Tag Archives: Lisa The Vegetarian Smipson^^+++$

July 3, 2026 · 8:24 am

00500512 (The Sage Page)

“So there I am again. You can tell me by my bent up nature, just like an Ozian Wheeler traveling around on all 4s, and also bent to the rule of the Witch Mombi and perhaps the Nome King through her. Old Wheeler,” she summarized about the figure in the center of the collage before us, called “Crash on Mars.” Not because it depicts something crashing into Mars but because of another figure to the left of “Old Wheeler” called Crash who holds in his hand a giant fishing rod from our perspective, horses let out of a barn I suppose. She first brings him up in the next paragraph.

“(the 19th Century U.S. religious figure) David Brainard is seated in the foreground,” she continues, “who seems to be the same as (brainy) David Bowie, the Spaceman, the Man who lived on Mars. The Starman, as in Dark. Black. Look at the top. At the end of Crash’s fishing rod which passes through (the word) RUST.”

I saw the black star at the top of the work where Wheeler (*New* Wheeler) indicated, fronted by a blue-green hummingbird. I ask about it next, prefacing this by saying that it seems to me it should be a fish here instead. “What gives?” I end my query.

“Let’s turn to the next Bogota collage,” she replies and starts walking to our left, pulling up in front of it. I go stand beside her, basically shoulder to shoulder again so we can keep trying to see as one.

“More Life on Mars,” she says. “Remember when I told you to bring me Book 03 from the town library and place it on my table? Well there it is. It’s a summary of all knowledge, all books.” The collage changes.

“And there is the second part of the animation which is actually the first, showing my point. Lisa the Vegetarian is the Tungaske artist who absorbs it all — inputs it; eats it — and then provides an output for us to peruse and perhaps dig into deeper if we wish. Beyond surface reading, you see. Surface of Mars. Crash again in back, facing toward you this time — sans rod, I’ll add, with no horses around this go around. As if waiting for you to act. Can you act? How deep can you go? TBC

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July 1, 2026 · 3:24 am

00500510 (Pansy update)

Another Bigfoot spotted in not the US but Canada now, on Saskatchewan Street in Tugaske in Saskatchewan. Saskatchewatch, then! (Sasquatch + Saskatchewan) Or, better, Saskwatch, thinking of the abbreviation of the province’s name. I’ll recheck this area more later…

But first: the same town pictured in Boos again, as in gallery, as in Nawt Vaya Free State bordering the Nawt Vaya Sea in the western part of the Jeogeot continent of Our Second Lyfe. 3rd floor. Attempted vandalism of the art within, just like at the gallery formerly known as Concrete down by the sea in Cement Village. I suppose Boos is a part of Cement Village too since the front door opens in that direction (I’ll work on it). Is this the same vandal dressed in a hazmat suit now like he’s preparing for a journey inside the vast bounds of a Back Rooms situation? And what of the anime looking girl beside him. Accomplice? Turns out she’s merely working through him, as in a prop. Controller, then. That way the blame can theoretically be taken off her if needed. She’s only walking up to the vandal, wondering what he’s doing. Is this the artist of the work himself, here to make some late game changes or spiff ups? That kind of defense.

“Uh oh, keystone cops coming, Mortimer. We better switch over to our act. A-HEM. I SAID. What are you doing to this piece of ART here? Are you the ARTIST?”

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June 29, 2026 · 10:44 pm

00500509 (… from Mars)

—–

“Well… there they are. Martian boos in equal parts black and white, amassing above poor little Tungaske from the east, buildings seemingly numbered for conquest purposes. City limits threatened to become cemetery limits; no one left to live here.

“Only the west can save them, switching dawn to dusk. Bigfoot.”

And so it went down in the small Canadian hamlet. Artists, thank gods for artists.

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August 23, 2023 · 1:31 am

Phyllis

“‘No purple,'” I said from the side, quoting from the introduction of the world famous manifesto, *her* manifesto. “Yet you sit on purple.”

