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Argy Bargy, and dargy Darger.

Posted by jez on April 29, 2011 at 5:00 PM Comments comments (0)

Few film Yu's In the Realms of the Unreal. While it poses as a documentary on famed "outsider artist" Henry Darger — who throughout his reclusive life laboured at an awesome paedophiliac epic in both text and image — it resolutely refuses to deal with the very issues that make his work so troubling and fascinating. Vaguely describing the unreal realms of his Vivian Girl heroines as "a place where anything could happen," Yu and her film make sure that nothing that happens could frighten the children: the psycho-sexual torment at the core of his work is completely sidestepped, while his neo-Dickensian childhood at the hands of malicious caretakers is so mildly handled that you can practically hear "It's a Hard-Knock Life" playing in the background. The film is so condescending to such a profoundly complex body of work that you start shaking your fist at the nursery-ready background music and the hopelessly inadequate animation of the pictures that tame the incoherent passion of the images. And though various landlords and acquaintances speculate on his motives, there's no sensible discussion of the work, which is written off as part of a "mystery" that Darger presumably left in trust to cocktail sophisticates everywhere. Yu is so deliberately vague as to what she wants to suggest that the results are worse than no movie at all, unless the idea of a Darger documentary narrated by twinkle-voiced Dakota Fanning strikes you as frighteningly apropos. Included are storyboard and photo galleries that are completely useless to anyone without a giant TV, a Jessica Yu filmography, and an interview with Yu that makes her seem like the most presumptuous woman in the world.


"I'm a thug, here let me give you a hug."

Posted by jez on November 30, 2010 at 12:35 AM Comments comments (0)

Heavily orchestrated campaign of victimization and harassment by scum lasting almost five years, arresting times, during which wife, my son and I were forced to endure filth and excrement thrown onto both sides of property. Regular reports made to Social Services, Council officials etc...; child being removed from its family home, and that family’s subsequent abandoning of that home due to it, here's what one of the two did to my wife in my absence when she went back to get belongings.

“I'm sorry for putting you through all that, now that I/we've forced you out we mean. Here, let me give you a hug.” ??!!

[email protected]@@@@@@@@@@@@@@[email protected]@@@@@@@@@@@@@RDS!!!!!!!

I'm called to forgive, but not called to be complacent.


Drugs are fun, my arse!!

Posted by jez on November 24, 2010 at 5:55 AM Comments comments (0)

Recreational drugs (if there is such a thing) are defunct of light, love and life, not a single soul can deny. Aye the pharmaceutical is giant, as are the numberless and growing hoards of its jolly dependants feeding it feeding them; trapped in its volatile vortex of bewilderment and pure greed. On the other hand, while the medicinal properties/extracts of mushrooms may prove and provide imperative sustenance for the genuinely ill, what of the genuinely well, copiously consuming the stuff in a recreational capacity like there's nae the 'morrow? And what of drugs as a means for governments to trap and subdue innocents, there are many, wandering toilet tiled hospital corridors, of Putin's Russia, crouched in brightly padded cells with T.V.‘s turned right up 24/7?! Don’t tell me the pros outweigh the cons. My God, Putin and the majority who follow in their footsteps are cons, they should never have been put in power (no pun intended). Most people believe that some of these elected presidents are self-elected criminals. I’ll bet the dying dollar the Russians are not the only ones who have had a stab at that bad barrel of apples?

Joseph M. Ippolito.

Dogs and Diablo not included in the Realms of the unreal, lest it come to pass.

