Monthly Archives: July 2019

truths

She wasn’t named for this gray scale alien. Instead: the gray scales of a fish to oppose the blue feathers of a bird. In toto: Grey Scale Kimball of the South pitted against Blue Feather Douglas of the North. Bird, sky, opposed by Fish, sea.

But in staring at the crop circle picture again hanging in the recently reconstructed House of Truth at the very center of Golden Sink, she’s beginning to think she *is* named for this famous, highly complex 2002 crop circle that miraculously appeared overnight in a field of wheat near Pitt, England (locally: Crabwood Farm). Both “grey scale”. Too coincidental.

http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/anasazi/wormholetechnology.html

Crabwood of August 15 was one of the most famous crop pictures in modern history, but no one could really understand its message. As shown in two pictures below, the schematic face of a “grey alien” was drawn within a large “rectangular box” that contained 60 horizontal lines, just as for an early “mechanical” TV image, chosen in the 1930’s because we use 60 Hz AC power. The variable width of each line then creates different “gray scales” (modern TV screens use far more lines to give better pictures):

Next, that rectangular box with an alien face was carefully aligned so that it would point at two, nearby TV-radio towers. This was as if to say: “Yes, our new crop picture is really meant to represent the TV image of a grey alien.” In other words, those crop artists can only see the alien “from a distance”, where the word “television” means of course “seeing over a distance”.

Now in one lower corner of that rectangular box, the crop artists also drew a “spiral disc” which contained an elaborate, ASCII-coded binary message as shown. I have omitted all concerns for punctuation or capitalization here, for increased clarity, especially since the last five bits of an ASCII code give one of 26 letters in the English alphabet.

In summary, the crop artists sent us a brief “computer recorded message” on CD or DVD, to accompany their TV-type image of a grey alien. Was Crabwood really alien-made? Many investigators thought so then, and continue to think so now….

And then there’s *Maebaleia’s* Crabwoo, she ponders further, another rectangular box (2 side-by-side, square shaped sims) whose northwest corner just touched the eastern edge of the Blue Feather Sea.

Original capital of the North before its decline and eventual death circa AL 1812-1814. Ur home of Blue Feather Douglas who derived his her name from the sea. Her arch-enemy. Her… sister? Doppleganger? Is he even a she? We’ll most likely find out soon enough.

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flowery 02

“Soo,” Chesteria A. Arthur began again, trying to get to the bottom of things. “You and Marcus have been a secret gay couple all along.”

“That’s right, Chesteria.” Chicken Itza turns to Marcus. “Pucker up again, lover boy. We’ll prove it.”

Chesteria waves it off. “No, I think I’ve seen enough of *that* type of proof. I need more.”

“I mean, I have my art…” Marcus states rather weakly, waving his arm around the house. “All these… men. Why do you–” but he stops himself here, understanding he was giving himself away more than defending himself.

“*Exactly* what someone *straight* would do to ingratiate themselves with the community,” reveals Chesteria A. Arthur. “*Our* community.”

“I mean,” Marcus begins again. “Really–” he sputters.

“Please don’t say that we’re the only lesbian couple in (Regaltown). Please don’t go down that path again. We have the approval of the council to be here.”

“But–,” Marcus speaks haltingly again. “*Your* lover — Gray Scale Kimball — *is* the council. Her and Pat.”

“And Pat doesn’t count,” Chicken Itza quickly points out. “Since he or she’s bisexual.”

“Hrmph. All this is sidestepping the actual topic. We’re *gay*, get it? *You’re* — you two guys — *aren’t*. Potentially — still haven’t quite figured it out.”

“The art,” Marcus almost whispers, waving his arm around again.

“The kissing,” Chicken Itza emphasizes, and then leans over and gives Marcus another peck on the lips, making Marcus feign another small smile. “So pleasant,” he says, licking his lips a little for emphasis while Chesteria stares at him. He then leans toward Chicken and pecks him on the lips as well, having some trouble maneuvering around the hood on his head.

“*Alright*,” Chesteria pronounces, tired of the accing. “You’re *gay*. Okay, I won’t tell Grey Scale about this. You know how she’s like.”

Marcus and Chicken couldn’t decide whether to jointly say “thank you,” or keep on defending their faux homosexuality by saying nothing. Glancing nervously at each other, they chose the latter. Keep playing it safe, they thought in harmony. This was all so new to them.

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flowery

“Soo. I’m trying to figure out if you’re gayy or not, Chicken Itza. I mean, *I’m* gay. Gray Scale Kimball is gay. Marcus is gay.”

