around the corner 02
So many more stories to tell in this here Paper-Soap, sims still united despite the best efforts of Old Man Allen Martin and his Paper Kings. See what I mean? But we must move back to Nautilus for now to investigate the eye. Monolith painter Greg Ogden’s on his final quarter, we could put it. STOP
START Someone is about to emerge.
“I agree, Blackey. Sure *looks* like a mouth.” Is Perch really reemerging? Baker Bloch contemplates on this sea green isle before The Rock of Southwestern Nautilus. After all this time? Carrcassonnee has just been the one eye for, it seems, as long as he can remember. He can’t even recall…
“Duncan?” approaching boy George said behind him, then also stares up, moreso than Baker even. He could see the eye(s) forming already behind the mossy veil.
I don’t want to *see* this, he thought, and looked away, forgetting the moment even. “Let’s go home.” A boy of 10 back to 13 then 10, over and over, had finally stopped the past/future “burp.” Carrcassonnee had saved him. By sacrificing herself for the greater good. Just like that other 3.16 person.
Baker acquiesces and turns black himself. He takes the boy of 10 back to Heaven, White as. Soup’s up!
The Samhain strapped a harness on her and put her on the marketplace. Legs too long, one potential buyer complained, and moved on. Thanks a lot! she thought. Should she have gone through with the reverse operation now? They were a 9, good enough for most. But this was Our Second Lyfe, where perspective is a little different, physics too. A 9 in Real Life could actually be a 10 here — hard to put into words. “Take off that silly red lipstick,” one said before the strapping. “And the blue eye shadow — NO makeup!” the other, even more haggardly one beside her barked. They were Samhain but they were also types of witches, even if they despised that appellation. They reserve it for the East-West duo and the In-Between 3rd, the fruity one, who is also a blonde. Like her. No wonder they hate her so much. “You should have kept your legs short,” they also said, hearing the complaint from at least that one gentlemen who wore a fine tuxedo and black velvet top hat to match. He’s one to talk! He must be 6’10” if translated to Real Life, she thought later in her lonely cell, after all the sales people had retreated from the scene, the tableau even. She was secretly making an arrow for her bow, just over there. You have to look hard in the corner to see it. Magical it was, thus the camouflage. She had plucked the hen for feathers; she had sharpened the flint tip with her chisel and ballhammer; now all that was left was the shaft, and she could complete that tonight, when everyone was either in the bathroom in the dark or in bed in the dark — all the Samhain heathens. It wouldn’t land at just their feet this time; that was just a test to see how far she could go without them noticing. All she needed was a piece of lumber.
Damn! she thought at 9:15pm. The guard that is actually competent is back from being sick on pill. Can’t get to the sawmill beyond his bench.
The Abbot rode into the marketplace on a white horse the next day. He wielded a shaft of the exact proportions she needed, another 10 to her. He dangled it enticingly in front of her, asking if this is what she desired. What could she do? The alternative — with the Samhain *witches* — was the greater of 2 evils, at least it seemed at the time.
(to be continued)
That girl over there, Priscilla Persley thought. How can she stand it? I mean, she’s got *coffee* at least, but: jees.
Claudia Curve turned her back on the “spectacle” as well, instead staring at another pretty Christmas tree and trying to pretend the world was going to be okay.
Rose Schultz stood at attention, knowing this was going to be a busy night for hot beverages. She was armed and ready. Despite the uptick, two should still do the job just fine. If only she’d wore her long sleeve uniform but it was in the wash, brrr. But that wasn’t the spectacle, that wasn’t the one. She couldn’t see it from her angle. Not yet.
Thank Gods the pigs have arrived, thought carver George Wash, tired of trying not to look. More people should arrive soon. Time to get her outta here.
“One Adam One, over.”
“Go ahead Eve Two, over.”
“We have a situation down at the frozen food court. Lady not cooperating with the, ahem, elements… over.”
A pause. “Should we send reinforcements? A coat? Over?”
“Copy that, er, she’s heading… she’s heading over to the hot beverage stand to refill her mug. Everything is going to be okay.”