Posted by jez on November 8, 2010 at 6:00 AM Comments comments (0)


 …shaved the leg of a sozzled Rastafarian after a night in the Cavern club in a place called the Grassmarket. Jack downed a tab, about an hour later he suddenly started experiencing god like sensations, so when this god had made up his mind that he was going to stroll happily and slap through a rowdy group of short sleeved, tight braced, white shirted skinheads slamming their juiced heads about like there was no tomorrow, there had to be absolutely no hesitation. It did not take a place called Greendykes tattooed in the usual Indian ink indelibly etched with a rusty needle across the forehead to deduce that there was a distinct possibility of a jolly good doing on the cards in that copped out crowd, though a synonymous loss of both pseudo and non-pseudo consciousness to boot did. It didn’t take five aces to deduce that, but Jack had ‘em all so he went ahead and did it regardless of the aforementioned clap. The idea would be to take them all by surprise before they could come to what might be left of their silly senses and before they spontaneously tore Jack’s confident little drug induced walkabout to shreds. Instead they all stopped as Jack passed through the Milky way like a galaxy colliding with a solid assembly of stars. Then life-changingly post an evil smelling gob smacked pause, the bovver boys carried on prancing, almost mindlessly, as if the unwarranted intrusion was no big deal, and nothing, no nothing, bar decidedly blinkered walkabouts, possible Buddhist monks bursting into flames, or a call for last orders was going to slow that delightfully diabolical dance. Of the, searing and obviously startling subject of bursting into flames, skinheads with future potentials to throw a less obvious though actually totally feasible lot into the building of a Buddhist monastery, the politics of immolation, not to be confused with spontaneous human combustion, does beg immediate mention at this turn due to the questionably “preponderant evidence” of a pretentious proselyte, self professed enlightened one and born again drunk that starry, starry night, or I should say early, early morning who was suggesting that advice best be sought should one come to the cocked up conclusion he was going to set himself on fire. The actual words… “You’ve got to know what you’re doing.” Really…!! Well holy bonfire night Batman I hadn’t thought of that, maybe next time I burn myself to death I’ll come to you for advice. Probably a bucket of water or a phone at hand and not a copy of the very, very dry P.D. Ouspensky’s ‘In search of the miraculous’ would be the best remedy should the unbelievable urge when it was far too late to change one’s mind that the notion of an unlikely world changing event ever happening all because of some imbecilic act of roasting oneself alive in the far-out twenty first century might not have been such a good and far out idea after all. As for unlocking the less obvious arithmetical nuances of the skinhead kingdom and while totally under the influence of a single docile downer; lets ponder Postman Pat, hundreds of letterboxes in say one Niddrie block East of Westerhailes alone. Of course Niddrie’s East of nowhere, but only because one might implicitly perceive that God wants nothing to do with the spiritless place, which is of course crap of course, because of course He does. However, that is one block alone, at first glance insurmountable, but when you have lifts as well as stairs and you divide the posting by days, the enormity of it might seem easier to swallow. No, it isn’t, it is a purgatorial prison and an exhausting nightmare, although it would be better than living in say somewhere like “Kahr-Dro-Na” East of Peebles. Just imagine what it must be like living in a place like that, someone has to. People counting on their giros day in day out, depending on the day of the week their giros fell. Once upon a time giros all arrived on a Saturday with no exception, now they‘re quite rare. But that is where God is, those are His people and His people who see it are there too, that‘s them, they‘re the ones who are the world changers, they are the heaven headers. Anyway getting back to downers and the politics of cheating. One might as well hand one’s best buddy the score sheet when the teacher’s back is turned, or openly refuse to give a really unique urine sample at say the Olympics for the purpose of a testing, in view of possible testosterone fuelled suspicions afoot. All of this unholy crap just really goes to show that the pupil nor the athlete can ever turn their back on the true teacher, and that is - the teacher of the soul of course. I’ll tell you what, if I was the jolly judge, they’d all be barred.

Joseph M. Ippolito.

Every single star has someone it shines on.

Posted by jez on October 12, 2010 at 2:50 AM Comments comments (0)

My dog Gloria swamped and ate a tiger, poor spider, there was nothing I could do, it was all over before I could even go hey just after I turned my head. Anyway, tonight she and I were just looking up and going, what’s going on, and then it was oh my goodness as we were just kind of staring - yes staring - up at the starry carpet, did we ever go hey, is that a rug in need of a ravishing, and the rest is really kind of boring because no-one needs walked on? No, we said, hey you there, around every star, there are things that swim up waters, necessarily not any more or less intelligent than wonderful humans; whatever it is, it has managed to conquer the vast arc of space a lot sooner than humans have, and there is 0 any ignorant sentient can do about it.

