Tableau X

Is one day crazier than the next?

Is it entropy?

Or does it just seem that way?

I wanna fill you in.

Seth Rich.

Almost certainly.

The WikiLeaks source.

For the DNC emails.

And then he was murdered.

John Podesta makes mention of “making an example of a leaker” in one of the Podesta emails from WikiLeaks (a later dump).

Well, today things got real!

George Webb.

I don’t really know who this journalist is, but I’m impressed!

I’ve heard about Webb.

He seems to have been investigating pizzagate (which has now morphed into the more accurate hashtag #pedogate).

But George Webb’s video of 18 hours ago (which I have posted above) is a masterpiece of deductive logic.

Clear.  Concise.  Crisp.

You see a mugshot in the YouTube player.

Alpha Jalloh.

It is this man which Webb fingers as having HIRED Seth Rich’s killers.

And those two killers?

If I understand Webb correctly, they would be the deceased pair Rafael Aguilar, 31, and Carmelo Marmolejo-Calixto, 33.  They were killed in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina not long after Rich was murdered in D.C.

But here’s where it gets interesting.  Aguilar and Marmolejo-Calixto were (Webb infers) members of MS-13.

They were hired by Alpha Jalloh.

Webb goes on to describe Jalloh as a car thief…actually, a very successful thief of luxury cars.

I’m still trying to put all the pieces together, but this certainly has to do with the Awan brothers, Debbie Wasserman Schultz, and others.

The Awan brothers are Pakistanis who run car dealerships in the United States.  But that’s not all they do.

Indeed, I was picking up Webb’s research midstream…but I can see that he has already tied in the Pakistani ISI (external security force…like CIA or MI6).

Indeed, something weird is going on with some laptops and BlackBerrys of U.S. congresspeople.

It seems there has been a major espionage activity going on.

And the master cache seems to have been Anthony Weiner’s laptop.

I know it sounds farfetched.

But it brings the Saudi Huma Abedin back into the mix.

Indeed, she was the one forwarding all of this information to Weiner’s laptop.

This was only discovered when Weiner was caught sexting with a 15-year-old.

As such, all of his devices were collected by the NYPD.

Including that very important laptop.

Frankly, THAT laptop probably lost Hillary Clinton the election.

Because of the leaks of what was SUPPOSEDLY on it.

But we have seen nothing.

I’ve seen nothing.

I have, however, read the Podesta emails on WikiLeaks…and they seem to warrant extreme scrutiny by trained law enforcement professionals.

The code language being used (in the context of the sender/receiver personalities) points to pedophilia of the darkest sort.

Oh course, as I have pointed out before, getting to know personalities like James Alefantis and Tony Podesta (both of them art collectors…each in their own way) sets the stage for the potential seriousness of John Podesta’s coded emails.

Alefantis is the pizza shop owner who fetishizes babies.  As David Seaman noted today (and I paraphrase), “they are babies with their mouths hanging open.”

Some of the babies are chewing on thousand-Euro bills.

Actually, you know what?

Fuck it.

Let me SHOW you.


Yes, these are from James Alefantis’ (jimmycomet’s) archived Instagram account.

This was taken in his pizza parlor.  He claims she’s his godchild.


Ok, so here’s a doll (lifelike infant) for sale.  Now get ready for the Kuleshov effect.



Ok…hmmm.  I think he’s claiming in the comments that this is again his godchild.   [perhaps at a younger age?]


Ok…another kid.  Mouth open.  Eating pizza.

[pizza, by the way, has been decoded to mean “girl” or, if it’s cheese pizza, “child pornography”.  Cheese by itself means “little girl”.  Hotdog means “boy” and “chicken” means “young boy”.  Pasta means “little boy”. ]


This picture is particularly disturbing because of Jimmy Comet’s (James Alefantis’) comment #chickenlovers.

A chicken lover would be a man that loves little boys.


Another child with mouth agape…on Alefantis’ archived Instagram (he’s since made it private).


But this is perhaps the most disturbing of all.  One of the comments is #killroom.

The next, “Just rinse it off when you’re done.”

And then Jimmy Comet gets into the fun with his own hashtag:  #murder.

And he’s just running a family pizza place, right?

Oh, and he’s the 49th most powerful person in Washington, D.C. according to GQ magazine.  Visited the Obama White House at least 5 times.  Some of those were private meetings.

I also might mention that the word “killroom” as it is used above bears a striking resemblance to a (code?) phrase Tony Podesta employed in the WikiLeaks emails.  TP speaks of being “still in the torture chamber”.  If this is a thinly-veiled code (or really no code at all), it is certainly frightening.

Because Tony Podesta (and his former wife Heather) collected art which was meant to shock.  I would call most of it thoroughly revolting.

But James Alefantis was posting pics from when he went to hang with Tony Podesta (John’s brother…and a very powerful D.C. lobbyist).


This one is a sculpture (apparently by Louise Borgeois) of the final “arch of agony” position into which Jeffrey Dahmer put all of his victims…prior to eating them, etc.



And of course Alefantis was a fan of Marina Abramovic…whose Spirit Cooking ritual rudely entered the Candidate Clinton orbit when it came out that Abramovic was inviting John Podesta to have one of these occult ceremonies at his house.

