Tag Archives: Linda Halsey^^~~~

evening out 02

“Smoke?” he asked while peering through the window in the door in the Wall at himself. Marty declined, saying he’ll have fag later.

“Strange expression over here,” Roger Pine Ridge responded to this. “Means something else in these States of Their US of America.”

“Give me Kentucky and Tennessee and throw away all the rest,” Marty joked, again weakly. If only he would do this kind of thing weekly instead of daily, hourly even. He checks the minutes of their last meeting last month. Then wife Linda had penned it down to the seconds. 17:11: talk about America; 17:32: switch to Marty weakly joking about a trip to Armenia which no one understands, no one laughs at, except Marty but only weakly as was appropriate; 17:51: rest hand because of cramp.

“I’m glad you decided to be my friend,” Roger exclaims, smoke bellowing from his mouth like a small train. “Makes it easier to meet. I send you an invite; you accept. Remember, heh, the last time? Remember how much money you wasted taking that plane to Borneo?”

“It wasn’t Borneo,” replied Marty, cooled off now. “But, yeah, I get the point. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before. It’s just the whole…”

“Brain damage thing?” Roger guessed, thinking about the other Roger, the one Marty might or might not have himself invented/created and then forgot about, like a demented God.

—–

17 minutes and 11 seconds later, they drew even on a particular topic of some interest to them, perhaps to others as well. Now that the moon has been successfully swallowed by the sun again. It blared brightly in the sky like a loco bugle, sending not smoke up, although it was burning too, but rays. Rays of warmth. Roger Pine Ridge felt his lips getting hot. He had burned his special cigarette to a nub and forgot to uninsert.

(to be continued)

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00250414

I was on a trail again, per usual. A Yd Island profile led me to here: Fonzerelli Docks, a New Babbage location which seems to have seen happier days in the past. Former owner: C. Thetan of Nova Albion. Ahh yes. Our Second Lyfe just keeps pulling surprises on me. I figured it was this location that “Fancy (Dress Ball)” Sally (Nugent?) fled from her creator we talked to a couple of posts back, but I’d have to place her here if so. No problem! Let’s meet up with her at this Ruby’s Pub, apparently a popular local watering hole and just next door to the docks.

Turns out we met at Merryman Pub on the other side of the docks, I’m not sure why. Yoko Ona was there, talking about eggs and the whites of eyes. Linda Halsey showed up and they had a punch fight, one pulling for Salieri and one just pulling hair. Finally Sally arrived, declaring herself Sally Fancy and Nugent no more, and everyone settled down and became curious and started asking her questions about her new and also former life with Halloween Jack at Phantom Hill and perhaps some other places. And of course about who we might call Dr. Not Mouse, because he wasn’t, and who created Sally and Jack both and gave them a starter house next door to his Phantom Hill Castle where they raised designer horses and played cards until midnight every day, sometimes poker but also sometimes Miles Bourne the French road game. And that’s how they met the aliens who broke down over on Highway 70, Bert and Jenny, as if the latter game had moved into reality, which is truth. They looked and looked but the most valuable card, the Right of Way, was nowhere to be found. The aliens Bert and Jenny suggested under the table, and then in the kitchen, perhaps where they were slicing bread between hands for sandwiches. The aliens got the association as well. Nowhere could it be found. Bert and Jenny were here to stay.

“We ended up playing Miles Bourne most nights,” Sally explained, “but it was like the German autobahn in there. ‘Fasten your seat belts!’ Jenny would always exclaim after the cards were dealt, and it also always ended in disaster. We were just recreating the wreck over and over.”

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Bake’s

“Peppins, Pippins, Pippens… the name shifted all around down through the months, now almost years. It all had to do with that Peppi machine: that was the center it all revolved around, The Diamond some call it. David A.B. put his heart and his brain into designing that machine; literally for the brain. He knew what was just around the corner. A beat up old station wagon with an Illinois license plate reading BDR529, intent on harm. He didn’t have much time.”

