Category Archives: 0107

December 9, 2022 · 6:30 am

restored/inside

“Sorry about the hole, Mr. Johnston.”

“Please. Call me Albert,” insisted the tall, black clothed man sitting before him, seeing each other not quite eye to eye like before but getting there. He wanted to make sure he was up close and personal with the troubled man, try to soothe his rather frayed nerves. Yes, Albert had issues. He moved from behind the desk to here, perched before him like another one of his birds.

“I have to separate the wheat from the chaff,” he explained, gazing into his face from slightly above. “As you probably noticed, all I have out there waiting any more are dummies, complete idiots.” Mouse looked down, trying to phrase his frame of mind in a more polite way. “I don’t have time for that any more,” he said, deciding to end that way. Albert’s turn now.

“I… understand?”

“You’re a real life person in this afterlife sort of situation. I appreciate that. You are tall but you can become quite small. That proves you are human. More effective than picking out chimneys on a house or signs on a road. This is not the DMV if you see what I’m saying.”

“Understand… I?”

“Yes, I know how you feel, I certainly do.” Mouse rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he sometimes does to impress a client, especially an important client like this. Albert was here to talk about the girl: he knew that. But which one?

(to be continued)

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October 4, 2022 · 6:08 am

link?

“Yeah, this place is definitely whacked,” he said, trying his own i-pad for size.

They were down on the beach now. North — South. The only directions Albert could successfully navigate. Although he could still look “out”. Claude was back with him. Albert knew more, knew he was stuck for some reason. And Claude or someone directly connected to him was responsible. And he now called himself a *receiver*. What the hell? “Like Paul Warfield?” he decided to say to this. Silence between them after that, then:

“That wasn’t very nice what you called me back there.”

“Back where?”

“West from here. This is North, we *were* in West. Thus all the sideways stuff. You’re *stuck*.”

“Hmm, so you’ve said.” He could look out but not go out — lateral. Like a chess piece that can only move file and not rank or diagonal.

“Is it because I’m a prevert? Is that why I’m here?”

“Could be could be.” He was still working with his i-pad despite the sideways disadvantage Albert could clearly see from his angle. Claude made sure of that.

“Tell you what,” he then said. “Look over there, in the distance. See that darker boat with the mast sticking up? Just over there behind the swing thing hanging from the palm.” Albert follows his point and sees.

“There’s two women over there on that island, just on vacation, a break from the rat race. They’re *gay* mind you, no two ways about it if you know what I’m saying. I know you don’t like gays.”

“I don’t like *anybody*,” Albert reinforced, indeed prejudice against the world at large. He’s hateful and hurtful when he sees an opening. The disrespected minorities like Claude, like those ladies apparently, just represent a more worldly acceptable target to him. He tells this in basically using the same words and phrasing to Claude.”

“I know, that’s why I’m giving you this chance. The boss — at least the one I deal with — has given you a break because — well, just like you said. You hate the world in general, etc., etc.”

“I *do*,” Albert reinforced. “Thus the black, thus the infatuation with black. I like black.”

“One thing,” Claude then said. “Apologize.”

“For what?”

“Apologize about what you said to me back there, on the beach.” He pointed West this time instead of North, or North by Northeast. Could Albert do it?

(to be continued)

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July 25, 2022 · 3:42 pm

Arabian Nights

Newt brought Jane Space over to Ontario or thereabouts (it was Tonar) to interview her for an acting position, similarly colored couch *acting* as an attractor. Turns out the couch would have been a better choice. Jane was simply too spacey to reply to much of what Newt was asking. “What did you say?” she repeated for the umteenth time when he probed further into her past for needed experience and references. Soo many memories. Galaxy memories, the deepest and most unfathomable kind. She’d have to keep thinking to assess them all but the pit was bottomless, an Abyss in other words. She’d need TILE to escape it all but that was still in the future a bit, perhaps 7 days or weeks or years. Jane Space knew that the universe had corners and that was about it. Muff-Birmingham in one, the fabled 1/2 desert 1/2 jungle realm where she spent some of her formative years — forming. She recalls her pregnant mother in the spaciness. “There — that was me.” “I’m sorry, what?” came Newt’s reply, already given up on her and thinking about the next potential character-actor he could interview.