How sweet 🙂  Except the American people didn’t buy this shit.

They weren’t down with the devil worshipping, pedophilia Left.

At the very least, these people have sick senses of humor.

But my research confirms that adherence to occult sacrifice is real.


Here’s another.  A very chilling photo to be interpolating between baby photos.


But here’s David Brock of Media Matters (the George Soros, fascist, anti-free speech organization).  Brock, as it turns out, was Alefantis’ boyfriend.  Apparently Brock paid Alefantis a handsome sum when they broke up.  Always little fishy loose ends with these guys.  And that lady, I believe, is Lynn de Rothschild.  Nuff said!


This one might that the cake.  Jimmy Comet (Alefantis) comments “Why does Daddy like BUTT?”

Another commenter retorts #whatwhatinthebutt

Seems a little odd.


These “jokes” (if they are jokes).

And the overwhelming need to document children.

And, perhaps, a mental disconnect regarding what is proper behavior with children.

But then we get to Alefantis’ good buddy…the guy in whose house Alefantis was earlier snapping the Dahmer photo:  Tony Podesta.

And we get to Tony Podesta’s favorite artist:  Biljana Djurdjevic.

This was reported about in The Washington Post long ago, but the article was removed this past year.

But here are some of Djurdjevic’s works:





Do you see why we’re concerned?

And this pic of John Podesta…with the art hanging behind him in his office…portraying an act of cannibalism.


John has commented that it’s better to be the guy with the fork than the guy on the table.

I mean, what the fuck?!?  He knows this?  Or this is just his sick humor?

And again, you can see why Hillary didn’t win.

Because this stuff came out.

There are the creeps she surrounded herself with.

What to make of this creepy fucker?


What the hell does 14 fish mean?  Why does he have a bandaid on the lower part of HIS left middle finger?  If I remember correctly, that was the finger that a knife was to be plunged into as part of Abramovic’s Spirit Cooking.  In fact, all his fingers look fucked!

I mean, I’ve seen his emails.  One or two lines.

This isn’t fucking Jorge Luis Borges.  I think he’s doing some weird Opus Dei shit to his fingers…or something.

Blood rites…


Ok, but I’ve totally gotten off track.

Because as big as the pedogate is (and you must read the WikiLeaks emails to appreciate the full scope of this oddity), the impending dam-burst might very well be the Seth Rich case.

As I said, I highly recommend the video at the top of the page.

I have run across few researchers more fastidious than George Webb.

And it is clear from his inside intel that his sources are FBI, CIA, etc.

But the onus is upon regular schmucks like us.

To spread the info.

And to add value along the way.

I certainly am going to be checking out Mr. Webb more…and I hope to understand the Byzantine plot he seems to be laying out in his series of recent videos.

You can find him on YouTube.  George Webb.

Ok, my friends.

That was either the worst poem ever written, or the most poetic news update ever given 🙂



Tableau IX

I love to write.

I love to communicate.

I love people.

I love the ART of communicating through writing.

Because words are so slippery and hard to master.

And so it is a relief to write after days away.

And I hope you will find something here which speaks to you.

I don’t even know what to write about.



Social anxiety?



I suppose so many factors impose themselves upon us on a daily basis.

And perhaps most days are similar.

Yet, each day is uniquely imbued with a mood.

You know…I used to consider “routine” as a character…a sort of anti-heroine:


She is a fickle mistress.

Indeed, let’s just take the phrase “fickle mistress” for a moment.

I didn’t coin it.

Must have heard it somewhere.

Perhaps Greg Gutfeld (a pretty damn funny guy!).

But “the Internet” tells me that Nenia Campbell first put the words together…like that…a–>b.

Fickle mistress.


Who the fuck is Nenia Campbell?

Well, hold on a minute…

If she’s reading this, then these first 179 words will have been a leisurely blur for her (as you’ll shortly find out).

But back to “fickle mistress”.


If coining the phrase “fickle mistress” was your defining life accomplishment, would you want it on your gravestone?

For instance,

Nenia Campbell

“fickle mistress”


You get the picture.

Well, might not be a great hand of cards…or kettle of fish…especially if you’re a woman.

Fickle mistress…

But if I came up with it:

Pauly Deathwish?

“fickle mistress”


Ok, I don’t really wanna contemplate my own death.

Not too much.

It’s a part of life.

But a little dab’ll do ya.

[yabba dabba dooo!]

Back to routine.

We like it.

And we hate it.

Some need it.

Some loathe it.

For me, routine has become more important with age.

Maybe it’s not just age.

Maybe it’s my overriding situation.

Routine gives me a way to approach the world.

When the world is too overwhelming.

I have my little patterns.

“Rituals”, but not in any occult sense.

And not superstitious either.

Just ways of doing stuff which, because they have worked (more or less), I gravitate to.

To which.

I try never to end a sentence with a preposition.

Or a proposition.

Learned that from Churchill.

Only good thing I ever got from him 🙂


I’m sure he was a fine chap.

Though I have my doubts about him.

Funny enough, I read recently that he was quite fond of medicinal mixtures which contained heroin.

Ahhh…different times.

It’s probably a good thing that heroin is not still an over-the-counter, Bayer medicine.


