“I found something, W.”
“I did too (!). You go first.”
START “You know how the last photo-novel ended in 256, when Norris, aka Harry finished downloading the entire Red Room, as Casey One Hole entered and saw his own Ass — edness.”
“I found the continuation. It’s a wormhole.”
“Not hahaha but hmmm… kind of funny.”
“Kind of funny or fully funny, in a hmmm way?”
“Do you want me to continue or not?”
“Okay your turn, W.”
“Oh, mine’s nothing in comparison. Really (!).”
“Try me.” Baker Bloch knew they worked better in tandem than separately. She’d found something.
“Okay (!). If you insist.”
“Just put a picture in the blog like I did. In this post.”
“You know what post.”
“I Don’t Know, hahaha.”
“I know. I’m delaying. But for a reason.”
“*Where* did you find this? How about that to begin.”
(to be continued)
“I miss Baker Blinker,” confesses Baker Bloch to Wheeler afterwards. The story was interesting fer sure. Morgan, pheh. Tess… hypercube. Wormhole again! They were indeed connected, like two particles that act as one over a distance. But not the 2 Bakers, queerly enough. Not any more. Wheeler had usurped.
“Are you ready to order?” Peter Soso, back from a watery grave or something. So hard to remember some of the characters, or at least their backstories. So many now. Must simplify. I’ll make it a 2022 resolution. But the presence of Soso here was already complicating matters. He was blunt. He was not in the mood to chit chat. He probably didn’t even remember me, if we’d ever met. I looked into his merman eyes, scanning for recognition. I remember him being with Prissy, a mer-creature like himself. But then…
“I’ll have a hamburger,” said Wheeler across from me. “Extra blood.”
Disgusting. “Veggie burger for me.” In tandem, like I said. I set them up she bowls them over. Again and again.
“Very well, sir.” He turned to Wheeler. “And sir.” He took our menus and made his way back to the kitchen down the pier to place the orders.
Well he obviously doesn’t remember *you*, I thought about Wheeler. Along with her “man suit”, she was wearing her flip style hair tonight, which made me start thinking of Baker Blinker. Tag team wrestlers they were, at least at one point in time: Flip and Magicka Bean. I had to ask. But first there was the little matter of her Morgan story.
(to be continued)
player at piano
‘Big Red Machine,’ ‘Big Red Machine.’ *Here* it is.
No place to read — all seats taken, thanks to my colleagues in crime. Not crime — anyway, I’ll stand. I don’t mind. These 2 always seem to have the upper hand, testing this and judging or determining that. When I have the information in this book, things might change. Worth a try. Good, they’re not looking — absorbed in their own research.
Chapter 4: Twitch of the Morgan. Okay, getting somewhere. Um, hmm. (read read read) Ah ha. (scan scan scan) Getting late. The others seem bored. Better wrap this up, come back when I can ditch these two snitches — yes snitches. To the cause. I’ve found the book, that’s the important thing today. Fern is still looking around, almost as if — she can’t see me (!). Can they *hear* me? But too risky to test while she has the book. No need to attract attention to herself, whether she is truly hidden or not. She could become unhid, and whatever spell was cast on her by unknown powers (but probably Fern; maybe by accident even) wore off.
Okay, definitely getting weird here. Fern’s looked right at me several times now and it’s as if I didn’t exist (!). Ghosted somehow; Lichen the same. They seem to be finished with their own reading, kind of staring and glancing around. Probably looking for *me* I would assume, since we came in the same car or whatever. Carriage. The time is April through July, I know that. The day, the *century*, though, is unclear. Fern said this was a place we could research the hypercube, and better understand the link that is forming between 1st and 2nd lives. Great! I said, and Lichen also smiled across at me, knowing that Fern was onto something and this would be a better library experience than the one over in Dairocha Castle on Nautilus. This wasn’t Nautilus, oh no. This was the Orient by comparison. And me, me… Oriental. This is about me! Another test, most likely. But why?
The 9th and final chapter beyond the Great 8: gone. As if it had been ripped out by unseen hands. The crucial information! Soo sleepy. Fern and Lichen are still looking around. Sleepy. Eyes getting heavy. *Gone*.
“I don’t think Alysha is coming back,” Fern finally said, tired of the wait.
“No. She must have gone back to the carriage.”
Lumbering Big Red sitting nude with his big ass parked on the piano bench over there was finishing up Part 9 of his suite of compositions. Soon the spell would be over and Alysha would reappear, a bit confused but otherwise okay. But the book in her lap would have disappeared along with the music. One and the same.
