Tag Archives: SPOOL TABLE

July 1, 2024 · 9:19 am

00430401 (“Alphanumerica”)

I came here…

… in a boat.

Cool! though Frank Lynn while encountering this object just beyond the edge of the faux sea and its partially sunk vessel. Maybe this is what my lost spool table has turned into. A model for a whole mountain of mystery! This made him even more excited to meet the creator.

He approached the truck not 20 yards away now that doubled as living quarters for the man both 10 and 85 at once. The one he would model, in his own manner, the character of Wayne Bruce upon later on. Builder of a whole city but derived from a mountain. This one.

“Mr Knight?” he called, not wanting to knock on the door or wall of the thing out of respect. “Yo, Mr. Knight. Big fan here. Just want a word if I could, dawg.”

Frank waited and waited. He heard sounds within. Someone was there (!). Being recreated as it turned out. Overt religious messages were fading from the truck as well as the mtn. behind. Everything was becoming alien oriented, JESUS, for example, being reconstructed as 6EQUJ5, “Love is Universal” turning into “Life is Universal”. Would he approve?

No. Mr. Night without the K emerged from the back, more devil than saint.

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June 29, 2024 · 2:48 pm

00430316

I occasionally come here to walk, almost always at night and most often in the rain when less people were around. Like tonight. As David Bowie following in the footsteps of John Lennon well knew, fame certainly comes with a price. No more anonymity, especially in my former hood.

Many things had changed since the 2 years I’d been gone. The old Hands On Car Wash behind Aunt Jen’s where I lost my cherished spool table was now the Crown Car Wash, taken over by big corp.

Fern’s old Foreign and Domestic car parts place across the street from it had been bought out by a neighboring business dealing with electronic circuits.

But Fern herself was still in the area; had herself bought a failing Crucial Fix Jamaican coffee shop nearby and turned it into a self named cafe, no possessive form this time. Just plain Fern — actually The Fern as I’m thinking of it. Drove by it during the day already…

… but try as I might, I couldn’t find it now in the dark and the driving rain.

Once found, I planned to spend time there with the smartest person I knew, black white or any other color. Except maybe for Stinch’s uncle’s cousin up in Grapeshot who could sell bacon to a policeman, ha. Fern’s a mentor for sure.

10:43. Better get back to the “mansion” and pick which of my 7 king size beds I’m going to sleep in tonight and pick one of those Red books to fall asleep by. Author a guy with Mars in his name — go figure. J. Marston. Could be John, could be Jack. But probably Jack, the son. I’m on chapter 4 now: ‘How to Deliver a Foal’. Fascinating reading; getting sleepy just thinking about it. Here’s my turn.

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June 14, 2024 · 8:43 am

00430217 (moomeries)

The moment Fern realized she was in the story too.

“The 3rd ball!” she exclaimed aloud in the Martian rust and dust. “I use to work there!”

Just around the corner from the big spool, in fact. She’d witnessed that same adventure too, watched it roll by outside her windows, heard the noise of the crash. Even talked to Frank at the time, encouraged him to keep on with his writing even though he didn’t have the table he wanted. They both looked down at the jagged pieces of wood lying all about, remnants of the object. The car that hit it in front of the car wash had moved on with minimal damage. But the dream: broken. It was up to Fern to help put the pieces of his life back together, have them make sense to himself and, eventually, to others through his art. This was raw, this was a plateau of raw. In short, she planted a seed, yes. She remembers.

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June 14, 2024 · 7:42 am

00430216

Fern sits down with the red book given to her by Teebestia day before yesterday’s yesterday and opens it up to the bookmark. The Martian sky was particularly rust colored today, she noted at her outdoor location, picked for privacy. Just like author Frank Lynn seeked in same before starting the work in his own backyard upon a table of not spool but it would have to do. She pulls out her knife to check the color. Yeah, she thinks, spying nothing above the handle in her hand. Definitely a rusty one. Better sheath this quick before she gets caught. Don’t want to show out a Cleveland boner, as they say. She could be president, she reminded herself. Beginning with finding the Diablo-Draco reversal in that black list of the 2 quick as a wink, unlike our friendly but dense former porn star turned nudist who was destined for a lowly one instead. The Tennessee Blue Balls sculpture in Lost Sanos is an interesting, new development, she feels — right there on page 43 and not 42 where it should be to answer all. Displaced on purpose. One after, again. Like her ship taken in here this day of mid June’s May, with unrecognized and unknown Edward Daigle only a couple of rows back, on a mission of his own. She looks down and begins to read again.

