Hucka Doobie threw Baker Blinker a party at Perch in celebration of her recent land sale, a 3856 parcel in the northeast part of Minoa. Now I feel Collagesity is how it should be size-wise, with Blinks’ land costs reduced down to the next tier. I anticipate no more additions or subtractions to the town. It’s great as is.
Afterwards, Baker Blinker decided to go over and talk to new Collagesity renter Allen Martin to see how the move went. You see, Martin had *just* set up his gas station and backing house on the 3856 when the sale went through. The Bakers kindly offered to immediately move the still empty World of Collage building next door to make room there for his structures. Baker Blinker met Martin’s son Doogie in the garage. She was surprised to see Baker Bloch’s Spookmobile being worked on within.
“Hi, I’m Baker Blinker.”
“Nice to meet you,” Doogie said. “Are you here for the car? Because we need to talk about some costs.”
“No, that’s Baker Bloch’s car. The other Baker. You know who I am, don’t you?”
“You’re the owner.”
“Of the land, not the car. That’s the other Baker. But I thought he took it on his trip with him, hmm.” She scans the car, verifying as far as she could ascertain that this is indeed Baker’s Spookmobile. “He owns the middle and south parts of the town,” she continues. “I own this part, the northern part. But not the car, see. That’s still Baker Bloch’s.”
“Well, I still need to talk to someone about this car,” Doogie said, thinking that this dame sure is chatty.
“Your father around, um… what’s your name again?” Baker Blinker felt it somewhat rude that he didn’t introduce himself properly but just kept going on about that car. That blame car.
“Douglas. But call me Doogie. Like Doogie Houser the tv star.”
“Well, nice to meet you again Doogie.”
“Likewise. So about the car…” Doogie, a born mechanic, couldn’t help himself. He goes on to explain that the whole exhaust system needs to be replaced. He said that it looked like the car had been sitting on the bottom of some ocean for years, a joke that hit the target dead center.
Allen Martin then walked up from behind Baker Blinker. She caught him winking at his son. “So, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here at this old, dingy garage.”
“I’m Baker Blinker,” she explained again. “The owner… of the land, not the car. We spoke on the phone last night. We moved a whole building next to yours this morning.”
“Oh, right right,” he said. “The *boss*. Well, I do appreciate it, I really do. We — Doogie and I — have been moving around quite a lot lately. It would be nice to settle down somewhere on the mainland and establish a clientele. Last place was up in Bennington. Let’s see, it was last Tuesday — right Doogie? — when the gangsters came and shot all the windows out. And then there were the fires, the floods, the tornados. No, Bennington was not a place to set up shop. A wild wild town. So we’re glad we’re here. Aren’t we Doogie?”
“I suppose so father.” He was still looking over the car. “And the headlights don’t work. Horn neither. Spark plugs and wires need replacing. Distributor obviously. You can’t put this car back on the highway without a lot of repairs.”
Allen Martin approaches the back of the car and bends down. “I thought I saw something wiggling around in that tailpipe, hmm.” Inspecting it and seeing nothing now, he rubs his peepers with his fingers. “Ehh, it’s been a long day. Just a trick of the eyes, I’m sure.”
It wasn’t. The banded grey sea serpent waited until nightfall to crawl out of the rusting exhaust system where he’d been living for years and make his introductions. Allen Martin was still sitting at his desk on the top floor of that backing building, where, about a half hour before, he enjoyed a beautiful sunset over Robin Lane while thinking to himself that this is a place he could maybe stay a spell.
Allen Martin was asleep, feet on desk, by the time his son Doogie yelped upon finding the serpent on the floor next to him while underneath the tv, trying to jerry-rig a free cable connection.
“Nothing but static, phew hew!” slurped the snake loudly. “I’m Aspinwall by the way, like an asp in a wall. And I’m about to have babies!”
“Let’s see what this so called ‘secret society’ is all about, you Joker,” he says. Wilson goes into the VWX fairy house.
“I thought this is where he said the hole was, son.” Allen Martin pivots around, looking. “Where’d Aspy go?”
“Dunno pops,” answered Doogie, who continued staring at something in the distance.
“There he is. Where’s he heading *now*?”
Doogie does a 180. “Looks like he’s going down the hill on the other side of this house or whatever it is… shed.”
“Well keep up with him,” his father implored. “You know my legs aren’t what they use to be.” Allen Martin struggles to get to his feet. His son doesn’t move to help him, instead following the snake.