“Um hmm.” She nodded.

“Is this, then, about the boyy?”

She contemplated an answer for a second, then: “Yes, this is about the boyy more than anything else. And why I chose to avoid talking about the subject, the color. The gurl too, obviously. If–”

“Lisa,” I clarified, then regretted interrupting her flow. She was, after all, a master channel. So all the TILists say that count. But this was beyond (the) four. Hard to tell how many could keep up if all this was made public. Which was, I suppose, my job.

“If only (another pause), for a contrast. Say, priceless versus highly priced, very high indeed but still a certain amount — not infinite.”

“The boyy is a pure channeler,” I dared. I had to know.

Again the pause. She was in the spotlight, as it should be. Making shit happen per usual. “Pure as in 2 separate from 1. Let me illustrate.” She shifts her weight slightly on the latex ottoman, making it squeak but pleasantly, I noted. “Where *I’m* from there is a city of the land that is as central as a heart. Named for the founder of our great land. Brightonia is its name. Yet eventually, as a center must find a circumference to become circular and all encompassing and also reflect in on itself, a 2nd great city was formed, not as big or important as the first but still two. A balance; a sidekick if you will. Necessary: a role assigned. This is the boyy. And from those 2 come all else.”

‘The great scribe Nauty of Naughtilus has taken credit for the boyy’s channel. Is this correct?”

Pause. “All things being equal: yes. The pen was neither red nor blue.”

“Describe the gurl’s role.”

(to be continued)

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August 6, 2023 · 7:56 am

00390405

I was born a boyy. My father became more famous than me. Some say he was a God. But not *the* God. I don’t think. I looked up to him. His head was in the clouds, at times I couldn’t see. I would grow up to be him [the first of many crossouts in the document], meet him. I was a boyy than grew up to be a mann. And what of dogg you might ask, the opposite of God Godd. I have no answer to that I only have a katt. Ratt. That was next.

I was born a mouse.

Bart put down the pen, still red, still bleeding from his hands. It hurt to write. He felt he wasn’t any good at it. He thought of the mouse in the film, Zero, the true hero. He was sent to bring the bull back to his father. The bull was him, he realized. He picked up the pen.

The mouse walked by the katt, not knowing what it was. The katt took chase. The mouse ran around the corner. Encountered space Was from space.

Bart thought about space for the first, real time, his true home. He saw stars. Starrucca. Starlight. Gravity called. He was sucked in. Aerial then grounded for life. He was perpetually in trouble. Often only Lemmy the tree came to his aid. His father once had a fight with it, lost his head. The boyy watched: a knife and a net. Dressed in pink, which was the style for boys of the time. His sister walked into his life wearing blue. “That’s crazy blue,” he said when she did.

He was grounded for life because of the film and because what Principal Skinhead saw that night, after the show was done, after all the people had dispersed to their individual dwelling units. Bart standing alone, no tree to protect. No shorts. He puts two hands over his parts and turns red.

He was even sent to prison for a while in his late 20s for killing a man in Defiance. He’d lost his way. Sucked up by the Great Black Swamp, as prophecy foretold.

(to be continued)

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August 3, 2023 · 8:07 pm

00390401

After reading Bart’s own what they later called treatise, a proper study indeed, Lisa wandered around the town as if on drugs, unable at times to distinguish the true nature of reality. “What’s this?” she asked Wanda, now working at Neptune’s Stop and Go. “An orange? A Christmas decoration? *Wait*. Too early for Christmas, since this is… dammit, what time of year *is* it?? The 4th??”

“Always the 4th,” spoke Wanda, probably part of the trance or vision or whatever was going on with the intelligent yellow gal, having confronted the nonunderstanable, even to the super smart, which she borders on at the very least. The Abyss, others call it. The Great Void. “Wha-what do you mean by that? Wanda?”

“Go home, Lisa. Go back to your maw, your paw. Do you know where you live?”

She didn’t! “No!”