But I digress to an exceptional degree…as always.

Nenia Campbell.

The number one reviewer on Goodreads (says the failing Washington Post).

[I had to…as Trump so gloriously ripped the “failing” New York Times repeatedly…on his way to victory]

Nenia Campbell seems to have coined to phrase “fickle mistress”.

From Mar. 28, 2013 through Mar. 28 of 2014, Campbell had reviewed 1557 books.

That’s 30 a week.

More than four a day!

You see how my style goes…

It’s dangerous to get me talking 🙂

But I want to move past phrases and allusions.

I want to sink my teeth into a couple of topics.

Because the last few days have been…EVENTFUL!

First, I did not mention President Erdoğan’s visit to America.

As Turkey holds a special place in my heart, I would like to discuss a moment.

What astounded me about the Trump-Erdoğan press conference was that President Trump repeatedly mispronounced Erdoğan’s name 🙂

I mean, really…

Trump had one “word” of Turkish to learn, and he appears not to have done it.

It was Erdogan.  G.  No little dipping line.  No “wah”.

But g’uh.

G’uh g’uh g’uh.

Over and over.

In a certain respect, I could see this being intentional.

“Look, Recep.  Recep?  Anyway…  Erdo.  Ganny!  Erdogan.  You’re in my country, see?  We don’t have that letter.  That ‘g’ with the thing above it.  I mean, I can’t even make it on a computer keyboard.  You catch my drift?  I gotta copy and paste the sucker every time.  So I’m just gonna call you Erdogan.  Don’t get offended.  I mean, really…you don’t want me BUTCHERING your name, do you?  It’s better if I just sound it out phonetically…and forget the squiggly line above the ‘g’.  Capiche?”

But then there’s the private, internal monologue (all imagined, of course):

“Erdogan…this fucker.  He expects me to pronounce his name right?  No.  Fuck that!  I’m just gonna botch it every time.  Gan gan gan.  I mean, this lousy guy…  What a loser.”

So there was a bit of that mood in Trump’s delivery.

He couldn’t be bothered.

Learn a foreign name?  I don’t think so.

Like the Merkel meeting.  Where he refused to shake hands (or failed to hear the press request for a staged shot).

It’s the power.

You can show NO FEAR.

And so Trump is a great leader.

In my book.

And Erdoğan would go on to have the debacle outside the Turkish Embassy in Washington.

The protestors.

The brawl.

The black-suited Erdoğan body guards kicking a guy with a megaphone in the head and ribs.

Angry, vengeful violence.

Not a big win for the Erdoğan style of problem solving.

And they call Trump a dictator 🙂

Ok, enough on Recep Tayyip.

However, I’ll say one more thing.

When Erdoğan spoke, it was the first time I’ve really heard Turkish.

Sure, I’ve seen some Turkish movies, but the language doesn’t sink in…because I am feverishly following the subtitles.

But here, I had no idea what Erdoğan was saying.

There was an English translation after every phrase.

But to hear the pure phrases.

To be lost in a language.

It was a wonderful thing.

And I understand that Erdoğan is like the Turkish Trump to a certain extent.

He’s popular.  But he’s also unpopular.

And so he’s in office by a small margin.

Indeed, the USA and Turkey should look at each other.

Two countries which are currently divided.

Right down the middle (so to speak).

Which brings up another point.

Those things we are told to NEVER BRING UP 🙂

Religion and politics.

Kinda like death and taxes…

But religion and politics are such sensitive subjects that, for many, they are best avoided.

Such popular prohibitions just make me all the more eager to discuss these very topics.

But what can I say about Trump that I haven’t said already?

I tell ya, I’m standing behind the guy.

It’s intense.

He is subjected to coup-like conditions on a daily basis.

It’s absurd.

And it only strengthens the resolve of people like me.

What little credibility news journalists had before Trump has now completely evaporated in my eyes.

But it gets boring, to a certain extent.

Which is to say, the American media’s hysteria regarding Trump is…routine.



It has lost whatever bite it had.

It is played out.


The Podesta-Mook-Shake Shack conspiracy (Russia did it!) is turning into Swiss cheese.

Down in the bunker…with some Shake Shack.

So, I don’t know what the result will be.

But it is a war.

And that is not hyperbole.

At this point, it is a treasonous coup attempting to start a civil war.

American liberals are biting off a tall order.

They will not concede an inch.

Because they feel threatened.

And they should.

But the Left has chosen to fight now.

Or, I should say, the elite of the Left.

The wonks.  The powerful.  Limousine liberals.

And who will stand up for liberty?

Who will provide the shocking truth?

The real story, my dear friends, is Seth Rich.

Leaving a bar owned by Joe Capone (Capone, Chicago, Obama, Rahm…).

[you can’t make this shit up!]

Joe Capone in the Obama White House four days before the Seth Rich murder.

Hanging out.  Posting to Instagram.

And then Joe Capone, “dear friend” of Rich, goes on a vacation a few days after the murder.

You know, tears in my beer…AT THE FUCKING BEACH!

Ok, so Capone is dripping with suspicion.

But then there’s the police report.

Rich was still breathing.

Taken to the hospital.

Alive through the night.

