07 October 2009



Most of August was spent, when not sending scurrilous, demeaning, and vituperative emails to Kieth Olberman --who could resist?...--in the editing and cleaning of the seven files found of ''Ancient Romance''. Most of the story of Camila was gone, but two small chapters, as was missing half of the birth of mars, all but 20 pages of Kaiser Quo's life, and too, a ''life of...'' type thirty page biography of a personalized forgather, Gaius ''Acricola'', a drunkard, womanizing, Tuscan prince and his roman Jewish wife and their assent to the throne only to go up against Numa. I saved the collected chapters in a jarte file, as not to lose the story itself, as I know this another blind alley, anyway.

With the cuts I had to make anyway, I was resorted to a 288 page book, a pamphlet really, in comparison, but am determined to create something out of the cracked clay jars. The excised parts making a better book even that that which I have sent to a publisher in a flat rate box. With Columbus day coming, I think of presenting parts deemed too scurrilous, vituperative, and email like, to be allowed in the volume, concerning that most sad and beguiling and endearing and enduring of imperial victims of a likewise empire, the Etruscans and Italians, right here.



ANCIENT ROMANCE
CHAPTER EIGHT. 'AUGUST'
THE PONTIFF GOES TO THE THEATER.

August 21, 1147 Annum Continua Villanovis, [309 , or so, BC]

On The stage at the theatre of Turan, that portal I have used to both the past and futura, just as it used as in my abandoned masterwork ''Life of Kaiser Quota'', I saw the tattered curtain, stagy, self aware, pompous, flickering of a limelight play production called ‘’The ½ Italian’‘. Aren’t we all, after all…?

Since I was a kid, playing hooky in the Italian country side, I like others, would walk past the slope upon which the Theatre of Turan was built, looking down into it, to watch the dancing girls and the puppet shows and the situation comedies. And , of course, the plays, all when I didn’t have the crowns in my pocket to buy a ticket. Or, even back then, the pennies. But then inflation is the scourge of all empires. More likely, I stole a show rather than be at school being drilled in Greek--I wont touch that--it was when a show was deemed ‘’adult’’, meaning it was ether dry as fire wood and greedily , greekily, dull. Or better, when I had heard from older boys, like Erba, that a show was full of pretty Tuscan brunettes, with big asses playing the ingénue to some old man in a comedy. Walking past its yellow colonnades and its lovely depiction of our raven haired goddess of Love, which the fag Greeks art so determined to recall with their blond, bloated, fish smelling, crab infested Aphrodite, I stopped and looked down the hillside again, into the round stage at the heart of all Italian open aired Opera houses. I was feeling nostalgic, as I peered down to see what was going, on as audience sounds came wafting up the Tuscan hillsides.






I hate both Marcellus Histrionicus, the name of the thuggish actor who plays essentially the Miles Gloriosus part, who both it and he I quickly noticed, --and God knows that isn’t a fake name--, and also hate his puppeteer Fuscullus, the director of this crap.

They play at ‘’acting Italian‘’, whatever that should mean, to whoever is paying to see an ‘’Italian’’ at work. Meaning should the a rich influential Spartan official be in town, and wish to see a play at which the Romans being their sons and spawn, then the troop play at roman-boy red caped heroics, and should a Greek be in the city, they play at being enamoured players of triangles and mathematics, and such, and use memorised liens from Homer, that dreaded Homer, to show there is a cousin hood. Should a reeking with money Arab be in town, they play at that Semitic jargon, using the warbling octaves of women that have been used in palaces of sultans for millennia. Because Italy is that the veridical cross roads of three continents, every peoples who agates another can find a cousin phantom menace in Italia, if not a mirror of themselves. Anyone who was willing to be a backer to their shows they get what they want, which means, less Italians, or even Jews, broker this fiasco of theirs which means , as I could tell them, their merger arts shall become more threadbare by the day, until, like all minstrel show creators, their hatefulness of theory of stagy black arts will revolt back upon them, and they shall be venially, third rate balladeers of heinous puppetries and comic plays, and be stuck in a low class burlesque the sorts so ill defined and hated by gods, even Turan, that they are done for cripples and drunkards in fruits cellars. They await such a life of the last act of such a play, and I frankly cannot wait for that to happen to both.




