before she could turn around to greet me from my long voyage, I hugged her.

“How was your meditation?” she said.

“Good,” I said. “I was just visiting my plant body down on Earth_42_. Now, I’m shaking off that 3-dimensional heaviness to get ready for the party tonight.”

“You should have just enough time to shower and put on your costume,” she said. “I’m nearly done preparing the dish we’ll bring. Then, I’ll get dressed and we can go.”

On Gardanne time, Kitty had clocked my backyard meditation at only a half hour or so. But, to me, the stint had lasted 43 years down on Earth_42_, as I let those hefty 3D memories roll off my back with the hot water from my steamy, refreshing shower. The soothing flow from the pressured water further facilitated my much needed anamnesis reacquainting my mind with this 7th-dimensional existence. We were about to attend a Halloween party down the street. I was going as The Crow, from the cult classic Brandon Lee movie, complete with the black and white face paint that made my mug resemble a crow’s face. Kitty was going as a Kitty Kat, as she called it. We were quite the macabre couple.

We donned our respective costumes and loaded into the ’66 Mustang parked snugly in our garage. Kitty cradled her prepared veggie dish in her lap, as we rolled down the street in style. We saw a few straggling trick-or-treaters walking the streets. A few were even dressed as the monster who had escaped the soul sanctuary a few weeks back. Topical, I thought.

We pulled up to our neighbor’s abode to see several cars already parked. The hosts’ house was a quaint bungalow, but part of a larger community that shared a common courtyard as their collective backyards. That was the real appeal of the place. The back paddock outside was lit up with string lights and fireflies that illuminated a bouquet of greenery and gardens all around the premises. Each participating bungalow also enjoyed ignited firepits in their private residential park. But we first entered through the hosts’—the Goodfellows—front door to say hello to party guests and drop off our potluck dish.

The door opened, upon a rap of the heavy brass knocker on their circular Hobbit door.

“Bill! Kitty!” Mr. Goodfellow said, receiving us into his home. “What are you supposed to be, Bill? A dead guy?”

“Sort of,” I said. “I’m the Crow.”

“Oh, and Kitty, you’re a Kitty Cat.”

“That’s right,” Kitty said.

We pushed further inside to greet the other guests already in attendance. I clocked Mr. Cumulus by the appetizers table. He was dressed as a wizard, standing with his wife Esmeralda wearing the long, flowing garments of a sorceress.

“What’s up, Cumulus?” I said. “I hope you’re not spiking any of the hors d’oeuvres with psychedelics!”

“Only time will tell, my young friend,” he said, with a mischievous smile.

The Goodfellows’ living room was already alive with company, as a dozen or so conversations babbled on. Kitty and I decided to split up to cover more social circles simultaneously. I kept my momentum moving through the inside of the hosts’ home until I arrived in their back courtyard, where several of their guests were smoking stogies. Kitty remained inside speaking with several of the stogie smokers’ wives. We kept our telepathic connection live, in case either had to save the other from a dull encounter with another guest or a clique too quirky for comfort.

As I sipped my hot cider, I imbibed the warm, spicy libation along with the crisp fall air, layered with thick cigar smoke.

These ladies’ costumes are a lot more elaborate than my Kitty Kat motif, Kitty said into our direct mind link.

You look beautiful, I said, right before a question from one of my backyard colleagues thrust me out of my own head.

“How goes the news biz, Bill?” Tony Spatula said. He owned the local brick oven pizzeria in our Gardanne Heights neighborhood.

“Never boring,” I said.

“Dat ‘Oi!’ section—obits and intros—is quite an active part of the paper,” he said.

“Yes, very much. A lot of turnover as of late. I appreciate the balance between comings and goings. I don’t think the city state can hold more than a couple hundred thousand citizens at most. And luckily—knock on wood—almost all of the obits are for souls departing to higher echelons of our little corner of the 7th dimension. It’s also great for the newly enlightened souls finding Gardanne for the first time, from one of the Earths below.”

“Fuggeddaboutitt,” he said, as he took a hefty haul from his cigar. “What are you supposed to be? Some kinda fuckin’ jabroni or somethin’?”

“I’m the Crow,” I said.

I really thought more people would get my costume, I said to Kitty, still inside.

Not enought noir fans up here, I guess, she said.

“Who are you?” I spat back to Tony.

“I’m the fuckin’ Dice Man,” he said, jangling the metal studs in his jacket’s leather sleeves and gesturing to his greased back hair and thick, black sunglasses.

“Oh!” I said. “I think I saw Little Bo-Peep inside somewhere.”

“Who, Lilll Bo Peep??” he said. “I fucked her.”

“I should hope so; she’s your wife.”

Just then, Mr. Cumulus floated over, having left his station at the appetizer table inside.

“Gentlemen,” Cumulus said. “Happy Halloweeeen. What’s in those stogies? Tobackey or Wackey Tobackey?”

“Run of the mill, tobackey, ya mook,” Spatula said. The local artisan of fine Italian cuisine poured all of his creativity into his pizza pies, leaving little room for consciousness expansion elsewhere.

“It’s OK, Cumulus,” I reassured our newest member to the outside social circle. “We can puff a little later, on more mind-expanding substances.”

“Excellent,” Cumulus said, and then drifted toward the nearest firepit, where other costumed guests were stood conversing. I think he was following his nose to wherever he smelt a joint.

I continued to drink in the shared backyard of our neighbors. It was like a little community within the grander Gardanne. A clique, if you will, but not exclusatory to the likes of Kitty and me, for example. I admired their ability to collaboratively live here, sharing their space. But the collective also helped me appreciate Kitty and my Craftsmen up the hill. It was all ours. And we were free to visit this clique’s courtyard whenever we wanted, especially on festive occasions such as Halloween. Settling into this space, I also gained a resonant sense of the collective’s unifying frequency. Not only could I channel individuals; but the hive mind of this courtyard community. And I wondered what other spheres of influence were emerging around Gardanne.

How long do you want to stay here? Kitty said to me. I think she had made it to the kitchen.

I’m good to go whenever, I said. We’ve shown our faces, had a few drinks and laughs by now.

I’ll begin my goodbyes now, and that’ll still take like a half hour to 45 minutes, she said.

Perfect.

That was just enough time to fulfill my promise to Cumulus to puff on something a little more inspiring than tobacco.

“Cumulus!” I said, beckoning the wizard from the far corner of the courtyard to meet me under their looming Willow tree.

Upon our rednezvous under the loosely hanging branches, away from all the people and firepits, Cumulus was eager to lift above the banality of party chitchat.

“I really appreciate this,” he said, as I pulled out some loose weed and rolled it into a joint. “I’m a bit herb poor at the moment. All of my crops are either too premature to harvest or wrapped up in inventory. A good apothecary doesn’t smoke his own product, save his private stash.”

“I got ya,” I said, sealing the joint with my tongue.

“Although, I didn’t come empty-handed,” he said. “Sprinkle a few drops of this on it,” and he pulled out a little eyedropper from his wizard’s sleeve.

“What’s that?”

“It’ll give the herb a little oomph,” he said, smiling.

“OK,” I said. “If it hits me too hard, Kitty can drive I guess.”

“That’s the spirit.”

We lit up the laced spliff and toked under the Willow tree, like Gandolf and Bilboa Baggins, blowing shapes into the exhaled weed smoke. The active ingredients of our shared cigarette certainly expanded our already enlightened minds. I think I even received glimpses into the 9th dimension. But that high was cut short when Kitty telepathically chimed in.

Why do I feel high? she said. Are you smoking weed out there?

Yes, I said. But I can stop before we drift too far off into the ether.

I’m almost done with my goodbyes. Why don’t you go warm up the car.

“Cumulus,” I said, “as usual, it’s been a pleasure. My better half beckons.”

Mr. Cumulus exhaled a deep, billowy plume of sweet marijuana smoke dappled with god-knows-what and said, “Adieu, Bill. May the spirits and gods be with you this fine Halloween season.”

“And to you,” I said, slinking out the back gate of the courtyard. Kitty was the social butterfly of our duo, leaving me to enjoy a much desired Irish exit.

We managed to return to our Craftsman up the road before midnight. Neither of us would be turning to pumpkins this Halloween. Among the many advantages to being one half of a telepathic couple meant we didn’t have to exchange party notes upon our return home. After we crawled out of our costumes, into more comfortable attire, we both went right to bed. I kissed Kitty, turned over and sunk into a deep sleep in anticipation for the big day ahead tomorrow.

I awoke the next day with a surprisingly clear head. Not the usual case after a holiday party. Kitty was still sleeping. I slipped quietly out of bed and headed straight outside, to the zen garden.

Morning meditation was always how I began my day. As I sat quietly, I heard the faint sounds of nature waking up. Thoughts from the night before walked through my mind effortlessly. I processed the conversations and the sights and any of the chemicals imbibed until they all faded away the way clouds drift from a full moon. I knew I had a full day ahead, but didn’t let that itinerary interrupt this calming, peaceful flow state I was now enjoying in the present moment. The present was all that existed in this space, here and now. Gardanne and I were one.

The transcendental meditation would have lasted longer likely, but suddenly my stomach growled. I listened to my gut.

Feeling rejuvenated, hungry, and ready for the day to go into full swing, I whisked into the kitchen, which overlooked our backyard. I fried some eggs, bacon and home fries in a skillet and brewed a pot of coffee. I knew the rich breakfast smells would stir Kitty awake. Sure enough, she made her way downstairs moments later, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Did you already meditate?” she mumbled.

“Yeah, I feel great,” I said. “Thought you might like some breakfast.”

“I do, thank you. I don’t think I ate enough last night. I’m famished.”

Once the food and coffee were ready, we sat out on the back deck overlooking Gardanne as we ate.

“You have fun at the party last night?” she said.

“Mhm,” as I sipped my French Roast before it went lukewarm. “It was good to catch up with Cumulus. I’m glad we didn’t stay too late. Big day ahead.”

“Me too,” she said. “We’ve recently experienced an influx of souls to the sanctuary. We’re hoping a few of them, at least, can make it up to Gardanne, instead of falling back down into reincarnation on Earths. What have you got going on?”

“I’m excited for the potential new citizens. I’ll have my ‘Oi’ editor write introductions for them, should they reach the right vibration,” and then I paused for a moment of contemplation, referencing a mental calendar. “I don’t have to head into the news office until this afternoon. I may smoke a stoge on the front porch after we eat. Then, I have to run a few errands around the neighborhood. Will likely get lunch at the local pub. Then I’ll bounce around downtown after my pitch meeting with the other editors. Want to get brick oven pizza for dinner tonight, once I’m back in the neighborhood? I talked to Spatula last night at the party.”

“Pizza sounds amazing,” she said. “I’m not even hungry anymore after this wonderful breakfast you cooked, but my mouth watered when you said pizza. Did Mr. Spatula brag about having sex with his wife again?”

“Tony’s gotta Tony,” I said. “He means well. What a character. Idiosyncrasies aside, man, can that guy make a pie.”

“It’s a date,” she said.

We wrapped up breakfast, cleared the table. Kitty hung back in the kitchen to wash dishes, while I made my way through the house to the front porch. I sat in the rocking chair out there and lit up a nice stogie to help digest my breakfast. As the thick billows of aromatic tobacco smoke wafted from my mouth and nostrils, I surveyed the street. Cars and bikes rolled by. Neighbors sauntered along walking their dogs. I said hi to all who noticed me enjoying my sit and smoke.

As the nicotine kicked in, now I turned my mind’s gaze to the day ahead, unlike my meditation, which had been more reflective. I thought about what errands I had to run. I pictured the market and florist down the street. I pictured the pub where I’d go for lunch. I sailed over the Gardanne River into downtown, in the city, where the Register‘s offices stood. I soared over the music practice spaces down the street and then up the hill to the bar Old Faithful. Maybe I’d catch happy hour there, before heading home to Kitty, I thought. Gently rocking on the porch, listening to the wooden floor slats creak, I was both sitting in front of my home and around towne at large. The billowy smoke buttressed my omnipresence helming both the residential life with an urban one. It’s as if the cigar cloud hanging above my head, now rippling as mist under the ceiling of my covered porch, represented my own consciousness stretching throughout the whole of Gardanne.

I snuffed out the cigar, now burnt down to a nub, in the glass ashtray on the end table right next to my rocking chair. I slipped back inside and upstairs to shower. I got dressed, gave Kitty a goodbye kiss and was out the door. I stepped into the Shelby Mustang parked in our garage and turned the ignition, which the V8 engine responded with a commanding rumble as it idled until I shifted her into gear.

I cruised the gridwork of residential streets, in the ’66 Shelby Mustang, under a canopy of elms, oaks and maples. I’d periodically glance up to the treetops to see one of Leviathan’s Crows—our city’s own benevolent security. To the laymen, their communication sounded like caws, but I knew they were exchanging intel on their respective surveyed sections. Together, their interconnected murder (of Crows) flung a cloak over the community’s zeitgeist—as a protective net.

The Shelby rolled into the market’s parking lot. The one-story building sprawled out like a ranch. The shopping center consisted of a food market on one side and an apothecary’s florist on the other. Mr. Cumulus sold his medicinal herbs in the apothecary, alongside beautiful flowers and plants. The two stores were connected by a Brigham’s diner. I picked up a few non-perishables from the market—some things Kitty had requested for the house. And then I passed by the diner, into the florist to buy an autumn-inspired bouquet. That was also for Kitty, but would be my surprise. The best flowers are purchased for no occasion at all.

I bumped into a few people at the market who had been in attendance at the Halloween party the previous night.

“Hey, Bill!” the holistic healer, Carrie, ocupying an apothecary cash register said. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your Crow makeup. I don’t think I saw you leave last night.”

“I pulled the Irish exit,” I said. “I’d still be in bed otherwise.”

“Cumulus should have followed right after you,” she said. “He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. I think he’s still sleeping.”

Carrie packaged up my flowers and I was on my way, en route to the pub up the street.

The Pub was secretly one of my favorite haunts in all of Gardanne. I’d get lunch there three or four times a week. The bartender knew my order—a turkey club and steak fries—and had already placed it with the cook before I had a chance to pull up my regular stool, on the far end of the long, straight bar that took up two thirds of the traditional establishment.

“What’s up, Jack?” I said to the bartender.

“Same old, same old,” he said. “You going through the back door today? If anybody calls for you, I can tell them you’ll be back in a minute.”

Jack was referring to a particularly integral alibi that I exploited at the pub. In the back, behind the phone booth, shrouded by a curtain, was a magical back door. If anyone but me attempted to enter this threshold, they’d be met by a solid wall. But, for this Thunderbird, the secret back door instantly transported me from the little pub in Gardanne Heights directly to a penthouse bar atop the city’s tallest building, downtown, miles away from our little residential neighborhood. My Mustang parked in front of the pub made it look like I was there, while I held court in the swanky, city bar.

Via the pub’s magical door, I’d enter the penthouse city bar into a private booth, also in the back. I’d exit the portal, now miles away, donning my Thunderbird helmet, Bueller, and decked out in the rest of my dimension-leaping garb (usually a t-shirt under a bomber jacket, jeans, vans). My formerly human skin even shifted to the tightly-wrapped carbon fiber in shiny, metallic vanta black. Several Crows were stationed in the penthouse to stand guard by my private booth. Only they (and Jack the bartender) knew of my secret door.

After I finished my perfectly grilled club in the pub, I took Jack’s offer to cover while I instantly leapt across town, now as Big Cat. A couple Crows were there to greet me on the receiving end, on top of the city.

“Welcome, sir,” the Crow Heckle said. “You have a few people waiting to speak with you.”

“Thanks, Heckle,” I said, and then slipped into my reserved seat. Whenever I wasn’t present in the booth, an exact replica of my left arm was set in place to provide the illusion that I had been there all along. Ninety-nine percent of Gardanners only ever saw this prosthetic arm, if they strove to steal a glance at the Big Cat manning his perch in the penthouse. Only those who specifically requested my counsel got the real McCoy.

“This is Dr. Planck,” said Jeckle, another Crow, gesturing to a smaller, unassuming scientist who wore John Lennon glasses and appeared to be nervous (his vibe read ‘anxiety’). “He needs to request a special leap next time we run field trips.”

“Thanks, Jeckle,” I said, and then turned to the meek scientist. “Step into the booth.”

“I appreciate you meeting with me today,” the scientist said, as he slipped into the leather seat opposite me.

“What can I do for you today?” I said.

“Well, we’re getting close to fabricating existential vehicles that qualified Gardanners could potentially pilot through the 8th dimension. We need to conduct some additional reconnaissance work on several of the Earths below to fine-tune our formulations.”

“Done,” I said. “We’ll add your requested Earth varietals to next week’s field trip itinerary. Just send the list to Prof. O’Halleran, who’s now coordinating all scheduled leaps from the pyramid’s apex.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

As Dr. Planck exited the booth, Heckle and Jeckle inquired if I wanted to meet with anymore people today.

“No, guys,” I said. “I have to get back.”

I swung the fake arm back into my booth’s place and discreetly passed back unto my magic door. In an instant, I found myself once again in my favorite neighborhood pub, as Bill Thunderbird.

“Any calls, Jack?” I said.

“Nope, which was a relief. I never know what to say when people, who call, ask for you and can’t understand why you’re not here, even though they saw your car parked outside.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said.

I thanked Jack for his expert tendering and before long was rolling in the Mustang once again. Now, I was headed into the city the old-fashioned way—driving over the bridge. I hit a little lunchtime traffic. I turned on the car stereo and tuned to the local baseball day game about to begin.

“It’s a beautiful day for a 1 o’clock game,” the announcer said. “Our own Gardanne Gnomes host the Shambhala Yetis. Stay tuned for the first pitch in a few minutes.”

	R	H	E
Gardanne Gnomes	0	0	0
Shambhala Yetis	0	0	0

I made it to the newspaper offices before the first inning let out, but the Gnomes were already ahead two runs.

	R	H	E
Gardanne Gnomes	2	3	0
Shambhala Yetis	0	0	0

I called an impromptu pitch meeting upon landing on the news floor. The nine respective editors of each newspaper section were invited into the conference room.

“OK, guys,” I said, opening the meeting as staff filed into the long space flanked by giant glass windows, “what do you have for me?”

“We’re planning on doing a follow-up from the monster piece,” Walter, the news desk editor said.

“Good,” I said. “Make sure to include info on the Crows’ fire drill, as well. Our goal should be to keep citizens’ minds on the possibility for threats, without keeping them in a constant fight-or-flight state. I think our continued reporting will help to quell concerns.”

“I sent one of my stringers to cover the baseball game currently underway,” the sports editor Howard said. “My usual guy who covers the baseball book had a thing.”

“I caught the first pitch on the way in,” I said. “If the Gnomes pull off this game-7 win, that will be a hell of a comeback after going three games down to start the series.”

“We’ve put together a collage chronicling all of Banksy’s Gardanne street art,” Elaine, the Arts & Entertainment editor said.

“I stumbled upon his newest mural of Earth_42_ the other night, while the paint was still drying,” I said, and then turned to the gossip columnist. “Let’s keep Banksy out of Page 6 and only focus readers on his art. He won’t return if Gardanne uncovers his true identity.”

The gossip girl Gail nodded.

I didn’t wait for the Oi! or Discovery editors to chime in. I addressed them directly.

“‘Oi!’ reporters, Kitty told me this morning that we just received an influx of souls down under. You should visit the sanctuary soon—today or tomorrow—to see if we have to draft a few new intros to Gardanne. Any obits?”

“A few departures, yeah,” Max the Oi! editor said. “Good news is no descents to reincarnation. Just a few lateral moves to other Dew places along the same wavelength. I think one now former Gardanne resident has decided to move to Valhalla. The staged Crows attack inspired him, he said.

“Great. Discovery? What do you have for me?” I said.

“We caught wind that a few student channelers are building a ham radio at the University north of the city,” said Colin Hadron, the Research and Discovery of Magic (R&DM) editor. “Their hope is that the device—if it works—will be able to communicate with new frequency variants of other 7th-dimensional destinations, like Gardanne.”

“Excellent,” I said. “A little birdy told me that Dr. Planck will also be sponsoring some field trips to Earths for research on 8th-dimensional vehicles. Make sure you send a stringer to cover their reconnaissance, when that goes underway next week.”

“We have a good problem with new restaurant openings,” Chef Jeff, the food editor said. “There’s a waiting list a mile long of restaurants waiting for reviews to print. I think the last influx of Gardanne citizens brought a glut of gourmet chefs to our shores.”

“My stomach rumbles at the thought,” I said. “Make sure to keep Spatula’s brick oven pizza out of the review queue for now. That’s my own neighborhood gem, and don’t want too many Gardanners crowding the spot. Trust me, Tony doesn’t need the attention. His pies speak for themselves.”

“Yes, chef,” Jeff said.

Then I turned to Terry who helmed local news in Gardanne Heights.

“Terry, keep reporting on whatever you’re working on for the local weekly,” I said. “I don’t need anything this week. I’m currently in the midst of a nice ‘on the road’ piece, rolling the Shelby around town today. I think my column might satisfy the local curiosity, while also hitting some urban haunts.”

Terry nodded in what appeared to be relief. Sometimes the news from the suburban neighborhoods took longer to take shape than the wire on the city desk, dynamic as it was, always brimming with new developments.

“Good work,” I said. “Meeting: adjourned.”

“At the close of the 3rd inning, the Yetis have finally broke ice,” said the radio announcer over my Shelby stereo.

	R	H	E
Gardanne Gnomes	6	4	0
Shambhala Yetis	1	1	0

After another successful Gardanne Register pitch meeting, I found myself back on the road. It was now mid-afternoon, which was the perfect time to check in on some of the musical practice spaces in town. I knew several of the band members. They were a cast of characters, on or off stage.

The practice spaces mainly lied on the outskirts of town. I parked the Shelby in the alley by their entrance. Once inside, I stared down a long hallway, with doors (mostly closed) lining the corridor that accessed each respective space. The heavy beats of bass drums vibrated the hall’s walls. I passed by a few doors shielding the hallway from loud, electronic sounds of bands mid-session. I found my way to Cymatic’s space. They were just chilling, and must have been on a break. I slowly turned the knob and entered, so as not to startle the practicing artists.

“Kal,” I said, swinging the door open carefully. “Thought I’d say hi.” I turned to his other two bandmates, who I hadn’t formally met yet. “What’s up, guys?”

“Guys, this is Bill,” Kal said. “He’s the editor for the Register.”

“Right on,” Cymatic’s drummer Tommy said.

“Nice to meet you,” said their base player Chris.

All three band members were sitting in swivel stools smoking cigarettes.

“Looks like I caught you during a break,” I said.

“Yeah, we just practiced a few new songs that we haven’t performed yet,” Kal said.

“Still getting the base line down,” Chris said. “But I’m hoping we can debut at least one of them tonight.”

“We’ll be ready,” added Tommy, who looked like he was born ready. Or maybe that’s because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Those guys always seem down for anything.

“Bill’s the mastermind behind getting us love on Larry King Forever,” Kal said. “We’ve actually had to turn away a few gigs since that appearance.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” I said. “I’ll bring my guitar next time. If you guys don’t mind, I’d love to jam with you. In addition to musicality, I’ve discovered command of the electronic sound vastly enhances our dimension leaping capabilities.”

“For sure,” Kal said.

“By the way, if you’re having to turn away gigs, that usually indicates Cymatic is tabernacle-bound,” I said.

“Here’s hoping,” Kal said, crossing his fingers without dropping his cigarette somehow.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” I said. “Don’t want to interrupt artists at work.”

“Right on,” Tommy said.

As I was leaving their practice space, I heard the drummer click his sticks three times to ignite another rehearsal of their new stuff. Even through the closed door, out in the hallway, I could tell their new shit would be a hit.

Entering the top of the 8th…

	R	H	E
Gardanne Gnomes	9	9	0
Shambhala Yetis	3	4	1

It wasn’t quite dinner time when I left the musical practice space. I decided to catch the conclusion of the ball game at our city’s crown jewel bar, Old Faithful.

“Bill!” I heard the bartenders and a few of the regulars exclaim upon my entrance, walking down the stairs into the garden-level saloon.

“Fellas!” I said, finding a stool adjacent to bar regular Norm. They treated me like a regular too, but little did they know my heart resided at my own neighborhood Pub. “Thought I’d catch the end of the game here.”

“What’ll ya have?” said Sammy the bartender.

“Just a beer,” I said. “Better keep it to one too. I’m driving.”

“If the Gnomes pull this off,” Norm said, “they’ll set the record for greatest comeback in Gardanne history.”

“It’s looking good,” I said, as Sammy slid a draught down the bar into my waiting palm.

From where Norm and I sat, out Old Faithful’s window, we enjoyed a pristine view of the tabernacle at Gardanne’s center.

“Anything going on later tonight?” Sammy said to me.

“I might head to the tabernacle after dinner,” I said.

“Stop by for a nightcap, once the show lets out,” Sammy said.

“You know I’ll be here,” Norm said.

I timed my singular beer perfectly. As the mug bottom went up to dispense the last bit of suds down my gob, I heard the TV announcer punctuate the final score.

“And that’s the ball game, folks!” he said. “Gardanne, 10. Shambhala, 3. The Gnomes had to win four in a row to complete this unprecedented comeback! The Yetis leave two on base.”

FINAL — 10-3, Gnomes.

	R	H	E
Gardanne Gnomes	10	13	0
Shambhala Yetis	3	5	1

The bar erupted in cheers at this favored outcome. Amidst the bedlam, I decided to slink out, lightly nodding to Sam and Norm to let them know I was leaving.

I was back on the road once again and anticipating a little bridge traffic during the impending rush hour.

I should be home by 6, traffic permitting, I telepathically said to Kitty.

I should be home from the sanctuary by then, she replied.

Ferris Bueller couldn’t have planned a better rendezvous at our shared Craftsman home. Kitty and I both pulled into the driveway simultaneously.

“You must have had a good day!” she said. “I didn’t hear from you until after work.”

“It was eventful,” I said, “and still going. Let’s get to Tony’s brick oven place before it gets busy.”

“Sure, I just need to wash up and change out of these work clothes.”

Not 20 minutes later, we piled into the Mustang and cruised to Tony Spatula’s brick oven pizzeria. My empty stomach may have coaxed my foot to lean on the pedal a little too heavily.

“Easy,” Kitty said, chuckling. “There will still be pizza when we get there.”

“Sorry, I skipped lunch.”

Dinner was a hit, per usual. I endured Tony’s ribbing to enjoy the delicious, perfectly flame-kissed pizza.

“Eh, Bill!” Tony said, receiving me into his establishment. “Nice to see you washed off the eyeliner from last night!”

“Hi, Anthony,” Kitty said plainly.

“Kitty! You look stunning as always. I must have missed you at last night’s party,” he said. “Bill, if my wife wasn’t so hot, you’d have to look out! I might steal your girl from right under ya!”

“Yes, and we’re all thankful for that,” I said, pandering to his insults so that he would expedite inspiring, piping-hot pizza pie into our gullets.

