“We reached a dead end in NWES City, my love, future present past.”
“We did,” agreed Charlene Brown the punk beside him in the car at the center of the new city, whatever he or she or they decide to call it. Maybe just New Town.
“Oh… look over there, dearest. Another Happy Travels office, just like in…”
“Don’t say it, sweets. Let’s put that name behind us, move on to the new. New Town?” she then guessed, mirroring my thoughts.
“Anyway, there it is… again. Probably the portal to Gaston once more as well.”
“Don’t use it,” wisely advised Charlene. “Seal that up too. Let Barry X. Vampire the writer and, heck, Barry Deboy the artist deal with it if they wish.”
“Are the Barrys still around?” I ask through Jeffrie Phillips, borrowing his voice for the moment.
Charlene shook her head, but not as a denial. Instead: “Not our problem.”
“And a MacDonald’s,” Jeffrie joked when looking more behind them. Funny.
Official Guy Linden Temple in “New Town”.
“I just want a place to disappear to, Jeffrie. Maybe this *twin* to our NWES City will do the trick…”
“For a while,” Jeffrie Phillips reinforced from his position opposite Charlene “Punk” Brown at the Static Social Lounge next to the *other* local Red gallery besides the Red Umbrella. This was another indication that they were in the right spot. “What are you going to call it?”
“The City? Oh, I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”
“*We’ll* think of something.” They sat in silence for a while after that, taking in the new sights and sounds.
They even had a view of the harbour (Canadian) just beyond the gallery.
This dates at least from 2012 and may still be present on the brick Main Street building just east of downtown — long lasting. Bold black letters here on the primary depiction, which makes it easier to spot from a distance (see below).
Giant pencil “leaning against” the number in yet another downtown alley (!). This seems to indicate, to me, that 102 either IS a director or is directly BEING directed (see: Eraserhead Man).
Another white pointing person (chalk outline) which the other white pointing person we’ve mentioned recently, positioned a block away in a nearby time-space reality, is DIRECTLY POINTING AT. What are the odds (again)??? Is this ART? (seems to be a meaning)
Here’s the look down to the, ahem, Regal Theatre. Note that in Canada they spell theater as theatre, as apparently all English speaking countries do outside the US. Where did we go wrong?
Back to the first 102. No words this time.
Peet Archer didn’t know he would be dragged all over town with his 200 meters worth of 3/16 inch braided nylon rope trying to hold onto Toddles through time. “Whoa Nelly!” he exclaims exactly halfway between 23 22 and 22 23. “Down in the road she goes (*snap*?).”
The snake has let loose of its tail.
watch out! (he or she’s okay)
23 22 (male; 2009)
22 23 (female; 2012)
Maybe this blog will turn into Google Earth oddities and veer away from Second Life© stuff. Finding *so much* in Picturetown (alone!). If only Hucka D. could weigh in.
102 utility box, 2009 (absent)
102 utility box, 2012 (present)
EXACTLY 200 meters between the two, which JUST became a blog tag last night. And in the center? YORK, which eventually turns into MARY. Mary York = Charlene the Punk (= Wheeler = Her Majesty the Bigfoot/Yeti), who just talked to Giant Tiger in Rubi.
“So you see, Hucka D. The 3 cars closest to the portal represent the alchemical witches I just met over at your gym, with the 4th missing, just like the Citrinitas stage is often left out of the alchemical process.”
“That’s *us*,” uttered the witches in unison. “*We’re* the cars,” and then they cackled like a pack of hyenas. Flushing Baker Bloch, a skunk with a rash as far as they were concerned, had forgotten who he was speaking to. Certainly not Hucka D. “*Hardly*,” as each of them would say in turn, I’m sure.
But what of the 4th? The 4th could save them all. If she could figure a way into the X-ed out square. Picturetown. Those clever, evil witches!
“*Here* Mr. Archer,” she said, seeing one of the witch’s cars at last. “A temporal opening I can finally wedge through. You’ll have to stay behind, pull me out by the rope if needed.”
“Just like Niagara,” Peet said under his breath, looking down at her sweet, wee yellow head.
“I’ll warn you. I’ll be much heavier when I return since it will be 11 years later; you’ll have to hold tight.
He estimates his 200 meters of 3/16 inch braided nylon beside him should do the trick just fine.
Baker Bloch approached the clipboard on the white desk against the white wall. Whitewashed it was. He should have done this weeks ago, months: join the gym at Hucka D.’s White Palace in disguise, er, the skies. But where’s the List?
“Baker! Over here!” Fern Stalin calls excitedly from the Links, eager to get to know Hucka D.’s friend better. Former friend? That’s what she wanted to find out, why they set all this up in the first place. The White Palace. Baker found it!
“Who’s that over there?” he returns, peering through the machines and equipment. “Hucka?”
Wendy Wheeler enters through a portal in the corner. Lichen Roosevelt soon joins them too. The black, white (yellow) and red altogether again. Just like a newspaper, ready to be read. True yellow was not invited, which would have consequences later.
The infinity loop at the start of York St. I knew this would lead straight to the theatre about a 1/2 mile down. I knew this would lead right into the heart of this madness. 102 102 102.
The old white lady points.
“‘102’ appears here, on this utility box, far away from the Regent Theatre.”
“Better not call it that in the blog,” requests [delete name].
“Regal Theatre, then. Like in my own home town.”
“*This* will be your hometown soon, he he.”
“Yes. But this is about a 1/2 mile down York Street (and then some) from the theatre. The Regal, true, was 102 years old on the year after the graffiti was created in that namesake alley of mine beside it, the one where Bart Smipson — I mean, where he traveled between dimensions.”
[Delete name] let me unwind my theories, remaining silent. She stared at me with those dead white eyes. I figured I’d be in a bit of trouble if I didn’t get to the heart of the situation tonight. In front of me was…
“Continue,” she requested, not wanting to rest too much at any one pause. Good idea.
“Anyway,” — I’d lost my train of thought, as they say. Better back up to the cemetery. “102 is dead?” I theorized.
Pause. “102 is death.”
Icebox Diamondbox field seen in same Photo Sphere where red mysteriously switched with orange