“Baker Blinker. Come here. Quick!”
“Just because I have the ring doesn’t mean I necessarily have to go back to Collagesity and be queen. Does it?”
form in back
“You’ve gone too far this time, husband of mine. And you better get home — you’re changing over again.”
“So can I keep it?”
“I recognized him immediately, The Bill.”
“Bill will do. We’ll think about the royal appellation later.”
“Okay. But it was definitely Smelly Santy. You remember — from the Mission. The eggs, Bill. They must have killed him (!). The Bennington experiments.”
“Nasty place. Even I would admit that.”
“And then you would meet another Bunneh on your way here. Bunneh 01 and Bunneh 02, then. Maybe it happened the same night even.”
“It did,” assured Bill.
“Baker Blinker thinks it may even be this Leeman or Leemon who designed the other New Island. I almost said ‘more real’ but caught myself.”
“Right. Both New Islands are equally real. And there’s a third we haven’t talked about.”
“Russian,” Baker Bloch stated, ignoring mention of the third for now. “Before independence, his New Island was Russian territory. I’ve been reading the relocation guide. I believe the place is as real as Australia, as New Zealand.”
“India,” Bill added. “Indonesia.”
“But not any more real than, um, our New Island.”
“No, not really. Because we, you and I and anyone else who cares, can *go* to our New Island. Physically for us; virtually for our users.”
“But one is latched onto the other. They are — not two plants from one seed. What (expression) am I looking for?”
“They are like babies from the same mom. Which begs the question: who is mom?”
“Mum,” Dwayne speaks in sync from the side. “We’re so sorry. The chef has burnt the tuna. Would you like to substitute perch for the entree?”
“Perch, perch, perch,” complains The Bill, back in form. “Perch at Perch, go get the perch at Perch. The perch is the best dish at Perch. Always pushing the perch. Well…” and she sends a riveting stare at Sidechick Corea’s brother, formerly out of a job and down on his luck in Heroin Town, “serve me the tuna, burnt or not. Serve!”
Dwayne scurries back to the kitchen, retrieves the burnt item, then tells the chef to pack it in — he’s done cook’n too. We’ll catch up with the chef’s story (Angus Nuffin) later, for he would get his revenge.
“All right, I have *two* four-handed librarians sitting at *my* Table now. Surely we can figure this out together.” No one around The Table says a thing. Curled Paper keeps staring inside the book he’s always reading. Tin S. Man stands unmoving in the corner. “Hazel… Hazelhurst. A Mrs. Hazelhurst came out of Philip Strevor’s office over in Iris just before I went in. But I didn’t see her. This *must* be Mid-Hazel.” No one says anything. “Mid-Hazel makes things go ’round and ’round, entrapping them in a bewitching circle. New Island is her ultimate creation, perhaps.” Nothing said. “Leeman’s or Leemon’s — mind you, we can only speak in Oracle terms here — anyway, Leeman’s or Leemon’s Hazel is the beginning and ending point for his fictional story nested inside the now totally and completely filled out factual story.” She indicates the screen displaying a map from the book. “He inserts *himself* inside the story, and first goes from Hazel to the Hazelhurst (Ruins) to complete his first, er, virtual watercolor… within the story. This becomes first person, not third. With advantages and disadvantages–” Wheeler throws down her hands on the table. “Okay, *someone* has to help me here. Librarian 01, I order you to speak.”
Librarian 01 thinks a spell, then offers: “eight.” He elaborates after a shorter pause. “It must have been something he ate.”
“Carrot,” speaks up Librarian 02. “Glasses.” Everyone falls silent here.
greenborn in white carrot red/all i can show
show i can all
Old Reading Man and Little Reading Light were the first to arrive, and, big surprise, each whipped out a book from their deep pockets and began reading.
What LRL was scanning had more to tell. St. Croix’s Diamond Keturah, but the Keturah was missing. A seismic activity earlier in the day had temporarily erased it from the island’s map. But the name would return soon enough. Such things always do.
