04 January 2012


1. Just to show the privacy less voyeur age of Face book continues, and although I’m glad to see that at least someone reads this shit of mine, how instructing that I came upon an email in sludge pile, from of all people, Penguin publications. They, who have been bringing you Roman tatters, ignoring Italian genius, and praising unread English pap for years.

Now, what could they want of me, I thought…?, having of course, dealt with them, and not in a good way, either. As I recall even pre Computers days, when you still, or at least I, got an occasional hand written note from editors, who thought RM was the most enjoyable excerpt they saw all year, they just would not touch it, --THAT’S ALL, NOTHING PERSONAL. This from they, back when who actually had to bother opening a Mead envelope and tearing out a library Xeroxed query, and those were days of literacy, before spam became something more than a strange cold war canned ham, and before Oprah completely made publishing subservient to the moving hems of white women. That which would, if anyone was paying attention, destroy even a pretence of literariness, as even the new Yorker would be swerved from Capote, and even pretences of literates, to become basically a woman’s magazine run by a ab fab English schoolgirl twit, aren’t they all, and occasionally baring out bitter viper uber Jews to trash cock tailed party hated presidents, eventually soft peddling things and umbrage when the word secret wars became verboten, when the nigger shuffled into the Roman Praetorium.

But it was in spam, as I said, this letter, or what passes for it in our ‘Always On’ time, a phase I stole from the great John Batchelor show, as I too use some of this monstrosity called techno, but cant go all the way with it, somewhat like how me and pretty Italian girls under the steps were in an earlier time in an earlier life. But, as I even told to blond Peggy in my twenties, Id love to sleep with you, Hun, but as an epileptic feared having some woman give birth to some thug like me, who was a shaking burden to her as I had became to my own Ma. What could they want, I thought…?

Perhaps some Editor saw my query, as was told back in 2002 that I think my resume or letter was kept on file, should they ever actually need a 1000 page book about 'Tustin' empire, although to be truthful and open, they were the ones who sneered at my work, as I get, not merely in the lack of care with such things as spelling and other uses of woman’s work, which I wont do until paid, it is a deep seeded notion of mine, but in the very temerity of my own in even having broached the subject then in the full flush, and I mean flush, of the Soprano nation. Well, as I saw coming, golden ages don’t last, kids, I said, purposefully issuing a epithet of a later read editor girl named De Guzman, but which I then used a lot as a way to be both affable and too to dampen the pompous, though didn’t read her long enough to know what she does. I still sometimes dream of De Guzman, oh nothing sexual or vulgar, though she is pretty. She is always a black stocking pan Asian brunette middle manger of some gatekeeper bridge and is always irrevocably unimpressed.

Alas, my dealings with Penguin, when I still got at least umbrage, making before all the editors lost their jobs, this was before Zoetrope, so I still had a hard candy shell of actually not caring, a best place I was, and cannot so return, as after all, I don’t know about YOU, but they wanted ME to be a Jesuit, which was better to me than all the fake woman’s studies Africa logy bullshit degrees handed out as to make sure now one notices the fact that the NCAA, when not now revealed as a sewer of faggots fingering boys, as one would expect who has read the Satyricon, but , the stories get worse, and strangely, and to their disgust, Joe Paterno, like Nigger Jim, ends up looking more noble than the non racists would have ever liked. It seems in Syracuse, which sued Joe as a Roman turtle to hide itself, now that the cat is out of the bag, it seems that Misses Larry Fine, the coach’s wife actually watched hubby diddeling a boy, and that’s hard core, I mean that’s beyond Apulio, or even Fellini, and I just heard a flash that Anderson Cooper just fainted with a raging hard on, and had to be brought to the hospital with a case of Priapitis.

2. I opened the email from Penguin. “Hey”, it said, to seem less ivory in its towers, --again, as it was at Zoetrope, “Hey” ever writ in electric English is always a dead giveaway—Did I know that before I PUBLISH WITH AMAZON’S SELF PUBLISHING PLATFORM, did I know that My book could be self published for as little as 99 dollars, [up to 599 dollars, probably the truth price…] and have the good housekeeping seal of approval, important since woman buy books like they buy toasters, or as Gore noted, hard candy boxes of literature, with bows and ribbons, of Penguin classics. Really and fer true…? How would I have thunk it! Now If I could write something like the Valley of the dolls, then I'd have something.

