A car needing a trim.
Next up: the doctor of a home, I mean, the home of a doctor.
Across the road: a Beaut Salon run by Cthy and Selly, but everyone in town knew this was A lie, just like the doctor.
But further in the past, a different story? Caty and Shely if so. And it’s Beauty now.
Just look at that hair!
These SILHOUETTES, foreground leaves in retrospect, are *directly* west of dancing Hucka Doobie and Axis in 00310117. They also seem to be “dancing” on a corner of Monroe. Compare.
Despite the leafy origins, I’ve decided it is not coincidence and instead a channeling event, call me crazy (“You’re crazy!”).
Conclusion: we never left the red car. Let’s see what the two are up to currently.
We are almost certain upon passing that this orange clad guy is welcoming us, the viewer, to Iowa. And the 2 little, alert dogs to his right (our left), one black and one brown? Welcomers as well?
But in the next photo we become confused, as the waver is reflected in the window of a passing red car. Is the driver of the car instead being acknowledged, his or her return wave masked by the reflection of the person waving back? There could be stories layered within stories here. The 2 little dogs remain, alert as ever. It’s as though they aren’t even real.
“You must love me exactly as I love you!”
And so we’ve returned to Black Lake in a very unexpected way through Misty and her partially submerged beau, soon to be husband (??); circled back around. We have similar choices that we did before here, then. Return to Paper Soap from Paperweight using the resonant keyword Paper? A painter paints, a complainer complains. I’m no painter and I’m no complainer. I can go with the flow, even if it doesn’t involve oiling it up and applying to canvas. Joey Avatar knows how comfortable canvas feels now (!). I don’t need to break a couple of nails to understand, but I do need to hammer a couple. In our fence. I’m looking out our Real Life window now. So many people outside, though. If only they would go away for at least that one special day of the year. Hmm.
And I still have a foothold in Paper-Soap, with transfigured Moes’ pink welcome mat seen here back in the sewer tunnels behind sitting old Keith B. I always seem to have to brighten up the place considerably with “Phototools – Lo Gun Light” sky to snap a proper enough picture. But the dark, conjoined sims seems very important still — moving down the road. Photo-novel 31 should start just after Christmas or around the New Year. Omicron’s moving in from the north west east south too. Soon we’ll be surrounded on all sides, blocked in. I need to keep my options open. I’ve had a good run at my job. I’m saying goodbye to the school as a whole, wrapping things up. I know where my mentors are, the painterly ones, the ones that draw as well, were able to bridge the gap between the two disciplines, like Paul Clay. I was relaying to a student I was working with the other day about not liking clay, as in pottery. Foundation classes were cool, but when I moved on to the specialty courses, like pottery, like *weaving* — not a weaver — I lost interest. I dropped out. I returned 6 years later under the good graces of the college, completed my art degree. But, as stated, I’m not a painter, even thought that was my declared emphasis. Never was. I’m not a Warren. I’m not a Dennis.
But what do I have instead? A canvas true, if a map can be considered as such. It’s the world as a whole but it’s very focused in on our US of A. And within that US of A: Iowa. Ringgold County, even — just one county. And at the center of that county: a hypercube; there can be no doubt. You look inside the translucent layers, like paper, and see the bottom writing on the walls. Everywhere.
Brend woke up, having fallen asleep while reading the book about dreams. The Princess of the Diagonal’s portrait loomed above him. He looked around. Nowhere in sight. Probably out exploring leads while the day people are safely tucked in bed, some having drawn the covers over their head. It was getting cold in the Nautilus highlands. Soon the frost would move down into the coast here. Time to go buy a jacket, he contemplates, maybe a tweed one. He probably has the place to himself for a while, perhaps the rest of the night. Good time to get some work done himself.
He contemplates the square before him while drinking molten silver, as they call the spiked coffee drink round these parts. He thinks of a joke here: “Do you know where the Nome King lives?” “I don’t know. Al-as-ka round.” A variation involves Anchorage, and, rarer, Douglas Fairbanks. Back to the map.
“It probably all starts in Alaska don’t you think?” offers W. from the side. “Northernmost — the cold moves south; down. Parameters established — upper limit. John Fitzgerald Kennedy City,” she then utters, looking me straight in the eye.
We start, of course, with the Diagonal, he thinks while studying. A lot of people enter that way; exit through Borneo. Like Marion Star Harding and his plane that turned endless instead of finite. He wore his inflammable suit which means it didn’t catch on fire which means he didn’t die. The Princess of the Diagonal is a bonafide expert on planes. She created this airport. She created Airton Hill itself, aligned it with Mount Ayr
up in the through the (common) air.
“You are going far,” W. encouraged. “You will get there tonight.”
He drew back. He took another sip of the spiked beverage. He’d lost Iowa. He recalls the old days, when a seed was planted just east of Des Moines. JFK took a bullet for it. What would *he* sacrifice?
(to be continued)
It had advanced beyond black and white. This was an all read situation, book in her eyes. Jennifer Lane I suppose. She wore a raspberry beret but this wasn’t her first time. She was indeed an experienced woman of the night but not quite that way. It’s complicated, more than you can perhaps imagine. Call it, just like these here photo-novels, 30 in a series of nothing: an experiment in complexity. Coral-like it keeps growing. We’re back on Nautilus, link to the outside world broken, perhaps beyond repair. The Oracle, the connection, has been damaged in at least 2 ways, rendering it practically useless for time-space transport. Borneo remains a past-future barrier. A box. But what are the contents?
We have come so far, all the way to the edge. We peer inside, waiting to see the bottom writing, like looking through stacks of translucent paper. Reality.
(to be continued)
“Using the tip from Sally, we followed the car all the way to the entrance of the park but could go no further. *Fifes* Grove Park, like in Barney Fife.”
“Like in Barney *Rubles*,” emphasized Man About Time, fascinated with the new information. He hardly ever emphasized anything in his speech, so mild manner and calm and cool and collected he is. But this seemed different. They had found a way… inside.”
“I thought you might want to know, being second in command of this here chilly town in the mountains.”
“So beige,” said MAT almost religiously. But he understood. “In case something happens to me,” is the unspoken sentiment.
The fog was thick in Collagesity tonight, so much so that the script I had prepared for certain actors there could not be read. We’ll have to look elsewhere for plot…
Maybe it will come from the outer islands of Nautilus, basically half encircling the roughly square archipelago of a continent from Castle Valeria to its nw all the way down to little Dizadare Isle more in the se, just nw of the tip of Yd Island, which in Lemon World speak, is the *origin* of All Second Lyfe itself and the source of the letter change from i to y to protect the youth and innocent and such. The Ratzenburger Rabbit is still around.
Jeffrey Phillips goes there tonight for spiritual renewal and warmth. Because it gets f-ing cold in mountainous Collagesity during foggy season. He can see a new plot line now. Jasper County, but the other (Newton) one. The one not yet used.
Le Mars was platted in 1869, but no lots were sold until the Chicago and North Western Transportation Company arrived in 1879. According to town legend, CNW investor John I. Blair and a group of women arrived at the town, which was then called St. Paul Junction. Blair asked the women to name the town, and they submitted an acronym based upon their first names’ initials: Lucy Underhill, Elizabeth Parson, Mary Weare, Anna Blair, Rebecca Smith and Sarah Reynolds.
Mars Beach in Hermania.
I know where Karoz is newly arrived from now.
Boos 10: “The Martian”.
Speaking of Collagesity collages displayed in other locations…