A small shop I’d like to open in the heart of Rosehaven but probably never will. Has little to do with knitting, weaving and sewing. Instead: tales, with tall preferred.
Let’s begin with this:
And here’s the bit that links this yarn with the other:
She continued to puff on her Havana while talking.
“Wee found another dooor out, Duncan, Baker Bloch and Ii. Stiill shut… but sooon.” She puffed again. “You are stiill happy here in the Fruit Loopy Islands, noo?” She stares but no answer. “I seee that you arre. You just continue what you’rre doing and doon’t mind mee. Play as iif I’m not heere, hehe.” She stared some more, then looked behind her through the palms, though the location in her mind was far, far out of sight even with the longest draw distance. “Biig Island, eh? Stiill much to exploore. Snaaakes (pause) Manateees (pause) Liooons. (pause) I’ve even heard there are tiigers on the neighborring island with thee temples. Tiigers, Duncan. Tales of thee..”
“And mee in the ceentre. I was *theere.*”
“I plan to goo to Rosehaaven and shaake things uup a bit.” Puff. “Thaat’s my deestiny.” Emit smoke.
John Cage had come to feel
That art in our time
Was far less important
Than our daily lives
~ “Tiger the Lion” by The Tragically Hip
“So here we are. At the appropriately named Ebonshire. This is as far as you’ve ever gone Monsieur Gold. You are almost ready to transition. See over there?” Parasol indicates across the water to her left. “End of the tale. Tiger. Are you ready?”
But then Monsieur Gold was gone, in a flash. From the other direction, several deer look on, thinking her crazy for talking to herself.
Just later, Parasol goes to confer with the Monster of the Sea about the next step.
“Thank you my friend.”
At the Jaeger’s Hat, Rosehaven tourist Donald Farr gets a big laugh out of a jukebox style gramophone that comes to life and sprouts arms when touched. The castle scene behind the sentient record player is actually a false window, which becomes important a little later on. Reminds Donald that he’s made friends with a Rosehaven castle owner recently, and wonders if it is the same structure he presently calls home. King Tull (or King Tully). We’ll get to him soon as well.
In looking behind him now, I realize that the false window of 10×6 panes, if extended into a square, would represent 100 panes that have become one through the castle.
Donald enjoying his second house whiskey at the Avalon Estate irish pub and dance hall, the first being so refreshing. Good thing he’s not driving, walking and teleporting being his only means of transport while on vacation. When did he have to be back to work? he ruminates through the inebriated haze. Perhaps never, hehe.
Hmm. Donald remembers a building that could be rented on this parcel before, which now is vacant. He had his eyes on it, but the rent is a little steep for his traveling budget. He just wants a place to rest his head between exploring jaunts. Perhaps one of the nearby cottages is available now. He’ll go check there next. He can only impose on King Tull (or Tully) for so long. Plus it’s pretty much a fur piece from anything out where he lives on that mountain. He’d like to be closer to the center of all things Rosehaven, and the cottages fit that bill.
Darnit! The edge cottage that had been available for several days was now rented. He missed his chance! Music is heard within — a ragtime tune being played on an out-of-tune piano. It draws him in; there’s a welcome sign as well. Plus he’s still a little drunk and uninhibited. Is this a private parcel? He didn’t care. He felt it should be his.
He opens the door and walks inside…
…. to find himself staring at himself.
“The missing building!” he cries while twirling about.
more Picton pics
Muffled voice from within: “Is it spring yet?”
“Just kidd’n. I’m over here now. But what happened to Yellow’s?”
“Ahh so. Ye11ow’s. 11 instead of ‘ll’.”
“And only 200 meters away as the crowbird flies…
… but still hidden, hmmmm.”
“Hold on. What’s that over there? Just at the end of the street?”
Queer, thought Baker Bloch, back to exploring Blue Junkyards. I recognize this butterfly ship from Rosehaven. And (as he’s checking): owned by an actual Rosehavener (again: !). Well, in that nice Designing Worlds video on the region fleet commander Wildstar Beaumont did say his ships were deployed throughout Our Second Lyfe. I guess this is proof! Far far away from Rosehaven I would assume we are.
So another synchromystic link between Rosehaven and The Waste, since Blue Junkyards’ name is very similar to The Junkyard sim of latter.
And this just after I moved my Rosehaven Yarn Shop over right smack next to the *Yarn*a sim on Corsica last night (thanks Green Squirrel and Huma!).
Queerer and queerer. Maybe we’re not done with Rosehaven in the *present* yarn.
Henry consulted Axis about his tattoo.
“You don’t wanna mess with the palms, man.” Henry replied gruffly while shaking his head. “I have a twin brother who lost both of ’em that way. No what you want to do is stick with the *back* of the hands. Just happens I’m running a special on what’s called a henna design. Here, I’ll show you an example of a dude I fixed up last week with the same thing.”
But Axis so so wanted the full palmistry tattoo on the face of his hands so he’d always remember which lines were which. He’ll have to look elsewhere for that later. “I don’t need to see a picture. Just do it.”
