Tag Archives: Homer Smipson^*++++$

October 19, 2021 · 4:56 am

the Vegetarian

Star trees, he called them, because they had little stars in them, all white of course, add in a little pink.

This was handy, but what about the box that was suppose to be here?

She wore the Pepper blouse-shirt and the Pepper blouse-shirt wore she. The apples inside were hers. She always lamented they were too small. They were exteriorized before she met Lichen. Stalin she was after that. Fern Stalin. And then they found Wendy who turned into Red. They’d analyzed her. They knew what she was. Mirror. And: the cake is a lie.

—–

“Lisa, it’s time to come inside. Mom has finished baking her stack of potatoes. And afterwards: turkey — for the rest of us. Come on and be a good girl and go clean up.” He leans his head down. “I’m sorry for what I said before. You can skip the turkey, we’re all okay with it.” He saunters back around the house.

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October 18, 2021 · 5:15 pm

Hook Tender (Southern delusion)

The surrounding white trees should have been a clue about the situation. Conquests, she called them at another time, another place (Horns). The mannequin in the yard (Roxanne) doesn’t want to hear anything about the making of babies; she wants to remain innocent and pure and white (as the driven snow). She doesn’t want to fall into the Black Hole at the center of the Milky Way, a dreamer lost to reality. Reality is *here*. There is no black behind the white for her, being, you know, a dummie and all. Simple, perhaps. A meat and potatoes kind of (wooden) girl.

Fireworks trees, some call them, but that would be more on the opposite side.

We’ve seen the mannequin before. Scarlet some called her, a person ruled by Terra: Earth. Grounded in the soil. She’ll never be tired or poor or hungry again. She thus becomes a mannequin, seeing no other recourse. Stuck in the yard, she is, with a UFO above trying to beam her back up into the sky but not succeeding. Pineapple down the road shoots a cherry red laser beam and mows down a pair of blue-not-green A_Team traitors, influencing the rocket. Frosty turns away, still cold from the grave. Homer sits on the porch. *Homer* *sits* on the *porch*.

Face it.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0029, 0501, Bellisaria, collages 2d, Continent 02, Horns of Hatton^, Maebaleia/Satori, Middletown^

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October 17, 2021 · 10:12 am

back in Horsa…

She rubbed her bare arms, trying to stay warm. About time to pull out that gray fleece jacket she likes so much, she thinks. Fall is here — finally. “Oh cheer up please, Bartholomew,” she said over to her employee, her roommate at the moment. “You know, I use to be a kid, just like you. I know what you’re going through.”

“Do you?” he answered dismissively. “Do you know what it’s like to go through life as a yellow? A cartoon, even? 2 dimensional? I had to escape.”

“I’m sure your father means well. Deep down.”

“Pheh.”

“What about your manifesto? How’s that going?”

“My *treatise*,” he corrects in his nasal way.

—–

Indeed he had been working on it — hard. His sister was creating a complementary piece called “Cowabunga: Truth and Lies”. More scholarly, with proper footnotes. Bart(holomew) didn’t like footnotes; preferred a more direct approach to convey his feelings about the whole subject. His own attached treatise to the TILE Manifesto was called “Ay Carumba! I’m a Mouse!” Alysha could see right through it, having been a mouse for a while herself. Before the removal of Black. Bart didn’t really know what he was writing, although she did. And the same applied for Lisa in a lesser manner. She’d go over his newest material and make the appropriate edits after she returned from Blue Feather tonight. Very little chance that Blue Feather Douglas himself would show up again, though. Could be months, she figured. Years, even. But it was thrilling while it lasted!

(to be continued)

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October 14, 2021 · 8:58 am

Bell is serial

“Honey?”

“Yes, Homie.” So raspy. She was between compositions now, deciding what to play next at her beloved pink upright.

“Do we know anyone named Wells, as in well well well?” The internet search had rung a bell. “Indian Wells”, the name on several of his daughter’s records, the stuff he couldn’t stomach in the least. “Well Well Well, If It Isn’t Indian,” was a particular (comeback) album that stuck out for him. He set aside the pictures of donuts for just one minute and tried it.

“*Well, Homie, they were our next door neighbors for 15 years is all.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, the musical family. The ones you couldn’t stand.”

“I can’t stand *any* of our neighbors.”

“Well you should get to know them better… obviously. They moved away I suppose, hmmm, about 5 years ago. Right before…” She stopped. She didn’t want to talk about Bartholomew and how he left in the middle of the night after declaring all of them 2 dimensional and unreal. He’d had enough. Now he’s sorry and wishes to return to the good graces of the father especially. But Homer would have none of it — sic Itchy the family dog on him if necessary to chase him away again. But Bartholomew is still trying, with new boss Alysha’s urging. Maybe it wasn’t worth it to keep knocking on and beating on and pleading through a front door that would remain locked, doorbell never rung. Because *Lisa* knew how to ring the bell, making their hearts sing. Wild thing remains ostracized, despite Lisa’s support. She’s in touch with Alysha as well; wonders about her change from black to red hair. My cousin dyed her hair red, she ponders one night while listening to the adored, atonal croonings of Indian Wells again on her pink record player upstairs, Primary Rabbit and a peculiar, sticky-outy potted plant between them. Made her wild as well… like Bart. She imagines embracing him again, pretending he is real and standing before her. The little yellow fellow, always smaller than her despite the age advantage. He told his father that he was going to straighten his life out, stop going in circles forever and ever and that he knew he was in a rut. But his father was too much like him and wouldn’t listen.

