********''QUIET
SUNDAY, NOISY NONDAY''********
DECEMBER
23, 2013,
MONDAY
AFTERNOON AT 1:09
HERE
IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA
CURRENT
TEMPERATURE 84 DEGREES FNHT.
Sunday
was quiet, and so was today until a little while ago around quarter
shy of one, when next door Stan, started shouted and slamming, and
then came inside his place and turned up some loud garbage for a
while, then turned it down a ways. People have some inner issues that
make them feel they need to be heard or recognized. Those who are
totally comfortable inside themselves, don't need to express
themselves in this manner, or shout out to the world they they are
there for all to know. I really feel quite sorry for a lot of my
fellow cohabitant human beings, the world over.
You
know it is funny in a non-ha-ha way, it really is. Things done around
me lead me to tell the world that wishes to listen, be it my three or
four dozen peeps reading me, or ''whatever'', to quote the boy who
now is congressman Andrews; but in all honesty, this horse shit
attack that came out of nowhere and went back into this mysterious
fucking land of nowhere from whence it all came; brings me to tell
what I know will, and that I had not planned to until much further
down the line, if ever, on any blog or other public work.
Why
did I begin playing with voices and tape recorders, and how does bob
McDowell and Bruce Pennock fit into all of it, and how does another
powerful truth totally surround this wild circle, whose name was, and
is, Sarah Jacobson? Well, this began in the autumn of 1972, even
though I knew all of the people listed from even earlier times, and
this need not be touched on. Also, why did I begin to pick and choose
the characters I designed and created, electronically, Shorty
MacInvondi and Professor Theodore Jackson being only two of many of
them, throughout many a year leading well into the nineties from the
early seventies? When this is thoroughly explored, some out here will
know the true meanings of my life and my blogs, at least twice as
much as they did, before this. Don't ever try to know the full story,
even I am spared that horror it seems, praise and glory be to eternal
fucking dogshit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I
am going to skip over a lot so I can tell just what I feel that I
need to talk about for right now, after-all, this is not some
instruction manual, that must be done in perfectly ordered
'Mizz-Egg-Terry Style' from oh-Marola-seven, hell-a-puke-yuk! I will
never forget that strange fucking nutcase as long as I draw breath
from this sick ugly old body, of THAT, Kimba Lion and I can both be
so sure, and to triple it us, so can the great Lurch Rockdroid, while
crushing the life out of poor fragile Billy Shatner, almost depriving
us of the pleasure of seeing his lovely ass daughter on television,
from the days of not her daddy's Oldsmobile, right through to the
trinidad Priceline connection, that I find impossible not to draw the
inference of coincidence number 5934020488333958.
Once
I saw that reality around me began to always in some way or another,
bend and curve and alter, and connect into things I was
hypothetically talking about with these made up electronic
characters, I then began to also come to realize the real powerful
kicker in all of fucking this, folks. It seemed that if I wanted to
make somebody or some event, begin to connect into something that
would further my goals of whatever they may be, which altered quite
dramatically throughout these years, early seventies to early
nineties; I simply began discussing with this 'electronically
created' person, those very items. Then I would mix in the
interruption-dubbing which made listening back so funny, that even I
found myself rolling on the floor in fits of uncontrollable laughter.
I actually had my friend Dave Roth so out of control, he broke one of
the two couches in the living room in 1986, at the rented home in
Cherry Hill, New Jersey, owned by that dirt bag realty/lawyer family,
Richard Karpf and his father and brothers. You fucking asshole
hackers have zero life, it is beyond fucking pathetic. If I do not
look and then correct, every time I capitalize a word, it comes out
in fucking 'smalls', no matter how I hold down that fucking shift
key, but IF I LOOK, it breaks the hack,
kind of a Quantum-Dynamic-Hacking operation, if I do say so myself,
Doctor Hawking.
I
have lived here now throughout five Decembers, most of 2009's
December, and all of the others except for the ending of the current
one, all of the three middle ones of 2010, 2011, and 2012; and I've
never ever seen it so fucking hot this time of year, not even in
eastern south-central freaking ass Florida Flower-land of mystical
voices and songs, right Joe Berrios, old Snowed In and bugged, army
pal????????
Now
to get back on point, and go through a real couple examples, to
illustrate my point in hopeful crystal clarity, and I know for sure,
my pal 'Seabottom' will be glad to get this information, and I am
more than happy to provide it, and hope that some time in the New
Year, he might be able to tell me or guide me through how he can send
me a copy of any of my music that he might possibly have, as very
little of it survived the trip to Florida with me on that fateful
blizzard frigid night when I left the northeast forever behind and
escaped my horrible tormenters, the KINGS, saga or no saga, of great
unknown pathetic 1983 song writers!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Is
this #5934020488333959, or am I just in need of couch time, a team of
docks, and lots of meds to put me in la-la land? You tell me, TRUTH
PATRIOTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So
down to cases we go, folks. I wanted certain things I'd rather not
publicly mention, to happen, in 1979, and began playing with the
voices, not in anywhere near the way I did later on after my treasure
find in the deep woods about 15 miles from my house while walking my
dog, a little bit later on in the year of 1979, and again, during
those magical waterloo times for me of after Halloween and up through
New Years Day. Sure enough, my little antics brought the move from
this house to 1802 Robin Hill Apartments, my demos, and so much more
into existence, and even caused a huge eruption, mount Saint Helen's.