Later, Biker Jones and Ranger Johns guarded the entrance to the meeting room, keeping out riff raff like the “reading twins” as they jokingly called them. “This is an *action* room,” they said to Old Reading Man and Little Reading Light after arriving themselves, telling the two to remain sitting in their seats and just keeping on doing what they’re doing and stay out of it.
Meeting room. Action galore. Tronesisia led the charge, but many more straggled in between 7:47 and 8:01, with Carrcassonnee the last to arrive, saying she’ll just, “squeeze her big butt in against the wall over here,” as she put it. So: Carrcassonnee lives!
Others present, going counterclockwise from Tronesisia: (floating) Wyn Galbraithe from Lapara, Cardboard Derek Jones (no relation to doorman Biker Jones that I know of), Redbot, Old Man Baby…
…. and then, continuing to circle around, Carrcassonnee, whom we’ve spoken about, then, er, I guess that’s Doogie Martin (?), then Grey Seal who just wallowed out of the nearby sea to join in, then Furry Karl (another resurrection?!), and then a figure most commonly called Pietmond Boy in the blog, I believe.
Let’s pause here before continuing the character introductions to gander at two art pieces on the wall, the first hung directly behind the seated Pietmond Boy. It might be familiar to regular blog readers, being, at the base, the same as the famous painting “My First Sermon” by John Everett Millais, mentioned in Martin Gardner’s “The Annotated Alice” as probable direct inspiration for Tenniel’s illustration of Alice riding on a train in chapter 3 of “Through the Looking Glass”.
But there’s some twists here. Parts of what appears to be *another* picture bleed through around the edges in mysterious, blobby patches. We see the image of several ducks — or at least their heads — just behind or beyond the seated girl, for instance.
And then on the opposite side of the door from this, a now sideways Bunneh 02 and his egg and candle holding cushion cover up what appears to be another figure, perhaps from a bathing beauty poster, say, like in a mechanic’s garage.
Then continuing our introductions, we have Ben Thar (Mr. Bean cutout, actually) beside the Bunneh 02 art, then Bluebot (counterpart to Redbot across the room), then Second Lyfe founder Philip Linden standing behind Tronesisia in the corner, and lastly Ross C., another robot who may be a servant or some equivalent to the central Tronesisia.
Out in the hallway, yet another robot, named Claude — a golden hued gezzer made in ’25 — attempted to do the unspeakable to same just before the meeting (about 7:47). To excuse him *just* a bit, he *does* remember Tronesisia from Bennington when she was a mere pleasurebot and not the important and distinguished Collagesity novel character she’s known as today. But at any rate — and very justly of course — he was then promptly banned from the Meeting Room by Tronesisa who obviously spurned his advances. Get to reading the Collagesity graphic novels, Claude! Tronesisia has come a long long way from where she use to be back in those dark days.
Claude was only there because his perpetually smoking and toking brother Punky was acting as receptionist for the gathering out on the front porch. Claude had to drive his sibling around since he lost his feet in that rabbit tossing accident in ’92.
Punky was also known for his womanizing ways, and, similar to his brother, made little to no attempts at hiding it. Many times they had fought over the same “floozy dame”, as they sometimes labeled them.
In yet another room of the house, Original Eve (still macabrely clutching her dead child Oliver), Pigpen from the Grateful Dead, and couch sitting Norris/Harry waited for their chance to join in. It never came.
Nor did it for the 3d Venuses who just showed up at 8:15 with *way* too many friends and were barred from these kind of meetings for life.
“I don’t want to seem above everybody else but I think the meeting should be called to order.”
“Oh wait. Yes I do.”
Yd Bay revisited
“I have delicious sandwiches over here, Mr. Leeman. Mr. Leemon. And watermelon…” Mabel knew it was no good. If this *was* a spell, the theoretical creator of New Island itself was mired deep. He was simply immobile now. But still the resemblance to Smelly Santy couldn’t be denied. She had checked earlier in the day at the abandoned artist colony — just after the sun rose — and taken snapshots. She went over and compared again, “show attachment” option on.
