take and make
Sandman walks the rail, continuing to look for the one he calls The Spitter. He pauses to gander at this collection of junk on one side, knowing, through it, that he is indeed on the right track.
He finds another Lane to add to Penny, Arnold, Shelly at the end of this track, the latter a Firesign Theatre fan and a close match to his pattern, a two fer one fer zero kind of deal-i-o. Man.
He had no problem going further. He’d been walking away from Love for a looong time.
Ant-man walked out of the rain to enter the lane.
The rain catches up with him at The End. He is home.
“My son use to *love* going to the elephant show over in Raccoon…”
“Great, Biggie,” interrupted the male Baker, wanting to get away from the character’s origin. “But let’s stick to the topic. Tell me what you saw happen in Room 03.”
“An outbreak, like I said. A loving wife killing her husband. Stabbed him in her eye, short ‘n’ sweet. The Triad is trying to get rid of any evidence of its existence. Thus the trouble in Dallows.”
“I’m not talking about that right now.” Baker Bloch pauses in his grilling to ponder the fate of the missing town there, and the rebuild. He checked yesterday. Only a couple of houses and a small forest to ride your horse through. No progress on that possibility. He resumes. “Let’s stay with the motel. You say your pal Mark A. saw a woman slice a man’s head open down in the town hospital and remove his brain, stick it in a sealed jar, and leave the hospital with it. How did he not tell the authorities this?”
“Witchcraft,” stated Big Black Smoke plainly to the primary owner of Urqhart’s (or thereabout’s) Collagesity. “And it was *no* man. It was a *God*.”
“Ahh, yes.” From their blue table and chairs, Baker Bloch looked around at the creation and saw it was good. David A. Or B. Both probably. But now: David A.B. Normal. Mr. Everyday Ordinary. He looked directly into Biggie’s eye. “And where is that Diamond of a Brain *now*?”
Big Black Smoke peered around as well, at the noisy cockatoo to their side spouting nonsense again. He could barely think above the racket. An umbrella cockatoo. Probably had all the answers. But who could understand her?? Except…
“Did it go home?” Baker Bloch guessed in the noisy silence. He wondered how long it would take *this* creation to collapse, just like what happened over in Stranger Creek.
(to be continued?)
“You can take the Great Belt away, Walter. For now.”
“Buddy, sire,” softly and politely corrected the Selenite butler to his master.
“Yeah, sure. But Poetry and I are happy, Harry. We have some stuff to work on here for a while. Right Poetry?”
“Alberta,” she whispered back to lover Barry X. Vampire.
“What’s that dear?”
a ouija name
“You’re not listed.”
Waka Wajaka turns to face me. “I know.”
A nearby green dot seemed to indicate he remained around, but I couldn’t re-find the guy.
umbrella dunces (i.e., all of us)
“We have to get the brain back, Hucka Doobie. The Abbey can’t survive without it! I’ve seen the picture of the others. It always ends with collapse.”
Hucka takes another sip of her espresso, then: “Perhaps it has something to do with Phil. He is a good spirit aid. He believes in the Piera. He will convince the others.”
“Well — I am READing his book. Finally. I felt that he was waiting.”
“Patiently, though. Spirits are patient in general. Moreso than we are. They have — *time*.”
“It’s *good*. It should have been published.”
“It still can,” returned Hucka Doobie quickly. She takes another sip. She looks beyond Baker Bloch as Kevin A. at the red and green illuminated school in the background. Like Christmas and Santa Claus. “We better get over there.
Figure out Unwrap what’s next in the story.”
He looks over at the letters, most of which he doesn’t understand.
“Let’s start at the very beginning,” Miss Crumplebottom offered to Kevin E., helping him read and turn back into Kevin Orchardsity with the A B C’s and 1 2 3’s and all.
Samantha wanted to ask a question to Miss Crumplebottom but turned the wrong way — toward the cat — to raise her hand.
Joe was distracted by an itching behind his left ear and missed the assignment. I suppose the cat ate it.
William stared and stared but didn’t understand if he was in the class or he *was* the class. Perhaps he is a member of the band Drive Shaft but probably not. We’ll go with cat again.
“So she *is* here, thought Peter Oesso from the middle of the bridge, staring over at what appears to be a picture of his beloved Poetry. A daughter? A lover? Barry X. Vampire, the author of it all, would most likely know. He’s here as well. *They* are lovers, happy together (like Turtles). He is not alone any longer with the Great Belt and such. Not alone with the Butler who sees him do it. But Poetry can turn ugly, as we’ve seen. Peter Oesso can help.
