Category Archives: 03

October 3, 2023 · 1:35 pm

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We he awoke, Marsha “Pink” Krakow was no longer floating with him, having been replaced by Dogg. The dissonant chords of a distant electric guitar roused him. Then shortly joining in with the deranged strumming: drums. Marsha had found a new partner of sorts.

He checked his phone messages. “Be back when we’re finished practicing.” Then skip several lines: “I have a new band!” Well great, he thinks. A rival for her attention for certain now.

“Realous?” said the great dane behind him, reading over his shoulder.

“You bet!”

“Ret’s take a ralk and talk.”

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October 2, 2023 · 1:39 pm

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This square-ish field in Morgan’s Hill, Wiltshire County, England was the site of a complex *square shaped* crop circle in July 2009.

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A deceptively simple star circle formed 2 years prior to this in a neighboring field.

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I couldn’t help but associate these 2 Morgan’s Hill circles with the cuddly characters pictured below we’ve already seen once in this here photo-novel, another square and star partnering.

Spongebob-And-Patrick-patrick-star-and-spongebob-32323000-470-477

Also, take a look at this article about a 2011 crop circle appearing at the foot of the same hill, 2 years after the square one and 4 years after the star formation.

http://www.cropcirclesandmore.com/thoughts/201103ecc.html

bertjanssen-morganshill2011

Patrick Star’s home anyone?

https://bakerbloch.wordpress.com/2013/02/02/fh/

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—–

“Our next door neighbor Sandy’s gone, Eddie,” spoke Pink to her new beau floating in the pool with her, “although her car is mysteriously still there on the lot. Perhaps she’s planning to pick it up later after she settles elsewhere. I wish her well.”

“Oh well,” says Eddie to this, indifferent to the change.

“Aidema Hill guy is still on the other side, though. Brabin. Or Bravin.”

“Hmm.” And he falls asleep in the midday sun.

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October 2, 2023 · 5:22 am

“Hey Mickey”!

Channeling the music as inspiration instead of irritation, she starts…

Ketchup Tom thinks he has an easy trade with me. Not so much. I’m only here because of the typewriter. And the drums — I wish to play with him later on at least in *that* way. Tee hee. I laugh like a slut but I’m not. I talk and walk trash but I’m not. Sometimes I write science fiction when I’m in a future mode or mood. Silverberg went over Pork Chop Hill; didn’t make it back. The war took a lot of us. I don’t have to remind the reader about that. Threatened to turn civilization back to the Monkeys, pheh. Civilization Phaze III we could call it in Zappa-speak, if it even gets that far. Monkeys use bones for drumming after all. And how often do bones turn into starships? I should know all about it. Because I was in that one. Because… I am Frank’s long lost sister’s father’s granddaughter. Not Moon: Starr. Because I will be one. I am destined to be one, born to be one. A Starr is Born.

Mickey, put down your sticks and sit back and listen to what I’m saying while I dance on your Head. I’m speaking to you directly.

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October 2, 2023 · 4:50 am

00400302

He was sturming and dranging in the background, leaving the door to his 2nd or 3rd or 4th trailer wide open so that the whole of Big Sandy could hear, she supposed. The big egomaniac. Lured her over here thinking that she was easy pickings, and that Eddie, her Edward, wouldn’t mind a tradeoff, he with Dogg now. She’s not that type of gal, despite the writings. Which she must start soon, taking off from where Shelley Struthers left it. Shady Lane as a publisher’s name, true, but a more classy type of writing for that genre. This wasn’t no Robert Silverberg cheapie side project done just for the dough, despite more trailers being involved. Shelley had loftier ambitions than trash and even science fiction, another gutter style. And Marsha “Pink” Krakow must follow up on this because of the whole absorption thing that happened back there toward the end of photo-novel 39, as I’m sure you, the reader, will recall. How couldn’t you?? It brought our new heroine back from the land of the dead which was also Storybrook. As in: she died there; was murdered there, along with what turned out to be, in the end, her best friend Tammy “Beige” Brown, also known as Frankie “Brown” Beige. Or something.

It was like the music was being directly funneled into her brain from her good ear it was so loud. Ketchup Tom thought when he finished she would be wowed off her feet and onto that pull out couch over there. But she was only here because of the typewriter. And, yep, the possibility of her playing with him later on, as in, wishing to take up the old hobby of drumming as well, exclusive to the Marsha aspect this time. Strum and Drum, hmm. Nice ring for a new band name. At least she can put it in her novel if nothing else. How about 3 sentences back to begin.