Waiting for the go cart race to begin. Excited whispers of Petty all around. Or is it Ketty? Who’s Ketty? Baker Bloch asks himself upon honing in on a name.
Ah yes, *Ketty* he remembers at the next stop in the Amusement Park after throwing up the entirety of his veggie burger eaten earlier that day. Wheeler soon followed suit — all over her man suit. The he sets them up she knocks them down situation continues…
The 2 88’s in back: fine.
“*You* okay?” Wheeler returned, seeing more green around them than red afterwards.
Baker Bloch set his jaw straight. “We’ve got to get to Ketty before he gets to us.”
“Again!” Big breath. “Let’s just get out of *here*.”
The 88’s volunteered to clean up but Wheeler thought that was beneath their job description. After performing the task anyway, they pointed out the word *custodians* in the 1st sentence of their contract.
(to be continued?)
not boxed in and correctly oriented
“Mistress said not to be disturbed.”
“Not to be disturbed”, echoes weaver Tealy to roller Tillie’s issuance.
Neither look up from their respective tasks. Big Red lumbers by them as if they didn’t exist. He opens the door to the far eastern room.
“We tried,” Tillie said afterwards, rolling a green one now.
“We did,” Tealy quickly followed, weaving his own color still. Always.
this be no occident
“Yeessss?” she called without turning from her equations and diagrams, hearing the plodding footsteps from all the way across the large house. She silently cusses her inept “tailors” who double as her bodyguards. Good thing her kingdom here is so safe thanks to her new big plan. Big Red doesn’t reply immediately so she addresses him by name the second time. Could be no one else. The famed player of the piano that always ends with the 9th. Even the purest of heart don’t usually get past 8, which is dinner for a few still. No one ate at 9. Unless they’re made of pure wood, persimmon in this case, she’s learned. A seed becomes a tree.
She turns to face him. Slow of mouth as well as body. But not mind — she knows that the hard way. Piece of metal in her head to remind her every time the phone rang at a certain pitch, ow ow ow. Cursed D Flat. And of course he composes half his stuff in that key any more. Just to rub it in.
Big Red is still scratching his head, confused about orientation. Where is the picture of the Siamese twins on the wall? Where is the *cat*? Turns out Rose Wells had turned the house around for more protection against intruders, since her, ahem, bodyguards were so inept. She’s decided to switch out directions every week — make that every even numbered week for the n-s polarity (she decides on the spot) and then every odd week for e-w. Then turn the whole house over every third Sunday’s Monday just for that extra layer of protection she always preaches about in her sermons. Scientific of course; she’s an atheist at heart, and almost pure enough to get through 7. That should do the trick, she figures. Even nestled in troubled waters as it were, this would make her place as milquetoast safe as fabled Nautilus itself if all goes to plan. Back to it — after telling Big Red what happened.
“What… did you do with my… *piano*!?” he boomed.
“Simmer down, simmer down,” she said, thrusting forth her hands after seeing lumber being gotten out. “Lemme explain.”
A scientist that is, and the twins have fascinated me since their death and rebirth in 1874, when they were brought to my attention as Chief Medical Officer aboard the ever circling U.S.S. Ararat, also during a previous life mind you. Once I put such facts down on paper (or, these days, up on computer screens) it becomes real to me too, and as historically accurate as anything else produced from the annals of Our Second Lyfe. We’re working on it…
Above: Edith and Archina Bunker, fresh from a watery grave after their first lives as men Archie and Ed (photo by Telescope Ted).
From my orbital perspective I was able to directly study their 2 part brains — trace the duality back to a singular state, a Ylem Condition I called it, obsolete term now, and before it was used in Physics. I would even argue that the word was lifted from my studies in the late 40s during my second stint as a Chief Medical Officer, stationed over the Pacific instead of the Atlantic this time and assuming a new and different body with a different overall, attached name. Bodies, pheh. Can’t live with them (etc.). Now I am Rose but before I was Leela and, before that, Eyela. That should take us back far enough if memories serve. It’s all a long story.
