Tag Archives: Improvio

In the Pond District today:

Axis found a black and white girl slumped against a Rodentia dumpster but did not know who she was. She didn’t open her eyes.

Tealie woke Jiff up in a bad mood, who did not wish to play right this minute.

So she instead goes to visit the grave of her old friend Matthew Lodenwald. What a blow to the community when he died!

Bob Richards continues to reads scrapbooks of the war and laments how he will never see his beloved Alpha again. Oh dear, looks like Li’l Bob’s jumped out of his crib.

Uncle Doomed drinks Jack Daniels in front of the neighbor’s Blob until passing out.

Lucas Smart tries to figure out how his life went so wrong.

Chris Caveman lumbers out of the Rodentia Underground, worse off from the experience.

In the local arcade, punk band Story Room prepares to play Cruise Control with newbie Grassy Noll, snickering about whether he’ll even make it out of the first turn.

Also in the arcade, Bill (Wheeler) confers with Rocky Racco about her most recent name change and move to Iris. “Heterocera is still at the fore of my research,” she reassures the learned writer. “I haven’t forgotten about Olde Lapara Towne, Collagesity, VHC City, or any of the rest.”

“Good, Wheeler.” He scratches his nose with his free paw. “Did you know that my cousin Tealie now lives in this area?”

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Filed under *Second Life, collage, Heterocera, Pond District

zircon

Bill (Wheeler) spoke over the loud, synchronized drumming. “These guys are nice, Grassy, but I feel something is missing. Why don’t you go up and join them! You played a mean bass steel pan in your college days, didn’t you? The Merrymen wasn’t it?”

“We *emulated* The Merrymen,” the Mmmmmm Grassy clarified. “Played a lot of their songs. But Calypso and the Carribean are far back in the rear view mirror now.” He sighed. “We better head over and meet Catvas I and Catvas II for bridge.  I’m afraid that’ll have to do for our synchronized quartet tonight, ha.”

“Catvas I always smells of bird,” Bill complains. “And Catvas II of fish.”

“You smell of lion,” Grassy continued the grousing. “And I smell of, um, sodden earth? Haystacks?” He looks down at his white, sneakered feet. “Haven’t quite pinned it down.”

“We’ll get to Montana and then we’ll know.” Bill leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Got any more of that wacky weed on ya? I brought some tweezers.”

“Then I’ve got the pony, hehe. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I dig!”

—–

Bill carefully laid down the now empty tweezers on the seating. “Ahh. Life is good, Grassy. Grass. But all this reminds me.” She waves her arm around to indicate. “I really should get back to that chess game with Ellen.”

“You’re lion *snicker*”.

—–

15 minutes later:

“I wonder what the Catvases did tonight in our stead?”

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Filed under *Second Life, Iris

ss

Perspective enlarged, Chuck Cheese finds herself in a strange place again, walking on a spiraling path upwards toward a rocky summit.

“Both of us can’t be women,” uttered Wheeler Wilson at the top. She changed.

“Right you are, Wilson Wheeler,” returned Chuck Cheese. She also changes.

“A pair of suave, swarthy dudes we make, eh?” said Wilson Wheeler.

Earie was thinking about himself: although just as swarthy, not so suave. “I am almost wholly invisible now,” he complains. “I am just an object to be seen right through. You don’t respect me as a person, Improvio. I mean, Pretty Man. I mean: Wilson Wheeler. Whatever.”

“Do you remember?”

“What happened? Yeah. A merger of church and liquor store.” He looks down into the valley to his right.

“We are the Malefic The Kidd spoke about,” continued Wilson. “With sickly, green wings; tucked in the opposite corner of her, um, building. Imprisoned even. Do you feel like you’re in jail? I do.” He indicates his outfit with a gesture. “This suit. The suit of Bowie.”

“Bowie protects you,” counters Earie. “Without Bowie you are nothing here as well. Object.”

“And who are you suppose to be?” he returns sarcastically. “Sid Vicious?”

Earie lays it out as plain as possible. “We are 2/3rds of the punk band Story Room. Banned from Olde Lapara Towne because of the noise, moved to the hidden vilage of Gaston where there was no ban, turned into pretty things there in order to survive, and then confined like flies to its Central Park. Paper.”

“Fly paper, right,” agrees Wilson Wheeler. “We burn to death again every day. Central Park is without dark and always on fire. Core of a volcano.”

“Seed into tree,” Earie continued even more abstractly. He uncrossed his legs. “Atonal punks we are, Wilson Wheeler.”

“Please,” Wilson Wheeler finally countered concerning his name. “If am that you are The Musician.”

He stops thinking about the spot marked with an “X” in the valley below and turns back toward his counterpart. “Then I am Earie…

… and you are Pretty Man.

But I also get to be Chuck.”

“Get yourself a shoulder pet and we’ll talk later,” compromises the suaver swarthy man sitting opposite him.

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Filed under *Second Life, Heterocera

trailers and chairs

Earie was walking past the red, blue and yellow chairs positioned in front of the art trailer when he heard Pretty Man snoring. At first he couldn’t tell what the sound was, but then a loud, pig-like grunt firmly indicated to him the presence of another human being. He moved toward the trailer’s dark interior and watched the folded body on the dirty mattress and rugs within heave up and down a minute, sometimes with a twitch. This guy was obviously in deep dreamland. Shame to wake him, Earie thinks, and decides to move onward through Central Park to the Joint Joint, where Jacob I. and Broken Heart Jackie were most likely waiting. But with an even louder grunt, Pretty Man then rolls over on his other side and opens his eyes. “Don’t pull a knife on me, friend. I ain’t dangerous.”