“Hmm,” Doogie says. “Now he’s on some kind of green table. “Looks like he’s waiting on us maybe.” Allen Martin hobbles up to his son.
“Great. Another hill.” the older Martin complains. “Help me out a little this time, Doogie. Will ya?”
“Sure, okay,” the son says lacadaisically.
10 minutes later they were at the bottom, staring at the picture. On the white pillar now, Aspinwall kept knocking his snake head against it in emphasis.
“Hey pops,” Doogie finally says. “Doesn’t that kind of look like the picture of your old college down on the bottom floor of our house now.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” the older man replies. “I was on the wrong wall.”
“Ahhh. You found the wormhole. Good work Aspinwall. Now come on out and rest.”
One day later…
“You see, Allen Martin. The hole grows larger and your Aspy grows smaller. Soon she will be a mere baby. It’s an exchange of energy. Once fully opened it will consume that world and we will be able to see what’s on the other side. Aspinwall will have her children.”
The elder Martin pries his eyes away from the spinning vortex long enough to glance over at Urch again. “I still can’t believe you’re Jack Lemon’s granddaughter. You could be him as a kid. I’ve seen pictures.” He tested the urchin child again. “And you say you grew up in Bennington?”
“Farmington,” Urch corrected.
“And your father was Patmos Jim?”
“John,” returned Urch. “But back to the hole, you can see it’s positioned at the end of that row of 6 different wall pieces. Those are the masters. The hole acts like a punctuation mark. The sentence is forming. When we know what it says, that will be the end. World gone. It’s a cypher world. It’s only purpose. It’s like a lid into another dimension. A lid placed there so you wouldn’t just stumble upon it and fall in.”
“What’s beyond?” Allen Martin asked Urch, face closer to the picture now. “Any speculations?”
“Well, we have a giant wall just over there.” Urch points northward. “An asp whose gaping mouth seems to want to consume Collagesity as a whole, starting with the TILE temple. The first three sims the wall passes through north to south are Athetis, Spini, and Pyri. ASP. It’s abundantly obvious that Aspinwall here is suppose to be associated with that wall. ASP in Wall.”
“Yeah, I get it,” says Allen Martin. “Hey, wasn’t your mother a Tiler, Urch? Uma, wasn’t it?”
“Ursula,” she corrects again, shifting her weight to the right. “A reformed Tiler, yes. She accepts the existence of religions based on numbers other than four. Like your Christianity and its trinity. Like the Martian Pentagostals… so forth.”
“And what about you, sprout?” furthers Allen Martin. “Do you follow in the sanctified footsteps of your mother or the dusty hoofprints of your father? Which way do *you* spin?”
“Perhaps I will only find that out when the hole is opened. Shouldn’t be long. See? Aspinwall is growing a little shorter by the minute. I’d say another day at the most.
All look down at the withering serpent. The bird on the plate seems to eye it almost hungrily.
The expanding hole had consumed the cypher world which acted as a protecting lid. Gate wide open now for Urch. Allen Martin and son Doogie had returned to their crooked blue home to sleep for a couple of hours. Aspinwall had become so small she could fit into a matchbox. The Martins took her back with them.
“A sideways hole, eh?” proclaimed Urch the orphan child, perched above. “No problem for me, however — time to see which way I truly spin!
She walked through the hole.
The Great Wall didn’t turn into a giant ASP and consume the TILE Temple! Urch had spun the right way.
The right way.
“It’s time we do something with this TILE Temple,” states Baker Blinker to the always awake Carrcassonnee.
2 minutes and 43 second later: “Yes.”
“How come you never removed the collages from SoSo South?” asks Hucka Doobie about 15 minutes into their rendezvous later in the evening. “I thought they were causing too much lag.”
Baker Blinker came up with an excuse. “I think the appearance of Jerome T. Newton changed all that. Him and Keat Owens.” She peered through the opening to her right. “Speaking of whom, where is he with our clean cups he promised. Coffee’s getting cold.”
“And Steve over there” begins Hucka Doobie again, looking north now. “He’s only a dream being. But we’re not asleep. So that’s a continuity error.”
Baker Blinker blows out air. “I can’t do *everything* in this town. I don’t have enough power. I can control Collagesity North well enough but not here.