The email continued, that why waste my time with lesser known book publishers, or places, which are glorified book Shoppe’s who don’t really know publishing—ah yes, but they know how to move product in our circus world, Burgess. That’s Meredith, not Anthony, by the way. Why for a century note,--there, my inserted Roman streeted slang, something penguin at first go around didn’t like—I could get my opus—their word showing maybe they too don’t or do get their own jokes, I could get all of-- here incited in bold, and how did this happen, I have to ask…?, ROMAN MYTHOLOGY, [about four books ago, but I think the title I had sent them] into print by New years day. I am no so sure about that anymore, as this letter was postmarked November 16th. I felt a bit chilled at this bolt out of the saffron, after all, as I did when I was sent an ad for something called Erba, which is an Italian something, I think like Nutella or something having to do with cars, on face book, --This, all because a hidden or alluded to character in all of Ancient Romance is a Virgilian like poet named Erba, [still the common Italian word for grass], who kills himself when Aquila takes hold of Tuscany, a lovers spat worthy of Gore’s Ben Hur, but Erba sees blond Aquila as something of a monster, and so sets himself on fire, as Aquila, Quota remade, takes sixteen year old Cornelia as his brood mare lovely wife, and so the poet adoring the girl in the slightly perverted and sweet ways of the Italian who had made a African blond demon named Kemeter fall head over heels for that first Wendy eons back, named Turan, set himself afire. This, was something Roman priests with Cato did millennia before your precious Sholins. They, who at this time, were willingly and eagerly wolf manning it up and crossing whole swathes of humanity in what would be laughingly called China one day, showing that they, as opposed to Dashin, was going to not make the mistakes of watches on rivers that Rome would. But then, as a cartoonist, do I really think I have the erudition necessary for Penguin to publish my booklet about these people as they asked, ah but such were the halcyon days of editing and elitism, and when the bridges fall, they fall hard, this a microcosm literally of our fallen earth again….? Oh, Lawd, how things do change, no…?

But then, issuing an Italian aphorism, one can tell who an American communist is around here, as Machiavelli understood who is the Catholic true believer, they are the ones, like the NCAA, and never say Die Pollozzi, who likes money and boys, all the more. I recall being lectured by someone there that there was, of course, no such thing as Roman mythology, in as much as she and the White folks say so, though since then some have actually talked of how Aesop in fact was an African who brought stories about lions and such to the stony cliffs of Greece, etc, and after all there is nothing which Abraham, that Iraqi Romulus from right to left, didn't take out of gilgamesh, as how Ariosto and Italian newspapers were where a treasure trove for Willie. But I spoke back, no in fact, there were priests and such of Rome, who held the indigenous italic myths before the great Romans against her forbears did in their great stand, in 400 BC, when the Romans having not yet given their souls for circuses and welfare held back the Germans in a siege which lasted eleven months, and caused the Germans retreated for a first time in history, which literally put them, as they say, on the map. And they were called Flammen, the priests, who read those first gospels which a now devoted Paul scoured and plagiarized, I bitchily added--I was taught by faggots before they got the good housekeeping seal of sanctimony and were more melodramatic like Big Tony--as opposed to later Catholic priests... who merely were ....oh sometimes I think I am, talking to un witty plaster walls.

