00480301 (“An Averaj’e Day”)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iz7OIOXfkMM
“Tell us a little about yourself, Peppre?” I asked after she changed into her day clothes, always hot pink in the mix.
“OMGosh, where to stort! I’m a 28 year old man-woman — emphasus on WO-man! — who lives in a house on the edge of Wubble — Wubble, so RAD! — and drives a teen-ie ti-ny yellow bog! See?!”
“Yes, beautiful vehicle, Peppre, wide yet short from this angle. And I know from the phone call that you’re going to pick up your friend Sunsalt and head to the mall.”
“OMGolly not TODAY Miss Molly. I’m headed for another dear froend of mine, Bugnet, who owns Funcy Ass Fwok. I’m going to get me a hot!”
“Hat, yes. But I understand you have no money, Peppre. You spent it all for those bronze statues of naked men surrounding your pool out back and at other various locations around the property.”
“OMG IDC. But first I’m going to spon some whalies in the moll’s parking lot! That’ll teach you to not have any specials today on hots J.C. Ponney!”
“Very impressive. And you didn’t even hurt anyone in the process.”
“OMG, NooooOooo. Always look ot my sorroundn’gs. NOT a killer cor. Just a cor to kill for, haha. See whot I just did thar?!”
“Well, I have to ask you this Peppre, since it’s a subject of the current photo-novel that we’re in. What do you think of the present war against trans people by the right? And black people and gay people and people of color in general and homeless people and people without children and people who do not believe that Jesus H. F. Christ is the f-ing lord and savior of our country damn you and will save you from the eternal hellfire of the grave? Especially someone like *you*!”
But I pointed at nothing since Peppre had already broken into Bugnet’s store and stolen her hat and was indeed heading back to the mall. Guess she changed her mind.
Better run and catch up with her.
(to be continued)
00480302 (the return of All Orange)
“Dammit! Crashed again. Stoopid game,” and he hit the side of the machine with the palm of his hand. Hard.
She stumbled out of the wrecked WV VW into a conveniently placed convenience store, yellow fully removed from her attire to go along with the totaled golden auto. Mysteriously handy Dr. Paul Mouse was alerted to the accident, rushed to the scene. Is this her? he asked himself, palms sweaty from anticipation. He raised the shirt a bit, didn’t have to be much. Red green blue circling around a yellow highlighted navel. This was her. This was *her*!
Smelling salts revived her. All she saw before she blacked out was pink, she said when awakened. She stared up at Mouse. “I’ve been looking for you for a looong time, missy,” he said, a wicked smile upon his mouth. She wasn’t going to be able to get away as easily this time.
And so she became his daughter, *carma* involved for both.
He turned away from the pinball machine toward the clapping, highest score achieved for the month.
“Alice?”
(TBC)
00480303 (don’t be afraid to say the word)
I couldn’t tell whether they were talking about Vermont or New Hampshire from this distance so I had to zoom in.
Still not clear, but from my now floating lips position I did get this was all about a movement away from another state tucked even further into the northeast corner of our great country of the US of A: Maine. You could say that was the main topic of the conversation between Mouse and his greatest creation, another mouse, anthropomorphic in its case, named Pansy. We were in South America’s Amazon far removed from North because he thought he could get away from prying ears here, didn’t suspect me because I was at the resort when he arrived, let’s put it. Hired by the Gaston Berries to keep track of Mouse and his doings. More on them later maybe.
—–
“A sequence of 1 second shots,” shot back the doctor, following up on rules 34 and 35 already cited. They were exchanging ideas rapid fire on the edge of the cement pond shaped like New Hampshire or Vermont, reader’s choice from these angles.
“Yellow,” started Pansy.
“Blue,” replied the doctor.
“Green,” said the anthropomorphic rodent.
“Red!” issued the doctor named for said rodent to close the sequence.
They’d paced the words to be exactly 1 second apart, just like in the video they were referencing. TILE in summary, the ultimate poop product one could say in a vanilla not chocolate way, a different issuance.
Then the golden gloved one emerged from a static filled background at the center to tell the rest of its story.
(to be continued (?))
00480304
“Soo. I gotta ask this, Frank. Is Mouse your *boyfriend* now or something?”