But guards (?) were put at his door and he was not to be “checked on” by those doing rounds.

Then he magically dies.

Yes, he had two gunshot wounds to the back.

But no vital organs were hit.

His survival rate (all things considered) should have been about 80-90%.

And now the surgeon who operated on him has apparently leaked the bizarre story of these spooks snooping around the hospital.

Remember, this is almost certainly “the Russian hacker”, which is to say–there was no Russian hacker.

Seth Rich was, according to the shamus his family hired, indeed in contact with WikiLeaks prior to his death.

Podesta wanted to “make an example of suspected leakers”.

Likewise, it appears that Correct The Record chat logs have been hacked…and that these show David Brock plotting to kill key people in the grassroots information war.

Said chat log makes reference to Mr. Rich, as in “Google what happened to him…and shut up.”

This is, of course, above and beyond Podesta’s mention of “wet works” (hitmen) in connection to deceased Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

And, not least, this does not get into the creepy pedophile code language and the spirit cooking and the ties to James Alefantis (the king of creeps) who just happens to have been the aforementioned Brock’s ex-boyfriend.

When you start putting a few things together, like Brock’s role in founding Media Matters (with money from George Soros) to shut down any conservative counterbalance in the United States, this gang (RICO, anyone?) comes off as a freak show hydra sliming America into an existential toilet.

And so it might go without saying that these Satanic pedophiles are not graceful losers.

Oh no.

Because their very lives are protected by the web of corruption which surrounds them.

And Trump is the one man who can destroy them.

Assange did a pretty good job.

A great job, in fact!

But Trump’s gotta act decisively.

…measured approach…

Let the wailing media infants screech across the country.

Let it come down.

Because Trump is too tough for this shit.

In any case, it is a daily dose of surrealism.

Weiner pleads guilty.

This that.

Russia.  Russia.  Russia.

Really a lazy bogeyman.

I don’t think Podesta and Mook have read Brzezinski.

And Hillary probably hasn’t either.

But the media is fighting to the death.

This is it.

They are making their stand now.

And they will either flood the narrative to their advantage, or be completely destroyed by their duplicitous, disingenuous reporting.

We shall see.

God bless you, my friends!



Tableau VIII

Yada yada yada cinema.

Yada yada…

Few intellectuals can get away with liking sports 🙂

Oasis like Man City.

But no one’s ever accused Oasis of being intellectuals.

And yet, they are two fucking smart blokes (and a handful of out-of-focus guys).

Robin Williams liked baseball in Good Will Hunting.

And he was a psycholochiatrist (?).

But that was a fictional character.

Robin Williams never treated anyone.  Except with laughter.

[the best medicine]

But isn’t chess a sport?

Oh, I see.  It’s a game.

And soccer (or “football”)…  Is it a game?  Or a sport?

Chess is a game of skill, right?

And basketball…a game of chance?

Me getting to a point really takes the fun out of this.

Napoleon was bad at chess.

From what I’ve heard.

A reliable source.

But he was good-to-great at strategy, right?

Beethoven wrote his 3rd Symphony and dedicated it to Napoleon.

Then he scratched out the dedication.

When Napoleon declared himself Emperor.

Good old Beethoven…

After Beethoven shook the musical world with his Eroica Symphony (#3), he went back to the Haydn/Mozart model with his 4th.

But he had gained something…in going SO FAR out on a limb with the third:


And so the 4th only has the superstructure of a Haydn or Mozart symphony.

But it is undeniably Beethovenian.

It’s like Ludwig needed a break.

#3 was so revolutionary.

And so he retreated (strategy) into the comfort of classicism.

But his romantic heart still beat.

And he wasn’t quiet for long.

Duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh….

Duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuuuh…

[hmmm, I guess I have more options than I realized]


but still no Turkish i (sans dot).

It bears mentioning.

[rest] duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuh….

[rest] duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuh…

A rest is unheard.

And to start a work with a rest means the rest is infinitely more silent.

It’s on the page.

But you’d have to see the page.

To know it’s there.

What does any of this have to do with cinema?

Not much.

Except it lets us know how the stream of consciousness has invaded film through such artists as Jean-Luc Godard.

You know, in France…post-WWII…they taught music theory by a rather ingenious method.

[and I think it had been going on far longer than that]

Nadia Boulanger, who taught the likes of Bernstein/Copland/etc., taught by practice.

Wanna write a barcarole like Chopin?


Write one.

Wanna write a string quartet like Shostakovich?


Write one.

Wanna understand Bach’s Two-Part Inventions?

Write one.

Wanna understand Scriabin?

Write like him.

You get the picture.

Which brings us back to Elmyr d’Hory…the great art forger.

If you can fool a major curator with your Modigliani, then you understand the man’s art.

You understand the lines of Matisse.

You understand what distinguishes one master from another.

And in so doing…in such imitative practice, you find what is yours.

You create your own personality.

Like a mosaic.

You paste bits and pieces of past masters to your own edifice.

You create your self.

At least, the self everybody sees.

But we are also that which is uncontrollable.

Which is beautiful.  And scary.


Let us step outside of reality.

Lets our brains decompress.

From the pressures of the real world.



And word play leads us right to the heart of not only psychotherapy, but also the Surrealists.


