Category Archives: 03

November 28, 2020 · 10:08 am

holey

“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 And Lemmy is the one that can end the 102 and the salvific effect if he stays pat, protection (safety net) withdrawn.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.

—–

“Interesting choice.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0023, 0302, animation, Boos, Canada/Tungaska, collages 2d, Google Street View, Marwood, NE Hills, NWES Island

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November 28, 2020 · 10:07 am

Slot Mtn. Castle

She dreamed she was in a grim place. She had to get to the head before the head got to her. She saw the head, the head sawed she! Little skulls littered the cell floor. Like hers.

“I need to find you 102.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0023, 0301, NE Hills, NWES Island

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October 2, 2020 · 5:33 am

Temple tales 01

Harry stares outside the picture at the Earth and sees it is good. What an oddball.

On the same floor, Baker Bloch bangs out the entire organ version of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” before raising his hands from the keyboard and realizing he can’t play. That was vampire alter ego Pitch Darkly’s talent, who hasn’t been seen in a number of photo-novels. I lose count. 18 — that’s it. Or was it 12?

Ahh, *there* he is. It was Pitch all along — should’ve know. Just had to turn the camera the other way. The lack of a reflection in the organ’s strangely placed mirror should have tipped me off. Along with, of course, the deft keyboard fingering.

“Play that other Russian ‘sky’ composer I love so much,” listening wife Mary Tyler requests. She wanted Moore. And Pitch complies by belting forth “The Rite of Spring” to her great pleasure, although early on she was knocked off her perch on the organ by the heavy vibrations. Good vibrations, though, and Mary still grooved to them while laying on the floor.

She took the opportunity to also stare at the static filled tv placed nearby she was edging closer to with each crashing chord — temple must have been tilted a bit in that direction — and fell into a trance, dreaming about a trip to the Beach. Except it was The Beech. Here we come!

Upstairs:

“Iiiiii… Iiiiiii…”

“Almost got it,” Carrcassonnee adjusting MAT (Man About Time) declares hopefully but perhaps also futilely. We’ll see soon enough.

Excuse me. I have to contact someone.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0316, Marwood, NWES Island

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October 2, 2020 · 5:33 am

fireproof

He was laid down in a trench and then covered head to foote with mourning flowers but not the expensive Amazonia kind that would quickly burn up the family’s meager savings. Toothpick stood back after throwing down his own bluebell blooms, picked fresh from a Meat City field behind Francis’ club just this morning, maw beside him in her Sunday finest which was actually just her everyday rags, and her hopefully soon-to-be new roommate Mr. Z beside her, complete with his continental mask laden backpack which he took most everywhere for fear of theft in this here backwoods suburb. Elberta was absent since she wasn’t suppose to see the groom the week before the wedding; Toothpick borrowed her hat to give his now sister/soon wife a type of presence.

They took one last look at blossom bedecked Uncle Luther, killed by a flu-like disease just 2 days before yesterday’s tomorrow, a stark naked Luther not wearing any overalls for the 1st time since way back in ’76 when he inherited them from his recently deceased Cousin Ferdinand, dead from a fire in the old mansion that ended the rule of the 100. Poverty: the rule of the day ever since. Some named it the Curse of the Coveralls, another word for overalls back in the day and what Uncle L. called his own, but Toothpick might have just made that up after the fact, in his head; he had an imaginative brain, almost invisible to others, or he tends to hide it behind a perpetually straw embellished mouth that he also feels distracts from his damaged teeth as he whisks it about rapidly, creating a kind of blurring effect in that area.

It was time to leave the teeny tiny cemetery next to a corner of Marwood’s scaled down Eiffel Tower and let gravedigger Big Hand Eddie do his work. Goodbye Uncle Luther. But hellooo coveralls!

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0315, Marwood, Meat City, NWES Island

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October 2, 2020 · 5:32 am

Head’s Helm(et)

“Boy I’m stuff, phew! Thanks for the pork chops flapjacks, Berry.”

Berry, MAT (Man About Time) thinks. That’s how he sees me currently. I can play along. “No problem [delete name].”

“What did you call me?” Toothpick truly couldn’t hear his own name being thrown back at him. It was part of the hypnosis of the role currently. He was fully Toothpick now, brother of beautiful, strong and handsome Elberta but soon to be more. The Temple of TILE wedding bells beckoned again after a brief lapse of trepidation. They’re so in sync! Of course they should get married. It was the way of the Deep South, their heritage. The Deep South of the Black Ice sim. He wonders how Boos and Bogota are getting along way down there. He needs to revisit the old homeland — hinterland. Invisible to most but straw enhanced Toothpick could see.

“I called you [delete name].”

Toothpick cocked one of his ears in MAT’s direction. “Say again?”