Wait… the next one was pregnant as well! Okay, okay, I think through him. Synchronicity, right. “Tell me, Jane — Jane, are you there, are you with me?” Jane sleepily answered affirmatively. “Tell me about your mother.”

—–

“Okay, so is this her?” he then asked after the teleport invite was accepted and bits actor Alessia appeared on the couch between them, needed google eyes in place since she said none of her clothes fit now due to the weight gain. A similarly eye sized blue ball also appeared and Jane knew. Daddy.

“Yesss.”

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May 16, 2022 · 11:23 am

00330107

“No it has to be one of those other colors,” Denisce decides, which was in her name after all. A decision maker she was, a go getter. And blue wasn’t in her name aim. George neither.

“Aw, *rats*,” he says, and starts moving toward his clothes.

—–

“Blue,” George begins, floating like a ball in his Southwestern pool as Little George, thinking of Michigan and some other stuff. “And yellow — *that’s* what did my beloved Duncan in, Marty.” George looked over at the red topped Beetle, checking to see if he was actually listening. Because he often wasn’t. He was currently looking at his soaked shoes and wondering how to slip them off and make his feet bare, like young George’s tootsies over there. He was wondering how he could Be Like George.

“Are you hearing me, Marty?”

“Um, sure sure. Blue, right.”

“And…?” George prompts.

“Um… *yellow*, yeah yeah. Real reet.”

George actually shakes his head with this while floating in the water. George thinks that Marty isn’t black. He should stop trying so hard. The Mann, pheh. “So that leaves…?” he prompts again.

“Red and green.” Marty was starting to pick it up. The Annaberg balloon; Blue and Yellow seeing a yellow sunrise with his two blue peepers. Duncan didn’t look the other way this time. This was all about TILE.

“You disappeared into that rock over there, you rocker. Do you even recall *that*?”

He recalled… something about a Cyclone. Blue and yellow. Then red and green. Oz.

Wizard Cube

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March 8, 2022 · 11:07 am

levels

“1st off, the umbrella girl in Lorsters Worst *gives* umbrellas, doesn’t just hold one. That’s a big difference in my eyes.”

“That means,” speculates Dickie Doom as well, “Blue Rose Thorn is still relevant, despite being stuck.”

“What I’m thinking,” Debbie agreed. “I’m going back. You stay here in case I need to be rescued.”

Dickie nodded. This was the end of their discussion until something else developed, something totally new. Because the umbrella girl wasn’t giving out umbrellas until Debbie showed up.

—–

There are *2* Dooms, thinks Pot-D or Pan-Z spy Lester Best from his position just around the corner. And the second is recording(!).

Debbie walks inside. Now to figure out how to get this elevator from 01 to 02, she pondered, and started touching stuff.

(to be continued)

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January 7, 2022 · 10:26 pm

Yes-i-am

A scientist that is, and the twins have fascinated me since their death and rebirth in 1874, when they were brought to my attention as Chief Medical Officer aboard the ever circling U.S.S. Ararat, also during a previous life mind you. Once I put such facts down on paper (or, these days, up on computer screens) it becomes real to me too, and as historically accurate as anything else produced from the annals of Our Second Lyfe. We’re working on it…

Above: Edith and Archina Bunker, fresh from a watery grave after their first lives as men Archie and Ed (photo by Telescope Ted).

