“You need perfection. You reach perfection. You pass perfection on the other side. Of course Wheeler Wilson was going to defeat (and assimilate) the new Tina Turner.”
“Tina Louise I believe,” said the fainter voice from the side, another Observer. “Like Mary Ann except beautifuller.”
“All-American still?” the first questioned the second. “Ρùℜ℘Îē?”
“That’s the key,” said the second.
“Heart of the matter,” reworded the first.
Resurrected Arthur Kill had finished retrieving the “Spider” from Tennessee but he was around for good thanks to the mop, with its silliness reinforcing its power. So they — Wheeler and he — decided to form a band, creating an alternate reality where “America the Beautiful” replaced the “Star Spangled Banner” as our country’s great national anthem. First gig: Towerboro or thereabouts, playing to an audience half blue half red. Now to split the two right down the middle, form a third. Wheeler kept wearing purple.
Wheeler kept wearing purple.
Wheeler kept wearing purple.
It worked. St. Francis Scott, the key, was hatched at the beginning of the 5th.
The purple building in Mapleton, Oregon, is now vacant.
who’s that lady in purple
She finds herself staring through a window on Long Island, needing more clothes. She decides to assimilate (again). Wilson’s, she ponders the title of the shop while studying the inventory within. We’ll just shift that over one to Wheeler, let the women have the upper hand, although both sexes will be served once more.
Better. And no Alpha needed this time. These were old fashion, BOM based outfits. She crosses her legs and waits for more plot to happen. She’s ready now.
“I’m still going to shorten my legs,” she says, studying her toes too far from her face, story renewed.
“As you wish,” spoke Newt, knowing the moment would pass. It always does.
He folds the paper over, puts it in his lap. “Wheeler”, he says, staring forward.
“No, I mean the shop.”
“Yes, once more.” Her shop now. And she has a special purple one for Newt later. Ah heck, how about now. The legs can wait.
Long Islands’ Benvolians love their solo artists. Here’s Prince and David Bowie, perhaps the 2 greatest such acts in musical history in terms of just raw, pure creativity.
Then of course Mama Cass (top), along with Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes Frank Sinatra. David Bowie has blue eyes too, but, as I think I’ve relayed here before, one appears brown or darker because of a condition called anisocoria (enlarged pupil). And then there’s Wilson Wheeler, I mean, Wheeler Wilson modelling another purple outfit, this time one of her harper dresses. Wheeler actually is afflicted by the same eye discoloration, seeming to have 1 blue and 1 brown eye. No mere accident there.
She stares over at Bowie, wondering if she has his anisocoria or true heterochromia — actual mismatched blue and brown hued eyes in other words. Doesn’t matter, she decides. The effect in this same. In the moment, she’s actually, come to think of it again, a mixture of Bowie and Prince, the latter famous for his purple garb. Interesting they appear together here in this most famous of Benvolian locations called Brazen Head, claiming itself as Our Second Lyfe’s oldest Irish pub. I think the owners anticipated the coming of Wheeler. She’s very famous as well, moreso in the future than the present. She’s working on it. Might be a modelling or fashion designing career that leads her there, might be something else. Desire creates reality, and she’s very determined to make it into that exclusive circle.
Maybe she should take up jazz piano.
Ho ho, she can play!
Scroop’s closest one-to-one name match in the Oracle is Scrougeout
Spider guides. Wheeler’s new fashion design business highlighted by “accident” (foreground) on my big Nautilus map in the sky. Nearby Strutter sim’s steampunk village Rugburns with the cat-witch and her own tuxedo cat (“Pheh! Tuxedo?” she uttered disgustingly when learning she couldn’t get a solid black one) is gone now, disappeared back into the pixels it came from.
Strutter’s closest one-to-one name match in the Oracle is Struthers, reminding us of Shelley and her Lebettu Castle where I just came from, me being Newt, formerly Axis-Windmill and with last name yet to be determined. Perhaps it is Newton. Jeez perhaps it is Struthers, and Shelley is my child, hmm. *Our* child?
Anyway, Spider is back and I’m glad of it. Less work for me to find the next meaningful association to continue the blog posts being churned out one-by-one, like Struthers to Scroop here where the two-dimensional, numbers uttering chihuahua with a name of a different animal species altogether stands upon. Sim, that is…
… and diagonally on it in addition. Let’s follow this.
I miss it.
I love libraries, although I’m not sure I like the bureaucracy of one. Heck, the bureaucracy of anything, red tape built into the meaning. But reading, jeez. I can’t imagine a world without books or at least blogs, ha.
It’s getting harder for Wheeler to change out of what she is. It’s good she’s a faux fashion designer and/or model now, based on Long Islands. Which led her here thanks to Spider.
Gatsby again here on the “Lay Reading Bench Purple” in the tower set up by a fellow artist who has a smaller property in Scroop.
But *this* (bottom of tower).
My guess is that Spider wants us to find his former master, perhaps his present master. A witch has a cat. A wizard usually goes with a dog, sometimes with weird names to help disguise its true form.
“Carrcassonnee,” Wheeler calls over cautiously.
“I am Pauline Silentghost with the g silent and the h — not silent.”
