Tag Archives: WHITE STICK
00510113 (reach)
“I’m scrapping the whole idea!” raged Biff Carter one night after a particularly bad rehearsal for the band. “I’m going to call us — heck — *Runnynose*. Because that’s what we are. A constant drip drip drip of annoyance threatening to dribble down my cheeks if I don’t stop it, PHEH. Where’s my hanky? I want to blow it all away!” He rubs his hand across his face and then picks up the loaded gun on the table beside him but then puts it back. No need to go down that road, he, thankfully, quickly realized. No more mowing down needed. Let tall grass stand. Weedy. Jennifer not Jenny. She lives! At least in his mind, in his dreams. He can also live with that for a while.
“Here,” consoling Shelley said from the side, replacing him in that role. “Take a hit from my white ass stick instead to cool you down.” And she leans over and kisses his cheek while handing it to him, a promise of things to come. At least for Biff. TBC
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0051, 0113, Jeogeot, Omega, Rodentia 02, The Cross
00500214 (Father Fecked’s is just candy)
—–
“It really is wonderful, Baker B. Can I call you Baker? Sir?”
“Sure. *Daniel* (smile). But what do you think of (the) Bill Hicks (stuff)?”
“Nice.” Then Daniel said what was on his mind since about 1/2way through the sync called “Father Fred.” “Soo, all this castle we’re sitting in now, this Howl’s Moving Castle, is about teaching your 4 old library friends a lesson?”
“Noo,” Baker began his defense. “It’s about *communication*. Stuff we couldn’t have in real life. A *nexus*.”
“Nexus, eh?”
“Nexus,” Baker reinforced. Had to watch his temper. What was so hard to understand about all this? he thought. Frank’s Moving Castle equals Howl’s Moving Castle equals “Frank’s Moving Mtn.” when combined with Zappa’s “Billy the Mountain” rock opera. Simple as pie.
“Soo…” Daniel rubs his forehead. It had been a long day. First working in the morning, then this at noon, then back to work at the studio in the afternoon. Baker was lonely, he gathered, had no one else to watch this stuff with, except the wife and their mutual best friend Kammie, he said. Thus me — here. And the whole Zappa thing. And now: Bill Hicks. The endpoint. It was brilliant, he knew. But he couldn’t say this directly to the man pacing back and forth in front of him. Had to put on a *front*. “I think I like ‘Peewee Big’ better. You *did* ask me to be candid with you,” he said, gauging the expression forming on Baker’s always sensitive face. But all that registered was acceptance.
“Of course. ‘Peewee Big’ is the peak of it all — in a way. But each one is very different, each has its own merits, its own place in the spectrum that is the process.” Baker had to curb his tongue here. He could speak for days about this. He couldn’t place himself in Daniel’s shoes, understand that he too was trying to develop his own creativity. He was 20 years younger than Baker, though. Hadn’t had time to refine the process like his friend, his co-worker had. He was being overshadowed. And the crack about his writing the other week (!). Still pisses him off when he thinks about it. Yeah, *I’m* a creator too, just like you Baker, he’s said to himself numerous times since then. And I can do several things as well. Writing… art. Just like *you*.
“Great. We agree.” Daniel looks around the castle’s living room. Father Fecked was here too, just like in the sync. Amazing.
“Well, I guess I better get back to Cedar Creek. Got a sculpture to finish this afternoon.” But, typical, Baker didn’t ask about any details on *that*. Hmph. Ego. Can’t see beyond his own nose, Daniel thought here. I’ll be glad to blow this place. And he can’t smoke here either, another disadvantage. Too much wood in the structure to take a chance, Baker explained to him when he asked. Must… have… cigarette, PHEH.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0050, 0214, Carrcass+02, Frank's Moving Castle, Jeogeot, Nawt Vaya+, NVFS
00500211 (female, waiting (bunny 02?))
“XXX Dream; It’s real!” she said as he approached from the south, having checked out a bit of the new green grasslands before moving north into settled country. Right on the line he is up above. (Visiting in the) daytime of course. Biff Carter dare not come here during the night; had to remain a tether to reality for Shelley and the others under his new management. He’s *not* going back to that dirty, dingy, dinky claustrophobic restaurant on the edge of his village. Simply no to all that, he solidifies. “Just like in Concrete, Washington,” she continued, thinking of bigfoot there, the Man in Brown, so on. People didn’t want to see but still: there he is. The last thing shot before the quintessential Google Street View car found its final resting spot atop the Eiffel Tower, one of the most recognizable landmarks on Planet Earth. Until now. He was upon her, took in her Pink again. “Check out the parcel description if you don’t believe me.” She held out her white stick cigarette. “Hit?”