—–

I had to walk by the object basically every time I went downtown so of course I was going to start thinking about how to make it my own, what I’d do with it if it were mine. First off, it was round, not square or rectangular like most tables. I could plan my Great American Novel as a circle, like a zodiac or something. I had rough ideas. All started with Redd of course, but then worked its way around to blue (Page). Then there was the ultraviolet gap to end — how to complete the thing. The last shock.

If I could just figure out how to get it to the house, I thought at the time. Too big to get into my car. Dense head that I was, I didn’t even think about borrowing Stinch’s uncle’s cousin’s pickup truck who lives out in Grapeshot in some kind of trashy trailer park or something with a bunch of white red necks. I figured I had to roll it, but maybe that was all part of the art. Because I ended up fitting that adventure into the book as well.

(to be continued)

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June 13, 2024 · 7:24 pm

00430214

“Yo’ don’t understand. I want dat spool table. Dat shitz my f-in’ ticket out o’ here.”

“Fool. Why the f- yo’ talkin’ all gansta n’ all today? Yo’ sound like Stinch!”

“Hey, Stinch be lowballin’ us. Lowballin’ us shizzle like da bottom feedin’ pyramid dwellers we r’.”

“Can yo’ speak a lil’ plainer, Frank. I mean, yo’re use ta me talkin’ ghetto. Yo’ have a built in translator bcuz’ o’ yo’ goddamn mutha. My f-in’ muthaz from Leeds n’ datz in f-in’ England or somethang.”

“*All* *right*. *Is* *this* *bet*-*ter*? *Can* *you* *under*-*stand* *me* *now*?” He even affects a bit of an English accent to further the switch for his hood-pal Laramie with his present Leeds mother and absent Watts father, hood in both the neighbor and child meaning back there.

“Yeah biatch, datz betta muthaf-a. Naw say what the f- yo’ gotta say.”

“You don’t understand. I want that spool table. That object is my bloody ticket out of here!”

“There yo’ go!” returned Laramie to Frank, matching excitement with excitement and glad his talk turned from murky to clear. Now they can go get that table, roll it through the streets back over to here if needed. About 100 yards, Laramie estimated in his mind. Trick is crossing 5 lane Innocence Blvd. with it. But if they can drive a car 120 mph through heavy city traffic, he figures they can pull off this. It will be fun for a change. What if the police even catch them? What are they gonna do? *Laugh*?

2 days later:

“Whoa nelly, dat mo f- a done got away from us, Frank!” CRAAAAASH!

Oh well. Better it than them, I suppose. But Frank’ll have to find another yard table in which to write his Great American Novel on. The book of Redd with all those pages about likewise hood-pal Page will have to wait a little longer to start in other words.

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June 10, 2024 · 7:09 am

00430210 (Frank (acceptance of a proposition))

“The spool table at the beginning of the section was a tip off (spool tables play a part in a number of my collages). Keep your eyes peeled.

“And so I went back and replayed moving past the ‘Horn Girls’ sign at slow speed, got the correct angle with the leany telephone pole to display the situation as best as possible.

“Then I walked near the mega-mall heading down famed Grove Street and similarly blocked out the hyphen between the two words with a palm tree: no fairies with boots around, though, ha.”

“Ha,” Lexi responded in kind to the boss, not the big boss but the boss boss still. Someone to answer to. Which she just did.

“Then I waited at the Blue Balls sculpture until it got fully dark.”

“Blue Balls. And that’s the same as Blue Moons?”

“I suppose. Then, after narrowly avoiding getting hit by a train (he forgot to look both ways before crossing the tracks), I see Redd. Standing under a streetlamp to illuminate her cause.”

“Younger version. And you say you don’t remember the encounter but Redd does. She told you about it later.”

“Yeah. She said we… well, you know.”

Lexi sighs. This had been a long day at it and it was 3:30 in the morning. Time to send Edward, her Eddie, back to the loving arms of his non-wife Shelley.

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