“Pauline Silenthost?” replied Wheeler phonetically.
“Yes. (pause) I am the wisdom of all things–”
“–Nautilus, yes. I gathered that.” Wheeler indicated behind the entity at the circular framed nautilus shell, obvious symbol for the continent she once again inhabits. Like returned Rust. “Thus, I suppose, your smaller property in Scroop.”
“Scrougeout, yes. We call it Scrougeout. Carrcassonnee has decided so.”
It was here Wheeler understood that they were talking to each other in their heads and not bodies. It was also here that Wheeler realized she was floating in air as a disembodied head or sumtin before the Oracle. Silentghost *was* the Oracle, or a channeler of Carrcassonnee in the moment. “You know Spider,” said Silentghost the Oracle. Then she fired these numbers very rapidly, the first being the same as the last. 24 permutations in total. Like this: “2130 1230 3210 2310 1320 3120 3102 1302 0312 3012 1032 0132 0231 2031 3021 0321 2301 3201 1203 2103 0123 1023 2013 0213 2130.”
“I suppose,” replied Wheeler, remaining even keeled through it all. “We found him in Tennessee. A Red Arrow indicated his presence there. And 8 shoes. And a bird, a dove perhaps.”
“Ahh… *my* dove. Victor, short for Victory. And *Victoria*.”
Wheeler tried to absorb this seeming nonsense, knowing it actually wasn’t.
“Let’s go down to my treehouse and talk further,” Silentghost requested, and then they were there.
(to be continued)
Let’s see, I have to fit the Duck back in here somewhere.
“Yes, put on a robe, stay a while,” said Pauline Silentghost by her side, still assuming the pose of a master (channeler). “How’s your knee doing?”
“Fine,” Wheeler said, taking all the shifts in stride per usual. She doesn’t remember changing into the purple-ish robe but here we are. In… Sansara? Yes, but a special part, she realized. An artsy fartsy sub-continent to the immediate east and south. It’s a place she doesn’t think she’s ever been before until now. Thanks to Scroop, or Scrougeout as they call the Nautilus sim in these here parts. So says Pauline. The Oracle rules all in this out of the way, edge of the world type of location. Perhaps it’s just the distance from everything else that makes it so.
“You know who has to show up next.” Stares.
“Do I?” Wheeler, tired of meeting the gaze, looked down at her robe, examining the texture. The finest cloth, she saw (and felt), perhaps cashmere. When she looked up: this.
“So who’s this fresh piece of hell?” she queried, but then knew the answer, which instantly became another question. “Daughter?”
It was Shelley Struthers with a, er, Scrougeout t-shirt, another duck.
“She is the owner of the castle,” replied Pauline, wiser than ever. Rust Never Sleeps becoming Roost Never Sleeps again. She turns. “Aren’t you dearest?”
“My name is Shelley,” she spoke plainly.
“Yes, we know your name,” replied robed Wheeler sitting across from her. She stared into umbrella eyes.
“My husband is George. We own the castle. Together.”
Shelley was much too young to be married. This was a future vision obviously, Wheeler realized. “Timeline, please,” she requested as politely as possible. “You’re a *child*.”
“I am *your* child.” Stares again all around. Awkwardness. Wheeler suspected she had a daughter for several years now, perhaps many years. The spaceship.
“I’m telling you, Newt. She’s *real*.” He’d suspected as well. Black and white, male and female, on and off. Clone? Possibility.
(to be continued)
“The only Butt that’s going to show up in this photo is mine,” spoke up Silentghost, tired of the bog down, but also noting the deleted or unsuccessful profile pic involved yet another purple outfit. Fitting: too fitting. Supposed notorious outlaw on the run Wilson had nothing to say, since she was actually Wheeler. What kind of luck did she have assuming the name of a fugitive from the law?? What did it speak of her character to attract this person into her life?
“I — don’t remember taking that picture, I swear,” she said, plotting her defense. She didn’t. Not her pic!
“Com’on,” insisted Silentghost. “Ρùℜ℘Îē?”
There is another me out there, thought
Wilson Wheeler both wrongly and rightly.
Observing Shelley had seen it too but she wasn’t shocked or damaged in any way. Instead: curious. Futuristic (outfit), she pondered. *From* the future. And so it was. She told this to Wilson who was actually Wheeler. Time is being confused, she added in her psychic manner.
She traced the picture back to last Halloween. The lone blog post published from that day, toward the last of photo-novel 29 which I am just re-reading now, was certainly quite purple in nature and mentioned a purple swamp shack in particular, along with Prince’s “Purple Rain” album.
“I’m going back to that swamp,” she said to Newt on the phone later. Paper-Soap: he was there too. He studied the post while she spoke. Box… Borneo. They were not even really dating at the time. Perhaps they still weren’t, although they’d been married since.
Shelley contemplated the post afterwards too. *She* was there, at the resurrection beach with Cat-Witch who is… *Wheeler*. Just the day before.
Whatever happened to Liz?
