Tag Archives: Newt/Windmill Man^*++&

November 12, 2021 · 8:08 am

dualities (no fire)

He was playing Schumann under the gun, this Franz Wagner. Raspberry Girl, aka Annaball or bell, was in the background getting limber on the bars and warming up for her shooting. And what a night it was (!).

—–

“This was not the night it was,” corrected W here, coming out of the background. “You can (still) only shoot zombies in this town and zombies are identified by the German war helmets, spiked or non-spiked. Probably something someone came up with in a bar, inebriated halfway to Hell, perhaps through a drugged drink.”

I stopped playing in the Middle of C. W zoomed in; Raspberry/Annaball-bell had projected out of sight, perhaps zooming herself, through the ceiling and into the sky via built up centrifugal force. Who knows what can be read and studied in this black and white town full of bigots, zombies and some other stuff. “Helmet Newton might know,” I said my thoughts aloud to her, “if we could identify the Hell who he was.”

“She,” W inserted. “Don’t forget the ‘she'”.

He continued…

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November 11, 2021 · 9:07 am

200 Motels: A Space Oddity

“We’re closed,” she states levelly to Duncan while he says nothing, just peering in a store to see what’s there. We’d be closed to you lot anyway, she thinks while continuing to sweep, not paying him any more attention. Long… and dusty… road. Where’s your raspberry girl, she additionally thinks a few seconds later. Word’s gotten around.

Since she doesn’t have a name, some have just started calling her Annaball or Annabell as a joke, and always in white with the attached, mocking graffiti, like this one here on the northwest train tunnel of town. Always the crossed out “a” corrected with “e” — John Lennon would not be proud. A white girl should not be messing with a black man in any shape, form. This was a warning to all the Annaballs or bells of the world: stay in line; stay in your color.

Three glowing white nuns, white angel in background to reinforce the Heaven aspect, pray for their souls as they watch the heathens up front, also praying.

But not for forgiveness. For enlightenment. How to marry black and white in this town full of bigots and make it work. Two words (again): Helmet Newton. This is the place.

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November 10, 2021 · 3:07 pm

more black and white

After visiting Blue-Yellow and attempting to watch his sun rise, I hop on a passing trolley and head downtown…

… soon reaching THE Cave. Or at least A Cave.

It strikes me that it would be wrong to keep calling this character Axis-Windmill in a town created by an actual German. So we’re going to go with a new one. Not reverting to Windmill Man — too easy. Bronze John looks on, trying to gauge, trying to help. He was so successful with the Beatles with an A naming.

The Beatles are such archetypes, penetrating many synchronicity systems.

All bands can be related to them. For example, Pink Floyd are the psychedelic Beatles, Firesign Theatre are the comic Beatles, and The Residents are the bizarro Beatles. Frank Zappa with his Mothers strongly reacted to them; the Rolling Stones…

I was told by fortuneteller Esmerelda a while back that the answers lie in a cave. In the related collage, cacophony musician Charles Ives pokes his head out of one sideways, wondering if he’ll have anything left to say. He’s sorry about Cowell, he speaks through the entrance, the mouth. He’s sorry about Connecticut and Danbury and the clashing of bands. Connecticut forgives, but he’ll have to make them laugh, make them suckers instead of seekers, and get small in the exchange. Thimble Islands’ General Tom Thumb might know, if he’s paying attention. Misery becomes Mystery (up to date).

I wonder about New York’s Central Park in the Dark, and the Unanswered Question. I think back to the Amazon jungle and the Indian who becomes a Spaceman, search fulfilled; “aliens” found — this would represent the end of the 4th. Concord (Sonata)… maybe that’s next. Oh, and Karl finding the waterfall (Rainbow) and reading the scrapbook and discovering a new ending, leading him to set aside the old life and the attached house and move on. I thought about Charles Ives today in perusing my table of tiles, wondering if I’ll get the chance to tell anyone about it besides the wife and a best friend. It’s pretty remarkable.

Here is where I’ll be reborn, or at least acquire a new name.

“Who are you?”

“Helmet Newton?” he or she answers as a question.

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November 7, 2021 · 8:51 am

seeing

I log out Wheeler to save memory. We can speak more freely now. “I was…” he began. “Born,” he said. “Naked.”

“Yes, we all are,” I said back, occupying the chair in front of him instead of Jennifer Lane. We would end this way, just the two of us. Man to man. “But you have a birthday hat instead of a birthday suit (now). You are acceptable.”

“Indian,” he then said. “Wells.”

“Yes, that’s your name. To some. I personally usually call you Tropp. You and me, we are different.”