The Romers, Bless them, know this all, how Italy is seen as a boiling cauldron of allies or enemies, and now, openly put their noses in other‘s business, knowing that now they are on the map as ‘’good soldiers’‘. Now, they are more than willing to take sides in a amazingly ostentatious way, and sell, literally where the word ‘’soldiers’’ come from, good solders to rag tag armies hither and yon, and thus be flush with Greek or African cash. This is beyond the ancient ideal of mercenaries, in that, the soldier of fortune has always been a lone swordsman, an adventurer, and usually ahs been a style of man, who in any civilized country would be the types found in every jail. But Rome now has taken that ethic, if not that practice, and has made it something akin to a kind of foreign policy. Really, it is brilliant, and the others of the squalid Middle earthers of the sea do so wonder why they hadn’t thought of it first.

There have always been proxy wars between whatever powers there were at the age they were powers--Its is ephemeral, this world stage power and praise, do tell the Romans senate that warning someone, Please do!--but, Rome, and it took the Romans to figure this out, that those proxies, slate board chalk outlines of the powers themselves, draughts on a table top, the very proxies themselves might be always indebted and even yearning for a third party to come in an upset the apple cart completely. An upper peninsula Greek lord was bothering some dishrag rag tag, half ass, prince along the Adriatic, the old story goes, and he sent out word to Rome for auxiliaries--they call them ‘’advisers,’’ even then you see, --that he was willing to spend 100 crowns a body. Some mercenaries charge potentates as much as a1000 duckets a head, even in the age of Numa when this supposedly happened, but alas Numa is their blinding star child, their God, who would have civilized the brutal race, literally, as Aeneas, their queen’s brother name was Brutus, a favourite there, and left them before his mandate of heaven was fulfilled to make the Romers more like Greeks. I am glad he didn’t, actually, as we are up to our asses in Greeks, as it were, and need no more. Again, I can’t help it, there is something, dare I say, honest about these Romers, and to make them Greek, is a sad thing. Here, in this story, the Romans show their almost Semitic love of war and business, or better war as business, or nosiness, at which they are ultimate auctioneers. They literally call these men ‘’corporals‘’, as in corpses, and so sure are they of their prowess almost flaunt their manliness in signora fortuna’s pretty, bitchy, beguiling and ringlet falling into yellow eyed face, who I am certain, as befits a hyper emotional, stupid, woman, adores them so. I am not one of her priests. At least anymore, as I am at least nominally a pontiff who ascribes and channels all prayers to the awful Semitic god Ynia, or Tinia, an awful backwash from the earliest Trojan invaders into already then civilized Italia. So, I can’t speak with scholar knowledge that she, Sister Fate, loves the Romans. Still, with the hunch of an old woman witch of a soothsayer, which I preened to be, and was forced by my patron Quota to become, I am sure she loves them to pieces, as who wouldn’t, deep down. Except a Tuscan.