“No thanks I’m trying to cut back. And: I believe you about the parcel.” Yeah, he’d checked just in case while walking up. Like I said, he had everything to lose. Had to make sure *Shelley* wasn’t dreaming. XXX it was. But he didn’t tell her this, wanted to at least exude pretend confidence in her judgement, her grasp on truths.
“Soo… have you made a decision?”
“I have. Silver. No Mosquitoes.”
“Seven, then.”
“Yeaahh. Seven.” She reflexively looked down at the pinkness all about her body. Including the part alien skin, she knew. Thanks Baker Blinker!
Biff understood this was dangerous territory and that 7 could still overtake 9 since 9 could not probably move into 10 any more, safety zone on the other side of likewise static zero. But — the exuding.
“Ready for this, then?” X in triplicate form again. She hadn’t tried this out yet. Scared she was. And him through her. No restaurant no restaurant no restaurant. This experiment better *pan* out, else back to the pots and. He made sure they were on the same page of the script down here before heading upwards. Double check, *triple* check.
It worked! Biff remained manager of music not food. He knew this triplet form of Pink would *sell*. TBC
Cloz again
“Is that white stick mellowing you out a bit?”
“A bit,” Shelley admitted, but still so anxious. Big wedding coming up. And she’d just escaped being blown to pieces over in the Moray Docks Town! If it wasn’t for George and Debbie over there being so booring…
“Good, good,” returned Wheeler, taking a toke of her own. “You know (pause) he thinks you’re me. Deep down, I mean. Remove the goofy hair –”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. You know what I mean. You need to grow up more yourself to match Liz’s advancing age. She’s 17 the last time I checked, almost legal to be married herself. You’re, what, 23?” Wheeler looked over on the brown couch they both sat upon. The umbrella eyes would come soon. Then she’d be out of her control, automatically know more than herself. To impart wisdom before it happened was important, the locking in. Shelley *was* her. But she didn’t need to know that yet.
“How’s Newt holding up?” Shelley decides to ask. “I heard — he’s also trying to change The Musician to meet the times, get rid of his punk look and all.” Did Shelley approve? She didn’t know yet. That would also come with the locking in.
“Newt’s fine. Listen, daughter of mine, daughter I didn’t know I actually had until that last photo-novel.”
“33 isn’t it?”
“34.”
“Jeez.” Shelley takes another toke, considers the length of the process. Her own story is quite complicated and that’s only one of a multitude, heck, one of a multitude involving Wheeler alone (!).
“Anyway, we need to review. Just like Newt did for The Musician.”
“Crap.” Shelley extinguishes the last of her white stick, preparing to get serious.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0035, 0204, Nautilus, NORTH
Hy-Vee
The wind blows hard as we enter the village.
Well pump replaces rocket ship on the next encountered welcoming sign. The pump is a rocket?
Ah ha. Well pump standing by itself in an otherwise vacant lot more on the edge of the tiny hamlet. Launching pad?
And then another one in the exact center, blue instead of white.
Visiting Roger Pine Ridge (as it turns out) waits on a bench at the store he saw pictured on that rock, the one that absorbed Marty. Maybe Marty is here, he reasons. Might make sense. He’ll give it a couple more minutes or hours or days at least. Years.
The flapping continues. Roger is unable to light one of his personally rolled white sticks because of it. Sparks too dangerous in a spot so wooden and full of history.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0033, 0311, Google Street View, Iowa
102
After “Mr. Body and Man” closed on Tuesday, the theatre’s marquee was changed, heightening debate about the monument becoming the priority for the town, this Mountain in the Air. Because a new option had been added to the first two: Cyclone Stone, spelled wrongly in the marquee due to, at least in part, the hastiness of the switch. Bradley Pitt said: get it out there asap, let the town decide, not 2 wankers playing chesskers in a cornfield. He closed shop for the night and left his assistant Stu to remove the old letters and put up the new, working overtime again but of course not getting due pay for it. Bradley would pay for his stinginess. Stu did this on *purpose*, he realized in the morning, still holding his resignation letter in his non-fist pumping hand before it. And he *knows* I have arthritis and can’t do the job myself. Bradley decides then and there that Stu would never hold a proper job again in town, and would have to move elsewhere. In truth he’d already packed his bags and was heading through Diagonal as Pitt thought this, soon to pass the northwest corner of the county. So many lost down through the years now. The glory days were, I guess, around a Century ago by now. Which makes the monument, the rock *or* stone, even more important, a new *beacon* of hope for the seat and the county as a whole.