Hucka Doobie and Baker Blinker become silent for a moment. Both think of Baker Bloch and Old Mabel on New Island along with Wheeler and Karoz. Baker Bloch is the custodian for this part of town, the main part. He’s the one who cleans up all the creative clutter here from the night before. Like Steve.
But suddenly, Steve the giant red robot wasn’t holding the sideways and backwards ballerina any longer. Urch had reappeared!
The robot went away. The ballerina returned to her rightful position on the ground directly below.
Things were moving forward again…
Baker Bloch walks back into his Collagesity from the front gate of Old Mabel’s Clarity home (new name!) and pauses to admire its complex collage of structures.
Ballerina returned to her rightful place beside Boos, check.
A new being in town. “Welcome stranger.” No answer.
Marv Taylorson never opened that garage of his here, thought Baker Bloch while passing. But Allen Martin’s got a much better setup over in Collagesity North now. He reminds himself that he’ll have to pick up the Spookmobile tomorrow. 5000 lindens for repairs! Well, that blows most of the money Baker Blinker made on the recent land sale over there, pheh.
Into the private Blue Feather he goes to catch up with the town’s core constituents, meaning Baker Blinker, Hucka Doobie, and himself essentially. And also share news about Wheeler and Karoz Blogger over there on New Island. Karoz is returning for real this time! But alas — no, he shouldn’t think that. But Wheeler is coming back as well. The “Bill”, ugh.
“Thanks for sitting down here for a change,” said Baker after they had arranged themselves around a table on the bottom floor of the Blue Feather. “I’ll take one of the seats looking away from the forest since you two were so agreeable. But isn’t it beautiful?” He glances at the forest over his shoulder before unrendering the trees and grass to decrease lag. “I missed it, even in the short time I was away.”
“So explain, Baker Bloch,” opens Hucka Doobie. “You said you had something to tell us about Old Mabel.”
“First off,” says the male Baker, “we need to discuss a little bit about *time*. Remember the last Table meeting?”
“Sure,” states Hucka Doobie. “You were there.”
“No, I really wasn’t. That was Wilson. Old Mabel picked up on it. But here’s the thing — it doesn’t matter any longer who is who with what avatar. Not overall. I’ll show you.”
Baker Bloch turns into Old Mabel before Baker Blinker and Hucka Doobie’s very eyes, shocking them.
“How?” is all Hucka Doobie could manage with dropped jaw.
“Well… Baker Blinker, check your outfits. You can do it too now. You see, our user had to first give me the power to also become Old Mabel because I had all the stuff. In any one *scene*, let’s say, it’s easier if one of the characters is me. Even if it isn’t me per se. So sometimes when I play Old Mabel, and I’ve been doing it frequently lately, then Wheeler becomes not *Wilson* but Baker Bloch — sometimes — to back me up. Of course Wheeler could also have the power to become Old Mabel. But we don’t like doing that to her.”
“Why not?” asks Hucka Doobie. She checked his outfits as well — no Old Mabel so far. Just her present form and the old bee outfit, her original Second Lyfe avatar.
“I can answer that question,” Hucka,” speaks up Baker Blinker. “It’s because Wheeler is different from everyone else here in town. I *use* to be her. We’re — what would you call it Baker Bloch? Complex.”
“It’s a definition we need to start thinking about, yes,” agrees Baker Bloch. “We’ve *all* changed a little. I’ve dropped the (Spaced Ghost) mask. Hucka Doobie, you’ve moved away from your Bee purity. But nothing like Baker Blinker has been through. And now: Wheeler. So we don’t like to tinker with what Wheeler is. That’s why she’s The Bill. That’s why she technically still runs the town. Baker Blinker knows all about this.”
“My time in the complex world is over. I’ve returned to basics, the simple. I’ve returned to what you guys are. I’ve had my walk on the dark side. I’ve stared through eyes of darkness. I passed that onto Wheeler, however, and I’m glad of it. I feel free.”
“You see, Hucka Doobie,” Baker Bloch says. “Baker Blinker needed to talk about this. Go ahead, Other Baker. You have the power now. Change into Old Mabel as well. The world won’t end because there’ll be two of her. Go ahead and show Hucka Doobie our user power.”
Baker Blinker decided on a different tactic, just to fool around with Baker Bloch.
“Oh right,” he says. “I forgot about 3d Karl. You’ve been through this. And that was during the days of your dark passage. Very brave of you. Very brave indeed.”