So, The Macedonian king, with some delusions of being a cousin to Alexander, that faggot god, heard this strange pact of Amicitas, and surely, almost dreamingly, waved it off. ‘’Who the hell are these Romans‘’, she said, which I say for in that most Roman of literature, gossip, In the only annals they devotedly collect, graffiti , they have taken to luridly calling this nothing princling as a hermaphrodite as they gleefully see all Greeks. The lisping, --oh, what artists those Romers are--, king said to his aides de camp, ‘Lords, who are they, some sunbathing Neapolitans, short and kinky haired and sex addled and money loving and lazy…? HEHEHEHEHE,…’’ It is said in tattered old roman books, that he-It, that she, laughed like a girl, as they are fond of repeating. Well, Yes, yes, Alexander the 4th , you have that right. Also, in addition to their affable and sickening Italianisms, as so taught to the world by the dire men of streetcar nearby stop theatre stagecraft, like Felix the dreamy playwright fool, the Romers do carry a blood strain in that they have a similarity to mad bees. In three days, the prince rode away from the battlefield, laughter having died down, in a dress like a woman, as the incessant Romans do with their incessant points, having never seen such men at work. He was, I heard, tracked down--they are expert horsemen as are all Italians not too Greek, and thus have not lost the inclinations of our Bactrian- Mongolian true Aeneas ancestors, as that while we orientalist Tuscan's paint walls with God with giant dicks and angelic naked women. And Al the 5th or whatever he was, if he was even that, and had his throat cut and his liver sent to the other prince ling, who was the familial regenerator of a family whose patriarch is still now a senator on Rome streets, but like all, stretches his limbs, as they like to say, in the lush verdant Veii countryside. But, as far as Romans go, he is a good man and an unbelievably honest one, as which, he should soon be weeded out of that growing and thus corrupting palpably, house, forthwith. And yet, I must say, this political stratagem of divide and conquer, is quite they way to national cohesion, especially when there is no such thing as even a pretense of race, as a roman is anyone who calls himself a roman , and can dutifully, pay the charge, fees, levees, taxes and finders fees and tithe of such Mercantile Patriotism. All in all, though.…





.

And, too, they have some two bit state somewhere indebted to their fine solders, who after whatever ever scrums they have instanced themselves, those men stupid enough to make Amicus with Rome, soon find the wolf now glaring its mean grey eyes at the one time previous, sometimes only moments before, ally. So, rather than do likewise, we Tuscans parade and preen and shout and war games it up, adorning whore houses with painted angeli, and paint screens and white walls and temples, while we abandon one part of Italy after another. We convince our dear ancestors, more snowy and misty by the day , and ourselves; that we will eventually fight when the barbarous are at the gate of Laureatia, or the temple of Commodity, which are recalled with dingy roman recreations of Hill gates and their temple of vestals, which are down right Roman forgery , showing that they mean to recreate, brick by brick, Lauretium, Naples, Veii, Ostia, before burning the originals to the ground. Unlike Rome, we take a more Fortress Tuscany attitude, which is why the Romans distain us for being makers of ivory towers, meaning our ivory citadel which every Tuscany city has at its heart. Somehow, the intellectuals at Rome, such as they care, Have convinced the other Italians, that ''Ivory towers'' is a synonym for intellectual elites effete simpering sacred types, which the building they besmirch is in fact, Ivory for a reason, built with brick sold top dollar to us by Thuga African warriors in those wars with the hatefully Persian Phoenician Punic , from before even the punk’s came a calling, and which art least in Lauretium is called the CASA LARSEN, or temple of Mars, to place it in the roman vernaculars. Perhaps, deep down, they are right, as parts of Italia are stolen away, we huddle in ivory towers , and wait for their full coming assault, when we will fight, supposedly, and vie with them then.

It is a wholly womanish thing to do and say, as priest as I said, I am not, and the soldier in me yearns for a thousand good men to make Quo’s final assault, in relays upon the chaotic trash of the Po, to at least box the Roamers into the Tyber plains. Yet, alas, we are at that point of all empires, where the sins of opulence have taken hold of the nation forged once by blood, and men who took every hazard to acquit themselves as soldiers now have OVERFED CHILDREN’S who posture and parade, as I say, their civilized nobility. And by then, when we shall fight ‘’for when Tuscany itself is in danger‘’ , an always over sued epithet of the pax parrots of Concordia, the ultimate draft dodge welfare queens have used since Babylon, as the dying old men warn to no avail, and the inner maidens called pacifists hope, it shall be too late. I hope when the Romans do take all of Italy as their art demands of their howling wolverine spirits, as we find their love of war, as their councils are amazingly openly fond of calling it, quite disconcerting to over civilities up us, as we take a much more Greek and Turkish model of city states only loosely tied, I hope the loudmouths who screech of their pompous nicety and the glories of the saintliness are the first the Romans kill. Of cause it shall be such, for solders as are the Romans, --tell me about it, as I have seen at least a half breed of their fox den and the blood of etches war loving men, up close--, are as hateful towards traitors and the sanctimonious as are anyone from that stripe. And their stripe, another affectation of curia honorific stolen wholly by them , what else is new…?, it is a red stripe, which lately has turned indigo, but is blood stained none the less.