Joseph M. Ippolito.

Some things are best, when they are left well alone.

Posted by jez on September 26, 2010 at 5:15 PM Comments comments (0)

"What a wonderful wonderful life, no need to run or hide...." Aye, I agree, but still a number nine on the maple Mabel maybe, aye. If you don't mind me saying so, bad weather makes me feel a whole lot better.

Guess what, the Galaxians have moved in, and guess what, they've binned, and they're banning all of the broken and not yet so broken bits of brack and there is just about absolutely the zorg any presently living non-entity non-planet owner can do about it.

Meanwhile; Ah but its read all about it, man charged for watering his plants and for walking his dog. The war paint's on 'n it's time to put the self professed peacepoles (trust no multi-language inscribers who despise meat eaters, yet themselves abuse dismembered bits of trees) along with their compadre reptilian witch/wizard fiends, not forgetting of course sheriff con horse dung (S. J. Horsburgh) to shame. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so obviously hostile with the oh so pretentiously nice ice poles. Perhaps freedom of speech, being a reptile and insidiously attempting to ban the iconic symbol of grocery Scotland (the plastic bag) are not morally obvious rhymes (neology for obviously moral crimes) after all, or at all, or if they are, are they, whatever it all might mean?

This may not be so casual an option for subscribers to internet lewdness to get their own back at the infiltrating poo pee or pee poo put down they have had to put up with for too long now. However, some peace poles are as flimsy as their misguided organisations they mistakenly believe are contributing to changing the world. What of plastic hearts and plastic minds?

Pull it the gither, n' right now!!


Sticks and stones.

Posted by jez on September 5, 2010 at 7:48 AM Comments comments (0)

Let’s spare a thought for the pawns here, the pawns are not ignorant per-se as they do not know who their controllers are, and in any event they would not believe it, for they are being pushed around largely and generally quite willingly by the puppeteer. But just who is/are the puppeteers, why the Illuminate of course.

The Illuminate are none other than the fallen angels and they have been on this earth since their fall as described in Genesis of the Bible. In Michael Ende’s novel and film Momo, the men in grey embody and symbolise the illuminate The Illuminate control all systems and those systems are indelibly intertwined like a woolly ball eventually becoming dad’s old hole ridden sweater. I talked of spiral ladders in the “Realms of the unreal”, the act of falling is described therein. Take Adam and Eve for example. Most people know that they fell, but what they don’t realise is that Adam and Eve were not the first to fall. Just as in the “Realms…” they too were dragged back down the ladder on which they were in the garden at the very top, however in this exceptional case they took a tumble and hit rock bottom.

Illuminate signage can be seen perceived as 555111 and the eye in the midst of the pyramid on the dollar sign ad-infinitum. E.G., Crime-Stoppers 555111. 51 + 51 + 51 = 6 + 6 + 6 which is of course 666, the number of the beast, a curious coincidence being that dial for emergency is 999. A deliberation engineered by the Illuminate working within that facet of institution or a coincidence, of those at the pinnacle of the hierarchy who wouldn’t dream of compromise regulating their D.N.A.?!

The above is not merely numerology for numerology sake, nor just another rumour of covert agenda, more importantly it is basic observation of the Illuminate codes for even they observe conduct, they too have flags, flats and doorbells, they work with and are recognised by numbers incorporating 6 and 9. Take the Edinburgh Fettes phone number for example; .... ... ...., when this is added and the product 18 is again added as 8 + 1 = 9.

