Monthly Archives: April 2017

thin blue lines

“So this is where you’ve been hanging out lately, Wheeler. Wondered where you were.”

“Yes, Baker Bloch. VHC Town. Or is it VHC City? With the C at the end of VHC, it seems something redundant to add City to the end. Like the C could stand for City already, except it doesn’t.”

“Technicality, Wheeler. I prefer Town.”

“I do too. Just had to speak all that out loud to know.”

“Right. But we’re not here to talk nomenclature.”

“No, we’re here to talk business.” Wheeler pulled out a map of the involved sim from her coat and unfolded it on the circular table between Baker Bloch and herself. “We’ve identified at least 5 hot spots that can be used for dramatic purposes, Baker. The most important one for you is the [delete name], which could be a new place to set up The Table.”

“That *is* dramatic. So is [delete name] turning into your new Blue Feather?”

“Not quite that. Check the sim remotely as it is on the map. You’ve joined the appropriate group now.”

“Yes. [Delete name].”

“Then most lines will be blue. *Except*… the one next to the key shop. That shop is a portal (!).”

Baker increases his draw distance, unrenders volume, and then checks remotely as Wheeler requested.

He compares this with the map in front of him. He renders and unrenders volume several times. He zooms in as needed. He mentally ticks off each of the 5 highlighted locations. Satisfied he can locate all in the town, he returns his attention to Wheeler.

“And you’ve said you have a duplicate of the shop. And you own the, um, owner.” Baker was trying to feign calm to balance out Wheeler’s obvious enthusiasm, but he too was getting pretty excited. Possibilities!

“*Former* owner. I wasn’t as scared as The Musician. But, then again, I didn’t see the (clown) face full on. He’s still getting over it. He’s resting upstairs on a couch.” She points up toward the bar’s sign.

“What’s all that about?”

“Circus related possession — not uncommon as I understand now. But anyway, I bought the shop. I own the key shop. 250 lindens. Chuckles Greentop has been semi-retired since 2012. She was glad to get rid of it. Said the taxes had gone way up in the last several years on the small parcel. So I own it. I own it!”

“Hmm, so you said.” Baker Bloch removed his hand from his mouth. He’d been hiding a smile. “Should we go look?” He then scanned Wheeler’s map, jabbing the appropriate spot.

“You’re pretty good with maps, Baker Bloch.”

“I am. So let’s go.”

“Quick. Before The Musician comes down. I want to surprise him with the news.”

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Safe means safe.

“Nice catch, mister. Know anything about Mister Lock locks by chance?”

“It’s ms., actually,” returned the lady fisherman. “Do you view fishing as a masculine sport young man, er woman?”

“Guess so. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk about locks. Because I know who you are. You are the keymaster, perhaps on a permanent break. ‘Gone Fishing’.”

Meanwhile, The Musician had given up attempting to play the nearby odd piano. Spilling water for keys. Stringy plants for piano strings. The American Standardbred horse Enola EM looks on amused.

He walks over to the small pond. “That her?”

“Yeah. What’s your name missus?”

“Chuckles. Like a clown. I was in the circus before earning the rank of keymaster. Keymeister is how we call it in the trade. But I can’t seem to teach the laypeople that. Would you like to see my clown face?”

“Oh sure,” replies Wheeler. “Wouldn’t we Musician?”

“Wouldn’t we what?” He had been distracted by the VHC Town skyline, trying to figure out where their “safe” plaza was in all that complexity. How did Wheeler find the keymaster out here so quickly?

“Take me back to your Collagesity and I’ll show you. Just send me a teleport invite after you return home. Now skidaddle.” Chuckles returned her attention to the wriggling fish she just caught. “I’ll bring this perch along as well. Maybe you can find someone to cook it for us over in your town. I can’t cook worth a lick. Can catch fish all day and all night but, you know how it is. Compartmentalization.”

“Sure, that’ll be fine Ms. Fisherman,” states Wheeler.

“Ms. Greentop,” the fisherwoman corrects. “Irish,” she adds.

