I dreamed the snow was butterflies.
Wake up, wake up, wake *up*.
“Things are breaking down here at Slot Mtn. my precious precocious child. You will not be able to hold me much longer in your net.”
Toddles thought of Canada, of the weakening of Our Second Lyfe. When was a breaking point? Perhaps *now*.
She decides to take action. The grandma will have to be drugged again, pheh. Always the bad headache in the morning for her when this happens. She never suspects. Her precious precocious Toddles! But the grammy also doesn’t understand the Boos collages and their inherent Canadian-ness and will always favor the earlier Red Umbrella works and not understand that if things change in them it is because of the future which is the now. *102* is trying to communicate with her. But Casey One Hole, the a-hole of a man sitting before her and stating he is about ready to be let loose upon this virtual world with no checks in place, wants or is seeking the same thing. The Dirty Little Wet Seed is Adam: Atom-man. This produces the Green Tree. And inside the tree is Lemmy. And Lemmy is the one that can end the 102 and the salvific effect if he stays pat, protection (safety net) withdrawn.
But whose head is in the jar now? That must be the next question before we proceed further. I can’t quite get the right match. It’s not Homer. Not any longer. I don’t think.
Casey One Hole, formerly Taum Sauk of Bigfoot, Blue Mountain Urban Landscape (or thereabouts), US of Our A, continues: “If you place the right head in the jar, child, then maybe, *maybe* Your Second Lyfe can remain intact. I’ll allow that at least. Whose head did I hit with my mighty club to dislodge it from the body? Is it Homer still? The name certainly fits because they found it, bruised and battered, far over some left field fence. Think about that, child, while you stare at your Canadian images in your Canadian gallery with the 102 sister firmly set in place at a certain point.” Casey One Hole stops. He’s said too much. Must be all the caffeine for supper.
Sister? thought Toddles. Sister!
She knew this was the one. “I’m going in, Grammy. Wish me luck!”
“Hi Toddles! I’m Hucka Doobie! Grab a shovel and let’s start *digging*. We’ve got to get me away from that club!”
Oh dear, she thinks while shoveling and staring into the resulting hole at the corner of this western Canadian yard. What have I gotten myself *into*??
“Faster, faster!” the bug eyed, yellow headed bee-being who cannot dig himself commands from the side.
The ball comes. The hole is dug. Just in time.
“Where’d you get that *hair*, brother of mine.”
Toothpick pats the top of his now thickly padded skull. “Neptune hair. It’s all the rage in the central parts of The City. Just a demo for now — trying it out. You like?” He moves his piece of straw around in his mouth in rhythm with Elberta’s. Both notice. Both turn a little red (?).
“Ahem, yes I suppose.” She couldn’t say much since she was testing out a demo as well. Silence for the moment, then: “Do you think he’ll still show up tonight?”
“You know. Spongebub. The reason we’re here. We need to tell him that his wife is still alive and well in Urqhart or thereabouts, selling rental units for the Illuminati. That’s the organization she was working for all along. It was the drink–”
“Sponge*bob*?” Toothpick was backing up, unable to understand the line of thought pointing to the single eyed ones, The Residents and Firesign Theatre (or Theater) both.
“*Bub*,” reinforced the sister. “We’ll call him bub in this lower, more paradoxical dimension.” She reconsidered the word. What was the adjective form of parody? She didn’t know. She remained quiet, waiting for him to talk again.
“You mean the little yellow fellow, the square one?”
“Yes. Sponge*bub*,” she pronounced again.
“You mean like the little yellow, square fellow on the floor beside me right now?”
“He’s right here. Beside me. He’s been here for a while. I thought you knew.”
Elberta stands up, peers over the edge of The Table and sees the top of Spongebub’s square head with its big goofy peepers ogling (?) back. “Oh. Okay.” She keeps staring, looking for signs of life. “Why isn’t he *doing* anything — saying anything?”
“Go ahead, little fellow,” encouraged Toothpick by his side.
“Bahahahaha!” suddenly came the activated sound upon this request. “She has a square just like *me*!” He reads above her head in his high pitched and oh so nasal voice. “Gone… mo… ing.” Spongebub puts a yellow finger to his now down-turned line of a mouth, a thinking gesture complete with bulging eyes rolled upward. “Err.” He stares forward again. “What’s a mo-ing?”
They correct him as one, synchronized once more.
Back to the canal for the both of ’em.
Buster gave Duncan what he thought might be good news. “They decided to get married after all, the brother and the sister. Disturbing I know. But par for the course in the Deep–”
Duncan hung up. He was already mentally prepared to move to the Sunklands to stay with Elberta and Toothpick. It was as if a cushy rug had been rudely jerked out from under his feet, leaving him to fall to a rock hard floor he understood all too well. It was his cell.
(to be continued)
“I don’t understand what I’m suppose to be *learning* here!”
A noise from the back of the room. She had awoken someone. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here,” the boyish male voice sleepily repeated, as if waking up from a dream. “I’m here.”
But when she got up and turned in surprised response no one was there.
“I feel this is a sinful religion, Sister Mary. God is not colors (!).”
“Not sinful,” replies the perhaps wiser Mary to Brother Joseph. “Simple,” she decides, and looks up toward the minor God that is Carrcassonnee, wondering if they can truly reactivate her today.
She can just see the naked eye, and wonders what happened to the 7th.
The Man About Time was playing one of Schubert’s late piano works when they arrived on the second floor. They were asked in turn to stare at tv static and play with a sand castle before approaching the minor deity still one level up.
