It started in earnest on that first night Tessa saw snow flying. She turned her small head round and round, taking in the wonder of it.
Wheeler seemed to have kind of ended her travels. Now was the time to focus on the meaning of Cow as a whole. Her own half-brother!
She looked up to him, giant for a day.
Meanwhile, at 181 181 Rosehaven Thornwood:
“Peet Archer must have missed the big amethyst cluster because of that blocking tree.” She walks over.
“Quite pretty, and right on The Diagonal of the sim (188, 188).” But Wheeler/Hidi can’t stare directly at it, distracted by the eerie mist all around. Better get back to the Blue Feather for a reset.
Another, more visible crystal cluster at 174, 174.
At the top of Slot Mountain, Phillip’s head becomes bigger, anticipating a screw.
Sorry, but that’s just what he was thinking. The important thing: the mastermind behind Our Second Lyfe is here on the island; the slit acted as an attractor.
“I remember you. That Jeogeot art thing.”
“Yeah,” I replied beside him. “We’re back.” I took a breath and looked down into the slot. It all started here, I remember. On this island.
“I died (!).”
His head got big again. He jumped into the slot, trying it out. Didn’t work. He jumped back up. “I so want to get this *over* with.”
“There’s only one way and you know it,” I spoke. “Begin again.”
He jumped back down. He couldn’t help himself. Longer this time. I realized what he was. Back he comes, head diminished. But the whole process is slowing down up here. “When *does* it start?” he asks at the lip. “I mean: life itself. I’m down there but I’m not down there. I’m up here as well.”
“Art,” I said. “Takes time. Building the proper receptacle.”
“A mountain, a castle,” he ritually pronounced.
He tries again, yet more successful.
“I don’t get it Elberta. How come you turned out so nice and I came out so… *bad*?”
“Aww, it’s just the place we’re from, Filbert (= Toothpick),” she spoke prettily. Everything about her was dainty and proper. No Southern slur to her voice, even though, like her brother Filbert/Toothpick, she was originally from the deep South. She downed chicken after chicken just like the rest of ’em, but never licking and smacking her fingers. Put her overalls on one suspender at a time, but with demure and grace. No shirts for anyone — she couldn’t get away from that. Just pants, and overalls if you’re lucky. You get one pair and then when you wear those out that’s it, unless someone dies in the family and you inherit theirs. There’s been rumors of murders just because of this. And then you have to make sure another sibling or cousin or something hasn’t been pushed out of a womb and grown up fast enough in front of you to earn theirs right on the spot, before the grave dirt’s hardened and the mourning flowers wilted. Wild flowers we’re talking about here, because no one from their parts can afford the shop ones. Like city lady Norm the Cashier’s exotic blend of Amazonia specimens over in the Black Ice district. No south of the border for them. They’ll never move beyond the front part of the palindrome involving Panama.
So here they sit in front of a dividing canal, one man and one plan. A canal going nowhere — Elberta had detected there was no flow to the current early on, but still came to fish here. If only for the beer and the company of her brother. Here, down in this sunken channel of rock and cement, she could escape the stares of the others. The ogles of the ogres she likes to think of it. “We are a pair,” she said, leaning over toward him and elegantly handing him the empty, with the understanding that he’d stand up, open the box cooler, and give her a full one in return. He was obedient, but yet he was also a slave again. A slave to tradition. Brothers usually marry their sisters in the deep South culture, with twins no exception. Usually. He counted the days and weeks in his mind. 17. Just enough to get settled into the new temple with the new avatar God and make arrangements. He was hoping their parents would actually go out and buy him a new pair of overalls for the wedding but we’ll see. Usually doesn’t happen that way; usually someone has to die as stated. Uncle Luther has the flu, Filbert can’t help but think here. He imagines another funeral before the wedding with freshly donned dungarees.
“I’d say it’s from the future,” studying Jim B. answered Baker Bloch about the revolving head in a jar. “Connected to Cassandra and its own head in a jar, of course. Something about dad…”
“And *root* beer,” he furthered, looking at the 6-pack on the table with the head. “Not beer beer. So something not involving alcohol. I’d say this man was an alcoholic on the wagon. Perhaps that is the thing which did him in.”
“Isn’t Anderson called Blacks?” Baker Bloch called from the back, nearer the video feed. He was checking.