“We have something to show you over there as well,” states Wheeler. “A painting we found near your shop. A puzzling one. Perhaps you can answer some questions.”

“Yes, in your town, yes. Not here. Too many ears. Ears are in hears.”

—–

“Which one bought her?” The Musician asks in confusion. He begins rummaging through his inventory.

“Me, of course,” returns Wheeler. “Who has all the money around here?”

“Yeah, I don’t see it. And I suppose you have the painting as well. That one was free, though.”

Wheeler checks. She has both. She makes sure the right group is activated, then rezzes. “Stand back,” she playfully warns.

“Oh wait. I have a funny one,” she then says, rearranging the objects. “Haha.”

Chuckles Greentop awakes, looks around. “That an actual honest to goodness Linden forest out there?” She points her rod toward the transparent front of the Blue Feather Club.

“Sure ’nuff is,” responds Wheeler. “And full of demons and other oddities. There’s even a fishing pond on the southern edge. Would you like to see?”

“Why not.”

“Musician, go over there to Collagesity West and change that Gloomy Gus into convex hulls. That should do the trick.” She returns her attention to Chuckles Greentop. “25 prims, Ms. Fisherman,” Wheeler scolds. “You come at a pretty price!”

“I’ve been around,” Chuckles Greentop responds.

“Ahem,” The Musician coughs. “The painting,” he prompts.

“Oh right. Well Ms. Greentop. Do you know anything about this painting beside you. The cat looks through a red door, but yet there’s a red door already opened. Two red doors, when there logically should only be one, it seems. We know you know about doors and how to get in and out of them. You must know about the red doors.” She looks over at The Musician, who stares back approvingly.

“It’s time to show my face,” Chuckles Greentop says instead. “If you look behind the door, you will see.”

—–

The Musician took a closer look after the change.

“Lame” was what he was thinking. But then the rest of the face transformed as well. They were frightened all the way back to VHC Town and their safe plaza. Lesson learned!

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Wanderlust Bench Art Cafe, 04/29/17.

March/April exhibit described here.

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Adoorable

“That’s very nice Wheeler.”

“Thank you. It’s a cat. It’s Bowie.”

“Yes I thought I recognized it. But it’s time to stop painting cats, Bowie, I mean, Wheeler. I found some doors.”

“Printer?”

“I don’t know Wheeler. Doors. Leading to you know where.”

“Painter?”

“Let’s just go. You can return to this project.”

—–

“Red doors,” says The Musican, stating the obvious.

“Hell?”

—–

But they didn’t go through immediately. The Musician returned to the chair beneath the Ear/Bar sign, testing out if he could see the doors from this perspective. He could not. However, upon going inside the bar and sitting down on the couch, the doors were in plain sight.

“Wheeler,” he calls through a window again. “Wheeler! Come here. I have more information perhaps.” Wheeler heard “Wheeler!” but that was enough.

—–

“I’ve seen these doors before recently (but not recently). Portal. Neighbor. Portals, actually.” The Musician takes another sip of his red cosmopolitan. The Painter does the same with her blue hypnotiq.

“Show me,” she requested. “Put the image in my head along with accompanying metadata. Like we trained for. The Before.”

—–

“I’m going to spill my pretty drink all over this expensive demo jacket if you don’t tell me about those doors.”

The Musician sent another picture to further explain. Opening. Red door. Doors. Reds.

“Octopus jar,” he then said, confusing the lot of us.

—–

Wheeler was not mad any more. She had put one and one together and then broke them apart, eliminating the right. Or left. “I found a shop that could help. Key shop. I knew something was up there but only reduced it down presently.”

“Let’s go,” requested The Musician eagerly.

“I wish I could remember where the two ones were that I eliminated the first. Or second.”

“Purposeful mistake. Think hard.” The Musician stared at her, encouraging. She then remembered that the page had been edited, not the post. She returned to the post. It was the room with the colored brain.

—–

The Painter started heading the wrong way but then got her bearings right. She walks by the Ear Bar again, past the furniture store and the Baha Bullet rezzer straight into the next plaza which they were told not to enter. Her hands trembling, she looked west south-west. Key store.

