red green blue yelloo!
The artist explains to a prospective buyer that an arm *is* a leg, cutting the price in half. Saale!
“If you dream correctly,” he explained afterwards, “you have purchased a whole museum inside the picture containing many more objects you now own. You’re welcome!”
She took the painting home using both her arms and legs to haul the massive object around. By doing so she has become a creature as well as creator. The door to her house becomes that of the museum. She steps inside the other world, waking up.
I still have much to learn here.
This gigantic amount of creative energy…
… makes me want to return to the religious nuts of Misty MO (for some reason)…
… and stare into a mirror.
I wonder what Dollie is up to, for instance? Still about 2 feet would be my guess.
He continued his information. “Before is the establishment of Fairview Alpha. Sometimes it is called the Big Mess. Too messy. Water everywhere. So many trees and plants and bushes. Clutter, if you will. After is Fairview and Alpha separate, as they should be. One in one place and the other in another. This is also known as the Plane of Martin and the Plain o’ Allen. Fairview is a fair view of the world, as it is, plain and uncluttered. The great bird flies in the sky but always lands here. Here is here. There is no Other, except for the Abyss.”
“Before you start,” he boomed, “take off that silly shirt. The queen does not play croquet. She doesn’t have time for that nonsense.”
“I know, I know,” begged off Guy Benjamin, now part of the rebellion. He shed his first shirt, revealing Zero.
“Do you even know who I am?” he projected forth in a kingly manner.
“You are… leader of the rebellion, sire,” said Guy, slightly taken aback. “Your name is Legend.”
“My name is *Dan*,” retorted the face in front of him, a duplicate of the one on his Zero shirt except for the bespectacled cartoon face and long, Pinocchio-like nose. Guy considered the nose for perhaps the first time: the mark of a liar, a deceiver.
“Just kidding. It’s Atom. Ayom. Something. Let’s go with Atom. Do you like Atom?”
“I… haven’t thought of it before… your name I mean.”
“Atom, yes,” the face finalizes, crystalizes. “I am the *beginning* (long, kingly pause). And the end (quick, succinct).”
“Some people, sire,” Guy ventured and admitted, hoping it wasn’t going too far, “say you are The Lamb.”
“Bu HUH HUH HUH. *LAMB*?… (another kingly pause). Well okay that’s fair (quick again; a let-off; release).”
Guy stood awkwardly before the face that demanded to be called Atom but may also be Lamb, shifting his feet around, trying to think of something else to say and not look as much of a fool this time about it. The face let him off the hook finally, tired of the squirm. “Halfway through my rule I have reached the end but not the beginning. I am the great 4-n-1, and that is *numbers* (pause) but also the word FOREIGN. FOREIGN ONE.”
“You are an alien,” replied Guy. “I have heard the rumors from the rebellious others.”
“*Other* Other.” Let’s stop there.
golden goose egg
Later that week Guy was finally able to steal one of the sacred letters while the others had their backs turned. The yellow one, the easiest since it was the smallest. Upon sever torture he revealed his true name to be McCoy, Rael McCoy, and became a rebel himself. He straightened up (from the perspective of the anarchists), turned more into the letter I than O, or the number 1 than zero. This was more for disguise. The Great Rebellion had begun in earnest, not too long after it actually ended.
(to be continued)
Guy woke up in an alleyway again. It’s those pipes, he realized, seeing upwards. Lead… weighing him down. Dense. Causing the wacky dreams. Stealing a golden goose letter, pheh. Rebel, bah. But… where were his Genesis shirts?
Better phone up Fish Head, tell him I got lost once more. Have to wear the “Nursery Cryme” one to get in. Gall darnit, I *always* have them on, one on top of another: “Foxtrot” beneath “Nursery Cryme”. Just in case. I feel naked without them.
He shivers with this and decides to get into action.
Fish Head wasn’t in for some reason. He’s *always* in. He’s on his own again, at least for a little while. Probably one of those improbable bathroom breaks, he guesses. Fish Head usually just absorbs it internally but it eventually builds up, he reckons. Have to let go sometime, despite the dangers.
As he keeps stumbling and bumbling, he spots Soupie down a passageway. Soupie can help me, he realizes, thinking back to what the old Chinese cook told him last year about, who was it? The owner of the place. The one with the master map. “What you need to keep from getting lost, young dude, is a *plan*,” he said. Also: “Follow the pipes if worse comes to worse. Always follow the pipes.” He’d forgotten about that bit of advice until now. And he was sleeping right below them. Density, yes, but in his own brain. He figures he needs a refresher course. Fate he meets him.
