The crows are still up there, thinks Venus down on the ground below the high spired church. Mid-Hazel is still here in Heartsdale — manipulating John.
And I am *certainly* unable to help now the Mission portal is gone. Right Snaily?
There are so many stories to tell about Corsica, as it’s turning out. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do an adequate job. How to match the potential of the continent??
Always the peaks not too far away, always surprising me with their appearance. Peakology to complement the already established Sinkology? It might be so.
I’ve hardly begun to scratch the surface. Better get back to Bena…
While he was in this confined space with limited view, Herbert Gold liked to increase his draw distance so he could see the mountain. One day, not far down the road, he was going to climb that mountain.
Yes, this place for his house would work. April Mae should be arriving tomorrow from the Omega continent, vacation with gardener in tow *over*. Thank God. But he can’t speak much about that… because of Merry.
“Merry, Merry, Merry,” he lamented, looking at the computer screen again and contemplating when to dump the smoking gun *this* time.
A noise (a *plop*?). He opens the other door to his study.
But no wee ones here. He misses them. He’ll ask Baker Bloch if there’s any way possible to bring them back.
She wasn’t named for this gray scale alien. Instead: the gray scales of a fish to oppose the blue feathers of a bird. In toto: Grey Scale Kimball of the South pitted against Blue Feather Douglas of the North. Bird, sky, opposed by Fish, sea.
But in staring at the crop circle picture again hanging in the recently reconstructed House of Truth at the very center of Golden Sink, she’s beginning to think she *is* named for this famous, highly complex 2002 crop circle that miraculously appeared overnight in a field of wheat near Pitt, England (locally: Crabwood Farm). Both “grey scale”. Too coincidental.
Crabwood of August 15 was one of the most famous crop pictures in modern history, but no one could really understand its message. As shown in two pictures below, the schematic face of a “grey alien” was drawn within a large “rectangular box” that contained 60 horizontal lines, just as for an early “mechanical” TV image, chosen in the 1930’s because we use 60 Hz AC power. The variable width of each line then creates different “gray scales” (modern TV screens use far more lines to give better pictures):
Next, that rectangular box with an alien face was carefully aligned so that it would point at two, nearby TV-radio towers. This was as if to say: “Yes, our new crop picture is really meant to represent the TV image of a grey alien.” In other words, those crop artists can only see the alien “from a distance”, where the word “television” means of course “seeing over a distance”.
Now in one lower corner of that rectangular box, the crop artists also drew a “spiral disc” which contained an elaborate, ASCII-coded binary message as shown. I have omitted all concerns for punctuation or capitalization here, for increased clarity, especially since the last five bits of an ASCII code give one of 26 letters in the English alphabet.
In summary, the crop artists sent us a brief “computer recorded message” on CD or DVD, to accompany their TV-type image of a grey alien. Was Crabwood really alien-made? Many investigators thought so then, and continue to think so now….
And then there’s *Maebaleia’s* Crabwoo, she ponders further, another rectangular box (2 side-by-side, square shaped sims) whose northwest corner just touched the eastern edge of the Blue Feather Sea.
Original capital of the North before its decline and eventual death circa AL 1812-1814. Ur home of Blue Feather Douglas who derived
his her name from the sea. Her arch-enemy. Her… sister? Doppleganger? Is he even a she? We’ll most likely find out soon enough.
“So what do you think?”
“Nice. Elements of TILE. This will do. For a while,” she tacked on.
“Of course.” Big Wanda shifted her sturdy legs. “You know you didn’t have to shoot that girl. She wasn’t doing anything but doing her job.”
“I know.” Little Oakley Annie waved her heavily used revolver in the air with this. “I just didn’t like the way she talked. Too nasal.”
“You shot her in the *nose*. You didn’t have to do that.”
“She lived. In fact, she’s right over there at the coffee shop. She came with me. We made up while you’ve been away scouting for a new place. I bought her a new nose. Plastic. New place; new nose.”