“Me too,” Kitty said under her breath.

After dinner, the Shelby Mustang whisked us to the tabernacle in the heart of Gardanne. We took in an evening live variety show, complete with the best musical acts and a few sketches from the town’s local players. Nightly tabernacle host Johnny Tockalot kept the show moving with what appeared to be no effort, but that was the genius of this late-night raconteur. The acts were the finest Gardanne had to offer on this particular night. When the show finally ended, and the lights went down, Kitty and I lingered for a moment or two, letting the elation we’d just witnessed sink in between us.

We took a shortcut through the tunnel under the Gardanne River to avoid the evening’s bridge traffic. We were back in our Heights neighborhood, pulling the Mustang chariot into the garage by no later than 11 p.m. Kitty and I sat by the living room fireplace chatting for a bit, sharing stories from the day. We caught up on several of the Gardanne TV shows we liked to watch together in the back den. Concluding the day, curled up on the plush couch with Kitty, watching our favorite programmes, was always a comforting bookend to close the day. I certainly felt complete, holding Kitty close in my arms, exchanging body warmth as we watched Bravo’s Below Deck.

“You don’t know how to cook eggs??” I heard the sailing yacht chef exclaim from the galley to his sous chef, as my eyes became heavier and heavier until it was time for bed.

The next morning, I sat as I always did, for my morning meditation in the backyard zen garden. Reflecting on the last day and a half, I let those events drift from short- to long-term memory. And I slipped deep, deep, deeply into theta and then delta waves. I wondered where my consciousness would go… and for how long, until I once again returned to Gardanne to begin another beautiful day. I knew, for however far I drifted between worlds falling like water droplets through the multiverse, that the towne sitting high up in the 7th dimension, between the dozen Earths, would always be there waiting for me, whispering, ‘Come home.’

Zelda’s Journal – Entry 18

It’s like we were there tonight. Me and my friends might be the only modern-day Gardanners who truly know what it was like to live in the ancient, prehistoric city state.

I feel so connected to Kitty and Bill. I really hope we can meet them one day.

Chapter 18

We enjoyed this golden Gardanne era for an inordinate length of time—too long to count.

Then, Kitty had to leave. She had to complete her Thunderbird training. The Cap invited us to a farewell dinner that She and the crew had planned for Kitty, at Dyson City by the galaxy’s central, super massive black hole.

“We should probably rendezvous with the Cheshire somewhere in Earth_42_’s distant past,” I said to Kitty, upon the news of our invitation for her farewell party.

In addition to tethered dimensional leaps through the multiverse, Kitty and I had also been taking out the scout ship Victor—good old Eagle Eye—to skim the spacetime of this Earth version. We were most concerned with humanity’s distant and shrouded origins on this elusive version of the planet. We wanted to know who built the pyramids, and what were they actually for. Did extraterrestrials exist among men in the legendary city state of Atlantis? Answering these questions could shed insight into humanity’s current condition, in roughly the 21st century A.D. on Earth_42_.

You see, the problem with this human civilization was that they languished as a species with amnesia. It was as if, long ago, in a forgotten time, an advanced civilization developed the profound capability to leave this world by bending the very spacetime that housed it. The ancients built stargates and leapt through them into distant realities, I would later discover about Earth_42. Then, they locked the door, buried the key and extinguished all memory of these cellar portals from the common lexicon. Mass amnesia cast its shadow across the complete human purview.

At the time I was born on Earth_42, the predominant language was English. Even when I visited adjacent Earth versions, they usually carried this criteria—English speaking, and of an antedeluvian world, where its human species were unaware of their true origins.

In the scout ship Eagle Eye Victor (EEV) we rewound the clock, traveling back in time like leaping worlds in reverse. Traveling back in time is not unlike traversing dimensions, thusly so. You have to navigate its branches like descending downward on a tree, until you reach its temporal trunk. We were in hot pursuit of this common origin root that sprung open with splitting branches of English-speaking worlds all with amnesia of their true ancestors.

This string of English-speaking Earths we coined the thin blue ribbon. It was truly a sliver of all possible Earths, but it was the verse with which we were most concerned. They all contained the Pyramids at Giza, Gunung Padang, and the ancient Mayan ruins in Mexico among many other inexplicable megalithic structures.

Those monuments acted as effective time stamps as we rewound the clock. We traveled well before the Great Flood. Still the Pyramids stood. We plunged further backward until we reached the builders of these world wonders.

They weren’t human. Their civilization was also far more advanced than anything from the modern era. They levitated 100-ton megalithic stones by manipulating soundwaves. And gently and precisely they placed each stone to fit perfectly, until they reached the apex of giant pyramids piercing the sky.

The pyramids weren’t tombs. They tapped into an entirely antiquated and forgotten technology that accessed the natural electromagnetivity of the Earth. Savvy operators could broadcast signals around the globe from the focal point of such megalithic prisms that drew from piezoelectric energy. They also acted as 4th-dimensional markers for those traversing adjacent dimensions of Earth and required reference points. I know the EEV navigation system appreciated these milestones. Ultimately, the impressive monuments would remain as the sole proof that such an advanced civilization ever graced this Earth.

“Let’s set the temporal sextant to 250,000 B.C., just above the apex of the Great Pyramid,” Kitty said. She was referring to our rendezvous point with the Cheshire.

From Gardanne, I channeled Jacob far off in some flung reality we could barely fathom. Within a few days of my beacon, he confirmed the pin proposal. We were both confident such a distant point in Earth_42_’s past would be secluded enough not to attract unwanted UU attention. They didn’t even acknowledge Earth_42_ as an official Earth varietal.

One week later, Kitty and I flew EEV out to the rendezvous point. The Cheshire was there, hovering, cloaked, a few hundred yards above the Great Pyramid. We hitched our scout ship to the Mother’s hull and boarded.

I was surprised at how happy Cap was to see us (well myself, at least; I wasn’t as surprised of Her admiration for Kitty). The rest of the crew also embraced us, as if it had been lifetimes since we last spoke. It had been lifetimes, from a multiversal perspective. The Cap then flitted to the wheelhouse, firing up Her ship’s dimensional oscillator. She phased the good ship Cheshire from 250,000 A.D. Earth_42_ space, into Dyson City, in their present day. The gigantic ring that was Dyson City encircled the Milky Way’s central super massive black hole.

The restaurant the crew had picked was nice enough. Dyson City was a magnificent feat of civil engineering, and all its establishments—including restaurants—reflected that. Still, I ususally didn’t like attending anything on the Dyson ring, since it was UU-owned and Thunderbird techniques were outlawed. For the entire outing, I had to be regular old Bill. It didn’t matter, I guess, since Kitty was the guest of honor.

“How long will you be away at Thunderbird training?” the Cap asked, sitting in the booth between other crew at dinner.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Kitty said, then she turned to me. “How long was your training again?”

“No two Thunderbirds’ experiences are alike,” I answered. “You could be gone for years or even decades.”

Kitty turned back to Cap to assess Her reaction.

“Well, we wish you all the luck in the universe,” the Cap said. “We’re glad we got to see you once again at least, before you depart to realities unknown.”

The dinner went about as pleasant as you might expect. The Cap and crew’s goodbyes to Kitty were like a dress rehearsal for when she and I would have to say farewell. That happened about a week later.

That goodbye I’ll reserve for another point in this Thunderbird journal. Now that Kitty’s gone, I’ve had to resort to my old lone-leaping habit among the multiverse. I have no safety net, no tether to pull me back home when I venture too deep into obscurity.

Lately, the spam radio scientists have asked if I could enlighten them on any Thunderbird intel as to how Gardanne could break through the 8th-dimensional ceiling. I’ve decided to take a rather deep dip into Earth_42_ for the reconaissance. It’s ill advised without a tether, but we’re willing to take the risk for the cause.

I’ll pick up this journal again upon my triumphant return to Gardanne. For now, so long. Down unto the 3rd-dimensional breach I go again…

ZELDA’S JOURNAL – Entry 19

432,001 A.G. (Anno Gardannam, or ‘Year of Gardanne’)

We returned to the small stone pyramid several nights in a row after that last channeling from Big Cat. I held my hand to the male side of the pyramid, as I had done every night for the last month or so, but nothing. That was Big Cat’s last entry. He must not have felt like updating His journal, after Kitty left.

“I wonder if He and Kitty ever met again,” my friend Stan said, on the third night of our failed channeling attempt.

“What if we combined all of our channeling powers?” I said, in response. Better to be part of the solution, I thought.

“But you’re the only one with this gift,” my other friend Chloe said. “What good would the rest of us be?”

“I think we’ve all picked up a thing or two in channeling technique from Big Cat’s firsthand account, thus far. Let’s sit in a circle around Bill and Kitty’s stone pyramid,” I said. “Let’s all concentrate on our intention to contact the both of them, instead of only focusing on Big Cat’s story.”

And so, we did. We sat circular, with the pyramid at our collective center. We concentrated all of our shared intention in reaching these two Thunderbirds, as I led the seance.

As we chanted, I said aloud, “Big Cat, Kitty, if you’re out there, among the ether, the movierain, the multiverse, please know that Gardanne still stands proudly among the 7th dimension! We call you now to return.”

A few heavy beats of silence. Then, the atomspheric dropped severely.

An orb of ball lightning formed just above the apex of the pyramid. It rose, and grew to 15 feet in diameter. It built to brilliant, impossible white. Then, the light extinguished in an instant like a bubble bursting. And there, hovering, were the two Thunderbirds we had summoned, Big Cat and Kitty. They were both wearing their vanta black, shiny helmets that displayed painted on bird beaks and light-up eyes. Before They could fully materialize into physical form on the city state, in a deep baritone, we heard the Big Cat say, “We’re baaaaaaaack.”

Part III — Big Cat’s Gardanne Journal

“We’re baaaaaaaack,” I said. We hadn’t yet fully dropped into physical form on the Gardanne grass. We were still hovering. Kitty and I had just been one being, in the 9th dimension, but were now again two separate Thunderbirds. I noticed our stone selves sitting zen as a pyramid directly below our live bodies hovering. That’s why we can’t manifest physically yet, I thought. There was a circle of kids sitting around the stone pyramid. They must have channeled us back into Gardanne existence.

The last thing I remembered from the 9th dimension was in the descent. Kitty and I, both Thunderbirds who could expertly navigate the multiverse, were struggling to locate our home in Gardanne. It wasn’t quite as easy to see, way up in the upper echelons. Then, all of a sudden, I sensed a faint beacon and heard the subtle whisper of a girl. “We call you now to return,” she said.

As the torrent of movierain droplet worlds flooded by our visors, We zeroed in on the faint signal. “That’s Gardanne!” I said, as a five-point star lit up under Us. It was the five points of pentagonal Gardanne, Our own North Star. We had only been up in the 9th dimension for mere moments, but there was no telling how long We had been absent from the 7th-dimensional city state.

Kitty and I materialized teenage bodies that broke free from the stone zen lovers’ pyramid like Sigourney Weaver and Rick Moranis cracking out of Zuul and the Key Master’s petrified dog statues at the end of Ghostbusters.

It startled the kids, but they soon calmed.

“What year is it?” was the first thing I said to the teens who had channeled Us.

“It’s 432,001 A.G.,” a girl who We would soon learn was called Zelda, said. She appeared to be the one who had led the successful seance.

“Wow, we’ve been gone for half an eon,” I said to Kitty.

It showed. Our Crafstman was gone. The stone pyramid of Us, the “zen lovers,” I would later learn, had been nicknamed by the teens. It had been shrouded in overgrowth until the kids uncovered it. I could sort of make out the five points of the city state, upon a bird’s eye view, but much of Gardanne was unrecognizable.

We also weren’t sure how the modern city state would receive these two Thunderbirds. Kitty and I decided to keep our return only among the teens. We worked clandestinely to reconnect with Mr. Cumulus and his wife Esmeralda, who still lived there. Esmeralda had transcended with her sister Mother Gardanne when We were still on Gardanne, a half million years ago. And Cumulus had followed her soon after. But they found their way back, having both made strong spiritual connections with Gardanne’s local flora—the indigenous trees and flowers that grew plentifully, making our land lush and green. They retreated deep into the woods, when they sensed society deviating from the ideals we had established long ago. But Kitty and I had returned, and the Cumuli moved smoothly back into the fold, as savvy wizards and witches do.

We re-entered the 7th-dimensional reality that we had founded as the wards of the Cumuli (Mr. and Mrs. Cumulus).

The four of us made quite the nuclear family. We bought a house in Gardanne Heights. Kitty and I enrolled in the high school with our newfound friends to maintain our cover, become acclimated to the modern Gardanne, and be free to explore our new premises. It wasn’t quite the golden era. It was something better. Mysterious waiting to be unearthed.

Kitty and I, and the Cumuli were Gardanners once again. In between our attending weekday classes about higher dimensions, Kitty, myself and other OG Gardanners worked in the background to break our city state free from the existential restrictions She had incurred over the half eon. Her outer shell had hardened with the outlaw of magic and other rigid roadblocks that separated this place from the greater multiverse. When Kitty and I finally manifested in our new bodies as teenagers, we cracked them free from the stone pyramid that had housed our joint essence for ages. And we intended to crack Gardanne open in much the same way. I believe Zelda said it best, as she was a witness to our rebirth.

“The vibrant, organic duo cracking free from the rigid rock reminded me of a time-lapsed video I had seen in biology: a plant breaking free from its seed encasing, spreading its roots throughout the soil, bursting forth out of the dirt and into the Sun,” Zelda had shared from her journal on Our new birthday. I think we were Scorpios this time of year.

We would restore balance, fine-tuning the town’s frequency to a higher, divine vibration, that would beckon former Gardanners who had transcended, back to the 7th-dimensional city state. The new generations of Gardanners would rise along with this tide, albeit gradually. Mother Gardanne was instrumental in breaking the 8th-dimensional ceiling once again to reignite the beams of brilliant light that inspired transcendental revelations. We’d carry out the revival in secret, since spheres of influence were not as known in this new place. Undercover as high schoolers, Kitty and I spearheaded Gardanne’s return to a place that elevated souls.

Chapter 19

Our movement began rather grassroots. Quite literally. Before we could reignite Gardanne’s engine to elevate souls from lowly 3rd-dimensional Earths—through the 5th, to the 7th dimension and beyond—we had to protect our plants on the ground.

I would imbue the Earth_42_ shell often to conduct ground reconaissance. The shell was my earthly body. I was a man, but I was also a plant—planted as a starseed on planet Earth for quick access from higher realms. It often felt like overflowing, occupying this earthly husk, since I contained the complete blueprint for the 7th-dimensional higher reality of Gardanne. As I sublimed to this higher plane, I imagined roots breaking free from my seedling case. A stem emerged from its rough, outer shell, growing to break through the soil into the light. The whole process unfolded like a page right out of Zelda’s biology lab journal.

I wasn’t just a stationary plant; I had to live an earthly life. I had perfected my technique of inhabiting the physical body to ultimately return to higher dimensions. On the ground, I was Mother Earth, Gaia’s pilot. I was the Sun. I was the Moon. And, commanding gravity waves as all three celestial bodies in one, I reflected this essence back to the super massive black hole at the center of this solar system’s Milky Way Galaxy. Sitting zen on the Earth ground, I’d imagine sinking into Her planetary grid, becoming Her electromagnetic field. My consciousness wrapped around the earthly sphere ~8,000 miles in diameter. From my surface purview, I imagined the Moon entirely eclipsing the shining Sun, which now shone black, ringed in a golden corona, as the three spheres aligned. I’d pass, as Earth, through the portal this created. In this way, the three celestial bodies (Sun, Earth, Moon) became as one black hole that reflected back to their central parent. The Super Massive Black Hole. Consciounsess reflecting back to Itself. On the other side of this black hole sat the moon door into my Drop—my personal universe. I’d pilot the Earth, the Moon, the Sun and Its entire solar system through this passage, until it hovered at the epicenter of my spherical Drop, way up in the 5th dimension. My higher self sat zen, in the Drop, just below the floating, holographic solar system slowly rotating.

Assuming my higher body, I’d simultaneously concentrate on my earthly shell meditating below, my higher self meditating in the Drop here, and project up to the 7th dimension, where my highest self sat zen, meditating in my Gardanne backyard. Like lightning, emitting from the center, striking down to the 3rd dimension, through the 5th, and into the 7th, I’d jolt my eyes open up in Gardanne. I’d gently awaken up there with a smile. This is how my plant found his way back to Gardanne.

Plants were earthly shells We had left—Kitty and I—living as bookmarks on Earths we’d visited. These physical bodies acted as breadcrumbs leading us back to the exact point in time and space where We had left that particular Earth. Most of the identities on the dozen keystone Earths were secure, meditating in the lotus position somewhere safe—a serene garden, a quiet apartment living room, in the forest way up high in some Amazonian Kapok tree, for several instances—on their respective planets. Time there moved much faster than up in Gardanne. But my shell on Earth_42_—the last Earth I had inhabited for a significant and substantial 42 years—was in jeopardy. This grim realization propelled Kitty and me to swing EEV into the local Earth space. We’d have to leverage the breadth of our Thunderbird capabilites to keep this particular earthly existence intact.

The last I had leapt off planet, it was latter 2025. The mysterious, interstellar comet 3I/ATLAS had careened through our solar system all year. AI was on the rise, swallowing jobs as its practical applications expanded rapidly to cost-effectively replace their former human counterparts. Talk of seismic planetary shifts also rendered the ground beneath my plant’s feet from ever feeling steady, literally and figuratively. My plant was unemployed, depressed, in danger of losing his financial footing.

We resolved to swoop EEV throughout the surface of Earth_42_, in Fall 2025, encircling the globe at the speed of thought, inserting ourselves in the dialogues and inner monologues of all earthly inhabitants—human, AI or otherwise—to formulate a comprehensive economic view of this time in history unfolding. Through coherence with my corresponding earthly shell, I, the Big Cat, as this man’s higher self would funnel wisdom from higher dimensions through his crown. He’d have the Akashic at his fingertips to manifest the desired professional path that would ensure his financial security and, thus, well-being.

Losing plants was always on the table. Culling the dead branches are necessary for any gardener. But this Earth_42_ plant was crucial, if we were to illuminate the planet as a whole, elevating Her from shadows. I had spent the most time ever as a terrestrial on this Earth. I maintained a vested interest. We had vested interests, as Thunderbirds—Kitty and I. Earth_42_ had informed so much of our planetary understanding. We owed it to Her. Whenever up in Gardanne, sitting quietly in the lotus position, meditating zen, during this time of Earth_42_ distress, as I concentrated intently in silence, my focus was likely honing on the protection and cultivation of this Mother Earth. Chalk it up to recency bias, but She was my favorite.

Kitty and I would use Mondays and Wednesdays to descend down to Earth_42_. We’d leap from 7th-dimensional Gardanne, landing in Our respective Drops. We’d climb through Our Drops’ trapdoors, into EEV’s hull, hovering cloaked and silently in an Earth LaGrange point. I’d pilot the scout ship, undetected into the Earth atmosphere. In these instances, We were the UFO. We’d skim the beautiful Earth’s surface—oceans, lands, mountains, valleys, archipelagos and all. We tuned an unimaginable bandwidth of divergent frequencies (all earthly reality could be broken down into sound—frequency, tone and vibration) seeking whatever We needed to know at that time to execute intelligently on Our initiatives. We could command Our pineal glands as easily as turning the knob on a receiving radio, as we navigated EEV through Earth_42_ time and space.

Chapter 20

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, We’d attend school in Gardanne. We focused our studies on higher dimensional travel, since We also had a vested interest in that. Weeknights, we’d hang out with our friends. Saturdays were for fun excursions. And Sundays reacquainted Us with nature, Our Mother Gardanne (the spirit of Esmeralda Cumulus’ sister, who had now returned from our first golden age).

Unexpected free time often resulted in epiphanies.

We were dismissed from class early one Thursday. We were all hanging out in the basement of our Cumulus residence, which served as the launch pad into secondary- (or even tertiary-) location antics.

“What should we do?” Radcliffe said, sprawled out on the plush, basement couch. The square configuration of chair furniture surrounded a heavy, mahogany coffee table. The love seats and sofas cradled Our half dozen friends Kitty and I were hosting.

“We should create demand,” I said, ambiguously.

“Demand for what?”

“You said the soul sanctuary admits only a few new souls a year, right?” I was referring to Gardanne’s founding soul sanctuary which harbored souls from the dozen Earths below, who were in between incarnations. Certain souls, nearly complete in their purpose on the 3rd-dimensional plane, would often find themselves lost between lives. Should they return to an Earth for reincarnation? they thought. The archons who fed off their energy at this level would love that. Or should they move onto higher echelons. Grow their soul. Gardanne provided a safe haven for those souls, nearly ready to move on. They just required a little nudge. And, while slightly elevated, they could enjoy a respite from the reincarnation mill below.

Radcliffe nodded, expecting me to elaborate. “Will that be tough?” he said.

“It’ll be like firing up the basement heating system after a long, dormant summer. We’ll have to let the vents clear out the dust.”

My intuition told me the musty scent of vents kicking on after seasons-long hiatus registered in Radcliffe’s mind. Gardanne had all but cut Her connection with the lower Earths in this new era. And the new powers that be shrouded the origins of the few souls who did make it through their misdirection screen. As far as modern-day Gardanners were concerned, these mysterious souls appeared as some religious miracle, out of nothing.

The teenagers who befriended Kitty and me felt more like locals to Gardanne than Us, despite Our founders status. They educated Us about the mores of the city state as much as We enlightened them how to elevate citizens into more sophisticated consciousness forms.

Most of these teachable moments happened spontaneously, serendipitously. There was no need to plan them, save the heavier endeavors that involved freeing the entirety of Gardanne and fortifying Her protective psychic bubble, the way a cell reinforces its outer membrane to repel antigens.

We’d take adventures into the city on weeknights or while playing hookie. Our favorite Mexican restaurant stood as an ancient Mayan pyramid—a downtown fixture—situated amidst other stone structures crawling with lush vines. That was one haunt we’d frequent. We’d hang back in the neighborhood a lot too, especially on school nights. We’d hold seances in the woods behind our houses, as our Sun set in the pink sky. We’d hang out at the skatepark up the street. It’s amazing how practicing tricks on half pipes and railings informed my dimensional leaping capabilities, surfing my Drop through the movierain. We’d skate all over town, in fact. When no one was looking, I’d bend spacetime at my heels to propel my board automatically, without the need for push-offs.

“How are you moving so fast??” Radcliffe said to me one afternoon, as I glided through neighborhood streets frictionless. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’d have to learn that trick himself.

All the while, whether we were on mission to free Gardanne or just hanging out having fun, Kitty and I continued to fine-tune our Thunderbird tethering techniques. We were entangled. We had been One up in the 9th dimension. Even though we appeared as two now, We were of one mind, one heart and one soul. We’d communicate telepathically among the group. I was always dipping in between Gardanne and the movierain. Only Kitty would notice. We’d manifest outcomes in the city state leveraging our in-depth knowledge of the clockwork Gardanne’s ecosystem. Of course, nearly all of this was performed as slight of hand, even among our friends who knew us both to be Thunderbirds and capable of such feats. It was really the only way for either of Us to maintain sanity as We navigated this rabbit hole of a place We had created and now barely recognized. And the danger of the newfound unknown added a much welcomed zest. Thunderbird technique—or ‘birdcraft,’ as Kitty and I called it—helped to weather these nefarious winds as well.

Chapter 21

On one night class, Kitty and I thought it good for the teens to learn dimensional leaping between the Earths below. That practice had been outlawed long before any of them were born. They hadn’t even heard such feats were possible, until they channeled Us and We returned, thanks to said channeling.

We all met in Our basement one weeknight. They followed me into the backyard, where Our zen garden lay. I conjured up an electromagnetic orb, hopped up into its Drop world, Kitty and the whole kaboodle—nine of us, in full—and I popped that bubble out of Gardanne, into the movierain, surfing the multiverse of Earths. We swooped into Earth_Berkeley_, where Prof. O’Halleran taught physics. I hadn’t seen him in lifetimes, but to him it had only been a few months, I think. As we materialized from the ether into Earth_Berkeley_’s local spacetime, I wondered how his project with the AI universe people had went.

“Wow! It looks like you’ve upgraded into bringing a whole classroom with you,” O’Halleran said, upon the nine of us strolling in from a higher dimension. “You also look like a teenager.”

“A lot has changed, my friend,” I said. “A lot has changed. How did it end up with the AI people? Did they take your notes for building universes in their mainframe?”

The professor who had been sitting at his desk correcting papers, stood to greet us, and was now leaning on the large, wooden desk’s side, excited to host new students.

“Well, of course, I couldn’t tell them that I had unfettered multiversal access via Gardanne,” he said. “They would have thought me crazy. But I figured our intel would speak for itself, regardless of our sources. We gave them terrabytes of data—blueprints from worlds we had actually visited, launching from Gardanne’s central city pyramid. They rejected all of them.”

I heard Stan whisper to Radcliffe, “Pyramid?” The professor hadn’t visited the new Gardanne yet. He was referring to Her golden era a half an eon ago. In his timeline, he had last enjoyed the 7th dimension within a year, Earth_Berkeley_ time.

“Why did they reject them?” I said.

“The AI people were too hung up on games and gamifying everything,” he continued, growing annoyed at his disdain for these corporate suits. “They couldn’t appreciate the utter complexity and sophistication of the possible worlds we submitted. These places were beyond conflict, beyond goals even. These were utopias representing the potential of where humanity could be, after evolving their collective consciousness. This fact was useless to the suits, who were only concerned with what would sell, which in their dull minds was only conflict. They insisted on appealing to the inferior, lizard brain. The common denominator was always competition. And I couldn’t argue with their marketing analytics, which indicated across the board that competition, violence, struggle and other forms of unwanted suffering were the necessary qualities that kept users engaged.”

“That’s a bummer,” I said. “Well, we may have a new gig for you. How would you like to tutor our friends here on leaping Earth dimensions?”

“Don’t they have classes up top?” the professor said, referring to Gardanne.

“They’ve been, uh, discontinued,” I said. “Like I mentioned, a lot has changed. We’ll catch you up to speed, as we leap.”

We had to create an alias for the professor, like we had for myself and Kitty (people called me ‘Dragon’ or ‘Matt Dragon’ now; and Kitty was ‘Melissa Cumulus’).

“Can you call me Dragon?” he said.

“Nah, that’s taken,” I said, “…by me.”

“You were thinking of that author, Matt Dragon, from Earth_Berkeley_, as well, huh? I’m sure he’d love that his legacy has been preserved,” he said. “What a character. OK, fine, you can call me Prof. O’Brien.”

“Real original. That’s fine.”

Mr. Cumulus found new guy O’Brien a place up the road from us. Gardanne still admitted a trickle of souls into the sanctuary. We covertly inserted the professor into the few souls departing from Earth_Berkeley_ recently. O’Halleran (or O’Brien now, I would have to get used to calling him that) was astonished at how much Gardanne had aged from the last time he was there, which on local time was ~243,000 years ago.