“Then Sylvester will guide you. Syl-VESTERR!” she called in an impossibly loud voice.

“I’m *right* *here*,” the tuxedo cat said, popping out of the same orange and green arrangement Lisa had questioned just earlier. He leapt down on the floor, extended his hand. “Come on come on,” he urged in a slobbery voice, a bit of spittle landing on Lisa’s red shoed feet. “Your mommy and daddy are probably waiting on you, probably wondering where you are.”

“Where — I am?” She stared at the proffered white hand.”

“Go ahead,” urged Wanda from the side. “It’s your only hope.”

Only hope. She grabbed the paw and went out the door.

The cat was gone. Bart appeared on a skateboard, did a nifty turn to halt the thing and come right up on her. “Jesus, Lisa. Mom and Dad were worried sick! Now why did you have to stomp out like that, like some kind of zombie? And where is my paper?! I have to turn it in tomorrow. Did you throw it in the trash? Jeez, Lisa, why would you do such a thing? Didn’t you like it? I know I’m not as smart and don’t read nearly as much as you — heck, I hardly read at *all*. But… hey Lisa. You all right? Can you hear me? Jeez. We better get you home, Lisa. I better walk you home. If I only could connect myself all up, jeez, I guess I could do that very thing. But, as you can see…”

Something was wrong, very wrong. Bart had scared Lisa to pieces with his words.

She wakes up?

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August 3, 2023 · 2:11 am

00390316

Lisa got permission to view the film because she was in a class for special children and was doing a project for it. Eventual title: “How Milk was Born.” Bartholomew, *not* being a special child and thus not in the same class with the same privileges, didn’t get the same permission. But oh did he watch the same film, over and over again, 5 times in total. He snuck out of his bedroom every night at 10:45 with the help of Lemmy the Magic Tree that was once a mortal enemy with a net and a knife. Lemmy had grown up to be a friend, putting childish rivalries away.

“Lemmy, come over here again,” Bartholomew requested, and a branch was extended, big enough to hold a boy his size and allow him to drop to the ground safely. “Thanks Lemmy,” Bartholomew said at the bottom, loud enough for the tree to hear through his “ears” but not loud enough to alert the parents, usually preparing for bed by this time or already in it. The tree rustled its leaves in answer and Bartholomew was on his way through the backs of lots and down alleys full of cats and rats. On to the 88.

First night:

“*Bart*. What are you doing here??” And so on with the reprimands for a while, which were dampened when Lisa learned that her little brother desired to create a report on the film too, and that he’d show those stuck ups at school he can make something of his life. “I’ll… help,” she finally relented. “Shhh, the movie is starting,” said Bartholomew to this, more eager than ever to be a success.

Lisa only went that one time, thinking with her superior brain that’s all she needed. Bartholomew attended the whole week up until Friday night when the regular people in town would be able to go and he might be caught and told on. So that was Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday, happy days indeed.

(to be continued)

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July 6, 2023 · 4:12 pm

00390201

Weird she can see the lower tip of Beatrice from here, she thinks. Where she, in fact, comes from (novel 38; on a white horse). She checks the distance on the inworld map in her, um, mind. Over 200 meters away still, and her draw distance used here is only 64 to reduce lag in an urban area. She thinks again of Constantinople, the *real* thing, and her graphically talented, er, doppelganger. Here incarnated as Myrtle Beech out on the southern tip of *this* island. Another 200 meters or so in the opposite direction.

She moves to the opposite window of the upper floor of her new (!) apartment, important furniture purchase finished. It all revolves around, well, the central affair which is not an affair atall. She smiles at the irony. She can continue with her romance novel 39 and keep the marriage to Arthur intact. She can have her cake and eat it too. She came here, in effect, in 2 boats at once. But what really was this island she now exists on with her others? Constants? Close enough.

Arthur will be home soon from job hunting. Better get back to the interwebs and do some more research before he arrives (she decides). Hogs the whole living room with his applications and such. Great views, but — drawback — small apt. Barely room for the bed upstairs. And what about a kitchen? She’s *not* sharing an oven and a fridge with that big headed dude downstairs (!).