“Let’s see if I can smile,” Baker Blinker says. She tries and fails. “Nope. It’s an old avatar, no longer available on the Second Lyfe marketplace. And the avatar is non-transferrable. So I’m essentially — most likely — the last Karl of my kind.”
“I had no idea about all this,” proclaims Hucka Doobie. “No idea atall. You’ll have to make a diagram to help me understand. You see, I’m still just a simple bee underneath at all. And I’m not inworld much. But I *do* remember one time I was here.” Hucka Doobie’s eyes slant knowingly behind her sunglasses. “See, I understand stuff you guys don’t. Baker Bloch, if you would insert a photo in your blog later on and I’ll tell the story now. The story of how I became One Pink.
3 to 2 to 1?
Baker Blinker and Baker Bloch were alone now, sitting one table down in the Blue Feather. After her spiel, Hucka Doobie muttered something about heading over to Yeodeol to check on that letter making workshop she first visited almost 7 years ago. By inference, much was learned through the bee being’s One Pink story concerning Mid Hazel’s much more recently affected curse at New Island, and why the Spookmobile is both back in Collagesity and over there still at once. Dimensions remain split. The Bakers’ had a trick up their collective sleeve, however.
Urch finally woke up after what seemed like weeks of dreaming. But it still took her almost an hour to physically move away from the bed. Everyone else had already gone.
She took advantage of the solitude; kept thinking and reviewing the series of dreams in her head…
Finally she realized she was hungry. Everyone else was probably already at the mission beside Fal Mouth Moon receiving breakfast. But she still dawdled.
One floor up, she met Jim Jackson Jones Johnson also hanging behind the others. They sat down on the couch which doubled as his bed. He complained about the poor condition of his back for half an hour. Urch moved on…
… to the third floor. Old Turchin McGurchin still hadn’t woke up. Urch decided he needed to be roused. Sometimes when they sleep this late they’re actually dead. Urch was greatly relieved to see the old man stir after being yelped at.
“God?” he began. He looked up from the bed at Urch, eyes focusing. “Oh… it’s only you Urch. Breakfast time?”
“Sure,” said Urch. “Wanna walk over there with me? I’ve got some more dreams for you to analyze.” Turchin McGurchin was probably Urch’s best friend at the hobo squat ruin they called home, a kind of, um, poor man’s father figure.
“First I have something to show to you,” Turchin replied. “Top floor,” he commanded.
“Newcomers, Urch. Call themselves The Martins. Like the bird.”
Urch kept looking at the Spookmobile still parked on the lift inside the garage. It seemed familiar.
“I believe I might have dreamed about them last night,” she says to Turchin McGurchin. “I believe they have… a pet. Not a bird but a snake.” She was suddenly remembering more. “A bigger snake that turned into a smaller snake. Shrunk down.” She moved her hands apart and then slid them together as an emphasizing gesture. Urch then realized or remembered that *she* was such a shrunk down being. She was John Jack Lemon, old man and child at once. She sat still for several minutes.
“You okay, Urch?”
She roused herself, then got up from the ledge. “Sure, Turch. Let’s go get that breakfast. Lemme help you up.”
“Great,” whispers Urch to Turch. “We have to sit next to Smelly Santy; got here too late.”
Luckily Turchin McGurchin was perhaps the only person in the hobo camp who even compared in odor to “SS”, as everyone called him, and correspondingly minded less than anyone else about sitting within his circle of stench. Barely hesitating, he plopped his old bones next to him and offered salutations. Urch took a deep breath and then took the seat opposite Turch.
At the other table of the mission sat Jim Jackson Jones Johnson directly behind Urch, who we’ve met, then beside him the old man who likes to read books over at Furry Karl’s Joker’s Wild bar, then catty-corner to him another shabbily dressed man reading a book who looks suspiciously like the Librarian in a new guise, and lastly Tronesisia, the pleasure bot of the camp, although no one acknowledges her by that title. Currently she’s playing around with a giant 3×3 rubic’s cube, and having no difficulty getting each of its sides to turn a solid color again and again after a reset, the object of the game. She’s very fit in both mind and body, as the camp found out 2 years back when she first showed up as another one of those exiles from cursed Bennington.
There was a polite period of waiting before Turch moved to the food buffet on the opposite wall. Everyone else had done eating, with paper plates and utensils already disposed of. Despite the stomach rumblings, Urch decided to beg off food this morning, saying she had a lot on her mind and didn’t want to weigh her body down. “Oh?” said the stinky but kind Santa being at her table, trying to help. “Did your brain eat something disagreeable in the last several days? That could do it.”