We managed to get the newest Gardanner, O’Brien, a gig teaching interdimensional physics at the high school. It was the perfect cover.

From thereon, after we collected O’Brien from Earth_Berkeley_, we’d meet in his Gardanne classroom on most every Monday and Wednesday nights for evening classes. Soon, we were leaping in and out of Gardanne every day and rather effortlessly. We’d need all nine anointed leapers, if were going to bring Gardanne back to Her original splendor.

Chapter 22

The first step was creating demand, as I had mentioned before. And that involved releasing the faucet of incoming souls from the lower Earths. Our theory was that the general Gardanne public would be far more amenable to breaking open the 8th-dimensional ceiling again, once they were faced with the problem (and a good problem to have) of what to do with all these newly arriving souls.

One morning, at breakfast, Mr. Cumulus was a little concerned with how preoccupied we had become with our dimensional leaping off Gardanne. “I hope you’re not only thinking about surfing the movierain with your friends,” he said. “You have other responsibilities now, plus I hope you remember to have fun.”

“We will,” I said. Cumulus was really leaning into his parental role. The extra conscience helped. And I can assure you, we were having fun exploring a new and exciting Gardanne that Kitty and I hardly recognized.

It was like Cumulus was reading my mind. I am a Thunderbird. I have to dip in and out of the movierain, leaping dimensions, the torus torrent of worlds beckons me to surf them always, unrelenting, omnipresent and eternal. This, for me, is fun.

It’s even better, if I take a colleague or two with me—my partner Kitty, my buddy Rad or Thomas or Stan—on the orb (my Drop). They never know when another leap is around the corner. Earth versions downpour in a torus movierain like a liquid donut, directly under Gardanne’s hull.

Chapter 23

The vignettes of our hybrid existence—Gardanners/Earthlings/Multiversal travelers—spanned one complete Gardanne year, to repeat again ad infinitum, echoing out into consciousness one Jack Handey stanza at a time, 365 days in Gardanne.

Christmas…

Whenever I hear the song “Melissa,” by the Allman Brothers Band, in my head, I know that’s Kitty (aka ‘Melissa’) telepathically calling my attention.

I was skateboarding on city sidewalks, through parks, over benches, one evening. She beckoned me back to the neighborhood. I found a secluded spot under a giant maple, by a bush. I stepped through the huge knot in the tree trunk, which was connected to our Heights’ backyard. Connecting disparate spacial points throughout Gardanne made for efficient, incognito leaps. Within seconds, I was strolling into the basement, where Kitty was waiting.

“We need to pick out a Christmas tree,” She said.

Instinctively, I leapt immediately through the movierain, dropping into Earth_Pi_, within a thick, evergreen forest just south of the arctic tundra. I flew through the trees, until I found the perfect one. The sky opened and a bolt of lightning struck the trunk. The tree fell in a flash. My Drop formed in the immediate space, a moment after that. Me and the tree were off, through the movierain, and up to Gardanne again.

“No, I wanted to pick it out with you,” She said. “They have some down at the market. We just have to choose one.”

“This can be our outside tree, then,” I said. Kitty—I mean, Melissa chuckled.

We capitalized on the Christmas season’s festivities (and those beautiful distractions they incited) to hark golden-era Gardanners back into our 7th-dimensional city state.

Our first recruit after Professor O’Halleran was Dr. Benny, the ham radio scientist. He was masterful at contacting other realities and perhaps could shed light on why the lines of communication were closed long ago, well before any of our newfound teenage friends had been born.

We channeled him on one evening seance in the basement. He was hovering in some upper reality that made it easy for him to materialize into more physical form atop our coffee table, moments after contact. He recognized Kitty and me instantly.

“I thought maybe the archons had finally left,” he said, touching down. “But now that I see you, Bill, and you, Kitty, are here, I know how I was able to break through their firewall.”

We had never heard of archons before. “What do you mean, Dr. Benny?” I said.

“The archons were actually one of the first 7th-dimensionals we had contacted on our system,” said the ham radio scientist now fully manifested in our basement. “I remember they weren’t too keen on our taking so many souls away from their reincarnation mill. It wasn’t good for their business, but it looks like they found a loophole in your Thunderbird absence.”

“Is that why the lines have been cut off?” I said.

“Most likely. We’ll have to isolate their influence among this world, if we ever want to invite more souls en masse.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re finally here as our resident ham radio expert,” I said, now standing, talking to Dr. Benny, but also addressing my other eight friends sprawled out on the plush, basement couches. “I think I know who can flush them out for us.”

Kitty didn’t even need our telepathic connection to complete my thought.

“Mother Gardanne,” She said.

Chapter 24

Mother Gardanne was a far more prominent entity than Dr. Benny. She was the spirit of an entire planet. The shadowy powers that currently held influence over the city state would certainly detect Her presence, if we channeled Her on a normal day. So we did it during the annual Christmas concert at the high school. The nine of us were all in the choir and, thus, could easily duck out that night, after soliciting the help of some underclassmen to replace all nine of us during the musical numbers.

We snuck off to the lower regions of underground Gardanne, where the soul sanctuary sat, with the ham radio scientist Dr. Benny in tow.

As we navigated the bowels of lower Gardanne, the ham radio scientist explained that the city state swung out of balance in Our absence. It couldn’t sustain the influx of souls, flooding into Her hull from the lower Earths. In response, they closed the gates, only allowing a trickle of 3rd-dimensional spirits ascending. Millennia passed. The archons eventually infiltrated Gardanne in Her weakened state and had been feasting off the negative energy ever since. The reintroduction of Mother Gardanne would revive the flow of ascending souls, he posited, which should heighten the reality’s vibration.

Once we neared the soul sanctuary’s entrance—vaulted, impenetrable doors (unless you know the combination, which Kitty did)—we sat in a makeshift seance circle just outside. Zelda, Kitty and I led the channeling to bring Mother Gardanne back into the fold. We concentrated on Her essence, still fresh in Kitty and my memory. After several pregnant moments of staticky magic, the Mother materialized within the epicenter of our circle.

“Children!” She said. “I’ve missed you. So happy to see you again. Kitty, my sister Esmeralda tells me you and Bill are living with her and Cornelius now.”

“Yes, Mother Gardanne,” Kitty said. “We missed you!”

“Mmmm… I’m sensing some dissonance in this ecosystem,” She said.

“Hi, Mother Gardanne,” I said. “Your senses are correct as always. Our ham radio scientist here, Dr. O’Brien, says that archons have infiltrated our otherwise fine city state. We require your powerful life force to heighten our collective vibration and expel these manipulative demons.”

Mother Gardanne was now sitting with all of us in the circle. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, summoning Her more subtle senses to fully imbibe what we had just divulged to Her.

After a moment of the Mother meditating, Her lids slowly opened. We could tell She had arrived at an answer, or a proposed solution, at least.

“I sense the archons,” She said. “Their influence stretches far beyond the soul sanctuary. They’ve, in fact, infiltrated all aspects of the city state, lurking in the shadows, swooping in on citizens’ weaknesses as they emerge.”

“So we shouldn’t open the floodgates for incoming souls?” I said.

“Not yet. We need the whole of Gardanne—each and every one of Her good citizens—to believe in their city state once again. They have to want to expel the archons.”

No better time than Christmas, I thought. The time for miracles.

“What about a reunion concert for Cymatic?” I said, to Her and the group.

“Who’s Cymatic?” Chloë said.

The teenagers’ precocious wisdom of current Gardanne pop culture was invaluable to two old birds in Kitty and myself.

“Looks like we’ll have to perform a little canvassing about town before we channel the band back into Gardanne existence,” Kitty said.

Mother Gardanne retreated to Her secluded cabin deep in the woods. Dr. Benny rented lab space in the city, under the pseudonym Dr. Staten Island to revive his ham radio experiments.

The boys—Rad, Thomas, Stan and myself—skated around town the next few days, hanging Cymatic concert posters on telephone poles, brick walls and bulletin boards. The girls—Zelda, Chloë, Jane, Penelope and Kitty (Melissa)—ran publicity for the band. They booked radio spots on Larry King Forever and sent out mailers en masse to all residents informing them that, “For one night only!” Cymatic would return for a rock show on Christmas Eve, at the city state’s central tabernacle.

The tabernacle still stood after all these millennia. That at least was a constant. Through a little Thunderbird finagling, we were able to secure a stage booking. The tabernacle was still the towne’s main venue and gigs there were hard to come by. Kitty and I combined our psychic abilities, flying through the dreams of each and every Gardanne citizen—including those in charge of booking acts at the tabernacle. We planted memories of Cymatic’s magnaminous sound deep into their subconscious. To the bookers, specifically, we gave them reason to bump the act they had slated for Christmas Eve.

The barbershop quartet you have scheduled can no longer make the Christmas Eve date, We suggested subconsciously to the tabernacle bookers. They have a conflict.

Our persuasive psychic efforts, combined with the grassroots promotions, burgeoned a groudswell in Gardanne. The city state was alive with butterflies for Cymatic’s anticipated return. We had put the cart before the horse a bit, however. Kitty and I both hoped that We could channel the band as a unit. We hoped they were still together.

Rad, Thomas and I, by this point, had put together a punk band ourselves. Thomas helmed the drums. Rad slapped bass. I played guitar and sang (like my Cymatic mentor, Kal Brasil). One afternoon, during a jam session down in Cumulus’ basement, we thought maybe covering one of the band’s songs could channel them back to our little 7th-dimensional nook of the multiverse. Kitty agreed. She and the other girls (and Stan) were our audience, as we performed. As we played, I remembered my Arts & Entertainment editor Elaine’s recount of Cymatic’s ascension, those millennia ago.

Before long, an electromagnetic orb formed above our basement stage (which was just a Tibetan rug thrown on the hard stone floor). We played as a singular, harmonious unit, just as Cymatic had accomplished. Spontaneously, the electric music bubble enveloped our basement band, surfing the movierain. In between verses, I turned back to my bandmates and instructed them to concentrate on Cymatic. A drop formed at our 12 o’clock. It was Cymatic performing in some higher reality that we could barely ascertain, but I managed to connect telepathically with Kal.

Kal, it’s me, Bill, I said to him. We need you back in Gardanne. Can you and the rest of Cymatic make a triumphant return, for one concert?

I zeroed in on his face. The change in his expression—he went from singing emotively to displaying a puzzled look—indicated he had heard me.

Let us just finish this set, he said. Then, we can return. We’ve missed Gardanne.

We waited for them to complete the performance, encore and all. The ethereal gig was delighted in their enlightened sound. And then, when it was all over, our little punk band bubble absorbed Cymatic right from backstage. Both bands bound together by gravity, surfed the movierain, to the 12 Earths and then at their center: Gardanne. We dipped back down to our city state and the band Cymatic stood in our basement. The girls sounded like Beatles fans, screaming and hollering and hooting. I could sense some of the boys were jealous, but I was secure in my relationship with Kitty. We were of one soul.

Christmas Eve…

All of Gardanne turned out for the holiday show at the tabernacle. As we hung out backstage with the band, I was reminded of when we performed together—they played, I surfed the movierain and projected my purview onto the tabernacle’s inner sphere ceiling for the audience to see what it was like to surf the movierain. Tonight was surely to be at least as magical.

We watched, we listened, from backstage, waiting in the wings. We could feel the hum of the crowd, then their rising energy that held the heaviness of an ocean. I hadn’t felt such gravitas in Gardanne since before Kitty and my ascension that was 432,001 years ago. Our planted memories proved faithful when We heard what sounded like every audience member singing along to Cymatic’s songs—all the hits. The air hovering just above the crowd was palpable magic, crackling with alchemical reactions that hadn’t emerged for a long time. They turned their gaze, their focus, what they cared about most from their own inner, self-centered motives (what the archons would want) and shifted this collective eye toward the center of the tabernacle—Gardanne’s soul. The divine energy concentrated about the stage, while Kal plucked guitar notes that percolated crystalline aspects of this alive, billowing body. The decibels in both sound and soul grew, flowing into the center. The reverberating harmony culminated in some cathartic explosion that, at once, expelled all archons from the subconciousnesses present and built to a brilliant light above the band. As everyone sang along to the Cymatic tune, the light arched into a halo covering the stage, radiating out onto the undivided citizens. Everyone’s vibration rose. It was a Christmas miracle, later coined “The tabernacle halo event.”

Chapter 25

A watershed moment had occurred that night, on Christmas Eve, that set the tone for the following year. It opened a montage on the breeze of delicious change…

I was so thankful for the emotional blast, a half eon overdue, that sent Gardanne into heightened consciousness. But I was also grateful for Our departure and eventual return by our newfound friends. Losing touch with the place We founded now added a layer of intrigue. We didn’t know every nook and cranny anymore, and thank goodness for that. I was even a little thankful for the archons who still lingered a bit in the fringes. They knipped at the heels of those townsfolk who wavered from their path. Not every citizen was in attendance that night at the concert. And individual resonances all ticked to their own metronome. Some lowered in vibe, depending on what circumstances they incurred.

Still, the montage pressed on, throughout 432,002 A.G…

We—the nine of us—connected over CB radios to convene. No need for cell phones (or even telepathy) when you have two-way radios. I’d often begin my mornings, sitting on the bedroom couch, the handheld radio sat upright on my square coffee table. The TV murmured some programme in the background, while I contemplated the day.

Ksssht

“You guys want to meet in the basement in 20?” my radio chirped to pull me out of my mid-morning trance. I grabbed the handset to ping back, “Sounds good. We got a day ahead of us, BOYH! Over.”

Together, overlapping on frequencies remote and local, we played the studio. The “studio” was our nickname for wherever place we found ourselves.

Some mornings, I’d meditate in the backyard. I’d hear the staticky radio crackling to life, the scratchy speaker sonically stretched out my window down to the backyard. I’d remain still, zen. My friends knew I was meditating, if I didn’t respond. The static soon ceased of its own volition.

This was my sacred time. The deep, theta wave meditation allowed me to expand my consciousness all over Gardanne, as I digested the things that had transpired and what could be.

I’d visualize a kaleidoscope of cymatic formations to manifest desired destinations and events. It’s more art than science, as Kitty and I conjured aspects into being without imposing on Our friends’ free will.

Ksssht

“Did I hear you almost got in a fight??” Penelope chirped into the CB radio one day after school.

We still had to deal with bullies—a common hazard of attending high school. I found out the hard way I hadn’t adequately fine-tuned my fight-or-flight response down on Earth_42_.

I responded to Chloë (and whoever else of our nine was listening on our citizens’ channel) something to this effect:

At the lockers today, a football player got in my face, yelling obscenities, claiming I had offended him in some way. Instead of reacting immediately—shoving him off me, yelling, getting back in his face or taking a swing, were all an act of passion away—I slowed time to a near standstill. I leapt up into the movierain and then down to the lower Earths to find precedents for my current predicament. Better yet, examples with outcomes where the aggressor was defeated, and the protagonist (my role) prevailed. And no one got hurt.

The few Earth varietals I visited yielded three possible responses that diffused the situation while also retaining my integrity:

Say, “Why don’t you like me? I like you.”
(If he takes a swing at me first) dodge the punch, pull his arm behind his back and shove him up to the lockers. Then whisper in his ear, “You want to go to jail or you want to go home?”
Jedi mind trick: Convince him he must have me confused with someone else.

I went with option 3.

Time returned to regular pace. The hallway was a din with students racing between classrooms. A small crowd had gathered around my locker, waiting for the possibility of a fight.

I said, “Sorry, man. That wasn’t me.”

The bully mumbled, “Oh, OK. I must be mistaken.”

He walked off, scratching his head. The crowd dispersed where we had kept the peace.

I was surprised I hadn’t seen that altercation coming. I asked Rad and Thomas if they knew what could be eating the bully.

Ksssht

“Bill, I mean ‘Matt,'” Rad said, “maybe the archons still have hold of him.”

Though the whole of Gardanne’s vibration was generally rising, we still maintained vigilance. Faint archon traces lingered in the wake of Cymatic’s concert. They crept in the peripheral shadows. And there was nothing wrong with a little element of danger. It kept us on our toes. We were empowered by the rhythm of the montage…

The heightened magical activity permeating every fiber of the fourth wall membrane had thinned the veil between everyday Gardanne and all earthly possibility. Dimensional leaping to the lower Earths, elsewhere in Gardanne, and more fantastical destinations, then, became somewhat of a frequent occurrence for Kitty, myself and the other seven. From hereafter in this journal, whenever you see the ‘//’ (double-slash) symbol, that connotes a quick leap through the movierain to another reality.

Like right now. I’m standing atop Earth_42_ San Francisco’s Transamerica Pyramid…

And now I’m back, sitting on my plush couch in the basement of the Cumulus’ Gardanne house, where Kitty and I live with them. Every time you see the ‘//’ symbol, just know that we’ve left the current reality, have formed an electromagnetic orb about our personal space, broken through the fourth wall into the movierain multiverse, surfed through this Dew of falling worlds torrenting by, and then dipped into a new droplet reality, on an Earth or elsewhere.

The montage continues…

Chapter 26

Our rippling presence—the nine of us—in beautiful Gardanne soon broadcast butterfly effects throughout the land. Daily events amplified by extra-dimensional scaffolding echoed about coffeeshops, courtyards and bars.

“You know, I was walking my dog the other day,” I overheard this guy talking to his buddy in a downtown diner, “and… wouldn’t ya know it, this orb of ball lightning emerged in the alley, as we walked by. I stopped to check it out. Two teenagers hopped out of the bubble. No clue where they came from.”

Ripple effects were a constant concern. We’d strive to minimize witnesses to the frequent miracles that occurred, but word always spread in increasingly expanding concentric circles from ground zero of the event, like radio waves emanating from the Eiffel Tower. The radiating trails of gossip were luckily still only regarded as hearsay among the general public. Thank god. We weren’t ready to divulge to greater Gardanne that Thunderbird magic was present within the city state once again. It had been outlawed millennia ago.

“And what’s with these archons springing, spawning from people’s spines?” The coffeeshop guy’s ball lightning story reminded his colleague of his own encounter with the supernatural. “I guess they’ve held influence all over town for some time. Ya know, I think it was teenagers—perhaps the very same you saw—who were present for many of the cases I’ve heard. Most recently, this surly pharmacist on the corner had one such energy leech jump from his brain, after this kid played a precise tone that stirred the spectre from hiding deep in the unsuspecting apothecary’s subconscious. That’s what the papers say at least.”

We called it ringing a Gardanner’s bell (when prying loose an archon from their host’s psyche). We had caught word of the troubled pharmacist after fielding a few unsavory reports from unsatisfied patrons of the corner drug store, on 3rd and Bleecker in Gardanne Heights. He held a salty disposition. He often served his customers with a sneer, they said, as he’d pass the white bag containing pills across the counter. He also allegedly dealt opioids under the table. Greed had overtaken him.

We intercepted one afternoon, before school let out. Rad and I skipped last period, and skated directly down to the drug store. It was less busy at that time of day. He greeted us with his patented scowl, as we entered the store. Bells above the door rang to alert him of our arrival. Before we had to suffer too much of his ill mood, I released a hypersonic tone from my helmet, which was invisible, but still very much on my head. Rad assumed lookout by the front door so that no one entered the premises while we performed our neighborhood archon exorcism.

The tone—a harmonic code of chord—was specifically composed to annoy the archon that had embedded itself deep within the pharmacist’s cerebral cortex. I amplified its volume, when Rad gave the green light that the coast was clear. The dark archon vibrated and pulsated about the shopkeep’s aura.

“Wha- What are you doing??!” he said, shaking.

At once, the dark entity oozed erradically from every orafice in the pharmacists head. He shrunk as a shell over the counter. The black smoke–like archon flew though the aisles, disturbing boxes and pill bottles lining the shelves. He disappeared through the ceiling. The shopkeep slowly recovered from his extraction, regaining strength now free from the energy vampire.

“I can’t thank you enough, boys,” he said, rubbing his head which he had smacked hard on the counter. “I don’t know how you knew that thing had possessed me, but I’m certainly grateful you were able to do something about it. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Those things are shifty. Just glad we could isolate him for extraction before it got worse.”

The pharmacist shook both of our hands and we were off. As we walked out of the store, Rad asked me where the archons go after we exorcise them.

“They can’t sustain the necessary vibration to remain in Gardanne on their own,” I said. “If they don’t find another host quickly, they’ll evaporate out of here. Unfortunately, there seems to be too many vulnerable suckers these days. I can’t wait for Mother Gardanne to raise the vibration for the whole city state so that all Her citizens can rise with the tide. Until then, though, we’ll just have to remain vigilant.”

“Where do they even come from?”

I knew their origin planet. I was more concerned with why. Maybe someday we’d capture one in between bodies and ask them. But for now, we had more immediate concerns.

Chapter 27

It was only a matter of time before the Gardanne Register‘s investigative reporting team caught up with one of our nine. The last thing we’d need is a Big Cat or Kitty siting. Or else I’d have to blast another citywide memory wipe via helmet Bueller, like I had done ages ago on Earth_Letterman_.

That would have been a drastic measure that We wished to avoid. And the best medicine is prevention. We decided to lay low until the heat cooled. The whole time reminded me of down on Earth_42_, when weed was still illegal. Smoking the bud then felt mischievous, more exciting. Dimensional leaping in and out of Gardanne took on that rebellious tone—like taking an illicit drug. We had fun.

I’d begin most morning meditations in the backyard zen garden. The mind was most readied for stillness, serenity, clarity, when fresh from a deep, replenishing night’s sleep. Three images, seemingly random, would appear, drifting in and out of my thoughts during the session. My interpretations of their meaning would often shape the events that transpired that day. Before long, I wondered whether Gardanne had granted me these future clues or if, by some intent of my own subconsciousness, I had willed these concepts into being. After a while, this contemplation evolved into the question, Did it matter?

The three images on a morning in early February, 432,002 A.G.: an ingenious crow leverages a stick to pry food from a shell; two seemingly unrelated neurons connect with an electric spark; stiff lower-back joints crack to release tension.

These images always seemed random at the beginning of the day. By the end, in hindsight, they’d connect like clockwork.

I wondered how these three disparate images would connect at the mall. Rad, Thomas and I were headed there this fine Saturday. My intuition suggested the three images predicted we’d encounter another, potentially rival clique. For several weeks leading into this mall trip, Rad, Thomas and I had bumped heads with the O’Doyle boys, first in the cafeteria.

“That’s our table!” blurted Jon O’Doyle, when Thomas had sat down at their self-proclaimed private booth.

Then, there was the lockers incident I’ve already mentioned. The bully was another O’Doyle, Rob O’Doyle. We were sensing a trend. These guys had detected a new presence—a new clique in town, in Rad, Thomas, myself and sometimes Stan—that posed an apparent threat to them. How dare we take steam away from the O’Doyles’ antics in between classes and after school? The three images indicated this societal tension may come to a head at the mall.

I picked up the boys in the Shelby, and we rolled the ten blocks or so into the mall parking lot.

“Let’s go through the side entrance,” Thomas said. “I want to pick up some new vinyl from the vintage record store.”

But we had parked right by the main foyer. I could sense he was trying to avoid the main thoroughfare of the mall—a giant, stone quad that housed a magnificient fountain at its center. It’s where the people came to congregate like wildlife around a watering hole on the Tanzanian Serengeti. Perhaps there were certain characters afoot he was trying to avoid, I thought.

“Nah, let’s head into the front here. It’s quicker,” I said.

We walked straight through the front corridor. The patter from the water fountain grew louder as we approached. Then, we saw them. The O’Doyle boys. They were across the way, on the other side of the mall’s central spout.

“C’mon, let’s just stay on the periphery,” Thomas insisted.

“Why are you being so squirrely today?” Rad said.

“Not in the mood for confrontation today,” he said. “I just want to pick up some new vinyl.”

Rad turned to me, “you think one of those archons has hold over the O’Doyles?” he said. “That would explain their recent animosity toward us.”

“It’s a possibility,” I said, “but I wouldn’t want to resort to such drastic measures just yet—exorcising alleged, malevolent spirits from them, right by the Orange Julius. Let’s just go over there and see if we can’t talk to them. Sorry, Thomas, sometimes you just gotta face your problems head on.”

Thomas sighed, but reluctantly joined us, as Rad and I crossed the watering hole to greet our supposed foes.

“What’s up, twinks??” Rob O’Doyle said. “Here to buy some panties?”

Jon and Rob, the brothers, both chuckled. In these moments, you understand what they mean by the tension being palpable. I sensed a repellent magnetic force of an orb between our two groups. This emergent energy held weight, inciting a gut-wrenching pit in my stomach to form, complete with a frog in my throat impeding any sort of witty response to the bullies. My unconscious body knew a fight, an impending conflict was potentially afoot and was preparing its fight-or-flight response. I mustered some words to hopefully diffuse the situation.

“I don’t know what your problem is, O’Doyle,” I said. “You and your bros, here, have been giving us trouble these past few weeks. Why?”

“Ya see,” he said, “that right there. You’re calling me ‘O’Doyle.’ Our name is O’Donaghue.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We didn’t realize that was your name.”

“Yeah, your buddy here,” O’Donaghue gestured toward Thomas, “he was wising off to me a couple weeks ago, calling me ‘O’Doyle,’ just to get a rise out of me.”

I looked over at Thomas for a sidebar. I whispered, “Is that true? You were messing with him?”

Thomas explained, “When they kicked us out of our seats at the cafeteria, I may have muttered ‘O’Doyle,’ under my breath, out of frustration.”

Now that we had opened a discourse, light could now shed understanding on our developing situation. The newfound O’Donaghue boys would go on to tell our trio of Rad, Thomas and myself that, a few years ago, some upperclassmen had bestowed the sarcastic moniker of O’Doyle unto their family name. They had earned that reputation from being bullies. But Rob insisted they were just misunderstood and was trying to clear their reputation now.

“My freshman year, I got into a fight in the hallway,” Rob said, “and one of the seniors, who knew my real name was O’Donaghue, screamed out ‘O’Doyle rules!’ when I punched the other kid out. It’s from that movie Billy Madison, from Earth_42_.”

Thomas apologized and said, “I should have known better. I was just frustrated when you embarrassed us in the caf.”

“I’m glad we squashed this,” I said. “But a word of advice: if you’re trying to clear your family name from being known for bullying, you probably should adopt a more diplomatic approach. Don’t forget, we almost fought the other day.”

Rob nodded. We all shook hands, and went our separate ways. As we three strolled toward the record store, we reflected upon narrowly avoiding a scuffle.

“I was sure that archons were influencing the O’Doyles—I mean, O’Donaghues,” Rad said.

The three images I had seen in my morning meditation clicked. The crow utilizing the stick represent ingenuity. If we had gone with the brash assumption that the O’Donaghues were acting under archon influence, the situation would have escalated to a point of no return. Violence likely would have occurred. The resolution required subtle cunning instead. Like a crow. The neurons searching to connect represented our two groups, seemingly separate, finding common ground. And the back crack that released tension in the lower lumbar symbolized our squash of the growing beef.