Which brings us to Roger Pine Ridge again, still waiting under the Rock or Stone (You Choose), still hoping. “Marty. Where *are* you,” he mutters between white stick tokes, watching a beat up old Chevy move away to the northwest beyond the square.
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0031, 0511, Google Street View, Iowa
dwarf crushing
“Red green blue, man. Red green blue.” Bob tripping the white stick fantastic.
“But where’s yellow?” added Dole, and then looks around as if it would materialize in the air as well as on his jacket. He spots the concrete parking divider right in front of his face and realizes what it is. “Whoa, dude,” he exclaims, trying not to look directly into its “eye”. “Check it out.”
“Radical,” Bob said more low, exhaling pungent smoke into the air. He looked even further away. He knew it was there all along. Alll along.
“Straightened and everything!” Dole exclaimed, and started shuffling his feet a bit in the excitement. “Like a… huh, banana or something. Frozen banana, wow.” Still averting the eye. Peeling away from it, even.
“Exactly, man. Exactly.” Bob bogarted the last drag off the white stick. “You got it, man. You’re so (*exhale*) right on.” Stick fragment to the ground, then…
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0030, 0517, Paper Soap+, Soap
evening out 02
“Smoke?” he asked while peering through the window in the door in the Wall at himself. Marty declined, saying he’ll have a fag later.
“Strange expression over here,” Roger Pine Ridge responded to this. “Means something else in these States of Their US of America.”
“Give me Kentucky and Tennessee and throw away all the rest,” Marty joked, again weakly. If only he would do this kind of thing weekly instead of daily, hourly even. He checks the minutes of their last meeting last month. Then wife Linda had penned it down to the seconds. 17:11: talk about America; 17:32: switch to Marty weakly joking about a trip to Armenia which no one understands, no one laughs at, except Marty but only weakly as was appropriate; 17:51: rest hand because of cramp.
“I’m glad you decided to be my friend,” Roger exclaims, smoke bellowing from his mouth like a small train. “Makes it easier to meet. I send you an invite; you accept. Remember, heh, the last time? Remember how much money you wasted taking that plane to Borneo?”
“It wasn’t Borneo,” replied Marty, cooled off now. “But, yeah, I get the point. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before. It’s just the whole…”
“Brain damage thing?” Roger guessed, thinking about the other Roger, the one Marty might or might not have himself invented/created and then forgot about, like a demented God.
—–
17 minutes and 11 seconds later, they drew even on a particular topic of some interest to them, perhaps to others as well. Now that the moon has been successfully swallowed by the sun again. It blared brightly in the sky like a loco bugle, sending not smoke up, although it was burning too, but rays. Rays of warmth. Roger Pine Ridge felt his lips getting hot. He had burned his special cigarette to a nub and forgot to uninsert.
(to be continued)
Filed under **VIRTUAL SL, 0026, 0311, Jeogeot, Kentucky, NWES Island, Tennessee
Blackspots
—–
They talked far into the night. No mention of Bauer again, as stated. About 10 Roger Pine Ridge showed up as well. He kept glancing over at his old flame Cyberpaperdoll (who arrived about 7:30) but saying nothing.
11:15. His last Chesterfield was now half smoked. Perhaps time to pull out one of his special cigarettes; start seeing things in the middle of the night again. Sea monsters this time, perhaps. The white stick light tells truths to be beholding to. Behold… beholding. Beh.
“Beh,” he uttered over to Cyberpaperdoll. “Beeeeeehhhhh.”
—–
“I’ll defend you Dollie.”
“What are we looking at?” she queried Randy Big Cat in her meek voice. So feminine and thin.
“Pirates of course! *Other* pirates.”
“Of course.” But it didn’t look like any pirate she’d beheld.
—–
She kept tripping the light fantastic. White stick light. Giant bunnies were good and cool. She wanted more. But Ruby’s Democratic Empire sim remained empty. It was only a stage, a set, good to go for Collagesity novel 10 but then discarded and emptied just after. *Had* to be a set. And now connected with beh. All sims starting with beh, especially their center (128/128). Try it for yourself. You’ll see.
Dollie in the dollhouse doghouse again, snooping around.
—–
She pretended this improptu gathering of cubes also in central Behemoth was a meeting of the selves again. “You,” she barked as much as possible with her unbarky voice. “Over there. The black, silent one. Time to *speak*.”
——
Eventually she fell asleep on its southern side after taking yet another form. Smoking.
Sunklands 