“Yes.” Pause. “Studied… I am studied.” He looks down at his hands, noticing the flaws. Not on his face in this case but his hands. “Axis is here.”

“Yes, you are Axis, who is now Axis-Windmill. Should probably shorten that to something else. Any ideas?” I was tired of having to do all the thinking in this here blog and attached photo-novels, now almost 29 in number. So near the end… just around the corner…

“We’ll… see.” He takes a sip of tea. He adjusts the birthday cap on his head so it isn’t as askew to his face. Takes a minute, since he has to make it askew in the first place (see above). He realizes the scars on his hands were caused by heat. Scalding. He looks down at the smoke of the tea drifting up to his face. *And* his face. “I…. love…”

“Yes?”

He changes. We were back to square one.

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November 4, 2021 · 8:13 am

00290614

“I think I’m going to like it here back on this Nautilus continent, let’s see (he studies her), Lichen?”

“Call me Blondie,” she requests. “As in ditzy.” But he knew this wasn’t true. She was just a comedian. “Watch this,” she then said, waving her hand toward the grill. “Fire.”

“Nifty.” A witch too.

—–

“So Lichen is involved now. This must be 1942. But where’s Fern; Wendy? Is she…”

“Questions,” W warned, who may be Wendy herself. “Gambling boat,” she answers about Fern at least. “Dixie Belle. See you there.”

—–

“Well that looks like it, gentlemen. Last hand: I win the boat.”

“I don’t understand what happened,” shocked Jim A. Brown to her left managed to utter. “All I had all night was clubs and diamonds.”

“And…” sputtered similarly baffled Zach Black opposite him. “Me? Hearts…”

“… and spades,” Fern Stalin finishes for him. “Yes, yes, very peculiar. What are the odds.”

“Odds doesn’t begin to describe it,” says Zach, trying to figure out how he’d ever win his Jazz Attack band back from this, this… *witch*.

“Time to bring out the girl,” she then declares.

Jim A. Brown and Zach Black look across the Belle on the table at each other. “Lena?” They weren’t ready for this but what choice did they have?

“No no no no no, the other one. The red haired one. The one we’ve been studying… collectively. Wait… don’t tell me. Is she dead? Like Maebaleia (continent) to us now? Let’s go with the boy, then, the Indian. But not Asian. Half and half. Is he still in his pod, bubbling away? I need to see the studies Rose produced, all the figures. Bring them… *now*.”

Her rapid fire delivery left Jim A. Brown and Zach Black drained of blood as if they were dead. And perhaps they were. Gambling debts gone wrong sometimes end that way. At any rate, they disappear from the scene, leaving Fern confronting… I suppose this is Wells?

(to be continued)

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November 1, 2021 · 8:20 am

00290611

“I lost you in the tunnel!” director Percy Pierce complains as Axis-Windmill tries to defend his disappearance from a the scene.

“Well, ahem…”

“And I see you brought your two cat friends along to help your case. She turns to the red-blue eyed one on his right. Rebl *lawyer* is it now?”

“Yes ma’am. Axis did nothing wrong,” she begins in her purry way. “He followed the G-Spots through the tunnel to the missing letters.”

“Letters?” Percy Pierce spoke. “Don’t you mean: *letter*.”

A pause. “A moment with my client,” Rebl then requests, which Percy agrees to. Whispers; heads nodding and shaking; green and yellow eyed Guyd on the left side joins in the conversation. Percy can only make out scattered words (Paper, King, Soap, couple more). Finally: “enough”, she says. “We must get on. 9:30 shoot tomorrow. We must all be fresh.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Rebl in turn. “Don’t you mean: *shot*?”

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November 1, 2021 · 7:26 am

two wor(l)ds

Axis-Windmill watches Lester and Custer cross the road to the motel grounds. He looks up after they disappear behind its sign from his perspective, ready to erase another “S” to appease the new or soon-to-be new King of the sim. Paper fully separated from Soap; (fantasy) party over. So it will happen (!). That could explain the presence of the motel here, which Axis-Windmill recalls blew up just last month. This Thanksgiving becomes last Thanksgiving, a time burp as some put it.

Axis-Windmill turns from south to west toward another missing letter, this time a “G” down at the train tunnel, missing from “Missing Mile” (thus: “Missin Mile”). Gaining another perspective remotely he ponders the possibility of a Miss Square. Back to square one? He decides to ask the homeless person sitting in the street down from him.

“Miss Square?” he utters, causing the man to become aggressive.

A 5 minute rant about the sorry shape of the town follows.

And I suppose Dr. Mouse is back at well, killed in the motel explosion that didn’t happen now. Perhaps he’s next up for a visit.

(to be continued?)

