Daily Archives: November 10, 2021

more black and white

After visiting Blue-Yellow and attempting to watch his sun rise, I hop on a passing trolley and head downtown…

… soon reaching THE Cave. Or at least A Cave.

It strikes me that it would be wrong to keep calling this character Axis-Windmill in a town created by an actual German. So we’re going to go with a new one. Not reverting to Windmill Man — too easy. Bronze John looks on, trying to gauge, trying to help. He was so successful with the Beatles with an A naming.

The Beatles are such archetypes, penetrating many synchronicity systems.

All bands can be related to them. For example, Pink Floyd are the psychedelic Beatles, Firesign Theatre are the comic Beatles, and The Residents are the bizarro Beatles. Frank Zappa with his Mothers strongly reacted to them; the Rolling Stones…

I was told by fortuneteller Esmerelda a while back that the answers lie in a cave. In the related collage, cacophony musician Charles Ives pokes his head out sideways, wondering if he’ll have anything left to say. He’s sorry about Cowell, he speaks through the entrance, the mouth. He’s sorry about Connecticut and Danbury and the clashing of bands. Connecticut forgives, but he’ll have to make them laugh, make them suckers instead of seekers, and get small in the exchange. Thimble Islands’ General Tom Thumb might know, if he’s paying attention. Misery becomes Mystery (up to date).

I wonder about New York’s Central Park in the Dark, and the Unanswered Question. I think back to the Amazon jungle and the Indian who becomes a Spaceman, search fulfilled; “aliens” found — this would represent the end of the 4th. Concord (Sonata)… maybe that’s next. Oh, and Karl finding the waterfall (Rainbow) and reading the scrapbook and discovering a new ending, leading him to set aside the old life and the attached house and move on. I thought about Charles Ives today in perusing my table of tiles, wondering if I’ll get the chance to tell anyone about it besides the wife and a best friend. It’s pretty remarkable.

Here is where I’ll be reborn, or at least acquire a new name.

“Who are you?”

“Helmet Newton?” he or she answers as a question.

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redding

“I could just ram this smaller grey boat crosswise through those bigger black and white boats over there and end this.” Josh Richardson: professional insultant.

Called back to Maebaleia? Tour aborted? Fern Stalin better hightail it out of here in her own, much larger vessel. If she could only get the darn thing started. “Turn baby! Turn!”

—–

We’re losing characters right and left in this new photo-novel. We’re up to 30, W. Should I call you W still?”

W: “Sure”. Small pause. “Whatever rings your bell.”

“Bell, right.” He’s remembering. And Clare, the other head, the one actually attached to the body. Better find them, talk to them about TILE. Before the boy returns. But her house next to the snow and granite, Tennessee and Kentucky schism chasm is gone. And Clarksey is a bit too far away to use yet, both in space and in time.


*huff huff huff*

“It’s a conundrum, W.”

“You set them up. You knock them down. You’ll push through. Find me,” she ends.

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00300108

He stares from the rock while listening to rock. *His* rock. Can he actually listen to what The Mann says this time?

From this perch, he’s looking for the plane or at least the boat, but they weren’t that easily spotted. The pink plane may be totally out of sight (man). The small boat may *just* be visible, he determines. Another floater. Another 6 inches. If he could just fix the engine and move it away from here all would be well. The boy might be his.

—–

It was time for Zach Black and Lena Horned to leave this place. The Maebaleia red white and blue battle flag keeps flapping and slapping, ouch ouch ouch. Duty calls; Nautilus continent tour aborted. The red hand scratches.

Lena Horned takes one last float like the boy and is gone.

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battleground boy

He stares down at the soup ladle he still holds in his red hands, understanding it is a mnemonic device. “George,” he utters aloud, having lost track of the one person in the world he’s not suppose to. Again.

But George was safely tucked in dreams right now, talking to red headed Marty about TILE while floating on his Lake. A boy of 13 to 10 back to 13, over and over. Right now: 13, 6 inches taller than the shortest version. “Duncan was fortunately looking the other way this time,” he says to the young boy, if not the youngest. “Toward the red and green balloon. We may not be as fortunate the next time. The raspberry lady guides.” He leaves it at that.

He sips his stale lemonade and is gone.

George wakes up, wondering who “we” is.

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