“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.”
For our next filming location, we were in Trevally, holed up in a small but rather famous, local motel called Moglins Mote, with the missing “l” at the end being intentional, we were told, although no one seems to know the reason why. Heidi and I sat up most of the night watching art films on the tv, simply because the bed didn’t have any animations. Unexpected, obviously: we eventually fell asleep in each others arms on the couch. My back hurt in the morning. My neck as well. Heidi complained of knee problems. Yet we had to be out there at 9am, shooting with the rest of the cast and crew, Heidi’s orders. They all had the same problems with the beds. Understandably we decided to shorten our stay here, and perhaps cut back on the whole Lance A. Lott – Smokey brother re-bonding story due to be resolved in this sim. I saw Heidi with her pencil crossing out line after line on the script this morning, reaching down to rub her knees at various intervals. Actors Morris and Van Jimson, also brothers in real life, will likely be notified of the reduced lines and accompanying pay later today or tomorrow. Heidi is both fast and thorough, which makes her a top notch director in the business, right up there with fellow surrealist Eraserhead Man and the rest. But Heidi loathes comparisons with the Great Pencil, being his doppleganger and all beneath the surface, an unknown, intimate connection to most, although they play around with the truth by sharing motifs between their movies, even openly dealing with the doubling aspect at times. He was born a pencil and she a pen, but she decided to adopt a fully human body to more effectively play the lead heroine in her own films, and perhaps in other films in time. But right now she had her hands full with her own, and the flow of ideas didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.
It was odd to date Heidi both in real life and in “Sunklands 2021 Middle Too”, with the director part adding even more queer reverberations to the mix. When we make love sometimes, I think it is Heidi the character beneath me — or beside me or on top of me or whatever. Not Heidi the director/actor. It’s almost as if — only sometimes mind you — the characters we play are more real than ourselves, and that Heidi likes it that way. We are subsets of them and not visa versa.
“One more night in this place,” she says to me from the side, razorblade garb still in place. It’s starting to get a little freaky.
“I think I’ll just sleep right here in the pool,” I responded, and leaned back into the water, staring at the stars while floating until all turned to black.
She was about as far away from a cowgirl as you could get. But Marion Star Harding, cowboy for life, thought he was falling for this punk of a gal with her Mohawk haircut and razor blade eyeglasses and matching belt. She hadn’t even disclosed her last name yet; only went by Heidi. He tried to dig it out of her, and then dig it out of the internet. No go. Heidi plain and simple she was. For now: maybe later, he thought happily, she would be Heidi Harding, maybe even add a star in the middle for good luck. Heidi Star Harding. Sounds good. Maybe no need to know the maiden name. Or a married name if she had a previous husband. Turns out she had 4, with a 5th on the way.
“Cut!” the actor/director cried while standing up and getting out of character. “Great guys. See you tomorrow at 9.”
Finally finished with the bong hits and passing it on, school jock Nick Barkley reveals something to sometimes friend always lover Nef R. Titi about himself that he’s never done before.
“I think (*snort*)… that I’m becoming a (*choke*)… head (*final exhale*).
“You *think*,” she exclaims back with likewise glazed eyes. Might as well be 2 deer in the headlights.
“No (*wheeze*)… you don’t… understand.”
“Oh, I understand.” Nef was always under control, no matter how high she was, or so she claimed. Inside she had her doubts of course.
Nick just decided to lay down the cards and show her.
Open mouth response here; yes, she had finally lost control. She tumbled tumbled tumbled into the dizzying darkness, only to land at the bottom without something of her own. Her last name.
“I don’t know who I am!” she yelled in the blackness of the pit.
He should still be hopping mad but he couldn’t help cave in to his emotions.
“I love you, my little Sapphire, and I always will. No matter how many bong hits you take, no matter how many hitchhikers you pick up on the side of the road and then take to the nearest motel to make uninhibited love.”
“Oh dad,” she complained again. “You’re *soo* behind the times. But — I love you too.” She kisses him on the cheek and promises not to solicit any more wanderers of the highway until at least she’s set up at the motel.
My twin sister, thought a white woman nearby. Didn’t even come to the airport to see me off. Busy with her *Social Circle*. White supremacists, pheh. Might have well be dressed as white rats for a Nazi lab experiment going way too right for them, cheese nabbed every time. Well she wasn’t biting. And she’d met a man while here, one who prefers to go simply by L.A. Doris can know *nothing more* of him, she understands that now. But they’ll keep in touch.
The bearded man reading an ancient book of spells sees and hears everything.
(to be continued)
Often while waiting on one of his fantasyland clients to show or not show up, Marion Star Harding revisits the past through these series of pictures along the southern wall of his Southern Cross Airport hanger. Flying Cowboy, my first plane, he ruminates here. Star meant a different thing back in those days before the coming of newspapers and accompanying coffees and cigarettes. Simpler times, where the only reading occurred when you were perusing the assembly instructions for the latest flight device you’d just purchased.
Speaking of which: his still uncompleted bi-plane. Didn’t come with any paperwork. “I’ll finish it one day,” he speaks aloud to his completed plane just behind, thanking the Gods again that at least the old Flying Cowboys gang chipped in to help him finish that one. Else: no business! No flying fantasy people *anywhere*.
He then moves to the southwest corner of his hanger to check progress on that crazy, upward spiraling road his neighbors are building. Not much accomplished since last week, which puzzles him since he doesn’t know about the whole young’n vs. oldie war they’re going through right now.
Back to coffee cigarette and paper at his desk.
They’re building a roadway to heaven, these Harmony Heighters, but it seems a long way from finished. Maybe the oldies and young’n’s can’t agree on a direction, wouldn’t it be typical.
The road begins here, just behind the Commons House.
“I’m not talking to you this morning, *kid*,” grumpily spoke just risen Jack Pants without turning around, digging into his first stack of sausage pancakes.
“No, I’m not talking to *you*, gramps,” responded up-at-crack-of-dawn sixteen year old Nick Barkley also without pivoting, having finished his blueberry yogurt and granola breakfast 3 hours ago and just staring into space and killing time before the typically delayed group meeting.
Nick got little sleep on account of Jack DJ’ing at the ranger house until 2:30 in the morning, starting with the traditional “B-I-N-G-O”, which the oldies sang with gusto at the top of their lungs after a completed game of same.
(to be continued)
Concert tonight in Harmony Heights. The Rolling Joints, coming all the way over from Minnesota or Michigan, a long long ways indeed. They’ll obviously play their recently released hit single from the 70’s called “Money” to get to the root of the problem. This is a band with a strong political statement, and with their 3rd eyes squeegeed wide open, they know what it’s *all* about. Everything. They have a direct talk with God on at least a weekly basis, and I mean *direct*. Strangely he doesn’t appear to them as a flamey bush or a fiery, golden sphere or anything you would imagine, but a horned deer, a stag, claiming to actually be named Jon but without the usual “h”. He’ll yell something like, “get it the hell out of here!” when you insert such between the “o” and the “n” of his true, tripart title (they claim). “The 4th is not to be found anywhere upon my being or my soul!” Jon-God doesn’t like the number 4, and, in turn, usually leaves it out when he’s calling the citizens and denizens of Earth. Tip for the trippers, then: that’s how you know who’s dialing.
They hired these tree sized deer in order to appease their master. Twirling, early bird groupie Confusion Animesh obviously approves (stumble/*fall*).
The rest of the concertgoers will shortly be crowding the stage. The band will go on as soon as they finish talking to Jon.