“But what does this *mean*?” ask Poetry Dancer, with Jeffrie Phillips for the moment. Until Charlene Brown the punk woke up about 11 o’clock. Morning walk he could say, building up a sweat by running in place for a couple of minutes. Poor Charlene — so involved in her cryptozoology dissertation writing late into the night that she was oblivious to the transgressions. Jeffrie was taking full advantage of that. The bastard. But a smart bastard, perhaps the worst kind.

“It *means*, my dear, that the death was planned; on purpose. We must track down this Sammie Parr, who is in the collages after all. She is an amalgamation of 5, just like me. That means…”

“Pot-D. *Sorry*. I mean Pan-Z of course.”

“Yes. A rival member, perhaps rogue. *Obviously* rogue because of the murder and all. David A.B.’s brain must have been in there all right.”

“But what will they do with it *now*?” queries Poetry Dancer further, no ugly in her face for the moment.

“They got him to the hospital through trickery, just like before. The brain I mean, and not the host.”

“Of course.”

“It’s Mid Hazel,” he suddenly intuited, putting collage pieces together in his own brain. “She’s up to something.”

“Oh dear.”

“More… *cake*?” he said after a weighted pause.

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Mad Anthony’s Nightfield

“What are we looking at, shipmateman?”

Reggie the shipmateman paused, then: “We’re looking for your husband Ms. Halsey.” She’d given the order not 15 minutes ago.

“Ms. Halsey, good,” replied Linda about her title. “Remember, don’t shoot till you see the whites of his eyes.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey,” echoes the other shipmateman on the wall opposite them, listening in. Johnny I think was his name. Or Karl.

“In all likelihood he won’t show up but keep looking. He’s probably on to me knowing I’m on to him.”

“Yes Ms. Halsey,” they said in unison while peering out but now not expecting anything to appear.

—–

“I’m glad you came to meet me Saffie. I want to know *all* about what Marty said to you, what hollow promises he made. Because I’m here to warn you away from him. He’s bad news. He’s involved with those nasty Illuminati fellows!”

“Girls,” Saffie said softly across from her.

“What’s that?”

Saffie took another sip of beer. “We also… have girls.”

“*We*??”

—–

Linda rushes back to the entrance gate, drunk on malt (again). “Shoot him dead,” she commanded to the shipmatemen. “Don’t even wait for the whites.”

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Judgement

Although she was still probably the 256th most craziest thing in a crazy town of 256, it was determined by the court that Yoko Ona most likely had high functioning autism. Thus the lack of facial expressions. Thus the focus on marriage as a 50-50 split. She didn’t ask for more, but she also didn’t expect less. John and she were one zygote, traveling toward a rebirth across the universe. There was nothing evil in her since she was acting logically according to this premise. It was divide and conquer to others but just separation from unity for her. The verdict: innocent for reasons just listed. She had to undergo therapy. Thus the reason for the construction of this additional floor in the Burger Joint building. Her mental health and well-being were just that important.

All the witches in the coven chipped in to pay for it, Mid-Hazel footing the largest chunk. They all showed up at the first meeting, ready to support. Prosecutor George A. was not allowed, since he would just focus on the spitting, the humiliation for blog owner Baker B. in front of a cluster of Heartsdale fisherman eager for a show. Any kind of show in that milquetoast town. Baker B. through Baker Bloch forgave her.

The elemental battle within Toppsity was just theatrics, the court also judged. Tronesisia was not dead. Most likely she would appear again, fully functional and unscathed, in the next photo-novel (21!).

Yoko Ona had already been rejected by the town, thrown head down over the wall about a 1/2 year back, only to find her way further south, in the *deep* deep south, to Cassandra City to attempt to create a roshambo triangle, one hand on top of another hand on top of another hand and so on and so on. This created the bomb.