“Sit up, then, and let’s take a look at you,” the pink haired punk commanded. He didn’t have a knife on him currently, but two pistols were tucked in the back of his belt. Pretty Man sat up and started looking all around, as if in a haze. “Art is everywhere,” he then said. “In the sky, in my hands.” He looked at his hands. “In your hair.” He gazed at Earie’s mohawk. “*Especially* in your hair. Where you from, fellow dude?”

Earie had concluded this person was obviously stoned on something. He definitely *wasn’t* going to tell him where he lived in town. So he made up a place. “Butcher shop,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“Ah, Wanesa the Slasher. And I didn’t know her shop had an upstairs… thought they cut that off back in the 30’s.” Pretty Man stared at Earie’s head again. “Your mohawk thinks you’re lying,” he said, and then laid back down on the old mattress in the trailer and started to laugh, face upwards and arms spread. Earie wondered if he could tell just by the tone of his voice or if he’s one of those true psychics. Their services are more expensive than the whores. Sometimes you can get a two for one deal at a discount, but he’s only heard about such things; Earie doesn’t engage with Gaston’s Berry imports if he can help it. And, gandering at Pretty Man’s current pose, this led to the another thought: that this *man* in front of him could be a woman in disguise. He’s never heard of a male psychic. Or a male prostitute, at least around these parts.

“What’s your business, here, partner?” Earie inserted amidst the continued chuckles. He voiced some of his suspicions. “Man whore? Man *psychic*?”

Pretty Man’s laughter petered away, and he dismissed Earie’s guesses with a wave of his hand. He sat up again. He stood up out of the trailer, looking in the direction of Earie’s Yellow House. Does he know already? Earie pondered. He briefly goes around the trailer’s corner and comes back with a cup of coffee, steaming hot somehow. He sits down in the red chair. Earie just stares at him, wondering if he should take a seat as well.

But then Pretty Man pops back up and states, “this isn’t the right chair,” and then looks at his coffee. “And this is not the right drink, pheh.” He spits the beverage he just partook of out on the road beside him. Pretty Man goes around the corner of the trailer again, returning with a beer bottle this time and hops back up in the trailer, leaning against the wall. “The red one is not mine,” he reinforces. “That’s… what’s his name?” Earie gets tingles. He *must* know.

Pretty Man moved to the edge of the trailer again and looked directly into Earie’s face. “Chro-ma,” he pronounced distinctly. “Sit down in your *yellow* chair, and let’s have a talk Earie,” he then said to the stunned punk. “And of course I’ll take my blue one.”

Improvio.

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Filed under *Second Life, ., Gaston

st>rs

After The Blackstars’ latest jam session, lead singer Improvio and drummer Woody Woodmanson hung back in the sky island to chat about the band’s future. Howard, Pretty Man, and Sheriff had all headed to the Ear Bar down in Soho.

“Well Woody,” began Improvio. “You said you had something to talk about. I think it went pretty well tonight. Band’s pretty tight. I had worries about Pretty Man especially but it’s all shaping up. Pretty Man’s not just another pretty face but has real talent at the keyboards.”

“*Howard* was on the keyboards tonight. Not Pretty Man. You need to turn around and acknowledge the band now and then.” Woody was in an unusually pissy mood tonight. The rehearsal didn’t go as well for him as it did for Improvio.

The blue lead singer tried to assuage his wood toy drummer. He changed the subject for a moment. “Tell you what, why don’t you take me down to the center of the Purden Woods tonight and show me this Core-Alena tree you’ve been on about. How about that?”

But Woody would not be deterred. “Here’s my thing,” he said, continuing the mood. “Sure we can jam and jam and jam until we toast ourselves to death. But it’s all spinning wheels and slinging mud. Nothing’s *written down*. Jam, jam, jam,” he said again. “We need…”

“No,” broke off Improvio. “I’m not going back to Gaston and interact with those other two.”

Woody stopped walking on the log and hopped off, holding his brightening key in front of him.

“I’m getting a message from the Great Cheese,” he spoke solemnly. There was a small pause, then: “Yes, you must return to Gaston. But it’s not Gaston, it’s *Garson*.”

“What?” exclaimed Improvio, as he turned to see what Woody was transfixed by. A large, bald man with queerly tilted head had appeared on the edge of the sky island.

He steps further…

“Alright I’ll go back Woody,” proclaims a totally spooked Improvio.

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Filed under *Second Life, ., Purden/Snowlands, Sansara

blackstars

It’s time for Improvio to strike out on his own.

Hana Lei…

… and Leona too.

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Filed under *Second Life, ., Muff-Bermingham, Purden/Snowlands

color row

One day, after a particularly intense jamming session the night before, The Musician woke not beside Terri but *as* Terri. Although his name was now Earie. Some people called him Chuck. He lived in the Yellow House — been living there for a pretty good while.

Siblings Chroma and Improvio resided in the same row of houses, but remained in cocoon form, chained to a more basal music. He was the first to emerge.

He gives Improvio next door in the Blue House a ring, knowing he wouldn’t be up, hehe.


“Don’t answer it.”

Chroma (Red House) was usually down at the waterfront by now, studying symmetry in objects washed up on the beach. She jots down a lot.

Right this moment she happens to be scrutinizing an old waterlogged book found floating underneath a rickety pier.

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Filed under *Second Life, ., Gaston