“Marcus is not gay,” corrects Chicken Itza. “He just likes flowers. Primmy flowers.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

“We can go ask him if you wish. Saw him out back of his gallery when we were jogging by.”

“Hmm,” responded Chesteria A. Arthur, mate of Grey Scale Kimball. “Sometimes I wonder why we jog together, Chicken Itza. Is it just that we’re next to each other alphabetically in a list of new novel 15 characters?”

“Yes,” states Chicken Itza bluntly. “Else I’d still be laying in my own pool of blood back at Bridgeman’s. That and the suit.”

“Ah yes. The *gay* suit,” Chesteria purred. “But sometimes I think you are a straight in gay garb.”

“Humph.” He assumes a less manly pose on the bench with this.

“I’ve run behind you now too many times. Your hips don’t sway the right way–”

“Oh I’m gay,” breaks in Chicken Itza, fearing exposure of his true self could mean expulsion from the community. He needs his scripts! Love scripts.

“Prove it. I mean, you have the suit, yeah. But anyone could climb into that cock-amanie outfit, hah, and declare themselves gay.”

Chicken Itza’s thoughts turned toward Marcus again. “Okay, I have a way. Follow me.”

—–

“Hmm, dee dumm. Dumm dee… dee…” Oh hi guys. Jogging around the community again?”

“Pucker up Marcus,” warns Chicken Itza just in time.

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heat

“Tell me what is troubling you my dear. I hope you like it here in Chicken Itza.”

This is *not* Chicken Itza, Chesteria Arthur thinks. And I’m not doing this tonight.

—–

“….Chicken Itza?”

“Annie!”

—–

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otherworldly

“My father is right over there,” Baker Bloch spoke to spiritually oriented Hucka Doobie. “Just beyond the unwaving grass.”

“Bamboo,” Hucka Doobie elaborated. “A type of grass, yes.”

“But I can’t interact with him,” Baker Bloch continued. “Oh the things I could tell him.”

Hucka Doobie remained silent, then: “Why can’t you interact with him? Since he’s just right over there especially.”

“I thought…”

“That you would change the future?”

“Well… yeah.”

“The future cannot be changed, because there is no future except a web of possibilities. We could change *one* probability, yes, but it was already there in the first place. We cannot change anything.”

Baker Bloch nodded for Hucka Doobie without really understanding what he said. “So… I can go see my father? My *young* father?” He points toward the bamboo on the other side of the frog pond. They can see the trailer faintly through it from where they sit.

“Sure, sure,” Hucka Doobie agreed. “But would this be pre-Baker Bloch Space Ghost or post-Baker Bloch?”

“Not sure.”

“What I mean is… what I’m asking is…”

“Whether I am yet born, yet *conceived*,” Baker Bloch realized

“Yes.”

“Well…” He blew out air here. “One thing I know is that I better not be my own grandpa or something.”

“How would that work?” Hucka Doobie shot back.

Baker Bloch thinks of his mother here, who we’ve only seen as Old Grey in the Collagesity novels. “I suppose it can’t.” Baker Bloch gets up off the bench they’re awkwardly perched upon. “Come on, Hucka D. Let’s go see Pops.”

“Hold on there young fellas.” It was Bullfrog, who rented the cottage behind them. “I can’t help but see you were sitting on that bench but you weren’t *sitting* on that here bench. You must be straight…. unable to run scripts… not part of the group.”

Standing Baker Bloch looks over at standing Hucka Doobie, then admits this is true. “We are here as observers,” he elaborates. “From the future.”

“Ohh.” Bullfrog looks anxiously back at the cottage. A diminutive figure emerges from around it: Bullfrog’s partner Aqua Dude.

He almost immediately invokes one of his own special powers. “The green turns to red and the red turns to green,” he recites down to Baker Bloch and Hucka Doobie, still clustered around that bench. Things completely change.

They look around. “Is this *real*?” Baker Bloch speaks to his bee friend.

“I’ve heard of such,” exclaims Hucka Doobie, also looking at the pond, the ground, the sky. “In theory.”

“This way,” Aqua Dude pipes up, “I can turn into Super Guy as well as being Aqua Dude. Ruler of the sea *and* the sky. See? Hehe.”

“He thinks his colors now are the same as his arch nemesis Super Guy,” explains Bullfrog above him. “But it’s not really an exact match. Just humor him. He does it to everyone he first meets. He’ll get use to you.”

“I rule the *skies* as well as the *sea*,” he repeats, glaring toward them.

“Sure you do, Aqua Dude,” tempers Bullfrog. “Sure you do.”