“Before rushing to judgment,” I said, “I’ve found it’s usually important to hear where the other side is coming from. In this case, we had the wrong idea about the O’Donaghues.”

Chapter 28

The cathartic release between high school factions—the O’Donaghues and our little group—inspired in me a newfound perspective upon the archons. They had always been perceived as enemies, much of which was rightly assigned, since they were certainly responsible for some of the strife upon Gardanne. But why? I thought. Why would they choose parasite as their existential place in the cosmos?

Quietly, I had resolved to capture one of them, the next time we crossed paths.

Three words in my morning meditation, several Sundays later:

An explosion, but in reverse. the cloud of fire and smoke shrinks to reveal a fully intact car;
John Cleese presents a Schweppes tonic commercial;
Rivers Cuomo hits that perfect high note at the apex of Weezer’s song, “Buddy Holly.”

The seemingly non-sequitur series spurred our nine to uncover hidden Gardanne gems. Yet, instead of the three images painting the picture for one impending event, each represented a significant breakthrough in new Gardanne’s history. The first vision would pan out later that Sunday, with the second two following a few weeks later. They were all connected, building to some kind of crescendo—a formidable, 1-2-3 punch that could successively elevate greater Gardanne—I sensed in my gut. So did Kitty.

In the half eon of Our absence, Gardanne had hardened over, not unlike the stone pyrmaid from which We burst forth as our teenage selves, less than a year ago. As our friends helped Us navigate the new world, We matriculated the place, pinpointing Our focus areas to release their forgotten wisdom.

Reigniting these sacred spots resembled the thrill of finally starting an engine after many failed attempts getting it to kick over. The motor had lied long dormant, discarded, forgotten. The musty dust clear from its mechanical parts cued scent memories of new life springing forth. And we—the nine of us—played these scattered studios about towne, like a baseball team or an improv group working together in pastime to channel the divine St. Elmo’s Fire into the place. The resultant plasma dissolved our collective souls into a heightened being to which we were all cohering, as some spontaneous, evolved state, tuning our pineal glands to receive Her fleeting, ethereal signal. We chased the created vibe that had grown greater than any individual in its gestalt. The players (its creators) trilled their souls to remain within its resonance, like treading water.

One by one, we were heightening haunts’ frequencies. It was the fun part, a party at a time.

Chapter 29

In 243,002 A.G., the Gardanne Forest stretched so far back from our backyard neighborhoods, no one had ever actually seen the opposite treeline on the other side. Was there even another side, where the trees cleared? An oddity of 7th-dimensional realities like Gardanne was a certain variability in its local 3D space. It could bend and stretch, and expand ad infinitum. You could get lost in these woods and We may never find you. The areas closest to civilization, however, had formed quite the interconnected community. Rope ladders and vines sewed together treehouses and other high-altitude arboreal structures. We ventured into the thick happening embedded within these trees often. All nine of us.

One early afternoon, as we usually did, we stopped by Mother Gardanne’s house, which hung at the edge of this treehouse community. She always had Her bare feet on the pulse flowing through the tree roots below. As we approached Her cabin, the first of the images from my morning meditation played in my head—an explosion rewinding, reassembling the car from former destruction. The day was ripe for anamnesis.

When we’re born, we find ourselves, and become self-aware in the middle of the proverbial woods. We wake up in the forest and have to navigate our way out of this now foreign world to return home. Some never find their way back.

Mother Gardanne would tell us that She sensed a remote, secluded village that had completely splintered from the main population millennia ago. They never found their way back, eventually forgot where they were from, as successive generations were born less and less bestowed with the wisdom of their origins. When we finally breached their spun-off society, they were an altogether different people.

“The forest is infinitely more complex than the last time I was here,” Mother Gardanne said to our nine, settling into Her woodland hut. “I’ve had dreams of a village, deep, deep in the forest that has forgotten Gardanne. They exist in parallel, but entirely separate from the main population. We need to reconnect these cultures.”

Later I would wonder who was helping whom out of the woods. After all, Kitty and I woke up in Gardanne after half an eon. We found Ourselves in a foreign place, that we eventually had to once again acclimate, with the help of our seven friends. But when we located the concealed location of Rabbithole, an entire microcosm buried deep in Gardanne Forest, and we matriculated there, that felt more like home than anything in greater Gardanne. Deep in the woods, had We finally found home?

First, we had to locate it. Basic dimensional leaping tactics simply wouldn’t suffice. You have to know your end destination before leaping. That’s just responsible omnipresence. We set out for the forest’s edge the morning after our rendezvous with Mother Gardanne. Kitty and I maintained a mental connection with Her to guide us through the forest. We recruited Zelda’s channeling abilities (in conjunction with Our own) to triangulate the top secret location. It was exciting, for once, not knowing what could happen next, as we pressed further and further into the forest.

Their entrance is well protected, I heard Mother Gardanne whisper into Our minds, as the nine of us hiked into the thick of it all.

By what? I said.

Yetis.

At that, I instructed our nine to keep close together off the beaten path. We conjured an electormagnetic orb around our baseball team, whose outer membrane not only shielded us from foreign threats; the cytoplasm sensed subtle vibrations throughout the forest that vastly improved our channeling abilities. And it made it easy for all of us to leap through the woods.

We hit pivotal points surrounding the target area’s perimeter near simultaneously.

We hovered in the mist above the giant waterfall that flew off the cliffs and fed into Gardanne Lagoon.

We stood high up in the branches of Gardanne’s largest Kapok tree. Seemed like a nice place to set up a secluded bird’s nest for meditation.

We tuned to the caves, far in the north of Gardanne Forest. Each landmark plotted points on a tightening Fibonacci spiral that closed in on where Mother Gardanne had indicated there to be an entrance to Rabbithole.

We sat atop Old Man mountain, a rock face resembling some ancient elder. Still, no Yetis.

You’re close now, Mother Gardanne said. Once the sunlight pokes through the trees, onto the pond at the center of the forest, make sure you’re there.

She was alluding to a slim time window that occurred most days, when, if one found themselves swimming in this pond, at this precise time of day, an ethereal portal would open allowing said swimmer to pass through into Rabbithole. This was the only time to enter.

We hovered above the pond, 30 seconds or so before sunlight beams were set to hit the water’s surface. As the Sun poked through the trees, warming the air around us, I saw Yetis descending upon the water’s edge, from the shadows of the brush. I could sense they were perplexed at how we breached their defenses. Just a little birdcraft.

At that point in time and space, neither Kitty nor I needed to initiate a // to traverse dimensions. The Rabbithole portal opened of its own volition, and we vanished from hovering above the pond.

///

When we landed on the other side, at the heart of the forest, we were greeted by several receiving Rabbitholios, very curious as to not only who we were, but how we found the place.

Rabbithole was always in a state of flux. Pure potential hung on every gust in the air. There were permanent fixtures in the landscape, but the energy present allowed for its inhabitants to conjure anything their consciousness could conceive. It was easy to get lost in this murky, nebulous realm. It was also easy to understand, given these facts, how the Rabbitholios lost all sense of Gardanne over the millennia. They lived only a few miles from towne, in the heart of the woods, but had sunken deep into the complex, layered reality, losing any compass on their former identities the way a prolonged psychedelic trip can spur an ego death.

Our nine huddled close together. Kitty and I maintained the electromagnetic orb protecting us, holding our sense of Gardanne close to our collective heart. The locals of this reality who had received us were dressed in flowing robes, like wizards, and maintained guard as we approached them, in their side of the woods. Jane had to explain what Gardanne was.

“We come to you from a towne not too far from here—Gardanne,” she said. The two wizards looked at each other, bewildered. The word Gardanne held no meaning with them. She continued, “we used to be one people, but Rabbithole split off many millennia ago, after magic was outlawed by the top brass. Greater Gardanne Herself forgot about the Rabbitholios, and it seems like Rabbithole has forgotten its own origins.”

The explanation didn’t sway them. What if we show them our tattoos? Kitty said to me telepathically. She was referring to the black outline of a sunflower tattooed on each of Our inner, left wrists. We pulled up our sleeves displaying the ink to the wizards to corroborrate Jane’s story. The wizards’ eyes went wide in astonishment.

“The founders!” the older, wiser of the two said. “Prophecies foretold of your return. Tell us more of this Gardanne.”

Our nine became a baseball team of improvisation, playing together to re-enact scenes from our hometown that had once been linked to the Rabbitholios. Our synchronized performance revitalized buried, collective unconscious memories in the wizards, who for generations, had long forgotten their heritage.

The thin veil air of Rabbithole made leaping dimensions as smooth as a hot knife through butter. It was so smooth, in fact, Kitty and I leaned on the other seven to regulate these group leaps. The nine of us, as one, were creating reality, as an electric, impenetrable amoeba.

All nine of us and the Rabbithole wizards were at the stone zen lovers’ pyramid, where Zelda and the other six teens had seanced Kitty and me back into Gardanne existence.

We swept over modern-day Gardanne, in Her five-pointed splendor. We noted the tabernacle at the city state’s center.

Kitty and I then took the crowd further back in Gardanne time, pushing deep into the past before the teens were born, before the Cumuli returned to Her land, but after We had departed nearly half an eon ago. A montage of scenes would indicate over this reverse time lapse that the first Rabbitholios fled main Gardanne, after magic had been outlawed. The Thunderbird absence had thrown the whole 7th-dimensional reality into perpetual imbalance. The top brass then, had clamped down on control over Gardanners, forbidding heightened consciousness activities that could throw the premises off-kilter. Mundanity ruled supreme.

Over time, greater Gardanne and the newfound Rabbithole would forget each other altogether. Two ships drifting nearby in the 7th-dimensional night, entirely unaware of the other.

Then, we were back on the outskirts of Rabbithole. The wizards had taken to our collective dimension leaping rather naturally. Perhaps Rabbithole’s constant state of flux had readied their minds for such rapid transition. They still hadn’t invited us further into their land, but were coming around.

“Our society has no memory of Gardanne, but your account seems convincing,” the smaller of the two wizards said. “Let us take what you’ve showed us today back to our elders. For now, please keep our secret from greater Gardanne.”

We promised to keep Rabbithole’s secret, so long as we could take a little of their magic with us, back to greater Gardanne. The end goal was to make Gardanne whole again. The city state had to undergo anamnesis to remember Her true identity.

To that end, our nine began seeding Gardanne’s shrouded Rabbithole magic into mainstream Gardanners. We took a few potions the wizards had provided us. We also slipped some of Rabbithole’s sacred texts into Gardanne’s main library branch. The process was gradual, as greater Gardanne was not yet ready for Rabbithole’s heightened vibration.

When we gallivanted about Gardanne towne, we carried Rabbithole’s magic spirit as a charged, ionic cloud permeating the everyday with electric conversation.

Chapter 30

Rabbithole became our blueprint generator for possible scenarios. I borrowed the concept from construction, which leveraged a technique called building information modeling (or simply, ‘BIM’). The planning process involved completely designing a building or structure—from foundation and frame to finish—down to the brand of wall paint, what type of light fixtures, and even the furniture that would populate the interior of the edifice. We’d test out an infinity of outcomes and, when one emerged out of the blur desirable, we’d take that concept from Rabbithole’s proving grounds into market—mainstream Gardanne.

We built our realities out of the interlocking, triangular connections interpersonally linking our nine. They were an electric network of emotion resonating relational vibrancy to the social dynamics. Naturally, we applied this uncanny ability to practical problems currently plaguing Gardanne.

For one, millennia devoid of magic had jaded Her citizens. In the city especially, the daily grind had taken on a life of Its own, oppressing the workers who’d reluctantly trudge into towne to perform some mundane task, with no end in sight. The gears of industry had rendered downtown Gardanne—a once bustling well-spring of artistic creation—into some humdrum factory, producing uninspired goods. In order to make way for a general, heightened vibration to once again overcome the land, we’d first have to free the city of these bureaucratic shackles.

After much testing and fine-tuning of practice within the safety of Rabbithole’s proving grounds, we finally found an opportunity to appear as inspirational speakers, at one of the city’s biggest parent companies. It was a corporate gig.

Days before our arrival to their offices, our subliminal priming had begun. The seeds for our impending inspiration and consciousness heightening occurred with commercials that aired on local TV, for Schweppes soft drink.

You could watch TV’s all over towne around then, showcasing John Cleese’s celebrity promotion of the refined, tonic beverage.

Inside the tubed screen, the TV viewer could witness Cleese subtly endorse his sponsor, Schweppes, “Other soft drink companies might try to tempt you with hidden messages,” he said, dressed formally as a fine Englishman, sitting in a fancy, upholstered chair. He crossed his legs so that the sole of his shoe shone. The TV audience would see a paper cutout of a Schweppes bottle taped to the bottom of his shoe. “Not Schweppes. We only offer the finest in tonic beverages.”

With Schweppervescence sweeping the city, we desceneded upon the corporate gig. The unsuspecting officeworkers thought they were in store for some motivational speeches and performances. Maybe a trust fall or two. What we offered was so much more.

We posed as an improv group, but our professional audience soon learned that the impromptu skits we performed packed a punch. The golden plasma produced in the middle of each of our group efforts released the spiritual inhibitions inflicted upon these jaded souls. We were injecting joy back into the daily grind. By the end, it was more play than work.

Know thine enemy. In this particular corporate case, our fateful officeworkers—whether they knew it or not—desperately ached for liberation from the oppression that bureaucracy brought. Our nine—Kitty, myself, Zelda et al.—perceived the ambiguous entity that loomed like dull fluorescent light over these grunts as one giant archon. The monster was a million ants—the aggregate of thousands upon thousands of minor cuts, like emails, TPS reports, meaningless meetings and desolate cubicle isolation—combined by the shadow corporation to trap its employees under the illusion that work was prime. We—our nine—rose in collective consciousness (our golden soul created in our group’s center) to meet this foe, who was slowly sapping its host into death by a thousand cuts.

It started with an improvised play we performed in the conference room, on the 33rd floor, of our first corporate gig.

“Can we get a suggestion from the audience?” I said, after our office spectators had finished filtering into the grey, dull-toned room.

The door to the room remained open. You could see into the break room just down the hall. You could just barely hear the little TV set on the kitchen counter playing the Schweppes advert.

“…Not just that either,” Cleese stated eloquently on the 13-inch TV, “sophisticaed vocal tricks sometimes are used without our realizing it at a conscious level.” Stuffed animal heads on the wall repeated the word Schweppes over and over again.

Back in the conference room, we directed our audience’s attention to center stage, which was just a carpeted corner.

“A stapler,” I heard from the back of the business casual crowd.

We had anticipated uninspired suggestions like this. We were waiting for them. That’s why we were there: to take these everyday articles of forgettable minutia and spin gold.

The archetypal concept of the stapler held our audience’s minds to the earth of Gardanne, grounded. Their collective imagination could sink Its teeth into this concrete example of shared reality. That was the hook that held them secure, while myself, Kitty and the rest of our nine launched the entire room into another world altogether.

The conference room was completely dark now. Only us, on our makeshift stage could be seen. Then a larger than usual stapler hovered above the crowd. It stapled through packets of paper in a hypnotic rhythm. I narrated (as I’m doing now) over the scene our nine was manifesting, mid-air and in real time.

“The stapler contains the word ‘staple,'” I said. “Staples are those thin, bent pieces of metal that hold paper together. Staples are also the word we use to describe fundamental elements. The office, this sterile setting is not fundamental to any of your being.”

The dark room lit to an almost blinding, sky blue. Our nine had taken the whole conference high into the atmosphere. Some audience members gasped, but our nine’s calming vibes soothed any anxiety. This would be a lucid, psychedelic trip for our crowd. Penelope controlled the chill tone of our collective leap.

“Fresh air, you see,” I continued, “now that’s a fundamental staple of living.”

The audience hadn’t noticed, but while I had been narrating our real-time story unfolding to the audience, the other eight were simultaneously willing worlds into our local environment, and had formed a giant, protective, Alcubierre bubble around the room and all its inhabitants. We were piloting the room around imagination. We were playing the studio.

We had now left the sky, and found ourselves in a lush, murky, humid, sweet-smelling rainforest. We could hear birds and other wildlife ringing through the thickly clustered trees that now consumed our surroundings.

“Mother Nature, trees, flora and fauna… dirt,” I said, “this is where we all come from. Not some carpeted box that you imprison yourselves in, 9-to-5, Monday through Friday. Feel the grass at your feet. Smell the many aromas that the forest wafts. Let your eyes drink in the greenery that’s more perfect than any painting.”

“How-, How are you doing this?” a concerned audience member raised his hand from inside the Alcubierre bubble, which our nine continued to navigate.

“We’re creating this reality all around at will,” Kitty said. “You can do this too, with enough concentration, and the ability to believe.”

And then we were sat in the front row—the whole conference room—of the Copa Cabana. For those unitiated, the Copa was New York’s most exclusive hotspot in Earth_42_’s 1960’s era. Picture big band. Picture dinner and a show, lit up by those little lamps situated in the center of small, circular tables. Imagine our nine and the officeworker audience embedded within a crowd dressed from head to toe in the finest threads 1968 had to offer. The whole room was rather dark, save the spotlight, focused on centerstage, where Don Rickles stood with a microphone.

“And who the hell are these riffraff?” Rickles said, noticing our abrupt entrance to his stand-up show. “What’s a matter with you??”

I think that was more of a rhetorical question, because he proceeded.

“You come in here, uninvited, from the office. You’re wearing wrinkled business-casual rags that I wouldn’t wipe my ass with!”

The dark crowd sprung alive with laughter, at our expense.

“Sir, sir, can you tell me, what are you doing here??”

I think he was talking to me, so I answered for the group.

“We’re trying to get out of the office, Don,” I said, yelling up to the bright stage. “Myself and my colleagues are trying to remind the rest of these office folk that there’s more to life than dim fluorescent lights and spreadsheets.”

“Sir, I’d rather watch paint dry than continue listening to this story,” Don said, to another laughter explosion from the crowd, who jostled their finely tailored suits and Saturday night dresses. “Alright, well, enjoy the show.”

Lucky for us, Rickles then directed his laser ridicule into another section of the dark room. “Miss, yes you, miss…”

We stayed for the whole show. Our nine watched, but also remained mindful of our unsuspecting officeworker guests whom we had recruited on this leap. The 360-degree view that my helmet Bueller provided (I was always wearing it, but kept it cloaked so that onlookers could still see my face) parallel perspectives of Rickles on stage, and the officeworkers’ reactions. With each burst of billowing laughter that sprung loose from their repressed guts, I gradually observed color return to their faces. Rickles was breathing life back into their formerly stagnant blood, one biting joke at a time.

I glanced at Chloë for where to go next. She usually thought of something the rest of our nine could never have conceived.

Not a moment later, she took us—our nine and all the officeworkers from the conference room—to the Schweppes factory. John Cleese was there, in the lobby, to greet us.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “Chloë and her team have arrived.”

In the background of all of our leaping thus far, Chloë had woven a backstory for the receiving Cleese. She, Cleese and the Schweppes R&D people had concocted a special tonic formula (a recipe that she had procured from Rabbithole). Needless to say, this was no ordinary drink. Cleese invited us all to imbibe, after leading us down a long hallway and into a rather distinguished room, with a fireplace, Victorian furniture and fine tapestries.

“Drink up, ladies and gentlemen,” Cleese said, holding his own fizzing glass in the air to toast. “A few sips to forget your troubles.”

We all imbibed, and I made sure the officeworkers all partook. This was no ordinary beverage. As the carbonation percolated through their stomachs, I could sense tension releasing in their muscles, their ligaments, their bones. Collectively, as the drink took over, I along with Kitty psychically sensed years of passive aggression, absorbed along humdrum dog days in the office, melted away in each of the workers’ hearts and minds. Their souls shook loose from the constraints of bureaucracy. When it was all said and done, the fizz had fundamentally shifted their identities. They were finally free. Mission: accomplished.

I navigated us all back to the conference room. Our company was calm, releived, quiet. Our nine delivered a brief goodbye to the office audience. Relaxed, they thanked us, still sitting as we left.

We followed up with the company a few days later for feedback. Ninety percent of our officeworker audience put in their two weeks’ notice the next day. We had freed their hearts, their minds, their souls. And they freed their bodies from these deadend jobs.

Our nine worked our way through the city’s business district in this way for several more companies. The energy was contagious.

Chapter 31

After a few more corporate appearances—one at the goggles factory, another within the sprawling campus in the Upper West Side where Apples-R-Us operated, and so on—we were setting up franchises like Tyler Durden. Word had caught on. Schweppervessence schwept through Gardanne. The entire city state shone shimmering glimpses of that golden time, before Kitty and I had leapt, intertwined as one enlightened being into the 9th dimension a half an eon ago.

There was one hiccup during the percolating renaissance brightening all our darkened corners. It halted, only for a moment thankfully, the liberating of citizens from their former metaphysical prisons. It happened, as these things do, from some seemingly insignificant event that could have easily operated under any of our radar.

It had to do with the third vision that had crept into my morning meditation those months ago. In the vision, Weezer frontman Rivers Cuomo hit the perfect Stratocaster note at the apex of his famed rock song, “Buddy Holly.” Wooh, wooh. We looked just like Buddy Holly. Whoa oh, and you’re Mary Tyler Moore. It was that perfect, divine tone, you see, that struck the jarring chord with that archon possessing Gardanne’s head librarian. The incident started off innocent enough.

I was sitting in class one afternoon, a free period. It was in late May. Summer vacation was approaching, as indicated by the sunbeams peeking through the classroom windows, reflecting off several smooth, almond-colored desk surfaces. As I sat, hunched over my seat, staring at the clock above the blackboard, I was mentally checking off any loose ends to close out this school year. I had studied for all my finals. I had handed in lab reports and papers. All that I had left, I thought, was to submit my summer reading list. I ripped a piece of paper from my spiralbound notebook and quickly jotted down a few titles. I made sure to include a volume we had acquired from Rabbithole. That was wisdom I knew the high school had not yet taught.

A week or two later, a letter arrived to my surprise that informed its recipient that the Rabbithole tome had been rejected by the main branch’s librarian. Her reason, in her written statement mailed to our house, read simply this:

“That book doesn’t exist.”

It was one of the volumes I had borrowed from Rabbithole, a book that had been omitted from Gardanne’s town archives millennia ago. It filled in some of the gaps of our little corner of the 7th dimension’s magical origins, complete with detailed instructions on manipulating spacetime by the fluency of a divine language—Gardanne’s original tongue.

I was certain I had archived that particular book into the library’s main stacks. The librarian had deliberately removed it, I thought, but mysteriously the past surrounding this missing book’s whereabouts was somehow shrouded in haze, like it had been metaphysically scrubbed from local existence. I took a few of my friends with me down to the main branch for further investigation.

“How are we going to confront her?” Rad said, as we walked through the neighborhood to the main branch.

“I could orchestrate a distraction,” Thomas said. “Then, you two,” he gestured to me and Rad, “could jump behind the checkout counter to crack into the digital card catalogue.”

“Damn Dewey Decimal system and its ingenious technique at seamlessly integrating new additions to the stacks,” Stan said. “We’d never notice if a book was removed from its infinitely flexible indexing procedure.”

Rad and Thomas chuckled. Stan could find anyone to roast, including Melvil Dewey.

“I don’t think we’ll have to hack the library catalogue,” I said. “Our problem lies in the librarian herself. She’s our exploit.”

“What was your third vision again?” Thomas said.

“Rivers Cuomo from Weezer hitting that perfect note on his Stratocaster, at the apex moment of their blue album song, ‘Buddy Holly,'” I said.

Thomas nodded slightly in agreement, smiling and said, “Weezer, right on.” That made perfect sense, since Thomas and the band’s frontman wore similar thick, black-rimmed glasses. “I wonder how that will translate to our current predicament.”

Nikola Tesla said that everything in the universe could be broken down into energy, frequency and vibration. It was no shock to me that my third vision—hitting the apex note—could aid us in our current endeavor. Perhaps the librarian was possessed by an archon, like the city pharmacist a while back. We had leveraged sound, and in particular a precise harmony to shake loose that archon who had helmed the druggist’s will for a time. My gut told me that something sound-related would involve our four on foot, en route to the local library.

IIII doooon’t thiiink that they care about us anywayyyy. I don’t care about that. Rivers’ lyrics rang in my head as we walked.

Before long, we approached the large, stone steps of Gardanne Heights Library’s main branch. The entire educational edifice sat heavily upon the top of a grassy knoll, surrounded by willows and elms. Large, granite blocks locked together to form and fortify this institution that held and protected Gardanne’s wealth of knowledge.

The four of us glided up the megalithic walkway and entered the cool, slightly shaded interior of the library. The head librarian sat far down at the other end of the hard, linoleum thoroughfare, like a yellow-brick road connecting the entrance to her information desk. The sunlight piercing through the building’s shade reflected off her reading glasses, as she looked up to catch us in her sight. Our footsteps echoed about the neatly organized stacks, flanking each side of the thoroughfare. Our pattering presence bounced off the interior’s arched ceilings. As we approached her desk, a chill ran down my spine. The air was noticably cooler immediately about her personal space.

“Can I help you?” she said, coldly.

“We’re here to inquire about a certain book,” I said.

Quickly, she retorted dismissively, “Digital card catalogue terminals over there and there,” she pointed to two areas where there were a bank of monitors and keyboards, “can help you find what you’re looking for.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “You sent a letter to my house saying that a book I had selected did not exist.”

I let my heart rate drop a bit to achieve heightened coherence. I was tuning into the immediate vicinity’s vibes, which included said librarian. For instance, I noticed her pupils slightly dilate at my utterance of exist. Her breath shortened ever so subtly, and her heart rate increased. But her vocal register remained flat.

“What was the title?” she said, maintaining her indifferent monotone.

“The Ancient Magical Gardanne Tongue for Modern Mystics,” I said.

“Yes, that’s right. I remember you,” she said. “Never heard of it.”

My three friends hung back a few feet, as the librarian and I engaged in the conversation growing in contention.

That’s a lie, I heard Thomas telepathically insert into our four’s mind meld. I sensed her dishonesty too.

“Normally, I’d take your word for it,” I continued with my interrogation, “except that I remember submitting the volume in question to this branch’s book drop. It was uncovered, buried deep in Gardanne Forest. It’s millennia old.”

I didn’t want to tell her we had taken it from the clandestine forest community of Rabbithole, on the outskirts of our 7th-dimensional city state. That magical place was still a secret to the general public.

“Maybe one of my assistant librarians misplaced it in the archiving process,” she said, shrugging her bony shoulders, jangling what seemed like an ancient string of pearls around her frail neck.

Also a lie, Thomas updated us telepathically.

I think an archon has her, I thought back to the other three.

I knew it, Rad said. Just like the pharmacy.

This time, I said, we need to capture the archon, once we get it to leap out of her.

Thomas began to whistle. Rad jumped in harmonizing with the original melody. Stan added a subtle beat box to keep the rhythm. And I began to sing.

