The artist explains to a prospective buyer that an arm *is* a leg, cutting the price in half. Saale!
“If you dream correctly,” he explained afterwards, “you have purchased a whole museum inside the picture containing many more objects you now own. You’re welcome!”
She took the painting home using both her arms and legs to haul the massive object around. By doing so she has become a creature as well as creator. The door to her house becomes that of the museum. She steps inside the other world, waking up.
“Beckett?” she wondered.
“No. The sim. Missing Beckett.”
“Muse is a key word here,” she mused aloud later, perhaps for me but also others listening in, the prescient, the psychic. Like our damaged friend Kolya. There he is. Listening in.
“Hi big boy. I’m over here now.”
“If I had wings like this I could do a lot better. But instead: hooves. *Horns*.”
Recently deceased Jer Ronamy remained confused. Was he or was he not talking to God?
They buried him in the new section of the cemetery dedicated to non-Hollywood stars, because Jer Ronamy, ex 5’5″ star guard for the local pro high school team the Bottle Crunchers, certainly wasn’t Hollywood big, like Frank Baum or John Ritter or something. His family couldn’t even afford a tombstone, although they promised to purchase one later as soon as Uncle Stan’s airport scheme deal came through. Probably isn’t going to happen, understands Jer Ronamy standing beside his own grave as a disembodied spirit after everyone had left, still clinging to form but soon to give it up. Hummy the Hummingbird accompanied him on his visit, who was sent by the ones taking orders from the deer we just saw up above. Or make that down below?
“Can we go visit Beethoven’s grave while we’re here?” requested trilling Hummy. “I don’t get out that much; want to, er, *kill* as much time as possible before going back in.”
“Sure, sure.” He wasn’t ready to go back either. He still liked the feel of this body, despite the added weight. He died way too young. He heaves a big sigh and follows Hummy over to the actual, famous people, the ones with tombstones.
*Only nine symphonies,” laments the colorful, vibrating bird. “Should have been 19.”
We do not purport to know what’s really going on at this French rr station with its blurring of time.
But could it be something to do with, for example, *this*?
Out on the platform, people walk one way…
… then mysteriously switch directions for the next shot.
A man appears just in this one photographed panorama and then vanishes. The logical answer is that this is the cameraman himself. Why the similar jacket and shirt to the other man here, though? Is it just chance; did they think this resonance funny and thus the jumping out of 1st person perspective and into the photo? Why at *this* station of all places? The Center of the Universe.
At the end of the camera’s journey on the platform, time is different in the mirror…
… from reality.
For the ultimate answers we may have to look upwards.
“She’ll get back here,” he said. “Go ahead… continue.”
As Baker spoke, the rest of the “Wall of Ass.” disappeared behind him, leaving Dali’s paintings alone in the apartment.
History tries to snap the correct placement of Schubert within but Beethoven always gets in the way.
In the other direction, Brahms overshadows Strauss.