“I’m going to shut the computer off now,” he rather shouted over to Marg, who had started again. She stopped and imagined them switching places, she at his computer and he at her piano. What would *he* compose? Something like Indian Wells? Wouldn’t that be just.

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October 11, 2021 · 11:12 am

00290313

Someone knocks at the front door.

“*Itchy*. Don’t answer that!”

—-

“Awww, mannn.”

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October 8, 2021 · 8:23 am

she’s coming home

He was playing on the keyboard.

She was belting out the piano.

The front door rang. No one knew where they lived. Who could it be?

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September 9, 2021 · 7:02 am

teacher (Zebra?)

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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July 29, 2021 · 5:11 pm

tables turned

He was on a tightrope above the city, higher than ever. If he fell this time he may never make it, Yellow Family below absorbed by Black Mouse by this point up in space. Sacrifice. A menace revealed. To the left: death. To the right: death. Only center is safe, and that’s a narrow line indeed to navigate.

All Hidi can think to do to help is jump into the next section, the next book. Alice in Wonderland is done and over with. Time to head through the Looking Glass.

“Don’t worry,” he says below, waiting for her. “I’ll catch you.”

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Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0027, 0518, Nautilus, New York, Retirement Islands, Wild West, Wonderland

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July 29, 2021 · 4:12 am

Art Box

He wanted to scream but couldn’t open his mouth to do it. Stuck. Just like in life.

Realities were shifting around for him more rapidly than ever, almost at a blur’s pace now. Time to calm the hell down. Where’s that green phone and D Flat ring when you need it?

Lunchtime now. He wondered if any of these other dudes he was sitting with on this beam in the sky had any packets of mustard for his sandwich. He hated bologna without mustard. But with it: best thing ever. “Wanda forgot the mustard again,” he said to Fred beside him, lifting the top slice of bread to show the non-yellowness within.

Yellow yellow yellow. He was remembering something. Tumbling, he fell into a different reality, different universe really.

Wanda was with him, now called Hidi, true face hidden beneath towering blue hair. They had kids between them. Yellow ones, all beaming smiles at the camera. “Cheese!”

He tried to reach for the ringing phone but it remained just out of his grasp. Blue anyway; probably wasn’t for him, and neither was Wanda-now-Hidi and the in-between kids.  And now he’s checking, the key is D, not D Flat. Too far away from Middle C to matter. Oh well. On to the next!

“Let me try!” Hidi exuded, poseball whisked away as she selected the next.

“Get it?!” she shouted down to Kolya far below after assuming the new pose. “I’m a banana!” Kolya didn’t get it, the one within not yet ready to be peeled. “Very appealing!” he shouted up, trying to be funny despite the confusion. The holes in his head began to hurt. He forgot to eat his sandwich before he left that one reality, but there was the problem with the mustard. Then, with the vertigo induced by hunger apparently, he fell off the beam into a family centered by beaming yellow kids. Well, except for the middle one, who was too small to smile and just sucked on her pacifier to indicate being please in the moment. The camera’s eye moved onward…

Kolya selected one but it turned out to be Hidi’s pose again. “Whaddaya think? Giant tigers!” He’d seen this before. But where?

Then he remembered (again). Picturetown. Must – get – back.

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May 27, 2021 · 6:44 am

00260412

That night, George dreamed he was with an Asian girl talking about a plane trip to India, and how they’d have to buy tickets soon in order to go before monsoon season. “Rain, continual rain,” the girl spoke to George, making a pattering motion with her fingers against her legs. Her red sneakered feet fidgeted back and forth upon a red circle on a red block of lego, with a red plane in the bookcase behind pointing to it all. Her rear end sat on green. George sprawled out on blue. “Yelloo!” yelled an old yellow guy on the lego bed beyond.

“Don’t listen to him, George,” requested Alysha the Asian kid. “He’s just an old man with nothing to say.” George didn’t think so. George woke up.

“Duncan?” George spoke over to his guardian on the other bed of their darkened apartment.

Duncan says, “yes?” nonchalantly without raising his head or opening his eyes. He had been unable to sleep ever since George told him the news about the spirits in the PCH woods. “I *saw* them,” he repeats at the time, hands on hips. Duncan was actually starting to believe the youth. And that damn Good Neighbor pylon. They know about The Diagonal, the thing he was suppose to protect and serve above all else! Besides George, of course.

“Had a dream. You said I was suppose to tell you about my dreams, at least for a while.”

“The forest,” spoke Duncan, understanding. He figured the woods and accompanying spirits, if real — and they appeared to be — would start to dominate George’s nights as well as days. Could he request he didn’t go back to the forest? Did he even have that authority now? As an inducted member of Pot-D, he had an obligation to protect The Diagonal. Protector of The Diagonal: Pot-D. But George was too, and just because George was a boy…

“‘Yelloo’,” George interrupted Duncan’s reverie. “The man in the dream said ‘yelloo’, just like your guy in the game.”

Duncan rolled over, sat up, stared. They were in for a long night. Better put on some coffee.

(to be continued)

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