Tag Archives: The Musician^*++

May 21, 2017 · 7:56 am

here and there

“So you’ve decided to play the role of Clare Nova, Wheeler. Third Nova sister.”

“Third *found*,” she said. She takes another sip of her Cabernet Sauvignon wine. “Somewhere in this store is the appropriate avatar. A step up from (Summerhill) and (Golden Bee-ing), true. Something with a little more meat and flesh. Maybe the ancient alien.”

“Study up more on the real Clare Nova,” Baker Bloch suggested. “Find out additional stuff about her land and its relationship with The Diagonal. We’ve already discovered that obelisk tucked in the southwest corner of Hooktip right on the line…

… and then an accompanying leaf screen in *Leaf*roller to the immediate south.

Synchy stuff still going on.”

“And the multiple rose pictures The Musician found in Sister galleries,” reinforced Wheeler. “In his dreams.” She turned toward her Musician, now fully awake and tinkling the ivories of a nearby piano. The tune for the day: David Bowie’s “Alladin Sane.” Third take was the charm.

“Where’s Baker Blinker?” Wheeler suddenly asked.

“You know where they are,” Baker Bloch responded.

“Oh yeah. Chilbo.”

—–

“Where’s Wheeler?” Karoz suddenly asked.

“You know where they are,” Baker Blinker responded.

“Oh… yeah.”

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May 20, 2017 · 7:40 am

Sister Diagonal

“68/68/93”, The Musician as Sikul Hamitk began. “Almost knee deep.” So that was the Diagonal Pool written off. The first, the cuing point, as it were. The rest, the dreaming Musician found out, didn’t really count in the matter (Big, Deep, Oblong, 2 unnamed). Except for the fact that there were 6 pools instead of the indicated 7. The sim of Sister is born.

He decides to follow The Diagonal above ground. It crossed these stairs between 38/38 and 40/40.

It passes through this colorful, abstract painting of Montego Bay, Jamacia at 65/65, perhaps 66/66. “Hmm, almost directly over the Diagonal Pool here,” ruminates the dreaming Musician. “Should it instead be named Montego Pool?”

The Musician as Sikul Hamitk moves upwards. 88/88. FTI Gallery confronted.

100/100: FTI Gallery exited. He spies the spinning logo of News and Views just visited by Hucka Doobie, Tronesisia and Baker straight ahead.

And then The Diagonal passes through the right edge of the far picture of roses at 140/140 (he sits on the bench here at 136/136).

151/151: More flowers. I believe that might be even another rose to the right (excuse me miss!).

And at 150/150 on the other side of the wall: definitely more roses (!). All of these are from different Sister galleries.

And then The Diagonal ends its upward passage through the Sister sim in the center of this *diagonally* placed marker, complete with a microcosmic map of the area. Quite synchy I think you’ll agree.

The Musician awakes satisfied that The Diagonal still has power in this sim, despite the loss of 97/97/97. But there’s always Rubi for that. 🙂

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May 18, 2017 · 7:04 am

Going all nova.

She had a right to know. She *created* all this. Who is this Baker Bloch upstart? Vampires, pheh. There are no vampires in VHC City. [Work] like this could give her town a bad name. Best not to confront him directly yet. She decides to instead track down The Musician. Not hard — he had fallen asleep on the couch of his Ear Bar, exhausted from playing pinball all evening. He was at the green wall. Sikul Himatk. Summerhill roused him from his dreams. “What’s all this about,” she immediately started. “Vampires? Black holes? How do you know Baker? Who’s this Wheeler you run around with? Answers, please.”

The Musician understood who this was after his head cleared, but could give no really satisfactory replies. They were just existing in VHC City as best they could, he explained — just getting by. He and Wheeler now lived in Allen Martin’s vacated apartment. Summerhill also knew about Allen Martin. “Well, what happened to him?” she asked, thinking back to the supposed murder or death (something) at another place she knew well. “Heart attack is all I know,” The Musician attempted to explain. “Wheeler was with him at the end. She said it was fate that he passed through the gate there. Something about seeing a monster blasting through a wall. Didn’t say much more about it. (She’s) clearly upset.”

“Is Wheeler still at the apartment?” Summerhill continued grilling. The Musician nodded. “Let’s go see her. Maybe she has the answers.”