However the systems and the individuals knowing these in-controversial and “silly” unsubtle nuances who refuse to co-operate with the modern world’s tight knit conformist demands at any level (be that with a neighbour or with the Law, as some German citizens shunned likewise Hitler’s mad politics - note: “Trust no Gray”, “…transient offers of a freebie.” Chapter 12 of the “Realms of the unreal” - and some Polish nationals who were friends with German Jewish nationals, just until the devil danced through the door) are amply ostracised by all manner of international sanction until such time as they tow the line, and when they do tow the line that is when they become obliged as fully fledged citizens to conform and their different parts are mingled in the same soup and things get stuck and clogged, and from time to time mangled. These inductees are then gradually and imperceptibly subjugated and drawn into the process of cultural degradation, never more evident than when Tony Blair was on record as having said “I want to destroy the culture of this country”, until the life has been strangled out of it methinks.

The collective and those people who do not conform to this insidious global drive pro total conformation and oppose those scallywags who wish to deal cultural identities as a mere poker hand are unduly dubbed by other nations/neighbours as Rogue States like say North Korea or even good old David Icke, while all the while the subservient puppets are following (grey/Gray) janitorial suit. North Korea of course could do without hurtling projectiles over Northern Japan from time to time, for that awakening, be it a stride wayward, purely serves to undermine its defiance and incontrovertibly support the powers that be to suppress what those powers are best at suppressing and do what they are truly the best at doing; that be name calling, for whatever dubious agenda ridden reasons.

This is obviously merely an iota of the overall state of not just politics, it is the draconian direction in which all politics has strayed, commandeered of course in Scotland’s non-exceptional case by a villainous village with a big V (although big P for pillage and preyed and big R for Reptilian and raped to be precise might better fit the bill) 400 Miles South of it, the lucifugous house of Lords, aye. FREEDOM!!!!


And names will definitely harm.

We should be trying to help our friends.


Joseph M. Ippolito.

Me and my pal Allah.

Posted by jez on August 31, 2010 at 5:25 PM Comments comments (0)

The politically erect wouldn’t let me paste me buster gonads ohn tae the new tube so I'm ohn ma way tae the jail tae impart this not so holy wisdom tae some ae the inmates. They‘ll no do me, I petition.

“Ah ah'n’ ma pal Allah says yir awe bein’a wee bit too serious, chill oot fir holy fruitcake sake, crack open a keg, put the telly ohn 'n let’s watch ‘Chewin' the fat ‘n Katherine Tate ohn’ the one night ‘ae the year when Auld Lang Syne, or sin, or whit’ere yi want tae caw it, brings the bairns gaithered aw the gither an’ tears streamin’ doon ‘their happy pappy’s puffied cheeks. An’ och ae course aye, there’s nae herm tae sing a pittance in praise ‘ae the bells, though neglect ‘ae some ‘ae the same tae the Maker of all creashun is libidinous licorice bom-boms. Faither, Ally bally bee, but caw ‘im what ye will, He's listening to awe ‘ae us, judging the herts ’ae sinners wher’ere they bide; He's got it sorted, now just how the holy hotdog wid ah gon' an’ ken' that?


Trust no Gray.

Posted by jez on August 31, 2010 at 1:20 AM Comments comments (0)

“Freedom of speech is a myth because it’s very imperative nature is a danger to freedom, and knowledge of true freedom is a key to the life eternal.”


Suddenly the car jacked in and while Jack and Dave were hemmed by the kerb of a road so perfectly horizontal for miles, one could conceivably be fooled into believing it headed straight for Area 51, a dark garbed gentleman pulled up nice and tight in what to most would be commonly known as a meat wagon, proceeded with the traditional windy hello, hello, hello what’s going on here then, then immediately handed Jack a see through satchel with a pipe sticking out of one end and prompted that he puff into it. With one way in and no way out, Dave imagined what Jack might be thinking.