“How would I know?” answered Jim B., who preferred the surname Brown himself. “But if it is, and you should probably know…”
She stands at a crossroads outside the motel. David A.B. and Linda Halsey are still talking in the lighted patio outside the lobby. They would be doing this as long as the motel itself existed, she realized. She stares toward the mysteriously highlighted red-blue-green gate to the east (sky-sea-land). She’s *been* here before, she realizes while studying it and almost being hit by a right turning, beat up station wagon with Illinois license plates in the process. BDR529. Not quite all the numbers but getting there.
“Where there are churches there must be liquor stores,” she remarks confidently while walking between two. She goes in a direction no Yoko has ever gone before, messing with the patterns.
“So this is what you do all the time, Baker B.?” asked observing Marty at Collagesity’s Blue Feather Table Room.
“Pretty much,” admitted the male baker version to the famous composer/musician variant.
“W-where is she going? She’s just heading off in a random direction.”
“Not random,” spoke Baker Bloch. “Hopefully.”
“What is this place?” Marty further queried.
“Heartsdale. It’s in title.” Baker looked over, confident in his randomness. “She’s been here before,” he added. “Or *I* have.”
“And this has — something to do with John.”
“Absolutely,” I crowed. “Bakersworks,” I said to end.
“She’s *good*, Katy,” states Keith B., listening in on “The Real Me.”
“Call me *Kate*,” Kate McCoy hawed back.
“Alright, Kate. But she’s not as good as my little girl.”
“Oh, just *shut* UP about your little girl. What about ME?”
“A different castle, Hucka Doobie. But still in Splinterwood. You can tell by the position of the divide between that sim and Hilling. We have landed; we are grounded.”
“Say (that picture) was about 6 years ago, huh,” the wise bee-being replied to my Corsica peak ramblings tonight. “And what of the others? You better check.”
“Well: Yuiselle,” I replied. “That hasn’t changed since all that land is protected. It’s not far from Splinterwood as well. Just a couple sims to the southwest.”
“Southwest again,” spoke Hucka Doobie. “And the third and last for tonight?”
“4 sims directly west of Southwest…”
“… Castle,” Hucka ended.
Peak of Moork; Yuiselle summits in the background.
Moork (left) and The Yuiselles (right).
Band playing beneath The Yuiselles. “Lamb” again?
“Celebration (End of Rain),” 2016
“She’s always hanging around, Parasol. It gets annoying.”
“She has just as much right to hang around here as you — us.” Parasol points to Ingo across from her and then herself and then back and back again to reinforce. “You better put your sphere back on. You’re getting weak already.”
“Alright.” He does as Parasol told him. The witch hovering outside the window suddenly flitters off, soon landing on a summit just below. As if the sphere drove her away. And perhaps it did.
She’s at the fire tree now,” spoke Parasol, standing up to get a better view.
“She’s always at the fire tree,” returned Ingo, back in form. “She’s up to something. Norris say…”
“Norris?” queries Parasol (not back in form).
After Parasol left, Ingo decides to teleport down to the tree for further investigation. But no sign of the cat-witch. It *could* have something to do with Purple Wolverine, thinks Ingo, looking further down toward the roughly circular island below and its lone residence. It’s time for a visit anyway. See what he’s been up to. Make sure he’s in line with the code still. What a mischief maker!
Game over, already? Aww. And I was just starting to enjoy myself.
I’ve got to get on it and start to clean up this place, thought handyman Danny Pajamy after the fact, Mr. Clean outside his humble abode but totally slack within. Bob Dobbs would be proud.
Keys jingle somewhere — perhaps on the video he left, um, running? Then they jingle *again*. Someone… someone at the door! he thinks in a panic, remembering what just happened.
Yeah, cleaning. That’s what he’s doing. Cleaning.
“Hellooo? Anybody home?”
They became the Adam and Eve of Golden Sink. Green Acers. Oliver. Blue Feather Douglas; Grey Scale Kimball. It was all in one.
Many theorems have been written trying to explain who they are. Why sometimes with dogs, why sometimes accompanied by cats…
… and then, at other times: alone? Separate even, perhaps, but maybe not as well. Probably not.
They shortly figured out that this was some kind of original home, since deleted. Perhaps a precursor to the House of Truth or running parallel to it.
An Ur Residence.
“It’s important to know where you are and where you are going and/or have been,” Tillie stated to the others after a preliminary study had been completed.