(to be continued)

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October 1, 2023 · 3:20 pm

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Tessa was in the foreground talking to someone just off-screen. Her boyfriend/faux cousin Edward if I had to guess. Chair sitting Pink was similarly highlighted in the background interacting with a punk on the couch: Ketchup Tom, who owned the trailer, named for his bright red Mohawk if not visa versa. And they all owed him a big favor whether they knew it or not. His given name before he acquired a stage one: George. Rumor has it he destroyed a punk bar carved out of a big piece of coal in West Virginie when playing his signature track “Fire Ants”, quickly followed by “Water Uncles”, a lesser hit. A folly we could call it, but the oddball builders of the thing couldn’t have foreseen George’s powerful sturm und drang guitar licks ahead of time, like something straight out of a Nazi war lab. And he also had a magical ring to amplify the sound — very important detail there.

I couldn’t figure out some of the elements happening to the right in the location pictured above so I just left them out by blocking them with a wall (sorry). We could guess a stereo system or something given Ketchup Tom’s musician status, maybe a guitar or 2 to go along with a microphone or 3. Yes, let’s go with that. We’ll see them soon enough, then.

Oh, I do know that Eddie, Marsha “Pink” Krakow newly appointed boyfriend, was outside walking Dogg, an older mutt now she purchased as a pup over on the Corsica continent in a town that subsequently sank beneath the sea. Storybrook again.

Actually let’s move inside while we have the opportunity and zoom out a bit at the same time.

Turns out there was no stereo or musical stuff to the right. I must be thinking about a different Big Sandy trailer, then, perhaps also owned by the affluent punk and maybe one a little more solidly constructed to withstand the magically enhanced noise he’ll be making there. In the simultaneous zooming out we do reveal a poster to the left he keeps by the door to remind him of his lost origins. Marsha “Pink” Krakow has Dogg; Ketchup Tom has George.

(to be continued)

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August 3, 2023 · 1:12 pm

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Got it! said Bart internally at 12:37 on Friday morning after Thursday night. TILE is related to FILE! And so it began.

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August 3, 2023 · 2:11 am

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Lisa got permission to view the film because she was in a class for special children and was doing a project for it. Eventual title: “How Milk was Born.” Bartholomew, *not* being a special child and thus not in the same class with the same privileges, didn’t get the same permission. But oh did he watch the same film, over and over again, 5 times in total. He snuck out of his bedroom every night at 10:45 with the help of Lemmy the Magic Tree that was once a mortal enemy with a net and a knife. Lemmy had grown up to be a friend, putting childish rivalries away.

“Lemmy, come over here again,” Bartholomew requested, and a branch was extended, big enough to hold a boy his size and allow him to drop to the ground safely. “Thanks Lemmy,” Bartholomew said at the bottom, loud enough for the tree to hear through his “ears” but not loud enough to alert the parents, usually preparing for bed by this time or already in it. The tree rustled its leaves in answer and Bartholomew was on his way through the backs of lots and down alleys full of cats and rats. On to the 88.

First night:

“*Bart*. What are you doing here??” And so on with the reprimands for a while, which were dampened when Lisa learned that her little brother desired to create a report on the film too, and that he’d show those stuck ups at school he can make something of his life. “I’ll… help,” she finally relented. “Shhh, the movie is starting,” said Bartholomew to this, more eager than ever to be a success.

Lisa only went that one time, thinking with her superior brain that’s all she needed. Bartholomew attended the whole week up until Friday night when the regular people in town would be able to go and he might be caught and told on. So that was Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday, happy days indeed.

(to be continued)

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August 1, 2023 · 2:44 pm

mayor

He remembers that island, small in size but big in passion. Alysha. How did I measure up so short?

—–

“Thank you for the huge bowl of patriotic soup bowl, Herbert. It does cheer me up, warms my heart. Whatever was left of it after the Abyss Absorption.”

“AA,” said Herbert Glenn Gold to this. He remembers it more by the initials. He only learned the meaning of the initials at age 17, after all the really spooky visions of the event had faded along with his imagination. Spiders, spooks and goblins he dimly recalls through the Age of Newton that had taken control since. Hard to go back to Jasper once it’s done and you go through the secret, basically invisible door. To adulthood — manhood. And I mean that for everyone. Because of the whole Newton angle. The giving of the big bowl of soup was the equivalent of giving a teacher an apple for, hopefully, good favors ahead. A is for Apple after all, and an A++ is a really big one — full of steam, it seems. He had done good, he felt. He deserved what he wished for. Promotion. Alysha back. The works.