“Alright, suit yourself.” Henry rolled his stool over to the chair and began to prepare his instruments.
Afterwards, Axis walked over to the new Rosehaven Yarn Shop that had opened up in Baumbeer’s old building just down the street.
Several items remained from before his tragic end, including the psychiatrist booth we’ve already seen during Baker Bloch and Hucka Doobie’s visit to same, changing out “The Doctor is IN” with “The Doctor is DEAD”. And then his static filled tv with old chair positioned in front of it is still present. “A Princess sits here,” Axis coos while staring down. “Indeed she does.”
Time to go see what Lu Ellen is up to over in her secret beach house.
“Why am I here, Axis? I can’t stand it any more!”
“Keep it down, dearest. You know why you’re here.”
“I know I know. The *Hiding*.”
“Did your skin change over today? How long this time if so?”
“Always with the percentages. *Yes*, it changed over.” She looked up from her backwards position, straining to see his face above her knees. “Sit down in the sand beside me. Hard to talk with you this way.”
Axis didn’t like sand. Actress Alice Frame knew this. And she’d purposefully rezzed only one chair on the tiny beach here. Fate, she thought. I stare straight out, but no one can look in. She lowered her head back toward the sand. Backwards she remained.
“I got a letter from Jack Toadswallow today.”
“Um, Jack who?” He was still standing. His legs were getting weary, his neck beginning to hurt. He couldn’t pull her off this peninsula effectively isolated from the rest of prying NWES. And he couldn’t stay.
“You know. *Ingo*.”
“Oh, Jack Toadswallow, right.” Axis had forgotten the name of the actor playing Alice Frame’s brother in the current production. And her real life lover, at least until the end of section 3. “How’s he doing?” Axis had taken pictures of the Rosehaven Yarn Shop but sensed he wouldn’t be sharing these with Alice Frame today. The princess has forgotten who she is.
Well. If she’s going to be stuck out here on this peninsula isolated from the rest of NWES — turning her back on the yellow green blue red puzzle pieces that are sims, in essence — then’s she’s going to try to stay as jolly as possible. Celebrating Xmas to the hilt seemed to be the ticket. Axis help out. A lot. Most of the objects were his.
Then he added the final touch in the bedroom, the coup de grâce. They both looked down.
Alice Frame’s skin changed over. She remembered who she was, deep down.
She turns toward her partner, her lover. “Thank you, Axis. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Wife.” It was time to show her the yarn pictures.
Toddles hated to drug up her grandma to explore The City at night unless absolutely necessary. But she had to go back to Boos without her interfering *negativism* to investigate the first floor collages more and the perhaps clues she saw in them when they both visited the other day. Poor Grammy, the prescient (and precious!) toddler lamented. So fixated on the collages over at the Red Umbrella that she can’t see the advancement of all that interesting energy into the Boos series (exhibited) here above the Temple of TILE now. Toddles ganders at the toy action figure she knows later turned into Casey One Hole, another a-hole of a man, although she’s not suppose to say that word aloud. “Grammy be *damned*,” she dares while staring and glaring. “He *is* an a-hole. And what does he look over at in the other hand? A seed. A license plate that is a seed. A tiny car of a thing held by someone named Olive. Olive something. Kimball something… Oliver.” She was tuning in better, eliminating the rest of the static. “Oliver Wendell Douglas,” she speaks clearly. “And ‘A Dirty Little Wet Seed’.” We know what that is.
She thinks back to the rest of the series just viewed and how it progresses to this *point*, this seed.
PICT ON PICT…
“Tiger eyes, moved from the front of the head to the back to meet in the middle again, just like (with) Aunt Fannie. Black Diamond is revealed. It is time to tell the truth.”
“Partial truth,” I respond.
“Black Ice is not Black Ice,” I spoke to the city or town council, as yet undecided. *Maybe* tonight (!).
“Well??” Head councilman and well respected resident Walter “Homer” Westinghouse was waiting for an answer.
“It’s Black Diamond.” Gasps from the members at the meeting. They hadn’t heard that name in a looong time.
“Bu-bu-but *Diamond*fyre* is the only Diamond named sim.”
“No,” I corrected Homer. “The actual name of Diamondfyre is *Ice*fyre. Sometime in the past, with a bunch of hoodoos like you lot, it was changed. “The decision –,” I measured out, “was – made,” I paused again, “to change. Switch. One replaces another, like if you had a set of eyes you weren’t pleased with and you switched them out with someone else’s.” I let that sink in. No one responded for what I considered an appropriate amount of time to absorb so I added, “and Ice is the same as Diamond — almost — because you can have the glass version of the former while Diamond always remain pure. Always — remain — pure,” I metered out again.
“What about the *belt*?” Murmurs from the members, agreeing with Walter “Homer” Westinghouse. They must talk about the Great Belt of Black Diamond next. How did it get imported into Marwood? And what did *Icefyre* have to do with all this?
(to be continued)
Barry DeBoy stares at the blank canvas he knows he must fill in soon. CITY, a concept that must be born if the city itself is to be saved. Almost a 90 percent chance of it now. He’ll take the odds.