She *had* to make up for it, reverse the powers as it were. Another zygote affair. She and John together synthesized World of Lemon to parallel Lime World (aka Linden World or Lindenwold) in order to heal Our Second Lyfe and make North and South function together again. In the other directions, World of Lemon controlled the East, Linden World the west. From *Our* Second Lyfe perspective, it all begin in Da Boom with a great boom signaling fusion and spread. From the *other* way, we have Ratzenberger as the original sim and its absorbing, black (hole) rabbit, a sucking mechanism. All this was logical and true, one begetting the other (begetting the other). The problem had not been solved because there was no problem to solve. All was good, all was balanced.

—–

I have decided to downsize in Our Second Lyfe and My Second Lyfe in particular. Corsica turned out not to be the be all end all of mainland continents, the best fusion between virtual and real, namely through the state of Pennsylvania. All this still applied, but Peakology in and of itself is not the way forward. Neither is Sinkology, although that may be closer. With this I have created the Sunklands Institute from the old Blue Feather Building of Collagesity and set it down near the middle of the Heterocera continent, its eye. I will not worry about North-South-East-West from this point on as much as *Center*. I have made stories of all mainland continents and a good number of estate regions. Corsica is essentially “covered”, along with Jeogeot, Satori/Maebaleia, Omega, Gaeta, Heterocera, Sansara, Nautilus and even Linden home masses like Nascera. I have taken Collagesity about as far as it can go. I do not make collages any more outside of the photo-novels and that context. It is time to go home. Heterocera is as close to home in Our Second Lyfe as I can get. I have to return to the source.

END OF “COLLAGESITY 2020 MORE MIDDLE”!

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loss 03

“I watched her and Linda Halsey dance and dance around the sacred circle, waiting for a pause where I could insert my question, which was: What is the future of Collagesity in Urqhart? I needed to hear it from Golden Josephine or Rhiannon or whatever her name was currently. And Linda Halsey — still Linda Halsey, and not Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child. Another “bad” sign. The Tower card turned up when she appeared at the table a couple of weeks ago, taking CLPHC’s place there. CLPHC equals Collagesity intact and remaining in the area. Linda Halsey equals the opposite. Destruction; derezzing. There was actually no use in hanging around. Observing Baker Bloch knew this as a fact. There was no need for a clarifying card. But Baker forced the issues anyway.

“Hey!’ he called to the two dancing fools for girls. “A little help here!” So rude. Not very characteristic of Baker Bloch either. More a trait of, say, Roger Pine Ridge.

Golden Josephine didn’t stop prancing. Neither did Linda Halsey. But after a moment, Golden called over her shoulder: “Whadda you want?” The music was intoxicating to them, and probably to Baker in a different way. It was a combination of Roger’s “On the Run” and Judy’s “Over the Rainbow”, twirling in and out of each other like the two dancers here themselves. Must be a match.

“A clarification card!” shouted Baker over the music. Or an attempt to. There was barely a hole to find in the combo, so dense it was. Like two people sitting in the same chair. The music and dance went on and on. Finally Golden Josephine broke free. Linda kept doing what she does now. But the figure was different: Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child.

Baker points as Golden Josephine approached. “What gives?” he asked about the transformation of the now lone dancer.

“Let’s look  at that card and maybe we can tell.”

—–

But something else then came up. The *real* Rhiannon made an appearance, replacing the fake, golden one. She seemed to be in tune with magical juxtapositions as well. She was also thinking of giving up her land adjacent (or thereabouts) to my Collagesity. She told me about the runes on a mushroom near me. I asked her if I should just have the question in mind and then touch “spread”. I knew little about runes. She affirmed this. I chose past/present/future. I had in mind this was the past/present/future of Collagesity itself. I didn’t want to just ask if I should give up Collagesity in Urqhart (or thereabouts). My desire was to broaden the picture a bit.

“What do you think?” I asked over. She was multitasking like myself. I was, of course, creating this blog post. She was working on her fairy forest.