Recalling the awful scene, a surprised Big Wanda looked away from Lake Como, searching for the pot peddling girl they’d met in Rethymno behind them. No luck. Instead, Little Oakley Annie and her gun pointed kind of toward her own nose dominated the view. “You do believe me?”
“Umm. Of course, Little Oakley… Annie.”
“Because if you *didn’t*…” Annie positioned her gun more threateningly, the face obviously a target now.
“Of course I believe you,” Big Wanda reinforced, starting to sweat.
Little Oakley Annie then threw herself back on the rainbow colored recliner, laughing. “Because I didn’t… she’s dead.”
Big Wanda gathered her legs under her again. “Oh.”
“Yeah, that face was pizza after I got finished with it. Which reminds me… I’m starved. Any place to eat around here? I’ve had enough coffee.”
Obviously, though Big Wanda, but dare not say it aloud at this moment. Must remember not to buy LOA any 4 shot expressos again. Nor talk in a nasal way in any shape or form. Talk through the mouth, talk through the mouth, talk through the mouth…
“Hmm. I should catch up with the deported Roger Pine Ridge over in Iris tonight.”
“It’s bigger than your apartment in Collagesity, Roger,” Mmmmmm Grassy Noll attempted to pursuade. “Better views probably. You can see all the way to the Moth Temple if you squint.”
“I don’t want to squint,” replied Roger Pine Ridge levelly. “I want my eyes wide open all the time.” He looked at the surrealist painting that came with the apartment; indicated it to Grassy. “And what’s *this* suppose to be?”
“It’s a Dali.”
“That’s not a Dali,” Roger Pine Ridge quickly corrected. “I know Dali. This isn’t one of his.”
“Sure it is,” countered Grassy. “Here, let me just click through the paintings. It’s a set of 4. 4 Dali’s. Surely you recognize the famous melted watches painting.”
“Yeah, that’s one of his. The butterfly ship is not,” insisted Roger Pine Ridge. “Wanna make a bet?”
“I tell you what. If that ain’t a Dali then I’ll talk Baker Bloch into sending you back to Collagesity and ending your sentence here in your ‘swamp village’ once and for all.”
2 days later:
“Ahhh. Good to be home.”
“It was always going to be you and me, babe,” spoke robot Bendy from the couch. “And Alberta here too, I guess. What’s he hunting today?”
“Shellfish,” answers mergirl Prissy from her stand.
But Alberta’s greater passion was providing equipment for journeys into the center of the Earth. He waits patiently for his master Dr. Mulholland to finish her ride.
Er… his ride. This may take longer than expected.
“We’re outta here Jack.”
Jack manifests who he really is. “Goodbye Bendy my old friend. Safe journeys.”
“Hold on to your seat Fisher! HERE WE GO!”
Grace Zebriskia gasped when seeing The Musician pass earlier this morning on his way over to Wheeler Wilson’s Japanese house.
“Good morning, Grace.”
“Good *morning*, Mr. Musician. How… how are you?”
“Fine Grace, fine. Never mind all this. I’m fine. Have a good day.”
“You too sir!”
Deep in meditative thought, Jimmy’s bunkmate Rey Wisa did not turn in his seat to look, but only echoed a vacant hello to The Musician’s passing hello. He knew what had happened.
He stops in front of Grace’s twin cousin Jowday and asks if Wheeler is up yet. “Yes sir,” she replied, markedly not as surprised with The Musician’s appearance as her virtual doppleganger. He briefly wonders why before moving on.
“Musician! What have you done to yourself?!”
“I got rid of the stigmata, Wheeler. Jimmy fixed me up. Said he did the same thing for his astronomer friend Philip back in Australia.”
“Can you *undo* it?” she asked with mouth still dropped.
He paused, disappointed in her reaction. Then: “I think not.”
“Well throw a shirt on all that at least, for Christ’s sake. The Millers are waiting for us in the gazebo.”
The Musician then rummaged through his inventory for a suitable breakfast shirt. Not too punk but not too tame. And, obviously, with long sleeves.