Silentghost sure is pretty, thought Liz from her meditating position, curious but not looking over again. They were talking about rumps before, she heard — that’s the word they used for it after she showed up, materializing from where Wheeler stood just prior. “I better get back to my Newt,” she heard her say, like waking up from a dream, “and you better get back to your Liz,” she spoke to Shelley just before vanishing. So here she is. Pauline Silentghost warmed to her quickly. “You will stay here with me for a while,” she said. “I’ll teach you much about Nautilus, both the shell and the continent. Shelley too — no accident about her name there — and also, also…”
“Wheeler?” Liz offered in the gap. Pauline Silentghost had been having trouble saying that name ever since Reno. Shot a man just to watch him die, she’d heard, or at least the Wilson version of her did, the male aspect. Black and white, on and off, dead and alive even. Liz had answers, Liz was gifted. Just like her Mom.
“Whatcha doing future child of mine?”
A trio of men: Cowboy, Indian, Black. And behind them: still fuzzy. Maybe someone named… Frank?
“I’m remembering,” spoke Jennifer “Shelley” Struthers, turning into that Lane, seeing further than before, beyond the edge of virtual reality itself. Stinkerfoot.
Roll him over, look into his eyes. MENTION that the gnome had disappeared. Someone purposely took it. I looked all around the rocks it once inhabited in its 2 locations that we know of.
CRUX — think of relationship with Apostrophe album, the apostrophe itself according to Frank.
Did the Tigers get to him anyway, despite being taken away from the more prominent rock perch and tucked, hopefully safely, behind a nearby tree? The story of County Park basically ends there, as another location I had my eye on for a toy happening was blocked — someone else was already present, a nice enough bloak but obviously living off the land. I knew where he lived; he was telling me that, albeit unconsciously in all likelihood, unless he was an alien himself, ha. He filled my space quite effectively. He, in all likelihood, needs it more.
Back to virtual…
He takes another drag off his cigarette, stares over again. “Swamp Shack Purple,” he speaks aloud after exhaling, reviewing what he currently knows. “With the purple and raspberry furniture now; just shifted over wholesale from Swamp Shack Brown where it was before — on Halloween Day 2021, when Wheeler and I last visited together. She wore a raspberry beret for the 1st time, I believe. She was fascinated by that *box* — couldn’t stop staring at it, eyes darting all around. Then the purple photo with the, ahem, rump also happened sometime but (obviously?) not here. Futurist outfit.” He takes another drag, another exhale of smoke. It might get a bit in his eyes this time. He’s starting to have trouble seeing the truth, what actually occurred and the probable realities involved. A tub was there — he got that. He decides to bring Wheeler over, maybe his wife but maybe not his friend. Unless they could go back in time. To that night. So that is what he requested after the teleport invite was accepted. Wheeler was always online anymore. No problem contacting. Now to convince her .
“No go,” she said, complicit at least in the outfit. “We were in the Brown Shack before. Now we’re in the Purple Shack. Different perspective.” But then they found the key in the sink, right as Wheeler was literally washing her hands of the whole situation. The water ran right over it, but the thing, on its chain as it were, was a little too large to wash down the drain. Their story and perhaps marriage was saved by the chain. Now they can open that box.
“Dearest!” she called over before the red and violet cups. “You need to see this!”
(to be continued)
“Go ahead and take off your head and roll it into the center of the sink. That way you’ll be free of it. You can enter Pipersville unencumbered.”
“Of what?” Hucka Doobie speaks behind me in the void. “Yarns?”
Beyond the resourcefulness of its porcine citizens, there wasn’t much to recommend the small mining town of Rumpus Ridge. But even in such a hardscrabble place, they had created something they could be proud of: over the years they had collected the biggest ball of string in the world. Folks came from miles around to see it. But one night, a flood carries their prized string away and washes it ashore near the town of Cornwall. Rather than return it, the Cornwallians decide to keep the string for themselves.
“See what we did, Keith B.? I *told* you we couldn’t avoid Horns.”
“So it’s all settled. We know what the head in the center of the sink is.”
“We *do*?” spoke Wheeler, scratching her still beret topped head and trying to look innocent. At least she’d taken the key out of her mouth and dropped it in to be disposed of. *Tried* (damn chain).
“Where’s Baker?” Newt looked all around, as if the true owner of this blog and attached photo-novels, heading toward 34 in number, would manifest from a purple or raspberry tinted corner or wall.
“He needs to be in on this yarn, this story,” agreed Wheeler, also looking around the swamp shack but expecting less. The Prime Minister, the only one who can save the plot, the key. And it seems that he already did. Thanks to the levels, the nodal points. Now we can enter Pipersville unencumbered, he might utter if he were here. But is it really about Pipersville, a Maebaelia location famous for its sinkhole not thought about in a while? We have to think like we’re playing 3 dimensional chess. A bit like Spock. We have to get smarter, or at least more awake.
Pipersville obviously relates to pipes. The key should have passed through, Wheeler realizes, gone down. Yet it stayed at the top — caught. The key to the box that is a house, perhaps this shack itself, inner absorbing outer, passing through each other again and again ad infinitum. We should never have opened it, Wheeler understood for not the first time. Pictures. Occident separated from Orient. East over here, west over there, hemispheres apart.
Inner and outer, inner and outer…
Maybe only Nautilus can save us after all.