00470101 (Blow Boy)
She sang about freedom in this New Island venue where she married one of the Edwards/Eddys early that day in late April’s May, the new island husband joining her on congas. Then she sang about prison, the 7 reduced to 6 and 6 and 6.
I’ve seen her before I believe. Called her up but it was the wrong number. Killed and beheaded by the Witcher but rose back like the Alabama Phoenix, monstrous fangs in their appropriate slots across the inner mouth, SMILE.
She gets away by being in her own sphere.
00470102 (new lighting)
“Aren’t you going to finish your triangles dearest?”
“In a minute,” answered Sarah Tucker to on again off again lover Al, watching the newest storm roll in from the many windowed establishment, orange in color and violet violent in nature. She wondered if the posing giants outside would have to save their ass. Again.
Nawt Vaya’s Vortexville. A weird place to live. We’ll come back soon for more out of this world fun.
00470103
Going to see the New Island maker and hoping it’s not Mid Hazel again, SHIVERS. Despite the location names involved here (Hazel, Hazelhurst (Ruins)). I’m taking him up on his invitation cited above from “The New Island Relocation Guide,” found online for free!
Just over there in that house to the left, he said about this picture from the guide which I’ve somehow managed to get inside of, ha. He also indicated that the collection of structures to the right where the railroad leads is the village of Hazel. Definitely avoiding that; no use in taking any chances at this late stage (!).
—–
I notice the geraniums, I notice the succulents. This is definitely the right place. NERVOUS still.
Knock knock knock.
An older gentleman in a Hawaiian aloha shirt with paint stained hands soon opens the door. Relief, PHEW!
“Can I help you, Miss?”
Shelley wakes up before they can talk further. An explanation of what’s actually going on from the creator will have to wait until another night, another dream. Or maybe a series of dreams — that would be cool.
“Till then,” she can hear him say as he retreats back inside. A painting, she also picked up on. He’s working on a painting of….. this she couldn’t resolve.
00470104
“Ooh, the city lights of Juho over there are *soo* pretty (!). Good to be home.”
Eddy pivots in his seat at the closed Asian Fusion Restaurant to take a gander. “Those blank white trees over there: not so much. Blight,” he spits out. “Our Second Lyfe trying to be more than it can or should. Leave the old but still quite functional game alone, you *Limeys* (!).”
“Oh Eddy,” says now red haired Shelley, back from her sabbatical to who knows where. Ready to surprise the parents. Who forgot she even existed. “Soooooo negative.”
“I’m *not* negative. Just a realist. Like you returning here. Your mother put you in *prison* the last time because of her jealousy. She says you’re a child but she knows better.”
Shelley wasn’t so sure. Besides, in her eyes she still had her freedom while trapped away inside Rockaway Beach Penitentiary. It’s all about perspective. She even wrote a song about the paradox (see: post 01).
“Listen, it’s 4 in the morning,” she decided to say. “We’ve been up all night. We’re tired, we’re wore out from the journey.”
“From who knows where,” Eddy, her Edward tacked on.
“Oh you know where, you new husband you — Silly.”
And suddenly he did. New Island of course. Escaped from mainland prison via that route, that direction. The chasers couldn’t get to her that way. The bridge between the two became broke and wouldn’t open back up.
Refuge. But with a witch in control now of everything, ugh. She’d still have to pay a price.
(to be continued)
00470105 (the end of the Gray-Green or Green-Grey perpetual war)
Who comes out on top?
Doesn’t matter any more.
Screen captures from Röckët Stähr’s epic “Death of a Rockstar” fully animated rock opera here again.
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt13833798/
00470106 (red = dead)
My old haunt NWES City: devolving and most likely soon ceasing to be.
For example, the interesting trailer park across the road from Moe’s old bar: gone. Moe’s former building with the red square now in front: empty. Probably has been for a while, rent due who knows when.
The 4 (red yellow green blue) into 5 butterflies (add: orange) weren’t fulfilled, pheh. Could they have ever been? I think in a probable reality this is so. Everything Collagesity went into everything NWES City, smaller to larger, and made a new whole. Subways were completed. The, ahem, downtown elements of the burg were better balanced by the cleaner uptown ones. A clearer core center was established.
He he he.
But I haven’t given up on it quite yet. Or at the very least Wheeler hasn’t.
(to be continued?)
00470107
Pretty sure it starts with an Arrow somewhere in or near Nashville, Tennessee. Pointing directly to Red Row 1 mile north. Let’s zoom in (again!).
—–
It wasn’t a *spider* in Red Row I was looking for, despite these 8 shoes found on some hick house stairs. Red Row? Red *Herring* (!). No, it was a *dog* named Spider (thanks 4th human within with the remaining 2 feet, *POP*). Found just down the road — or row — being attacked by a bird. Bird dog, then? Chihuahua, I discovered.
“Get away from my dog, bird!” I called from the ’57 Chevy Kenny was driving. “*My* spider dog! *MY* SPIDER DOG, SHOOOOO!!” *POP*
Better.
