Tag Archives: Professor Young Harris/HARRISON JETT^*~~~~~~%
He woke up in a fetal position on top of yet another fox. She spoke without turning from the even redder couch, wearing an even redder dress.
“How dare you think you can come to the White Palace in the skies and not alert *me*.”
He was groggy. He couldn’t make out exactly what was said. He raised up off of the plush fox, so soft. Like a blanket. He wanted to sleep forever, he realized. But… he must remain alert. Danger! He recalls: danger.
“You can leave Sepisexton,” she spoke over to the robot guard more in the background. “I want to talk to the *boy* alone.”
“It was always destiny that I come to this Misty MO and find love, Hucka.”
“Hucka?” He wakes.
Groggily; just waking up as well: “Yes?”
“Okay you must tell me what you did with Jeffrey Phillips, shirt-less boy. *Now*.”
The green door opened. A presence was there.
Trying to ignore rats, Dr. Mouse stands before the green door. The green phone on the front desk rings. It’s Claude.
Geez I think my ears are ruptured.
There. It’s fixed.
She finds herself in a place doing realistic things, like blow drying her hair. But this is the morning she finds out she is actually a man. She stares into the mirror, looking at them after the removal of the false, the fake. How deflating!
The mayor’s nose keeps growing. Guy visits the doctor again, still working for the resistance. A new strategy is being hatched. Stealing the golden goose egg *has* produced results. He’s straightened out, elongated: the I of TILE revealed.
(to be continued)
“MO like on a ship?”
“Plane. But a plane is a ship in the sky.”
We land in Misty MO again. Someone steps out of the plane. I believe it might be Jennifer M. Friend but I’m a little discombobulated tonight admittedly. I’m on a straight diagonal toward Endgame but can I reach it? I had a sister.
I had a sister.
He looks away from where he’s been and thinks about the present.
He wasn’t happy with his latest painting — “Parasols” — and he’d run out of green paint as well. Irritation tonight. A big black fly zoomed around the room, sometimes landing on his painting as if it were a window outta here. And perhaps it was.
“Jerry?” he called over. “Wanna go on a walk?” He was trying to be as cheerful as possible, given his mood.
Jerry, she thinks. Is that who he believes he’s sleeping with? The *ex*?
He recognized the voice. “Flo?”
“Jerry… went home.” Flo wondered if he still had a relationship with “Mr. Green,” given that he had none. She could tell if the painting was dry or not. She went into the other room of the Greek village apartment, hovered over him.
“Tell me if that’s Wet Glaize. Or Dry Glaize.” She stood her ground, allow him to absorb the shock of her presence her on this romantic isle in disguise. Instead: trap.
“Wet Glaize *is* Dry Glaize,” he uttered automatically, bringing in more memories.
She couldn’t tell. They next went outside to drink and catch up and look at the view. She turned away from the blue, not wanting to be reminded of crosses. Because she remembers. Greg Ogden was… well, she didn’t want to think of it right now. The bastard pirate!
“Do you even remember Ruby the green alien,” she complained after finishing one glass of wine and beginning another. I believe it was her 5th. “Where did you *leave* her?”
Green, he thinks. Where did I leave green?
Right over there he was. My greatest creation: Harrison Ford Jett. I’ll never get close enough to call him Harry, but *Jerry* might. What’s her name again now? he thinks, folding his arms behind his head in a mimicking action. Sally?
Bluebird, he remembered later, descended from Blackbird. And he was a whole band on the run. Perfection.
“You’re Harrison Ford Jett aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Harrison didn’t want to commit to this stranger on the hill. He’d seen this trick before.
“I think you are, sir. And I also believe this is yours.” He holds out the guitar. “I’m an artist, see? This isn’t mine.”
And indeed Harrison could play the guitar just beautifully.
In a parallel world, Harrison watches Greg Ogden’s masterful strokes from afar and wishes he could paint.
At 10 they were back inside. “You don’t know a lot about Bach, do you?”
“No,” admitted Harrison Ford Jett, getting weary of the magic now. About time for bed, he thought. But with her? It both excited and chilled him. What would she attempt *this* time? It was always a roulette wheel of love. “My knowledge of classical music basically starts with Beethoven, beyond Mozart, beyond Hayden. And, in fact, the same with rock music. Starts with Beatles, skipping over Elvis and Buddy Holly and the like.”
