Tag Archives: Keith B.^*~~~

00250601

I recognized him immediately, even though I’m not sure I wanted to. Not the man on the bike also staring over. That would be the long sought after Dr. Mouse, shortened over time from Doctor *of* Mouse, as in Mick Mouse, as in Pansy Mouse which Mick changed into after the operation to remove all the black and fatten up the face and body. No, I’m talking about the shadowy man in the window with the red eye, presumably with a matching one hidden behind the grille of the window pane. I’ve seen him before: the house on the hill in Pickleland. This is Schuman; Schuman is interested in what I am doing. Endlessly inventive, he has found a new guise.

I also think about the “red eye” of the 1st Bogota collage, there the color applying to a lightning bolt design highlighting an eyeless socket of a skull, a facial tattoo made famous by pop musician David Bowie.

And to further this, I’m reminded in one of his last videos called “Lazarus”, Bowie had bandages very similar to Schuman.

So is this Schuman or is this Bowie? Perhaps a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe would be appropriate here.

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confluence 02

“How did it go today, sister of mine?”

“She is *definitely* one of us,” Daisy Mae Flowers replied to Lou Ferrig No, not seen in this blog for a while. Not heavily since photo-novel 4, when she interacted with The Musician in her own, similar realm of Bermingham and took care of his pet dingo for a while, if memory serves — maybe still does.

“That’s great, yes. Can’t wait to meet her. Staying in Shauna’s room I assume?”

“Yes. The snow monsters have her now.”

“Nice — I suppose. I mean, the snow monsters aren’t *that* bad, I’ve heard.”

“They’ve killed 3 million people!” exclaimed Daisy Mae, pushing a popular myth about the actually quite decent blizzard creatures.

“Nah, not what I’ve heard. Do you still get your news from FOX?”

“Lets not go into all that sister.”

“I’m just saying, *dingo* is better — all small letters in that case. Small is for humble; truthful.”

Daisy Mae looked away from her sister, not wanting to start an argument that had no end and would most definitely spiral into the Abyss. She’d seen enough of the Abyss. Instead: “She’s met David A.B. here, the normal one. What I mean…”

“What you *mean*…” continued the sister, “is that he’s not the Devil.”

“No, he’s the God,” agreed Daisy now with her sibling. “At least he *thinks* he’s one.” Both titter with this. They act in unison again.

—–

It was a long time ago and it happened in the theatre below the castle. It was a round concavity full of something but not popcorn this time. Instead: brains, specifically the diamond like brains of David/Dave, who had not chosen a moral direction yet. The victim slumped opposite him. Keith B. most likely, who subsequently acquired his own new brain from… well, let’s just keep some things private for now. The man they called The Barber sings a tuneful song of familiar design while he works.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0025, 0516, Pickleland

Highcastle

His foot pointed at yet another classic book he hadn’t read: “Tess of the d’Urbervilles” by Thomas Hardy. So many tomes to read and seemingly so little time, since he was on his own photo-novel 25 in a series of 1. He was at the top, everything leveled off. The Grandma, the *actual* one, was nearby. Very close. But she was busy with Man About Time at the moment. Everything depended on Sandman *not* reaching this level, and MAT knew it. He had to be reinforced that he was the chosen one. Would it work?”

He rested his hand on hers, not daring to ask the question foremost in his mind. He thought back to Collagesity and Carrcassonnnee, the attempt to make the 7th well and alive and functional again. There was a trick involved. Just like there was here. Grandma was always near death but never made it to the Pearly Gates, her just reward. Grandpa was waiting for her, just around the corner. She could hear his voice, feel his presence. Yet there was still a barrier, a resistance. What was it? Was it MAT? Did he want me to choose? she pondered.

—–

“I’m through here for the moment, Keith B. We can go back to your place.” But Keith was busy listening to the voices again. Only writing would help, not reading. He sat amidst the volume of dusty books, holding his head in his hands while rocking back and forth. What was wrong with him? This seemed just like Mercury.

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different same

“Daddy he’s gone,” emitted Katy McCoy from in front of the static filled TV.

“I know, honey. He was a bad man.”

“Baaad,” she echoed from her position, hands still on the screen, hoping for a change. She *saw* him. He was here (!).

