The screen was flashing its warning: In moments my stamp collection
would vanish, erased by the inspector at the dock. "He" detected a fatal
error. My virtual stamps would not pass his queries!
The question appeared
again:
Whose works are inside Stone Phone?
Whose works are inside Stone Phone?
Whose works are inside Stone Phone?
I had already missed the
question about the guest book. I inserted my disk again. If this
iteration—dated May 27, 2003—didn’t have that data, I’d have to
return to the Professor’s Cabinet and mine it for the
answers. It occurred to me that the data might have been erased already by
the Gates’ Protectoress.
I summoned Dr. Chew.
If I could hold his image and spirit in my mind,
perhaps he could help me now. I’m weary of these dull proceedings. I’m
almost falling asleep. This is the effect I’ve heard about, been warned
about. It always
comes when the information is dry, technical and boring.
Dr. Chew was never boring. He was my favorite among all the
story-telling mentors that I knew
in his domain of expertise, Stamp World. If anyone could help me
now, it would be Dr. Chew. He was not only a video pioneer but he was also a
games pioneer, and early gamer—playing when Space Invaders came out in 1978.
I heard the disk drive on my computer whirred and clicked. I’m imagining
myself on the Island of Perfect Press today, so I click on the Perfect
Press brochure. I flash my passport, so I don’t have to endure the
firewall this time. The face value of the Stone Phone stamp says 1972.
Where are the 1972 stamps, then? Not on Perfect Press, obviously. The
dates there show 1979-82 stamps. I click back through my passport at random. On my
second guess I hit pay dirt: 1972 is on the island of fast art, the island
we know as MacRitchie’s.
But
wait! Only the placeholder is there. Someone has it checked out of
the archives.
“Here’s the challenge,” I thought I could hear Dr. Chew
whispering a cheat in my ear, “You can create a facsimile.” Then, as if
Chew’s magic ways of stamps had taken hold of me, I could see the
pathway, like an opening in the clouds.
I opened the artist’s archives
and located his galleries for the finest image of the Stone Phone.
I hoped that it was still available to download. I was in luck. There it
was, an .eps file.
I was just starting to open my paint program and get started on a
counterfeit, when something drew my attention away—something on my
studio walls distracted me. It was my new paintings of kite designs. I
thought of a melody I’d heard millions of times, but somehow, just now,
that melody was connected to my triptych of the Japanese Kite Stamps.
What is the connection? The melody was from the NPR station, one that
it seemed hundreds of different musicians had rearranged and performed on
a vast array of instruments. Sometimes the tune barely resembled the
original score.
I awaken. Was I dreaming?
Someday it would be like that dream in my game, Emeralda. People
could get the images and create their own stamps from them, retaining what
they wanted from the original, and improving it with their own iterations
in the form of artist’s, crafts peoples’ and designers’ stamps.
In a
flash the illusion was gone. I looked at my screen. Time is running out!
I had lost track of time. I try to remember how I got here. I must
have been busy, because now there is an image of 1972: Stone Phone on the
screen. The next problem was to be able to identify the parts, for that
would certainly be on the queries when I try to leave this island.
That
list could be a long one. I’d have to inventory all the parts of Stone
Phone if I were to have a good enough facsimile to convince the
protectorate of the archives that the stamp belongs to me.
I began with the CD that’s in the upper part of the stone phone. I
created a hotspot on the image and linked it to the Absent Professor’s
manuscript, Women Who Fell to
Earth. I added an impressive handprint as a
background to the text. That’s just what the professor would have done.
It was an image from the cavern at Cosquer, a fitting choice.
I looked at the timer. Yes, my time is up. Yet I
believe I succeeded, thanks to the advice of Dr. Chew. I only wish he were
actually here. But, it that happens, it will be the opening of another
story.
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About the Author: Bill H. Ritchie, Jr. is an
Itinerate Professor based in Seattle. He taught college (UW) and after
promotion to full professor of printmaking and media arts, he resigned at
43. He then launched several teaching, research and practice companies. In
1992 he discovered Emeralda, a fantasy region accessible only by computer.
He invented the rules-of-play and created an operating system for online
interactivity for himself.
He writes for the benefit of discipline, using a PDA when he's
wandering around and a desktop PC to organize his essays. He has a
thousand or more saved, which you can see listed on the ten
"islands" on the Web. An example is www.seanet.com/~ritchie/ppzine.html,
on the island of Perfect Press in the Emeralda Region.
For further information contact Bill H Ritchie
via e-mail at ritchie@seanet.com.
His professional Web site is at www.seanet.com/~ritchie
and his first portal for Emeralda is www.artsport.com.
The company name is Emeralda Works, 500 Aloha, Seattle, WA 98109. He can
be reached by telephone at (206) 285-0658. Statistics: 947 Words. 4342 Characters. 2 Pages. ipp3528
How Dr Chew Saved Emeralda. ©2002 Bill H Ritchie, Jr.
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