—–

So tonight was when Summerhill Nova learned about Pitch Darkly. It was actually this: Pitch Darkly *pretending* to be Baker Bloch pretending to be Pitch Darkly, as Wheeler explained while they shared a pot of coffee. She had just gained the knowledge herself. The vampire was very real. He had existed in what later would become VHC City for a very long time. Hundreds of years. Maybe over a thousand. This from the mouth of Pitch Darkly himself, now living on the other side of the tracks. Chuckles Greentop partially backed up the story, what she remembered about it. Pitch Black was his property. “And he was also friends with Sikul Himatk,” Wheeler then said.

“I think I know that name,” The Musician piped up on the couch opposite them, becoming fully awake again.

“Well of course you do,” replied Wheeler.

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May 18, 2017 · 5:15 am

Sibling Sims

Wheeler was tiring of the chit chat. “You said you had something important to tell me.”

“More ‘Winesap?'”

Wheeler looked down at Baker’s Pitch Darkly’s extended hand. “If you mean wine, I’m good. So spill.”

“It was such a good name I couldn’t wait. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything over at… where did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh all right.” He put his hands behind his head and made the announcement. “It’s Silver. I’m sorry (!): Sister.”

“What is?” Wheeler asked.

“The sim. The name of the sim we, I, couldn’t determine before. It’s really clever. Want to hear my logic?”

“Oh sure. I’m here. Drinking suspiciously viscous wine with you.”

“Well, first off, the sim in question is kind of the sister to Bemberg. Together they hold about 80, maybe 90 percent of VHC City. The town’s kind of split between them. Brother and sister, maybe.”

“Ok, that’s understandable I suppose.”

He removed his hands from his neck and leaned forward. “Now here’s where it gets really clever. Take the last six letters of the actual name, rearrange them — not adding or subtracting any letters — and you, voila, get Sister. Go ahead and try it.”

Wheeler worked the problem out in her head; took her a moment. “Okay, that’s kind of cool, admittedly — starting to make more sense.”

“And there’s more. Has Chuckles told you about the Seven Sisters yet?” He nodded his head in the direction of the perpetually reeling fisherwoman outside.

“I don’t think so,” Wheeler said without turning around to look as well. “What are they?”

They’re pools in the sim I’m rather insisting we now call Sister. You have to go through the blue door. The Musician may have already found them. Anyway, you pass through that door and soon you are upon an inundating, grassy plain dotted with these small pools. Trouble is, there are only six pools out of seven present now. The seventh is gone. The seventh *sister* is missing. Where is it? is what I’m asking. What is it? Can you guess?”

Wheeler scrunched her mouth up, indicating she couldn’t.

“Black horse. Oh, drat, sorry again, black *hole*. I’ll quote to you from a famous music song directly related to all this. Let me make sure I have it right — wrote it down in preparation.” Pitch Darkly pulls out a piece of paper from his ragged black coat and reads:

In the constellation of Cygnus
There lurks a mysterious, invisible force
The Black Hole of Cygnus X-1
Six stars of the northern cross
In mourning for their sister’s loss
In a final flash of glory
Nevermore to grace the night

Pitch Darkly then stabs the paper on the table several times with his forefinger. “The Oracle indicated this.”

—–

Meanwhile, The Musician had moved through the pools called Seven Sisters and up a sewer ladder giving access to a green wall marking the southern line of the property formerly known as Pitch Black. “What was hidden by Harrison Head before is now exposed,” he said in a confident voice, looking at this similarly green picture at its east end and thinking back to the new collage called “The Point of It All” he had seen earlier in Bemberg’s Clown Central.

“The monster swallowing its own tail; perpetual. Cardboard Derek Jones was right all along (about Greenup).”

—–

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May 12, 2017 · 9:13 am

Central

Waking up in the morning on his old couch at the Ear Bar, The Musician wasn’t sure if the whole episode was real or mere vivid dream. But here ’tis.

—–

Baker Bloch and Hucka Doobie decided that The Musician should go look at the newest collage located in Clown Central. “The Point of It All.” Hucka escorted him there.

“Mish mash of stuff,” The Musician opined. “Like the ravings of Chef/Inspector Petty last night. I had to leave.”

“No. The picture tells a tale. Look. There is your inspector. What is he examining?”

