19 September 2009


One of these reasons for my infatuation and being beguiled by Rachel Maddow is her uncanny resemblance on balance to a character in AR, or when it as still ''the book of Etruscans ' which I wrote first from 1999-2001, and wish to reconstruct as my next in my reclamation protects. However, MS IS , OF COURSE ON HOLD AS I CAN COMPLETE NOTHING EVER, AND AM NOW FINISHING POW GIRL, ALSO FROM THAT LAST GOLDEN AGE OF MY ART 1995-2000.

In the book, AR, a pontiff Maximus of Tuscany, in a citta called Larentium , a half fictional city state, is sent by a queen mother to retrieve the bones of a secular historical civic state saint which have been stolen by a man willing to sell them to the hated neighbor rival Romans for a bag of silver. With him on this strike is a pretty, boyish, short haired, down to the curl dripping on the forehead, lesbian named Camilla Alba, who is something of a plebeian girl type of Puck. Together and with a boat of Tuscan pirates they travel to Sicily to find the bones and retrieve them back to their holy placement at the church of Janus, and thus not be beaten by the Romans. 1000 years before Christy and his new Jews, bones of great men were called Relics and seen as magical, or at least as sacred. Along the way, Camilla and Marcus trade stories , Boccacchio style, with Marcus Gaius Macrobius revealing the ethic of history of his patron Kaiser Quo, the last and first emperor of the Tuscan empire which never was. But most of Alba's stories were written in blank verse, in the Tuscan system, as they were writing free verse, in the bronze age, surely this was due to a lack of Greek polish , which Tactitus--a Chaucer era spelling like Pherilyt white women love pointing out as wrong--they are born public school babysitters arent they-- would label libel, as unreadable, and were almost like poetics, as she hung along with this pope as he went along the Coast of old Italia.

And she recounts in the first version, which I am trying to piece together like a Indian woman making a ancient* Persian rug on a broken loom, or a slave girl trying to make some similar like textile in the heat, all the Sabine astrological forecasts, ragged calendars in astrological terms, something which again like so much, when seen in its original, pre Italic ways can make even a Cornelia sense it is all quite terrible and ugly. I placed in any astrology, and anything else I could lethargically unearth or which then at the millennium turn, that the earth itself was spitting up, pots filed, out of hot volcanic ground. As how then it was right around that time that we all did find out about injuns love of both blood sport and much too roman adored types of birds of prey. Of course being so clawed and humanized was the last thing anyone wants or needs a noble savage for, anyway, though they certainly went up a few ticks in Roman Tony's estimation, because to the boy who would be a roman, there is no determinable decency in standing there and being slaughtered in such a nifgeredlyjeweyinjunny way. If I do print this book, I shall send this look alike woman a copy --at reduced price of course--just as bonaugerio.

2. I have never been much with or for envy. Really, I don't like or approve of it and Am, as I have said, something of a saint. Too, a natural inclination towards laziness and egotism in me does think all moments when I am not thinking about myself is a wasted moment, indeed. But there are times when I am groped with hate and envy of almost a Cassius sort. I wrote up and corrected and cleaned up AR around the turn of the millennium, and had a small for me, 300 page book , done in the style of Calvino, downward to the in brought margins and the like to heighten its other worldliness and mythic properties. Unlike Stalin looking spics who preen that they invented myth and fantasia--it comes from the same root as fascist by the way, or strap, figure that out, , in the original ideals is that one is supposed to be almost blase about the magic, targeting it as almost commonplace. But then, we live in a Republic of fat uggggly White women who all secretly dream of ''magic'' as all fat ugly white women throughout history always have. And in the book, a chapter called ''Belladonna'' , in which a witch wakes up one day and becomes beautiful is the kind of Giovanni like italic story they only like when Shakespeare comes by and trashes it making everyone an Elizabethan fag. I was told it was a well done thing, anyhow, a good premise, , a very good , though somewhat verbose , and off on tangents at times, experimentation. The eleven books corresponding to the Sabine months* and the storyline about the Sabine astrology parts, which is in tatters in a file in my yahoo mail account, was seen as'' unneeded'', as by 1999, Oprah ism had so taken hold of the vista that in a piece of art there were things which were actually ''needed'' and not, the author's ideals and desires meaning nothing, as the word processors could be heard clicking across God green empire. Fine, I took them out , starting to make another mess into which all my work eventually disparages, and seems to always tumbles into being. The lesbian brunette with the deer skin dress, this love of Camilla and of Minerva wasn't a big hit either, so much for anyone daring to tell me how beloved that publishing is of the fags. So the ultimate story, where Quo takes Camilla the Sheena like wolf girl half civilized Amazon princess and tries to ''domesticate'' her was seen as a'' downer''. In the original ordinary Italian version of Taming of the shrew, the deer like Eusaba, literally a deer- woman, who is cleaned up and made to be the princess of the Italian king, commits suicide rather than be taken out of her tom boy woods, to be made a princess bauble for some Lombard king. You turn that into Kiss Me Kate, I DARE YOU. When I told my Ma this story, she again, recalling fascist Italy, once a good ally of FDR before they were summarily sent to Hitler by the interjection of north Europe -south Europe racists pig Churchill--hmnnnnnnnn--she recalled something about it, like so much, that rang a bell, which the Coppolas of the world have been thrown at rather a meager stipend and Eberto ego sucking to always destroy and paper over...