Upon a tip from Rose, her defense was it was all in the wash. All of it. The pig carver was arrested on the spot.
“I’m *here* (snicker). Where are you?”
“No, *I’m* here.” He smiles broadly at John across from him, who grins back a bit. Becky looks away, lost in thoughts of some kind.
“Yeah, yeah I already told you that. *I’m* here. But where does that leave *you*?” (more snickers)
Julius hangs up, tired of the running gag. It had run its course, which was a needless mini-marathon, he felt. Time to get back to work anyway. He makes a mental note not to call him again until he truly does figure out where he’s at. Because he forgets all the time. Now… where does he work here?
The waiter comes over, Bob I believe. “A phone call for you, Mr. Nance. It’s Mr. Nance.”
“Oh… thanks.” Receiver in hand again. Bob cleans up for the people who just left. Big smile, preparing for the best but expecting the worst. His twin had been missing for hours, days, weeks.
“Where are you, bro?”
Baker Bloch looks on, pretending to eat grapes but just spitting them out into his napkin when the waitress has turned away. Omaha, I think. But from Oklahoma, or comes from within such. Not Nebraska, although some people just won’t get it out of their head it’s at least Kansas, a compromise she’s come to live with. Dorothy, others call her. Dots.
Hucka Doobie joins him; turns away from Omaha so she won’t accidentally spill coffee in her lap. “Stop spitting, my love,” she requested, like a mongoose.
First: The MastHead sim directly above The Measure, with only Heaven’s Sense between. Baker Bloch teleports into the center and discovers an interesting triangle of avatars which he is the apex of in the below photo. Then he essentially becomes a white star of this triangle as another, still irresolved avatar beams in…
… who turns out to have very exaggerated or distorted (naked) features. I am reminded here of a double star *barely* resolvable with a naked eye, say.
Interesting that Hucka D. spied a mysterious triangle of white stars inside a translucent blue cube in the sky back in novel 15. Hucka D. with DOTS again, just like in that last post here.
Now: The Measure. Yes all its peculiar, angular patternings found in pre photo-novel days are still present and seemingly locked in, including the Double Dots? Checking… We can see so much more if we get rid of the water, drying the sim out.
“The M’s, two squares (at the bottom of the above snapshot) with a void square between them: obviously The Measure and The Masthead. The shapes around them must represent the Nautilus continent or archipelago in some form.”
“In some fashion,” Baker Bloch rewords, just like in olden days. Hucka is back!
Detail of Double Squares. They’re not exact duplicates of each other. Lisa V. speculates they might stand for Second Life sims.
Cool. Smart Lisa!
Yes, the Double Dots are still there.
“To continue, here’s another peculiarity, Hucka D. The square *representing* the sim The Measure — within The Measure — lies at 214, 107, 1, which means it’s 214 meters from the top of the sim and 107 from the (left) side (and 1 up from the bottom of the sea floor). 214 is double 107.
“The ‘dot’ here is at 228/114, along the same line across the sim, then, where the height within the sim is double the length within the sim. This is the last bit of dark surface you encounter when walking this line in an eastern direction.
“To the west, you find this larger dark place encompassing 200, 100, 1. Whaddaya think? 200-214-228, all highlighted by dark places in a row.
“And then at 186/93: more darkness encountered. But then that’s it for that pattern within the sim. Again: we are measuring in The Measure based upon a square representing The Measure. Feels like it means *something*.
“Pointillistically, it’s all aligned on that dot.”