“Whoo, woo, I look just like Buuuuuddy Holly. Whoa oh, and you’re Mary Tyler Mooooore.”

The librarian became visibly agitated. A grimmace overtook her face, like she had just ate an extremely bitter lemon. Her limbs tensed up. Her eyes widened, wild, panicked and only worsened as our barbershop quartet sang louder.

Then, at the climax of that Weezer hit, “Buddy Holly,” Thomas’ whistling hit the perfectly precise high note—what I always thought an actual epiphany would sound like, if it emitted sound waves.

DING

“…and I don’t care about THAT,” we all sang in unison, as the song came crashing down from that apex high note.

At that, an archon jarred from the librarian’s fragile, avian body. It was a much larger cloud of a dark shadow at first, until it manifested into full physical form, now completely separated from its former host.

“Don’t let it escape!” I yelled to the other three.

As the thing hovered feet above the librarian’s desk, Stan and Rad jumped over the counter. Thomas and I remained on the visitors’ side, as all four of us now manned the cardinal points containing the archon in the middle. We all concentrated on our central point, aggregating our psychic energy into warping spacetime around our parasitic perpetrator. The archon writhed in defiance, striving desperately to flee the building, but we had trapped him. As the other three continued to subdue him, I connected telepathically with this frenetic fiend.

We need to talk, I said to the beast who had now taken shape as a towering, dark figure, with jagged joints and a wiry frame. His eyes glowed red. You’re just wasting energy at this point.

After a few more moments of struggle, the smoky aperition finally accepted his fate and relented.

I give up, he said back to me. Thomas and Stan pulled him back down to the ground, while Rad hopped over the desk to help them. The entire telekinetic battle might have only lasted 20 or 30 seconds. While this was going on, the librarian shrunk like an empty husk back into her chair. She slowly regained consciousness, as her former self, as the guys restrained the beast behind her.

“I- I don’t know what came over me,” she said, weakly. “I’m so sorry, boys. I think this thing has been with me for a little while. I wish I could help you find that book.”

She was right. We escorted the archon swiftly and discreetly through the stacks into a private study area where we could interrogate him. Once settled, I led the line of questioning as my three friends looked on. Behind the closed door of the private room, we no longer had to speak telepathically.

“How long have you been preying on the librarian?” I said.

“A few months now,” the archon said, unapologetically. It was their nature (or so they thought) to leech off unsuspecting souls. That was the only way they knew how to acquire energy.

“Why’d you lift the book?” I said.

“The knowledge contained in that text was a threat to my people,” he said. “My leader instructed me to shroud any information that jeopardized our presence here in Gardanne. If Gardanners achieved the heightened perception to detect us, they’d surely free themselves from our grip. We need them, and more importantly their energy, to survive.”

These archons, who had burrowed themselves into the underground, hanging in the shadows of Gardanne, had been here for so long they forgot their true origins. Parasites they became and operated as such for millennia to the point that skimming energy off unsuspecting Gardanners was all they knew. It was their livelihood, regardless of its detrimental effects on greater Gardanne and Her citizens.

“Are there a lot more like you?” I said.

“I’ve already said too much,” the archon had calmed down by now, but was also growing wary of the interrogation. I could sense him shutting down.

“It would be in your best interest to tell us,” I said. “This land will soon undergo a mass vibration shift. The whole place will escalate in light frequency energy, elevating to a heightened consciousness state. Shadowy figures such as yourselves won’t be able to sustain residence inside the minds of our citizens once that commences. Consider this a warning to you and your kin.”

The archon, who I had been conversing with telepathically earlier, instantly knew this wasn’t a hollow threat. It was an earnest admonition.

“In that case,” he said, “I can help you find some or all of my colleagues currently in operation among Gardanne. I’d hate to lose them.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Gardanners have always considered the archons as enemies, but I’ve found them to be misunderstood.”

The beast was shocked at my sudden compassion.

“You’re a people who’ve lost their way,” I continued. “When I was physically planted on 3-dimensional Earths, like Earth_42_, I felt like I was fighting to survive in my everyday life. I felt like a parasite welching off the economy for my daily bread and a roof over my head. I can sympathize with the archon people’s current predicament. If you can help us find your compatriots before the impending electromagnetic pulse takes effect, we stand a chance at saving them. We can reform any of your willing colleagues, from drains on society into contributing, upstanding members.”

The archon gradually eased the tension in his arched, carbon-fiber limbs, as I delivered this reassuring news to him. I don’t think he had ever had such a pleasant exchange with a Gardanner before. Most of our citizens still weren’t even aware of their existence.

He ended up walking out with us of his own volition. We had successfully flipped him, and now he was one of our crew.

Chapter 32

The archon who had possessed that librarian those many moons ago to withhold intel and keep Gardanners under a cloud of ignorance, became our secret weapon, one of the guys. His large, carbon-fiber frame almost resembled my own black, neutron-star Thunderbird body as Big Cat, pressure-treated and dense as the center of a super massive black hole to withstand the many perils of freely surfing the movierain multiverse. The archon, whose people had again forgotten their true origins, could have easily been a Crow or other Thunderbird breed in a former civilization.

And now, brought back into the light, he was our inside guy, who broke us into the archon’s circle. We nicknamed him Frank, after Frank Abagnale the con artist immortalized in the movie Catch Me If You Can, starring Leo. In the film, Abagnale ends up working for the FBI as the only ex-con with practical wisdom—an insider who could detect forged checks. Our Frank could sniff out the archon deception a mile away.

Even after uncovering a few more dozen archons who had held shadowy influence over prominent Gardanners, Frank still seemed unsatisfied.

“We should probably visit our archon leader,” he said. “The secretive nature of our leeching business makes it impossible for me to know if we’ve ever reached the breadth of my breathren. Consulting him is the only way we can be sure we’ve reached all of them before Mother Gardanne’s impending EMP.”

I agreed to accompany Frank to the archon stronghold that hung in a nearby Dew place to Gardanne. I told the other guys to stay behind in case things got gnarly. Though we had reached a recent and unprecedented accord with our archon neighbors, we would still be entering enemy territory. Preparing for the trip off Gardanne reminded me of my former Thunderbird Voyager days, infiltrating foreign worlds. And, at this point, I trusted Frank, but had never met the archon leader, who if history was any indicator, was cunning and not to be taken lightly. He and his people had operated under the Gardanne surface undetected for millennia. As I accompanied Frank the Archon to his place of origin—a dark Dew place that hung dimensionally close in vibration to Gardanne—I proceeded with the full extent of my Thunderbird capabilities. My helmet Bueller donned. And assuming my black hole–heavy, neutron frame, I leapt with Frank off relative Earths space (where Gardanne hovered in the middle) to a place unknown.

Frank and I dropped down out of my Alcubierre bubble, into a topographically drastic setting. Ominous spires sprung from the ground all over the archon stronghold’s perimeter. The fortress itself sat shrouded in mist so as not to divulge the structure’s true size, even if you were standing just outside (which we were).

“Be careful,” Frank said. “We’re not used to visitors.”

And with his giant, spindly, carbon-fiber frame, Frank rapped on the monolithic door that stood a hundred feet if it was a foot.

The heavy gate shook the rocky ground beneath our feet as it lumbered open slowly. Normally, approaching such a foreign and potentially perilous location, I’d have performed some reconaissance work. I certainly would not have walked through the front door for all to see. But I was with Frank, an archon insider. I trusted his endorsement would protect me.

“You should probably let me speak first,” Frank continued his tutelage to me on how to appropriately engage with the shifty, mysterious archons.

I nodded as we pushed further into their stronghold.

It’s honestly tough to describe the archons’ home landscape. It was in a constant state of flux, as edifices morphed into one type of building one moment, then built to a skyscraper the next, only to shrink back down to some triple-decker. Perhaps that’s where the archons drew their ability to adapt into any shape necessary so as to remain undetected while still imposing their will on unsuspecting hosts. As the ground moved beneath us walking, I fortified my electromagnetic sphere around Frank and me. Incorruptable was my MO, in this Mecca of manipulation.

Before long, we had reached the archon leader’s fortress, which stood as one of the only fixed establishments in the entire place. Frank’s archon clout enabled us to glide rather smoothly through the many layers of security that would have obstructed our meeting with the leader. I didn’t feel connected to any of these folks, save Frank who had become our friend. The feeling was odd for a seasoned Thunderbird, who could spiritually find common ground with nearly any form of consciousness. These archons preferred shadow and deception.

We entered the main chamber, where sat, prominently as the dominant archon force of their whole people, the archon leader. He was three times the size of Frank. So big in fact he could have given Leviathan a run for his money. Don’t tell Leviathan I said that.

“Are you in the habit of making history?” the archon leader said to us, as we stood before him, looking up to his ominous thrown.

“Sir?” Frank said.

“It is by our very nature that we don’t let outsiders into our territory,” he said.

“I know that, sir. But we bring you an urgent message from Gardanne.”

“Ah, Gardanne. She’s been quite the fruitful host for quite some time,” the leader said, snickering. “And who is this foreigner you bring to my feet?”

“I am Bill Thunderbird,” I said. “We are here to deliver an important message to you and your people. Gardanne is on the verge of a mass vibrational shift. We’re elevating our consciousness on a global scale. And we know of your archon people who’ve stowed away in the land. We’re concerned they may not survive the shift.”

“Well, then, if you know of us and what we do,” the archon leader grew indignant at our news, “why would you care of our fate?”

“I certainly don’t agree with your way of life,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean your people don’t deserve the right to live. I think maybe somewhere along the eons, your people lost their way, and now you’re just doing what you think it takes to survive. We’re here today to tell you that you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

The head archon sat back in his thrown a bit to digest what I had just delivered. After a few moments, he was still unwilling to believe he had lost control over his host Gardanne and asked why it was my right to ask them to leave, and relinquish their insidious influence over the land. He was in the denial stage of grief, but I quickly brought him to acceptance.

“Because it’s mine,” I said.

“The whole place? The entire 7th-dimensional city state is yours?” he said.

“Well, mine and Kitty’s… and our seven friends, and the Cumuli and anyone else who can truly call themselves a Gardanner. This place is theirs too, because they make the place. They positively contribute to Her, Mother Gardanne. We are individual intelligences, yes, but a collective soul ever enlightening toward more expansive, expressive and imbulent forms of consciousness. Anyone else, any freeloaders who occupy this spacetime, but do not contribute. Who only think of themselves or align with lesser, detrimental causes. They are not Gardanners, and ultimately they are not welcome. We understand, archons, that you may have lost your way. You may have even forgotten your true purpose, your true origins. But your stranglehold on this reality has come to an end. It has impeded growth and development, and in their place, caused strife, anxiety and ill will. We’re here to tell you, to inform and warn you that an impending electromagnetic pulse (an EMP) is upon you and the rest of Gardanne. It will drastically heighten the vibration of the place, restoring Her to Her former, original, beautiful glory, when we can freely, finally explore consciousness expansion again, among the souls who spend time here.”

Their leader was slick, not to be trusted, but he was not dumb. He heeded my warning. He immediately understood the gravity of a looming EMP from Mother Gardanne. He would have to evacuate his people, should they still refuse to acquiesce to the greater calling of an unfettered, fully healthy and vibrant Gardanne. And he thanked us for the notice ahead of time.

Not a week later, the archon leader allowed us to issue a bulletin to his people.

Message to the archons: “Even if you are unaware, We know that you’re barely hanging on. You’ve assumed the role of parasite to survive. You may have even forgotten where you came from, it was so long ago. We’re not asking you to understand what Gardanne is truly about. We don’t expect you to sympathize. Nonetheless, hear this: the collective vibration of this 7th-dimensional city state will rise in significant degree. We, Gardanners, as a unified people will heighten our vibe to such a frequency that the resonance will become unbearable to all lower toned life forms. Parasitic behavior, stowaway archons, simply won’t sustain you anymore in this world. If you ignore this warning, you will fall below, to the lower Earths. And we can’t guarantee you’ll land safely. If you’ve listened this long and you respect the gravity of what we’re saying, then seek us out. Turn up at the soul sanctuary, where Crows will receive you. We’ll work with you to heighten your respective vibes so that you can become contributing citizens to the city state. And to all those who choose to go it alone and perpetuate your selfish attitudes, may Mother Gardanne be with you.”

Chapter 33

We hadn’t brought up our recent efforts elevating Gardanners and expelling archons from their psychic strangleholds on unsuspecting citizens to Mother Gardanne. We didn’t have to. One Sunday, while our nine visited Her in Her forest home, She broached the topic.

“I’ve sensed a gradual elevating of the land,” She said, ever attuned to the infinitessimal intricacies of Her world. “A general increase in positive spiritual energy has infused Gardanne. And I’ve also sensed the many restrictions imposed by hidden archons who were holding some of our people back, have shaken loose, like dead leaves falling from some deciduous tree. They’ve either left the premises or flipped into positive contributors toward our common Gardanner cause. And this is your doing?”

She was addressing all nine of us. I spoke for our formidable teen group.

“We know your plan is to eventually heighten the city state back to Her former glory,” I said. “We’ve been readying Gardanne, loosening the potential knots to clear the way.”

“I think we’re ready,” She said, smiling contently like DaVinci’s Mona Lisa. “Thanks to you kids, Gardanne is finally primed to return to Her original state, as a heightened consciousness weigh station for souls expanding from lower Earths.”

“We’re ready for the fun part,” Rad said.

We had foreseen and experienced the three visions. Their prophecies had berthed into fruition. Anamnesis, the reverse explosion I had seen, was made real when we reconnected Rabbithole with the greater Gardanne. What had become two distinct and separate communities were healing this rift to become whole once again.

Effervescence—or more specifically, Scwheppervescence—had occurred upon our nine’s corporate tour releasing the generations of officeworkers’ tense oppression imposed by bureacratic overlords. The second vision. They broke free from the procedural shackles and learned to play again, ebulent as the bubbles spontaneously inflating mid-liquid to evaporate upward.

And epiphany manifested at the high note of “Buddy Holly,” by Weezer to jar loose the archon Frank who had taken hold of the main branch’s librarian, who had orchestrated a shadow network to shroud ignorance over our civilization as a rather effective method of mind control. And like all true epiphanies, that watershed chord rippled throughout the community to absolutely release the archons’ hold on our world. We even turned a few archons like Frank, who continue to protect our fragile peace from future corruption.

We had readied Gardanne. Now, for the fun part.

I remember it happened on a Thursday. A Thursday, in the late afternoon to be exact. I’ve always loved Thursday, especially Thursday evenings. It was the window to the weekend. The window to all nightly possibility. Yes, we had to work or attend school on Fridays. But that was just a formality, a weekly ritual to gently lay down the toils of the week and ready the spirit for sweet, adventurous freedom.

The nine of us were visiting Mother Gardanne, as the sun closed on Its pursuit of the horizon. The tall eucalyptus trees that lined Her backyard, the tomato plants in Her garden, and the infinite blades of grass all inbetween glowed with that pre-evening, golden humming hue. It was the lush greenery’s final exhale before they went down for the night. This magic, dusk light divined through the windows of Mother Gardanne’s home, as we sat on Her hardwood floor. She lounged peacefully in Her cozy chair, graciously hosting our visit.

“I’m pleasantly surprised with how enlivened the city state has become,” She said. “My beautiful nine children have Mineswept about towne, releasing hidden and tenuous knots that have long plagued these citizens. I think we’re ready to heighten Gardanne to Her former glory.”

Our nine collective heightened vibe at Her utterance of glory. We were excited that this day—the fun part—had finally arrived.

“First, we’ll have to revive the wellspring of souls flooding into Gardanne’s lower soul sanctuary. Then, as we heighten the hearts, minds and souls of all inhabitants of this wonderful place, we’ll once again break through the ceiling above, providing passage to upper realms, upper echelons and subtler dimensions.”

When it came to channeling visions and enacting on their messages, Mother Gardanne and I differed quite distinctly. I was a channeler of high-frequency signals from higher realities, yes. But I was mainly a receptor at this point. Mother Gardanne commanded what would transpire. She laid it out in no uncertain detail and then made it so.

We formed a circle around Her. We sat in the lotus position, while She hovered in the middle, in the pickle jar. Her floating lotus built a brilliant pyramid about Her personal perimeter, shooting up through the roof to the sky entirely illuminating our inner sanctuary where we seanced. She hummed in the old tongue.

Gardanne’s moon soon moved directly in front of the Sun. To catalyze Her event, Mother Gardanne had incited a solar eclipse. As the landscape went dark, plants—colorful flowers, fledgling sunflowers looking up to their parent star, trees blowing in the breeze, bushes, hedges, grass, carefully placed plants in gardens—all sprung to more vibrant life. In a flash, they became healthier, growing in a time lapse. I could feel my own cells imbuing with white light, vibrating at higher and higher frequencies. She was collectively heightening the vibe of the place. We, as Gardanners, were evolving in real time.

Gardanne rose to a brilliant, golden glow, as life breathed back into every crevice. The whole place built to a connected, colloidal fluid—liquid gold, harmony honey—that dissolved each of Her souls into some all-knowing, intermingling, electrically charged consommé.

As epiphanies errupted in countless quantities all over towne, old feuds fell from formerly disgruntled neighbors. Passions revived between people and art forms. Misundersandings were suddenly mutually understood. The warm blanket of love melted away any lingering anxieties that had clung in lower vibrations. The few archons that had stubbornly hung onto our 7th-dimensional city state—despite our several warnings of the impending EMP—were knocked loose and left fluttering, sputtering back to their point of origin. They looked like frantic birds suddenly scared loose from a tree perch after some unexpected boom. The boom was Mother Gardanne’s electormagnetic pulse of pure enlightenment.

Then, the souls flowing from the dozen Earth vartietals below returned, as the soul sanctuary kicked on like the dusty engine block of my ’66 Shelby Mustang, if I hadn’t driven her in a while. Gardanne was charged, pulsing with potential.

Mother Gardanne then knocked the ceiling loose. And the charge soul particles hitting our reality’s undercarriage were free to explode through the plane, and beam ever upwards should they choose. Some remained and were sequestered for later orientation. We were a heightened city state once again. It was a mass anamnesis. Gaseous globules that spontaneously emerged from the infiltrating movierain burst forth all over towne, as the plasma of once forgotten possibility. We, as Gardanners, were free again to dream collectively and co-exist, co-creating this wonderful world.

Schweppervescence had taken hold over the land.

Chapter 34

In the new Gardanne (which was almost like the old, original place), the nine of us—Kitty, myself and our seven friends—had stumbled upon an occupation. What to do with all possible and beautiful Earthly reality? you may ask. We can tend to our garden. And word of mouth spread that we were good Gardanners.

We had received some clout from our corporate tour those months ago. Business owners, through word of mouth, had spread the positive effects of our nine’s immersive seminars. Even after the archons evacuated and Mother Gardanne heightened the entire city state to Her former glorious high vibration that could sustain a multitude of life rising up through the 7th dimension into even higher realms, the local businesses in and around Gardanne Heights sought us out to improve their own status quo.

We—our nine collective—created many places between us, in the Rabbithole blueprint space that held all Earthbound possibility. We took the best of our information modeling to these local business clients, installing the most promising and magical scenarios into their everyday. Our dreaming carried a practical purpose.

Tony Spatula, the brick oven pizza joint owner from Kitty and my Gardanne days of yore had returned once the vibration heightened. We had created a vibe adequate enough for the culinary genius to sling his hallowed, flame-kissed pies in our neighborhood once again.

“Whoa, Bill!” Tony said, upon meeting my teenage self in his descent back to the 7th. “You look way youngah!”

“It’s Matt Dragon now,” I said.

“That’s pretty badass. I’ll just call you Dragon. The reason I’ve asked you to meet me here today in my fine pizza establishment is that I could use a little advice. These kids today, I don’t know how to reach ’em. I can’t relate. It was different back in Gardanne’s first golden era. I friggin knew everybody. Now they feel like strangers; we’re thousands of generations apart.”

I looked around Spatula’s carefully decorated restaurant. An old, wooden pizza peel hung on the brick wall. Framed photos chronicling his regular customers from a half an eon ago displayed proudly on the walls. The black and white checkered floor and red and white checkerboard tablecloths screamed traditional Italian joint. The whole effect evoked deep nostalgia in me, but was lost on the more recent generations.

“I like to think the pie speaks for itself,” I said, “but we know you bring more to the table than just delicious food. We’ll remind the public of the charm that is Spatula’s pizza joint one way or another.”

“Who’s bettah than you, Dragon?” Spatula said, while patting me on the back.

One afternoon after school, all nine of us were sitting around the coffee table in the Cumulus’ basement. That’s usually where we workshopped destinations to which we’d collectively leap. The roundtable discussion set the stage as we prepared to tackle all possibility. It was a way to establish boundaries and limitations on this rather expansive landscape to establish a set path or application. This afternoon, the betterment of Spatula’s brick oven pizzeria was our purpose.

After introducing our discussion topic, I opened the floor.

“Tony Spatula and his hallowed brick oven pizzeria need our help,” I said.

“A pizza place? What’s the problem?” Chlöe always got right to the point. It must have rubbed off on her from Stan, who was quick with the perfectly placed one-liners.

“Spatula, a Gardanne OG, makes the finest, most delicious little pies that will ever grace your taste buds, but you wouldn’t know it,” I said. “The surrounding restaurants in our neighborhood, where Mr. Spatula has set up shop once again, have completely encroached his exposure. His market share is practically non-existent. They’re the more established businesses, and have gained trust for centuries with our citizens. Mr. Spatula is encountering great difficulty breaking through the noise to attract customers.”

“It sounds like the places most likely to lose business to Tony could have cast a white noise spell around his storefront,” Thomas said, quick to detect sorcery afoot. He was the magic hammer who only saw mystical nails. I tended to gravitate toward more plausible explanations: Spatula’s competition could have just been spreading propaganda against the newly returning restaurateur. Either way, manipulated perceptions had all but scrubbed out the possibility for Spatula to sling pies in these parts. Through the power of extra-dimensional intervention, we’d have to change people’s minds.

When we collaborated on group leaps like this, our nine became stationary. It were the places that moved and evolved, a colloidal fluid transforming into intriguing haunts that our hive awareness and concentration collapsed into more crystalline destinations. We were moving the places to us, rather than having to travel. The flow state facilitated plethoras of physical examples for us to convince the Gardanne public of Spatula’s true worth as a pizza maker, as a businessman, and as the neighborhood fixture he had once been and would be again.

Our nine leapt collectively for a few evenings in a row, after work or school. Mainly our destinations were Earth varietals where a similar pizza man in a similar predicament overcame adversity. No scenario quite exactly applied, but we were building our knowledge toward the solution. The extra-dimensional reconaissance also allowed us to set priority.

The first task was demystifying the barrage of false profit pizza places. There was Ray’s, Original Ray’s, Ray’s Original Pizza, Pizza by Raymond, and then, of course, Ray’s on 5th. They all claimed to be Gardanne’s founding establishment of the almighty slice.

Tony Spatula’s cozy little brick oven haunt didn’t stand a chance against this pie inspired propaganda. We were operating within a culinary funhouse of illusion and would have to navigate these many perception-distorting mirrors to elevate Spatula’s place as the true pizzeria.

None of the Ray places anticipated that our nine possessed privileged abilities to unearth the well-buried secret they all shared: None of them were the original pizza place. One man and one man alone held that title: One Mr. Anthony Spatula.

Our reconaissance complete, we plotted and planned in Cumulus’ basement to unravel the web Original Ray had spun. Once we untangled that knot the rest of the Rays soon followed. It was simply a matter of locating that pivotal point in Gardanne time, way, way in the past, when Original Ray stole Spatula’s recipe.

Once our nine had charted a reverse course backward through Gardanne time and conducted some timestamping, leaving breadcrumbs so that we could return to these pivotal past points, I took Spatula with me on a leap rewinding the Gardanne clock to more than three millennia ago. Reverse entropy is what we saw surfing through the movierain, until we reached that point in the past when the original Original Ray had struck the fateful blow that would seal his family’s fate as the de facto pizza joint.

Spatula had long left the 7th-dimensional state. He had transcended during the realm’s first golden era. He left his recipe to his grandson, who—to his credit—kept the ingredients, their proper quantities and preparations, under lock and key. But as the generations unfolded, future Spatulas were less and less diligent. All it took was a slip of the tongue by Spatula’s great, great, great, great grandson of several key ingredients that eventually unraveled the whole sweater. Whispers spread throughout the culinary community, until they arrived at eager Original Ray’s ears. He had broken his back in search for a pizza recipe that would separate him from the pack. All he needed were a few key ingredients, he thought, to put him a leg up. And once he traced those whispers back to Spatula’s descendant—at last, he had located the bearer of the magic Spatula brick oven pizza recipe!—it was only a matter of time before he would be in possession of the greatest blueprint for the quintessential pie.

We, of course—Tony and I—couldn’t intervene at all in this ancient Gardanne history. That would spin out an entirely divergent 7th-dimensional reality when we returned to our present. Just watch Back to the Future II. No, we were here on reconnaissance. I slowed the rewind leap to a standstill, and we hung hovering over the moment Original Ray sealed his fate.

“Say, Jimmy Spatula,” Original Ray said after waltzing into the brick oven pizzeria, “I heard the cat’s out of the bag on your mystery ingredients.”

Jimmy wiped down the counter, in their new establishment, not looking at Ray. He had lost the deed to Tony Spatula’s first restaurant and had to rebuild up the street, new brick oven and all. He just kept wiping and said, “So what? Everybody has known of those special spices for years. Still, none of you so called pizzamakers have had the meatballs to make a better pie!”

Original Ray smelt blood in the water. “Fine! Give me the rest of the recipe and let’s have a challenge. We both make a pie and make the townsfolk try out which one’s better—yours or mine. It’ll be like the Pepsi challenge, except against Spatula’s pie and Original Ray’s!”

Jimmy stopped wiping and finally looked up at his adversary.

“The Spatulas have served the finest pizza pies in Gardanne for ages, for millennia,” he said. “You think if I give you a few notes on a little piece a paper, that’s gonna make a difference?? No one challenges a Spatula in his own establishment! You want a cook-off? You got a cook-off… Now fuck off!”

That was the moment Original Ray sealed his fate. He won the Pepsi challenge that following Saturday, as patrons came from all over Gardanne to sample the two unlabeled pies, cast their vote, only to make Original Ray the victor with Spatula’s recipe.

As we watched from the ether, not fully materialized, I saw a single tear drip down Tony Spatula’s face, the great, great…great grandfather of Jimmy. He had witnessed his legacy vanish from the Gardanne Register. But, out of that great revelatory pain, an epiphany: if it was a cook-off that unmade the Spatulas, then perhaps it would be a cook-off once again in the present Gardanne that granted this magical maker of pizzas a new berth. A new life to reignite the eternal hearth. And make the Spatula pizzeria whole once again.

We landed back in modern day. Not a thing was different. Good. No ripple effects, I thought. I didn’t even have to suggest my solution. Spatula and I were on the same wavelength.