“Here I believe are a couple of terrestrial tricks in the intellectual and amiable art of Alienido (a kind of verbal Aikido) in the event of an accosting by the human impostor. Firstly, always carry a digital camera, the Gray is photosensitive and doesn’t like flashing lights. If you suddenly find your motor neurons are totally not responding and sense your body being ushered involuntarily to a vehicle with Black Mariah and throbbing coloured disco techno plastered all over it, try not to clammer for your camera, stay calm, click and pray your batteries haven’t gone on holiday. Don’t believe ANY guff the swine might telepathically suggest about how there’s Turkish delights stuffed in its saucers waiting to be dished to the first gullible cretin taken in by the dubious offer of a freebie, if you don’t want to end up as condensed milk, liquid protein, and or eaten that is. You should also refrain from the temptation of saying, well chops to that old chap but I’d really rather pop ‘round to the 4 O Clock chippy for a donor kebab now if you don’t mind, should you not require an alarmingly sudden, “Right, that’s it pal, yir’ coming wi’ us” reply.

If on the other hand the clanger cross Klingon starts zapping you with evil mind ray semantics and tells you it’s not really dressed up, that you’re mistaken, moreover if you don’t comply with its perspective, and or fail to recognise a criminal offence when you’ve being accused of one, there will be big trouble, especially if a jury is ill afforded the hypocritical indiscretion of deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, and that you might either go straight to the cells or Down Under in the Bonnie ship the diamond (not to be confused with the Bonnybridge pie man, basically translated; The Falkirk Triangle). Do not be coerced by this legal and simple sum of absolute crap, immediately explain you majored in philology and any fool can see that the sun falling beyond the horizon, the fact you are not a beautiful girl (for if you were drop dead gorgeous and the Klingon doppelganger, Richard D. Hall’s version of Star-Trek’s Wharf wasn’t actually an Annunakai, Reptilian Gray, or Gremlin after all, you would immediately be released right there on the spot) and apples falling from trees does not take any effort whatsoever to comprehend, especially these days, even for non-Newtonians. Respectfully add that the misuse of the word ‘perspective’ in this context is poop, for if you do not attempt to blind the bobby with hazology (terribly complicated ways of saying immensely simple things) and hesitate even for a moment, he will do absolutely all in his subliminal power to subdue your critical will, shackle and cart you to the rear of one of a multitude of chambered caverns, and we all know that Lucy fir loves nothing more than when he’s hammering the nails on the ‘old rugged - possibly drugged - cross’ and giving us the blame there, don’t we? If we didn’t know, we do now.

And again, if none of the aforementioned has any effect, before the prowling and carnivorous erky-eared perky is given the chance to squeeze your rotators with its thumb and forefinger, dispatch the fiend with a swift uppercut that will temporarily render it prostrate, don’t wait for its revival to explain that the definition of prostrate is to reduce one to extreme physical weakness, but immediately make your getaway. If it does turn out you are mistaken, the worst scenario is imprisonment and you should be out within one to two weeks, rest assured, this is preferable to being wrangled through a soup making soul matrix machine if you’re right. This advice might even be a mitigating circumstance if the judge happens to be a fellow prisoner (refer to neologisms in index) and is the only person who knows what the hell you have been through, and are talking about.

In addition to the above, don’t take shortcuts home along secluded woodland paths in the middle of the night, but if you do happen to be out and about in the wee small and unearthly hours, stay right where there is ample street light, you’ll be quite safe unless of course there are a couple of mischievous revellers staggering helplessly towards you and looking like they’re about to ask you back to their pad. If you get the odd and uneasy feeling that you are being watched, it’s because you probably are, by a Mr Gray exploring the psychological anomaly of spying, even possible thuggery, but with the sole intention of slurping your red stuff dry, some of which might get retained in glass jars for the abominable Dows future consumption. If you happen to be close to home, run to it as fast as your jellied legs will allow and phone Tom Cruise right away to come and help you sort the problem. If none of this works and if you still abhor the idea of having your gears cored out to the colon with no vascular collapse and in an undignified field, then ask alien Al politely if it would like a race to the end of the street, if baldox is up for exploring the psychological anomaly of ego, when it sprints off like an absolute…expletive deleted…, run like the clappers in the other direction, or alternatively and if you’re voice-box hasn’t gone AWOL, then ask the Reticulan if it has ever enjoyed a good kick in the toolbox, it pre–abduction phenomena (remember to say phenomena and not agenda, for if you do not, Mr. Gray might take exception to your profound knowledge and terminate you right there on the spot) didn’t have, and sometimes dissects from cattle, and sadly, the occasional human.