Strange, she think while staring from the couch now (*not* new). The entire Smipsons family shows up at the bottom of the store’s page but no sign of Al or Sarah’s avatar, hmm. Oh, she realizes. No adult content here; she’s not signed in to the Marketplace. And Al and Sarah are certainly adults now after what happened at the Homeless Union last night, away from Cowboy’s still drunk presence. Who cares if he chokes on his own vomit, Sarah thinks while packing her duffle bag for an overnight stay, looking down on him writhing about on the stained bed, murmuring something about Wanda and Gloria giving him 2 rides between snores and incoherent utterances. I bet they did, she thinks with vile, harking back to that afternoon and the beach and the lateness of his appearance and his *appearance* when he arrives. Drunk off his tits. “I bet they did,” she hisses aloud before stomping out, thinking this is at *least* a 2 night absence now. Maybe forever; probably so.

Back to the family…

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July 3, 2023 · 2:24 am

Permaglow

She went back the next day to meet him. She knew to sit far apart and she also wore a mask for extra protection. Many said he didn’t exist but she knew better. She felt the chills of reality pass through her almost daily.

“I can’t… stop glowing,” he said to her across the patio holding the 3 Meter Monument. “I *can’t*… stop *glowing*.”

But what to do for him? Marg was dead. Homer had lost his head. Lisa, yes. She must contact the sister, the author of the other, lesser treatise on the controversial “perhaps sentence”. Not the channeler/psychic Bart was but still the only hope, she knew. And, chance has it, they had a mutual friend, even though she still didn’t know that fact.

Back home:

“Tarnation, woman! TV dinners again?! Where you been all day girl!?” She, of course, couldn’t tell him, except that she’d been walking per usual. Cowboys never see the other side. “I’m going to stake you down with a rope,” he warned. “Just like a big, fat cow I am.” He was close to her face now, rage in his eyes, nose, mouth, everything. Her window of opportunity to help the boy was closing. She’d need allies, at least one. And he was very close as fortune would have it. Now to somehow bring them together, hmm.

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June 23, 2023 · 9:40 pm

red over blue (Democracy continues)

It’s a very blue place, she thinks. 10:01 AM. Yet she stares.

Wonder why Myrtle doesn’t like linden plants? she ponders.  I’ve *always* liked linden plants. Maybe the only one she respects, the branchy winter tree with no leaves, is my *least* favorite, hmph.

Someone else should be with me here in this lonely spot, she ruminates. Someone else blue.

She suddenly has the urge to get up and dance. Must be the costume. And the place.

—–

“I see plumeria over there,” she spoke later to rail sitting Edward, her chosen beau for the day. She’d changed into something safer, something non-dancey, urge abated. “I see palm tree no. 1, palm tree no. 2. And then a cypress tree 1 just up the hill. What’s not to love?”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Edward offered to Shelley’s continued rant. She just couldn’t get the logic of Myrtle’s opinion.

“Very regimented. *No* chaos. No mention of mainlands. What a mess! she might exclaim. Yet… she’s there. On Constance.”

“*You* put her there. Even gave her that weird belly button, the on and off thing.”

“The Abyss must be a key. That’s where we meet, her and me. That’s where I can tell her off if she doesn’t friend me.”

“Drop it,” urges Edward to the girl, perhaps the love of his life. If Wanda doesn’t enter the picture again. “Let it go.”

“The *island* is all about that merger.” But as she spoke this, she began to doubt her words. It was more than just that.

—–

The next day Shelley replaced Edward with Arthur in the sim of Escanes and they studied the illegal TILE treatises of Bart and Lisa in a sand covered underwater room directly beneath a false island planted with those plumeria and palms, thinking their actions there were unexposed to the prying eyes of superiors on the FILE. They weren’t; didn’t call them that for nutt’n.

(to be continued)

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