The reason I can even talk about such things is that the attic of the house has just shifted over to the basement again, its proper position, since this is the third Sunday’s Monday of the year’s month’s day. Sorry to be so technical, but I’m trying to put this in perspective. I have employment of my lab and its microscope again and am not stuck with the attic’s telescope, useful in its day for long distance space experiments (see Telescope Monkey Trials of Xenon 10-C for another prime example of this) but limited when actually Earthbound, as I am now — in this house — in these icy woods on the edge of the world that is known as the Omega continent. My term again. Steal it if you must. 🙂
And, playing God to the hilt and influenced by my troubled water surroundings, I’ve managed to retro-engineer a man (!), an Adam to my Eve, except he came from *my* rib instead of visa versa, as popular Bibles around the Earth have preached. For now he’s just a Giant for a Day type of fellow but, maybe soon, Giant Forever as source material Genesis is further overridden and a return to anonymity is guaranteed after the erasure of a successful solo career (I get all this from Gabriel) — if I can merge 1st and 2nd so that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Here’s hoping!
Sorry for the broken sentences but I’m excitedly writing this in the middle of the night with weakened coffee drink due to a pre-blog kitchen spillage. Tragedy! But I can properly replenish my supplies in the morning. Starbucks, let’s see, opens in 1/2 and hour…
I call him my 1/2 brother since he has my rib, but he also contains the brain of an A.B. Normal I picked up on my travels to the Further East for more silk and other exotic fabrics that my tailors can use. They *are* really good at making clothes from scratch. Just not good bodyguards as stated before. Thus the reason for transforming or *enclosing* the house here with a hypercube, a psychic overlay. Big Red would understand, if he could move past the 9th and into a 10th and denounce the singularity as well, becoming double brained too. I have all the charts here. He could be the one. I call him my baby because he is always sans clothing, even though the tailors beg me to allow them enough cloth to fashion at least a diaper, hmph. There’s always the big litter box down in the basement, er, up in the attic for that I always counter. And he will be one with my half brother soon enough. Even now, he’s been caught wandering into my red bedroom in the heart of the night, picking up on future memories instead of the past. One day…
(to be continued?)
“Why are you here, Big Red? Can you not find the litter box again? I told you. Today is the 5th so you turn left at the stairs. If it was the 4th you’d turn right. You understand? Even and odd, Big Red. Just like we talked about. And then the 3rd Sunday’s Monday… but no need to complicate matters right now. Can you hold it in a bit more… until I guide you down the hall past the tailors to the correct room? Thanks for your patience. No need to pull out lumber or anything.” She was starting to sweat. A.B. Normal was influencing the future as well as the past too. He needs to merge with my 1/2 brother’s body and pronto! Besides: I get lonely. She concedes.
“Alright Big Red. Just this *one* time.”
“Ma – ma,” he squeals in joy while moving toward the east that was the west just yesterday. He’ll pick it up. Or not. Hopefully won’t matter soon.
(to be continued)
4th and 5th (exterior shot)
the artist dreams (in back)
“Tell me about the tree, W.”
“This is it!”
“Ah, yes. I see: TILE again.”
“Of the modern?”
“Another gallery on Nautilus, W. A new one. Left leaning,” he added, looking at the inworld map.
“This is me.”
clean and filthy (reinforcing points (red shoes))
“Thanks for letting me go first, Wheeler. I appreciate it.”
“Outta my way, BLEHHHH. Sorry!”
00310112 (left leaning)
“Good to see you again, Ruby.”
“Good to see you, Baker B.”
“I — didn’t expect to see you here. But, then again, I don’t expect to see anyone anywhere anytime.”
“Surprises, I know. All around.”
“What do you wish to know tonight? To close.”
“Thank you. How about Nautilus to start. It seems super important still.”
YES… MAYBE… NO.
“Interesting, and how about Iowa?”
YES, YES, YES.
“How about that, Ruby. Iowa.”
“And the transition from Nautilus to Iowa?”
“How will this take place?”
The planchette moves to the center of the board. Stops. Circles a bit. Stops. Circles a little. Stops.
Circles a bit. Stops.
“Is this Fife?”
“I’m picking up something about automatic writing,” interjects Ruby at this point. “Someone is drawing something.”
“Okay. I maybe see where this is going.”
“A *spirit*, yes. Summoned by a *witch*.”
“That’s you!” Baker Bloch exclaimed, then saw it manifest beside them.
“Inter-resting,” spoke Ruby to end.
We are almost certain upon passing that this orange clad guy is welcoming us, the viewer, to Iowa. And the 2 little, alert dogs to his right (our left), one black and one brown? Welcomers as well?
But in the next photo we become confused, as the waver is reflected in the window of a passing red car. Is the driver of the car instead being acknowledged, his or her return wave masked by the reflection of the person waving back? There could be stories layered within stories here. The 2 little dogs remain, alert as ever. It’s as though they aren’t even real.