I kill my now disposable chauffeur with my final bullet (*POP*) and take the wheel, leaving room for the dog in the vacated passenger seat, body dumped in some bushes at this conjunction of Red Row…
… and, er, Red Row?
Anyway, I stick Kenny’s body into the bushes better and head back to the lawyer’s office with the dog to collect my hard earned reward.
(to be continued)
00470108
Roberts takes the magical Chihuahua from my arms, removes the hover text style numbers from its head and feeds them into the computer through an input mechanism I can’t quite understand or explain. “Good good,” says the private investigator who also doubles as my lawyer while watching the monitor. “The Red Row is forming again… see?”
I see this in front of me: one red square appears to the upper left, then another directly to the right of it then another to the right of it then another to the right of it until the sequence numbers 13. But the 13th, she explains, is the same as the 1 again.
“What next?” she asks. I tell her I don’t know. “Zero,” she persists. “The interval is zero now,” she prompts. “What’s next?”
“Um… one?” I guess without much conviction.
“Yes!” And with the press of a key, a second row forms in a similar manner directly below the first. All the colors are different now except for the 1st square and the last square again. Beginning at the left we have red once more, then red-orange, orange, yellow-orange, yellow, yellow-green, green, blue-green, blue, blue-violet, violet, red-violet and then red to end. These were her words for the gradiated colors as she explains what happened.
Then she asks again: “What next?”
“Oh geez, I don’t know. I suppose: two?”
“Right-o!” Same kind of row forms immediately below the first two when another key is pressed. Colors now: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, and then — repeating the pattern beginning with the 7th square — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, to end with red again.
“What next?” she then asks. I think I was getting the hang of this.
Eventual what was produced was this, which promptly went into Barry de Boy’s “Does This Look Square to You?” series at the end. Roberts called it “The Atom.” “This is where everything starts,” she said about it. “Can you see?”
“Here, back up a bit,” she suggests. “Squint your eyes,” she said after I still had trouble getting it.
I saw.
00470109
“The Atom is not just another pretty op art picture,” she said, manipulating and expanding the pattern until the above image was produced. “It represents a CONTRACT signed between you and the Universe (almost wrote *University* there (!)) to go out in the World and do and preach GOOD. If you can’t do this then someone else will. In fact, they already have.”
https://theredarrowgallery.com/show/red-arrow-brianna-bass-ex-nihilo
“Will you let it go?” she continued. “Or will you reclaim what is rightfully yours? Both can be true, you know. You and this other person are not the same. The child of the best friend of the sister of you and your wife’s best friend. Small world, huh?”
“Indeed (!)”
A character, I realized. I have to create a Classical God-Star. TILE must be involved again. And orange and violet, ERR, amber and magenta.
00470110 (Bass cont. (lost laugh track))
“Saaayyy. You’re sweet on her too, Sheriff. Aren’t you?”
The moment rock throwing and all around Mayberry troublemaker Ernest T. realized Andy and he like the same woman. Teacher of Opie, Andy’s son, but also, now, teacher of himself (!). One of the two of ’em would have to go, he decided then and there. And he’s hoping it wouldn’t be him of course. So that meant, let me see (he thought, narrowing the options), it had to be *Andy*.
—–
“Barry? Barry?!”
“BARRY!!!”
00470111
“Jeez, Barry, I thought you were *dead*.”
“*I* thought I was dead. Inside the dream. Bass had a rock the size of a small schoolboy’s head. Hit me with it right in the kisser!”
“*3… hours, Barry. *Three* *hours*.” She sits back in the chair a bit. “Anyway, *why* was she trying to kill you? This Bass woman.”
“Man. Bass man. Ernest T.. Haven’t you ever seen ‘The Andy Griffith Show?'”
“Of course I have, Barry. I meant *man*.” Why did she say woman? she thinks to herself. But this is not about her. This is about *him*. She turns her attention back to the freakishly long dream which he for some God awful reason couldn’t wake up from. It was like some kind of temporary *coma*.
“I think,” he answers Wendy’s question, “he was jealous of me.” The laugh track ended there, he knew. Time for something serious; time for *death*. In the show!
“Why? Why Barry? Why was he jealous?”
A common love, he understood. Helen. Helen Pettry Crump, also known by the schoolboys and even some of the opposite shore experimenting schoolgirls as Helen Pretty Rump. And now Ernest T. was a 33 year old schoolboy himself. Always looking for a potential new bride. Watching her from the back with the others, he knew he’d found one!
“Ernest T.!” she called to him one day, whirling around from the blackboard, surprising him. “Solve the following equation.”
Suddenly there was no schoolroom, no teacher. Just a rock. He thought long and hard about what’s on it but couldn’t reduce it to nothing. This was *something*. His blood began to boil inside him again. I’m going to *take* this rock… or a smaller version thereof… Aaaaaaand.
“And that’s all I remember, Wendy. Swear to God.”
(to be continued)
00470112
“Why are you back, Arthur?” she says after he sits down. “Is it to see the dog? We’ve been through this before. You’ve seen me feed the numbers into the computer to produce the Red Row. And then The Atom, and an (op art) example of what you can do with it. There’s nothing more to see here. Nada.” She had another client coming in at 11:45. It was 11:30. He said he’d show up at 11 to talk to her about something. He was late.