“That’s not a bird,” old man Fred said, standing uncomfortably close to me, creepily close even. “That’s a *caricature* of a bird, like a cartoon.” He leans down and speaks to the cartoon directly. “Aren’t you Blackey!” as if the bird perched on my shoulder was hard of hearing. Quite the opposite! He’s scolded me many a time for talking too loud to him when he’s right there, not 6 inches from my mouth at any moment. What would he do to Fred now? Peck his eyes out? Finally fly away and never come back? What a fine mess that would put me in, because I’d have to go out and find a *proper* looking bird to take his spot. Because I doubt that such cartoon birds were still available — on the marketplace or anywhere else. Just like my dear old pops Spaced Ghost, the outfit of which was retired long ago. So: 1/2 of me. And probably the other half — originally Linden Boy Next Door in some version — as well. We’re all antiquated. Maybe we should *all* fly away somewhere over the rainbow or something. Wait: tried that already. Hucka D.’s White Place in De Skies; the equivalent. Yet here we are again, talking to Fred, listening to his criticisms of Blackey’s looks, and, by extension, mine. Yes, Blackey and me will never part ways. I’ll see to that. And Hucka’s back too, but more woman and less bee than ever. No antennae now, even.
And Tulsa is waiting on us, not Omaha. “How’d we get over here, Hucka?” I ask her across the way.
“Define ‘here’,” she replied, and ordered a salad with no lettuce and extra ketchup.
“Just nuts,” I complained, and then they brought an assortment. Tasty! But it still didn’t answer my question. Hucka D. spooned a big bite of red looking salad into her mouth. STOP
GO Creepy Fred was gone. Hucka D. spooned a big heap of green salad into her mouth to my left. Omaha spilled coffee in my lap after I politely asked for it, ow ow ow! Point made. There was a reason we were there instead of here, I get it.
“I get it,” I said aloud to Hucka, still holding my groin.
something to crow about
Back in Whippersnapper, Baker waited outside for a new Christmas shipment of antique art (and pottery) to the Blue Baron’s.
“Monolith…?” he questioned when it finally arrived from ports unknown. “Let me check,” offered Chuck Wakdins the delivery man, and looked down his inventory list. “Which one,” he finally said, “Ansel Adams or, let me see, Greg Ogden? New guy apparently.”
short for Anselmo
Baker Bloch couldn’t help himself. “Hold on,” he said, delaying the meeting even further. “Lemme get another beer out of the fridge.
“Everybody good?” he calls to the assembled cast and crew while fishing out a Krings from its depths, including new gal Jinx Doll. Who invited *her*? he thought when she arrived at 15 til 8, 20 minutes before anyone else. “I’ll take one,” said Wheeler directly across from him, who wandered in at 8:35, the last to show up. Immediately before her at 8:25 came Opp, her true love. And then, before that (8:15), Grassy Noll, the most famous of all Mmmmmm’s, a species formerly inhabiting the Great Lake area of Herman Park. No longer. Now friend Wheeler originally questioned him about selling out his kind, but he denies it, despite being the only true Mmmmmm left after successfully transferring over to virtual reality using his massive wealth and status as bargaining chips to the Great God of the Great Lake in ’64, just after the JFK debacle he was also responsible for, a warm-up act some called it. Like Wheeler, although she was only echoing what she’d heard at the time. “He took a *shot* for you,” she grilled beyond cooking and into simply burning to a crisp. Crisp Lake crisp. Grassy was use to the heat, though, and took Wheeler’s best (return) shot in stride, deflecting it a little bit up and to the right like he was good at — he was *fractally* good at, in fact, able to whirl it down into a vortex hole if needed, out of sight and also out of mind to those swirling all around, still trying and failing to become a singularity like that. Bay City was renamed John Fitzgerald Kennedy City because of it but that was only Alaska. Things happen differently it’s so cold up there, far away from the heat of the grilling and burning. It was a displacement, you see. And because of it “America the Beautiful” became the national anthem instead of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But no one remembered, no one knew, Marilyn (Lichen Roosevelt) least of all because she was so close to the subject, a tree for forest deal-i-o.
Baker slid a Krings over to Wheeler past the face of Al, the second to arrive after Jinx Doll at 8:05 and the last member of the Table to be brought up in this here post. He has 3 faces, in fact. That’s the story we must go into next.
(to be continued)
“Oh yeah, um, hi Baker Bloch (waves vaguely).