From my orbital perspective I was able to directly study their 2 part brains — trace the duality back to a singular state, a Ylem Condition I called it, obsolete term now, and before it was used in Physics. I would even argue that the word was lifted from my studies in the late 40s during my second stint as a Chief Medical Officer, stationed over the Pacific instead of the Atlantic this time and assuming a new and different body with a different overall, attached name. Bodies, pheh. Can’t live with them (etc.). Now I am Rose but before I was Leela and, before that, Eyela. That should take us back far enough if memories serve. It’s all a long story.

The reason I can even talk about such things is that the attic of the house has just shifted over to the basement again, its proper position, since this is the third Sunday’s Monday of the year’s month’s day. Sorry to be so technical, but I’m trying to put this in perspective. I have employment of my lab and its microscope again and am not stuck with the attic’s telescope, useful in its day for long distance space experiments (see Telescope Monkey Trials of Xenon 10-C for another prime example of this) but limited when actually Earthbound, as I am now — in this house — in these icy woods on the edge of the world that is known as the Omega continent. My term again. Steal it if you must. 🙂

And, playing God to the hilt and influenced by my troubled water surroundings, I’ve managed to retro-engineer a man (!), an Adam to my Eve, except he came from *my* rib instead of visa versa, as popular Bibles around the Earth have preached. For now he’s just a Giant for a Day type of fellow but, maybe soon, Giant Forever as source material Genesis is further overridden and a return to anonymity is guaranteed after the erasure of a successful solo career (I get all this from Gabriel) — if I can merge 1st and 2nd so that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Here’s hoping!

Sorry for the broken sentences but I’m excitedly writing this in the middle of the night with weakened coffee drink due to a pre-blog kitchen spillage. Tragedy! But I can properly replenish my supplies in the morning. Starbucks, let’s see, opens in 1/2 an hour…

I call him my 1/2 brother since he has my rib, but he also contains the brain of an A.B. Normal I picked up on my travels to the Further East for more silk and other exotic fabrics that my tailors can use. They *are* really good at making clothes from scratch. Just not good bodyguards as stated before. Thus the reason for transforming or *enclosing* the house here with a hypercube, a psychic overlay. Big Red would understand, if he could move past the 9th and into a 10th and denounce the singularity as well, becoming double brained too. I have all the charts here. He could be the one. I call him my baby because he is always sans clothing, even though the tailors beg me to allow them enough cloth to fashion at least a diaper, hmph. There’s always the big litter box down in the basement, er, up in the attic for that I always counter. And he will be one with my half brother soon enough. Even now, he’s been caught wandering into my red bedroom in the heart of the night, picking up on future memories instead of the past. One day…

(to be continued?)

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November 10, 2021 · 8:02 am

battleground boy

He stares down at the soup ladle he still holds in his red hands, understanding it is a mnemonic device. “George,” he utters aloud, having lost track of the one person in the world he’s not suppose to. Again.

But George was safely tucked in dreams right now, talking to red headed Marty about TILE while floating on his Lake. A boy of 13 to 10 back to 13, over and over. Right now: 13, 6 inches taller than the shortest version when either upright or lying down. “Duncan was fortunately looking the other way this time,” he says to the young boy, if not the youngest. “Toward the red and green balloon. We may not be as fortunate the next time. The raspberry lady guides.” He leaves it at that.

He sips his stale lemonade and is gone.

George wakes up, wondering who “we” is.

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September 26, 2021 · 7:54 am

Close enough.

A girl within. Looks like Jill Valentine but it’s not. And I’ve run into another girl named Valentine recently. Can’t remember where…

Oh, of course: *Faye* Valentine. With the gun. On the *other* Diagonal we’re currently examining.

Cowboy Bebop. Mimosa Lanes. Ur-parents. Still guiding (“We: here”). Hoooome cooking, Andy Griffith NC style.

—–

Marion “Star” Harding, cowboy for life, ponders the death of his lover, his *director*, in that awful explosion over in Paper-Soap. Oh Heidi — or whatever your actual name was — I will miss you deeply. I will miss the *money* coming in, because I was one of your favorites. You cast me in every film you directed, and even though I didn’t get every part (too obvious!), I got a good heap of ’em. We were together tonight, albeit briefly.