Yup, they’re the same.
She looks over at Volkswagen Gurl’s house, gleaming white bright in the noonday sun. No sign of the chatty owner, though.
Mabel then gazes north into Yd Bay and the small isle there, about the same size as much more noted Fisher or Fishers Isle to the south, but 3 palms and the truth this time, ha, instead of 4. Linden palms 1 and 2, as she’s currently checking. Fishers Isle’s palms are mesh objects in contrast.
She decides to fly over.
Snorkling comes to mind again while she stands upon it– exploration of the sea life surrounding New Island. That’s a thicket of purple Irish Moss sticking out over there, for example. She can see this happening soon.
And then another island a little beyond. Larger, but no palms this time.
Yd Bay, and another thicket of Irish Moss within. The great chunk of cheddar that ended the life of Thadeus Fogg must have been situated just between me and that point of land, Mabel speculates, trying to recall the tragedy as described in the “New Island Gazette”, then a 20 page publication instead of the 5 it has dwindled to in present times. She wonders how the Widow Fogg is doing.
And decides to pay a call. Maybe she would know more about Leeman or Leemon. Or maybe Mid-Hazel?
Permanent bay dweller Timothy Sprawled saw it all, but he’s been unable to relay what actually happened for a long time. Decades and decades.
Yd Bay revisited 02
“Hold on. What’s that over *there*?”
“Interesting art, Mrs. Fogg. Are those Second Lyfe images?”
“Always,” Wanisa Fogg would usually reply to such a question, but presently she was crying. Profusely. Mabel’s red violin she had found earlier in the day lay central on the table. The fog always swirling around her was as thick as it had been in many a year. Grieving fog. Even after all this time.
For this was what her seafaring spouse was always looking for. Perfection, he termed it. But it never came; was never collected, crumpled and ruined, on the ocean floor, much less bobbed up on the surface in absolutely pristine shape. May 28, 2018. A magical day in Mrs. Wanisa Fogg’s life. This is when she learned the truth about her husband’s death. And also his rebirth. On Yd Isle.
“Hi! I’m a talking violin!” it said.
12 year old, sand flea ridden Shirley Boot was scratching the top of her fanny before boarding the FB Lollygagger Raft 2.0 when she saw something glimmering on Yd Isle out in the bay, almost at the exact same place where Mabel was standing the day before when she found the talking red violin.
Taking a closer look, she suddenly had another itch which couldn’t be satisfied.
*up* the rabbit hole
It was the first time Adelaide (Alice 02) would meet with the head doctor over at Mosh on the Main Continent, as employees of Baumbeer Enterprises liked to call it. On the way up, Adelaide pauses to consider some maps on the wall. She recognizes her present “home” sim at the top. Or sims, since it looks like the hospital owns land in both Tethia and Orr around Lake Tethia. Interesting.
But where was she *now* on this lower map, hmm?
No time. She was summoned. There wasn’t a place to sit in front of the doctor. But — he’s a *rabbit*?
And a white one at that. Rings a bell.
Surprising Adelaide again, Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer then unfurls his life story for her, starting with his birth at Braynard’s Place (chronicled in the last Collagesity novel) and extending through Gene Autry Mortuary School, The Carter Center for the Study of Bodily Fluids, and then here. “Fluid,” he emphasizes while taking a steady sip of milk (he had hid his glass of beer under the desk upon Adelaide’s arrival). “It’s what took me from place to place to place. Up and up and up.”
Adelaide wondered when he would get to her psychiatric evaluation, but it never happened.
At the Black Star Diner, Animaid-X lobbed an idea to Annie that she ultimately couldn’t refuse. Free dance lessons for a year in exchange for complete servitude to her master. Two left feet soon changed into a left and a right, each knowing its exact station. Unlike Sister Martha Lamb, she could then see all around, but at what undifferentiated price? And the pills! So many. They always seem to be around.