“That was a good recipe, sure,” he said, “but that’s the thing about magic. It can always be reinvented, improved. I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do, Dragon. I’m gonna compose a new brickoven pizza recipe. And then I’m gonna challenge all those fuckin’ ‘original’ Rays to a new competition. A new cook-off to earn back my spot as the brick oven pizza afficianado around here!”

Spatula took to foraging the next day. He sourced his finest buffalo mozzarella from the farmer’s market. He picked tomatoes (for the sauce) and basil from the garden of Mother Gardanne Herself. He ground fine flour from dried grains he grew in a field behind his house. And whenever I asked him where he sourced his extra, extra virgin olive oil and ripe garlic cloves, he just said, “I got a guy.”

Then there was his secret ingredient. That was something that could neither be found, nor ground, nor plucked from the divine garden of the Mother. No guy, not even Red himself from The Shawshank Redemption could procure this crucial ingredient. It was the subtle, flame-kissed singe that only the bricks from his first brick oven could provide while flash baking his pies at a thousand degrees. But the oven had been buried under civilizations’ overgrowth, millennia ago. The only way anyone could find it is if they knew where to dig. Only Spatula knew that.

Chapter 35

While Spatula unearthed his past—I promised to help him dig a little later—I took Kitty with me down to Earth_Letterman_ to tell good ole Dave what we were up to.

Kitty and I sat in Letterman’s guest seats, in the Ed Sullivan Studio. It was a cool 60 degrees.

“It’s been a while, Bill,” Dave said. “And Kitty, nice to see you.”

“Thanks for having us back, Dave,” I said.

“Why have you two graced us with your presence this evening?”

“Well—not that you fine New Yorkers could benefit from this news—but we’re in the process of reopening a once famous restaurant, up in Gardanne.”

“You know, three out of four restaurants fail,” he said. The studio audience chuckled. I heard the bass player, pluck and slide a low-sounding string.

“Do you have any advice for us, Dave?” the ever sweet Kitty said.

“You know what they say about restaurants: location, location, location,” Dave delivered with a grin.

“I think that’s real estate,” I said. The crowd chuckled at my line, as well. We were winning them over.

“Fair enough,” Dave said. “Just make sure you’re a fixture of the community. And pizza consistency is key. Can’t argue with a good pie.”

We let the Late Show host’s words sink in, as the lights went down and we entered the commercial break.

We—Kitty and I—were back in the Cumuli’s basement.

“I’m not worried about people liking the taste of Spatula’s pizza,” I said. “But how do we get people through the door for the cook-off?”

“We can canvass the towne,” Kitty said. “Let’s visit all the local businesses within a 5-block radius, inviting them to the contest.”

As we knocked on doors, we simultaneously entered each shop owner’s subconscious. The psychic intervention was not intended to plant new ideas into their minds; we were simply suppressing the generations of propaganda that had penetrated their epigenetics, to give Spatula’s place a fair shake.

We also issued an ad in the Gardanne Register. It read:

“Come one. Come all. All you Original Rays, Secondary Rays and Rays on 5th Street. Consider this an open invite to all pizza makers, Gardannewide. Tony Spatula invites you to his little brick oven establishment for a cook-off. Enough talk among our many restaurateurs. Let’s let the pies speak for themselves.”

Our guerrilla/media tactics worked, as we packed a full house in Tony Spatula’s establishment, the day of the contest. All the Rays were in attendance, wearing smug, overconfident grins.

“Is that a new pizza oven?” Original Ray said to Tony, making sardonic conversation with his culinary foe.

All the pizza chefs stood behind the counter, by their respective pies. Spatula stood proudly by his secret weapon.

“No, Original Ray,” Spatula said. “It’s actually quite old. It’s older than your great, great, great grandfather. I dug it up from a forgotten time.”

“Wow,” Ray said sarcastically. “Hope your pizza doesn’t taste like dirt.”

For the sake of time and sanity, all the Rays, Tony, the townsfolk and Kitty and I had nominated a pizza expert to take the tasting challenge: Davey Pageviews. He was a local pizza connoisseur. And after countless pizza reviews in recent history, Gardanners trusted his opinion.

The crowd hushed, as Pageviews worked his way down the line of non-descript pies. Their makers had relegated to the crowd themselves. No more sizzle. No more propaganda. These anonymous pies would have to do the talking.

“OK, pizza review time,” Pageviews said, as he took his first slice. Only Kitty and I knew that that was a sliver from Ray’s on 5th. Chewing his first bite, Pageviews said, “Not too sloopy. The cheese stays on. Good amount of sauce… 7.8.”

Murmurs from the crowd resulted from this review.

“OK, next bite, next pizza,” Pageviews continued his pizza assessment. He took a slice from Pizza by Raymond. “Whoa, lotta cheeze on this one. Good stretch.” He took a bite of the thick crust. “I like the puff and crunch of the crust… 8.1.”

The reactionary crowd murmurs grew as Pageviews’ scores escalated. He methodically worked his way down the line, until he reached Original Ray’s pie on the contest counter.

“OK, I can tell this is a good Neapolitan style,” Pageviews swiped the wide slice and folded it in half. He took a huge bite. “Oh! Great balance here. Best one so far, all around… 8.5.”

Cheers from the crowd. Kitty and I suspected some knew (or at least strongly suspected that this was none other than Original Ray’s, the crowd favorite, thus far).

Pageviews finally reached the end of the line. Spatula’s perfectly cooked brick oven pizza pie sat their quaintly. Pageviews snagged a small slice from this 10-inch personal pizza.

While still chewing, a certain zen calm overtook Pageviews.

“Alright, Gardanne, I must admit, in all of my pizza-eating exploits, the Rays have never been my favorite. None of them are even in my top thousand…” Still chewing, “This can’t be a Rays. Guys, Jesus Christ. This slice is magnificent. I’m goin’ 11. This thing goes to eleven. That’s a ‘One Bite Challenge’ first. We’ve never experienced such a high score in the show’s history. The scale only goes to 10. This thing’s an 11.” Davey’s eyes danced all over the ceiling of the pizza restaurant, as Spatula’s pizza sprung memories loose that had been buried deep. Epiphany upon epiphany exploded in Mr. Pageviews’ brain.

I whispered in Pageviews’ ear that that last pie was one Tony Spatula’s.

Immediately upon learning this newfound information, Pageviews turned to the crowd, “Don’t listen to anything Original Ray says,” he said. “Spatula’s brick oven is, by infinitely far, the best pie.”

The crowd exploded in cathartic ecstacy, as the Rays shrunk into the shadows. The true pizza afficianado had been revealed. The winning pizza was dispersed among the people after the contest winner was declared. Spatula’s thick, gooey buffalo mozzarella melted evenly in everyone’s mouth, enjoying the Italian delicacy. The sharp and sweet acid of the red sauce tickled their taste buds in contrast to the billowy cheese. The dough, baked perfectly and kissed with that sacred char of the brick oven balanced the whole pie, as a substrate of pure, doughy bliss. A gold hue, not unlike St. Elmo’s Fire materialized inside the premises, as Tony Spatula’s status was restored and all the townsfolk enjoyed his pie that had spoken for itself. Collectively, communally, we were all digesting a slice of ambrosia—food for the gods. Our bellies all enlightened that day. And Tony Spatula’s pizza prowess was never questioned again.

Kitty and I to this day sit under an overhead, yellow lamplight, intimately sharing a pie, every Tuesday night (date night) at Spatula’s fine establishment. It’s like a weekly last supper where we can share and enjoy the love between us—in all its cheesy, bittersweet saucy goodness.

Chapter 36

We took to tending Gardanne like we had helped Spatula resurrect his brick oven institution, serving other Gardanners on their way to excellence. The movement spread like Schweppervescence, sweeping the city state.

Then, matter turned more inward, into our little group of nine. Kitty and I were soul mates. Generally no problem there. And I considered the seven my best friends on the great land of Gardanne… save Stan. He was a tough nut to crack.

Needless to say, Stan and I didn’t hit it off, initially. Rad and Thomas made larger, louder first impressions while also oozing charisma. Stan was more reserved, which is why it took me longer to acquaint myself. And first impressions are lasting, but Stan and I eventually found our rhythm.

Stan mainly stuck to hanging out with his girlfriend, Chlöe. He was there for all the group events, when all nine of us got together. And me and the guys would always try to find arbitrary roles for him in our three-piece punk band. “Stan, play the keys,” when we’d incorporate piano into the tune. “Stan, can you play rhythm guitar?” Another axe never hurt, for bigger, louder shows.

But for the most part, Stan and I didn’t hang out alone. Until we both took that fateful leap one day. We unknowingly encountered a shared experience. From that day on, Stan and I were best friends.

Like any good discovery, our revelatory, shared experience—our inside joke—began with a question.

“So, what was your and Kitty’s initial intent for this place again?” Stan said, while lounging on the couch one day in the Cumulus basement. It was one of those rare moments when neither of us were distracted by the other seven friends.

“We meant for this place to be a soul’s weigh station,” I said.

Stan’s puzzled look indicated I’d have to demonstrate what I meant. My writing teacher was right: show, don’t tell.

We were at the precipice of Gardanne’s inception. Kitty and I (our past selves) had just completed linking the dozen Earths below, while appearing on Paul and Pete the Killer’s podcast. Present day Stan and I hovered, non-materialized as passive observers of this historic 7th-dimensional event.

“What are all those white, thunder balls of lightning flowing from the lower Earths up into the center of torrenting torus pattern?” Stan said.

“Those are souls,” I said. “We meant for this place to intercept the reincarnation mill. Let them take a moment of pause in between lives to figure out what the true potential of Earth dwelling really means. No one Earth below contained the complete answer. And it could take an infinity (endless time) to formulate the precise planetary conditions to elevate a whole people, a whole civilization. But what if we could spin up new Earths, off of these founding dozen on the fly? What if we could test new, entirely exotic realities under Earth parameters?”

“Existenial experimentation,” Stan replied, plainly. He was a quick study. He was also more observant, more seemingly self-aware than anyone else in our group. No one, for instance, had ever asked me before what Kitty and my initial intent for Gardanne was. They had all been part of the Zelda channeling sessions, before Kitty and I touched down from the 9th. But those days seemed like decades ago. Nevertheless, Stan held a refined understanding of his surroundings. And given that, I then asked him the next natural question.

“What kind of Earth reality would you explore?” I said.

Stan stroked his chin to indicate he was now deep in contemplation of the answer, but my telepathy sensed he had known his answer instantly.

“What’s something you’ve never seen before?” he said, with a slight smile.

I had visited Earth versions unfathomable in quantity. Earth’s mathematics could barely describe the breadth of Earth-bound planes I had seen, by the time Stan had asked me that question. Now I was stroking my own chin, but this wasn’t pantomime. I was generally wondering.

At that moment, the soul sanctuary achieved critical mass, concentrating those wandering souls—whose frequency matched our city state’s—through Gardanne’s center. Stan and I witnessed the birth of an alternative afterlife, where souls of a certain enlightenment could stay for a time, and explore existence’s potential, in terms of Earth.

“It kind of looks like an upside-down pyramid,” Stan said, not waiting for my answer—I was still rubbing my chin. “With all of the sublter souls expanding out the top.”

“I don’t know,” I said, finally. “I don’t know what I don’t know, or what I’ve never seen before. But let’s find someone who can answer that for us.”

We were now surfing through the movierain, as infinite Earth worlds flew by in their dewey droplet form—unquantifiable, pure potential, the wave form. I guided the electromagnetic Alcubierre bubble protecting both of us as we surfed through this Earth-lensed multiverse.

“Stan,” I yelled to him, while his eyes looked hypnotized by the torrent of all possibility washing across his visage, “think of someone or several people that you’ve met or would like to meet. Think of them under the intention that they could lead to a world that’s entirely new.”

Before long—a moment or two—several large, prominent droplets formed on our 12 o’clock, as destinations. I resonated our local sphere with the one that spoke most to my intuition.

And we landed…

“I think I know a guy in Sac Town,” Stan said. I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious; his delivery was so deadpan, especially while whisking through all reality in the movierain.

We landed in Sacramento, and then we leapt again.

We were surfing among the multiversal torus of all possibility, once again. Sac Town? Did he mean Sacramento, California? That was on Earth_42_. But Stan had never been there, had he?

Either way, the tangent had me reminiscing on Earth_42_, my most recent long-stay, as a plant for 42–some odd years. And by recency bias, it was my new favorite. We leapt into local Earth_42_ spacetime, from around the time I had made the ultimate black swan dive off planet, into higher realms.

We rewond the clock, this time. I had earned 42 faithful years as an earthling. That had provided enough runway to leap forward or even backward in local Earth time. Traveling back in time is not unlike leaping forward. There’s just more assurance in pedestrian causality. We can connect the dots a lot more readily reversing entropy in this fashion. But a funny thing happens on Earth_42_ right around the Younger Dryas period, some 13,000 years prior to my inaugural Thunderbird leap.

Stan and I now stood at this pivotal precipice, millennia back in time. The human race had been all but wiped out. Their history nearly erased. With such a collective amnesia afoot, there was no set path backward—unusual for a typically predictable past. Earth_42_’s origins were up for dispute.

Stan and I workshopped a few viable scenarios.

We hovered by the Great Pyramid at Giza. It was our temporal focal point, rewinding the clock well before the Younger Dryas period that washed antedeluvian civilizations clean off the Earth. We weren’t fully materialized, as forgotten events played in rewind before us. We passed through the pyramid’s limestone blocks until we found ourselves inside a large, vaulted chamber, with ceilings 20 feet high. My helmet tapped into the Akashic record, which told me that this chamber concentrated sound and electromagnetivity for ancient broadcasting, resonance channeling and teleportation to other galaxies. We stopped the clock, just as a royal ceremony commenced. The Akashic told us the year would have been well before 100,000 BCE. It also said ‘Don’t worry about the exact year. The centuries between civilizations rising and falling between antiquity are negligible and subject to interpretation,’ which was a subtle way to articulate that long expanses of little to no intelligent life makes the passage of time disputable.

“Who are these people?” Stan said, referring to the royals conducting some kind of sacred ceremony inside the Great Pyramid.

They were dressed in long, gold-laced gowns. They were tall, maybe 8-foot on average. They looked somewhat human, but also godly. My sixth sense detected they could communicate telepathically, as radio waves emitted from their third eyes. And despite the fact that Stan and I were now in Earth_42_’s distant past, these people seemed far more sophisticated than the “modern” Earth of the third millennium AD.

“I think they’re some kind of advanced species,” I said.

The ancient shaman leading this collective experience uttered melodious words in an unknown tongue. Lights sparkled in the center of the room. The whole place, in fact, seemed to turn on like sitting inside a soundsystem that had just been plugged in. Harmonious vibrations reverberated off every surface and an orb formed in the middle of the space. The Akashic told us that this orb was downloading divine frequencies from higher dimensions. This collective was undergoing an upgrade.

“Man, I gotta learn how to do that?” Stan said, writing down the words the shaman said into a little notebook he had brought with him for the journey. His Grail Bible, he called it.

All of a sudden, I felt exposed. These sophisticated creatures were psychic after all. One of the ceremony participants, mid-download, looked in our general direction.

“Alright, let’s bounce,” I said, not knowledgeable enough of how powerful these beings were. They could have plucked us from the ether, into their material reality.

Stan and I landed back in my backyard in Gardanne. The sunny, light air and birds chirping were a sharp contrast to the heavy, somber, solumn, sonorous chamber in a time forgotten deep within the Great Pyramid.

Later that night at dinner, Stan tried his new parlor trick he had learned from the god-like beings we had encountered. While Chlöe passed him the mashed potatoes, Stan whispered his ancient incantation. A mini orb formed just above the bowl and channeled Stan’s grandmother’s famous Potatoes au Graten recipe, transforming the mashed into cheesy, finely cut goodness.

Stan had learned an ancient technique of manifestation. With a satisfied smile, he heaped his upgraded potatoes onto his plate. I chuckled. No one else had noticed amidst the usual din of our group supper.

Well, Kitty noticed, but She and I are telepathically connected.

“What have you two been up to lately??” She said, discreetly broaching the topic of Stan’s recent developments. “You’ve been all buddy-buddy for the last couple of days.”

Stan and I looked at each other. We weren’t ready to divulge our ancient discovery just yet to the larger group. Plus, we knew Rad and Thomas were too preoccupied producing podcasts for local prominent Gardanners and interesting 7th-dimensional visitors. In fact, they and their girlfriends were deep in some side conversation about the latest episode they recorded.

Stan’s been studying some ancient Earth magic, courtesy of a recent leap we embarked upon, I said to Her telepathically. She smiled, the only other one besides me at the table to know what that truly means. Stan and I shared a secret that the rest of the group (save Kitty) would barely understand. We were becoming better friends.

Stan uttered another incantation that basically translated to “mood lighting,” and the lamp above our dinner table dimmed to the perfect level to set a more intimate ambiance. Light, West Coast electronic music kicked on.

That caught Rad’s attention, mid-sentence.

“Stan, how are you doing that?” Rad said, turning to look at him directly across the table.

“Lights out!” Stan blurted, and the room went completely dark. It was his way of dodging the question. Not very subtle, but effective. I got up and flicked the lights back on, and we continued our dinner like nothing had happened. Stan and I weren’t finished investigating this ancient Earth history ourselves. Only after a few more leaps deep into Earth_42_’s past would we divulge our revelatory discovery about modern Earth to the rest of our friends.

After dinner, While Rad and Thomas reviewed their guest for the next day’s podcast, Stan and I slunk away into the evening backyard. I had introduced him to living the dual life, between a Gardanner and an extra-dimensional archaelogist studying Earths’ extreme distant past of forgotten antedeluvian civilizations.

We leapt back to ~100,000 years before known human history, on Earth_42_. We landed just outside the Great Pyramid, as we had done on the last leap, but we elected not to enter the mysterious limestone fortress this time for concern of its ancient, psychic inhabitants detecting us (even we never fully materialized).

“Are we going back in?” Stan said. “I could use a few new spells.”

“I just leveraged the Great Pyramid as a temporal focal point,” I said. “Let’s fast-forward to the Great Flood. What caused it? And then past that, how did humanity climb out of this most catastrophic of civilized setbacks over the dark millennia that led to modern times?”

Stan reluctantly agreed. He understood the importance of uncovering humanity’s shrouded origins.

“Maybe we can finally find the answer as to why middle-aged people experience lower back pain,” he said, dryly.

The clock hands spun rapidly in fast-forward. We witnessed the ancient civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria flourish. Gods walked among men and women and small folk, like fairies. It was a magical time that then became too chaotic. The face of the Earth_42_ could not contain the divine power clash that had resulted from such powerful beings sharing the same planet. The ruling class ordered a mass evacuation, followed soon by a catastrophic shower of comets, as the planet passed through their thick belt in orbit around the Sun.

Human tribes fled below ground. Centuries later, we saw their descendants emerge from the Earth below to wander the surface once again. At around ~5,000 B.C.E., these amnesiac, primitive humans received guidance from whom they thought were gods, but Stan and I recognized them as those advanced species who had fled millennia ago before the flood. They had returned mercifully to seed civilation among the remaining humans once again.

Unfortunately, at several pivotal points along humanity’s resurrection, the archons intercepted. They created a mental-spiritual prison that insidiously enslaved the human race. Back then, these shackles had no name. Today they do: capitalism.

“So that’s why so many people from Earth_42_ don’t feel like they’re of any value, unless they make a lot of money,” Stan observed. He was a rather empathetic fellow, as well.

Even among modern-day Earth_42_, we Gardanners had our work cut out for us freeing the eight billion plus current inhabitants from their invisible prison. And Stan and I had just acquired invaluable intel to expedite our enlightenment of this unfortunate species.

“Should we go back?” I said.

“Thanks for showing me this, Bill,” he said. “It beats the hell outta Sac Town.”

We landed back in the evening backyard, mere moments from our initial post-dinner departure. Stan’s girlfriend Chlöe was serving her famous double-chocolate muffins for desert in the kitchen.

Stan took a big bite out of the rich dessert cake. Before he could swallow the gooey pastry, he asked, “When are we going back?”

At least, that’s what I think he said. It sounded more like “Wung urr Weegounggbuck?”

“Whenever you want,” I said.

Chapter 37

Stan and I dipped back to antedeluvian Earth_42_ a few days later. We were cruising around Gardanne. Stan was riding shotgun in the Shelby, while I weaved ‘er through the Heights streets. Stan was looking out the window and then turned back to me. He must have seen something.

“I feel like we barely scratched the surface of Atlantis,” he said. “So much forgotten wisdom. I’m hungry for morrrre, Bill!”

I kept my eyes on the road, but my silence after a few moments indicated agreement.

“I’m not going back in that pyramid again, though,” I said. The gods we stumbled upon seancing inside the hull of this giant, ancient, magical limestone prism had sensed our presence.

“Nah, we can just pal around Atlantis like we’re doing right now around Gardanne,” Stan said. His spiel was becoming more convincing by the second.

“Just say the word. And we’ll leap to that destination.”

I didn’t realize he meant immediately. Mid-roll of the Mustang, suddenly, we were winding through Atlantis streets amidst an ancient crowd of intermingling intelligent species—humans, giants, Nordics, Arcturians, etc.

“There’s this shop I wanted to check out,” Stan said. I had fixated on his intention to get us there, in Atlantis. Stan was hooked on ancient magic and how it could augment his own Gardanne community.

We stole down some alley and approached a non-descript door with no sign.

“How’d you know about this place?” I said.

“A magician never reveals his tricks,” he said. I decided if he didn’t tell me within the next hour, I’d just read his mind. The funny part was, Stan knew this before he said that.

I followed Stan through the shady archway of the hidden shop that smelt of musty incense whose aroma grew in intensity as we pressed further into the dark store.

Without looking back at me, Stan decided to inform me of why we were patronizing this particular shoppe as we walked, “We’re here to purchase several magical artifacts that unlock hidden potential.”

“Any particular items in mind?” I said. My head was on a swivel scanning these intriguing relics that lined the shelves of the dimly lit shoppe.

“That’s too prescriptive,” he said. “It’s better to lead with an idea of the solution.”

“Solution to what?” I said, but before Stan could answer we had arrived at the back of the store where the shop clerk sat behind his glass counter.

The clerk was nine feet tall, I estimated, because he was sitting and was still taller than Stan and me. We both approached the smooth counter, leaned on the glass and greeted our exotic purveyor of mystical goods.

“Do you sell blueprint suits?” Stan said.

Why are you asking for those? I said to Stan telepathically. I didn’t want the shoppe clerk to know Stan and I weren’t yet in alignment of our current purpose in his establishment.

They’re like firmware upgrades, Stan said, as the shopkeep turned around to sift through his inventory logs.

For plants?, I said.

Exactly.

The plants I mentioned weren’t vegetation; I was referencing Gardanners whom we had planted on terrestrial Earth varietals. They had undergone amnesia upon berthing into these 3rd-dimensional worlds only to experience complete anamnesis at pivotal points in these otherwise mortal lives to rise above this limited physical existence and return to their Mother Gardanne, carrying the practial knowledge of their temporary home planet in tow. As a Thunderbird voyager, I was no stranger to assuming the plant role on a planet. That’s how we gained intimate knowledge of foreign worlds, but the gig could get rough when you found yourself trudging through a world in which you felt to the bone you didn’t belong. Stan was interested in equipping these poor plants with instant blueprint upgrades to ease their anxiety—that nagging out-of-place feeling—by microdosing them with a little divine knowledge at a time to slowly ease them out of the bewilderment in prep for their ascension.

The store clerk turned back to us.

“I may have found something,” he divined down to us. “It may not be exactly what you requested, but it could offer a method for achieving your desired outcome.”

He spread out a giant, hardbound book opened to the product description page describing his find. Thwap! the large tome thudded the top glass of the counter and a dust cloud wafted into the air, as its old pages opened, making the air smell even mustier.

“I’m listening…” Stan said.

“This book references codices you can recite that unlock certain pockets of the Akashic. If you’re fluent, you can instantly download the information torrents into your DNA. The incantations, in fact, activate what some geneticists would consider junk DNA. The technique bestows wisdom when the life form’s current language can’t interpret pure meaning.”

Stan and I looked at each other. We didn’t have to telepathically connect. The clerk had fulfilled Stan’s request. I was excited for him. My helmet Bueller had granted me unbridled access to the Akashic ever since I had been annointed a Thunderbird. But this newfound upgrade was like Christmas morning for Stan. Better yet, we could share it with the plants. And perhaps best, Stan and I could finally talk about Akashic wisdom. Kitty, of course, understood it too, but She always tried to change the subject whenever I brought it up too much. It probably helped that Stan and I were into more of the same Akashic sectors.

“Why don’t you just memorize the incantation for free and then we can leave?” I said.

“Because the words are always in a state of flux until you look at them.”

He was right. Out the corner of my eye, the words danced across the page in infinitely changing arrangements—each of them elegant poetry in some language of the Earths. Then, when I looked directly at them, they froze into a perfectly worded spell. I looked away and I could witness peripherally that they resumed their dance across the page.

“You never read the same spell twice,” Stan said.

We bought the book. “I can’t wait to try out some of the techniques in here on Gardanne,” Stan said, tucking the large book under his arm like some precious pigskin as we exited the shoppe.

We were back in the Shelby rolling down Main Street. We had left between moments, and now resumed driving around Gardanne. Don’t worry; leaping while driving is safe—a lot safer than texting while driving, I can tell you. We were gone within less time than it takes to blink.

Stan rested the large, leatherbound book on his lap. They both rode shotgun. Stan was already rifling through the pages to reference an applicable passage. Practice makes perfect, he thought.

“OK, take it easy, Stan,” I said. “That book looks like it contains some powerful magic. Let’s start out with something easy.”

“C’mon, Big Cat. I thought you’d be more excited than this. You were a plant once. You remember how lonely and bewildering that can get. Let’s find a spell in here that allows them to access an instant Akashic download—an interdimensional care package, so to speak,” Stan gestured the chef’s kiss as he uttered care package.

We pulled into the Cumulus driveway and glided directly to the basement before we let anyone know that we had returned from our cruise. Stan slapped the big book onto the coffee table. It opened directly to a page where he had saved his place from the car ride. He frantically ran his index finger down the page to promptly locate the passage he had selected.

“This is it,” he said. “If a plant’s not budging from the planet—he or she are exhibiting no sign that they’ll spontaneously leap off planet. They’re stuck. Even worse: they don’t even know it. We can insert packets of information that awaken ancient cells deep in their spinal cord. It awakens the junk DNA the store clerk mentioned. They’ll ignite ancient and forgotten knowledge that cascades into a europhic feeling of inspiration. It evokes a 5th-dimensional intervention with little to no ripple effects.”

“I’ll tell ya,” I said, “coulda used that a few times down on Earth_42_. Luckily, Thunderbird instincts kicked in, but before that felt like an eternity.”

Stan nodded, smiling. He knew we were both on the same page—literally and figuratively.

“Let’s test it out,” he said. “Any hopefuls down on the ground lagging?”

