ITS IN THE VAULT.
In that I am probably being hurled off face book anyway, the new clearing house for sanitised speech, remember this might be the last chance to get Ancient Romance : The Catalogue of Italic gods, in its first part wholeness. I am planning on listening to advise from some, and taking out the fairy tale portion of the book, written in Manzoni style, as the dichotomy of fairy tale and surrounding decline is disconcerting to some. I thought by now you’d all be used to it.
This takes out my greatest reinvention, Kemeter, the blond daemon and his love for goddess Turan, but if not a wise guy or a mad man, behind the golden door, there is only so much room to move. When I found again all mistyped, misspelled, and cockeyed 669 pages of AR, by accident on an old floppy disk, I knew it was make it somehow whole, if only as a way to save my soul from demons without portfolio or busty loves, Italian trash like Scorsese and the rest of the gumbas. As after years of writing silly little b moves and cop dramas, this was as close to being the scholar the old Franciscans wanted me to be, as I could get. You see there is only so much Etruscan they can take, as I am sure that word more than any slur is the epithet they hate. Suddenly there is a plethora of black winged horses and fairy tales, but they avoid the italics sensibilities seen here and tack sure that a Ford modelling agency Reich Marshall mentality stays adhered to, and none have the brunette queens of Portia or Turan in them, they that makes a blond demon’s head spin, as do I.
I have gotten to the first hacking away here, wholesale taking out of thick Italic minded paragraphs in the style of Italian geniuses admired by CS Lewis and stolen from by clever men like GIGI and JRR. I have left now only those parts about the senator escaping his gulag, and retreating to Regium, the bare bones of the wrap around story that explained the fairy tales. I am down to less than a hundred pages in that, the clever princesses and burning demons and befuddled aged god and conniving ravens are out. This was done concurrently with the backlash now brewing about a horrid book for TV, when I was a kid, we had Shogun and rich man poor man, now every channel is the sci fi channel, which reads like JRR written by a thirteen year old, awful warmed over Conan shit, and this intends me of who I asked the Jewish producer why I felt there was always someone there who was insulted by my very bringing up of subjects, like the fat white woman who seemed personally insulted that I wished to write a book, TROMS, in which everything about catholic school, as aids was a gathering storm, wasn’t played for laughs. This seemed to bother this cow, the sort who now pretend they are akin to Obamas side as they once pretended they were on Hillary’s side, and the affable Jewish man answered me as if a Particular Virgil as a guide, oh Tony, he said, there’s always enough room for more crap.
So, I guess in cobbling pieces back together again I can make AR’s first part a operatic like overture to the rest of the work. But I did see something that warmed me, to know that scads of baby boomers are so disconcerted with the American dream they have crated, that they like lemmings are now taking that dive into the Styx at a high number, all readying to go into that Danteaen limbo, where nothing men who were hypocrites, and lauded so, will spend eternity in strips of humanity flailing about following white flags akin to the republic of Salo a bearded thug tried to recreate on Italy. Until Bill Clinton of all souls, Roman lover, destroyed him, and sided with Proti. Suddenly, then, in1996, thanks to the incursion of Bill, the idiot MILANESE and his blond children Romano half breeds were struck in face by paid, of course, maidens in Milana, no less, holding the tripartite flag of Vitorio Emmanuel and Garibaldi, dressed as vestals, black hair in ringlets, singing the songs of the patria, to the point that the seedily man, aren’t they always, was broken that day, as his white flag with a marijuana leaf, it appeared was on it, was laughed out of hand, and he eventually slunk away. And ultimately a conniver named Silvio made sure to never be seen with a Lombard loudmouth or plate of buttered poleneta again, and literally bought a home on Capri, boarding up his Turin headquarters. It make one wonder what Bill has planned for half breeds closer to home.
As I cant take the blue streak of happy talk coming from GE theatre now, true to its Regan creed of whistling past unseen graveyards, as one dimwit after the next talks incessantly lest they say something. But seeing Ed Klein, I saw him commiserate how the Clintons were fucked by Erkle, how he reneged on a secret deal, Dido fearful of dissolving always, hatred from white folks, making a fool of himself on 60 Minuets backed out of a deal, leaving Clinton holding the bag. Puhhhleese, does one think that Bill ahs not heard the master’s words, Ovid, who said, the reason he hated the Roman empire as opposed to the republic, was in an empire one is stuck with men who do not understand the sanctity of a bribe…? Neither Mohammad nor various Jewish praetorian Solly has ever said anything so pithy and right, explaining why we have the praetor we have now. And Two days after my admission that I couldn’t play gumabwopniggerjew and act befuddled as Resident in chief, why, Piffle, Hitler and other Hillary hating hatchet man Jews went forth to tell the house of Brokaw that why Erkle had northing to do with this stupid, stupid, manoeuvre, speaking in the base vulgar generalities and in unartful black and whites, and we ism of women and bribe holders. No, Bill, my man Bill, he read his Roman lot, and there is a scene… After giving in and making the needy and wanting Tyberius queen of Italy, Augustus, true to his mean wit, tells Tyberius giving him the imprimatur, to remember, the water of the Imperial retreat at Capri are cold in the morning. In five years, or so, Tyberius was such a disaster he was exiled to Capri at 44, where he lived until 88, according to Cornelius, Despised and despising.
So, the first great Love affair of Italy, which I found like Manzoni's wanted poster about an illegal marriage, merely alluded to on some intricate silver comb kept by some woman in a long gone Italian home, Kemeter and Turan is out, for now, but might find itself coming back up to the sunlight like those Bronzes and entwined skeletons of vestal and lover, Campaign season cups and arts, that like their money, the Etruscans hid in graves knowing the Romans, they feared ghosts more than anything. I was glad almost to hear that the most sanctimonious people on earth are taking the roman bathes, disenchanted and over sued and overspending and a fatiguing quality to evil, a demographic of Petronius’s, defamed and detested, as Spittoons and human Corns, bumble all over the walls they now have to read, and all of that. I was glad to hear it as now you meet the half cut foetuses, Injuns, Anzio rape victims where the war crimes didn’t happen, and Sacco and Vanzetti, and human Sicilian corpses you saw as impediments or as entrainment, to your sit com lives, in a miasma of less than Parnassus fields.