She was just finishing up Movement 3 of the Platinum Prune suite of songs, popular in Corsica Prime these days. Her hands lift from the keyboard after an ending chord of complex expression.
“There. 3 of 5 done. Or is it 6? Jeffrie, be a dear and pull up the big fat map of the continent for all to see where we are presently.”
Listening Jeffrie on a nearby couch complied.
“*4* of 5,” exclaimed Audrey, looking beyond the facade of Our Second Life into the frame of it all. “Lordly I must have been on the wrong movement after all. We’re at Drane Hill!”
She peered remotely beyond the juxtaposed black and white statues outside toward the hill above the cabin they rented last night, all out in the air and exposed and without any attached Big Inside at all, unlike the story with Storybrook and its Kraken Hill. Marsha “Pink” Krakow and her family, kin and extended, should be arriving soon to breathe in the fresh air of a new location, feet grounded again.
And I suspect wannabe famous novelist Barry X. Vampire is around as well, given the red beam and all.
Well, I’ve explored the Xuxorr Plateau as David A.B. instructed me to. Now what?
Hold on. What’s this? Perhaps a village? A place to bed down for the night, perchance to shack up with a local lass, hehe? I sure miss Audrey. But she screwed me over with Marty and I can’t let that pass. She has deceived me, *killed* me even. No way I’m going back!
“I knew you’d come back you Jeffrie Phillips.”
“Just read me some more from that magic book,” he demanded, pissed off that his hips had overridden his head once more.
Audrey nimbly leaned way over and picked it up off the rug where she had thrown it earlier in their sudden passion for reconciliation. They knew it couldn’t be damaged. She deftly thumbed to page 56 where they had left off…
Jeffrie Phillips had come to the end of the book. Arthur Kill eyed him keenly from the piano which he had no ability to play. His music was death. Death to Big Black Smoke, death to Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child, death to perhaps Jeffrie Phillips too. If he so chooses. The eyeing continues.
“Well… what did you think?” asks Marty from a nearby stool about the tome detailing the history of the bar and Urqhart in general. Spanking new girlfriend Linda Halsey, fresh from a broken relationship down in Adgatetown on the lower coast, was by his side,
holding his arm even preoccupied with her own thoughts at the moment. I wonder how David Newton Jasper is doing, alone with his Chalcedony and other progressive math rock albums? Fine, she then thinks, imagining him playing air guitar again. How many times? She had to leave (like all the others), looks be damned.
Jeffrie Phillips decides to answer Marty since Linda’s internal monologue seemed to be over. “It was… interesting.”
“Do you understand now why we have to eliminate ‘Love Peace’, eliminate the smoke screen that was the Summer of Love, ’66 or ’67 take your pick? There is no Love. There is no Peace. This must be *revealed*.”
Arthur Kill nods agreeably from the dormant piano. This is why he sticks with Marty. Through thick and thin, the cynicism always shines through. It attracts him like a dim moth to bright light. I think of the bug again here…
Jeffrie stares out the dappled window beyond the bikes in the parking lot into the heart of the Indian Lake/Sox Pond basin. Started right here in this bar, eh? 1919 huh — double 19’s. Scandal. Black. Indian… red. White.
Phillips rezzes a local, vanilla style paper without any red atall to take his mind off the quandary, which gives Arthur Kill his cue (*pop*!). Our story must continue elsewhere.
“I saw it,” he reaffirmed afterwards, sitting on Urqhart Hill looking over the valley, water filled in the dancing fire vision. “I guess the dam would have had to been at about Marty’s house here, then run across the gap connecting Urqhart Hill with, well, whatever that opposite peak’s name is over there.” He looks toward it as if Marty’s house was transparent. And perhaps it was in the moment, just in that instant.
Now let’s draw back and look at the whole thing, at about the same angle Jeffrie saw it in his fire vision.
Behold: the Indian Lake (Sox Pond) basin. 1919. The year fire met water and neither won.
Better get down to the bar and meet the others, he ruminated/thought/pondered.
“We *dance* the celebration of life, of victory,” interpreting Audrey [delete last name] declared to lover and fellow dancer Jeffrie Phillips spinning around the same, fire centered circle. “Urqhart has, amazingly, been *fulfilled*. The past can be revealed. Behold!”
Within the fire, a vision appeared about the valley below to Jeffrie. A sim sized lake — or pond — or *both*, filling up that central sink we’ve been mentioning lately, straddling the sims of Urqhart here, then Ensleigh to the west then Malhaven to its north and finally Yia Yuto to complete the (fire centered) circle. Indian Lake, he realized. But also Sox Pond. 1919, the year Big Black Smoke descended upon it and wrought its damage. An important — very important — link between Virtual and Reality in this here blog. Pennsylvania (state) and Corsica Prime (continent). Corsica is an elephant.
“Will Marty be joining us?” queried Jeffrie Phillips, building up quite a sweat trying to keep pace with jumping, jiggling Audrey.
Marty joined them. “I’m happy too!” he proclaimed, starting to dance up a storm with the others. Employee Arthur Kill then appeared behind him, just glaring around. Get this love peace crazy shit out of here, he wanted to say, but bit his tongue because of a paycheck coming up. A big one. Big Black Smoke one.
They danced until the sun came up and then a little more.
Jeffrie Phillips is in Lexicolo tonight, following up more leads. The Larch rode this train, he meditates upon. Before he became The Man. Car no. 1 here, then no. 3 in back. Plane 003 (wall) to the side. We must think of planes, trains and automobiles but also birds, planes… Jeffrie harks back to perhaps The Man/The Larch’s most prominent nemesis, the arch one: Super Duper Guy. Faster than a speeding bullet he was claimed to be. More powerful than a *loco*motive. Take ex and i out of lexicolo and there you are (nuts?). Hmmm. There’s that cleft rubbing again — deeper and deeper. Yes this assignment, obviously a blue rose one (recall the blue rose in killer Arthur Kill’s lapel), may turn him bonkers. Lip trilling finger land.
Oops. He’s off! Let’s see where this loco ride takes him.
He spots the elephants, large and small, rolling away but can’t get a good pic of them as the train rounds a bend. These will have to do for now.
There they are!
The gothic house near the lip of Centre Sink or whatever. He sighs and says aloud, “whatever,” then returns his attention to the crosses (knives) in the yard next to it, like little escaped, pixelated birds heckling his lack of knowledge about the whats, wherefores, whys. Like the death of Vainom Kug over in VHC City, who, he vows to his own grave, did not die in Vain (but instead in that city). Maybe he should consult with Vain and Artery Boy on the subject. He scratches his chin again. He’s wearing a cleft out on it with all the pondering, considering, ruminating he’s done lately. Hmm, sir. Hmmm again. Hmmm.