“Yeah, we installed this guy down on Earth_Suburban_ that could use a bump.”

Stan was a quick study. Mere minutes after we both decided to help our plant down on Earth_Suburban_, he had already unlocked the dossier of 3D schematics now hovering holographically feet above the book. Stan whipped the hologram around to all angles. He was finely tailoring the chunk to fit neatly into our subject’s psyche, the way a key maker fashions the key metal to fit into its soulmate lock.

“It’s a beaut. What a brilliant confidence suit,” he said, spinning the BIM (building information modeling) like some kind of cyberpunk blacksmith who’d mastered his craft.

I had to hand it to Stan. He had appreciated a key aspect of interdimensional leaping that I had long ago taken for granted. Accessing the Akashic eventually becomes second nature for a Thunderbird, like breathing. But to the laymen who also find themselves dipping between dimensions, maybe shipwrecked on some 3rd-dimensional Earth, instant, divine access to otherworldly wisdom can be the difference between whether they ever find a way off world or not.

“No more stranded plants,” Stan said, putting the final touches on his data package masterpiece.

“Let’s test it,” I said, signaling him to brace himself for a leap.

We landed on the outskirts of the town Shermer, on Earth_Suburban_. I hadn’t visited in a while, and wasn’t readily sure where our plant was staying.

“Wow, so this is Earth_Suburban_,” Stan said, awestruck. He had heard me talk about the 12 Earth varietals often, but had never himself been to several of them, including ‘Suburban.

I was as excited as Stan to test out this new mystical tech. The package we’d deliver to stranded plants would be unique to the person, as a carefully and thoughtfully prescribed medicine. For my own edification (and for the benefit of you, the reader) I’ll attempt to put this crucial delivery into Thunderbird terms.

An image of my Drop appeared in my mind’s eye every time I’d think of the package, as we filtered through the outskirts of town to where our plant lived. The Drop always existed. It was always only one thought away. In an instant, within a nanosecond, I could be there.

I’m sat in the lotus position of my beautiful Drop, enjoying the gentle pitter patter of the waterfall nearby.

See.

And now I’m back walking with Stan into town on Earth_Suburban_. My Drop hung at all times above my crown. It was invisible to all but me. My Drop and I were forever entangled. I felt the same way about my helmet Bueller. It was always one thought away. At its notion alone, Bueller could appear just above my crown, ready for me to don. My helmet held in superposition around my head. A 5th-dimensional crown. If ever I found myself stranded again, far-flung, strung out in some unknown reality, if I could merely muster the psychic power to remember Bueller, which led to my Drop (were they one in the same?), if I could conjure this reality that hung forever just above my head, I’d be free. One instant: anamnesis; the next: full enlightenment to Thunderbird, my helmet donned and en route to my Drop to restore to my highest self once again.

That’s what I considered this package was to each of our plants to whom we delivered.

“I think we’re close,” Stan said, huffing from the walk as we approached the town line of Shermer. “What’s the plan? How do we make contact?”

Before I answered Stan, my helmet Bueller tapped the local Akashic to a quick brush-up on today’s subject. Even the best deliveries could use a little context.

A little about our subject: he had incurred a severe head injury early in earthly life. That had damaged his psychic antenna. The otherworldly signals worth channeling were broadcast loud and clear to his little sector of the multiverse. But his dulled receptors could only pick up static. Misfortune swelled from there. He couldn’t hold down a relationship. Friendships were tenuous at best. Same for work relationships. This plant had become his own worst enemy. We were going to address the root of all Dan’s problems, however. Stan and I were delivering a package that would miraculously heal this man’s third eye.

Stan had become a master of his craft.

“How are we going to insert this upgrade without ripple effects?” he said, as we descended upon the dark town, lit up by warm lamp lights emanating from inside their escaping windows. Shermer really was a beautiful, little nook of creation.

The ripple effects Stan was referencing had to do with extra-dimensional intervention. We were descending from a higher plane, and it was frowned upon to intervene like a deus ex machina—a miraculous god out of the machine—arriving with neither explanation nor apparent origin. Such abrupt interferences, although innocent enough, often left ripple effects that butterflied into sometimes world-ending scenarios. No, we had to keep this varietal of Earth_Suburban_ intact. It was one of our precious dozen torusing in a torrent in the 5th-dimension, just below 7th-dimensional Gardanne.

“I’ve also been asking the Akashic this whole time of our approach about our unfortunate (soon to be very fortunate) subject.”

“One day, you’ll have to teach me that Akashic trick, Big Cat.”

“Sure. It takes about 10,000 years of practice, though,” I said, not trying to deter Stan’s curiosity; just being blunt.

“Maybe for you!”

Before long, we found ourselves in Dan’s suburban backyard. He was inside, sitting alone on the living room couch.

It hadn’t been Dan’s decade. I tell you what I told Stan, as we approached the unfortunate plant’s backstory.

As I said earlier, Dan had incurred some psycho-spiritual damage from trauma. That had hindered his ability to pick up otherworldly signals. Had his third-eye antenna been functioning properly, he would have picked up the inspiration years ago—that this wasn’t his world. That he was from Gardanne, a true Gardanner, who had been placed on this planet Earth to grow up and one day leap off planet, up through the 5th dimension and back to the 7th, where sat the incomparable Gardanne, his home.

Dan had been placed as a plant to acquire invaluable, more intimate knowledge of Earth_Suburban_. If Gardanners were to one day heal all the inhabitants of this Earth varietal, we’d require crucial data that could only be attained by living on the ground. The tricky part was retrieving these plants, once they had touched down. Should they never spontaneously remember the techniques for ascending out of these lowly three dimensions, they’d become stranded. And, worse yet: they’d die under the amnesia of never knowing their origins. Unfortunate oblivion.

Well, Stan and I weren’t going to let that happen to our friend Dan. Not with Stan’s new data delivery package. He had forged the ultimate care package, crafted under the sacred guidance of superancient Atlantean wisdom. The code that Stan had folded into his specially tailored incantation for Dan contained commands in a precise sequence that, if integrated appropriately, would unlock Dan’s junk DNA. His epigenetics weren’t junk at all, in fact, they were simply lying dormant within his genes. And once we’d unlock this divine potential, like electricity uncoiling from the Kundalini snake wrapped around one’s spinal base, the Dan plant would experience a complete anamnesis and set course for Gardanne so that he could finally go home.

“You think a dream insert will do the trick?” Stan said, as we peered through Dan’s window into the plant’s living room.

“Nah,” I said. “It’ll have to be live. He needs to be conscious when the anamnesis takes hold. How many times can you remember such precise information waking up from a deep, profound, abstract dream?”

Stan nodded solemnly.

“So what’d you go with for an incantation?” I said, to break his contemplation.

“I dove deep into Dan’s past on Gardanne,” he said. “There was this inside joke that he and his friends would say to each other occasionally, when the moment was right. I thought if we inserted that at the precise moment in this earthly life, the logos would unlock his mind.”

“What is the phrase?”

“One of us, or someone we can inspire, needs to say to him, ‘They say you should grow a garden.’ To which, if he replies, ‘To know the meaning of life,’ then we’ve got him. That indicates the spell stuck, and he can finally free himself. Ideally, he’ll be able to leave Earth_Suburban_ one day, the way we’re close to liberating all the souls on Earth_42_ via your spontaneous leap, Big Cat, from Her planet. There’s a dash of that blueprint in the code for my spell, as well. I don’t think I could have conjured Dan’s spell without that.”

“Thanks. Here’s to no plants left behind, if your care package—the ultimate confidence suit—proves a successful experiment.”

Clink

Stan and I clinked imaginary glasses.

Dan hadn’t detected any of the checkpoints we had put in place throughout his stay on Earth_Suburban_. And the childhood trauma he had sustained had only spiraled into worse circumstances.

Dan was in dire straits by the time Stan and I intervened. More recently, Dan’s girlfriend had left him. Then, he lost his job. Both unfortunate incidents had been the result of Dan’s mounting frustration having to subsist in a place where he ultimately didn’t belong. The first component of Stan’s care package was a soothing balm of metaphysical relief. It was meant to reduce the soul swelling that Dan had sustained from these recent setbacks.

Now in proximity mere feet from our subject, Stan and I radioed the epigenetic upgrades into Dan’s dormant DNA. As he sat inside, alone, on the couch, these divine waves would have felt like gentle, euphoric inspiration. He might equate them to some pleasant thought or brilliant idea that found its way into his purview. But, no. The bettering attitude enlightening him was courtesy of Stan’s carefully crafted spell, in its early stages.

We tailed Dan for several days after that. We were like his guardian angels as he went about his daily Shermer routine. We also wanted to monitor him, in case he whimsically decided to do anything drastic. We noticed a slight springier step in his gate, courtesy of Stan’s spell’s first phase. We cued a few reminders of fonder memories into Dan’s conscious mind, as well. Hanging out with his friends after school, in youth. He reminisced on a summer job, and how cool his boss was. They had bonded. Those distant memories, almost forgotten, were now front and center in Dan’s consciousness. Stan’s phase 2 spell was working its magic.

The third and final phase required one of us to utter the pivotal phrase to Dan, at the opportune time. It would be up to Dan alone to respond in the correct fashion. Stan and I decided to tag team it. There are few things more volatile than an unpredictable human mind. While we could control the conditions, even the most optimal environment wouldn’t ensure Dan’s compliance. We chose an elevator to intervene. Dan was leaving his new office temp job on the 13th floor. As he descended down, Stan and I boarded the hanging metal box at floor 9. We stood on either side of our plant. Unsuspecting Dan stared at his shoes.

Then, Stan broke the ice, “Another day, another dollar, huh?”

Dan looked up and slightly smiled. “Yeah, you got that right.”

“This office life is so unnatural,” I added. “You know, they say you should grow a garden…”

I could sense Dan’s vibe immediately heighten. He looked right at me and replied, “to know the meaning of life.”

Boom! Stan and I discreetly locked eyes behind Dan. I think your spell stuck, I said telepathically to Stan.

Are you surprised? Stan replied.

We all disembarked the elevator at the ground floor. Dan wished us both a good night and we did the same. We slipped into the seculded alley next to the office building and leapt back to Gardanne.

“I can’t believe that worked!” Stan was ecstatic at his first practical application of magic. “Do you think that technique could work on any earthling??”

We were now sitting in the Cumulus basement, our usual spot. Our minds were dizzy with the breakthrough possibilities of our shared experiment.

Chapter 38

The next day, Stan and I found ourselves hanging out with Rad and Thomas in Gardanne city. Just gallivanting about town as teenagers do. We stopped at our favorite Mexican restaurant that looked like a giant Mayan pyramid. We skated through the park. I told Stan to keep our Earth_Suburban_ exploits close to the vest until we confirmed Dan had charted a successful return trip.

But he could barely contain himself. Rad noticed first.

“Stan, I can’t help but observe a spring in your step,” he said. “And you and Bill have been hanging out a lot as of late. What is up?”

Stan and I looked at each other. He was looking for permission to divulge our recent successes that had quite potentially profound implications.

In between Gardanne nanoseconds, I quickly leapt to Earth_Suburban_ to check on Dan.

Back in Shermer, I leapt like lightning all over town. Dan wasn’t home. He wasn’t at work. A quick read of his co-workers’ minds told me that he had, in fact, quit his job. I couldn’t detect Dan’s soul signature anywhere on planet, in fact. Could he have already leapt back to Gardanne?

I was back in Gardanne city with the guys. Stan was still looking for permission to spill the tea. I channeled all life forms on Gardanne Herself in that pregnant moment. Sure enough, one Dan soul had arrived in the sanctuary underneath not a half hour ago. Not only had Stan’s spell freed our plant’s mind; he wasted no time returning to his true home, Gardanne. I nodded to Stan.

“Big Cat and I have recently experienced a breakthrough!” Stan said.

“How so?” Thomas said, dryly. He loved magical endeavors, but also healthily exercised skepticism.

“Now that we’ve proven concept,” Stan continued, “I think it’s safe to finally admit that Big Cat and I have been leaping into Earths’ distant, prehistoric past… to Atlantis. From there, we procured forgotten magical wisdom that we then took to Earth_Suburban_. We encountered a Gardanne plant there, who was stranded. We freed him with the magic we had learned from the advanced antedeluvian civilization.”

“I knew it!” Rad said. He didn’t know that exactly, but he knew we had been up to something.

“That’s outstanding,” Thomas added, still calm. Thomas was unflappable. “Would you want to be guests on our podcast?”

Stan remained stoic, but I could tell he was elated at Thomas’s invitation. Coyly, he replied, “Sure.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Rad said, ever the catalyst, “let’s get back to today. We’re in the Village. The scene is electric. We’re four wild and crazy guys on the hunt for lightning in a bottle.”

From our corner booth in the pyramid Mexican restaurant, the four of us charted a course through this crackling city of ours. Thomas mentioned the musical practice spaces around the corner. We could see what local bands were hanging out there. We didn’t have any time booked to practice today, but we could always see who else was rehearsing, or just hang out and shoot the shit, he said. Those pop-ins usually led to secondary and tertiary locations, as the mystical night unfolded. Rad suggested we head down the Cellar bar where a lot of local comedians hung. We even knew a few of them, mainly through the familiar osmosis of regularaly haunting the establishment. Stan, who himself could have delivered a tight five minutes at the comedy club to uproarious applause, wasn’t sold on that option.

“Maybe later,” he said. “The evening, heck the afternoon even, is still young. Let’s get out there and matriculate.”

He was referring to the How To with John Wilson approach. The key was to get out there with no agenda. Let the wind take us where we might go. We’d win half the battle by showing up to the air of all possibility and then let the city of Gardanne do the rest. This tactic had proven fruitful in the past. We met many strange and interesting souls this way, individuals of whom we would never have crossed paths otherwise.

“I second Stan’s idea,” I said.

“It’s final then,” Rad added. “Two to one to one. Majority wins. Lead the way, Stan.”

“Ladyyy Gardanne!” Stan chanted, into the fertile air. “Take us to where the magic be tonight, where things are percolatin’, where the people is right for a good time, and the music is spectacular.”

We were out on the street by now. The sun was setting. And a street lamp kicked on just as Stan had finished casting his spell. The yellow light radiated down to our level, illuminating a poster plastered to the brick wall. It read:

“Tonight Only! A battle of the bands unlike anything that’s ever graced your virgin ears before… Virgin until this point! Gardanne’s top bands will all perform at our city state’s oldest and most hallowed bar, Old Faithful. Get in while you still can!”

Ever since we had freed our corner of the 7th dimension from the archons’ clutch, a new, burgeoning music scene had emerged. We even knew a few of the people in the epicenter of this movement—the guys from Cymatic, and a few other bands from our high school. The venue was right uptown. Without uttering a word, the four of us had already decided our next destination.

“That was easy,” Thomas said.

We could hear the heavenly music growing louder, as we approached the Old Faithful source from a few blocks away. We arrived at the front door and were admitted without issue (Rad knew the door guy). We didn’t recognize the song or the band playing upon entry. It was some country number. I took a look around, and then remote viewed throughout the complete floor plan of the place. Everyone seemed much older than us. We approached the bar. Before we could place an order…

“You’re too late, guys,” the bartender said. “All the cool rock bands went on earlier. We’ve now embarked upon the country western portion of the battle.”

We all looked at each other.

“Remember when I told you I had hidden spacetime folds all over Gardanne?” I yelled over the twangy tune to my friend group, who all nodded. “There’s an old one right here, in that vintage pay phone booth over there.”

While the rest of the audience was entranced by the seven stringed instruments, we all covertly slipped into the booth, one by one.

We emerged in Gardanne Heights, our own neighborhood, out of the knot in an elm tree. We found ourselves on the outskirts of town.

“I think I heard there was a house party at the O’Doyles’— I mean the O’Donaghues’,” Thomas said.

“Don’t make that mistake at their house,” Rad said.

It was decided.

“Cool,” I said. “Let’s see if anyone’s pregaming at the diner first. I could use a bite, anyway.”

Stan seemed a little down. He had now demoted himself from team leader to tag-along. I put my arm around him.

“It was a good spell, man,” I said. “You’ve learned the Atlantean magic quicker than anyone I’ve ever seen. You gotta fine-tune that ish.”

I managed a smile out of Stan. Then, a little more pep in his step.

“Well, boys,” Stan said, “it was all meant to be. For there’s no thing better than a house partEE!”

We darted for the diner, a galvanized, symbiotic unit. Stan’s contagious confidence had rejuvenated. We were a four-headed monster… in the best way possible.

We arrived at the quaint neighborhood restaurant that resembled a rail car, a fixture in Gardanne Heights town center. We heard buzzings of the party immediately upon entering the premises. We recognized a dozen or so kids from school, and then a few more cool cats from The Hangout. They were all chatting about the night’s promise at the impending shindig we were all about to attend.

“I heard there’s going to be 200 people there,” we overheard the guy in the booth next to us mention to his friend.

All four of us had crammed into the leather upholstered booth in the middle of the restaurant. As we waited for the server to take our order, I scanned the place.

“What else can you hear about the party, Big Cat?” Radcliffe whispered to me, over the table. Even though we were only within an earshot of the booth next to us, Rad knew I could read the minds of every patron pregaming with a burger or big salad, before heading over to the O’Donaghues’.

“That 200 estimate we just heard from the booth behind us tracks,” I said, sifting through the internal narratives of three dozen dining souls. “Expect the usuals—all the popular kids from school, couple of the bands from The Hangout. Oh, this is interesting…”

“What?” Stan said.

“Word of the party spread to other 7th-dimensional realities. I think Ronnie’s cousin’s from Shambala. He might bring a few of the Yetis with him. There are also rumblings of a possible Farley appearance.”

Ronnie was a kid we knew from school. He had family on realities other than Gardanne. We didn’t know where Farley was from. But wherever he went, good times were sure to follow. Excitement and grease from the diner’s free range griddle crackled in the air, as we sipped on our Orange Juliuses.

Rumor was that Farley, long ago, had fallen into a wormhole that connected all parties, from Earths’ ’80s and ’90s eras. He tumbled like a cannon ball through them always. Should he barrel through the party tonight, we thought, maybe we could hitch a ride to the Farley Fun Express. Surf on the big wave gracing us this fine evening. Maybe we could even help him slow down, and stay at the Gardanne party for a while.

Chapter 39

In your own meanderings through life, you may have heard of the Irish Exit—where one slips out of a get-together stealthily, so as not to make a big deal about their departure. They wouldn’t dare dull the roaring good times. Well, we expertly performed the Irish Entrance: we slipped in the side of the house party so that no partygoer even noticed we had arrived. To them, we had always been there.

The neighborhood soirée had attracted significantly more than 200 by this point. In fact, it was in full swing. The four of us located all of our desirable cliques, said our hellos. Then, we found ourselves all gathered around the island in the kitchen, sipping beers, smoking and socializing. The collective buzz had hit that sweet spot, where all awkwardness leaves the room leaving only space for a general sense of merriment.

Then, suddenly the mood heightened to an even subtler vibration. My Thunderbird intuition told me that Farley was approaching, from another adjacent dimension…

The kitchen opened up on either side, infinitely. Cabinets, stainless steel appliances and kitchen sinks stretched forever through the wormhole that opened up right at ground zero of the O’Donaghues’ home. Then, a chaotic, pulsating orb appeared in the distance, if you were peering deep into the interdimensional rift. The volatile, liquid, luminescent orb grew larger as it careened toward the origin kitchen where my friends, other partygoers and myself stood in eager anticipation. The sound of a man screaming, also emanating from the chaotic quasar grew louder. As the shape-shifting body came into view, close enough that we could now see detail—it wasn’t just an amorphous, shimmering globule. It was a man frantically somersaulting through the wormhole to our party. It was Farley.

Prepare yourself for an understatement: he arrived. More accurately, the wormhole deposited the electrodynamic Farley like a B52 bomber drops an atom bomb, into the O’Donaghues’ southwestern-style cucina.

“Hey! Hey! Fellas and laadies!” Farley said. He had now completed his somersaults and was squatting in wide stance, square in the center of the O’Donaghues’ kitchen. “I heard there was a parrtyy! Yeahhh!”

Farley enjoyed cheers from the crowd trickling in from other corners of the party house. His wide stance hovered over a center of gravity that attracted all toward his orbit. The roar grew louder as Farley shotgunned two beer cans simultaneously and then spouted the remnant suds straight up into the air like Old Faithful (the geyser, not the Gardanne bar) or Stone Cold Steve Austin.

“Farley! We hoped you might stop by!” one of the O’Donaghues said over the crowd. I couldn’t make out which one, but it was something only a host would say at such a magical moment.

My helmet Bueller tapped the Akashic regarding Farley’s recent whereabouts. He had been careening through dimensions, linked together by adjacent parties. Our little Gardanne party tonight was but one stop on his endless, otherworldly train touring the forever good times.

“Alright, gotta go!” said redfaced Farley. “Who’s comin’ with me??”

Stan and I looked at each other. We both looked at Rad and Thomas. Telepathically, we all agreed to surf on the Farley wave.

“Fun train’s leaving!” Farley yelled, and then jumped into the other side of the wormhole his interdimensional partying had created. As the spacetime rift began to heal itself, closing behind Farley, the boys and I leapt behind him, hitched to his caboose. No one followed us. None of them were probably confident they could find their way back to Gardanne. But leaping into the movierain, even in the wake of the thunder ball Farley, was fairly commonplace for this Thunderbird.

“Woohoo! Glad you could join, boys!” Farley said, glancing back at us as he resumed somersaulting to the next shindig, in some other Earth varietal or higher reality.

I’m going to try and catch up to Farley, before we land at our next festive destination, I said to the boys telepathically.

My intent was to find out how Farley found himself on this neverending, interdimensional bender. The other guys were barely visible, they were so far back in the movierain tunnel Farley had bore through his extra dimensional torrenting, stringing parties together like the way I had been leaping between Earth varietals. These guys, not as experienced dimensional leapers as Farley and me, were specks in the distance. I tethered their timelines to my own, as I advanced the Alcubierre bubble to the cockpit, where Farley was somersaulting. This is how I was able to catch up to the perfect party storm without losing my friends in the multiverse.

I pulled up beside Farley. He looked over at me, astonished. I don’t think he had ever experienced another soul matching his quicksilver velocity.

“Where we going?” I yelled over, as if we were both driving race cars side-by-side in the Indianapolis 500.

“To the next partyy!” he yelled back. Then he swung the whole train hard right, and into a kegger in a backyard on Earth_Analog2020_.

We landed on the grass, by the bushes. We hung back for a moment for the other three to catch up. Once all five of us were present, we made our way into the crowd of twenty-somethings socializing under string lights and loud hip hop beats. I managed to intercept Farley before he instantly became the life of the party again.

“How did this happen?” I said to him, pulling him aside before he beelined toward the keg.

“What’dya mean?” he said. I don’t think anyone had stopped him long enough to ask him a genuine question in a long time.

“How have you been tumbling through this endless wormhole between parties indefinitely?”

Scratching his head, “Geez, I don’t remember. I think in my earthly life, I was quite the festive fellow. No stranger to the good times, you know what I mean? And then it gets kind of fuzzy. I dunno. Is this the afterlife?”

“Relatively speaking, yes,” I said. “Would you ever think about slowing down and staying in a world for a time?”

“I’ve never thought of it like that. Would they want to hang out with me, even if we’re not partying?”

“Yeah, for sure,” I wasn’t just reassuring him. His vibe was healing. He held a golden aura. People were naturally drawn to him. His fatal flaw was that he was a people pleaser, and had become addicted to their adoration. “I’ve been talking to you now, lowkey, for a couple minutes now and I have zero desire for you to party more.”

“Well, thanks, man. That’s great to hear. So where should I go?”

“You always have a home in Gardanne,” I said, mentally locating a house in our Gardanne Heights neighborhood where he could live.

Farley looked me right in the eye with a twinkle, a smile slowly growing larger on his jovial face, “bring it in, brother!”

He gave me a huge bear hug, lifting my feet off the ground.

“But we can’t quit the party cold turkey, capitaine!” he said, resuming his rowdiness.

We didn’t even make it to the keg, which was a rarity when in the company of Farley. No, instead, he reignited the interdimensional party torrent. And the four of us were hitched to our now fifth member careening between dimensional adjacent shindigs, via the movierain.

He yelled back at his party train passengers, “that outdoor get-together was lame! Let’s hit up a new spot!”

We landed at an event on top of a roof deck. The crowd appeared to be affluent, young professionals, amidst the backdrop of some city skyline. I couldn’t even tell which Earth we were on. Before I could access the local Akashic, Farley had segued the rounding of a red brick corner on the roof // into now entering an alley that featured a single, unmarked door. It was a speakeasy. Farley knocked three times on the heavy metal door. An eye-level slit opened to reveal two discerning eyes. Somehow Farley knew the password. “Holy Schnikeys!” The door opened. All five of us entered. We filed down a dark hallway, with a light at the end and the growing sound of a Daft Punk jam. This crowd was hot, dancing as one collective wave to the heavy beat.

Farley cartwheeled into the center of the dance floor, ripped off his shirt, and peformed moves that I didn’t think someone of his size could accomplish. The other four of us knew to remain close to this dance machine; we didn’t want to lose him in the fray.

Our instincts proved true, as Farley kicked up an electrical storm right on top of the parquet, amidst the disco lights and lasers (which is probably why the phenomenon didn’t cause a commotion, as you may have thought). The wormhole reopened, and he dove right in. We followed in his soirée wake. The transition to the next happening was a hard cut. It was a black tie event among heads of state. Somehow, Farley still fit in.

The song, “Melissa,” by The Allman Brothers Band kicked in my head… When are you coming home?, Kitty telepathcially connected with me. She had been out with the girls.

Farley appeared at the O’Donaghues’, but then he leapt to five other parties. We tagged along, I said. Now we’re trying to get him back to Gardanne for good.

OK. Don’t take all night. Come back soon.

My priorities instantly changed. I would have followed Farley to the ends of the multiverse. But I’d rather be back with Kitty, I thought, as the Allmans’ soothing strings slowly faded from my inner audio. Hanging with the boys was fun, but we had been together all day and now most of the night. Farley had severely protracted our excursion. But how could I rein in this animal from the perpetual party movierain?

“Farley!” I yelled across to him, as he enjoyed a martini with the president of Mepos. “I just heard they installed an ice luge at the Gardanne party!”

Farley turned to President Musakatorrios, “Sorry, sir. The luuuge is calling!”

He somersaulted directly under the chandelier in the center of the ballroom, forming a giant, electromagnetic sphere. The five of us leapt up for the final time that night, back to Gardanne.

We need to keep Farley in Gardanne somehow, I said to Kitty, as we surfed through the movierain home. Can you bring some of your friends?

I was getting into my sweats, but oookaayyy. If it’ll get you home sooner.

“Stan, you got any ideas?” I said, once we were back at the Gardanne party.

“I don’t think my magic’s strong enough yet to contain this tour de force,” he said. “I think we’re gonna have to bring out the BIG GUNS.”

Per usual, Stan and I were on the same page.