Then she was gone, wishing me luck on my choices before leaving. “But…” I cried into the void now, “I don’t know what it means!”

Maybe it means nothing — and it does for me, in this moment. I didn’t need clarification. The meeting with the actual Rhiannon told me everything I need to know. Thank you.

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diet of worms

https://web.archive.org/web/20090619034926/http://dir.salon.com/story/ent/music/feature/2003/01/27/paul_yoko/index.html

Since Lennon’s death in 1980, McCartney has fought an uphill battle to assert his place in history, often finding himself dismissed as a shallow hack, a Salieri to Lennon’s Mozart, as Lennon’s widow Yoko Ono cruelly put it. So even as McCartney’s tunes continue to carry the load for the Beatles’ back catalog (14 of the 27 chart-topping songs featured on the group’s wildly successful “1” compilation were predominantly Paul’s, and another four were at least half-written by him), little of the prestige reflects back on him….

Seeing the mid-’90s “Beatles Anthology” releases as an attempt to rectify the historical record, McCartney asked Ono if his name could be placed ahead of Lennon’s, if only for the song “Yesterday”….

But Ono was adamant that the Lennon-McCartney billing should not be altered, arguing that it would be “opening a can of worms.” McCartney did not forget: Two years later, when Linda McCartney died of cancer, Ono was not invited to the New York wake.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there at your, ahem, wake. I’m sorry that you had to die, and in such a bad way. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that old thing,” she waved off. “Yeah, I died. But it really wasn’t me. As you are really not who you are either. Clones are standing by, as Mid-Hazel likes to say. I am only a product of Oregon; Merlin merely points that out. Where is Merlin anyway? Helping Golden Josephine out of that tight dress she likes to wear when digging more greenbacks out of men?”

“I don’t know,” Yoko returned simply and plainly, wondering who Merlin is. Another dead person?

(to be continued)

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ungodly

“The spotlight is on you, Yoko Ona. It is your decision where the brain goes next. Does it return to its original owner David A.B., making him *normal* again? Or somewhere different altogether? But (weighted pause): your choice.”

Yoko Ona knew it was no more her choice than anything else ’round these here Heartsdale parts. She’d already been cloned twice! Replacements are standing by, as they say in show business. David A.B. it is.

Now to just find the right time for slicing his head open once more.

—–

She studies his every move during his perpetual interaction with fellow coven member Linda Halsey. He steps into the road right…

… here.

The next day he’s taken to the hospital after being sideswiped by a beat up old station wagon in front of this very same motel. There Yoko makes her move.

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Multicolor

“A new town has arisen beyond the revolving tire, Cathy Love Peace Hippie Child. We must attempt to match its energy!”

“Sounds *great*!” the chipper hippie girl said, eyeing the namesake tower from her vantage point while following Rhiannon to the table with the magic cards. But she said to call her Golden.

—–

“Tsk tsk tsk. Oh dear. We better hurry.”

“Oh I feel *awful* again, Rhiannon.” Golden let the name slip go, given what just happened.

“Let’s start with a single.” She turned the just dealt card up.

—–

She sat in the middle of 4 and realized this was matching the energy.

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ice cream eyes

What happened in Room 03? she pondered while looking down at it. Did Jane kill hubby Ben Wolf just because he called her — *Plain*? Where’s Olive, I mean, June now? After the separation. The hills look lovely over there. I wish I could go hiking in them.  My suit is too big for my torso.

She ends her reverie and turns in the old church with the high spires with the crows.

—–

“Linda Halsey, yes,” Mid-Hazel spouts with her ancient, crackly voice while checking. “We lost track of you at Jim’s Bar. The bomb was dropped, true enough. How did you manage to get out? We know about the others. Please reveal.”

Heavily suited Linda Halsey stood her ground. She knew she was just a pawn in a bigger game that expanded across the galaxy, nay, the *universe*. And in the middle… well, a…

—–

“Don’t say it again, Hucka Doobie.”

“*We* — just did.”

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