“I don’t know,” said The Musician, following Hucka Doobie’s pointing hand. “A monster?”

“Yes, a crocodile or alligator. Petty wishes to know about monsters. But he must become *relaxed*. Not Petty, but Allen Martin.”

“I don’t want to talk about Allen Martin right now,” The Musician said firmly. “I’ve figured something out. I’m confused.”

“Allen Martin’s heart might give out. He must relax. How does he relax? Wheeler.”

“Yeah, see, that’s what I don’t want to talk about.”

“Okay,” relented Hucka Doobie. “How about up there above the inspector. Chuckles Greentop, no?”

“I don’t know. I saw her face transform into something like that. Then I saw it again in the basement of [delete name]. Now I’m looking at it again. Which I don’t want to.” He looks around. “Where are we?”

“The Point of It All,” Hucka Doobie answers. “Here lies seed information. Sometime between 2013 and present, this room formed; closed off from the rest of the underworld. Yes, like a seed planted. That is OD, of course, off the wall but then back on and then off again. OD is free. OD is *here*.”

“Ooo-kay,” The Musican mutters, tired of the puzzle-speak. “Let’s just move on from that since we’re going to play this game. Alright, I’ll give it a try. Beside that monster OD is the ‘Emerald Tablet.'”

“Very good,” encouraged Hucka Doobie. “And what does it represent? Harrison Head seems to want to say something.”

The Musician straightened his posture, eyes staring ahead instead of darting about. Sikul Himatk.

“We must enter the next sim. Through the blue door. Keys.”

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May 10, 2017 · 4:21 am

Simsity

In his new basement apartment, Baker Bloch had begun dreaming.

Outside, he followed a man looking exactly like The Musician into the Underworld but who instead claimed to be one Sikul Himatk. Sikul had been dead for many years, 100 to be exact. It was his centennial death day today. He wanted to uncelebrate by going back to the place where it happened, he told Baker Bloch.

“Don’t linger,” he implored as they came to a white door just down the steps and around a corner. “Lingering causes absorption. Stuff like that.” He indicated a painting to their right…

… which then moved swiftly down the wall and out of sight as attention was drawn to it.

Opening the door, Sikul took Baker’s hand and dragged him through to the other side. “Bemberg,” he said. “Different sim. You *don’t* go back through the blue door.”

The white door shut, the blue door opened.

Baker had seen enough. He woke up.

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May 8, 2017 · 8:00 am

Revelations

“Tell me more about this OD… oops, I think I’m making a full transition now.” Chef-inspector Petty was no longer Doogie Martin in any part.

Baker Bloch answered. “Like I said, we contacted him, it, through wegee. He, or she, or it, didn’t identify a sex, but it has male clothing on as it turns out.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Hucka Doobie and I. She’s a member of my avatar family. She’s versed in spiritual matters — why I got her involved.”

“Tell me more about this avatar family of yours. Any criminal records?” His pace was crisp.

“None that I know about. Spongeberg is a destroyer by trade. Does that count?”

Petty became cryptic. “Glad you brought him up. Spongeberg is not a member of your family. He is a member of *our* family.”

Baker Bloch scratched his head at this. “Well,” he began again, “we admittedly don’t know much about him. Are you saying, I don’t know, that he’s from *here*?”

“That is precisely what I’m saying. We also believe there is a link between Spongeberg and OD — know it, in fact. You’re aware of the former property called Pitch Black?”

“Somewhat,” answered Bloch.

“In November of 2016, the property was taken over by the town, with the oft deemed “noxious” or “poisonous” temple derezzed. The FTI gallery expanded into its former space. It was through this incorporation that the town split into two separate realities. Or, better, we became *aware* of this second town overlapping the first. It was always there. But the portal had been opened.” He turned around and looked directly at Baker Bloch. “In the *big* picture, the owner of the FTI is the same as Wheeler. Assimilate *that*.”

To Baker Bloch, Petty was spouting gibberish now. He didn’t think Spongeberg was from VHC City (but he did want to find out more of his background now). Wheeler as the FTI owner? That didn’t make any sense.

“And I’ll give you one more,” Petty continued. “See the innocent looking Musician sitting on the couch between us?”

“Who… me?” uttered The Musician, sitting up a bit and wiping his nose on his sleeve. He had half nodded off during the discussion.