“Do your magic,” The Man About Time requested and then stepped aside.
“The 7th is back,” whispered Mary over to Joseph. They knew it was a sign.
Always down there looking for that extra “R”, Fanny Mae Palm Branch thought about her boyfriend/fiancee Robert Dee Generic, an Ordinary originating from Pasttown.
Ain’t gonna find it. This is *Reality*.
“And stop trying to perv on that pink girl!” she wanted to shout over as well.
Marsha “Pink” Krakow tries to decide what she wants to search for on the internet today at the nearby Wired and Wireless coffee shop.
Led Zeppelin or The Who is always a good start.
“She’s trying out different religions, Hucka Doobie. Branching out from the Fries with Cheese Church. Like this tree based one in Quack.”
“Quack — good.”
“Expansion of the Jana Forest has kept me there.”
“Good. How’s Pitch? Still licking the wounds to his ego?”
“I suppose. More to be seen in Bena, apparently.”
“Have Wheeler walk outside before you leave here.”
It was already night. She needed to bed down for a while. She decided to approach one of the innumerable Victorian houses near the railroad to get information if possible, perhaps beg for a place to rest. Just a while, she rehearsed. Just to get my bearings. She was choosing realities just on instinct. Good.
Then Tessa spotted what she thought was a lake behind the house and went there instead, noting the bridges on opposite sides of it, about equidistant from each other from this vantage point. She sat down to meditate on the subject. She later learned her lake was actually an estuary, lying between mainland here and a queer, curly island over there. Eventually the name of the island, for her, became Curly-Cue, usually shortened when writing to Curly-Q. She also understood the Q stood for Queer, because it was.
3 other islands existed in a small archipelago with queer Curly-Q: one almost as large but much more regularly shaped; another, also curly shaped but simpler — not as bendy-twisty — and about as large relative to the second as the second is to the first; then the smallest, about 1/4the the size of the 3rd largest and containing no houses atall unlike the others. That was the one that she eventually chose as “home” in this strange land beyond the cave system she had stumbled and bumbled upon by accident, just by sticking to the tracks and thinking she could never get in trouble that way. She wasn’t as lucky as fellow cave dweller Guyd, then. Because Guyd avoided the tracks.
There was no need to look further.
It was almost a perfect sim, what with its trash and gutter filth. Very realistic; a perfect place to meet… someone. And the Oracle predicted its importance: Hidden Vilage (etc.). But she must return and merge with the other Hucka Doobie, the one that didn’t get this far. She knew that.
But she still had some time before the exit.
The Rhino represents a direct link between here and NWES, our new focus. Rhino in each. And the *same* one (same object from same owner).
George’s Abbey Road VW remains just down the street. An indication of what’s going on (Portal; multiple).
If only Jacob I. was still around, she thought while laying outside the *original* Joint Joint in the “Black Side” of the village, another thing shared with NWES (and right beside the duplicate Rhino over there — more emphasis).
Ah ha. Tin Machine.
Uncle Zach still shooting up and not listening to local phenom Firesign Theatre. But we’ve seen him more recently: Pipersville; (owner of a) *Gas* Station (Gastion). Should’ve known.
And that was Firesign Theatre on the turn table up there. Not Tin Machine. My mistake. Platinum (not tin). That place must be Domino’s still. Hitgal is probably around, then. Best friend Sangria too.
This side of town retains power.
They all sat on the bench, wondering what she was attempting to actually accomplish by being here. But they dare not ask, since they were the conquered if not the vanquished — yet. Grey Scale Kimball had assured the little people of the land that she was fairy friendly, and that she had come from Regaltown which was full of such people and they all got along very well indeed and that she herself was a type of fairy. The fairies knew what she was alluding to. Fairies are certainly not dumb creatures. Little bodies and brains, true, but a lot of thoughts spinning round those small grey matters. They knew that she was referring to homosexual fairies and not fairy fairies, although there were also homosexual fairy fairies, if not in present company.
Benny’s brother Jer showed up on the other side of the praying Grey Scale. He was much less timid in his position as the Left Horn to his brother’s Right. Horns of Hatton they were together, although not rulers of the land. That was Grey Scale now. Formerly: their father.
“My ruler,” he acknowledged Grey Scale while bowing a bit. “My brother,” he said over to Jer sitting on the bench with the fairies.
“Howdy,” Jer’s less formal brother spoke back. The fairies (Aubrey, Austin, Addison) waved “hi.”
Jer turned his attention back to Grey Scale. “May I assist you in your prayers, my ruler?” His voice was authoritative. *He* should have been the eventual ruler. Not this usurper. But armies decide battles and hers won. Certainly having the armored elephants didn’t hurt her cause. He should have thought of it first. They were there, just having a good time roaming the shallows and flats around the sacred Hills of Bill. He should have put them to good use first.
“No, I think I’ve got the hang of it,” replied Grey Scale, thinking: how hard is it to pray, dummy? I sit on the single pose ball, I *pray*. Very simple. But then she realized that maybe she was missing something. Like needed, spoken words. Perhaps a ritual mentioned in those dusty old tomes which she’s still read only about 10% of. She decided enough was enough before she got herself into hotter water, and rose solemnly, unlocking her hands. “There. I feel better,” she said, breathing deeply. She shrugged to both brothers. “But it’s war, fellas. There’s gotta be winners.. and, well, losers.” She glanced into the tomb with this. The final resting place of Max the Mad, also known as the Red Devil. “Now he’s in a better place,” she tried to reassure again, but Grey Scale here instead pictured a world of fire and brimstone and much gnashing of teeth.