It is no accident.

That James Joyce and Alfred Hitchcock both so adored the pun.

And these veins of history will take us back through the dialect writing of Joel Chandler Harris and others.

Back to the Middle English of Chaucer.

Back to a cave man clacking two stones together.






[clack clack]







Tableau VII

Hello, dear friends.

As if from behind enemy lines, I write to you again.

And how lucky I am to have the external peace which surrounds me now.

Not in a warzone.

But just sitting comfortably on my bed.

Typing out a sort of poem.

So many.

Happenings in the world, recently.

But each day, our own personal dramas loom as large as any geostrategic machinations.

Each day, our day, is filled with a gumbo of news and life.

And news rarely affects life.

If we are thinking in macro terms.

Local news is different.

But if you are watching national/world news.

Watching or reading.

Then you might be met with events far from your doorstep.

Interesting then, how we can receive the stress of the world.

Through a telly.

A box.

Or a device.  A laptop.  A phone.  A home computer.

So then, it becomes natural to weave our own narrative.

If you are a literal weaver, you might allow for an aberration in the corner of your tapestry…a defect which represents Marine Le Pen.

I, for one, liked Le Pen.

But it’s not my country.

My soul may be French.  I may be a reincarnated fin-de-siècle bohemian.

But I am American.  And proud of it.

For most of my life I would not have made such a statement.

Because I didn’t feel a kinship with my country’s history.

But as I have aged, and lived through these recent times, I have chosen to follow what feels natural to me.

To have pride in my country.

To study the history of my country.

To honor those who would give their lives to protect my country.

And so it is not a put-on…when I thank the U.S. military.

And it’s not some form of artful deception when I thank U.S. law enforcement officers.

I thank these two groups, primarily and prominently, because their jobs are crap shoots.


And I admire such fortitude!

If we were to continue in this vein, we could speak of humor as a weapon.

No group in the United States seems to understand this quite as much as special operations forces.

These are a rare breed.

One might call it gallows humor.

But whatever its technical name, it serves a purpose:  to cope.

And to fight!

There is certainly a craziness inherent in looking forward to a firefight.

Fire, as in bullets.

Makes sense in a way.

So many units just train…and simulate…and drill.

So for that rare breed which WANTS to be first into battle, we tip our hats.

And not least, to your humor.

U.S. special operators appear to have a pithy love for vivid expletives.

Indeed, they have taken cursing and made it an art form…as fuck.

And this will be a future area which nations should look at.

Comedy as a weapon.

Nothing cracks up the cheap seats like a dud missile.

And so North Korea is really doing an extended Peter Sellers set these days.

But then we get back to these Congressional hearings.

Seems so long ago that the House had its Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC).

1938, to be exact.

You can hear the “martyred” communists on recordings made by the Folkways label (now Smithsonian Folkways) to this very day.

Funny enough, Joseph McCarthy (being a Senator) had nothing to do with HUAC.

But it was the same sort of stuff.

But what today was being discussed? 🙂

The Democrats (yesterday’s communists today) are now seeing Russia under every rug and Kleenex in the United States.

Senator Al Franken (a dud-bomb of droll talentless torment) will leave no stone unturned.

That’s not comedy, Al.  That’s irony.

And it’s pathetic.

So the elaborate conspiracy drags on…that Russia manipulated the entire American electorate…and that we should be outraged that they did it better to us than we do to them.

Let’s not forget that the American CIA was spying on Congressional computers in the lead-up to the CIA Torture Report coming out.


General Clapper seems to be ready to deflect, should any of that water under the bridge backwash in his General direction.

But it never did.

Because Ben Sasse sucks.

Ted Cruz is good.

Patrick Leahy seemed to be imitating Robert Byrd’s “Barbaric” speech, at least in general ineptitude.

And Senator Klobuchar committed the cardinal sin…thanking Sally Yates for her “service” to our country.

Uhhh…yeah.  Thanks, lawyer.  Who sat behind a desk.  And ignored an Executive Order.

I mean, I’m no fan of Gen. Clapper, but I must have missed her “thank you for your service” moment with him.

Gen. Clapper.  Mr.  Clapper.  Director Clapper.  Doctor Clapper.

Clapper fought in Vietnam, for fucksakes!

And though he is a General (retired), he’s not a PhD.

All of this said, the proceedings I saw today were like a circus.

Smart people acting dumb.

Ah well, this is the world we live in 🙂

I hope to soon bring you a piece on love and Vertigo.

A pleasant good evening to all!


Tableau VI

What a joy.

To write.

To drive.

To live.

To feel the breeze of evening.

And to grow stronger.

What a blessing.

To figure it out.


That which cannot be taught.

Wisdom has its own rules.

How small we are.

And how much God loves us!

I believe.

But I hold no ill will.

Not for Bertrand Russell or any other being.

Not for Jews or Muslims or Wiccans or whatever.

I am a Christian.

In my own mind.

But it is my personal relationship with God.

I am but a child of faith.

I am a child…because life’s pressures are monumental.

And when we stand side by side…with our brothers and sisters…it is time to say “Con permiso.”

When we are in the bread line.

Or at the emergency room.

When we are anywhere at all.

The LCD has been figured.