But first a little espresso. Hucka Doobie recommended this table. He’ll ask at that small cafe he spotted on the way to the table after the last drop.
Triad (‘nother one)
Lavender, Poetry, (a) Sprite.
“You are my *sister*.”
“There’s no middle (sim) on this map, Charlie. What are you (still) hiding from me?”
Better get him (Peter Oesso) back to square 01…
“There was no middle sim on that map back there (in the school), Poetry — sister of mine.”
“Maybe,” she repeated in her pleasant enough voice. Made for a family member.
“I have some questions for you.” But then, looking right at the colorful watercolor painting on the wall while listening to the noisy, meaningless cockatoo chatter on, he realized he needs to ask about umbrella with a capital “U”. Umbrella.
The sister (?) turned ugly again. Better get her back up the stairs just back there to lover Barry X. Vampire for her own
“He was asking about the middle, where I was bourne.”
“What did you tell him?” Barry was itching for more plot revealing. The appearance of Waka Wajaka several days ago had really freaked him out. He had a Freak Out. Hmmm.
“I told them there was a motel. Over in a place with a heart in its name. Room 03 of 05. Secret room as well that acts as a control, a key — spies on the others.” All men are dicks, she was thinking.
“This is more than I’ve heard you talk in a long time, Poetry Dancer,” Barry X. Vampire responded, pleased. “You’ve spoken about this room once before.”
“Maybe,” Poetry replied, staring back at the fire. She had returned to her usual, non-talkative self. Reversion. Ironic, I suppose, that she was beautiful once more. Barry X. Vampire must hurry tonight; get more info out of her if possible. He thought “info” there instead of “information” to save time (for example).
“Room 03,” he prompted. “Big Black Smoke was guarding. Charlie mentions in LOST. Kinks song.” Ahh, he thought, solving part of the mystery himself. The Kinks and Zappa will always be linked now, thanks to the Piera. (David) Watts.
“It is what it is.” No more info will be found 2-night.
The cat is the room. The cat is – the room.
The weak, ineffectual Miss Crumplebottom had been replaced by another teacher named Jill. Winona. Something.
But she too ended up waving at the cat, ceding power to its more central or middle position. And so it goes.
The Turtles (so Happy Together)
Sun bathed Poetry, hovering on her more inaccessible balcony, stares over at the town clock, trying to get her bearings. 12:30, no 1:30, no 2. Is this another 5/4ths time keeper? She decides to give it up and go inside to ask lover Barry X. Vampire, since brother Peter Oesso isn’t available right now. Neither would probably lie to her, but Peter was the best bet. For now. Family is forever.
“Barry, is this a sim or a planet?” she starts, trying to figure out the time flying thing. Soo frustrating this place is, arrrgh! She longs for center (sim) again.
Barry, seeing lover Poetry Dancer getting ugly, tells her to go ask Peter. “Just down the stairs outside at the small cafe,” he directs while holding his stuffed stomach full of bread and butter. No use in compounding the mood.
“Thanks,” she barks while angrily striding toward the door. *SLAM* “For nothing,” she then mutters just outside. She takes a deep breath. Calm again. Callmm. She is beautiful once more.
“You can’t see the clock from that balcony,” Peter replies truthfully while continuing to read the town paper at his new table away from the former, umbrella themed one with the perpetual, unreadable music score laying upon it. “Impossible — it’s completely sideways to you there. Might as well be a clock yourself, heh.”
While reviewing the truth of his statement in her mind, Poetry suddenly remembers she has a sister. A brother and a sister. She tells this to Peter.
“Sidereal?” he exclaims, forgetting about the paper, the city as a whole. “What kind of name is *Sidereal?*”
The cat is the room. The cat is (waving) the room.
Follow me, it commands. “Follow Charlie,” it follows me, specific about a name. Charlie was at the bottom of the stairs leading to the market. “I’ve never been to the market except that once,” I talk back, trying to remember the once. I had to publish privately and review…
“Take your time,” it meows. “What’s time in a town without time?” he purred philosophically, also thinking about the rapidly spinning town clock. Sometimes it slows down as well. That one time it stopped. All turned dark. And then, another, it was a blur. White all around. Then occasionally it mimics our sidereal time, closely followed or preceded by our *real* real time. They’re not that far from total agreement these two types of time are. I think they can strike a deal down the road somewhere; agree to all the numbers.