“I’m afraid something has gone wrong with my left, Foxtrot. Maybe it’s a sign we shouldn’t have returned.” Orange Foxtrot said nothing in reply even though he had a lot of opinions on the matter, small purple bud Octi too. Best to act like colorless zebras and X their mouths shut presently.
Oh if we’d only stuck with red green yellow blue, she lamented later, arm back to normal. For now.
More wind. Cold.
Jen reviewed how she got to this God forsaken place on the very western edge of Nautilus, almost disconnected from the continent. If only it weren’t for Vavra, who led her here. She use to blame it on someone named Jim, but then realized that was only a masculine projection of herself, a double created as a dark, oppositely sexed companion. He probably still exists somewhere. On the Mainland. Here, though? Nautilus but not Nautilus. Mainland but not Mainland. Different, an In-between World, ‘nother one. If only Vavra didn’t have that barely Linden water sailable boat, that Annoying ZZ Mat I think she called it, whatever that means. What-ever (Vavra-speak; I think she may also go by Marilyn).
She looked around even though she didn’t want to. Although certainly not the mountains of the Omega continent, it still was cold this time of year this far up the coast. Too close to Corsica to be temperate. None of the sim’s neighbors liked this place — didn’t consider it to be their “downtown” in any way. They too were isolated from the rest.
She needed to get out of this dress and into some real winter clothes but that would mean removing and rearranging the underneath pillows and she couldn’t make the effort, brrr. She hadn’t eaten in what felt like almost 3 hours.
Oh there were enough people here at any one time, it seemed. She’s counting 7 on her inworld screen besides herself. But where was Bert? Jim? No: Bert. Former police officer turned gigolo. Or pimp — she can’t recall; just as bad anyway, although she assumes the money is better with the latter since several of his ilk work for him instead of visa versa. She was the bookkeeper of the place. Kept tabs on the ledgers, made sure they balanced out each month. Numbers were her bag but figures were too. She oft times had to beat them off with a big black stick she kept handy for the matter. She thought of changing her name from Jen to Gen but didn’t want to lose full contact with Jim back on the Mainland, however imaginary he actually was. She could dream still, then. Her apartment? She wished it was the attic of the town’s Brownstone so she’d have a better view of the goings on of the place, but it was instead the 2nd. Vavra had the third, and always seemed to be bathed in dust-ridden light when she went up there to check on her or to socialize with her or to gather her up for one of those nights on the town. Like tonight. Big girls night out, but not too big. Vavra was on a weight plan. And herself? She started putting small pillows under her antiquated clothing to disguise her talent with figures as well as numbers. Some thought she had been knocked up, therefore, by
Bud the grocery store manager Bert she was known to hang around with, but that was just because of the maths. They use to count the town residents one by one by one, as the green lights lit up on the map come din din time, as they called it. It was like a bell went off, a ding dong, and they came. Poor Mama had it right. The tiles were falling off the wall, red green yellow blue. If the camouflaged zebras start to show their true colors, then… trou-ble.
She wore strange makeup like an android: stars, rings like big red spots marked by a pin. She started out as a demo but she was more than that now. She was a real life girl. She decided at a certain point that she would pretend to create Jim instead of visa versa, and turn Bert into a gigolo with a corresponding loss of power. Because this was a woman’s world from now on. Adam, I’m Madam, nice to greet you. 2 + 2 can equal 5 if she wanted it to. Aloha can mean goodbye as well as hello. Inflammable can mean flammable, and so on. She was a mixed up boy-girl because her one head had turned into two with the schism. Mainland over there, [delete name] over here. The Wild West moniker had it right. Dodge, she decided, this is Dodge. Because she’s trying to, she *had* to. Jim had to remain real.
(to be continued?)
Baker Bloch hiding behind a big potted plant at the rental plaza, just trying to get an idea of who passes through these here parts. None spotted in the time he was there.
Just dummies around.
He’d missed the appearance of Ruby — Alien version — by a country mile, let’s say. Despite the lack of pavement where the Black Lake Bunch usually hang out in the Chicken Pen, Jen had covered her dusty, dirty tracks well, with lady of the night Nancy Pantsy doing her part 02. I recall little Alysha listening to it all from her own hiding place in The Burro, another alley across from the first. And Dogg… who could forget Dogg? I didn’t.
Silver King (Taylor 02):