“I don’t think that’s quite it,” offered Urch, familiar with SS’s strange words.
“Then perhaps a parrot brought the disease in from a foreign tropical country, perhaps that one with the long coastline. Seas breed disease. That’s why the one word is nested in the other.”
“Could be,” Urch said, trying to agree with Smelly Santy so the conversation will end in this direction. “How’s Farmington doing? she then asked. “I heard you went back there for a couple of days.”
“Nice in late autumn when the leaves are dive bombing off the trees and creating bloody colors on the ground. But this is early spring apparently.”
“Then how was it?” asks Urch again. She was use to this drill about having to ask the same question to Smelly several times to get a type of proper answer.
“The sand blurred the dimensions between people into fuzzy cantaloupes. Dust everywhere. Hoofprints. You know the story.”
“I do,” Urch began again. “And how was it by the way?”
“Oh kids are fine. The wife is asking for the alimony check. The elves are back at work.” Smelly Santy paused, the corrected himself. “*Out* of work again. It’s early spring, right?”
Turch now returned to the table with a plate containing a huge egg and piece of bacon, obvious products of the Bennington experiments. Suddenly glad she wasn’t eating this morning, Urch excused herself to check the upstairs. She was looking for someone in particular.
“Get me a glass of water while you’re up, Urch,” Turchin McGurchin requested before she left, nodding toward the food bar. “And don’t forget about telling me about your dreams,” he then demanded. He was hoping that Urch would spill the
beans wine while he ate, but there’s that condition of hers to cope with. Poor Urch, he thought. Always running away from food and eating.
Holding back, Urch found Precious Snowflake upstairs sitting in front of the mission’s computer console. She was unsure of her feelings about the small, beautiful blue fairy lady. Urch had known for quite some time that she preferred girls over boys, and initially she certainly had a crush on Precious that wouldn’t stop. But now this had started to change or morph. A dream being had come into her life.
“I know you’re over there, Urch. Your stomach!”
Urch laughed about her tummy rumblings. Hard to tell when they’re coming from inside you if others can hear them. Now she knows.
“And about the dreams — you’ll be happy to learn that some of them are already recorded, as I’m reading now. (But) the girl you took into the woods is looking for you in the wrong place. I see an island lit, or I should say, *un*lit by a new moon. Darkness all around. The girl is in darkness.” She turns toward Urch; such a beautiful face, Urch thinks. “You must find her or all is lost.”
“I *want* to,” speaks Urch. “But how?”
Precious was frank. “Do you still love me?”
“Of course,” states Urch.
“But not in that way any longer,”
“I don’t know,” says Urch. “We haven’t done anything to, um, consummate it.”
“You know I am untouchable,” replies Precious Snowflake. “If you need pleasure in that manner there’s always Tronesisia. She was built for all that.”
“Not interested again,” replies Urch, having heard this suggestion quite a number of times now from various camp members.
“Do you know who I am? Who I *really* am?” She turned toward Urch.
“You are Precious Snowflake,” Urch says routinely. “You are yet another refuge in our camp, having come here after the great war that saw Bennington and Ob-blong combine forces against Fairywold.”
“Yes, I am that. I want to show you something. Have you seen my bones?” She shows Urch her “bones.”
“Quite a number of times,” Urch replied. “Still not sure what it means.”
“And my skeleton?” Her figure then alters even more into blue abstraction.
“Several times, yes,” Urch states.
“And how about *this*?”
Pink had switched with blue. It was a new development to Urch. “No,” she replies. “I haven’t seen you change even more beyond the bones and skeleton. Who are you?”
Obviously lots of fictional writing going on in the blog recently — well, almost the past 7 months solid basically. I anticipate this changing next month, when a return to woodsy type posts will occur. This winter I’ve also been able to create at least the virtual part of the blog archives, found under the Virtual heading here:
This involved quite a lot of work. Its *9 years* worth of posts now. The plan is to add to this archive each month.
The fiction I’ve been working on starting in Dec and esp Jan is a separate work from Collagesity fiction that came before. Basically it seems to be manifesting as a *3rd* work to complement “Collagesity 2015-2016 Winter” (Dec-Mar) and “Collagesity 2016 Later” (Aug-Nov). So a kind of trilogy. Also, esp. since it is being created at essentially the same time frame during the calendar year, this 3rd work seems to act as a type of twin to “Collagesity 2015-2016 Winter”. The latter began in mid-Dec and ended in early March. The title of the new work logically becomes “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter.”
