Always look for the spaces between things. There lies art.
I am not a painter in this life. I am a collagist. Moving on…
“What does the future hold for me Esmerelda?”
“A cave? A *landscape*?”
Very faint from across the table again: “Enter the cave.”
He paid Ms. Wells handsomely and was on his way again.
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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0028, 0417, BIGFOOT, Blue Mountain, Yaya Land+
“MO like on a ship?”
“Plane. But a plane is a ship in the sky.”
—–
We land in Misty MO again. Someone steps out of the plane. I believe it might be Jennifer M. Friend but I’m a little discombobulated tonight admittedly. I’m on a straight diagonal toward Endgame but can I reach it? I had a sister.
I had a sister.
—–
He looks away from where he’s been and thinks about the present.
—–
He wasn’t happy with his latest painting — “Parasols” — and he’d run out of green paint as well. Irritation tonight. A big black fly zoomed around the room, sometimes landing on his painting as if it were a window outta here. And perhaps it was.
“Jerry?” he called over. “Wanna go on a walk?” He was trying to be as cheerful as possible, given his mood.
Jerry, she thinks. Is that who he believes he’s sleeping with? The *ex*?
“Hardly.”
He recognized the voice. “Flo?”
“Jerry… went home.” Flo wondered if he still had a relationship with “Mr. Green,” given that he had none. She couldn’t tell if the painting was dry or not. She went into the other room of the Greek village apartment, hovered over him.
“H-how?”
“Tell me if that’s Wet Glaize. Or Dry Glaize.” She stood her ground, allow him to absorb the shock of her presence here on this romantic isle in disguise. Instead: trap.
“Wet Glaize *is* Dry Glaize,” he uttered automatically, bringing in more memories.
—–
She couldn’t tell. They next went outside to drink and catch up and look at the view. She turned away from the blue, not wanting to be reminded of crosses. Because she remembers. Greg Ogden was… well, she didn’t want to think of it right now. The bastard pirate!
“Do you even remember Ruby the green alien,” she complained after finishing one glass of wine and beginning another. I believe it was her 5th. “Where did you *leave* her?”
Green, he thinks. Where did I leave green?
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Right over there he was. My greatest creation: Harrison Ford Jett. I’ll never get close enough to call him Harry, but *Jerry* might. What’s her name again now? he thinks, folding his arms behind his head in a mimicking action. Sally?
Bluebird, he remembered later, descended from Blackbird. And he was a whole band on the run. Perfection.
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He told him of the missing letter in the 4 letter name, and that would take his power away and the rebels could triumph and be top dogs (once more). “Before the coming of the 4 color-letters,” he explained. “We tortured him — extensively. We got a name: Rael. Rael McCoy. We could crush him like a (golden) goose egg, we realized, but, in the end, we just let him go, let him return to the other 3 of his ilk. We realized we could never win. Because we saw ourselves in *him*. *We* hurt when we tortured him.” Guy stopped, wondering if he should say the next thing. The Chinese cook kept stirring, always patient. He’d heard so many similar stories now down through the years. All involving letters, all ending in pain.
“Let me guess,” he said calmly, steam obscuring his head from Guy in the moment. “You realized… you were missing one as well.”
So he knew that also. Because Guy had started out as Guyd, the glossy yellow and green eyed cat who was actually quite inept as a guide, despite the name. Rebl knows.
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Later that week Guy was finally able to steal one of the sacred letters while the others had their backs turned. The yellow one, the easiest since it was the smallest. Upon sever torture he revealed his true name to be McCoy, Rael McCoy, and became a rebel himself. He straightened up (from the perspective of the anarchists), turned more into the letter I than O, or the number 1 than zero. This was more for disguise. The Great Rebellion had begun in earnest, not too long after it actually ended.
(to be continued)
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He continued his information. “Before is the establishment of Fairview Alpha. Sometimes it is called the Big Mess. Too messy. Water everywhere. So many trees and plants and bushes. Clutter, if you will. After is Fairview and Alpha separate, as they should be. One in one place and the other in another. This is also known as the Plane of Martin and the Plain o’ Allen. Fairview is a fair view of the world, as it is, plain and uncluttered. The great bird flies in the sky but always lands here. Here is here. There is no Other, except for the Abyss.”
—–
“Before you start,” he boomed, “take off that silly shirt. The queen does not play croquet. She doesn’t have time for that nonsense.”
“I know, I know,” begged off Guy Benjamin, now part of the rebellion. He shed his first shirt, revealing Zero.
“Do you even know who I am?” he projected forth in a kingly manner.
“You are… leader of the rebellion, sire,” said Guy, slightly taken aback. “Your name is Legend.”
“My name is *Dan*,” retorted the face in front of him, a duplicate of the one on his Zero shirt except for the bespectacled cartoon face and long, Pinocchio-like nose. Guy considered the nose for perhaps the first time: the mark of a liar, a deceiver.
“Just kidding. It’s Atom. Ayom. Something. Let’s go with Atom. Do you like Atom?”
“I… haven’t thought of it before… your name I mean.”
“Atom, yes,” the face finalizes, crystalizes. “I am the *beginning* (long, kingly pause). And the end (quick, succinct).”
“Some people, sire,” Guy ventured and admitted, hoping it wasn’t going too far, “say you are The Lamb.”
“Bu HUH HUH HUH. *LAMB*?… (another kingly pause). Well okay that’s fair (quick again; a let-off; release).”
Guy stood awkwardly before the face that demanded to be called Atom but may also be Lamb, shifting his feet around, trying to think of something else to say and not look as much of a fool this time about it. The face let him off the hook finally, tired of the squirm. “Halfway through my rule I have reached the end but not the beginning. I am the great 4-n-1, and that is *numbers* (pause) but also the word FOREIGN. FOREIGN ONE.”
“You are an alien,” replied Guy. “I have heard the rumors from the rebellious others.”
“*Other* Other.” Let’s stop there.
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I still have much to learn here.
—–
This gigantic amount of creative energy…
… makes me want to return to the religious nuts of Misty MO (for some reason)…
… and stare into a mirror.
I wonder what Dollie is up to, for instance? Still about 2 feet would be my guess.
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The artist explains to a prospective buyer that an arm *is* a leg, cutting the price in half. Saale!
“If you dream correctly,” he explained afterwards, “you have purchased a whole museum inside the picture containing many more objects you now own. You’re welcome!”
She took the painting home using both her arms and legs to haul the massive object around. By doing so she has become a creature as well as creator. The door to her house becomes that of the museum. She steps inside the other world, waking up.
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—–
Now that I’m awake again I’m going to figure out who you guys are, he thought. Sorry: *gals*.
Gals?
—–
Other Other! (4:00)
Worlds come together. (3:45)
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Sunklands 