“Never mind that, um, Toothpick.” He really had a mild voice. Again, for someone so important. He knew a lot, being able to leap about time like he does. A man about it. But he often was a little confused; unfocused. Part and parcel of the gift.

“I am your neighbor,” MAT tested further.

“No. You live *here*” protested Toothpick, knowing that Berry moved to his Kidd Tower penthouse apartment in The City to start attending services over in the Temple of TILE and to, well, serve *him* instead of visa versa, with Master becoming, um, Slave. Sort of. Which makes Toothpick think of choppers. He points to the space where his two front teeth should be. “Lost ’em. In the war.”

MAT knows it was football and that Toothpick has a ways to go to remember who he actually is. Maybe the Monkey helmet would help.

—–

He gives it to him the next time they eat. “What do you think this is, [delete name]?”

“What?”

“Toothpick.”

“Oh. A, er, helmet?” He takes it out of the box; inspects; places it over his head, even.

“Yes but what kind of ‘Head’ protection?” So mild.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0314, Apple's Orchard, NWES Island

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October 2, 2020 · 5:31 am

L$2989?

The blue eye is closed on the Moth Man as he stares out at Bottle Mound on Fishers Island. Interesting. Noting.

On to Wallytown proper to view the bell shaped rise with the crashed UFO beside it on the beach from a different angle, as it turned out.

“He won’t get off my car, Mr. Z,” complained Zapppa’s seated brother-cousin Zipppy, a well thought of Wallytown mechanic in its California half. Nevada beyond the wall is a different story, where he’s wanted for at least 3 criminal acts: grand larceny, manslaughter, murder even. “Screams he’s in love with it and wants to speak to someone named Wheeler about buying; thinks he can get a good deal that way. Thanks for coming by and helping me. It’s kind of an antique you know. It’ll cost him X amount of dollars. Could he just be talking about buying the wheels off this jalopy? And since it’s split in two pieces currently to make a novelty couch, we’d have to charge mucho extra to put it back together. Could he be… insane? Mad?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” replied Zapppa, who was indeed Mr. Z but not the one we’ve already met. Better resist call him that from now on. And we’ve already also run across someone with the tag of “Mad”. Best not to use that again as well. Let’s just go with Mercury. Mercury X. Mr. X. Because that’s what they’ll have to charge him. And let’s similarly name Zipppy Mr. Y. Although this is probably a one-off for him in this here photo-novel; we’ll stick with Zipppy, then. And Mercury X. Mercury X. Rising, let’s say, with the X silent. Like the original Star Wars movie from 1898.

They end up just deciding to give the car away for basically free. Madness. All four of ’em: W mixed in with the other three now and turning them all back into letters, shall we put it.

Wheeler (Ms. W) then returned to her well placed friends at the Annapolis MD consignment shop we saw toward the end of photo-novel 20. She had no need for money with besties like that.

Dorothy inside promptly wrote W a check for X amount of linden dollars to make up for Y and Z’s loss.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0313, Wallytown/Fishers Island

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October 1, 2020 · 5:30 pm

channel

He stared at the amber light beyond the end of the dividing canal, wondering if it had been moved from the wall to the floor.

And what it meant. Was he *finally* reaching?

—–

On the other end, Zapppa hungrily eyes the now almost vacant Bigfoot Bar, which apparently will be up for rent soon. He’s waiting to pounce. He has the idea to bring (Dinah and) Moe’s Bar of Cassandra City to NWES Island. And explore more of that Montana/Zircon tweezers theme to himself escape the grave. I think it will happen. It’s the exact same building after all. Fate: bar exchanged for another bar. Continuity ensured.

And just in time for our first seasonal bigfoot sighting (?)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0312, Apple's Orchard, Neptune, NWES Island

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October 1, 2020 · 7:05 am

no bloody babies

“Say it.”

“I know who you are. I know who is behind Billfork. It’s the oranges…”

“Say it.”

—–

“Alright what do you want me to do tonight, baker?”

“I’m not sure. We need to get you married up with your sister Elberta before the end of this here Collagesity photo-novel, number 22 in a series of 20.”

“Oranges, then?”

—–

“Oranges, then?”

“You’re insistent. On oranges.”

“Oranges, then?”

—–

“Did you like my trick with the oranges? Wasn’t that clever?”

“The Billfork Core. I’m saying that more for the reader.”

“You mean Veyo?”

“No. I have other readers.”

“Who? [delete one sentence]”

“Yeah I know. The country is *so* divided. And the debate last night… I have lost hope, Toothpick, er, Filbert.”

“I would rather you call me Toothpick. I put one in my mouth (he takes the straw out of his mouth and reinserts it), and then I become invisible. That’s the meaning of Berry at the beginning of this here photo-novel, 22 in a series of 20. Matt Berry, who did the same for ‘What’s Creeping Out The Car.'”