Lowest…common.  Denominator.

What divides us both?


On that we can agree.

It’s such a blessing to walk down the street.

To feel summer’s heat.

And to grow more hearty.

To shed the skin of frailty.

And for a moment, live!

What a blessing to be wrong.

And to admit it.

But still have the beating heart.

To be wrong again.

We must crawl…day by day…on hands and knees…towards a perfection never realized.

Which is why we can forgive our fellow man.

Our fellow woman.

What a blessing to have a plan.

A humble plan.

Day by day.

With a pencil.

To mark the wood.

And build.

Building towards humility.

Building towards something quite modest indeed.

But grandiose in its spirit.

We can make a huge difference.

But we can never measure all the trajectories.

We must trust that quantum revelation…which comes on the breeze.

Each day, these moments small.



What a blessing to will a poem into existence.

To relax.

To let breathe.

The self.

No day guaranteed.

No moment taken for granted.

And yet, no anxiety about this process.

What grand creations God has made.

In my humility I am awestruck.

How the body can regenerate.

How the mind can heal.

And we take the greatest risk…to share…with the whole world…our precious thoughts.

The blessing is returned tenfold immediately.



Tableau V

Mercifully, putting a parentheses between sports drivel.

I approach the pond seeking merely to ripple.

Through a Manchester drizzle.

Stretto in a fugue.

College kids don’t know how good they have it.

I’m a college kid.

Always will be.

Because curiosity.

Rear Window.

A film, for fucksake!

We will return to cinema.

But now it’s nice to just kick back and write.

Some might say narcissist.

If John Berryman was narcissist.

Introvert.  Antisocial.

As Nick Cave sympathizing with Philip Larkin.

This is unstructured data.

When you tag.


You decode.

But when you laissez faire.

Let it be.

You use more petaflops.

You take up more time.

You jam more culture.



Identify friend or foe.


Safe to ignore.


Trump understands it.

Neutered.  Neuter.  Das.

Chevelure.  Female.  La.

Cheveux.  Plural.  Les.

Spellcheck went into French.

Else I would have erred.

Which means surveillance is instantaneous.

But I’m with Pieczenik:  you won’t stifle my expression!

A nothing.  A nobody.  A grease stain on a NoVa driveway.

We subsist on puzzles.

And riddles.

The mind, so advanced.

The heart, so retarded.

Benigni is stunned.  Herr Doktor ist nicht so…wie sagt Mann…

He’s a fucking disgrace.

Smitten with Bletchley riddles.

Back to English, spell check went.  Instantly.

Through three languages.

Every day, in every way, detouring America with horns.

Important thing, don’t think about what you’re writing.

Takes the jazz out of it.

At the instant when you must express, treat as blitz chess.

How long can you keep the computer off your back?

6 1/2 minutes?  9 minutes?  Can you force a stalemate?

Once upon…I could Thelonious an edifice so grand.


But you need a beanie hat and a goatee.

You need an Asperger’s schtick.

And a cabaret card.


Was that an important line?




But my pianos have ceased.

And not for fortes.

How quiet can you get?

Games.  Hindemith.

Ludus Tonalis.

Google will still comb.


Who gives a fuck.

Not a question.

A statement.

But we have great optimism in these times.


Anxiety has attenuated with age.

2 weeks.

Gotta continue somewhere.

And self-policing.




Upstanding, upright, Bix Beiderbecke newspaper hush.

Impressionist jazz from Iowa.

Must fight fire with water.

Not fire.

Certain fires.

Require chemicals.

Misspelling Ed Plaugher as Ed Plougher will get you much closer to the truth.

Until top result is removed.

You hit the memory hole from the side.

Like a vein.

Like fracking a pool.

Everything in good time.



Tableau IV

Hello, my dear friends 🙂

I was so tired, took a pill, and it woke me up.

Was supposed to be soporific.

A big word I negotiated on the GRE.

While the math kicked my butt.

Yes, dear friends…I wanted to bring you a film review tonight.

But I was tired.  Just run down.

And then got a second wind…in spite of my more responsible wishes.

So here I am.

Lucky and blessed…to write…and hit a button…and send it out into the world.

For this privilege I must thank my countrymen and women.

From many walks of life…but particularly those who serve in military and intelligence.

Thank you, folks!

But let’s get into the meat of this.

The premise I’m violating…is that a film critic should always write about film.

But nature would nudge a film critic to be a critic in general.

And I am certainly that.

A mixed blessing.

Things…piss me off.

But I don’t resort to violence.

I just rip to shreds with words.

Which is not to excuse my more liberal applications of invective.

There are niches carved out by our forerunners.

“Film critic” has a history.

Derided by some, it is central to the short history of motion pictures.

But these Tableaux are the purest “film theory” I can muster.

A chance to ruminate on the capital requirements of filmmaking.

Sure…you can make a movie with your iPhone…and whatever software you can find.

But you’re not likely to be satisfied with your creation…if you’re comparing it to something you saw in the theater last week.

And yet, the world seems to love the theater less and less everyday.

So the theater has morphed and come into our homes.



I mean, it really is something to see Vertigo in a 70mm print.

Not only do you fall in love with Kim Novak (and/or Jimmy Stewart), you fall in love with San Francisco.