He pinches himself to make sure he’s awake (he is). Wearing the red tie has made him nervous about that down through the months — before, he was always dreaming when he had it on. No more. Something happened: a reversal, a change of heart even, he senses. Miss Graham has given it back. But why?
“It was me,” Hucka Doobie spoke at a nearby table. Come on into the picture. PICT ON PICT. Come on,” she urged.
“What’s he doing?”
“She. But that’s what we have to find out. Temple.”
“Wheeler. Of course.”
Barefoot Toothpick had a dream that night. The overalls were removed again. He was walking across a field of delicious green grass that should be a paved, car filled street toward a building that would answer it all. Instead it was full of playing kids and supervising parents who were also having fun, shrugging away the burden of responsibility for the time being. Fun. Toothpick should be having that too. But he had other things to do he knew were both right and wrong at the same time. It was as if truth were suspended in mid-air before him off a bridging pole.
The location? Picton, but it wasn’t called that any longer, not after this festival or whatever it is. The name was now Pict on Pict, short for Picture on Picture, a new blog category. Heck, let’s just call it Picturetown, or maybe Frametown if we draw out a bit more. But we can’t right this moment because of the setting, blackness or the abyss all around. Picturetown it is.
Elberta meets him near the threshold. Certain Death is both at the front window and nearer the door, another 2n1 situation since time is overlapping here again (Munday = Sunday + Monday). She knew she’d have to lose the body to go inside. They hold hands.
Not what they were expecting.
It was kind of irritating how he never wore clothes in the hot tub but octogenarian Drew “Grumpy” Cleveland had information I needed to complete my school project. Pansy Mouse! The mouse history has forgotten. Perhaps I shouldn’t even be writing about it (!). Keep it to myself for later.
“Pansy?” he started after the prompt. “Yeah, I remember Pansy. That was before Mickey. That was before ‘Floydada.'”
What a goldmine!
“That’s very nice, Mortimer. Let’s stop there.”
Deep into the night, far past supper, the person formerly known as Amber and several other names decides to go into the city. She sits on the subway, wishing the town council would vote to get it up and running. But they have so much else on their plate! She’d have to walk.
A new store: Rosehaven Yarn Shop.
But she didn’t have time to investigate tonight. She had to get back home to the Deep South of Black Ice by sunrise or else be found out by the parents. She was a man. She was a woman. Onward to the Red Rose owned by a Peet Aries who she’d never met but Dr. Baumbeer, the current renter, spoke glowingly about. Dr. Baumbeer: another changer, she thought as she passed the yarn store and kept in a straight line northward.
She had to stop to look at a map…
… then she recalled the Red Rose wasn’t actually in the Neptune sim she was currently passing through. Instead: Apple’s Orchard. Where she or he had his or her earliest memories of the city. Good times. She remembers something about a neck. Neck City it was called back them, but that was a faulty implant, pheh. Much like… here she reached up with her left hand and felt something that had changed in the meantime. She recalled Sandy Beech doing the same. Or was it Herbert Dune. She looked around, feeling people watching her — cameras. But no one spotted.
Like any urban area worth its salt, the city was changing.
She couldn’t go down this road any further — blocked in this direction. She checked her watch. 4:15. Time to be heading down to the lower side of Black Ice and crawl back in bed. The Red Rose must wait, she realized. For tonight at least, she would remain a woman.
(to be continued?)
Since a Rosehaven Yarn Shop exists in both, I’m playing around tonight with a further melding between Picton, Ontario and NWES City of Our Second Lyfe.
Best additional resonance: the overlap of the also recently opened Her Majesty in NWES City with the Regent Theatre of Picton. Notice the parallel crowns in the center of the matching pictures below. And then notice that a girl wearing all black except for a hot pink dress (and seemingly holding a somewhat less hot pink colored coat) is walking directly underneath part of the theater marquee featuring the name *Pink* Floyd. Best guess: since Her Majesty is a bigfoot/yeti in Our Second Lyfe, and a black furred bigfoot is seen standing in the other doorway of Her Majesty (the main doorway here is framing Queen Elizabeth with a kind of menacing look — pic stood out for me) with footprints from him (or her) leading down the sidewalk, then the black clad woman must also be a bigfoot in my eyes, perhaps Her Majesty again in some queer way as transferred from virtual to real. The pink overlap is just a way to highlight this.
And so the actual name of Our Second Lyfe’s Her Majesty may be Vic, don’t you think. Or Vincent.
(to be continued)
her name is Mary York (York, Mary)
“We’re getting closer to something Hucka. I can feel it.”
“Jigsaw pieces,” she responds monotone-like. “Obvious resonance, yes. Keep going.” Her arms were still crossed.
“I’m going to look out the (endless) window again. Explosions! Larger, then smaller.”
“The car, right.” She threw up her hands in a gesture of something blowing up, but still kept the same look. Baker Bloch knew he didn’t have much time before she left again.
“I’m going to figure it out tonight.”