“Yes, you,” Petty answers. “I don’t guess you remember anything at all about creating *VHC City itself?*”

Nope. No he did not.

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May 7, 2017 · 12:09 am

Merging tracks

“Ahhh! That face!!”

“We app-re-ci-ate your time in our fair ci-ty,” OD continued in its clipped manner, suddenly detached from the wall and looming larger. The wegee planchette had stopped spinning. “We have ass-im-il-at-ed the bird, zip, the man known as Mar-tin. Sanc-tu-ar-y is with-in reach. You can go ab-out, ping, a-bout your way. Thank you for vis-it-ing and come back again ver-y, zip, fair-ly soon.”

The Musician fled the scene, running upstairs. Wheeler stood her ground. She pulled out a large, futuristic gun from her coat. “Get back on the wall, buster. We’re not finished here.”

—–

Meanwhile… Allen Martin appeared to be dead at the very same spot Renaldo O’Donnell lay early.

But then he stood up. “Just a pose ball,” he muttered. “No murder atall. And my son… all that change and attached grief for nothing, it seems.”

He moves around the corner to the next area, being careful to head *away* from his apartment (unlike Wheeler earlier). A break room?

Maybe the stupid people responsible for this charade. The thought crossed his mind that VHC City is just a giant stage set for some kind of film being made. Horror story?

He then sees something more interesting appearing in the next area: a purple spheriod thingie. No: green; no: blue. He checks the description of the now golden object. Jeez God, he thinks, an “alien egg tree.” This *is* a horror story.

He walks between pipe and chair to take a closer look.

Nothing else really that odd about it except the name. And a dead end in this direction. He’d have to retrace his steps.

But then, a monster bursts forth through the wall in front of him, turns around, then leaves through same. A giant crocodile, it appears!

He may have to go back to the apartment to get his heart medicine before advancing further.

—–

Allen Martin then heard a female voice call his name from the direction of the “break room.” Wheeler.

They met in front of this gate on the far side of the room, the Fate Gate they would later call it. From this point on they would move forward together. Holding hands again, they passed through.

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May 6, 2017 · 3:25 pm

Game on.

Allen Martin had started on his 4th glass of Pinot Noir, by Wheeler’s counting. It was time to lay the cards on the table.

“We know about the underground, Allen.”

“Ooh,” he says, retracting from his wine glass as if he’s suddenly seen a gnat floating in it.

“We know about the murder.” The gnat had turned into a fly. “We know about your *son*.” The fly had phoned up his friends centipede and cockroach to join him for a dip. Martin was sitting back, eyes riveted to Wheeler’s. The 4th glass would not be drunk tonight.

“Do tell!” he said icily.

—–

Meanwhile, The Musician had gotten lost in the labyrinthian streets of VHC City looking for a store selling guitar strings. Surely with all the concerts this place puts on there’s a music shop around here somewhere, he rationalized. He then wandered back into his safe plaza by accident, let’s say. He knew no such shop existed in the immediate area. Yet he couldn’t resist. The Dr. Who pinball machine beckoned.

Two hours later, he sat exhausted on the bar’s couch, seeming to stare out at the red doors while actually thinking about all the moves he could have made to transform from Doctor Who #4 (Tom Baker) to Doctor Who #5 (Peter Davison). He could have hit the target bank more before the time ran out, charging up the Transmat. On and on the deliberations went.

While his head was spinning with dreams of pinball wizardry, Wheeler and Allen Martin walked by the bar heading north, unaware of his presence.

He waited about a half minute, then peeked out the door of the bar in that direction. They were going into [delete name]. Now he’d been in that building a number of times, but only on the ground floor, playing with the computer console there. He’d found valuable information about Muff-Bermingham though the free interwebs feed shortly after their arrival in town, indicating the planet had influence in this particular area. Surprising!

The Musician crossed the plaza, hiding behind a stair post.

No indication they were on the first floor, nor used the stairs to access the 2 upper floors. They couldn’t simply disappear into thin air. Could they? The Musician counted 10 Mississippis and moved forward again. At the center of the ground floor he turned and first thought of the oddity about the Sipvicious advertisement on the floor.

Uberpunk Sid Vicious had famously stayed in the town’s huge hotel. His girlfriend had died there. Yet this ad didn’t seem to have anything to do with the proximity of the hotel. One more mystery to mark down in an ever growing leger of wierdness.