But they had been here before. That alleyway.

Nothing had happened. Where did she get the idea that this place was verboten? There was nothing to fear. She would walk into the key shop, get a key or perhaps even two (one for The Musician as well) and then leave, going back to her safe bar and accompanying plaza. Something had happened in the meantime, she realized. It was the cat. Or cats. Bowie. Bowie was missing. Björk instead. Then painting the Bowie cat over and over in order to restore. Hucka Doobie karma. The Musician said that Hucka Doobie was sending good vibrations over to VHC Town for healing. Hucka Doobie forgives Wheeler for turning into a bee that Halloween night and almost killing her in her classic bee avatar form. She couldn’t walk straight for weeks. Karma. What else was in store for Wheeler? She had done wrongs, she knew. Printer? Is Printer another 13 pack of karma coming ’round the bend?

—–

She waits for the keymaster. “Where’s The Musician?” she says to herself. “He was suppose to be right behind me. Maybe the doors weren’t locked after all,” she then speculates. “Maybe he went in without me.” But then The Musician was there, appearing around the corner after checking out the alleyway again where they had sat the day before. He puts another image in her head.

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Neither Here Nor There

Wheeler paints a picture of a cat while The Musician plays Bowie’s “Andy Warhol” to help restore.

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Bee Careful

She stood there for 5 full minutes before The Musician looked up from the computer screen and spotted her. Nonplussed, he resumed researching the Muff-Bermingham planet while muttering through the window: “Very funny Painter. Now come in here.”

—–

The Painter soon realized she was not alone in this town, this world. There was also a Prenter Printer.

—–

She waits for Bowie to come back but instead got Björk.

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Two Cities

Back in Collagesity, The Musician persuades Wheeler (a.k.a. The Painter) to watch a longer Youtube film by SL resident Zarrakan about the LEA 11 “Glass Jars” installation. To Wheeler’s mild irritation, he then creates a running dialog with the film, stating how the two examinations of the sim differ and how he did things better overall. Afterwards, Wheeler wishes to watch another suggested Zarrakan film about wrestling, one of her numerous physical passions, right up there with dance and exercise. The Musician waves this off, however, saying at one and 1/2 hours that particular video is too long, and states they should instead view a short animation that acted as partial inspiration for “Glass Jars” entitled “The House of Small Cubes”. Wheeler relents (my how she’s softened because of the most recent Assimilation!). She understands that continued development of The Musician is very important. Besides… well, never mind that right now.

—–

Back in VHC Town, The Musician gives “The Painter” back her time.

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Yellow and green (mysteries continue)

—–

And that is most definitely Wheeler.

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Say cheese

—–

“You really missed quite a lot at LEA11, Musician. Blackout Poetry… *music/sound*. You and your aural sensitivity. Such an odd condition for one who *makes* sound all the time.”

“I found a lot. I found enough. I had to get back to my music.”

Wheeler thought of the Harrison cutout but didn’t query about progress. “Where’s Art?” she asks instead. “Will she be joining us?”

“No, it’s not Art. Just an artist. Painter.” The Musician pauses. “Like you.”

Wheeler scratches her head. “Where’s our coffee? Service here is as bad as over at Perch.”

The Musician checks his watch, taps his fingers nervously on the round table. “Should be any moment.”

—–

“I hate to say it, but I’m just not a big fan of Second Life images in virtual art. People especially for some reason. Landscape’s better.”

“You just don’t like people period, Wheeler.”

“Suppose not.”

—–

“Should we go back?”

“Nah, she’s not going to show up.”

“Can I be The Painter instead?” Wheeler looked over at the slanted Musician.

He breathes out, relenting. “Oh all right.”

She sat silent for a moment, then: “What was her name?”

“Chuckey,” came the reply. “Yeller feller.”

“Hmm. So she’s you too.”

“Seems that way Wheeler.”

“It’s you trapped in that Ear Canyon. Camping at the top. Assimilation — full swing. I’m not who I thought I was.”