“Riiight.” And then, poof. Gone.
on the run
in the progression of sheds red mysteriously switches with orange
“It really was quite simple, Hucka Doobie. I inserted the 5th piece — orange — connecting red and yellow together, The Cones were revealed again beyond the Victory Restaurant, Lu Ellen Hutchinson or Hutchison’s red cap disappeared behind it (another red to orange switch), and much more is at stake (!).”
“Much more ahead, yeah.” Hucka Doobie had to admit to herself that she was pretty proud of Baker boy here. Now he just had to figure out where the real Bigfoot was. Was it in Herman Park in that new, top secret spot Carrcassonnee recently dreamed about? Or is it still next to the Blue Mtn. Urban Landscape in the “old” Bigfoot, or more specifically the Bigfoot section called Chesterton.
Tigers are a link. She smiles with this. Baker boy is good. Good boy.
Bigfoot Chesterton revisited
For instance, maybe this moss covered rock is suppose to be next to the blue-yellow-green-*orange* Mmmmmm’s and also next to the church. The monkeys (Ding and Dong) know. One perches on top of the rock, the other on the roof of the chapel. The Veer is the same in each, although the new Herman Park location for the model rr track contains 11 pieces instead of Chesterton’s 12. This is The River of the game Carcassonne that all is built around. The Earth is built around The River, usually identified as The Amazon because of its size but, really, any large world river would do. Mississippi is also commonly used because of its inherent mightiness.
But we must get back to characters and away from just dry, didactic text. Nice to know that Hucka Doobie and Baker Bloch are getting along better now. Orange helps. The search is over.
on the run 02
Mary York x 2
“See. I *told* you if we waited long enough he would change colors.”
“Very good, Sandy. I need to tell a story now.”
“Go ahead, Wheeler, um, Wendy,” encouraged Sandy. It was her turn after all.
“I was wheeling my way from Picturetown, trying not to be late for the Blue Feather meeting with Baker and, er, the other one. The green toy fellow.”
“You know his name,” Sandy complained.
“Anyway, I see my name on the side of a small square house as it comes into view around another house…”
“Lemme guess. Which has the same name.”
“Do you want my apples yet?” asks Harrison Ford Jett opposite Sandy now, waiting his turn. He was eager to give them up. He wanted to be a man for Charlene.
“Not yet. We already have the orange and that’s enough for now,” answered Sandy. “Bananas: not needed.”
“So I’ve heard.” Harrison Ford Jett glances sideways at his own partner, his own bestie. They both knew something the other 2 didn’t. That Charlene the Punk was… well it should be obvious by the shirt. We’ll get a pic in a moment. Back to Picturetown and Wendy’s story who is the same as Wheeler.
“In that frozen moment, it was then I noticed a (red) car on the other side of the road from the buildings with my name, also coming into clear view from behind a passing truck. Before the obscuration I knew it was an ordinary car. Now, after the passing, it had a flat. Then *I* had a flat. I became the car.”
“Carrcassonnee?” Harrison Ford Jett guessed, turning his attention to the story and away from his gnawing apples, those chafing, gnawing things in his shirt-blouse. His head pivots to Charlene. “Carrcassonnee is a deity of the Temple…”
“I know who Carrcassonnee is. She’s talking about a car.” Let’s get a picture of that shirt in the pause here.
Oh well, turns out we can’t see it from this angle. Sandy presses the issue on. “Blue again,” he says while staring at the tiny snowman in the midst of it all, formerly All Orange. “We’re losing the reader’s attention.” He wondered if he remembered that line correctly. Must be director Eraserhead Man breaking the 4th wall once more. He glanced at the camera, pretending it was the reader he mentioned. He complimented himself for the improvisation before fully coming back into character.
“I looked over at the square building again. My name was obscured once more (around the corner). I knew I couldn’t make it to the meeting on time. Then, in a flash, everything changed. A boy came by on a skateboard.”
(to be continued?)
102 01 02
“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.
She went into the yarn shop and clicked on Tigertail to teleport. Soon she was with Archer, Peet.
“Aries is not the only one involved,” he reinforced to the psychic, precious toddler, soon not to be a toddler as he urges her to change before returning to Canada or thereabouts. Picturetown he thinks it is called, Pictown for short. Close enough. Maybe he’s not as involved, okay, but he’s a busy man, er, spirit… man. I remember it all ended with Oz, big loop completed. I asked him through the child.
“Return?” He drew back, took me in better. Smiling, he returned to his former position. He looked at his hands. I realized I saw him more for who he really was than a cartoon-ish shooter of arrows. “Okay, okay, I admit I controlled *some* things. The Stripe joint over in Post I think it’s called. That was for the other Peet. And you of course.” He spoke rapidly. I knew he was super intelligent, just like the partner. It would be difficult to keep up. Much like with the records. “Soooo, what are your plans *now*? Are you just going to move to Canada?” He got more into character, changed the accent to represent something more ridiculous and surreal. “Leave your old mawmaw to rot in her virtual grave? No no no no,” he said while shaking his head. “No go, no good. We have to keep you and your granny together. So she’ll have to go too.”
“Canada?” I ventured in my wee voice, just as cute as my looks.