“I want to go back,” he just blurted out, knowing time was short. “I want to go to… Red Row.” He figured there was something more to it. Too many rows named red for one. A 2 fer 1 (!).
“The only thing you’ll see there is proof that nothing is left. The dog is ours.”
“So I can’t even see it now?” He wanted to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. But of course he had his money, extra feathering for his retirement nest. *Something* had been exchanged.
“No,” she put it bluntly. “Not until the reopening.”
The numbers laden dog remained hidden behind the secret bookcase door, a 6×4 mathematical puzzle-lesson with 20 positive results along with 4 negative outcomes at its center core. Just taken by itself.
00470113
“The 420 folder is getting too full, baker b.”
“Hucka!”
“In the exoskeleton!”
“The Atom is part of the CHRO system, which is pronounced like Crow,” she begins. “Someone had to exhibit at the Red Arrow for all this to surface again. And then there’s the ROCKSTAR direction — always the ROCKSTAR direction now.” She paused to wipe some pollen from her mouth. Hucka D. Was he even a she now?? “You went back to Red Row, found nada. Not even the bird-dog conjunction. Something had shifted. Something had, indeed, been removed.”
“The dog.”
“Actually the bird but we can assume that means the dog. As in, the dog was never highlighted (by the bird) in the first place. Nothing to be removed. No Spider.” She paused. “You’ll figure it out,” she reassured, a seemingly innocuous statement that surprisingly irritated me.
“Can I see you? Can I see where we are?”
“The maps rise up to meet you,” she then stated.
00470114 (bulletproof)
“‘How can you not hear it?’ he might say to me in frustration. ‘Are you *deaf*?'”
“I say, ‘your work is an impenetrable sphere, reflections all around but not from itself.’ Here:”
“That’s a great story, baker b.,” Hucka said, looking at the mirror ball he pulled up on his monitor. “It really is. But I must buzz off elsewhere to use the old nomenclature.”
“Okay, alright. *Bye* I guess,” I say as I watch her — or him — fly away into the blue blue skies. Hucka D. the Bee showed up again after so long only to leave so quickly!
—–
“He thinks I’ve reverted to bee form, Marion. I, of course, haven’t.”
“No you *haven’t*,” expresses Marion Star Harding, taking all her womanhood in from top to bottom from his seat opposite her at the Welcome to Mimosa tavern, sign lost in the Great Wind Storm of ’02 (“The Great Blow”). No antennae even, now. “Why?” he had to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s trying so hard to understand the various creators lining up around him now, sees the parallels to them in himself; alternate paths.” I want to keep him productive, was the underlying meaning.
“You’re a fine woman,” Marion said to this. “Very fine. Now let’s walk over to the Rhino and see that comedy group again we so love.”
“You first,” she said with a sly smile.
“No, *you* this time, he he.”
“Alright.” And she got up, wondering if she had the hang of swinging her hips properly. Would this be the last vestige of her bee self and the awkward duck walk showing up? Turns out it wasn’t — she did fine. Very fine. Marion looked on in pleasure and happiness the whole 3 blocks over.
00470115
“Oh shoot, Hucka,” Marion says at the door, peering in. “No seats together left up front. We’ll have to sit on the couch further away from the stage.”
“Fine with me!” she responded, knowing the hips did their job on the way over. They’d pay more attention to cuddling than comedy this night fer sure. Besides, they watch this act every Wednesday rain or shine, know every line that’s going to be uttered. Firesign Theatre: the house group at Gaston’s downtown Rhino. Unless it’s uptown. We’ll see.
00470116
She ran on the beach the following morning and had much to ponder about. Halfway through her visit with Leeman or Leemon she excused herself and went into his small 1 toilet, 1 sink, no tub or shower bathroom in the hallway and inserted her umbrella contact lenses so that she could record what was being said. She figured he wouldn’t mind since he was going to write a book about New Island history anyway. She’d just not share her gathered information to anyone beforehand.
She knew she had to select a place to buy some property, build a home, become part of a tribe, a community. Since she’s also determined she was going to stay here on this New Island, bringing Eddy over too at some point in the process. Hazel seemed like the logical choice to settle down in. Right nearby Leeman/Leemon’s home where she can visit for more talks — he reinforced during her visit to come back any time. So she stayed in the Hazel Hotel last night just to check out more of the vibe. She detected absolutely no signs of wickedness in the air through various conversations and just poking her nose around in general, no spell books, potions, or sigils anywhere to be found, etc. And that night while trying to go to sleep despite all the new (island) thoughts buzzing around her skull, she had an illumination: *she* was going to write a book too. Fictional not factual. She already had a title. “The Hmm.” Stepping on his toes? She hoped not.
00470117 (Mid Hazel)
She was easily enough trapped just in the sim of Sandraman. I didn’t need the rest of this *old* New Island to do the trick. The other New Island, the *real* one as it were, will remain a black and white dream inside her head at night. *My* dream.
Night night, sweet Shelley. See you on the other side, he he he. Ho ho. (sigh) Hu.
Sunklands 