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October 31, 2021 · 2:13 pm

00290608

Alysha had changed again. I only knew her because of the red kid’s shoes she still wore. And the face scars of course. And those eyes I suppose, although they were more heavily mascaraed than before, if that’s even a word. We jointly stared at the chest (box) advertised as filled with photos and personal belongings the owner can’t part with because of the spirits of long dead relatives. The belongings are described as a mix of benign and antagonistic, the latter group apparently applying to potential visitors. Like us, I suppose.

“What could be *in* it?” she asked, staring at the surfaces and corners, looking for clues. The key remained unfound. We’d searched the entire place, named “Swamp Shack Brown” but obviously leaning more toward plum. Or raspberry.

The “Swamp Shack Purple” on the other side of the currently atrophying body of water tucked in the southwest corner of Soap just lost its violet furniture I was going to use in a post somewhere. Party over, I suppose. Instead we are compensated with the brown shack being this color, just as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince could have lived beyond the Purple Rain of 1999 and entered the new century with a raspberry beret. Or disguise… hmmm.

“Have you found anything?” I spoke down, thinking about calling her “honey” but deciding against it — too soon. Her dark eyes darted here and there but didn’t fixate on anything. What was she seeing?

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October 29, 2021 · 9:12 am

accident

“Was he really the King of Pizza? Axis-Windmill ponders from his booth, staring down at the cheesy triangle steaming before him. Or was he the King of *Paper*?

He takes a bite. Tastes like cardboard, he determines, upping the possibility.

I could have been much more, he thinks below his golden crown while hauling in cardboard boxes from the back. And I am.

—–

“What’s up?” Hatti demands asks. Suddenly ashamed of her face scars, she turns away, looks at the picture on the wall instead. Funny, she decides after a small debate in her head about its value. Pizza slices at the Last Supper. Lo-fi goodness.

“Gold,” he answers. “Golden crowns.”

“Cows?” Claude obviously came to mind.

“Seriously,” he replies, getting serious. “Dinah’s back.”

“The Anomaly? How?” She knew how.

“You know how.” They look at each other again.

“I’m just a simple witch. Don’t give me credit where credit isn’t due.”

“You blew up–”

“*You* blew up…” It was here that Axis-Windmill realized he was talking to himself, as in a mirror. He’d conveniently forgotten that inconvenient fact.

“Right, right. Dr. Mouse. I know.”

“He was the only one who could fix this.”

“Herbert,” he offered.

“Herbert Dune?” she replied skeptically again. “That’s you too. Can’t you remember *anything*? It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Axis-Windmill started trying. He stared over, noting the blue hair poking out of the large, black, conical hat, holes made on purpose for this, purpose. “Why is your hair sometimes blue and sometimes red?”

“You know, silly. Sometimes I’m cross, sometimes I’m not. I can edit out the cross but I have to use red. When I’m not cross: blue. I’m in a good mood tonight,” she explained about the present color.

He looks at her face scars, wondering how she got them again. He looks down at his aging hands; his own flaw lines. He thinks of his age. 60-ish. 62, 65. 60. Early 60s. 63 — that’s it. And Alysha: waiting at the other end of the 1 1/8 year stream. But still many choices to be made along the way. “About Dinah,” he decides to switch back (to earlier talk). “There’s a video I want you to see — want your thoughts on it. A witch is involved. And… pizza.”

—–

She was remembering.

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October 28, 2021 · 6:59 am

Satin’s rule

I often dreamed of the explosion that killed Heidi Biker Chick, our former director, soon to be replaced by new director Percy Pierce. It was always the same: I was inside the bar, trying to identity her in the flames and smoke, being burned alive myself. I perish looking for her; perhaps a ceiling beam falls on me, cutting short my horror. But where am I when I wake up? Where am I *now*? (gasp) I sit up: the beam didn’t need to be pushed off me, although I lie in the same position that I died — on the floor. How did I get from my bed to the floor? Everything seemed strange.

In the dreamscape I just left, the fire kept spreading. Now: the fire station itself just next door. Ruby! They’re after Ruby. Better send in the army but, trouble is, the army started it in the first place. Me again, then, I suppose.

I get up. I finish planting the bomb underneath the table where Heidi Biker Chick would meet Hank Graphite later. I know the meeting would start at 7 o’clock sharp. Heidi: always prompt, always professional in her approach to time. 5:05 now. I set the timer for 2 hours. I walk outside, down Violin Lane, back to the depot and the train that brought me here to this brave new world. I am re-swallowed by the tunnel. I wake up for real.

I look over for Alysha but it is 1 year and 2 months too soon. Better get back to work.

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