“Noooo.” But he was thinking: Might as well be. We’re stuck together up here it seems. Until Mouse learns his lesson; could take a while, he knew. A looong while. “How’s your *girlfriend* doing, Philip?” Frank thinks to ask in turn, knowing Nada and he were still going through some difficulties.
“Oh, she’s okay.” Philip was concentrating on his pinball prowess, Frank doing the same with his piano. Spongeberg’s Invention #4… so difficult to get the fingering down! In other words, neither were paying much attention to what they were saying to each other. Typical. Not really feeling the other’s pain.
More dinging and clanging from Philip, more fingering from Frank. Philip was trying to beat Mouse’s high score for the month. Frank was also trying to beat a score in a way. Spongeberg’s Invention set down on paper. He feels the notes swirling before him like an angry mob, ready to leap out of the page and take over his mind, his castle, everything. 1000 points to go for Philip. 1000 notes to go for Frank. Or so.
“Listen, Frank. I wonder if you could ask the *Pooping Pigeon* up there to turn down the video feed. It’s as loud as my pinball machine and I’m standing right before it!”
“I’ll try.” Middle C, he thinks. It all revolves around Middle C.
After a couple of moments, Philip reiterates his request. But just then Mouse returns to “Earth” to test out a new resonant center he’d found in one of his many Youtube poop videos he’d saved to his various playlists. New Hampshire and Vermont, he ponders while heading down. I think I know where this is leading to!
(to be continued)
00480305
He was talking to himself again while writing. “Golden glove, golden *glover*,” he muttered. Philip had turned his back on the man called Mouse, thinking about his own stuff. Like how to beat Mouse’s high score in High Speed. Maybe take some speed? NO, he cannot go down that route to highness again. Might end up in another dimension once more! “Philip,” said Mouse. “Could you please move your elbow a bit. Trying to concentrate here.”
“Have you figured it out?” asked curious Frank to his left. He knew he hadn’t but was just making conversation to kill time. They’d finished eating and didn’t want to do anything else. Just: rest. No pinball for Philip, no piano for Frank. At least for a while. But Mouse had his post-dinner project. Scribbling down notes about the Youtube poop videos he’d been watching and studying, focus on CENTER. He couldn’t wait. It was just that urgent for him.
“It would *help* if I knew the name of the character who emerges from the wall of static in 08:10.” Mouse had started naming his videos after their time, but neither Frank nor Philip were keeping tabs. To them all the videos blurred together in a great big chaotic mess. They didn’t see the beauty in the re-mix products that Mouse did. I guess he had to. Salvation and all. Plus he was in some of them so that helped draw him in. He saw *himself* in them. He could identify. “Philip… *please*,” he requested again about the elbow.
Philip got up, stretched. “I’m booored. Let’s play Weegee again.”
“It’s *not* a game to play… like pinball,” Frank said to this. “It’s a channeling device. Serious stuff.”
“Nah,” said Philip, dismissing Frank’s opinion. “A game,” he punctuated his own belief about it. “But I’ve changed my mind again. I think I’ll explore the upper levels this afternoon, see what’s up there.”
“*Maybe*,” offered Frank. “Lexi needs some help straightening out the house *down* there,” and he pointed down toward the ground where Philip officially lived, in Lexi’s house by the sea. But in truth he spends almost 1/2 his time up here in the sky, in Frank’s giant moving castle that appears to have lost its sense of mobility. That’s about to change.
“Nah,” repeated Philip. “Upper levels.” And he moved through the opening of the kitchen down to the living room to access the spiral staircase. Sighing, Frank decided to follow him and leave Mouse to his notetaking.
(TBC)
00480306 (Lauren (Gays Mill sandwich w/ variant meats inside))
I dropped my light on the floor when seeing him in the corner, startling me. A white rat with brown in his coloring now, unlike Pansy who was pure light. Vanilla *and* chocolate. And he was just a big rat which differed from Pansy too, who had human qualities to his makeup, anthropomorphic as mentioned before. “Tell us your story,” he hissed in his rat way, “oh golden gloved one.” I knew what he meant. They had the general idea about what was going on with me, what I represented. Rodentia had a right to know?