So, now, all was forgiven, if even recalled by the auto pens that rule our earth, I was asked before I make the mistake of going with another publisher, --too late my accounted has been so credited—think about going with a respected name, as now the gate keepers or on their own, as the middle has fallen of the Milvian, into the Tyber in whole and now, as usual its every man for himself. My my, why Bennett Cerf must be spinning in his Grave. Or is that still Art Rooney…? You mean, I can be Anne Radcliff too…? HEH. This made me laugh, as now the great publishing houses, used as they have been to allowed Women Jews and others to think themselves literate, to be basically buildings next to the salons where the daft and the droll and the pompous eat from gold plates of dried figs on their backs, has become closer to a propaganda mill, no worse, as Augustus was grand and great editor and Caesars books were only written by others to complete them in April as opposed to plagiarist Jimmie at the b ball game, --oh this made me laugh, to know their happy footed imprimatur was for sale, as was O’bama’s, as was everything, as I sort of see all those days, even Bill and Monica, as a golden age, coming to and end when a yenta like Pelosi grabbed for woozier highness, as her ilk does, over the carcass of Mosconi like Hillary, I knew she was finished before any of you, look it up on my blog, whoever is keeping tabs. An imprimatur for sale, but then hasn't our friend Augustus, and his show that has hovered over this set of essays as a ghost, greater and Caesar's, and a sad iconography to how republics die, hasn't he taught us all, as he taught his Jewish second in command Marcus, --they don't mention that in the liturgy of oppression do they...?, that after all, that's what imprimaturs are there for...?

In so much as I deleted the email in whole, purposefully, as recalled another auguring moment, when some editor sent me back a dismissive letter, asking again if I could “Prove” any of this, like I guess Tacitus did, when he merely savaged his enemies, still, I was told in no uncertain terms they had a good third of their business from the Romans and the Greeks I so “savaged” in my book. AND SUDDENLY THE ROMANS ARE, I FIRST NOTICED, ADMIRED BY THE BOOK CHATTERS, first of a string.

3. The Etruscans here in this losers booklet, as I was assessed it was, why, would I write a book about losers of history I was asked, showcasing the praetorian hearts afire in even Jewry publishing, as they were even an anathema in our continuing Victorian age, with a few always now monogamous queers added as to allow the Jews to feel less out of place. AND NOW, after all this, time and work, I can actually now buy a Penguin seal, at a sale of pretense, and to this literary indulgence I say Bah, Humbug.

Still, it was funny to know that someone had gotten wind of my letters to Andrea, who was nice enough and I felt that way after having dealt with some who thought they were paying for this, including the bitches and jackasses at Amazon, to whom my having said of my making of their lists of new novels, was merely a come on at a letter of intent day, as it were. This a perfect post to end this yearbook, if not this blog, I am unsure of that as yet, a perfect point to break away and enjoy Saturnalia as those Etruscans did millennia before the suddenly then vaunted and suddenly appreciated Romans.

I thought, as being published by the same people who publish and misunderstand Livy, and who for years only published the first four books of the Aeneid, leavening the saddest more glorious most important Turnus, or whom only publish half the Augustan history because they say so, and paying not for a book but for a letter carved into my forehead would be a sort of pretense which frankly, I mistily admit, I feel beneath me. As money and imprimaturs of prestige don’t mean at all much to me as they once did, the love of which caught me in a frieze, and made me atrophy. I don’t care about money anymore. I’m sorry, even writing these words has made me have a slight stroke. How about that! I went at the small thumb drive I save in a mead leather satchel binder, frayed as it is at the edges, and expunged from the collected files of rtf and works, The Book Of Etruscan wonders and the Sabine astrology, all of the story of Pope Marcus, for a second time, no less, as will return Gracie, the fulcrum of this series, to the side of Poet Laureate Victor Curricula, she as his girlish second, the daughter of Cornelia. Why did I do this...?, because after three years of this hillbilly empire, and this regime of dimwits and lies, the thought of a praetorian, even one trying to find Clinton redemption, --and do recall kids, for all the shit Roman threw at their one time partner of crime, Saul of Tarsus, after all, when push came to shove, when needing an exemplar of the ideal of Christianity, it wasn’t a Viking or a Jew or a pacifist that Paul used as an exemplar or even Avatar if you’d like, to explainer Christerism, but in fact, compared it to being a …Roman centurion, down to the full battle regalia, --and so though I was trying to do a three pronged attack of a recollection of a man, Aquila, as recalled by three men with different vantage points, still, the thought of a Praetorian Italian Becket, redeemed or not, makes me sick to my stomach.