“Good, eh?” he spoke over while still stirring. Always stirring his patriotic soup this one is. Hence the name.
Guy nodded. “Good, yes, Soupie,” and took another slurp. 10 lindens. Very reasonable for a nice hot meal.
“Musshroooms. Fresh from Wonderland.” Guy recalled that Soupie called the fresh market down the street Wonderland for some reason, although its real name was just plain ol’ Fresh Market, or at least that’s the only official one he’d ever heard. He starts to feel a little funny in the head. He decides to tell him about his recent dreams.
He told him of the missing letter in the 4 letter name, and that would take his power away and the rebels could triumph and be top dogs (once more). “Before the coming of the 4 color-letters,” he explained. “We tortured him — extensively. We got a name: Rael. Rael McCoy. We could crush him like a (golden) goose egg, we realized, but, in the end, we just let him go, let him return to the other 3 of his ilk. We realized we could never win. Because we saw ourselves in *him*. *We* hurt when we tortured him.” Guy stopped, wondering if he should say the next thing. The Chinese cook kept stirring, always patient. He’d heard so many similar stories now down through the years. All involving letters, all ending in pain.
“Let me guess,” he said calmly, steam obscuring his head from Guy in the moment. “You realized… you were missing one as well.”
So he knew that also. Because Guy had started out as Guyd, the glossy yellow and green eyed cat who was actually quite inept as a guide, despite the name. Rebl knows.
little one (backs turned again (hidden in corn))
“I don’t belong here,” he said to friend Horace later on down at the docks in a kind of goodbye. “I’m not who I seem.” The wheels in his head kept spinning ’round and ’round.
We go one outfit up for the next section: Harrison Ford Jett. We return to Collagesity and its Boos Gallery with Fern and him.
“So the taijitu ball was rolled over, giving the Mouse another head to replace the one just crushed like a…”
“… goose egg,” finished Harrison. Fern stared at him, wondering how much he knew about McCoy.
“The meteor, yes. Impach. Let’s move over to the Power Tower now — want to show you another baker b. work.” Things were different now, she realized. De ja boom and paths change. She’s glad, because she misses Harrison. And those apples.
But for Harrison Ford Jett, Fern never made it over to the Power Tower. Alone, he stares into the eyes of hate.
Where is he (*panic*)?? Oh: there.
There’s always a give and take to things. Misty MO will always be connected to Yaya Land: Misty MO > Yaya Land. The former may have created the latter, if that makes any sense. The religious nuts might know. If I could find one.
Here I am, on the new edge of the world, staring at Neptune (seen) and Pluto (unseen) jointly. Fern would like it here. If she weren’t blocked by Uranus. I’ll have to talk to the main part of her core, this Wendy Wheeler Wilson. Or maybe Ruby Alien, 1/2 and 1/2. Who will it be tonight? Alysha even? Do I know her yet? So many questions.
“I’m here. Sorry I’m late. I was deciding what outfit to wear for the occasion and just went with the simple one. Hope you still like it.”
“Bluebird.” He’d forgotten about his main girl, his little chickadee.
She sits down beside him and starts talking about how she’s going to really change this time and put the Boos away. We’ll see.
no Boos (yet)
Like you’d like to know, witch, he was thinking. “Journal,” he said out loud.
“Oooh. I *love* journals. Can I read?”
His neck suddenly hurt, as if the mere mention of sharing something so personal with her caused him physical pain.
“Uhh. I don’t know. Maybe. Let me work on it some more.”
“Am *I* in it?”
Of course you’re in it, witch. I’m trying to figure out what you are (!). “Kind of,” he said to her. “It’s kind of fiction.”
“Role play, eh?”
“Er, not really.”
“Yeah.” He let her mull that over. Not role play but still fiction. What does that mean… witch?
He paused to make some coffee. Then they sat outside and stared at the sea.
“I think this is the most romantic place we’ve ever been, Harrison. Can I call you… Harry yet?”
“No.” He was firm about no nicknames. Not until they were married, whenever that would be.
She cuddled against him. “But at least I don’t have to call you Harrison *Ford Jett* any more. Remember that (period)? First the Ford was dropped, then the Jett…”
“I recall.” Of course he remembered. He set the rules. Again he thought that maybe he wasn’t dated the brightest bulb in the drawer. But on that he was dead wrong. *This* was role play. She was doing it very well.
By 8 they were down at the beach lounging about. “Funny, Harrison (she feigned a laugh here), how we (tee hee) can still see our coffees smoking on that patio up there. Strange, eh?”