Those hills.

And that music…

Bernard Herrmann.

But back to this porkbarrel film criticism I churn out.

It’s either diabolical or daft.

Or deft in spite of itself.

I don’t have the detachment to make that judgement.

I don’t have the data.

I’m a smalltime operation.

But we write our conscience.

When we see disaster, we say “Don’t vote Hillary!  For God’s sake…”.

And then sometimes we gotta eat our shoes…like Chaplin in The Gold Rush.

“Don’t go to war in Syria!”

That was my short post this afternoon.

Because I really appreciate what Dr. Steve Pieczenik is bringing to the global debate.

A truly unique skill set.

Which brings up a very important point (thank you Flaming Lips):

“OK…I’ll admit…that I really…don’t understand.”

Intuition is a powerful tool, but we must know its limits.

Yet, does geopolitics “behave” with a logic all its own?

You can pick the fear porn of your choice:  Fox News, CNN, MSNBC…the other three threes.

Around the world.

BBC, Sky…CBC…my knowledge of tele mostly encompasses stations in my own land.

So we would have to get outside.

Is there an American “style” of telejournalism?

I would imagine so.

But, all things considered, there is one aspect which will be leveraged by all nations from now till the end of time.


Americans really became allergic to traditional propaganda during the Bush Jr. (thanks Dr. P) administration.

But as soon as Obama was elected, the country went back to sleep.

By term two, things weren’t going so great for Barack.

Biden wasn’t going to cut it.

And Hillary didn’t.

But the Republicans got very lucky…that Donald Trump changed camps…and was, at this time, a conservative.

But the sleep mechanism is so powerful.

Get your candidate elected, and go back to sleep.

I was only asleep a month or so before I forced myself up…

To the front lines.

But a soldier in the truth must be honest.

So I can tell you…I have no idea what is going on now.

I have never seen such a morass…such a tangle of messages.

It’s like a switchboard from hell.

And we hope to God that someone is keeping track of all these messages.

Not just the text.  The data.  But the meaning.

Poetic meaning.

The why of     extra space.

Error as poetry.

And all means employed to make a point.

I am worried.

I am concerned.

Another war…a war in Syria…would be devastating.

And stepping back to the State Department level, we can see that that piece of ground holds no significance for us.

“America first” is going to start ringing pretty hollow unless Trump takes the wheel.

So that…those trained in the dark arts (not spells and witchcraft)…the clandestine arts of destabilization…regime change…etc.

These professionals must be allowed to work.

We don’t want war in North Korea either.

None of the stakeholders do.

And if they do, they’re insane.

You must…excuse me…as I practice writing.

As I run these metaphor by you.

I pray good things for all my readers.

Joy, happiness, safety, and peace of mind.

I hope Trump, Putin, and She She Pong (just kidding) will get their heads together.

Ain’t good for business.

This stress.

It IS, however, a story killer.

And the last story was an interminable dragging.

But again…I can no longer tell who’s lying, who’s playing dumb, who’s naturally dumb…

I have hit information overload in regards to the events following the Trump missile strike.

But I do know there’s 180 degrees in a triangle (thanks mom!).

And I got cosy with the six trigonometric ratios.

Then they attacked me 🙂

So we will continue.

Maybe some of us will meet in the camps.

Maybe “summarily executed” will be my last role.

But when you have nothing to lose…and you have developed your inner life…your soul…or your mind…then you feel compelled to jump into the ring with the lions.

I pray and hope that tomorrow is a calm, anchored day.

We all need that reassurance…that we’re not about to be vaporized while we’re at the grocery store.

And so, dear friends, I wish you the best!

Until next time,



Tableau III

I was wrong about Trump.

I was wrong about being wrong about Trump.

I was right about Trump.

But we will get nowhere with all these “Liar’s’s” and “Gödel’s’s”.

So first, my profound apology to President Trump.

I didn’t get it.

I didn’t go to Cornell.

I didn’t go to Harvard.

I don’t have a PhD in international relations from MIT.

I’m not a psychiatrist.

I didn’t work for the State Department for four Presidential administrations.

Etc. etc. etc.

But there’s one guy that did.

And only one guy.

I’m not worthy to shine his or Trump’s shoes.



Tableau II

In every country around the world.

There is fear of speaking.

I could file this under “surveillance”,

but I’m aiming differently.

Quite right!

There have been so few film reviews of recent times on here.

What is happening?

Well, I owe you (my dear readers) an explanation.

I am attempting to become a more responsible person.

[laughter in the wings]

I could anticipate, “Well, then what the bloody hell was the business degree for?”


That was a big step.

The most responsible thing I’ve ever done.

And the thing which nearly done me in [as we say in Texas].

So now I am out.

Two degrees ‘neath my arm.

A tailored suit in the pipeline.


But I am and have been a wreck.

And so responsibility has another meaning.

Taking care of myself.

Getting my mind right.


Sometimes I feel I’m making no  headway at all, but then I recall that I’ve kicked tobacco in these last three months.

No more patches.  No gum.  No slips.

And I could talk about the allergens here.

The molds, the mountain cedar, the oak…

As an asthmatic, life would be challenging enough in this uniquely sneezy city.