He heard voices: Allen’s and Wheeler’s, seeming to issue up from below. He walked toward the stairs, noticing that they led downward as well as upward. A hitherto unknown about basement, hmm. “A giant ant?”

But that was just the first and mildest surprise.

“He said he had to see for himself,” Wheeler spoke upon noticing The Musician approach with dropped mouth. “And… I suppose we need to catch up. OD, meet The Musician. Musician, well, this is OD.”

“Wel-come,” it said.

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May 6, 2017 · 12:16 am

VCHsity

Allen Martin was almost at the point where he turned right to get to his upstairs apartment when he spotted them on the bench ahead. Always curious about visitors to his adopted town, he checked their profiles. Wheeler Wilson and Musician Resident: somehow familiar. Checking further, he also sees groups they are members of that he knows about — Blue Feather Gallery in particular. Although it’s not his typical policy, he decides to introduce himself.

He walks down the steep set of stairs to the road and saunters up. True to his name, Musician Resident (The Musician) was producing music, namely playing what might be a Bob Dylan song to Allen Martin’s admittedly rather untrained ears. He sits down on the curb next to him and listens in, like the other avatar on the bench — this Wheeler Wilson — seems to be doing as well.

The old man starts grooving to the lyrics.

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
There’s room at the top they’re telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
If you want to be a hero well just follow me

Allen Martin dares to applaud at the end. Wilson Wheeler emits a few claps of her own. “That was marvelous,” the old man offered. “Is that a Dylan?”

“Yeah,” replies The Musician acidly. “Thomas. Dylan Thomas. He stayed in that very hotel down this street; wrote some of the best folk lyrics ever penned. Dylan Thomas was the man in his day. Even moreso than Thomas Mann.”

“Oh stop it,” urges Wheeler, hitting him on the shoulder with her hand. “The guy’s just trying to be friendly.” She speaks to the stranger. “That was a Lennon song, um, Martin I see. Allen Martin — interesting name. Seems familiar.”

“I was just thinking the same about your name. We seem to have some groups in common. Blue Feather Gallery in particular. You guys aren’t from Collagesity by chance are you?”

Wheeler doesn’t answer immediately, perhaps disappointed that Allen Martin hadn’t recognize her. “You could say that,” she finally managed.

“Which part? I was from the North. Until the land was sold. Had to pull up stakes again. I’ve stopped here in my travels several times.” He wipes his brow with his hand. “Let’s see I suppose this is about my 5th layover in VHC City. Not Town, mind you. That’s how you spot strangers. That all came from an error in a promotional pamplet about 7 years back. Yes, the printer is dead now. Unusual circumstances. Some say he still haunts the berg, whispering lies into impressionable ears and brains. But I wander…”

“Yes,” The Musician says plainly. He turns to Wheeler. “We should probably go.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Wheeler says. “You use to run the gas station up on Robin Lane. I remember you now. You had a dog.”

“Well, I have a *son* named Doogie. Close to doggie. But less obedient.” He smiles.

“No, I distinctly remember a pet.”

“Oh, you mean *Aspinwall.* Still got the little feller. And I still run a gas station, just here in VHC City. For now.” He looks at their rumpled, rather dirty clothing. “You sure you guys are doing okay here? Do you need some help? Us Collagesity alums should stick together.” He’s guessed their situation.

“We’re fine,” The Musician snaps back.

“What are you offering?” Wheeler follows immediately afterwards. She knew they couldn’t stay here much longer without help. The vampires were moving in.


Vampire moving in.

“Well, if you’re talking about living arrangements, I have not one but three apartments rented in town right now. You could crash in the lower one for a while if you need. I rented three so I would have lots of prims to work with at the station. Seems like every time Doogie walks onto the premises, there goes 7 prims right there.”

“I don’t get it,” The Musician says to him, and turns to Wheeler and states the same.

“He’s got a son who’s composed of 7 prims,” explains Wheeler. “Obvious. Okay, we’ll take a look. Thanks very much!” Wheeler runs up and kisses him on the cheek. “And just so you know,” she then whispers in his ear, “I use to *own* Collagesity. Keep that in mind when dealing with me. I’m a controller.” She takes his hand. “Now let’s look at that apartment.”

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