So I stood behind the podium illuminated by the repositioned light, told my story, what the heck. Beginning with the new hair. Fabulous! Talk about the Hills, the big white and brown rat requested early on. So I explained that too. It was long winded, starting with 6’8 Grant Hill of the 1990s Duke basketball team who played with another Hill named Thomas standing 3 inches shorter. “Some say that he was merely Hill’s Hill,” I said about the latter, who was a good and decent player in his own right but not the star Grant was. “This naturally led to Missouri and the Thomas Hill (village) there, and also Taum Sauk Mt., the highest in the state. Obvious synchromystic reference to famed fictional character Tom Sawyer who also came from that state. And Pat and Mike in the middle — that indicated Mike, that indicated Coach (K.).” Rodentius, for that is what he said his name was somewhere along the way, nodded with this, seeming to be pleased with the revelations so far. “There’s also Denver’s variant name of Grant’s Hill up in the northern part of Missouri, another way to say to Hill’s Hill. Then there’s Siloam but I can’t speak fully about that. Gays Mill.”
“Gays Mill?” questioned Rodentius from the side. His tone was patient still, like he understood; was putting himself in my black canvas shoes made for tennis matches.
00480307
He wanted that dress but his mama wouldn’t let him have it. This is Jemison after all, where a man is a man and a woman is a woman and neither the two shall mix. At least in the same person.
So later he went off and invented his *own* Jemison. A whole planet’s worth of it. Worth it? (500 million) Maybe.
But doesn’t its capital and largest metropolis look like my Collagesity from a distance? Kindof queer.
Collagesity Rubi, c. 2014
Now where’s that man-woman who started it all inside?
(TBC)
00480308 (Be on Neon)
“You know, strictly speaking, that sign doesn’t depict 50-50. More a 48-52 or 47-53 split, I’m guessing by the looks of it. What I mean–”
“I know what you mean,” Katherine L. interrupted me, getting the joke. She must be pretty sharp, I realized. And easily dismissive because of it. Much like–
“I’m NOT a Tiler if that’s what you’re thinking,” she interrupted my thoughts this time instead of speech. Wow, I think then. How did she–
“My *husband* was.” Again! I think. “But he’s… passed on. I don’t wish to talk about it now. Come back tomorrow for what you need. The gate to the shop shouldn’t have been open; we should have– just come back tomorrow,” she interrupted herself this time. And then she just rolled it down on my gawking face. She wasn’t kidding about returning when she was in a better mood! But, poor her — husband just died. I had to find out how. And dig into more of that Tiler background — why did she seem to dislike them while her husband embraced the, ahem, cult? And why did she alter that sign I’d seen elsewhere in Neon to indicate more a 48-52 (or 47-53) split between the 2 color sides of the game/philosophy/religion, red/yellow in one part (*almost* half) and green/blue in the other? I had stuff to think about before returning tomorrow and hopefully getting more of the story. I knew it wasn’t a sign for calories and carbohydrates. This sh-t ran deeper than that. A sign, yes, but not of what it indicates on the surface.
The next day would give me more of a surprise. Her husband was killed. Perhaps by these same cultists! No wonder she altered the sign. To throw the 50-50 sh-t back into their gawking faces!
(TBC)
00480309 (future echo of 00470309)
Okay so let’s talk about the *original* Game of Life, the one that ends in RETIREMENT.
Well, as I’m calculating, if you retire at 62 or 63 and live to be 100, that’s more time spent *living* on the other side of the date subtract all the work work and then recovering from this work in your afterhours, needing more time to buy proper work clothes, and so on. And also assuming that you’re still pretty mobile at least some way into your 90s. In this scenario, it’s really more fitting to say the 2nd half of Life — beyond the Game — only starts when you retire and not just at some kind of so-called mid-life crisis or anything. And it doesn’t have to be mere slide and glide afterwards as some might put it, swift motion without aim toward the grave. It could be about a different motion, a different progression than you had when you work worked. And this is a problem I think a lot of people are confronted with upon leaving their job. 8-5 filled a lot of time. Maybe you had friends at work that will be hard to keep up with now unless, perhaps, they’re around the same age and have some of the same interests that you can share beyond it. What I’m saying is that the old energy needs to be put to new uses. Play with your freed up schedule; have *fun* with it. Think of time as also increasing in quality as well as quantity.