4. After having destroyed the book, The Sabine Astrology, I was watching the great Charlie Rose show and one of his Shakespeare celebrations, and saw the old kinescope BBC type of ghostly mirage, of the grand and glorious Ian McKellen, playing the savage and venial Mac Beth, who as so much can be starred navigated back to a story in uncle Niccolo, of an Italian prince named Tyberius and his vengeful wife Susanna, --I am nothing if not capable of getting people to think back and say, yes, they do recall a faint recollection of that which I am talking about, as it is my gift. Also I recall as I said, faintly having seen this ghostly image before of the great Ian as a Scottish madman, as my pop, when I was a kid, made me watch things like the BBC Shakespeare stories, Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy, I Claudius , and Life of Leonardo with Ben Gazarra as host, lest I buy into the bullshit of Martin and become one of his alleyways dramitis personae.

And I am shocked that he, Will, didn't take the opportunity to give us another Italian witch, as Father Nicola was a hero to Shakespeare, whose misapplication Italic name hasn’t yet come up as being Willie’s Virgil, really look it up, but then what in Shakespeare can’t be connected back to that most Italian of lawyers. His name became a synonym for cleverness the moment he prodded for the re- initiation of Italy, his greatest sin, his cleverest salvo, like Virgil, after being lauded by sodomites in Naples playhouses as somehow unlike them Romans, still, wrote of Turnus, and said he didn't trust Greeks baring gifts, as all Italians if they do not want to die in tenements or worse, slumming in Orange co., must do as a holiest reprieve from admiration of the venial, and resorgimento , that would give that new nation the biggest navy in the world, thus why his name a diminution in English. There is a reason for overtrumping, as the Tuscans knew. He adored Machiavelli, which explains much.

I re saved TSA, as now I felt I had to. It did make the Amazon list of top 250 novels even in this empire of Mud, after all. As that same day, I retrieved it, I saw a bunch of American ubiquitous savages who gather like pigeons on Columbus day, but never cincho de mayo, injuns, feather boaed, liquored up, drunken mezzo American Irishman dancing in feathers for the started count down to the coming end of history, now like all they did and do now so very sacrosanct. No, no Rachel laughing at the rapture for those peaote sniffing up American Etrsucans. Yeah well, Crazy horse is after Turnus by an eon or two, and after all that end of history and wrong door has been spoken of before, at least by me, but then I get all the jokes, worse then a queer, in ways that Juvenal Jonnie is paid not to even bother…

I saw the image of the grand Ian, gray, pretty but serrated, pouty, snide, mean, craven, a ghost of Virgil, but queery….uh…anyway, I went at the new machine I got as a Saturnalia gift when hp when belly up, and I went through each disk I had, using a usb add on floppy disk reader as Jobs is dead but his speedy obsolesces is his greatest tribute, until I found a file called tsatxt. And I joyfully saved it.

Instead of allowing the words and days and tiredness and Becket curse though having survived his king, a wholly awful fate to have to be a praetorian to a pole and a rag and a dented helmet, that part called my nicest sonnet in the work even by sneering white women, -- of McKellen luting, girl crazed, Gracie adoring, yelling, screaming, angry, yes house wife killing-- and that didn't go over well when he took his Quota, the ancient word for Tuscan sword, makes sense doesn't it...?, and lopped off the head of a woman whose snide little boy was killing birds at the temple, snide Pope Marcus to disappear, I revivified him and his nation. As I have come to a real admiration to him as survivor and cant equate him to light bulb queens like Rachel, instead, I retrieved the book as best as it now is, from 3-09. This is all from before I even botched,-- I mean, any fixing of it, thus more pristine and my own, perhaps alas more bloated, at 774 pages’, than penguin would have so liked, and save it, thinking of Lovely Lesl—Gracie, vestal perfected, "lass un-parallel", Virgil's words for his own Camilla, Gracie, Tall and pale and strong and scribbling, a perfect Italianate secretary, thin and bitchy and kinky haired, she at the last pre Roman wall, which read in graffiti, the only Roman eloquence, as snidely as ever, KeMeter forever.