All we have are memories.

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August 13, 2021 · 10:14 am

visitors

“What’s your name, stranger?” Stu (today) Umbriel was checking out the new bar in town, this *Dinah’s*, switched from Moe’s. Moe wasn’t around any longer.

“You can just call me… Windmill Man.”

Stu looked over again with this, noted the propeller beanie on his balding skull. “Hmmm,” he thought internally. “Cool,” he said externally. “My aunt lived in a windmill.”

“So do I,” the stranger shot back, and took a long hard drink of his jungle juice produced by bartender Stumpy (hi Stumpy!) just seconds before, emptying the 1/2 coconut. “Next!” he called over to him, clanking the hollow object on the counter loudly. He didn’t even have time to wash his hands.

—–

A mysterious fern floated into town, hoping to take over someone’s mind.

No, not that one, although that’s also a fern and also floated into town. Just chance (insert nervous laugh). We’re talking about Fern Stalin, who came in on a Messenger Featherfloater from over in Brilliant, one of the most interesting rim islands of Maebaleia along with its twin of sorts: Mistery, the name a combination of mystery and misery. And it was! We should return.

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June 19, 2021 · 6:08 am

center star

“Kolya *does* rule this land. It’s as if it all takes place in his rain damaged head.”

“Upper part,” elaborates [delete name]. “The lower still belongs to bottles.”

“Okay,” I responded, happy for the half.

—–

“I need to get out of here, sir. I’ve tried air, I’ve tried water. I’ve even tried land.”

The old man chuckled. “You’re a funny one, Kolya. Drinking from a bottle. Talking about *leaving* here, heh. Why would anyone want to exit such peace and harmony? You’ve seen the waterfall that rules us all. We’re all under the umbrellas under the rainbow, safe and sound. Mama’s home. Good cook’n.” Marvin Baggy licks his lips and pats his belly satisfactorily here, then kicks his feet out, props them against the white porch railing of the ranger tower that has become a popular hangout for the old and feeble. Someone further north — or perhaps east — told Kolya he could get answers here. Maybe they were pulling a prank on him, especially since they told him to make sure to drink out of a bottle down there (or over there) and not a can. “That’ll give you away,” the man said to him, or perhaps it was a woman. A tomboy, yes, that was it, a grown up tomboy, Asian in race if not complexion, which was instead red.

“Ahh, I feel sorry for ya, stranger,” admitted the geezer on the porch of the tower, waiting for the others to show up. Bingo night tonight, and afterwards some kind of rave I’m sure. Always is. Sometimes the young’n’s (as they call them; some: whippersnappers) down at the bar have to complain about the noise and the lateness of it. Ahh, yes. Salty Bobs’ a sleepy place in comparison, full of stoners taking naps and druggies shooting craps. Dice are not that noisy if covered with fuzz, which they always are soas not to wake the stoners. Originally designed to dangle from the rear view mirror of your car, the ornaments have moved inside and reacquired their original purpose, shrunk down a bit in the process.

“Someone’s coming down from the old house, Nick,” spoke Gotham on the couch, probably already stoned out of his mind and thus the lack of a joint or bong. “I can *feel* it.” He lifts his arms in the air while still reclining, much like a clairvoyant does just before channeling a spirit hovering somewhere nearby, ready to enter the body. Gotham’s own body starts convulsing. It worked! He quietens down; he stares glazy eyed at the roof of the establishment, ignoring the sea barnacles and peering directly into the great beyond.

Nick Barton looks over, notices the grey in his beard. “Isn’t it about time you moved up the hill to the old folk’s place and livened up a bit? You’ll turn into a corpse just laying there like that!” Nick flushes and turns toward the crappers on the other side, emitting a small “sorry” for shouting.

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