“Listen, we’re going to have to reorganize this whole trip. It’s 3000 miles from Tugas- tugask…”
“Tungaske,” I finished for him.”
“Tungaske, sure, yeah… anyway to get to this Pictown or Picturetown or whatever, you’ll have to have a car. And, um, *you* can’t drive.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Anyway, forget all that forget all that,” he waved off the line of thought. He looked over at the pool table behind us and its triangle of spheres. “Soooo, this Homer, er, *Smipson* is the one ball, the round yellow fellow.”
“No,” I corrected. “It *use* to be Homer in the jar but now it’s Hucka Doobie the bee-person, or at least the head of the original bee body — more bee. She took his place; more spher-oid.” As a toddler that was a considerable amount to say at once and with some odd words so I had to rest my tiny mouth a moment before talking again. Luckily Peet Archer had a lot to utter in the meantime. Here it is:
(to be continued)
winter is here
She was walking past the Rosehaven Yarn Shop when she had an epiphany. She goes inside. This is *my* shop, I mean, *queendom*. But someone else would disagree. A brother! He would say *kingdom*. So much like… who? *Mother*! And I take after… the father, pheh. Tully. It’s all coming back like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist (thanks Peet!).
Winter. Just like when: Baker!
She stands on her Castle and thinks about Sanctuary.
He dared to skate right across main street in broad daylight coming back from the Giant Tiger when he spotted it to his right.
“Whoa ho ho. A new arcade! How could I have *missed* this before??” Naturally he pulled in and started checking out the games.
“Pac-Man. Laaame, pheh.”
“But *Doom*, he he. Yeah, this is what we’re talking about. Wait till I tell… wait, what’s the name of my best friend? Millgate. Yeah, that’s it. Wait till I tell Millgate.”
He plays Doom for several hours and becomes so immersed that when he finishes he is in a different world.
“Whooooa. What happened to *Picturetown*??”
“This is the scene in Picturetown right when Bart Smipson should have been skating across main street on his way, as it turned out, to the game arcade where he does the big switcheroo and comes out in NWES City, Hucka D. Perhaps he is in front of the white truck here. Dangerous!
“But wait! Looky over there to the left (beyond the chatting girls at the corner who must have seen him skate by). A *single* tiger now where we had two staring before, or at least one eye apiece of two tigers. I know because this is in a collage composed for the last photo-novel. Behold!
“And here’s the full tiger, now whole, of the current scene. I’m not even sure I should be showing this, I don’t know, *time-skip* in the blog.
“Thanks for helping out, Charlene Brown.”
“I’m busy: but I’m here.”
“Okay, so there’s the two girls who must have seen Bart, yacking in front of the Giant Tiger painting. This would be caddy-corner to you standing at the intersection of, let’s see, Main and Elizabeth. Bart should be skateboarding by you right this instant.”
“I see nothing.”
“So let’s just swing the camera around and… Charlene? Where’re you going? Come back!”
I finally spot the pink dress wearing punk again just beyond the Rosehaven Yarn Shop, about to walk under the Regent Theatre marquee. But she’s way ahead of where she should be. Where’s she going?
“I see him Baker Bloch!” she suddenly exclaimed as I pull back beside her at Main and York.
Three Beatles were crossing the road in front of me and I knew this was a special, sacred spot.
“And that’s how Bart Smipson travels between Picturetown and NWES City,” I write in a letter later to Hucka Doobie. “Through that alley with the 102 graffiti. He’s indicating how he does it!” I sign my name with love and stick it in an envelope addressed to the White Palace.
I had to face the tiger head on.
Wheeler is Charlene is Her Majesty the Bigfoot!
One remained on the jigsaw pieces to our left, because there was only one left. Waiting for the snowman to turn orange again (it always did).
There (Wheeler joins the game).
Harrison just kept on dancing like a fool with his new mates behind the theatre. He was free!
It all started again with the formation of Thornwood. Thornwood exists: I exist, the Rose be damned. But that was the problem. I couldn’t find the roses again because of the thorns. This was an existential dilemma. Rosehaven also did not exist now. Instead: Rose Heaven. Witch Hazel *must* be suppressed (!). She could destroy this queendom-kingdom with a single, steely glance of those evil, dead white eyes. Powerful.
I clutch my Philip Linden doll even tighter. I miss my daddy, *sigh*.
“Don’t you think,” I can hear Tessa in my head (if not in reality, at least currently), “that the truth lies in the ruined village now partially in Thornwood?” I realized this was just me reflecting back to me, but it helped.
The background sound of static. I knew I was back in Room 1898, sleeping in that oh so comfy bed of ours. Tilists — always with the static at night. I wake up (let’s say). Who is beside me? Charlene the Punk? Probably not — (she was) several girls ago. Probably that girl Gigi who hangs around the bar all the time. Just like me. Whatever’s handy at the moment. But I mustn’t wake up, must dream a little longer. I unclutch the doll pillow and turn its face toward me. “What would Philip Linden do?” I ask it. Slot Mountain! came the answer in my own enlarged skull. I hadn’t thought of that slitted peak and attached haunted castle in a long time. Not since…
Time is all mixed up for me now. I know I’m dreaming but it’s even worse than that, because when I wake up, it will still be all wonky, like Willa. Hey, I could use that (expression) in my memoirs: Wonky like Willa. Slip in some more comments about chocolate and sweets in general to balance things out. Maybe delete that section about arsenic; too much of a downer, like the barbiturate section I eliminated previously. But here I am, wasting precious dream time on my memoir planning. I try to see who is in the bed with me. I’m clutching my Philip doll again, still in the dream.