Well… we’re in this together and that’s a trap. Fact, I mean.”

—–

“I made it. So this is the spot.”

“97, 97,” says The Musician. “The poisonous violet-black building in plain sight. Towering over us at this point if I remember correctly. Yes, this is the point. And now… this picture. I don’t remember it before from this gallery, which has expanded into the territory formerly its back yard. What’s the name?”

“Um, ‘A Precarious Geisha’.”

“No,” replies The Musician. “The name of the gallery, not the picture. Hold on…”

“‘Finely Torn Id’, Wheeler,” The Musician says after remotely finding and then taking a snapshot of the gallery’s entrance.

“2015 for the painting’s date. This must be The Painter.”

“No,” says The Musician. “It was suppose to be someone else. Chuckey. Yellow. Head like Charlie Brown. Assimilation. Pineal. Pine cone. Fred Cone. Pineapple.”

“Hmm,” states Wheeler. “This (picture) must contain a code. I like the colors. It’s close to a picture of the other side of the wall. Where I landed when you tried to teleport me directly into this spot. We were on opposite sides of the wall.”

“Are you a geisha, Wheeler?”

“Why is it precarious?” asks Wheeler back, dodging The Musician’s question.

—–

“Look, Musician. A piano over there. Why don’t you disengage yourself from the wall and play us a tune. You said you had hundreds of thousands.”

“Hundreds,” came a muffled voice from inside the wall behind her. “Or maybe thousands.”

“Well play me something, then. How about that ‘Fire Ants’ you go on about when you’ve had a few too many. The one that literally blew the roof off Barney Rubleboro in West Virginia that summer. Coal *everywhere*.”

“Hold on…,” the muffled voice said once again.

—–

“Hmm. Wall again. And I had just turned yellow.”

The piano would have to wait.

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LEA11 13

(continued from)

Up up up he climbs, a distance of over 30 meters, before he enters the next room with weary arms. Certainly a different kind of flooring here, more like a wall with those dripping windows just climbed past.

And then the flowing hair child again positioned above it (Visionary, Lucid, imaginary friend, et al), upward turned head halfway out of the water again. Elongated like the beanbag version encountered previously in a southern room. Or perhaps not a child in this case. A woman.

Here some background about The Artist is handy, perhaps even necessary. A review by blogger Kate Bergdorf of Oluja’s 2015 Metamorfaces exhibit provides the best story I found online. Obviously this life altering event fueled the creative impulse of that exhibit, which carries over into the present. Faces — many emerging from the water like the one before him — abound in “Glass Jars”. The Musician can’t imagine.

He climbs one last set of stairs, emerging above-water at a small platform with colorful pillows. He takes a seat and elects to drink a proferred coffee, which he finds satisfying.

He stares over at the ghost or soul of what he’s sure is a representation of The Artist now, rising above the duplicate one “trapped” in the water just beneath. Emitted or projected spirit double again. He feels he has absorbed all he can from the LEA11 water sim now, and must move on to newer, different concerns armed with this gleaned information. He’s in an individuation process, a journey of self discovery. He is The Musician, true, but now knows or remembers another half, larger but with lighter atomic weight. A different element. He is oxygen, he is hydrogen. But what is he as a whole? He thinks back to Ear and camping out on its upper ledge. The talk with Wheeler at the bar…

The Musician was going to return to the canyon with the glass jars chronicled in the LEA11 01 post from almost two weeks back to explore more, but thinks he understands what is going on there as well now. No need for a revisit. This is The Artist again, creating an archive of messages in glass bottles or perhaps The Artchivist in the future separating the messages from the bottles for further study. Another 2-n-1. Time does not have a strong gravity here. The gestalt is understood through repetition of images — lietmotif. An attempt to grok the whole through the parts, like the proverbial elephant in the room. But this is as far as he can go with it currently.

Before taking his leave, The Musician did have one other place he wanted to revisit: LEA11’s purest, whitest room tucked away in its northwest corner. His now elongated, white body half out of the water, he assumes a heavenward position.

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