THE CHRISTMAS PARADED.

THE SATURNALIA DIARY PART II.

I WAS WELLING UP with some sort of angst as I had only when having to sue steroids a few years ago for some problem, which can turn one into a babbling idiot and a growling beast, and which as Costa’s knew and was told can cause the help to have number that the white trash ownership of the gulag of sports don’t want to have to sign checks fer. Still, I was snagged by some nail in the wind that seemed to scratch me well, and something was specifically wrung in  me, I could tell, as a face pounded with a jaw out of place less and I was off put through much of the Roman season of Saturn, which has survived every incoming Semite who saw Italay as a clean and open place to start franchising their banking gods of the desert thieves.

I and my brother had driven to buy the Christmas dinner and food I thought smartly early in the month and thus get it all done and over with, as it is amazing when can get sold in a nation in which the biggest chicken inspector  is Obama and we pout and preen about what socialists we are as like Clinton, we make deals with wal mart up until election year, when we have to dump our stock. As we went up the long incline towards the super marks kept fart up from the tenements as is done, a black escalade but in rusty disrepair, pulled out before us. Out of the car, at the light,  intriguingly enough as had recently met Victoria Zaza, the girl in the guys and dolls outfit of a bell ringer, I saw a long lovely brunette get out of the nigga riche car, followed by a few others and a black man who looked like Michael Vick, down to a van dyke suddenly they wear as no one else’s. I sat at this light, and it changed, but my brother, not as say polite as I, was upset  that this clown car seemed to have one person after another get out of it to be let off at a light, and they didna have the etiquette, I guess, demands, go off to the side. Cumon, he said angrily what the fuck is this… a parade…?, he said, not loudly , but not sotto voce either, and then, the first girl turned towards me.

I at first had an inkling of recall, I knew this face from somewhere, but it was not as I would recall and her dark hair as placed in what I believe is called a scrunchy, in way more about ease than any hairdo. It was the tall busty brunette girl who I has seen a few years back, who was on the stoop speaking to the others when the house across the way as a crack house, or at least disreputable, and which is I believe vacant now. It was the pretty girl I noted through the window, she seeing me stare at her blew me a kiss, whose image I recalled there a few times eventually speaking to her as a waited and trag—accidentally spotted her come out of her house as I stayed a sentry , I was cooling down, on the porch in summer. It w was she, I knew that much, and she waived at me, openly, though haven’t seen her in the last few years,  as I am a sort who is a perpetual acquaintance, I guessed, and got the guy there at the wheel to honk at us as we went by, and she had a sad recollection on her face, a bit more lest say stout but not egregiously so as she was when an angel of the corner nigger fiancé, slumlorded steerageways.

I felt badly as my brother zoomed past, who the fuck are these assholes, he asked, and didn’t beep back as he had never seen them before, and had no idea who this girl was in the long list of failed Beatrice’s I have had. We went in words the Giant Eagle, which I hate, as despite their being far situated from the slums, still, they had a reputation last year of giving people the flu to the pivot that they finally placed a box of Obama like purell wipes at the door, where they weren’t before. But the image of the porch girl, like in the Roman books I write, and which she helped me get that AR finally at least somewhat done, as she played Turna the goddess of war for me, and too, was an example of the vestal virgin more healthy and robust and coven sister to Lesley like Gracie, it made me feel bad as here was another girl I had insert in and somehow couldn’t really follow through with, or hopefully on, as back when was still in the throws of a now gone displeasure at the outdoors, which all ran away and was deflated the moment I saw a torched bared for gal from st. peets no less, make a point about a book I had piled at some post, along with herd her friends from that hell hole wop school, and I knew I was too romantic than is healthy, and let that all go. I felt badly that she hadn’t become any thing much more than the usual pin up girls of my mind, out there somewhere as Coriolanus would say, and I let that whole act die off when heard that Lynn was as upset by my book as was the white woman editor who screeched in anger and soon to be lost middlebrow decency that I has said I was writing a book about Catholic school, and not playing it for any white woman laughs. We rode on and I felt again another stone placed on Libra scales as its mend I was carrying the goddamn statue up a hill.


*****


I made cookies for an elderly MA, who was too tired for making that kind of sugarless bread cookies Italians like and which Becky put down, but then Ma said, only the sour Germans have to lay the sugar on thick, as they are a horrid people sour in their centers and thus their teeth do not ache when eating that much plopped in frosting, The Romans and Italians before never feared or hated the earth as do the Klansmen grandkids now, but they did hate the idea of a overgrown forest, without a road or a temple or  signature of man, as that was first a fire hazard they knew that much, and  too, the woodland fairies there would be over taken by the monsters, literally men of the mountain,  if the trees were allowed to go grown exponentially , as the next meteor to brining in a Tasus, the Tuscan boy wizard god if hit and earth like Germany where was nothing but trees would , as was in the Etruscan myths cause a fire for which the great flood was Vulcan melting the ice caps of a north pole they mentioned as did Ovid, lest the world become a cinder and a glowing rock. All in all, a good way to gauge things. I catched a treasure trove of gold from the vaults at Disney now having been sold to Turner for showing, even the dared Uncle Remus, as we may not pester our passvanate with anything, truth being Cicero’s first casualty, as you never know when the southern shit is already or acceptable or and when not, as we must be deferential to our passvantes or at least their porters and bag men, while the looting and now the homicides go on. The Arab Negro street is quieted and three named naggers and Sharptoon had bin shushed up, as a Italian mayor for the thousandth time in herstory, the Jews not the Romans feared goddesses tell that to Glenda as he explains how a Roman goddess with a halo is somehow a biblical image, oh God please, aim better, not to be mean, but move that thunderbolt a bit to the right, Jove… get the business over the thrash must corral, Roman no…?

I attended to these Disney unearthed relics, sadly, as If Raphael in the candlelit chapel alone at night, sights of an America now going, they seem actually more modern , like the Romans, than shit being own now by Jews on command or which they placed in vaults without even a reassess date. Ahoy, there is Deon and Mooche, and the Dallas Cowboys have won the east, might be on track for a bye and home games having whipped Seattle before they accepted the boy wonder as the white boy he wishes to be, that will come apart. The Cowboys won the east…a gorgeous Italic woman with black hair and a Sabine helmet and in gowns sheer and speckled with blood, as she knows how to sue a knife as all brunettes did, either waits for me at the Springdale cut off, or better, strikes back from the floating stone of the Etruscan Gods, the upside down Olympus that the ways better at seeing what was real Italics rather than dower Greeks whose Ptolemaic universe was something Columbus destroyed, and thus would pay for more than for any savages caught up in the nets of history, in which the Sicilians were fine to be fished, as Jews and blacks and of course redskins may not. The Sinorina of fortune to the black bag men and the white girls and the beat Dallas sign seemingly admired by iconic liberal schnook Lisa Simpson appears to be argued with after all, equally at park avenue when seeing the latest ratings of the Christmas special called the Cowboys, and the Brunette goddess that perhaps could have sold more units than the darned and fat back blond bitch strikes back!