Then, I was told perhaps It would work better as a book about 'another planet' in their new sci fi, or Scyfy now, imprint, and could I place it on Mars, perhaps make a Dune like monstrosity, as I have stated here, before.

I took the cover I make to every book I write, to at least sense a feeling at what I am doing, and tore at it, making it now a Tuscan book no longer bit a ''Martian'' Book. Actually the original Martians were Italian, not to be cute, but the central mountainous Apennines of Italy were called the Marshes, making them Martial or Martians, but its knowing and revealing stuff like that which is why no one likes me, as I have been told. I took Kaiser Quo , the blond satanic flaming Prince of Tuscany , and gave him green hair, as Santa Clause vs. the Martians, a first movie my mother took me to see as a child at the Dattolla theater, which quickly became an x rated right peep show theater, as that, green hair, was all I could think of as being Martian. I was realizing I had just entered either Roddenberry or Lucas land, as I HAD ALWAYS HATED BOTH HE AND Lucas FOR BOTH UTILIZING AND TOO TRASHING ROME FOR THEIR SPACE OPERAS. It all bothered me listlessly, and here I was, Saint that I am, doing just that which I decried. Like a Woman. And the broken painting wall which depicted him, Quota, was remade as a setting Mars, with the cracks in the wall remade as the canali of an always understandably romantic est of moving stars or Planets. I hated it.

3. That night, I watched Charley Rose, as I did every night until I got a TV with better reception. Not to be mean or cute, but once I got the ''package's'' and can watch Olivia Munn, I no longer watch old rumpled Charley. This night, in 99, I guess, He had on a woman writer-....yeah okay, its cute when a woman, especially white women, think they can write, and she was shilling some big book which was coming out, as Oprah had by then become our Imperial Censor, and so every book written then and even now, had to have something of her tastes, and wants and needs in them, and by this time, Gods knew, there was no Aeneid on the verge of coming out. In a world which desperately need a Virgil, well, we had one Nobody Nabokov after the next, giving us perversion as mixed with enough self righteousness so that it was all no longer Juvinally fun. Now, wouse than ever, we live in a nightmare of gangsters and Mad men without joy, which make them worthless to all. They then crafted all books to be of a similar strain, to gather what they thought were the new Augustus' black angry, bit still pleasing to white women, always, imprimatur of quilita, as all that as sought out was only one Daughter of fortune written by one feminine Gigi Marquez -gakkkk indeed--, after the next. The woman on Charley as they say, looked the part as conspirators always do, lean and hungry and all, and was a latest in this constant saloon, I AM SORRY, salon, where half educated white women both eat and read things which need salt...Gods of small things...? I asked and told a man in publishing to his found admiration of me, To a God, I said, Aquinian that I am, if it is a God, then everything is a small thing. He Liked RM, very much, and told me he was drowning in books rotten wrote by and for women, and ''not in any good way''. But, eventually, Oprah , like Augustus, would evidently tire of the same people saying the same things, and amusingly allowed the unfinished Aeneid to be published even though, like Ovid, Virgil had , in that lovely Italianate way, bitten the hand that forced his, and had made Augustus Aeneas, and Antony Turnus, to the shock of the salons then, but Augie let it through. As he didn't much care much about books, and too, though an imperialist, didn't put men in jail for saying they were hungry, as a crime, as low rent, Sean Penn admired spic Caesars do now. In Italy, that first America, a Ferrari from the fifties, well, actually means something. Van...is that you...? But, before Oprah stopped her book club, drowning as was that Jewish man in the gates of middlebrow Athens' browkn sewer lines, there was a woman who thought she ''knew thy audiences'' as Nicky Advised, and so, wrote a book called ''the Kiss''.

