RASCAL RUMINATIONS

1. Fatal Fatigue

As the world peels itself off accumulated norms, the price we are paying for our fatal fatigue is civilisationally fucking heavy. I take this personally. I am, after all, the poet at the zenith of expression in art and philosophy, the throne of humanities.

2. My Love Life

Dead as a knob, hanging by a single doornail. I never met the fucking bitch. Los Angeles is not the stomping ground of Monica Vittis, sensitive to Michalengelos. This United Shakespearean Tragedy could not birth me a Joan Crawford. And even if it did, she is feigning confidence at a meeting right now, muscling masculine ambitions. She must be administering foot-soldiers strapped to numbers in polymer structures of a redundant corporation. Where am I supposed to scoop her? The Country Club? Or the after party at St. Vincente Bungalows for the benefectors of Getty? Evidenly, there is one place in this town she can’t get in. 1843 North Cherokee, where I am chiselling the impossible miracle of my genius: SOLITUDE IS MULTITUDE.

2 1/2.

In practical terms, I could spot her on Whitley Heights. That’s about the only place beside Trader Joe’s, she could enter the milimetric precision field of my vision, the voracious hunter in every scene I enter, scanning the air for her cascading laughter or animated silence.

3. American Ricordata

Most pressing item on the MENU OF DISCLOSURES is as follows:

In the summer of 2018, I set up RICORDATA, NY with the modest capital of $6000 my father had granted me. At first, it was a tiny windowless office at 87 Richardson Street, near McCarren Park, around the corner from Pete’s Candy Store where my good friend Oscar T. met Tash, his wife. It might even have been the same night I met the lovely Elizabeth C. She took me home from the birthday party of the girl I loved.

In the summer of 2020, I relocated the studio to Los Angeles with a visionary assassination plot: the situational End of Hollywood. It was the peak of the plandemic, mind you. The financial possibility, a combination of extraordinary synchronicities, was due to commissioned visual documentation of interstate affairs of my high-rolling friends. Somehow, just the right amount of money had found my pocket, thanks to Soho Johnny and the most vivacious Italian Senatrice of all time, Francesca A. That money certainly wasn’t enough to buy all the equipment to upscale the studio and move to L.A. So, Gianni urged me to put the money in crypto. And thus, RICORDATA, HOLLYWOOD was mounted on the back of the 2021 bull run.

Since, the establishment of Ricordata, I have not been back in Europe — fuck Europe, Europe only amounts to the Mediterranean, the rest can suck my toes! Six solid years of mining, banished from all the elementary pleasures of life, the sea, my apricot skin and the chance of actually fancying a perfectly ordinary woman, a standing ovation of the ancient, soaked in olive oil, distilled from the grapes. LAX is on the horizon.

4 1/2. Non ho fatto un grande amore.

Ho tutte le carte in regola… per essere il messia… except the transformative presence of love. I don’t have that in place, never have. Merely a flaky glimpse. I understand from the way I’m controlling this vindictive bile, frothing with the memory parade of certain pretty and imperceptive women, that I am maturing. Maturing like a kid. Spuming Close Encounters with The Poet of Sound and Image. Write that book and it’s a hit.

4. 2/2 The Genius of Piero Ciampi

Public Service: Ho tutte le carte in regola is a reference to Piero Ciampi, my beloved poet from Livorno (Italia). A giant who can knock out any celebrated poet-singer in the English language over a bottle of Chianti. I detest the imported, self-administered cultural imperialism that has his name obscured in the eye of the Italian youth. That’s one tragedy I rub in when I’m there. Most don’t know Piero Ciampi, and yet, they throb with fandom for the subpar wankers from The West. Si, si, te lo faccio vede chi sono io, sono Chi No! I shall purge the Italian popular culture… as I destroy the IMAGE REALITY, the simulatory concentration camp of the TERMITE IDEOLOGY. Ciaone Proprio! Numero Novem.

5. How to escape from the mouth of an imploding volcano?

For the first time in my life, my concern is pragmatic. I feel the impending doom on my neck as the blades of chaos shred the whoreganised world of crimes against humanity, i.e. the world order under the pretext of electricity.. water.. drainage.. supply chains.. billing systems.. recurring payments.. lotions and creams.. viles of botox to cement faces – optimised cushion for slapping dick.

What a circuit? What a looping doom. Conceive the mudbrick settlements of the neolithic, soft earth hardened to adobe that nurtured successive babies in the near impossible string of causality. Their deeds piling on deeds like national debt and by consequence, here we are witnessing this omni-crippling, impotent orgasm, the status qui in the limp pinnacle of human trajectory.. just to generate the HUMANOID SUBSPECIES.

_ TO BE CONTINUED