Bill didn’t remember anything about the middle-of-the-night visit to the single wide trailer behind Obscure’s Blue Star Gas Station until Ragdoll filled her in later. She overheard everything from her bedroom she shared with Indigo, who appeared to sleep through the whole event. She didn’t.
Ragdoll watched the dogs play outside her trailer for the longest time, it seemed. Newte was so bad about not coming upon being called. And she’d given up training Jaspo in *anything* when he was not much more than a pup. What was the use?
They’re collecting at the door, she thought. Pops must be inside rattling around keys, getting ready to close up for the shift. Ragdoll knew Alma would be here any minute in her old, beat up blue Chevy truck to relieve him. She was reliable but testy, and could shout the skin off of any man alive if needed. More than once, her daddy had been the victim of scattershot, both of a verbal *and* a physical variety. Former bo Justice will be needing that specially made seat cushion for a while, haha. But it wasn’t a laughing matter at the time; Ragdoll thought that Alma had killed him. But Justice was just naturally a heavy bleeder, and all that blood covered much tamer wounds than spectators of the scene could imagine. Then there was the other time… oh, there’s daddy. Pops. At least *he* comes when called.
Upon exiting the building, Angus Nuffin petted each jumping dog individually. “How’s my Salt; how’s my Pepper?” (those were his nicknames for the mutts, bought for 2 lindens apiece from Gingus Kind Jr. after the death of his father). He then spotted his daughter sitting on the warm blacktop, waving brightly. Although not planning it, she finds herself jumping up as well, mimicking the dogs’ admiration of the man. But she resists running toward him and giving him a big hug. She had other things on her mind today. The Diagonal. Ragdoll had been plotting her dinner grilling strategy while waiting and watching. Again in both a verbal and physical variety, for she was the designated cooker as well tonight.
Meat Wednesday. That’s another thing she needed to talk to her daddy about when the time was right — about her vegetarian leaning ways. But for now, as a kid of 12, beef and chicken and the rest tasted okay still. Remained pretty delicious, except when she came across one of those hard parts that was probably, *hopefully*, a bit of bone or cartilage or something. Fish, she thought again. One day, not too far off, she will only eat fish as a meat. Snapper, flounder, perch. Mmmmmm, she thought. But for now, her mouth still watered a little for beef, for chicken, for the rest. But not ham. Never ham. That was a firm rule for Meat Wednesday since she learned that pigs might be smarter than some men. *Obviously* Alma’s Justice, hehe.
Angus Nuffin walks toward her and she couldn’t resist any longer. The big hug came swift and easy as Alma pulled in. “My little Zero,” he says, holding her tight.
“Smoking!” (blurb from “New Island Gazette”)
Encouraged by up and coming studios like Swanson’s Gallery and Artist Point Interactive (API), Marty Claflin and Jay Woodhull, two self confessed potheads, have decided to start a parent enterprise for New Island studios as a whole. You buy into the company — NEW ISLAND STUDIOS — you get promoted in the biggest and most popular Second Lyfe art venues, plus even off-world platforms like Grand Theft Auto, Mortal Kombat, and Minecraft. Way to go Marty and Jay! Here’s wishing you guys the best of luck in your new (island!) business venture. We’re sure to be hearing a lot more from these two wacky stoners in the coming months and years. Decades! Call 709-576-8220 for details.
Charlie on the spot
The witnesses sat around the pit containing the crucial and central psychiatrist stand, two to the right…
…two to the left.
All were reading and not seeming to pay attention except one. The true witness: Norris, also known as JERRY or Harry. For he had seen much more than the others on his couch of stripes (etc.) and was curious how this would all turn out for Bill.
No one was looking at Norris now so Dr. Rabbid Baumbeer’s evaluation could begin.
“So, my queen. Let’s get right to the point.”