“John Lennon insisted that Beetles was spelled with an ‘a’. He was trying to forget the past. He was trying to forget the *parallel*.”
“Suppose so.” It was an interesting conversation for Harrison. Bluebird, his little chickadee, had “turned” smart again after the coffee incident. Maybe it was all the caffeine, he speculated. For *both* of us. Relax and float downstream, I guess. “John is Mahler, though. It’s obvious — the glasses.”
“It’s more complicated than that.” Bluebird decided she better start acting dumber again. She slows down the thoughts. 1 1/2 times now, 1, then 1/2. 1/2 usually does the trick. Not *too* slow.
They were in bed now. Harrison was relieved to find the antics tonight were quite vanilla. Afterwards his neck hurt, though, giving indication that something was askew once more.
Like you’d like to know, witch, he was thinking. “Journal,” he said out loud.
“Oooh. I *love* journals. Can I read?”
His neck suddenly hurt, as if the mere mention of sharing something so personal with her caused him physical pain.
“Uhh. I don’t know. Maybe. Let me work on it some more.”
“Am *I* in it?”
Of course you’re in it, witch. I’m trying to figure out what you are (!). “Kind of,” he said to her. “It’s kind of fiction.”
“Role play, eh?”
“Er, not really.”
“Yeah.” He let her mull that over. Not role play but still fiction. What does that mean… witch?
He paused to make some coffee. Then they sat outside and stared at the sea.
“I think this is the most romantic place we’ve ever been, Harrison. Can I call you… Harry yet?”
“No.” He was firm about no nicknames. Not until they were married, whenever that would be.
She cuddled against him. “But at least I don’t have to call you Harrison *Ford Jett* any more. Remember that (period)? First the Ford was dropped, then the Jett…”
“I recall.” Of course he remembered. He set the rules. Again he thought that maybe he wasn’t dated the brightest bulb in the drawer. But on that he was dead wrong. *This* was role play. She was doing it very well.
By 8 they were down at the beach lounging about. “Funny, Harrison (she feigned a laugh here), how we (tee hee) can still see our coffees smoking on that patio up there. Strange, eh?”
Harrison didn’t say anything. Witchcraft plain and simple, he knew. This was a *warning.* Don’t talk about role play with me. He’d underestimated her. Why does he keep forgetting how powerful she really was? Must be another spell.
(to be continued?)
There’s always a give and take to things. Misty MO will always be connected to Yaya Land: Misty MO > Yaya Land. The former may have created the latter, if that makes any sense. The religious nuts might know. If I could find one.
Here I am, on the new edge of the world, staring at Neptune (seen) and Pluto (unseen) jointly. Fern would like it here. If she weren’t blocked by Uranus. I’ll have to talk to the main part of her core, this Wendy Wheeler Wilson. Or maybe Ruby Alien, 1/2 and 1/2. Who will it be tonight? Alysha even? Do I know her yet? So many questions.
“I’m here. Sorry I’m late. I was deciding what outfit to wear for the occasion and just went with the simple one. Hope you still like it.”
“Bluebird.” He’d forgotten about his main girl, his little chickadee.
She sits down beside him and starts talking about how she’s going to really change this time and put the Boos away. We’ll see.
“I don’t belong here,” he said to friend Horace later on down at the docks in a kind of goodbye. “I’m not who I seem.” The wheels in his head kept spinning ’round and ’round.
We go one outfit up for the next section: Harrison Ford Jett. We return to Collagesity and its Boos Gallery with Fern and him.
“So the taijitu ball was rolled over, giving the Mouse another head to replace the one just crushed like a…”
“… goose egg,” finished Harrison. Fern stared at him, wondering how much he knew about McCoy.
“The meteor, yes. Impach. Let’s move over to the Power Tower now — want to show you another baker b. work.” Things were different now, she realized. De ja boom and paths change. She’s glad, because she misses Harrison. And those apples.
But for Harrison Ford Jett, Fern never made it over to the Power Tower. Alone, he stares into the eyes of hate.
Where is he (*panic*)?? Oh: there.