I was being made to jump through hoops, a first of many times in a decade which seem devoted to wild goose chases as none other for me. I was watching the increasingly , even more then usual, detached and at arms length Charley , who was to quote Gore, showing even more habitual dis- ease as this woman spoke. This was a book about an incestuous relationship between this all American , ie, blond and lame, spaghetti hared woman and her father. To quote Tactius, the Greeks,a and now through Freud, have poisoned us all! This was a deep meaningful book about and incest relations between a member of the fake blond, not that it matters as they are never Capote's Latter Blonds, some sister hood of Jennifer Aniston , and her father, that ultimate , i guess, in little girl daddy needing fantasias...I would only buy this book if she had the nerve to put inside a cd rom. Yawnnnnnnn. Who cares, dear, I thought, as I was told lately then that I have a natural ear fer being good and captivating and enterprising and even the pornographic in in me, to which I have to say that is the classical training and the dare I say, Operatics, which were plated in my ear by Eucharist dismissing Jesuits, who played eagerly often with my ear. My ear if I was Lucky. This woman was an absolute boor, but one could tell she thought she was feeling she ''doing something'' here, but as the roughen tale went on, it took on a sickening quotient, as it were, which actually even I, reader of Petronius , didn't see coming. She writes this story of father's rape, not as a heart wrenching, verbal literary hollowing out, or anything even like it. She write this ,and spoke of it as some kind of romantic comedy, no elss, but not decent enough to use black comedy, which is satire's even bitchier cousin. It was some kind of Judy Blume meets perversion middle classed, middle browed , middle ling middle everything love story. Now, I was compelled. Charley sat there with a kind of stupid look on his ''perpetual uneasy'' face, as if he was being spit at at a party at Manhattan by a vodka spilling, drunken, one time sorority pledge, cotillion like, white girl, monstrosity. I still see his baggy face, hair mussed and thin lips in a strange smirk as this dimwit seemed to go on and on about how Pops gave her a kiss at Ohara Chicago airport, and how it made her fee like a woman, and that he knew how to get the plumbing working, eeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwww!!!---shoot this woman, puuuuleeeeseeee! She spoke of how she kissed her old man there in public, and how Good old DAD , showed her what it meant to be a woman for the first time, again it was all very Judy Blume meets, dear Penthouse, I never thought I'd write, but i am a woman with a neeeds...eweeeeeeewwwww, and how she had her first orgasm with ''world greatest dad'' ....ewwewwwwwwwwwwwww....this was so suburban and yuechhy, one could see them trying to get the degraded and aging Jennifer Aniston for the movie role of this pervert hiding , or is it freed, by the laws and the sacrament called miss clarol.

Then, best part, she in splendor about how her father , yaseee, was something of a racist, aren't they all, at least since Caligula did this, and an elitist and he was drawn to her shining genetic perfection--Oy vey gavalt! --did I mention she was strictly Jen Aniston material, kids,...?, oh, wait, that passes for shining genetic perfection...deosnt it...? And, even Charley had to look upwards and then downwards in that kind of Senatorix Boxer way, as if to somehow literally betake different air from a demon which has come to close for comfort, a Catholic maneuver natural even to the sage of ''Doookeys baby'' land, even available to those from there on tobacco road. Finally, looking as if he just cleaned Larry Flints private shower, he had to ask, did the dear Charley Rose, who I still like, felt a pang of sympathy for, ''Did you, Marta or Greta ''--whatever her name was,-- ''did you think of mom a second when you were writing this...? '' The white woman seemed stunned. Why, ever, in new Sicily, she hemmed to say through her lead eyes, what woman thinks of mom...? He had a dumb look on his face, a plastered smile of being ill at ease, as one could sense, 'who booked this bitch...?' was running through his possibly essentially unkempt rumpled good mind. ''I spake this to reveal truth'', she said, or words to that effect, when to be fair, ''words to that effect'' are all the words that women seem to have. She, like Pilate , you see, was a seeker of Veritas, and if she could gain sympathy and cheap vulgar thrills along the way, will, God Bless America.

4. A few days later or so, Charley, after possibly a few long showers, he was doing a round table about the books of the that season, of which I heard even then ''The early history of Mars'' ''would not be one anytime soon as I seemed to only make the cuts requested in the most superficial of ways,...'' as I was altered, as it was beyond them then that somehow I would have that much integrity..me, a Machiavellian, who would have thunk it..., if not chutzpah, to not want to wrote about Love in the time of the Bird flus and mad cow raising then. Charley had a gripe session it seemed about the crap coming out, and seemed infinitely more at ease than with this vulgar Nancy Friday and her less than secret garden of a few weeks before. One of the authors, the great Fran ''Lebo'' Liebowitz was there, as she was all sneer and cigarette ash, and Charley brought this up,'' the kiss'' , to which Fran, American yenta Apulio said, ''Ohhhkkkkkk, just a hurrible Book, a huuurrrible book'', she said, not even having to think it over. You got that right, AND IT IS SHAME MORE WOMAN AREN'T LIKE HER. And I thought and have not stopped thinking since then as if a kind of self quieting mantra, --a great comic I have decreed by the way, before Marvel, as they do to everyone turned her blond--whatever sickens me is just a horrible, hurrible book, or whatever. Oh, it is sad in this graceless age which thinks so much of itself, that there is room for a book of white perverts buying Shalomar for stripped daughters, and not a pamphleteer is aloud about a a history of indigenous,-- dare i -- Italians who, unlike the more coddled redskins, might have truly been more civilized than their invaders were. And not in some bullshit liberal way, either, but in a western civilization way. Inst that sad, deep down, and what nigger, yid, fag or anyone of you, no matter what you call me, weather you'd hurl Bigot at me or not, who among you non blond non Aryan non white women couldn't agree with me about that..?

* The Sabines and earliest Italians, had a nine month calander, named for italic gods that the Romans replaced with numbers, leaving a three month dead time called hell time, or Avernus, or to this day in Italy called still, l' Verno--Winter.