“Another dream: I was at 23:23, the place *and* the time. This was the…”
“… beginning?” He’d heard this too. Male-female synthesis. “So we’re back to trying to track this 102 fellow. Or 102 girl.”
“Oh it was just awful, Zach. That *look* in his eyes.”
Always the same, Zach thinks. She repeats herself over and over about their description, these “walking dead” as she calls them.
“But then the last dream I had about David Bowie was *fun*. Cute umbrella people — New People they called themselves, but come from a flooded country. They turned into umbrellas — that stopped the rains. Very cute,” she reinforced. “And David Bowie was their leader (!). Except he called himself… umm.” She couldn’t recall the name Bogota, because that could put a kind of damper on the cuteness. Because: another walking dead obviously.
“What am I going to do, Giant Tiger? Tessa soo wants to find her half brother, the one that’s been on the lam for so long. Full sister Lisa is trying too, but she got stalled at New Island. Oh Tiggie, if only red hadn’t been swapped with orange back in the days.”
“20 – 09,” pronounced the tiger, very communicative for his kind. This is why Charlene the Punk liked him so much. She came here sometimes near the Rubi Woods to chat with him, confer with him. Because he was very wise as well, as all tigers are. Most just don’t like talking to humans and their ilk very much. Feel like it’s a waste of breath to them. Better things to do, and so on.
“Are – you staying with – Jeffrie?” His voice was deep, like the depths of the jungle he originates from. Deep with tone, deep with wisdom. Giant Tiger knew that this was not a good idea. Most likely.
“Well, we both got kicked out of Green Yarn together I’ll give you *that*,” she said, still swinging upside down toward and away from him, but with her head now getting swimmy. She rights herself in the seat, considers the issue again from a more sober point. Charlene knew Giant Tiger was still listening to her, wasn’t distracted. He was patient too — another virtue. In fact, I don’t think he had any bad qualities to him. Except the voracious appetite that sometimes included human babies and even toddlers. Toddles and he wouldn’t make the best of friends, for instance. I suppose that aligns him with the Oz Tiger, who desired the same and lamented his need to do so. And it also makes sense that the Tiger is so near the Rubi Woods, come to think of it, since that’s Oz related as well with the ruby slipper connection and all, although that’s just from the derivative movie and not the books, where they were instead silver. But… *that* goes into the whole Sylver Forest which the Rubi Woods are just a remnant stand of timber from. 4 sims it covered back in the days. 20 – 09 or so.
(to be continued?)
An invisible cartoon boy, Martha Lamb thinks, studying Falmouth 36 once more on the 4th floor of the Fal Mouth Moon gallery. Hugged and loved by a visible cartoon girl with red shoes. Perhaps they are future lovers, or perhaps brother and sister. Maybe he has a defect that hides him from view — a malady — but is loved by his sister still. Odd that I think this, she ruminates.
Then over here, further away in a field, the inversion: girl invisible and boy visible. The “E” on the next collage over blinks on and off. This *is* love; mutual exchanging.
“He’s in the Great Black Swamp, Hucka. In the past!”
“I refuse to die this time Jerome T. Newton. I’m going beyond the end of Newton — you — into Oblong.”
“It’s that girl that’s helping you,” Newton declared between clenched teeth. “From the *fu-ture*.”
Chef-detective Keat Petty Owens had already moved on from his stalking ghost to a different gallery. He was staring at the beginning of the second 1/2 of the 10×10. 51. “It’s All Here.”
He even gave his petrified hands back to Newton as a parting gift. Goodbye demo(n) alien. Forever. Maybe.
To Montana. And beyond…
Two realities were superimposing themselves on top of each other, inadvertently (perhaps) creating chaos and confusion. He simply didn’t know; he simply couldn’t understand. In the moment.
I’ve created the bare bones of a consignment store on my Rubi property not seen since the very beginning of this here photo-novel, number 22 in a series of 20. The first thing I decide on to fill out the 4 square emptiness is a Volvo station wagon, which definitely does *not* have two handles on its back door nosiree.
Let’s just prop it up outside for now against the building’s unfinished, plywood exterior.
Then I add another image inside that has become meaningful to me today: the collage characters I call Source (Male) and Lake (Female) — perhaps another version of Adam and Eve and the whole Apples story — *hiding* something. Like we are seeing through a wall into another dimension.
And since the Tacoma consignment store the impossible station wagon is driving by on N Proctor Ave in that first picture above is named Megs and Mo, I suppose Cassandra City’s Moes Bar is related somehow. The transparent Source and Lake image comes from M & M as well — very important there. More soon.
“Phil had the richest, most complicated sense of humor of the four of us,” said his Firesign Theatre partner David Ossman. “He loved what he called ‘the stupid’ and he could twist it into surreal pieces of head-beating comedy. His High School Lunch Menus, the Irish guy who taught how to paint like the insane, the Funny Names Club of America. He had the whole range. Bergman and Austin were really the Lennon and McCartney of the group.”
“Let’s take you somewhere and put you to work, Mr. Author — Mr. Detective. How about Perch, hmm? Wait… that’s currently closed for ceiling repairs. Blue Feather it is!”
“Good to see you back on the case, Chef-Detective Keat Owens,” spoke Baker Bloch over to the new but very familiar face. A bargain for 35 lindens in olden times.
The chef-detective shook his head, as if just waking up to the reality around him. Which was true. “I was on the ceiling,” he said, eyes blinking at Baker trying to focus in. “The building — was being repaired. An art installation. Then…”
“Murder?” Baker Bloch knew it could be the only reason Owens was back. Grand larceny or burglary or even manslaughter wouldn’t be enough.
“A girl. A friend of the 4 squared one.”
Spongebub? He hadn’t thought about that name in a long time. Not since the early days of Rubi. Speaking of which…
“4 men in one,” Keat Owens continued, as if Baker Bloch had said nothing, which he didn’t. “One of tin; one of glass — no, fur; one of steel; and then one of…” He tapered off, unable to think of the last element. That’s because it was imaginary. Baker Bloch explained this to him, along with the others.
“Superman?” he replied about the man of steel. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”
“Superdude?” Baker then altered. “Superguy?” he tried again. “Super*bub*?”
Then the reality of the overarching *umbrella* name kicked in. The chef-inspector was beginning to remember a whole world abducted from reality. “Someone has lost their bikini bottom.” His eyes were as big as quarters now.
Next stop: Bigfoot Bar or thereabouts.
“My latest creation, Golden Jim. The Rubi Gardens. 2 parcels in 1. I have almost encircled…”
“No you haven’t,” countered Golden Jim, wiser than the girl fairy for now. “You will never encircle these enchanted woods, except…”
“*Except,*” spoke the *now* wiser child. She was wiser than Golden Jim almost all the time except, in this post, for that little lapse back there. Except.
“Except what, child?” Golden Jim stared at her, at the woods behind her. *Their* woods. They become one through it.