I could go much further into an analysis of the structures. “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” appears to be evolving into 6 or 7 separate parts. I’m in the middle of creating part 5 right now. It’s a strange process, because I can’t seem to anticipate where I’m heading — can’t plan the whole thing out. As “C1516W” ended up on the moon, and its successor “C16L” terminated in a visit to Mars, so the new work could wind down with some kind of et visit (Muff-Bermingham?). Anyway just to drop a note on that. You can follow the progression of the parts here:
The Dec posts (Parts 001 and 002) act as an introduction to “C1617W”, or, in another way, a direct bridge between “C16L” and “C1617W”. Each subsequent part of “C1617W” is composed of around 16 to 18 or 19 blog posts, starting with “Book Muncher?” from the beginning of Jan.
The weather’s been so warm this winter that I’ve been able to get outdoors and hike quite a lot. Frank Park’s Whitehead Crossing has been the most popular destination by far. I already have a queue of photos to share on this blog. WH Xing mythology will most likely develop more this spring, esp after Daylight Savings Time kicks in March 12th. I anticipate creating a Reality archives to complement the Virtual archives very soon. Whitehead Crossing and other Frank and Herman Park destination will feature large within.
And I haven’t forgotten about the Bigfoot location either.
Thanks for reading!
I must tell the full story of the Facets sometime in this blog. I admittedly lost track of the couple because, for years, the Collagesity town directory has incorrectly listed them as the Fawcetts. Tom is the custodian for the TILE Tower over in Rubi, once again not to be confused with the Temple of TILE in Collagesity North now. His wife Margorie runs a small museum out of their Gloomy Gus home next door, a duplicate structure to Baker Blinker’s only about 100 yards away to the west. Like many entities who live in or near the woods, the Facets are true demons, although, like so many as well, they desire to become non-possessed avatars one day. But casting out harmful spirits almost always comes at a price, and there’s only so much money I have to spread around. So for now, they’re stuck next to the forest, unable to move far beyond its boundaries. But look how happy they are whilst inside! The unburdening from constrictions there can be likened to hard core nudists with the sudden freedom to shed clothes.
Here they are on the top floor of the TILE Tower, enjoying the view of Collagesity with demonic status locked back in place. Can you dig it?
The centerpiece of Marjorie’s museum is a familiar object to regular blog readers. The Facets have designs to procure the matching LUCKY sign from former Rubi neighbor Furry Karl the bartender, by force if needed.
Wonder where the war between the Greens and the Grays started? Well, in a way, it began right here. The battle for LUCKY.
Old Mabel was in an unfamiliar place. She tried to get her bearings. “DJ Ned — Heartsdale,” she read. “This must be Heartsdale,” she concluded, and then found herself buying some heart shaped glasses from a nearby store named Blown-Apart.
She stepped out into the streets and had a rethink. “Not Heartsdale,” she said now, “but in the heart of things still.” She recognized the junction of Old Cannon and North roads — barely. “Collagesity. Far in the future.” She looked around. “But where are all of Baker Bloch’s collages?”
A person approached Old Mabel from the south that she soon learned was named Buurb. He will be both familiar and unfamiliar to my many blog readers. Stay tuned!
Buurb walks up to the Red Umbrella packed with Baker Bloch’s collages and wonders why he’s here at this juncture of roads. “I *finally* get the courage to enter Collagesity to find my dream lady and she is gone,” he mutters to himself. “New Island is where she went, the furry bartender over at the mall said. New Moon Island.”
“I hate this place.”
They were at Tiff’s Bar, only about 100 yards east from Wheeler’s recently set up house on New Island. A potential local hangout for the gang. Baker was on his second mug of Johnson’s Rye. Old Mabel was studying the the labels of drinks behind the bar but not imbibing.
“Weatherman says Storm Lucy’s cleared out of the area now, Old Mabel,” declares Baker Bloch. “You’ll be able to get back to your Cry I. tomorrow.”
“Wonderful,” is all she could manage.
Old Mabel returned to the house to take a nap, she said, while Baker Bloch explored more of the local environs and snapped pictures.
Baker’s Spookmobile, New Island version, spookily turned into a love bug during Night 1 of their stay. Groovy, I suppose.