Behind me, the square piece of land representing Illyria slides up and Thornwood appears in the gap, but brown instead of white like the others. Winter hasn’t come yet, at least not here in the yarn shop. Yarn Shop! Rosehaven? How did I get here?
Wormholes. Must — control — the — wormholes.
I can’t see Green at all now.
Great White North
Hunter symbolically caged up on his wee island, ready to be let loose upon the world again. “Where’s that castle. where’s that castle, where’s that castle?” he yelps anxiously while leaking within, so much so that his front leaning feet are a bit submerged in water now. “2 feet, 2 feet, 2 feet!” he continued, more anxious than ever to leave this wet spot.
Tech Support: “Have you tried turning it off and on again.”
“Oh… there it goes. Now… about installing Adobe Photoshop…”
This tie smells so GOOD. I still can’t believe there’s 5 people inside there. And now… the bowtie. That’s 3 more!”
“Right,” answers Jeffrie Phillips to his on again off again girlfriend and sometimes wife Audrey, back for a picture or 3. “Best of both words, Pot-D and Pan-Z. The 3 to 5 ratio indicates a female to male polarity, but the, er, *spirits* within can be of either male or female persuation. It’s more an energy thing. An abstract concept.”
“Sooo fascinating.” Audrey looks around the area, sees only the gnome continuing to get tech advice from the owl. They seem engrossed in what they’re doing. She sneaks a kiss, hoping for more. A kiss on the tie, like she’s smooching 6 instead of just the one. And then she moves up to the bowtie (*smack*). 9 now! And then to her true and real lover’s lips even farther north, just over the edge (of the collar). She keeps pecking and pecking while talking about Canada. “If we move to Picturetown (*smooch*), we can take all of them (*smack*) with us and not have to worry (*kiss*) about the coming swamp monster.”
“I’m not scared of water monsters,” replied Jeffrie Phillips, wondering which direction Murdoch’s castle was from where they sat. But then he remembered all he had to do was follow the yelps of (quickly submerging?) Hunter nearby.
Hunter will save them. Hunter will save us all. He was trained for this moment in history. If he can just get off that wee island of his.
Toddles and Peet Archer were hopelessly lost in the Heartland of Canada. They spotted a fisherman screwing a hole in the ice and decided to stop and ask for directions. “Hellooo!” Peet Archer called when they neared the tiny fishing shack on the frozen lake. No answer. “Howdy,” Peet tried again as they got within about 15 feet. Still no response. In fact, the man hadn’t moved — wasn’t screwing into the pond at all.
As Toddles and Peet made their way back to the blue car stolen from that Tungaske residence seen in photo-novel 23, they realized he was just a symbol, a prop. All he really represented in his Maple Leaf hoodie was the Canadian flag and the country itself through it.
They still had a fur piece to go to reach Picturetown way over in Ontario.
passing through a butterfly
reverse nudists come reverse nudists go (story of the boy)
Marilyn Monroe type
“How are we going to get up *that* thing, Mr. Archer?” Toddles said in her wee, cute voice, so full of hope just moments before. Then they heard the roar and remembered. They’d forgotten for so long. The obstacle.
“How are you with barrels?” Archer returned, thinking of a solution. Toddles would go up first and then lower down a rope or something.
Toddles suddenly had a growing spurt, then another, then another to make 3 total. She was 5’10”. Then three more to reach the needed height to simply pick up tiny Mr. Archer (to her) and set him on top of the reverse falls along with the car, then step up herself via a large rock pictured above.
“Handy you can do that!!” he shouted up when they were back together on another rock.
“WHAT??” she replied from a great height, and then shrank down again.
“No need to shout now, Mr. Archer. I’m right beside you here.
“Please… call me Peet,” he requested, seeing her quick dry herself as well. She had shrunk down three but not the remaining. She remained a pretty big girl. Pretty grown up. “We’ve been through a lot.”
At the “Picturetown 30 miles” sign he wondered if she was ever going to step back down those original three. She was not a toddler. In fact, she offered to drive after Niagara.
Newton 01 02 Remix (“Newton 01.5”)
not soon enough
identifying the issue
“*Two* Beetles instead of 3 down the road now, Mr. Archer.”
Peet Archer considered requesting, “Peet please,” again, but decided against it. Toddles had somehow shrunk down to her “normal” diminutive size during the trip into the heart of this fine Canadian hamlet, warm on an early spring day. “Who have we lost this time?”
“Lennon, it appears. Must be the same, yes, as Lemon. The lemon tree went missing from Springfeld, Mr. Archer. Shelbyvale stole.” Toddles needed to rest her wee mouth again. She put her thoughts into Archer’s brain, as she did sometimes when this happened.
