29 October 2013


With the feast day of Ceres, the blond Roman goddess of wheat approaching, the true pagan roots of All saints day, distorted by Germans into Halloween, which after all is just dirt bag barbarian carnival, I came to end my filmed essay, WOP LIKE ME, as enlist a first cut. I didn’t have the wherewith all or money of almost anything to get it done as I wished, which again gaining admiration from Jesuits and Flavia, the last Nun of my schooling, I can make art out of anything, but then, those days of admiration and the like have been recoiled by dower business and atonement long ago. I could never find the Lear I needed, as Robert Di Nero and Marty find their wholly black arts palmed in the usual vomiteorium of Hollywood independent zombie movies and Halloween ghost stories, which have lost its punch now that they is all they make, as this October has been from hunger at the mouse factory, them not the first to find their dower little puppet shows as anathema, if not boring entirely, and becoming a middling product with lessening returns. Not surprisingly, the nickel plating icon status of Marty has begun to chip I note, and more and more people discover a certain empathy with how it feels to have been Sicilian. The usual liberal shit about American Indians now just seems dirtied and cruel.

Most of all, I am quite proud of my totems here, the first since 1979 to make a film, issuing only a small Sony consumer camcorder, a block of dick blick paper strong enough to make paper skies, posters, graphetti, the Romans art form, paper dolls of recalled great playboy Italians starlets before the Reich became insufferable, and less than five hundred dollars, the least amount one can spend on a movie at various websites, and made my argument not so much against Martin, but for me and my fathers race of affable scoundrels.

And most off I couldn’t find the vestals I need here the most for whom I caught the old coca cola chipping walls that I had, hoping to return to them with the goddesses in white sheer lace if possible, whose imagined storyboards in my mind I placed in the thing as placeholders to where I wanted their images to go. So, My film is complete and done, as much as it could be said to be, under these conditions . Still, as I completed the film mussing as much in the public domain to make my points, smiling black hand white shipping frescos of there own of beautiful gorgeousness like Jane Russell as queen starlet per excellance, before horrid Marylyn made Hitler’s dream real, sound effects of Orson with Jiminy cricket and the Looney tunes cartoons in the dole, the roman affectation of public domain another example of their impiety, by that meant that the nation that burned civilians alive in Hiroshima makes up for it by keeping Daffy Duck cartoons in vaults, I found enough to make my points, at a bargain.

Un willing to dismiss the Oviddian night dream as mere brain shitting at night, I had another dream in which remains of the vivid bludgeoning of the bright and shining leis of day meet and smash up against the recalled senses I have of Franciscan poetics, Italian artfulness, nuns and their holy cards covens of barley hidden sexuality, and the inamorata I so seemingly need. In this, in a Panavision age recitation dark poolside of Randolph Scott party preparations, surrounded by my inner recesses fakes and hacks and constructors of a cinecittta kind, a girl seen in many commercials now, twinkles like so much leaden laid Christmas tinsel, dirty and sad and plastic smelling, A blond too big and Blond to make that jump, in this Hollywood hills almost constrain era closet everything Capote era patio was aloof and distant and both resentful and toying with me, yellow pages of Cattiline bound under my arm. Jewish cartoons were everywhere, as sun drenched creatures spoiled around as I was in black suit and black ray bans ala Fellini, not a favorite again, so, again don't know what that signifies…

I was again, trying to gain the attentions of this forever starlet , as I played player as heartily as I could. She was aloof as I SAY, demanding automation be paid to her grotesquely maden form, in commercials where she sells razors to men who actually price razors, she was not this fat, porcine even, sadly, enabled, squarely large form, a Marylyn of rots allowed to be a diva of carbohydrates due to the silver Anderson Fox tint of fake Argent in her helmet hair. Into this Altman esque scene,  to the Patrician delight of the Trimicilian crowd, a lovely nameless gal, rounded and sexual, but not in the vulgar bikinis and one pieces of the hostesses, but a maids outfit came in, I had been thinking about the cop maniac whose killings and pistol whippings of maids were not so anger enduing to smirking high yellow times tokens on dying television game shows, and stated giving out drinks to men who looked like Jack Nickelson in various stages, from the Raven to last detail to yearly Christmas old man star turn, of life. But this time, she had hair as black as night and cut like shit, cowlicky, and cropped as in a style Lucy Ricardo would call 'the Italian starlet way', allowing her to vamp in ways unallowed when one was a fallen American red. She asked me if I wanted a cocktail, all were Vodka, why who knows, as I said I am not so Cavalier to throw away the night buses of the internal mind. No thank you, I said, as she sat down tired and relived the venation of a round butt that was pored into a…of course what else…?, pardon of a maids outfit. Would you like to be in my Film, Doll…? I asked sheepishly. Are you kidding...? the brunette as even here relocated to maid reverie in Blond turgid Hollywood said. AT this, she tore off a black maids outfit, and reveled herself as a Venus in a white one piece, ample and supple, voluptuous and healthy. I had envisioned this scene before, --and even once for my film. The Jack Nicholson’s, of a sort all took notice as per usual, the queen bee found a rival to something more and other than the mere sugar daddies and old man stink, secret boy friends and sperm counts she collected. The girl went into the pool as a reverse Venus, and bobbed back up with smile and I took it all down in Sony DVC Panavision, as was my want. I do get a certain resentment to having forgone all I did to eventually find myself sneered at by lower case filmmakers, bullshit artists, and this was a dreamland reaction to always recall to stay true to my anti Blond anti Cicero polemics, and to always follow that girl.

The meaning of the film is that I was shocked to notice in the land of the free and the home of the bribed, that house bag men like Copula and his ilk, seemed almost insulted if anyone, or was it just me...?, dared say anything about their blood operas and over lit pasta bowls. After forty years of his tripe I have to show my bone fides by somehow watching what I say about the black bag artists and the white men in drag...? Well, I am this way because I knew a better class of perverts than those who smile and wink and dance on the Rachel Maddow Show. Big Tony wasn't shocked that more people go to health care looking for freebies than looking to pay, the praetorians are aghast, but is just Roman 101. As My brother told me I aint a guerrilla anything, and fly Cesarean flags too red for that. I now merely wait for Movie maker to take the hour and half, I really did sweat out and over do and recut only about fifteen minutes of film, but it was that last section called 'Cattiline' that made me feel as an artist, like I once was. I await for the slow process of making the clips and taped together images a Movie file, as Wop Like me, is done.


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