Neology is the preferred language of the alien Gray, so lastly, if chrome dome tells you it's a womb dater, a letter writing wish-dosher, or just some laxi-cabriant dressed in its Jade white Sunday best out driving a caxi-tab near the supermarket at Straiton, you’ve just met Spock. Ask him if he knows your mate Johnny Jay, say that you’re only meaning to get home to the wife, and that you were only there to try out what used to be the Victoria and Albert’s white piano. It might also help if you tell your potential platinum pal that you do NOT want to be given a birth nor a brain implant, and you certainly do NOT want to be taught how to weld balls near castles or waterfalls. When and where there are two or more aliens, only prayers rarely answered can help you there.

Dave leaned on one side of the vehicle as Jack menacingly mambulated back and forth at the theft of their personal details.

“He’s probably off to steal another hapless roller’s time.” Jack said

“I’ll be the bobby, you be the protestor Jack.” Dave said.

“Isn’t this a wonderful crime free society?”

“No.” Jack replied.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no-one breaks the law anymore, so there’s no need for all these wall bots and back road bizzies.”

“Aye there is, they keep the drones in check and the minute one steps out of line you can be sure we’ll know about it.”

“But I can’t even use a cash machine without you zooming in on my safety pin.”

“Isn’t that preferable to being robbed? We’ve caught housebreakers and molesters and that can’t be bad can it?”

“I’m well aware of that, but there will always be lawbreakers no matter what. Surely there are alternatives, I mean this is just a small town after all, that kind of thing doesn’t happen ‘round here, not on a regular basis anyway.”

“Our model society, our upright citizenry was built from this and you wouldn’t listen so we had to make you - no ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ about it.”

“Really, then this system of society surveillance is a form of a collective restraint like say the curfew tag a paroled prisoner is forced to wear?”

“No, it protects you from yourselves because you don’t know how to behave.”

“Haven’t we all fallen short?”

“Big Brother isn’t going to listen to that.”

“But you said it wasn’t that.” Jack told Dave as Dave stood boldly stretching up into the misty purple heavens attired to the eyeballs in his imaginary combats, thumbs tucked neatly in the straps of his stab proof corset and all of this slap bang in the bizzy bosom of a quiet country lane far from the bombs of real battle. But to Jack this was a conflict, it was a battle, he knew he was only trying to salvage some sacred sliver of sanctity amid the wreckage of what remained of his humanity, his moral fibre strewn about the grass-free precincts of this pretty little planet.

There was something that wasn’t right, something that was seriously wrong, but no-one quite knew what, only now the herd of elephants was rousing from its docility and boy were they grumpy. Here’s how it may have all began etc...


Joseph M. Ippolito.

Disappearing facts.

Posted by jez on August 31, 2010 at 1:05 AM Comments comments (0)

The present bureaucratic America/UK places extensive emphasis on paperwork, if a person changes their data then they become a new identity. Some documents are considered "incontrovertible/unfakeable" by the authorities and thus trusted.

There are multitudes of paranoid people in the world, instead of waiting for the government to oppress them, they might assume their alternate identity, place their alter egos into bureaucratic cold-storage, until it is needed, to say flee from a divorce, or the police or something else.

But every disaster shows that some of the deceased are never properly accounted for. In some instances, some are people who had not previously existed.

The police drop in on the next of kin and find a house where the landlady forwards mail to a defunct letter-box in another town. Worse, the deceased possessed I.D. for a person who passed a few days after birth and who then went on to claim a relative's insurance and so on.

Of course just one or two of the many reasons for ‘disappearances’, and there may be many more.

Joseph M. Ippolito.