Harrison didn’t say anything. Witchcraft plain and simple, he knew. This was a *warning.* Don’t talk about role play with me. He’d underestimated her. Why does he keep forgetting how powerful she really was? Must be another spell.
(to be continued?)
9 symphonies — should have been 19 (busted)
At 10 they were back inside. “You don’t know a lot about Bach, do you?”
“No,” admitted Harrison Ford Jett, getting weary of the magic now. About time for bed, he thought. But with her? It both excited and chilled him. What would she attempt *this* time? It was always a roulette wheel of love. “My knowledge of classical music basically starts with Beethoven, beyond Mozart, beyond Hayden. And, in fact, the same with rock music. Starts with Beatles, skipping over Elvis and Buddy Holly and the like.”
“John Lennon insisted that Beetles was spelled with an ‘a’. He was trying to forget the past. He was trying to forget the *parallel*.”
“Suppose so.” It was an interesting conversation for Harrison. Bluebird, his little chickadee, had “turned” smart again after the coffee incident. Maybe it was all the caffeine, he speculated. For *both* of us. Relax and float downstream, I guess. “John is Mahler, though. It’s obvious — the glasses.”
“It’s more complicated than that.” Bluebird decided she better start acting dumber again. She slows down the thoughts. 1 1/2 times now, 1, then 1/2. 1/2 usually does the trick. Not *too* slow.
They were in bed now. Harrison was relieved to find the antics tonight were quite vanilla. Afterwards his neck hurt, though, giving indication that something was askew once more.
stars (Pepper revealed, etc.)
“You’re Harrison Ford Jett aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Harrison didn’t want to commit to this stranger on the hill. He’d seen this trick before.
“I think you are, sir. And I also believe this is yours.” He holds out the guitar. “I’m an artist, see? This isn’t mine.”
And indeed Harrison could play the guitar just beautifully.
In a parallel world, Harrison watches Greg Ogden’s masterful strokes from afar and wishes he could paint.
“What does it say about this place? This: MO?”
“Says here it came from a plane.”
“Ooh?” Flying plane or esoteric plane? she was pondering. Because the latter would make more sense, given what just happened here. *Exchange*. It worked.
The Boos were back.
artists (something to chro about)
Right over there he was. My greatest creation: Harrison Ford Jett. I’ll never get close enough to call him Harry, but *Jerry* might. What’s her name again now? he thinks, folding his arms behind his head in a mimicking action. Sally?
Bluebird, he remembered later, descended from Blackbird. And he was a whole band on the run. Perfection.
the wedding of Winsor and Newton (damsel in this dress (embarrassed zebra))
“MO like on a ship?”
“Plane. But a plane is a ship in the sky.”
We land in Misty MO again. Someone steps out of the plane. I believe it might be Jennifer M. Friend but I’m a little discombobulated tonight admittedly. I’m on a straight diagonal toward Endgame but can I reach it? I had a sister.
I had a sister.
He looks away from where he’s been and thinks about the present.
He wasn’t happy with his latest painting — “Parasols” — and he’d run out of green paint as well. Irritation tonight. A big black fly zoomed around the room, sometimes landing on his painting as if it were a window outta here. And perhaps it was.
“Jerry?” he called over. “Wanna go on a walk?” He was trying to be as cheerful as possible, given his mood.
Jerry, she thinks. Is that who he believes he’s sleeping with? The *ex*?
He recognized the voice. “Flo?”
“Jerry… went home.” Flo wondered if he still had a relationship with “Mr. Green,” given that he had none. She could tell if the painting was dry or not. She went into the other room of the Greek village apartment, hovered over him.
“Tell me if that’s Wet Glaize. Or Dry Glaize.” She stood her ground, allow him to absorb the shock of her presence her on this romantic isle in disguise. Instead: trap.
“Wet Glaize *is* Dry Glaize,” he uttered automatically, bringing in more memories.
She couldn’t tell. They next went outside to drink and catch up and look at the view. She turned away from the blue, not wanting to be reminded of crosses. Because she remembers. Greg Ogden was… well, she didn’t want to think of it right now. The bastard pirate!
“Do you even remember Ruby the green alien,” she complained after finishing one glass of wine and beginning another. I believe it was her 5th. “Where did you *leave* her?”
Green, he thinks. Where did I leave green?
“Do you like my last painting. This one was successful — not sure about the present one. I call it… “Ship in Disguise.”
Indeed she couldn’t tell if the ship was in the water or in the sky. 1/2 and 1/2.
We will return to this place, but other plot lines must now be followed.