“So *what* is the equivalent to Shelbyvale for our Picturetown here?” he said. They both peered down the alley with Mary York at the increasingly diminutive skateboarder, almost out of sight now. Might as well say he’s gone. There: he’s gone.
“All blocked up, Mr. Archer. Someone has sealed off the passage to the interior, ‘X’ed it out in effect.”
“We didn’t come soon enough,” he said for her. “We better check the 102 alley for changes as well.”
not soon enough remix
no one noticed any difference (animation)
theatre in Canada
“‘102’ appears here, on this utility box, far away from the Regent Theatre.”
“Better not call it that in the blog,” requests [delete name].
“Regal Theatre, then. Like in my own home town.”
“*This* will be your hometown soon, he he.”
“Yes. But this is about a 1/2 mile down York Street (and then some) from the theatre. The Regal, true, was 102 years old on the year after the graffiti was created in that namesake alley of mine beside it, the one where Bart Smipson — I mean, where he traveled between dimensions.”
[Delete name] let me unwind my theories, remaining silent. She stared at me with those dead white eyes. I figured I’d be in a bit of trouble if I didn’t get to the heart of the situation tonight. In front of me was…
“Continue,” she requested, not wanting to rest too much at any one pause. Good idea.
“Anyway,” — I’d lost my train of thought, as they say. Better back up to the cemetery. “102 is dead?” I theorized.
Pause. “102 is death.”
Icebox Diamondbox field seen in same Photo Sphere where red mysteriously switched with orange
The infinity loop at the start of York St. I knew this would lead straight to the theatre about a 1/2 mile down. I knew this would lead right into the heart of this madness. 102 102 102.
The old white lady points.
Baker Bloch approached the clipboard on the white desk against the white wall. Whitewashed it was. He should have done this weeks ago, months: join the gym at Hucka D.’s White Palace in disguise, er, the skies. But where’s the List?
“Baker! Over here!” Fern Stalin calls excitedly from the Links, eager to get to know Hucka D.’s friend better. Former friend? That’s what she wanted to find out, why they set all this up in the first place. The White Palace. Baker found it!
“Who’s that over there?” he returns, peering through the machines and equipment. “Hucka?”
Wendy Wheeler enters through a portal in the corner. Lichen Roosevelt soon joins them too. The black, white (yellow) and red altogether again. Just like a newspaper, ready to be read. True yellow was not invited, which would have consequences later.
“So you see, Hucka D. The 3 cars closest to the portal represent the alchemical witches I just met over at your gym, with the 4th missing, just like the Citrinitas stage is often left out of the alchemical process.”
“That’s *us*,” uttered the witches in unison. “*We’re* the cars,” and then they cackled like a pack of hyenas. Flushing Baker Bloch, a skunk with a rash as far as they were concerned, had forgotten who he was speaking to. Certainly not Hucka D. “*Hardly*,” as each of them would say in turn, I’m sure.
But what of the 4th? The 4th could save them all. If she could figure a way into the X-ed out square. Picturetown. Those clever, evil witches!
“*Here* Mr. Archer,” she said, seeing one of the witch’s cars at last. “A temporal opening I can finally wedge through. You’ll have to stay behind, pull me out by the rope if needed.”
“Just like Niagara,” Peet said under his breath, looking down at her sweet, wee yellow head.
“I’ll warn you. I’ll be much heavier when I return since it will be 11 years later; you’ll have to hold tight.”
He estimates his 200 meters of 3/16 inch braided nylon beside him should do the trick just fine.
watch out! (he or she’s okay)
23 22 (male; 2009)
22 23 (female; 2012)
Maybe this blog will turn into Google Earth oddities and veer away from Second Life© stuff. Finding *so much* in Picturetown (alone!). If only Hucka D. could weigh in.
EXACTLY 200 meters between the two, which JUST became a blog tag last night. And in the center? YORK, which eventually turns into MARY. Mary York = Charlene the Punk (= Wheeler = Her Majesty the Bigfoot/Yeti), who just talked to Giant Tiger in Rubi.
Peet Archer didn’t know he would be dragged all over town with his 200 meters worth of 3/16 inch braided nylon rope trying to hold onto Toddles through time. “Whoa Nelly!” he exclaims exactly halfway between 23 22 and 22 23. “Down in the road she goes (*snap*?).”
The snake has let loose of its tail.
This dates at least from 2012 and may still be present on the brick Main Street building just east of downtown — long lasting. Bold black letters here on the primary depiction, which makes it easier to spot from a distance (see below).
Giant pencil “leaning against” the number in yet another downtown alley (!). This seems to indicate, to me, that 102 either IS a director or is directly BEING directed (see: Eraserhead Man).
Another white pointing person (chalk outline) which the other white pointing person we’ve mentioned recently, positioned a block away in a nearby time-space reality, is DIRECTLY POINTING AT. What are the odds (again)??? Is this ART? (seems to be a meaning)
Here’s the look down to the, ahem, Regal Theatre. Note that in Canada they spell theater as theatre, as apparently all English speaking countries do outside the US. Where did we go wrong?