“I’m here to, um, check out the Rock, uh, is that it?” Man About Time points toward what is indeed The Rock. Marty was perched on top of it last month, listening to rock (music): himself, singing about listening to what the Mann said. Would he (did he)? Can he sing a Christmas song now up there? A day too late I would think. Then *Perch* emerged from beneath the mossy veil a couple of weeks ago — ever so briefly, because he is gone now. And frost has appeared on the veil…
“I’m going over there now,” he called to Baker in his unfocused way. But Baker couldn’t hear him because he really wasn’t there. Like Perch himself . Due to the eye/face’s disappearance, the door has been open for a return to Collagesity — *finally*. I suppose that’s where he could be pointing to but probably not. The odds are against us.
Nope (I checked). Better get back to Paper-Soap.
Grassy Noll had shifted one chair down to make room for Nauty, but he said that wasn’t what it sounded like. It was just short for Nautilus (continent) — he wasn’t some kind of sex toy doll, he reinforced. “Or was he?” he then joked, and repositioned the pin near his navel in a most inappropriate way, getting a laugh from Wheeler at least.
“So you can help with our pin cushion issue,” said Baker, staying serious because he had a big problem. The Nautilus map behind Nauty had been itself overrun with red pins, marking locations already featured in the blog and with more to come. He needed organization, he needed categorization. What is the true relationship of Lower and Upper Austra? How is the North, deemed non-Austran, really different? And what of the Wild West, the Mild East, the *Southwest*, where he’d just been with Man About Time? And then: Collagesity. Between Highways 13 and 14 that stood for M and N. Soo much there already.
“Yes,” answered Nauty, and then said he had a Rubber Soul. Baker thought about this for a moment and realized it meant he was beyond Help (!). If it kept progressing in this direction he’d need a Revolver to end it all.
“You mean *I* have a Rubber Soul,” he said to Nauty.
Across from him, Opp or Tropp (True Opp) had also shifted one chair over to make room for another newcomer, this Al guy we’ve already mentioned several posts back, the last one set in Paper-Soap in my new rental there, the one in front of Soap Beach but in the Paper sim, the place where the dead wash up in banded groups, ready to be sudsed and bubbled for rebirthing purposes. Wash away the sins type of deal. More newcomers. Perhaps, secretly, Al with his multiple faces was one of ’em. Also: Nauty. Maybe Jinx Doll as well. Seems too coincidental they’re here.
(to be continued)
“This blue panther on the western edge of Crisp Sea,” he spoke in a surprisingly regular voice for such a cartoony figure. “Is that the same as Paul?” He was helping. He really was.
“I don’t know. I’ll send Wheeler over there to take the plunge.” Plunge was code for “going (further) inworld”, at least between us new buds. How lucky I was to find him as a relative freebie on the marketplace, this pin cushiony little fellow!
She was dancing in the center of the taijitu but she didn’t have a pole. Yin and yang halves spun round and round, making her dizzy. making her *ditzy*. They were almost opposite each other. She woke up.
She was blonde.
Oh well. Time to continue the course.
As long as she stays in Crisostomo and doesn’t veer over into Crispell she’ll be on target. Crisp itself.
Ooops (center of sea): *stall*.
In a subsequent dream, a rabbit driving a battymobile drove up to the center and asked her if she needed a ride . Wait — that was reality. Two days ago.
“Need a lift to the meeting, Wheeler?” Baker Bloch was always complaining she was late. This way — not so much.
“*Hop* in. Get it?”
“Sure.” And she did.
But which meeting in Baker Bloch’s new rental by the Soap Bay Beach did she attend, hmm? It could be spun either way.
“She’s coming mum, sire!” called the gardener through the window, having nothing to do now except be a watchdog since there wasn’t a garden in this new location. Only flat plywood covered with a light snow.
“Do you think she found him?” asked Herbert Gold over to his wife, often his partner in crime. The latest theft: “The Blue Panther” by Horace Go Lightly of Spain’s France, prized for its use of cobalt in a thin veneer.
