Especially before the introduction of Corona-V tall stouts into the local bar, the red topped town church at 56 Rose Lane was a way for people to set aside their different realities and gather together to pray toward a unifying deity most often called God. But, as we know, David A. B. was his “real” name, and he worked somewhere in the aether above Corsica Prime, making sure the right people got placed in the right spots on this continent, the other mainland masses be damned. We also know that Stranger Creek sim just off the northern coast was not one of his best works — a cock-up he called it on this here blog for all to witness. A cockamamie plan I added just afterwards, having been to the spot through the avatar known as Illuminatus, and also Arthur Kill. Yes, I, baker b., played both roles, as I always do on these nightly excursions in the virtual reality most often called Our Second Lyfe. Or, individually, Your Second Lyfe or My Second Lyfe. Because, you see, we are all experiencing different (virtual) realities when we come here. And that, I think, is what I’m trying to illustrate with Marsha and SEAN here. They exist in *similar* realities, sharing, for example, a church to go to in town. But — yes — reality is breaking down now due to the, ahem, beer. The local bar is also open on Sunday mornings for some inexplicable reason, but everything is to go these days, including the beer. In short, people are drinking at home this delicious but highly intoxicating brew and forgetting all about the gathering, the worshiping, the unity. They are all separated in their individual spheres, Marsha’s Second Lyfe over here and SEAN’s over there and “3rd wheel” Olive’s even different from either. Same with Mr. Fix It artist Gene Kelley, same with Lester the police car mechanic, and anyone else we’ll run into in Storybrook during our present story. The brook flows rapidly but with different currents. Currents. Each is row row rowing their boat to a different set of islands in the bay. And that boat, those islands, keep shifting around.
Inside the church, the lone occupant feels pleased at his work. Marty is a kind of God as well, one that wants to replace the starless black Bible with something red. And so it will come to pass, he declares. However, the real God has allowed this placement as well. “‘Starless and Bible Black’,” he deems, “will still reside inside ‘Red’, hidden like the ‘Lark’s Tongue in Aspic.'” But David A. B. was probably drunk when he spouted all this nonsense. We’ll see.
Sunklands 