“I recall — you like the initials,” said Mid-Hazel, about ready for the big reveal. “Helps to cope with the reality. I wish I had that luxury.”

“I only wish you the best moving forward,” Herbert Glenn Gold said rather naively, rather transparently. Mid-Hazel, in her almost infinite wisdom thanks to, ahem, AA, could see through it pretty clearly, unlike the bottom of an opaque lake. She notes the (anti-)name as a good place to take a rest and maybe a picnic in the afterlife — nice ring to it; easy to remember. Sometimes she desires not to see bottoms. If man (everyone) was meant to view that man would have been born with eyes on his fanny (etc.).

“I’m… dying, Herbert. No no no: no pity.” Herbert fakes a gasp then stifles a yawn. He’d known about this for days, almost centuries he felt. The Big Reveal dragged on and on… and on. This was about the 100th, nay, 1000th time she’d said this to him. And still she keeps on keeping on: doesn’t change much in appearance when he returns. Why does she keep telling me this? he wonders.

But then he takes another gander. Big, goofy eyes this time. Sewed up mouth. He recalls way way back. Yes, this was an original form. He’d only seen it in pictures. Just after AA, he realized. Maybe the old hag was really dying; not crying wolf again.

Opaque Lake, Mid-Hazel thought, staring at the golden figurines before her. Pre-AA here I come!

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August 1, 2023 · 7:19 am

FD hair:permed loose ringlets

“Comes in every day about this time and does a little dance. Says he feels like he’s sprouted wings he’s so free. I think it has something to do with what goes on in that church about every day this time. I’ve heard rumors. And, well, I’ve plain out heard — rag breaks at the dumpster, you know. Something’s going on, and not quite religious, not even for those Tilers over there.”

“It’s this town,” offers Gloria to Wanda, working on their 3rd beach of the novel. Or quickly getting there, beach about a 100 meters away from here still. Hurricane season once more, though. Water will come to them. “I haven’t quite figured out how to word it…”

“Novel; unique,” says bartender Wanda to this. Robert finishes his dance, dramatically opens the front doors of the place, waves to the winged statue outside, and strides away in his powerful manner, like a king from a throne. Left not right; toward the ocean. Because he’s through with religion for now. Until Monday’s Wednesday, which is tomorrow. Happy days all 6 or 7, whether you count renegade Munday or not. He has that option.

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August 1, 2023 · 1:38 am

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“‘I look like a prettier Jesus.’ Love it. Do you recall?”

“No,” replied Clemenesta, not as convinced as her partner Laura about the ineffectiveness of Christianity in comparison to TILE. Or FILE.

“Back behind the church. Underneath the neon sign — practically neon itself with the day-glo. And then there was something else behind it, away from the dumpster.” Laura tries to make out the words in her mind but can’t. “Nah, it’s gone.”

That dumpster is sin, thought Clemenesta here, drawing a line. I do not accept the eradication of the rank in total favor of the FILE; I will not accept that. Nor the things written upon it. “Who’s prettier than Jesus?” she decides to word her skepticism. “You?”

“*All* of us, maybe,” replied Laura, waving her arms around the bar even though no one else is there — oh, here comes someone, she then sees. Two young people walking in. Probably tourists in town what with the look in their eyes. Maybe from the hills.

“I think it’s *one* particular person you believe is a prettier Jesus,” spoke Clemenesta, acting like a maw now, which she was. To Laura, who was her daughter. “I think you know who that is. You worship *her* — try to weasel your way out of that (!).”

Laura thought of the 7th, and what *could* happen there if one allowed it. The pew was all set up. The gap between humanity and God filled. Blue and yellow blue and yellow blue and yellow. And from it the green and the red, in that order. Or so most Tilists say; there are some who put red over green as they do 6 over 7. But they are in the minority: every 6 out of 13 or so.

“Maw,” she finally relents. “The FILE is everything. The FILE saves, just like TILE saves. Jesus, the rank, can be cast aside now. It is *his* will, even. Yes, I went ahead and said it. It is his will,” she repeated. Clemenesta kept giving her that look (“the eye”). She would not be won over that easily.

Harking back to the neon cross, Laura envisions Jesus sacrificing his central s to saves to be done with it.

(to be continued)

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