But it’s the anxiety which is always there “for” me.

Like the bird ’round the neck.

The mist of the waves bathing the deck.

Enshrouding us in a cloud of fine seawater.


Social anxiety.


Existential anxiety.


We could go on and on.

And it would be nice to break it all down.

To find out if there’s anything I’m NOT afraid of.

But I pray the film reviews will recommence.

For now it is early to bed, [and a whole lot of insomnia and other misfortunes]…

The goal is early to rise.

For now it is walking every day.

A divine activity.

Takes you back 100 years.

The goal is to hit the gym every night.

It’s coming.

Fits and starts.


Just so’s the trend line is positive.

Because, at a personal level, we feel the peaks and valleys.

And we think too much.

We want to prepare.

But we forego contingencies to obsess upon paralyzing circumstances.

So, get up early.

Take a walk.

Study for LSAT and GRE (plus readings in logic and math).


Handle anxiety.  Manage anxiety.

Negotiate a medicinal route which allows for a “normal” life.

So I’m just here to share, friends.

These Tableaux.

I wish I could claim my masterpiece.

Maybe they will shape up.

But to get the word out.

The main idea.

Insomniac dithyrambic drivel.

And LOVE 🙂


If we can hang on, in life.

If we can stay off the streets.

If we can stay out of the trash bin.

I’m ‘angin’ on to ma trolley…

Riding through the night.

I wish each of you.

The best dreams.

The best wishes.

Just what your hearts need.

And thank you for reading.



Tableau I

When in the course of life we run around,

upon merciless jags of rock,

and all our nautical efforts come to naught,

we have a new island to ponder.

And if on a pleasant day,

we can see the lay of the land

and skittishly face the inhabitants

like cats.

We can hide beneath masks.

When the transactions become more difficult

and we must switch course

preferring possible life to certain death.

We float on levels of truth.

And most important is health.

Our work lives.  Our capacity.

But our happiness.

Our frame of mind.

That I have not watched a single thing for days.

And, as such, invented a rather sprawling form to say,

“Hey!  How are you?  I hope you are well :)”

To my few readers, I wanted to say I’m still alive.

And thankful for you all.

But for myself I needed to partake in this transparent diary.

The most humble narcissism.

Please, if you will just lend me your ears a moment.

And a simple “like” from around the world lets me know that

all is well with the heavens.

This first tableau, chiefly a prayer.

To forgive enemies.

And to forgive self.

A way to slough off the skin like a snake

and watch it roll down the river as a phantom coil.

The film is always just an excuse to write.

And the writing just an excuse to watch a film.

But I indulge in the confessional track of John Berryman and the rest.

And so many days without the therapy of writing becomes

a disjointed feeling.

Have I said anything at all here?

Now that I have no film back to which to refer.

I am not thinking very straight.

Because I wanted to go to bed.

But I couldn’t.

And so it is medicinally late.

Not the ballet of yore.

But a rather wavy sensation.

Buffeting my bark along.

Rowing through others’ Dream Songs.

And me with my tableaux.

Gotta start someplace.

But I must reiterate.

A hearty thanks to my few readers.

Ye who have stuck by me through all of my many

chameleonic changes.

Ye who have humored me as I have delineated interminable conspiracy theories.

It is to you band of brothers and sisters that I wish to give hearty thanks!

And to my enemies.

Though they may be phantoms.


That I pray for you tonight.

I pray for you as brothers and uncles and sisters.

I pray for your happiness.

I do not pray for your destruction.

I am but a lowly runt on a road which runs out no-one knows when.

But daily I study logic.

And math.

And the two meet.

The twain.  Are one in the same.

Obverse and reverse.

[and “perverse”, as Sterling recited on the VU’s “Murder Mystery”]

It’s alright.

To be wrong.

It’s not a crime.

It’s a tort.

But it’s not good.

Such that we should comport ourselves with the judiciousness of proof burdens.

And with good deduction (Reductio ad absurdum) take the man’s word for it.

Our hinge, however, is that we do not completely trust law enforcement to nab

such elite criminals.

But we know much more than what we’ve written.

Find out who Dennis Hastert’s “roommate” was in Japan.

Ponder Jerry Sandusky.

And Jimmy Savile.

Search terms “uk child pedophile ring” or “child pedophile ring”.

I’m a Yank…I don’t know Jimmy Savile!

But I needed the name.

And just a few page results brought me back to the sickening situation as it stands.

Hastert’s 15-month sentence ends this fall.

He was, you remember, the Speaker of the House from 1999-2007.

His jail time is for the sexual abuse of boys.

And, by the way, his “fellow traveller” in Japan was none other than Tony Podesta (!)

Sandusky has (theoretically) 30-60 years of prison ahead of him.

Savile is dead.

But these rabbit holes go on and on.

They seem like rabbit holes.

For really big rabbits.

And then you climb in and find some kind of Knights Templars chapel.

“Strange Things Happenin’ Every Day” sang “Sister” Rosetta Tharpe.

I pray safety for all my readers.

And I pray for law enforcement who are bound by oath to wade through this disgusting carnage.

The only thing we have is each other.

When times are this bad.

And so I send out good wishes to all souls who find this.

And may our next occasion be more cheery and carefree.