Tag Archives: Keith B.^*~~~~~~~$

killings

“Leave?” He was incredulous. “But we just *got* here; I just settled into this place, this house. It’ll work out. Just because Clovis–”

“This is not about Clovis,” Axis-Windmill reinforced. “This is about tying up things in this here photo-novel–”

“Let me guess,” Keith B. interrupted in turn. “29 in a series of nothing.”

“Close. But we want to try anyhow… anyhoot.”

“*Alysha*” he called into the kitchen to his red headed wife making soup with a fork and spoon. “Are you hearing this?”

“I’m hearing,” she said. “But the soup is boiling… may be missing some things. Something about the electricity not working properly in this house?”

“*No*,” he stated, blowing out some air. “They want to *pull the plug* on the operations here.”

More boiling. “Ventriloquists? I told you we shouldn’t move to a town with those. Trouble, always trouble.”

Keith B. gives up until Alysha finishes her soup. He shakes his head about the matter for Axis-Windmill, who was curious. “When did you acquire a wife, old Keith B.?”

“Alysha? Met her at a fair. She’d just won a beauty contest, being the loveliest girl in all of Hooktip.”

“Hooktip?”

“Yeah, where she’s from. Where *I’m* from. She’s a childhood sweetheart as they say.” Keith B. decides to turn the tables. “And where are *you* from… German boy?” He’d heard rumors of a war, in fact 2 of ’em. Germans on one side, his side on the other. But was he American? Or…”

—–

“Papa,” Jenny called from the kitchen, making soup. Axis-Windmill was gone, having been called out. Alysha exited with him, *his* wife. Not Keith B.’s. Keith remained a bachelor because of, well, The Room and what goes on in there. Jennifer thinks it is self sex, but actually it’s (see title).

“What is it dear?”

“I have an idea about the logo on the drums. I’ve been mulling it over all day. Instead of a star, like in Cpt. America, how about a circle. A circle within a circle, like in that British air force poster up at the Seraph.”

They were back in Cass City and it was 20 years ago and their star was about to rise because of this. Ironic. Star erased, star gained. Trouble is, there were 2 of ’em and there was only Room for one.

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job change every 3000 miles

“Fill er up, Burt.”

“You!” I exclaimed beside my old Papa.

Marion Star Harding stared into me while still strolling toward us, taking his time. I knew I shouldn’t say his real name. I’m remembering!

“You know this Bozo?” Papa also stared over at me, but with puzzlement instead of secret knowledge.

“No.” I looked between the two. “No, I was mistaken. I thought this was the man–”

Marion stares again. She’d said enough. She stopped.”

“Thought this was the man what?” Keith asked, still with furrowed brow.

“I thought… this was the man who offered to drive me to your place,” she decided to allow. “Before you picked me up.”

“Burt?” uttered Keith B. “A *pilot*.” He stared to laugh. Jennifer join in with him a bit — nervously. Then Marion Star Harding: just a chuckle and a smile. Because Keith B. would only expect that from the silent type guy.

“Whadda ya say to *that*, Burt?” he said between guffaws. He turns to Jennifer. “I’ve known Burt since he was a little boy. He can’t tell right from left, heck, up from down. Right Burt?” Laughter again all around, Keith B. the most, then Jennifer, then Marion. “He… he he… he once tried to build a submarine on top of a mountain and fly it into space (giggle). You remember that old wooden sub, Burt? (grin).

Marion Star Harding remembered the sub. And indeed, he got it to fly into space, deep into space. But only at night when no one was looking and the stars were out. Because he had a particular Star in mind. His own.

(to be continued)

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Hookton Hill

Lengthening their draw distance a bit as Keith B. recommended, they both stared out at Clarksey from this low granite summit to the north.

“It’s big, Shelley.”

“Jennifer,” she corrected.

“It’s big, Jennifer,” he began again, then backtracked a bit to “…biggish”. “Ambitious,” he started once more.

“I get the picture.”

“It’ll get more people.”

“Hmm,” she declared. “How many now?”

“Five, I think. Wait: four. Clovis fell into the gorge the other day. Decided it was too dangerous to stay what with his drinking problem. Flew away from Enceladus day before yesterday. You just missed him over there, then.”

“Nice people over there,” she replied. “This one guy, Marion Harding, a Cowboy, even offered to drive me over here from the airport.”

“Who was the pilot?”

She wanted to say Indian but she knew that wasn’t possible. Indian was her brother — 1/2 brother — from another mother. Like Rose — full siblings those two were. “Can’t remember,” she decided to utter, trying to mask the hesitation. Memory gap! ‘Nother one.

“Did anyone follow you?” Strange question from her old Papa. But there *was* someone, someone black. Check that: someone named Black. A, um, black man. Doubly black.

“No,” she issued. “No one. Strange question from you actually.” She took drama in high school. She could still act a bit if necessary. But she’s remembering (!). A trio of men: Cowboy, Indian, Black. And behind them: still fuzzy. Maybe someone named… Frank?

(to be continued)

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Clarksey

“I was stuck,” Keith B. tried to explain about The Room. “I was caught.”

“Yeah, by *me*. The cube is the sphere is the sea is the whale. The flip style notepad and push style lead pencil remained unsheathed this time but Jenny knew. Jennifer now. The Mann emerged from a plastic cocoon. It was in all the books, a running motif. Keith B. was stuck in more ways than one. 29 now, beginning HERE.

“It’s just what The Mann does. When the Wo-mann is away. Look at Marion Star Harding, still dreaming of dead Heidi in his own way. When the (new) director does her shoots up at Cass City.”

Jennifer looks around, still confused about the location. This could be Cass City, this could be Pipersville… or Storybrook. But instead: Whiskey plus Clarksburg, Whisclarkseyburg, then (maybe). Whiskey *inside* Clarksburg. She was stuck!

She stopped looking around, spacing out. “What… is the name of this place..?” Should she call him daddy, papa, Keith B.? She decided the last.

Keith B. didn’t look around. He knew where he was. And it didn’t work. He’d been uncovered, as if from a secret space.

Former private detective Wendell “Biff” Carter, back on the beat, stopped redding the read book and looked over. That was her all right, he surmised, seeing the eyes. Mrs. Know-It-All.

(to be continued)

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a farmer and his dog

They’re building a roadway to heaven, these Harmony Heighters, but it seems a long way from finished. Maybe the oldies and young’n’s can’t agree on a direction, wouldn’t it be typical.

The road begins here, just behind the Commons House.

“I’m not talking to you this morning, *kid*,” grumpily spoke just risen Jack Pants without turning around, digging into his first stack of sausage pancakes.

“No, I’m not talking to *you*, gramps,” responded up-at-crack-of-dawn sixteen year old Nick Barkley also without pivoting, having finished his blueberry yogurt and granola breakfast 3 hours ago and just staring into space and killing time before the typically delayed group meeting.

Nick got little sleep on account of Jack DJ’ing at the ranger house until 2:30 in the morning, starting with the traditional “B-I-N-G-O”, which the oldies sang with gusto at the top of their lungs after a completed game of same.

(to be continued)

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Filed under **VIRTUAL, 0027, 0109, Nautilus^^, Upper Austra^

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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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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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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