Keith B. tried to rouse himself more, make sense of what his adopted child was saying. They had lived here in this attic of the house on the hill, jeez, going on maybe 15 years now. All they had for entertainment was this TV. And the constant Halloween going on around them 24/7. Blood and guts gets old, though. She *saw* him. A clear space in the snow. The 7 and the 6 had merged, at least for a brief moment in space-time. The Oracle tells him so.

“Dear,” his wife of over 16 years says to his side. “We’ve broken the tie — that must be it. Jenny and I… were tied. Last I spoke to that bastard of a man Craighead Phillips we were both sitting in front of him, complaining about his running off and driving his car hither and thither across that blasted continent of his.”

“*My* continent too,” Keith B. defended his homeland of Maebaleia/Satori. He was pretty much fully awake with this. He sat up, trying to figure out how to unglue Katy from the boob tube. Might as well be the Great Mother to her, he thought. Nourishment, but not in a good way. A baaad way, as she just said about the thing within.

“But there was just *one* of us in front of him,” she continued with her important point, “a kind of quantum state I suppose. I remember… speaking… but not in my voice. Someone elses, at least in part. Half and half, yes.” She nods, thinking she’s finally got it. “Yes, Jenny and I were tied and were one.”

“Together?”

“As one.”

“Daddy. There he is! (*suck*) Heeelpp!”

“Aw, jeez, not *again*. Your turn to go inside, dear.” They had agreed to switch off. If only they could do the same with the TV.

Jenny appeared in a beam of light. Tied still?

Sepisexton was suddenly free.

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0025, 0511, Pickleland

house on the hill

“Hi. I’m here to fix the toilet?”

“Oh stop it Dany. Dany without the extra N. Do you know who I even am? Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Danny,” answers Dany, not remembering the missing N for the moment. Tools of the trade in hand, he had his mind set on righting a bathroom today. Blood was mentioned in the phone call he received. Probably clotting. He was confident he could solve it all with his trusty plunger. He told this to Keith B., who we haven’t seen in this here blog and attached photo-novels in a while, at least several back.

“Listen,” Keith B. responded as a tangent. “Listen to the naked man play the piano so wonderfully, like a Little Steve.” Keith B. spoke directly to the naked man playing the piano, hidden in the above photo by Dany. “Do you know Little Steve Wonderful, Schumann? Schumann with an extra N?”

The playing stopped. It was the infamous Booger T. Hayes mention all over, minus the scream (I think). After a weighted pause, the music began again, fingers flying even more rapidly. But not a lilting piece this time. Something gross and confusing and inept; heavy handed. Aberrant if you will. A.B.

“The diamond lies outside the head,” spoke Dany, suddenly in a trance as the notes flew around the room like dark, radar-less bats. In fact they were bats; at the time.

“Good, good,” Keith B. spoke over the weird music and attached wing flapping. “So you know the problem now. The *real* issue. Not… some stupid toilet overflowing with blood thing… although we need that fixed too if you don’t mind.”

“Not atall!”

—–

“I’m finally done sir. It was a clot after all. I had to rinse the blood out of my mop 17 times to get it clean. I won’t charge you for that.”

“Good, Danny with an extra N,” spoke pleased Keith B., bats or bat-like notes having receeded and Schuman (without the extra N now) on the couch with him wrapped in blanket. “Do you play board games by chance?” he then ventured, staring more intensely at the blonde youth. “I think we should play a board game next. Weegee — just under the table there. If you don’t mind — back acting up and all,” he excused himself for not bending down to retrieve. He just wanted to see if Danny was still following orders, though. Because if the N returns to Schuman: he’s done for the day.

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new again!

After publishing for real, I add categories (essentially: locations) and tags (essentially: characters) as needed. I’ll just do it again in this new post (“new again!”) to illustrate. Then if the reader desires, they can check back and look at the history of a particular location, a particular character. Here’s what we have for Andy Warhole, for example:

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/andy-warhole/

From this you can see that the last post he was in before “new!”, published a couple of weeks ago and called “customers”, also contained the same characters: Hilter, Marilyn, add in Gabby Truth this time. So let’s just, for fun, check Gabby’s past posts:

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/gabby-truth/

Ahh, you see? He also has a history with these particular characters, stretching back to photo-novel 14 and his time in Toppsity on the Maebaleia/Satori continent while living there with his brother Amos, who was, let’s see, about a month and a 1/2 back, declared dead due to repeated self ignitions, 7 to be specific as I’m checking.