It also had unforeseen side effects, such as the great SCYLLA singing
''Love is for Carpenters'' to me in a powerful ''dream'', shortly
following my move into that apartment. This event in all honesty
altered the course of my miserable life forever. Then came the tape
that I made shortly before the move on the night of the thirtieth of
April in 1980. This conversation was all about a giant dude with a
giant ego who controlled New York and and Atlantic City, had an ego
that wouldn't fit in two ocean basins, owned many huge properties,
boats and planes and you name it, and bragged and intimidated me,
calling me ''hot shot'' and telling me mean things about my
''princess'' as I called her then, the great disco singer, Donna
Summer. This was something between Donna and me, and is nobody's
business, so please never ever try and pump me on it. Others too were
involved, and even though they all are dead now I believe, out of
respect for their family, I will remain silent on this issue.
Right
after I did the Shorty tape,
which included what no one out there in the AQUARIUS WORLD ever got
their grubby hands on; speaking of Donna not WFMU Summer; I began
making copies onto cassettes from the open reel masters they were
recorded originally on. These were more advanced where he would say
horrible things back to me and I would interrupt him going, ''NO NO
NO NO'' many times and screaming at the top of lungs for him to shut
up using all kinds of horrific profanity, and he of course returned
that favor back. But when I began making 3 or 4 copies, things really
heated up. Things around me happened that totally wrecked and ruined
my potential chance for any happiness ever, for me in this life. Then
it was but a couple more short years, and along came this monster,
the man we all know and hate, and many love for reasons that always
eluded me more than trying to fit a unified field theory into three
dimensions; one bright day, he just appears on the scene. No one ever
knew him before that day, just POOF, and there he was. One day I told
David Roth in 1988 about all of this and that if I ever took one of
these tape copies, re-recorded it onto the full-track open reel
mastering machine, then turned the reels around to the opposite
direction and made a new copy onto a cassette from the tape running
backwards, this man would vanish forever, as mysteriously as he got
here. I'll never forget the look on his face. What I also won't soon
forget is a slip of the tongue made by him shortly after this. It
seems he was in a writing correspondence with dozens of very high
profile name recognized people, one being the man who had recently
lied under oath to an official United States Senate Sub-Committee,
late the previous year, regarding the Contra and the CIA selling guns
to questionable folks, and here is Dave, in a personal correspondence
with this great Director of operations of the snowed-In Never Say
Anything club, the NSA, Mister Oliver north, and his drugged up party
girl secretary, Fawn Hall. So far now, we get my demo tapes, the LOIS
FOCA and SCYLLA, who was ten here in this life when she sang this to
me; and the creation of the Donald, but this was where things begin,
and in no way where they come close to ending, let alone being in a
middle area even. Still, the blindside-effect of these experiments,
is that like trying to win a huge billion dollar lottery jackpot or
dam near, the numbers you must match to accomplish this are mind
boggling. In other words, combinations of possible unseen events that
come up to kick your ass hard and fast and down on the mat, over and
over again; will always be there as a very dangerous ominous side
effect, to an otherwise cool and wild scientific experiment. Real
scientists will never recognize me as a peer even if I had degrees
totally covering my walls, and then some more. This is because I
break the golden rule of the scientific community. I EXPERIMENT ON
MYSELF. Well, why not? Who made these mother fucking bastards god
almighty to determine that rule, aniwho?
Now
this is merely to open up the door to the experiments that all led up
to my eventual creation of the great machine, for slang, called,
MAGGIE. Its real name is KEYBOARDS FROM PETAHELL, ALSO KNOWN AS (AKA)
MAGNESONIC, for short. One person on this planet has a very high IQ,
his code name begins with an 'S', and ends with a 'M'. But there is a
lot more I want to tell you and any other interested folks, as we
move this along in 2014. It will not only discuss this machine or
really, this TECHNOLOGY, as a bunch of the right electrronic guts so
to speak on a living room floor along with the know-how, IS THE
MACHINE. I merely hope someday to put the actual part of it that
would be considered by many musicians as the UMC or the ultimate
music Computer, into a large lightweight keyboard with comfortable
wearable straps, and with current micro-tech, twenty or thirty loaded
terabyte flash-drives can be plugged into the side of it, and any
kind of music, any kind of anything, can be created, and then with
the originality of the user to work around existing things, brand new
totally fresh stuff can be made, and an entire new music will then
come to be, hopefully, as what we have over the past 40 years, is
getting lousier and lousier, and most of us know it, but won't ever
say it, for fear of group peer pressure and total ostracizing.
Well,
I have a few things to take care of while the business world still is
open for the day. So let me post up and I will return, Admiral Hymns,
or whatever, from Oak street. Yeah PP, I made this all up. Wow, the
ultimate compliment. This means I have the greatest fucking
imagination on the planet, and need to be hired, yesterday, out in
Hollywood at a 500 G annual starting salary, which I would not be
able to accept. You see PP, I DON'T HAVE A FUCKIGN IMAGINATION, and
all this shit is very very very Ingrid-84 totally ass REALE, right
Pervo-Tom of Ventnor???????????????????????????????
THIS
THIS PARTICULAR WRITING TERMINATES NOW:
No comments:
Post a Comment