Speaking of gliders…
Constantynople, Constance
… let’s talk about Death now. The true end.
https://bakerbloch.wordpress.com/2025/07/02/00470309/
“No need to worry about a glider this time,” exudes the spirit-head that calls herself Phyllis, guessing what he was going to say.
00480310 (Tom too)
“My God, why does he look so sad?! He’s already destroyed mankind what else could he want?!”
—–
“He’s bleeding man, he’s bleeding! And nobody’s doing anything about it!”
—–
00480311 (Tom tree (What lies behind the picket fence? Really?))
—–
Answer:
Green Thumb Rd. Master Gardener. To be continued?
00480312
When I beamed down to Green Thumb Rd. the sign instead indicated a Green Thumb *St.* And we were in the wrong state for the location. Should have been (next to Hills Hill and Dr. Tom’s Park in) Arkansas. And I noticed a number of queer doublings when tracking around the overall village in Street View, this Burna of western Kentucky. Or was in Burirna? See what I mean?
House with double peaked porch next door to this service station with the doubled up letters in its name. Related to the 90 degree turning porch of Fieldon IL from section 01 of this here blog-novel, 48 in some kind of seemingly never ending series?
And from the same area: Is it Jamieson like the hill or Jameson like the road and other cemetery in the immediate vicinity?
Hard to tell from the sign once more.
Or perhaps the extra vowel — ‘i” again after all — is actually pointing back to Starfield’s Jemison planet from a couple of posts ago.
At any rate, better get back there; do some more digging around (TBC).
00480313 (Starfield anomaly)
SWOOOSH.
“Hey, what happened to Sampson? Who are *you*?”
“Sampson??” Raphael exclaimed. “Sampson’s dead.”
“Then who the hell are you?” I asked again with more emphasis.
“I… am Raphael. And I haven’t seen a soul since the… accident. The artifact must have–”
SWOOOSH.
“Hey,” said Sampson. “Where the f– did you go? You’re here, and then poof–”
SWOOOSH.
“–you were gone.”
00480314
“And so Edward disappeared back into the woodwork with the seance, hopefully never to be seen again. The End. Thank you so much, Lexi — dawg — for your channeling efforts on this matter. I owe you big time.”
“You’re welcome. But… scroll back to the first picture, Frank,” she requested, trying to stay calm for appearances. She wanted to check and compare.
Yup, that’s him all right. Only the colored version of Pierrot was returned to the walls of the castle, she then knew, and even that might only be temporary. The white one was still out and about, and causing trouble by the looks of what was going on up on the hillside over there. Lexi didn’t have the heart to tell Frank the bad news.
Don’t believe him! Lexi wanted to cry to a potential convert also spied in the distance. Everything *can* be fixed. Her whole existence depends on that very truth.
(TBC)
00480315 (dream)
“Yeah, that’s him, Frank. I’d recognize those beady little eyes anywhere. And that smile!” Philip turns, realizes Frank is no longer with him. He calls anyway. “Frank? Franky boy — you here?” He stares around, then peers over at the conjunction of 2 streams below the railroad trestle bridge, lesser to greater. Copper to Silver some say, although he knows better about the former. This is Edward. Flowing into Silver directly below the train trestle marking the boundary between West and North; green and blue.
Frank says there’s people down there, Philip thinks while trying to spot any on the small peninsula. He knows they’d have to be tiny from his perspective, like ants. “Frank?” he says softer soas not to hurt littler ears. (TBC)
00480316 (2n1)
He called for what seemed like days, from all angles, even from the tracks on the bridge so he could use his normal voice from this distance, he felt. No Frank. No noone else either. Then while standing there he remembered the team nickname he’d been thinking about for a while. *Eleph*ants: still highlighting ants. Emerald Elephants. The elephant in the room, he freewheeled. He’s missing something that’s right in front of his face!
Or was it Eagles? Anyway, he knew he was focusing in on something. Almost there?
Oops, a train horn. Better get off that bridge, Philip, and into the next section. Quick!
Sunklands 