“Doubtful,” replied April Mae Flowers, out on bail from Collagesity jail and thus able to help her hubby with setting up the new house. She just had to have the “Panther”, bail or no bail. She talked her husband into it. As she always could. A team once more, just like Baker Bloch and Wheeler thanks to Nauty. Googling the safest and most efficient way to commit the crime, they bought a fishing pole and lifted it out of a transparent ceiling. Suc-cess!
“She’s pulling in now, sire, mum. She has something in her boat. She has *someone* in her… boat?”
The house never stood a chance.
With her kids shoes and grown up hair, Alysha was more red than ever. She even had a red door to her office here near the center of Squared Root City, where I’ve decided to end this particular section of “Collagesity 2020-2021 Winter”. But not the (photo-)novel itself — I don’t think. Haven’t quite made up my mind yet, actually. Anyhoot, we’re back, Alysha is in charge again, *not* Fern Stalin, and ditzy blonde Lichen Roosevelt is merely along for the ride, at least that’s what the other 2 think.
Alysha hangs up the phone. Herbert Glenn Gold is okay — she just wanted to check. April Mae is back in prison over in Collagesity. Good. She speaks to the people present.
“So you see, Lichen, Fern, we’ve been working on three different scripts ever since, well, I guess, since the last director left.”
“That’s *me*,” interjected Fern, still sharp as a tack. “Why are you *there* and I’m *here*?”
“Well, that’s the basic problem,” explained Alysha, the same age and also intelligence as myself, actually. A bit dimmer than Fern, perhaps, but one up on Lichen in that department. If only she had Lichen’s comic timing, though, she often laments. Back to business: “It started — or we picked up on it — with a phone call from this very town — just right over there at one of the coffee shops.” She tries to determine if she can see it from this direction but decides she can’t. Took her just a minute to get her bearings. Fern silently thinks she would know such a detail *before* the meeting started and not embarrass herself with such a thing in the middle. Lichen was thinking of an Abbot and Costello type dialog involving the confusion of “here” and “there”, but she hadn’t gotten very far. Fern can’t wait. She puts forth what she knows.
“So *I* have the blue script, since I’m ahead of everyone else — July apparently. “Then you have the white one in front of you there, Alysha — or you did — anyway, we can collage that in later — then Lichen has red — or pink — to end. Even further back. May.” She turns to Lichen. “May, dearest?”
“W-what?” Costello was about to find out the center fielder’s name was I Don’t Know.
“The date on the script, beautiful. May? April?” Fern then recalls it is actually April and continues with her theories, ignoring Lichen’s fumbling through the pages attempting to determine a date.
Alysha jumps in before the bazooka that is her mind starts firing again. “We are all one.”
“That’s what I was just about to say (!). We are all one core. Wheeler Wendy Wilson.” The full name — Fern *must* be serious, the other two think at the same time. “The 3 faces of Al — Anselmo.”
“Right, right,” Alysha tried again. “Ansel…”
“… also reverberates with Adams the black and white photographer, yes.” Fern with the upper hand again. She rarely loses it. Unless a name like Helmet Newton comes up. Which it did next.
(to be continued)
It was merely a black and white picture of an unknown town with one somewhat colorful tree. But then it came to life and we were somewhere else. Hermanly again, I would assume.
Yes: Hermanly. Axis-Windmill, who may be the same as Helmet Newton, tries to ignore the increasingly busier burg, knowing he could get sucked into the picture. Like Baker Bloch before him. I mean: Jeffrey Phillips. Man About Time panicked at being thrust into a leadership role, even though he desired it forever. He had to find Baker Bloch (!), but when he did he’d forgotten how he got there and how to get back home. He pointed aimlessly, trying to regain his bearings, just like we saw Alysha scramble with in Squared Root City just a minute ago. Alysha had decided to seal off the black and white city in its own little room, handy if needed, but not viewable at any one time. Out of sight out of mind for the most part. Until Helmet was mentioned. It was time for Axis-Windmill to acquire a proper non-hyphenated name. We’ve tried out Brend but then that went to another character — two characters actually, twins, one blue and black and the other red and white. Perhaps live in this same city, even. But Axis-Windmill is not Brend.
The sound of horseless carriages was deafening.