Back to the first 102. No words this time.
“I just want a place to disappear to, Jeffrie. Maybe this *twin* to our NWES City will do the trick…”
“For a while,” Jeffrie Phillips reinforced from his position opposite Charlene “Punk” Brown at the Static Social Lounge next to the *other* local Red gallery besides the Red Umbrella. This was another indication that they were in the right spot. “What are you going to call it?”
“The City? Oh, I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”
“*We’ll* think of something.” They sat in silence for a while after that, taking in the new sights and sounds.
They even had a view of the harbour (Canadian) just beyond the gallery.
“We reached a dead end in NWES City, my love, future present past.”
“We did,” agreed Charlene Brown the punk beside him in the car at the center of the new city, whatever he or she or they decide to call it. Maybe just New Town.
“Oh… look over there, dearest. Another Happy Travels office, just like in…”
“Don’t say it, sweets. Let’s put that name behind us, move on to the new. New Town?” she then guessed, mirroring my thoughts.
“Anyway, there it is… again. Probably the portal to Gaston once more as well.”
“Don’t use it,” wisely advised Charlene. “Seal that up too. Let Barry X. Vampire the writer and, heck, Barry Deboy the artist deal with it if they wish.”
“Are the Barrys still around?” I ask through Jeffrie Phillips, borrowing his voice for the moment.
Charlene shook her head, but not as a denial. Instead: “Not our problem.”
“And a MacDonald’s,” Jeffrie joked when looking more behind them. Funny.
She should have never gone into that cave. She was out in the open, the fresh, clean air with the star studded sky spreading out above her, and then she wasn’t. A path, but not leading to clean, fresh water. Dank, dingy, green, algae congested. Atrophied. Some say her life was atrophied when she got hitched to her twin brother Toothpick/Philburg back at the end of photo-novel 22. Only the Free Tilists, with close ties to the Deep South (of Black Ice), would marry them. “Amoral,” cried to Pentagonists, worshipers of all things 5 sided and 5 pointed and originating on Mars. “Blasphemous, a slap in the face of Our Lord God of Heaven,” bemoaned the Trilogists, better known as our Christians. Only the 4-square Tilists would touch it, but only in Catalpa outside the direct influence of the city council who had ultimate judgment in these matters and could expel the couple if the ceremony was held on their grounds. Instead: All Orange, between the wine red apples of Apple’s Orchard and the slick yellow banana symbolically lying at the center of Black Ice, which all revolves around like a Beanstalk or Pope to a helmet wearing monkey (crook) with one upturned and one downturned eyebrow. It was only in All Orange where it could happen. The 5th, but in a good way this time (we hope).
Barry De Boy settled back in the rocking chair with the maple leaf pillow and felt it was good. I have acquired the power of the three now, the scissors to begin, then the paper, then, lastly, rock (in the middle). Rock solid I am. Jeffrie Phillips I am. He he he. He he he he he. Ho ho. Hu. Huh.
It was Waldrip. Or was it Waldrup. Waldrop? …drep? Anyway, I could feel his presence even if I couldn’t see him. Like a mouse.
He stopped rocking, stood up. “Who goes there?”
lost in the sea that is the sky
He was a blank, ready to be written upon. Some called him Jonny already. He stared out past the Bellisaria Blues Bar toward the sea, the houseboats. He was looking for a… kite? His mind went blank again. He was a blank. Jonny he was called by some. He stares past the blues bar toward the sea, the sky, the… what was it? A ship. A boat or maybe… space?
I decided it should be a 200 meter long tether of red, knotted up like a rock hard ball of yarn left of center. This is the Jonny part.
Alice Farrowheart was inconsolable. My poor poor Toddles, she lamented to anyone around at the time, the police for now.
“There there, now now,” the squad all attempted to calm. “Toddles is still in town. The tracker implanted in her neck like everyone’s neck tells us so (!).”
“But *where*?” she exclaims back.
“The tracker says Apple’s Orchard. Wait.” Officer Robert Petrie Dish checked Master Radar again. “Heading to Neptune now… yes, she’s in Neptune. She’s… making a turn left. Looks like she’s going to Black Ice.”
“You’ve checked *everywhere*. She’s *physically* NOT in the city!” Alice Farrowheart couldn’t help herself. She had to yell to get the feelings out. Where — was — TODDLES??
The officers and gentlemen around her knew there was one other place she could be hiding but were too scared to raise the possibility. They knew Collagesity was more or less fully integrated into NWES City — and Collagesity contained collages and now NWES City does too. Precious precocious child Toodles could have gone to the Inside World, perhaps, gasp (they collectively did when they thought of this), Picturetown? Inside the pictures that were collages? The squad thinks again about how unwise it was for town to decide to stay “city” and live with all the other lesser and inferior cities intruding in and around it, like unwanted pregnancies and resulting ragamuffin children. They should have been cast off with the name. Now look what happens. Actual children disappearing. She could be anywhere now, even — gasp (again) — Canada.