Satisfied that the strangers understand perhaps his most unique ability, Aqua Dude shuts it off and the pond and its environs return to normal colors. “The red turns to green and the green turns to red,” he reverses.

“Now, about that trailer…”

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bastard

“I wish they wouldn’t emphasize that rocket so much here. Makes me cold inside, brrr.”

“Well,” jested older Keith B. a bit. “It was a big deal in the days. Put Golden City on the map.”

“Put it *on* the map by taking it *off*, brrr. Nothing left but a big hole.” She glances sideways at The Man, who was scanning pictures on the wall at the back of the stage, focusing on one in particular. “Speaking of which… he needs to get back over here and finish his story.”

“True,” agreed Keith B. “He can’t just leave us hanging in mid air about that whale.”

“Hey!” Kate McCoy called over to The Man. “We gotta keep moving down the road, to the fork. Else…”

“I know,” The Man replied in his cool, bass voice while still studying, still looking. “All of this will be in vain. But I believe — this man — is wearing — lipstick.” He touches Jimmy’s gray lips with his finger, as if he could swipe them and then check for color.

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knowledge

“The white whale escaped, of course. The famous Moby Prick of the Deep South. But the blue whale didn’t fare as well. Caught in the Blue Feather Sea. Some say she *became* the sea, one equals the other. Do you understand, older Keith B.?”

“Absolutely not, Kate McCoy.”

“Good to admit, thank you. The cube is the sphere is the sea is the whale.”

“Maybe we just better unfreeze or unthaw The Man and go. Let him explain it all. After all: he was there.”

“Indeed. Let’s go get him.” They enter the “aquarium”. Dog joined them there.

—–

“The cube is the sphere is the sea is the whale,” Kate McCoy pronounces clearly in the direction of The Man. He begins to stir inside his plastic cocoon.

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in the cave

“I was just there watching the red and green grasses wave back and forth with the fairy, thinking: love is the answer, but what is this question we all must ask?”

“Kind of going beyond John Lennon in that way.” Kevin C. (or was it E.?) expressed puzzlement. “Like in the ‘Mind Games’ song, the flip side of the better known ‘Meat City’, admittedly, but still fairly well known. Here, let me hum a few bars.” He proceeds to do so, then mouths the appropriate lyrics. “‘Love – is – the answer. And you know that – for sure.’ See, he never sings about the question.”

“So — are you going to let me stay? Knowing what you know?”

“That you’re not gay, yes. Alright. But we’ll have to put you in the Northeast Quadrant, behind the art gallery. The old Coutts residence. Old codger is more like it. Straight as a porcupine quill he was. I should know.”

But when Kevin A. (A. — that was it) arrived at his new home in the Northeast Quadrant of Regaltown, someone was already there. Not old but young. Space Ghost, with all his powers returned. Ability to turn invisible. Er, ability to do this and that and the other stuff. Not pointing out imaginary green squirrels with his cane any longer. Kevin A. would have a male roommate after all. And wife Grammy was no longer around, since this was the past. Her vortex powers made sure of that.

Young Space Ghost takes one look at Kevin A., then says, “No gays in this quadrant. Who sent you? Arnold? Tell Arnold he can go to hell. Or back to Sweetgrass, where he came from. Americans.” Young Space Ghost spat on the ground with this.

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recovered

Iggy Stooge stares into the central sim of Blue Junkyards from the edge of his parents’ property. Is this really where he wants to settle down now that he’s been rejected by Baker B. for the current novel? This backwater place? He had dreams of city life in Regaltown, in Horns of Hatton even, the capital crown jewel of Maebaleia’s South. Not the Deep South: that was instead Cassandra City, but of similar size. He could have been police chief, fire chief, even mayor if Baker B. so chose.

But this bayou? He’s not a flatlander at heart and he knows it. There was one other option: return to Pipersville, where time is more fluid. Not as much as Golden Sink (hence the reasons for the auditions there), but still — the bomb and all. Another sinkhole (like Golden Sink).

He rezzes in his repaired TV head once more to ponder the possibilities…

… and then eventually heads back home. Or his parents’ home actually.

If only they weren’t so infatuated with those darn butterflies.

—–

“What color breakfast do you want tomorrow, dear?”

“Blue, green, whatever,” Iggy Stooge replied unenthusiastically, thinking of Pipersville instead.

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pick

Kevin Orchardsity A., C., and E. Only one can survive and move forward.

Also: Only one can Read.

“Gunn… Mobile… *Trailer Park*.  Hey guys? Come take a look at this.” He looks around the shelter to see no one else. “Kevin C.? Kevin E.?

Well where’d they go?”

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