“Yup, that’s what I thought,” I said. “Kitty’s bringing some friends. I’m hoping at least one of them will distract Farley long enough to stay for a while.”

“I think you may have something here.”

Chapter 40

About 20 minutes past. I looked across the room to where Farley had posted up. He had gathered a small crowd around him. But I could also see his eyes wandering. He was restless and getting ready to jump to the next dimension, the next party. He was a quasar bursting with electromagnetivity. You couldn’t contain him, I thought, as I braced to dimensionally leap again after him. It’s OK. I have Big Cat reflexes.

Static began crackling all around the electric Farley. He would have leapt not a moment later, but Kitty’s timing was perfect. She made Her grand entrance through the front door, with friends in tow. Chlöe entered after Her. Then, came Jane and Zelda. An Irish Entrance was impossible for these visions of feminity. The fun vibe of the party had upgraded instantly upon their divine arrival.

“Oh, hey! Our girlfriends are here,” Stan observed.

I appreciate your prompt response to my request, I lovingly shot across the room to Kitty’s mind, but all of these girls are taken. We need to find a girl for Farley.

Be patient, Big Cat, She said.

The door, now closing, suddenly stopped and a dainty hand wrapped her fingers around the oak door’s edge. The hand’s long fingernails were painted in shiny, sparkly polish. And in walked Penelope, our only single friend. She was a vision, a blonde grace—Aphrodite Herself.

Farley halted his energy collection. His big blues met Penelope’s twinkling hazels, rendering him helpless. He couldn’t have leapt dimensions, if he tried. His jaw dropped a little. With his mouth still agape, he shuffled over to me, and whispered, “Who’s that?”

“That’s Penelope,” I said, whispering back as she and her girls completed their elegant entrance saying hellos to partygoers.

“Introduce me,” he said.

Do you think Farley’s Penelope’s type? I said to Kitty.

Only one way to find out, She said, glancing over at me while making small talk with several of the other girls already in attendance at the shindig.

Penelope was the only single one of our group, but you wouldn’t know it if you had met her yourself. She was a sweetheart. And Kitty would be OK with me saying she was also beautiful. It was just an empirical fact. I don’t use the name Aphrodite lightly. She could charm anyone. She was also a free spirit, which could explain her voluntary bachelorettehood. She had dated all kinds of guys, since Kitty and I had joined the group. The other eight of us, in fact, could not detect any trend in her type. Farley had as good a chance as anyone.

Farley and I sauntered over to the girls.

“Hey, my name’s Farley,” he said directly to Penelope, in a soft, gentle voice, not noticing the other girls.

Kitty and I glanced at each other, now standing side by side. Someone passed us a bag of popcorn, as we watched the meet-cute unfold. Penelope lit up unlike I had ever seen before. She was clearly charmed by the magic quasar powder keg of pure joy Farley.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Penelope.”

“Are you, like, from here?” Farley’s bashfulness seemed to be working. Penelope blushed at this innocent question.

“From Gardanne? Yes, born and raised. Where are you from?”

“I just go wherever the wind takes me, but I’m thinking of sticking around for a while,” Farley answered, with a smile and a twinkle in his right blue eye.

“I hope that you do,” she said, also smiling.

“OK, let’s let these two get to know each other,” I said, to the rest of the girls witnessing this real-time origin story.

I escorted the girls back to their boyfriends. Kitty and I held hands. We all sat on a couch still not too far from Penelope and Farley, talking by the sliding doors that led out to the deck.

I leaned into the group, over the party din, and said in a low voice, “I hope these two hit it off. Maybe Farley will stay for a while.”

Stan was sitting next to me on the couch and jabbed me with his elbow, “this is a man of pure magic, I sense. I hope he stays too.”

By this point, Stan and I were best friends. As we sat on the couch gazing at this potential match blossoming, I hoped Farley knew he had found some friends in all of us—our little group of nine… especially Penelope.

Chapter 41

When our crew wanted to get out of the basement and matriculate, we’d often meet at The Hangout. It was like a perpetual afterschool program. It was a skate spot. There were practice spaces for music and other artistic collabs. But the main point of the place was creative coalescence of kindred minds convening to compose the perfect hang. If we were athletes, we would have called it a pastime.

I awoke from a long morning meditation. This was a return from a deep dive down on an Earth. ‘Earth_42z_’ was the working title. I kept my helmet Bueller donned, as I slowly stood from the lotus position and walked out of the backyard zen garden. Augmented reality painted every visage of the Cumulus’ house, as I carefully navigated through the hallways, ascending to the second floor into the kitchen.

Kitty was preparing something on the counter.

It will seem like years for you, since you’ve last seen Her. To remind you, my helmet was telepathically debriefing me on the moments last spent between Kitty and I before I went down for the long mediation, you two were going to head to The Hangout later this morning. The whole place has been abuzz since you retrieved that extremely high-fidelity capture of Earth_42. If you recall, you both had decided to bring Her special red velvet cake, which She’ll expect you to remember, since it’s only been a half hour since She last spoke to you._

The anamnesis is much appreciated, I said to Bueller. Thank you.

I cloaked the helmet so that She could see my face, but kept the AR feed live, in case my Gardanne memory required any further jogging.

It was a minor miracle I even remembered to cloak Bueller. Most of my brain power had been dedicated to processing Her stunning vision, in the morning light of the kitchen. She was just about to put the cake batter into the oven. I beelined straight for Her wrapping my arms around from behind, in a huge bear hug. I held Her snugly and kissed Her on the neck. Although it had felt like 44 years (for me), Her smell brought me right back to where We had left off.

“Oh my!” She said. “Mmm.. Good morning. Someone’s in a good mood. How was your meditation?”

“Deep, deep,” I said. “I took a long dive down to Earth_42_. Say, how long does that cake have to bake in the oven?” I was still holding Her tight.

“I’d say 35 minutes or so,” She said. “Why, what’d you have in mind?”

“Want to go upstairs?” I said.

We rolled into The Hangout, in our Shelby Mustang, hot off a nooner back at our place. Invisible electromagnetic lines connected us between our bucket seats, as we pulled into the parking lot. My onboard memory now had almost completely returned.

Our crew had all carved out niches in this creative space. Rad and Thomas hosted their podcast from a studio in the building. Stan, with his newfound spellbinding, catalyzed the vibe. He’d float about, but he also held a small officespace in some corner of the complex, tucked away. Stan liked his privacy. The girls all had labs and studios for their artistic endeavors, as well.

“The Hangout kind of reminds me of the Thunderbird Equipment Room,” Kitty said to me, as we walked through the main foyer—a wide, open space like a university courtyard, ‘The Quad,’ but inside with 100-foot ceilings and flanked on its four sides by towering, stacked stone and glass edifices housing the many creative spaces. “Gardanne’s own backstage,” She said, referring to the fact that We had installed several entangled doorways in The Hangout that connected our complex directly to the backstage in Gardanne’s center tabernacle.

We’d usually hang out with everyone upon arrival, for a while. Then Kitty and I would split off, into the development lab. We met with various experts to fine-tune the funneling of souls from Earth_42_ into Her soul sanctuary. Each soul case was an altogether different creature. The splendid specificity of their unique Earth perspectives fueled infinitessimal understanding toward articulating the human condition. One by one, as we saved souls (each, a one of one) we learned intimately the intricacies of earthly existences. We were building up our cache of what was possible.

On this particular day, Stan and I were honored to be guests on Rad and Thomas’s podcast.

“Out of all the infinitely possible Earths, why is 42 so special?” Rad asked me, while Stan and I sat in comfortable swivel seats, donning cans to hear the crisp mic audio recording in their podcast studio.

“Earth_42_ represents Gardanne’s deepest dive into all possible Earths that can sustain intelligent life… for a while, at least,” I said into the Shure mic. “On my last plant tour, stranded down there for a time, I knew I was standing on the edge of oblivion. Had I dropped into a world even a hair more removed into separation, I’m not sure I would have made it back intact. Earth_42_, thus far, is the limit of our human existence. And now we have the proving grounds to test Her capabilities.”

“What was that like, though,” Thomas said. “It honestly sounds depressing. Like I know we’ve made some headway in freeing earthly plants with Stan’s Atlantean magic, but I’ve never stopped to consider what it’s like for them, without any knowledge of salvation.”

“It was. It’s the deepest dive for a reason. I’m hoping this is the last time any of us have to experience such separation from the Source. The consciousness expansion Earth_42_’s provided is great. It’s invaluable. But I want to protect our plants, from now on. No one should have to experience such loneliness on their own. It’s dangerous, frankly. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it back from this dive… until I did.”

Stan hadn’t said much on the podcast to this point. Despite our newfound friendship, he was still quite the reserved fellow. But finally he piped up. He had taken in my account as only his comedic genius mind could and said with a smirk, “Yeah, I’m glad you’re back, man, but I also had dibs on your stereo. So your return is bittersweet for me.”

The podcast hosts chuckled.

My favorite activity at The Hangout occurred when our get-together of nine incited an impromptu assembly. We’d workshop the intricacies of the scenario (in all four dimensions) in our workspace and then we’d spill it out onto the Creator complex. It was like a show-and-tell of what we could accomplish. It was the dress rehearsal before we’d (sometimes) take the show to greater Gardanne, at the central tabernacle that captivated the whole 7th-dimensional city state when acts would perform there.

The pop-up sideshows were usually among the best performances of the year. Suddenly, without notice, while we were all sequesterd in our respective corners of the complex, working on god knows what, we’d hear through the grapevine that some nearby sector was putting magic on display.

I’ll never forget the first day we—our nine—were the spectacle.

“Hey! The nine surfers are projecting a Spheed in the studio!” referring to the sphere feed we could broadcast from the movierain back into the The Hangout’s studio—a spherical space that could receive inside projections like an Omni Theatre.

I sensed telepathically messengers—a dozen or more—circulating updates like these, this one from an eager young recruit to The Hangout spot. She popped her head into Musical Practice Space #1 to the let the practicing band know we were about to leap through the multiverse, broadcasting our 5th-dimensional projections upon the inner spherical room’s walls. “They’re firing up the Spheed!” she yelled. Immediately, every band member dropped their instruments and sprung to follow her to the Spheed floor.

I set the stage as the audience filtered in and found seats on the hardwood. I had already projected a preview of our impending leap, while my team still held material form in Gardanne. Our 5th-dimensional path would feed back into the sphere; the sphere feed, the Spheed.

Teams from all over the premises had descended upon our little, blackbox of a leaping studio by that point. The word had spread of such street theatre. We’d often invite 10th men and women—code for anyone (could be a group of people)—into the environment our baseball side would co-creatively field, manifest into existence, for us to surf and experience. It was the ultimate audience participation.

“This here is Earth_42_,” I said. I was piloting the crowd around the surface of the planet at breakneck speeds to encapsulate as much of the sphere as I could, along the brief phrase this here is Earth_42.

“I berthed here, grew up here, and finally leapt off planet by 42 years of age, hence the name. When I left, the planet held more than eight billion humans, the species to whom I belonged. Trillions of other life forms inhabited the biome. You, of course, already know most of this. Gardanne sits amidst a dozen Earth varietals, Earth_42_ the sixth in this series. While I wouldn’t recommend reincarnating as a plant down on such a place, for that long, the return trip has provided our 7th-dimensional city state the highest fidelity capture of Earth to date. Our team, the nine of us, and many more—perhaps several in this audience right now—will extract as much existence knowledge as possible from this ultra authentic source. We’ll free trapped souls, enlightening them to our place or another that’s more appropriate for their particular predicament.”

I took the crowd down to sea level, whisking into the coast of San Francisco. We whizzed by the Transamerica Pyramid at 700 mph, and then zoomed into a rural, quaint neighborhood in Marin County.

“Our work here, discovering how to guide each sentient soul out of the reincarnating rigmarole, will ultimately act as the blueprint to lift the eleven other Earths in our torus halo around Gardanne.”

We flew through the evening window of some suburban home, as a family of four sat down for dinner. We flew out the other side of the dining room, back into nature.

Sailing high over the Bay.

I slap cut the leap into New York City, slaloming through the drastic city skyline. We could hear the honking traffic, sirens, work crews, commuters and other metropolitans crackling below.

We swooped through a several apartment buildings in the Village. We witnessed walks of life of all sorts. A young couple made love on the couch in the middle of the day. A middle-aged woman took a bubble bath, wearing a hairnet. Time lapsed almost irradically. Somehow it was irrelevant. Next, we saw a man in mourning. He was over weight with a gut, wearing a tight white tanktop, ironing his dress shirt for work. Now, at night, a teenage daughter argued with her father about going out to see friends. “You’re curfew’s eleven!” the father yelled. “No, I need at least midnight!” the daughter slung back.

“We’ll study every situation, in every time, on this planet, from the moment of my departure backward through antiquity into antedeluvian times, when humanity’s true origins are up for dispute.”

We dipped into an alleyway where the unhoused had erected tents. We drifted through the flimsy shanteytown, where inhabited those whom the world had forgotten.

“Some people are farther back than others. We’ll reverse entropy their unfortunate lives to pinpoint the pivotal moments that had cast them down into these dire straits. We’ll delve into the wealth of our evolving knowledge to set them back on the righteous path.”

I let the lights up in the studio a little.

“Can we get a volunteer?”

Jane took a couple from the front row by their hands and pulled them from sitting on the floor to standing with us on stage. Stan had been fine-tuning his manifestation technique and took the floor figuratively.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, projecting to the back row, “we’re about to embark upon a little stroll throughout the multiverse. We’ll uncover the origins of HU-manitee!”

I shifted the entire place to just before the Great Flood. Atlantis stood tall, proud and sophisticated in the distance. Flying machines swarmed the Great Pyramid, which was still new.

Stan continued, unphased by the existential shift, “We’ll whisk you to when the Lizzzerrrd People infiltrated our species and furtively enslaved us by imprisoning our minds and souls.”

I steered the crowd toward the re-emergence of those shapeshifting Reptilians to Earth_42_’s surface, millennia after the flood had subsided. They took the shape of humans to gain their trust. Then, the Reptilians seized power. Scattered gasps from the crowd chirped intermittently around our shared Alcubierre bubble surfing the movierain, now settled within the droplet of humanity’s shrouded past.

“We’ll even visit the first two people who ever fucked!”

The spotlight shone on the kindly coupled Jane had pulled on stage. They blushed.

I flipped us back to our Hangout’s studio and brought up the lights.

“We’ll save that for the Patreon,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Stan said. “We’ll also demonstrate the benefits of otherworldly package deliveries to those unfortunate souls down on the ground who are stuck, hindered from ascension. Mr. Matt Dragon and I have been testing a technique that equips these hopefuls with the DNA activation required for eventual enlightenment. If we can prove concept, this could greatly expedite our efforts at freeing Earth_42_ at large.”

Our nine, now fully manifested back in The Hangout studio, turned the audience’s attention to our 10th man (the couple).

“And where would you like to go?” Stan asked them, still projecting to the back. “Is there anyone or group of people that you know need saving?”

The woman spoke up first. Maybe she had seen one of our displays before; she seemed to have an answer for Stan on the ready.

“I learned from one of Mother Gardanne’s past-life regression sessions that my ancestors hail from Earth_CityFlat_,” she said. “Could you free a soul from this varietal today?”

“Yes! Let’s put the plan to practice,” Stan was puffing up his chest like a carnival barker. “Dragon, take us to Earth_CityFlat_!”

Chapter 42

I lifted the entire studio to Earth_CityFlat_—audience and all. The nine of us manifested what we saw in the Spheed, alongside our 10th man (the guest couple) we had pulled from the crowd.

Our orb swooped in between the vast stretch of tall buildings lining the horizon, an endless skyline. CityFlat was, by far, our most urban of the Earthy Dozen varietals.

“So many buildings,” the woman said. Her husband remained silent, perhaps dumbfounded by the drastic shift in realities he was experiencing. “How will we locate my ancestors?”

“Concentrate on your family tree,” Stan said, now sounding more like a hypnotherapist. “Your connection to them will guide us.”

The woman closed her eyes. Buildings sped by. Her intent was now navigating our collective Alcubierre bubble bounding through this planet. We flew to the outskirts of the city, to a small neighborhood. We were still in the city, but had bounced to some burrough where the more modest residences looked like triple-deckers, rather than townhouses or towering skyscrapers. The woman’s intent landed us on a quaint home’s doorstep. We whisked inside without materializing, so as not to startle any inhabitants within. A man sat alone at the kitchen table. The dimly lit interior reflected his somber mood. His face sagged, as he sipped some brown liquor from a coffee bug.

“I feel a connection toward this man,” she said.

“Yes!” Stan piped up. “This is your great uncle, from a CityFlat varietal whose lineage routes to Gardanne. He’s been in a rut for the last few years, after losing his job and his wife. Things, as of late, are looking dire.”

“Well, is there anything we can do?” she said, while her husband nodded in support.

“Matt here has tapped into the local Akashic,” Stan said, referring to me. All nine of us had our duties on these group leaps. “Yet, we haven’t found a formula yet that can seamlessly intervene, without creating unwanted ripple effects.”

“What does that mean?” she said.

“It means your relative is under a significant rut,” I said. “We could tailor a formula specific to his predicament, but there’s no guarantee the effects would stick. We’ll require a little extra umph to ultimately enlighten your distant uncle.”

Penelope, who had been regulating the tone of our leap—layering the potentially chaotic spacetime with cohering harmony—this entire time, chimed in, “Bring Farley up on stage,” referring to her boyfriend in the crowd.

Farley was certainly a quasar, a pillar of pure energy. We had met him on his momentus tour of worlds’ parties. He would have moved onto the next party, but he decided to stay after meeting Penelope. His golden yellow aura glowed always. He was the personification of inspiration.

Penelope outstretched her elegant hand from the stage to the crowd. Farley’s bear claw grasped her graceful limb, pulling him up to our energetic bubble, which now charged to a higher degree with the presence of the Farley dynamo.

“Can you cast a spell on the fly, Stan,” I said, “that incorporates Farley’s essence as the secret ingredient?”

“There may be some ripple effects,” Stan said. “Farley will have to fully manifest in this man’s kitchen. The abrupt entrance will either jolt this man loose from his funk, or could plunge him further into dismay.”

The woman, sad to see her kin slunk into such a slump, elected to deposit the Farley payload via our B-52 Alcubierre interdimensional bubble. Stan’s spellcasting had located the most prevalent problem areas buried deep in this unfortuante soul’s subconscious. Chlöe, who was in charge of collapsing waveform intelligences from superposition into physical reality, prepped Farley for entry into this man’s dark kitchen.

“Wh- What do you want me to do, once he sees me?” Farley said, shyly. He could summon the ebulence of a sun, the quasar Farley, but often assumed a more reserved, modest demeanor.

“Just be your beautiful self,” Penelope said, encouraging her beau. “You’ll lift his spirits.”

This was the brilliance of the Farley incorporation into Stan’s Atlantean data delivery package. Farley’s energy was universal, multiversal. It touched the heart of all life. It’s as if he drew from Source Herself. Perhaps he did. Farley’s inspiration could resurrect electric life from even the most scorched ashen straits.

The man’s kitchen lit up, as we inserted Farley into his local reality. From the man’s perspective, it would have appeared that a star spontaneously materialized in the stale air between his sink and the linoleum.

“Who– What are, are you?” the man stirred out of his drunken stupor. “Am I hallucinating this?”

“No sir-ree, indeeed!” Farley said, as his glow dulled just slightly to reveal the outline of his shape, in the kitchen that was now much warmer in light and vibe. “I can assure you; I am very real. I’m here to pick up your spirits! I understand that you’ve fallen on some hard times. Let’s see if we can pick you up by the bootstraps!”

As Farley uttered bootstraps, he picked up the man from his wooden chair. He shook him a few times, as if loose change would eventually shake free and jingle on the shiny floor.

“It’s true-oo, I-I g-guess,” the man said, still bounding on Farley’s barrel chest. Oddly, the man was not startled by Farley’s unnannounced, inexplicable entrance into his house. That’s how inviting and warm Farley’s aura was to everyone who had the pleasure of experiencing it. Farley’s warm glow was slowly healing this man’s mood. “No delusion of mine has ever phsyically lifted me off my feet!”

He sat back down in his chair, but sat more lightly. It was as if Farley had lifted huge weights from his psyche. His facial expression evolved from pained to relief.

“Wow, I still can’t totally be sure you’re even real,” the more chipper man said, “but you’re really cheering me up!”

I scanned the man’s mind. Sure enough, Farley’s friendly electricity had fired synapses in the man’s mind long thought to be dead. The magic energy was making connections that the man had long forgotten. The golden epiphanies now occurring every nanosecond in the man’s cerebral cortex, coarsed down his spine, throughout his entire circulatory system and resonated with his heart. Farley’s divine light touched the man’s heart, his soul.

Then I observed forward-thinking thoughts in the man’s enlightening mind. He was inspired to get a new job. He remembered, before he became an accountant, that he had always wanted to work with wood. He loved making things with his hands.

“Are you my guardian angel?” the man said to Farley. “I feel great!”

“Glaaaad to hear it!” Farley yelled, billowing charisma all over the galley that had moments earlier only hosted hopelessness. “Allllright, my work is done here. Gotta go! Forget accounting. Put your ex-wife in the rearview! It’s woodworking time!”

And then, just as inexplicably as Farley had burst into this man’s life, he was gone. But in Farley’s wake, the man sat much more upright, once a shell, now fulfilled, imbued with the promising notion that his future was looking bright.

Our 10th man guest, the woman, rejoiced in her distant uncle’s existential 180. Her husband pumped his fist in ecstasy. The crowd hummed with excitement. We were all still in this man’s kitchen, but remained undetected as astral spectators. To the man, the air was purely electric.

“I just checked this man’s updated timeline,” I whispered to Stan. “He’s now on track to eventually land on Gardanne, once this life here ends. With Farley’s mojo, your expert spellcasting et al., I think we’ve placed this guy on the straight and narrow.”

“I wonder what impact the Farley Effect would have on all the souls of Earth_42_,” Stan said, whispering back to me in our discreet sidebar amidst the studio audience of our live leaping in The Hangout.

Farley personified the spark of life. With Stan’s expert spellbinding abilities at inserting just what intelligent life needed to evolve, my birdcraft and Farley’s ball lightning, had we finally bottled the secret formula that could lift an entire planet out of ignorant depths?

Much like the formerly unfortunate soul in this Earth_CityFlat_’s kitchen, the futures of all souls on Earth_42_ were looking up.

Chapter 43

The Hangout brimmed as a hotbed of positive activity. Some weeks got so hectic, we had MF DOOM handle the morning announcements that recapped the prior day and then looked ahead to what was on the horizon.

They’d always begin with a sick beat that kicked in spontaneously… Bom, Bom, Bop. Bom, Bom, Bop…

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s kick this day off right here…” emceed MF DOOM over the scratchy loudspeaker.

Yesterday, Matt Dragon brought back the complete edition.
Earth_42_: Let’s expand our rendition.
Of this world, one of our twelve. The dozen that keep us in health.

The study promises to yield light on lifting that sufferin’.
For every man, woman, child, our sisters and brethren.
And all the life forms, as a matter of fact, then.
There’s nothin’ better than.

Farley came on stage.
He freed the _CityFlatean from his cage._
This man possesses some je ne sais quoi,
That could lift the Earths in all of us.

Now, today, enjoy the show,
hear rock bands performing their latest,
In this greatest, most excellent assemblage of soothsayers…

You can reference the rest of MF DOOM’s verse in the Volume II appendex.

Pop-up displays of the greater community’s talents emerged often, all over the complex, like those Schweppervescent bubbles that had catalyzed the city state into Her heightened vibe those moons ago.

We’d return the favor to those who had attended our multiversal displays and beyond by filling their shows’ audience chairs, hungry to see what others had collaboratively created.

Chapter 44

Someday, I may report a third Thunderbird volume to chronicle the infinite tales that alchemized from this fine time in our world still unfolding. I’m happy to say, we’re still currently enjoying this heyday—our entire people living and creating together—emanating out happening as a thick, complex colloid not unlike liquid gold. I lie awake some nights imagining the consciousness-expanding possibilities that could emerge from such a promising medium. What subtle, undiscovered frequencies we would trace in such a post primordial fluid.

After we completed our first full year in Gardanne’s new era, in 432,002 A.G., the multiversal newspaper the North Star recognized us as an established Dew place. By 432,003, we had completed one full revolution of the neo Gardanne planet. The years accumulated like rings within a tree trunk, hitting the same seasonal notes in a cyclical pattern, but also evolving. We were perfecting the place, exploring new avenues (within the same planetary boundaries), expressing what it meant to be a Gardanner, and what that meant for known existence as a whole. To the North Star we were a Dew place. And the North Star, in that recognition, became our ombudsman.

There may come a day, eons from now (Gardanne time), when we as a collective people evolve as a singularity into the upper echelons. Like that LOST series finale, another Earth_42_ classic. A lot of people didn’t like it, if I remember correctly. But what’s not to like? The core cast had all undergone a profound, shared experience, on an island. They met in the afterlife to move onto the next plane, together. Good news for you: we’re not there yet. There’s still time for you to rise up and meet us.

For now, up here in the sweet air of seven dimensions, we’re trying to be the best Gardanners we can. And I’m OK with that. It’s my favorite thing to do—Gardanning about towne. If you’re reading this, it’s likely we’re still hanging up there, high in the 7th dimension, hovering between a dozen Earths and all their varietals torrenting in a torus pattern. And English and the blue Earth, with Her seven continents and whatnot, are all still things that exist in local spacetime. And when you’re done with those 3rd-dimensional realities, you can ascend to come visit us, and stay for a while.

If there’s one takeaway from this entire tale, it’s this: If you find yourself drawn to a bright light—you’re phasing into a new existence, a new life—everything on the periphery is dark, but this white light beckons. Maybe you see your family members and other loved ones with whom you connected throughout your former life. They’re waving you on to enter its warm glow…

Gardanne’s not there. It’s a little off to the left. We think that famous white light is actually an archon trap to plunge souls back into the reincarnation mill. If you can avoid that afterlife pitfall, pay Gardanne a visit. We’d love to have you.

That’s it for now. I think that’s a good stopping point for this, the second Big Cat volume of the Thunderbird Order. Time to go about towne, around Gardanne, my home. I’m in the basement below the Cumuli’s home, where Kitty and I live too. // I’m hovering at the forest outskirts of Rabbithole. // I’m high atop the Gardanne city pyramid, an apex point where we’d launch interdimensional leaps, and where, while hovering, I can see the complete downtown like a perched falcon. // I am Gardanne, both an individual and a fraction of Her hive mind, soul, body. This must be how a single neuron in the Godhead feels. Except we pack the punch of infinite Earth versions of a dozen varietals coalescing into the oasis of an entirely new reality in the 7th-dimension, in Gardanne. Among many of my brethren, joyfully zen, I am a Gardanner.

Part I: The Gardanner

Part II: 432,001 Gardanne Years Later…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part III — Big Cat’s Gardanne Journal

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

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