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/amos-truth/

A sad tale. Gabby still lives in Cassandra City

https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/cassandra-city/

to the south of Toppsity

https://bakerbloch.com/category/virtual/maebaleia-satori/toppsity/

and last time I checked (“customers” again) was working in my Moe’s tavern there as a soothsayer, using tarot cards, 8 ball, and roshambo together to create the most effective vortex of timely prognostications. He told Hilter recently that he was already chancellor of Germany even though it was only 1919, another time and space and collage confusion. He dispensed timely if watered down wisdom to Andy Warhole about his art career and the impending doom he sees. Casey One Hole, one a-hole of a guy. We should get back to him.

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/casey-the-alien-casey-one-hole/

And what of Gabby and Amos’ seldom seen brother Keith B., hmm?

https://bakerbloch.com/tag/keith-b/

So much to keep up with these days.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0021, 0506, Cassandra City^, Heterocera^^, Iris^, Maebaleia/Satori^^, Toppsity^

completio

“Pretty good, Keith B., dad wanna-be. But me thinks the head must go.” Both look over at the 2-dimensional version of Dr. Who’s Cassandra entity, at the eclipsed brain.

“Homer? Nah, he’ll stay for now.”

“Variables,” warns daughter wanna-be Kate McCoy. “Danger,” she adds.

Keith ponders what she said a lot as he attempts to sleep upstairs. 1 prim remaining of 60 — just enough to rez a bed.

Kate stays with him all night. Kate doesn’t need any sleep. Since, contrary to popular opinion and her last name, she isn’t real.

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Moe’s

Ready for business?

We better check the 8-ball again.


Magic 8-Ball: It is certain.

So is Dinah Moe’s wife? Is that why they humm?

And who is Moe again? This is (old) Keith B. That’s not Moe.

A tea table (re)appears. We must have tea at Moe’s. With the Chancellor? How ’bout Gerald? Hope it’s well strained.

Let’s end with a map.

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Keith B.

Sacky Doll (the band) made a sudden reappearance in Toppsity 11 years later, attended by Bert Bright, best pal Bud Dimm, and best gal pal Abby [delete name]. Since all 3 knew the band members, they were also invited to the rehearsal, but only Sun showed up, announcing himself by saying he was between a Moon and a Star(r). He was egotistical and self-centered in that way, flying too close to himself perhaps, with a fall likely anytime soon. But who was this Sun? No one in the crowd seemed to know him.

“New drummer,” responded Bert Bright to the sight on stage.

“Same as the old drummer,” amended Bud Dimm, innate facial recognition kicking in to make up for lack of brains.

“He *is* old,” added Abby, trying to decide all night between the two of them. Like black and white pillars they were around a central heating system.

“Bert, Abby, Bud, would you come up here on stage? I want to share a secret with you.”

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downtown bar

“You said you wanted to get closer to me, Kate, so here we are.” He turns in his seat. “At the place it all began for Jenny and me. Before she became world famous Your Mama and all turned to rust and rot.”

Kate McCoy was tired of hearing about Keith B.’s daughter but bit her tongue right now. He had brought her along on this trip to Cassandra City and she was grateful for the bonding opportunity. If only *he* were her daddy instead of that low life Craighead Phillips. Where was *he*? Still galavanting around in Bluefield US of A? She didn’t want to know; she didn’t care. She was with Keith B. for the present. She had designs on a long term relationship. Maybe he did too — she didn’t know. Yet.

He starts pointing around the place, indicating changes. “The stage, Kate, use to be in that corner — instead of over there on the side. A lot of these booths have been added too.” Keith B. was disappointed that there’s no indication of their presence in this bar. It was apparently up to him to keep the history alive. “It’s all in the autobiography,” he often tells friends after throwing them a juicy piece of the past. They usually want more and then that’s what he tells them. He’d rather write for many instead of talk for few. He’d learned that lesson decades ago. People like to talk, but words only last if you write them down or record them in some equivalent way. He started a blog in 2008. He could better organize his thoughts about people places things with categories and tags. He had a system.

“Keith?” Kate McCoy spoke, seeing her wanna-be dad spacing out again, most likely about the past. She wanted his full attention once more.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Thinking about the blog?”

“Yeah. I suppose.” He feels the slightly extra pressure his flip style notepad makes in the back of his pants. He senses the push style lead pencil in his front pocket against a thigh. Tools of his trade. While he was away from the computer. But he must resist the urge to pull it out in front of his wanna-be daughter. That’s not how it works.

(to be continued?)

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