“I’m going to correct you on that, Toothpick. It’s…”

“Say it.”

“‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.'”

“Say it for real.”

“‘What They Do In the Shadows.'”

“Master Berry… Matt Berry. What else have I done, hmm? The Billfork Core, obviously. Then coded it into your precious maps.”

“Tough guy, eh?”

“Then, let’s see, Goss… he’s the religious fellow who was both an ally and axis. Different things at different times. He should have paid more attention to Billfork according to you.”

“According to *you*. Apparently.”

“Correct. Because I worked hard on that. Do you know how hard it is to create a proper audiovisual synchronicity? You only collage together the already finished pieces. It’s *tough*. Try doing that from the other side of the veil.”

—–

“And Matt Berry is a master in that show. If he had a living familiar, which he might.”

“Where is Mad Anthony? Is he in Winesap?” Toothpick reinserts himself.

—–

I have him fly over to the canal for obvious reasons. Set him down on the box of Budweisers. We’ll probably see that later in a different location now. I face him.

“Well you look just terrible. Is this how you see yourself?”

“Well I h’ain’t got two front teeth. Do I.”

“Knocked out in the war?” He stops talking to me. I realize war is like a football game. Monkees.

—–

“I’m curious, Toothpick. You handed the reigns over to The Residents at some point. You, heck, you probably created the eyeball guys, or the resonance.”

“Loco,” he answered simply.

“But then you came back strong in Uncle Meatwad.”

“As you have surmised, Zapppa helped.” Just then, Zapppa passes by in a canal boat but is unable to wave hello.

—–

“Bowie, too.”

“Bowie.” But Toothpick knew that was more in the future. Nick Danger, Dead Cat Island, Lynch. Jeffrie Phillips. Philadelphia.

Mahler.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0311, Apple's Orchard, Black Ice, Marwood, Neptune, NWES Island

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September 30, 2020 · 7:23 am

Mad Anthony’s Nightfield 02

King Lewis Johnson the Third’s canal boat arrived at quarter past 2 in the morning’s evening’s night day. Time was wonky in this part of old or original WES, merely the precursor, as it turned out, of the considerably larger New WES constructed further up the western Jeogeot coastline, or what was soon shortened to NWES, along with the overarching New WES Island — NWES Island now, with further distance put between it and the Omega continent’s New Island as well. The Moth Man would be pleased. He’s written a novel about *his* New Island and doesn’t want another place of that name to come between him and fame. I don’t either (!). His New Island should be unique. A no. 10 type of paradise, hidden until now. Bravo!

http://oceansanddreams.com/blog/2020/9/22/update-on-the-hum

Back to King Lewis Johnson the Third’s visit to Mad Anthony’s Nightfire settlement based on the Isle of Karma roleplaying sim. “We call those type of vehicles channel boats on Mars where I’m from. You’ll need a crowbar (to understand).” Mad Anthony, new lover of Linda Halsey, was clearly insane to think he was from Mars. Gary his manservant concubine beside him gently reminded the old, partially senile man that his home planet was Venus. He was not all right tonight. Marty’s Illuminati spell to soften his brains to tin or lead was working perfectly, another type of 10.

—–

“It is time for me to go back home to my neighboring sim, Anthony. I’ll pick up the canal, um, *channel* boat later. I wish you well on your brain issue.”

“Good night King Lewis Johnson the Third.” He looked at the sim boundary sign from his side. “You are indeed The Mann!”

“Thank you.”

Poor pitiful thing, he thinks while walking away.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0022, 0310, Jeogeot, New Island, West End

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September 30, 2020 · 6:47 am

Mad Anthony’s Nightfield

“What are we looking at, shipmateman?”

Reggie the shipmateman paused, then: “We’re looking for your husband Ms. Halsey.” She’d given the order not 15 minutes ago.

“Ms. Halsey, good,” replied Linda about her title. “Remember, don’t shoot till you see the whites of his eyes.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey,” echoes the other shipmateman on the wall opposite them, listening in. Johnny I think was his name. Or Karl.

“In all likelihood he won’t show up but keep looking. He’s probably on to me knowing I’m on to him.”

“Yes Ms. Halsey,” they said in unison while peering out but now not expecting anything to appear.

—–

“I’m glad you came to meet me Saffie. I want to know *all* about what Marty said to you, what hollow promises he made. Because I’m here to warn you away from him. He’s bad news. He’s involved with those nasty Illuminati fellows!”

“Girls,” Saffie said softly across from her.

“What’s that?”

Saffie took another sip of beer. “We also… have girls.”

“*We*??”

—–

Linda rushes back to the entrance gate, drunk on malt (again). “Shoot him dead,” she commanded to the shipmatemen. “Don’t even wait for the whites.”

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