“Thank you for waiting, Charlie. Turns out I’ve never been to the market. Another (type of) false memory.”
“No problem. Time: again.” The cat yawns and then continues to stare. I understand that he is ready to ascend. *We* are ready.
“What do you see?” asked Charlie in a voice full of meow while stepping aside near the top.
“Um… the marketplace?”
“*The* center,” it pursues. “You stay here (long enough), you will meet *everyone*. Including the one you will. Are you ready?”
“Um, sure.” I walk up a couple more steps and there we are. Gemusy Market according to the globe/map over at the school that I remember from yesterday. Today (something).
I compare the price of berries, while Charlie talks to calico cat friend Fred about the ups and downs of town, not leaving out the good for the bad. I take a bite of strawberry just to test. Eww. Rancid. Then another: delicious. I see what they mean.
“Over here now, new friend,” spoke/purred/meowed Charlie that God-like cat, ready to step into the God void if necessary. If needed.
“I see you. Taking a break?”
“No. Have you seen enough of the market? Are you ready to enter… the director’s suite? Just over there.” He points his head over there. A dark and sort of ominous, luminous tunnel.
“Director?” I queried, picturing a beret wearing older man in a fold out chair labeled “director”. Not too far off, but not too close either. 1/2 and 1/2.
(to be continued)
“Paperville. It’s certainly an interesting concept, Hucka. And I might have met Zappa here. It’s like he just strolled by when I was walking my cow around like a Monkee. Said my music was too white, and I indicated my body, which is very white indeed. Well, cream colored. Skin colored — see there how racist I am Hucka Doobie? I think of skin as white, cream, but there’s all hues. Red, yellow, green —
“Not yet,” Hucka Doobie replied about the last. “Mabel is a forerunner.”
“But to the Pen Temple. It’s actually Penntemple.”
“So I see. Like Paperville is almost Paperville but not quite. And then there’s Pageville somehow, er, laid atop Paperville. Like, well, a transparent, um, page or something.”
“Fifty-six. Look into fifty-six.”
“I wanted to show you this underwater gallery, Barry, to demonstrate that Paperville has gone through many changes, some resulting in the disappearance of the village altogether, at least for a while. The important thing is that the concept carries on. And this same thing should happen to Collagesity. I’m sorry. I cannot allow you to stay. You of course can take Poetry back with you. You have to find her sister for one thing. Please keep up; we’re nearing the end of this section of our journey.”
“You can look and you can look but you won’t find your sister in these series of pictures, Poetry. Axis, the New God of Paperville after all, said she hasn’t been here in a while — ran off with a fellow named Biker several years back now. Went to a place on the mainland called Iris, like an eye. And she was searching for an ‘I’. It went missing in a jumble of tiles numbering 25 down from 26. Now we are on a similar journey, Axis states. A search for center.”
“But we’re *in* the center (sim),” a disappointed, sad Poetry countered Barry, still peering at the people, still searching. That *could* be her in the far back with the white robe, she thinks, eyes squinting in an attempt to focus. Axis, although a
New Near God, might not know *everything*. There’s always the 5 percent chance out of 10 that marks it down to 9.5. He has a Diamond of a mind now thanks to Cat-Witch, a true return of David A.B. to his perch at the center of it all. To him…
“Margret,” he prompts, interrupting her reverie and saying her real name for the 1st time in a while. She knows she must pull out of the past…
“Beautiful place isn’t it?” spoke the biker to his side. Hmm: Biker. “You won’t find a better place.”
“I don’t expect to,” returned Barry X. Vampire, knowing he was being kicked out by the head honcho. “Get your own sphere,” he said on our tour of the underwater gallery, seeing many of the iterations of Paperville in the past. “Collagesity can be as important as Paperville,” he then furthered. “You think about that upon your return.”
Barry X. Vampire later contemplated the two were a balance, one focused internally and the other outside of itself, as in the great outdoors. They are kind of backwards from each other in this respect.
In this moment, the train outta here should be arriving any minute. Poetry had to run over to the apartment to retrieve a final thing, she said, but met Hucka Doobie sitting at Peter Oesso’s old spot on the way back. “Don’t — I know you?” she wanting to ask while glancing over, but didn’t have the time. She just passed and nodded.
Hucka had done her work. She would be remembered later on.