The Diagonal House, as Baker Bloch calls it, next to Tiff’s Bar. Vacant right now.
Baker again wonders why there are no true mirrors in Second Lyfe.
Lot’s of open, grassy duneland here, courtesy of the Lindens.
Baker found this mystery pipe 2 days back…
… then made friends with the mechanoid who lived next door to it. Robot Derek Jones was his name, a physics and astronomy professor at New Island Community College. Quite the scholar. “What have you been reading today, RDJ?” Baker asks. “You’re sitting on them,” he replies.
And, yes, Robot Derek Jones knows of the very similarly named Cardboard Derek Jones in Collagesity. Turns out they’re 1st cousins. RDJ says he’ll have to go back with Baker Bloch sometime to visit with CDJ again. “Cardboard often stayed at my uncle’s place here during the summers over at Sharp’s Angle,” RDJ explained at the time. “We explored Pipewold. But I don’t want to go back there, and neither do you want to go there the first time. Trust me.”
Baker Bloch’s faux mother Old Grey showed up. “Figured you were down here lazing about. Your supper’s on the table getting cold. Get — home.” She didn’t mince her words. She didn’t greet Robot Derek Jones. Old Mabel speculated they might even have some kind of history neither is talking about. “And afterwards I want you to give the Love Bug a good washing, including underneath it. Don’t want it to rust out like your blame Spook Beetle.”
Baker wondered again about the presence of the Love Bug here and the Spookmobile over in Collagesity. Reality had split asunder. Blame orange.
Robot Derak Jones distinctly said this was where the other end of the pipe is, its “far side” as he called it. But there’s a log here instead. He said it was a disguise. “You must use your new eyes,” he implored. “Your New *Island* eyes. This is how things often work here.”
Baker Bloch looks over at the statue of the Great Old One to his right and knows, er, one is related to the other. How’s *that* for new eyes.
Both terminal points of the “pipe” lie at latitude 121 of their respective sims, which are catty-corner to each other. At least at one point along the line, the pipe appears to bend roughly 30 degrees. But that is just assuming we’re dealing with a simple, linear affair. What about the name of the beach here?: Sharp’s Angle. Are there sharper angles within? Is it a complex affair instead, perhaps much more so?
The name given to this log is “[MnM] Forest bed”. Here’s the accompanying description: “Long time ago… She is the guardian of forest… and now, She is the mother of forest…” Could this possibly have something to do with Rubi’s Unch?
Meanwhile, Old Mabel is dreaming again at her Cry Island. Like Baker Bloch, she stands in front of a huge hollow log, one leading to the VWX fairy cottage visited numerous times before. Strangely she’s Old Grey in the dream, Baker’s faux mother who is actually “Wheeler the Complex,” as the Martian has started to call her.
Old Mabel knows that if she doesn’t figure out what’s going on soon enough, they — Baker Bloch, Wheeler, Karoz and herself — will be forever trapped on this infernal island. She’s visited the downtown and the community college Robot Derak Jones teaches at. Nothing is good here, like rotting fruit. Spells abound. It’s a witch island.
The hummingbird flies off Old Grey’s back and into the tunnel…
*Meanwhile*… Wheeler is dreaming about falling asleep while waiting for another phone call from Snowbob over what’s actually going on.
She was back at Cry I. but underwater now. Down to a putter: end of hole.
This was the night she met Dr. Low with red and blue eyes. Splitsville.
But first… some lemonade at the conveniently placed Joker’s Wild bar to her left. Old Grey awaits through the Red Door.
“Guess it’s time for that heart to heart, Old Mabel,” she starts. “Lemonade’s on me tonight. Karl!” she then yells, banging her cane on the bar counter. She waits just a second and bangs again. “Rhoda! Whoever!”
“Oh it’s you. ‘Bout time. Well… a 24 oz can of Pabst Blue Ribbon for me and the little lady will have a lemonade. Start a tab.”
“I’m 113 years old, *Old* Grey,” the Martian proclaims defiantly. She then glared at Snowbob behind the counter. The last time she saw the hybrid being was in the mystery cabinet or closet or whatever. She didn’t really like what was happening there, but perhaps it was all a dream.
“Yellow is missing,” he said, staring back. “Replaced by green!”
“He’s right this time, you know,” agreed Old Grey. The Martian now noticed the lemonade already in front of him.
Snowmanster exits the closet.