As I wrote this, I looked out the opening down to the holy lands below. A rustic temple in time immemorial built to Vesta, by the indigenous nomads of Italy, the Aquino, is there near this more and less ostentatious building here, this Mons Sacra, at which I am a last personnel of the deviant Quo. On the wooden and stone small garage like temple building, a crew of swifts had amusingly marshalled themselves as a line of bores perched and collected and perfectly allied atop its roof. Are they now, with a winter coming, readying to fly off to Africa for warmth again…? Italie is never that cold, but too cold for Swifts birdies, perhaps. Then, I saw them all take off, a sheet of wrens , flapping madly, following what seemed to be a elite bird, a leader, as he held a sprig, much like the Praetor here now, as was done in pre Tuscan days by those very woodland savages the Aquino, or men of the eagles, from where still, to be honest the praetor calls his throne. The bird king was wearing laurel, as had been done since pre Greek days, as the savage auininians had. Then, past the small strictures which Quo himself had moved here to Lauretium back in those days of his, I saw a fat little bully boy, gleefully hurling stones. I saw in him the mommies boys who the deaths of men under Quo and others have left is with. I called one of the yellow caped helmet Sentries , the Guardia dell dues, who actually are less ceremonial and more needed now, as junkies and perverts , always at wits end and needing, have actually crashed the temple here to fens golden implements. I called Marius the guard, and pointed out towards the small structure , so rustic and honest and decent and savage and pagan and out of place , of packed wood, and ready to fall apart so near to one of the Roman's favourite hill buildings to demean as a ivory tower. I pointed at the boy, there on the yellow brick street behind us. ‘Have him arrested, and then, stoned to death. ‘’ The handsome masculine figure was dumbfounded. ‘’A little boy, My Lord…? Are you absolutely sure...?’ He asked, very unsure himself. Yes, I SAID. And send his dead body back to whatever mother he has, and tell him under my assistors as a father to Tuscany, that this land is too red and brown with stains of blood, too many men and women--I thought of Ligra,--lost their lives here in New Troy, for me to coddle the noxious killers of wrens by boys who have eaten all too much. The soldier was stunned. Then he popped to command. ‘’Uh...well, yes your grace ...!'' He snapped a salute. Really what the Roman know of war and its loveliness and its stage setting they learned from us, as once upon a time, as all Italian fairies tales begin, we ware quite good at before we became such welfare queens, is all, ‘’Yes, sir.’ He said, his saffron cape billowing out behind him in away much more imagistic than the thick Roman red blood capes of their centurion fanciest. A girl , a nun, looked fiercely at me. She smiled, as this is the sort of perpetual boy, killer in ova, all women, especially pretty women, despise. ''Tell the old hag mother of this miserable Fuck fat kid,-- if he wasn’t hatched--, that I am possibly not as a decent and honorable and righteous as she''. ''Italy...'', I added, thinking of the priestess of Vesta, And that smile that curled on her pretty face, ''...is not yet doomed.''






Next. The pontiff speaks of how'' talking women'' shall undertow Rome eventually , as they have Tuscany. He also explains, from memory, how that in a republic, should a man really be a man of the people, and not an elitist fraud, he is doomed.

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