A buddy, Peter Ludovico, served time in #Leavenworth after convicted of various crimes associated with the RICO Act. Behind bars inside a stone and stoned federal prison Peter learned how to paint ‘art’ from another political prisoner, #Leonard Peltier.
Peter got out of prison after about 14 years, and he continued to use oils to express himself plus he group founded a club called the Goodfellows of Long Island, New York. These talented men found cars forgotten and destroyed by societal norms gone amuck and turned these wrecks into trippy hot-rods. The stories of the cars are more than symbolic of the life stories of the guys.
Leonard remains in prison because he is an outspoken Native American leader who the govt. cannot abide having him raise consciousness on the Rez, and off. All-hail-piss-on the fascist state making sure the Redskins play football but not tell truths to kids in the fourth grade in Gringolandia traveling to soccer games via Cherokee SUVs.
I am friends with Leonard, in the social media swarm, today. Some years ago, Peter and I personally met after he started his life over, in the outside, free to be. The specifics of this sidebar are not shared. I was a NYU Law trained private attorney’s wife (now widow) with a vowel on the end of my married name, too.
Pete and I established our relationship based on me being called Doll this, and Doll that. We drove around in one of Peter’s latest hot rod creations eating lunch at starred restaurants discussing his website, twin adult boys, and his Irisher wife’s steadfastness. Why do married men exhibit an incessant need to tell me about their wives?
Peter’s NYC streetwise style, incredible raspy mobster voice, and larger than death attitude engendered the finest in service when we dined out together, never Dutch because, “Ole school is bout da respect, Doll.”
Between car restorations, Peter had a mini-gig working as an advisor to the TV series, The Sopranos. During an autumn leafy day in upstate NY, the director asked Pete to show an actor in tow how to use a baseball bat. Peter’s performance got a little too real deal and scared the rep from the Actors Guild (SAG) to the tipping point he threw-up on the set, in several spots, as he bolted for safety from Scene-Five, Take-One.
One luscious summer Saturday evening in The Hamptons, Peter and I attended a gallery opening of Leonard’s artwork in Southampton, NY, (an old money enclave going hedge fund haven). Here Peter and I stood with our Italian Sparkling waters (his contribution), me Scottish-lady sipping and him Mafioso-slurping from the venue’s rented champagne glasses. We watched the parade of the non-brave in their latest summer season duds. We discussed, too loudly, Leonard from a highly prisoner personal point of view few knew, including Leonard’s devoted family. The fundraiser was a success for several reasons including the possibility of it doubling as a laundry?
There were other Native American leaders from AIM (America Indian Movement) present to lend an imbalance to the Pilgrims and wanabee Euro trash in attendance. The handsome warrior star of the teardrop ad campaign was not present, but others more real and certainly not co-opted stood unlike cigar Indians around the gallery. They sported no overt regalia but dressed more for a few rounds of golf at the nearby snooty Shinnecock (famous traditional Scottish moors style golf course) except for Eagle feathers woven in long double braids and beads strung of wampum and bear teeth proudly displayed around the strong neck of authentic braves.
I like the vibes of sober Indians, because I spent a summer at karma purgatory. While inside the gates of hell, I worked as a crisis intervention worker on the Hoopa Indian rez – the turf of Big Foot. In our vain attempts to defuse the combo insanity of firewater and black beauties (speed) my other agenda was upping the ante for a doctorate in humanistic Jungian radical psychology. My goal was to become an Art Therapist for the walking wounded under the age of 10 years.
Call me a selfish bitch? Yet, I challenge you to disarm a screaming family holding deer knives at the throats of each other inside a rotting trailer of squalor overrun with broken every things while the Bee Gees’s Melody Fair blasted away thumping their Aussie inferno beat stuck in a warped eight-track.
Back to the past present – Peter’s paintings were flashy illustrations about what happened to him as an Italian kid in Harlem who ended up as a crew boss for one of the NY mob families. Peter ran after-four AM nightclubs for the bigga Boss, and other stuff.
My forever-favorite painting of Peter’s is a courtroom scene where the parties are fairy tale cartoon characters, oversized, rendered in high detail in a rich palette of dissonant colors. Below the hardwood floor and under the chairs and tables we see gigantic rats with head portraits particular to those who had ratted-out Peter, the Boss, and others. Unless you knew the players, the rats were more dressing than main meal.
The judge was a looming giant kangaroo with a white wig fashioned of dangling dead roaches, sniggled teeth, and hundred dollar bills. The District Attorney was an even larger rendition appearing as Daffy Duck whose gigantic orange webbed feet seemed to be standing in pools of blood and guts. DA Daffy’s protruding left wing was a grotesque hook pawing at the courtroom air space as if in 3-D.
Peter portrayed himself in this milieu as a respectful Timber Wolf wearing a bride-white sheepskin suit tailored by Armani. He was sitting calmly behind the defense counsel’s table with the rats sniffing his Italian pointy shoes. Pete’s bebop tie was migrating Monarch butterflies gathered, resting. The defense counsel was a team of wooden soldiers armed with laser swords.
The jury sat high up the canvas behind an1880’s style fern bar with faces and bodies rendered as various characters from childhood horror stories yet distorted with expressions so out of it they reminded me of the girls in Island Records’s music video, Addicted to Love.
I am sharing this because I wish Peter were here to paint the board of directors of the Council on Foreign Relations (#CFR), in executive session.
In my revolutionary politically sideways view from the cheap seats, I envision #Hillary as Francis the Talking Mule with too many facelifts. Her comrade is #Kerry as a gawky giraffe wearing camo boxers carrying under his limber leg a gigantic squeeze bottle of Heinz catsup with the cap as his wife’s bobbing head. Yet, this ménage a tois floats above the other characters sporting extended wings made of mini-drones instead of feathers. Gases as blue flames are spurting from Hillary’s breasts and burnt American flags and white crosses are flaming out of Kerry’s Boston Brahmin arse.
Moving on, the jerks below sitting at the horseshoe conference table are faces you will never recognize. They are mega-corporate overseers whose meta-special interests from piss stream media to investments to the gun trade of producing stealth war machines are basically not in our world view of skew news. Unless you belong to a too private snooty field club or your family has at least eight second home homesteads worth hundreds of millions you will not recognize these folks. This lot spends hundreds of thousands in payola in what I term ‘reverse PR’ – to insure they and their families remain nameless and faceless.
Abduction and holding policy ransom conferences are what they do to our rights and freedoms. Consequently, they prefer no public identity. In fact, they are over-privileged. Resident on their iPads are contact numbers for Interpol (in various languages) and the current season’s haute couture designers along with a favored inside trader in tune with the week’s latest debacle/invasion on foreign soil. War is profit margins on the digital field of battle stock trades and merger and acquisitions in the boardroom. Such shared secrets are married to each other like mute Siamese twins.
Of course, these leaders of the non-free world rise way above the undulating heap of humanity slaving away to raise families, pay mortgages and taxes, and make a little extra for their smarty kids to attend any ivy league university (like what happened to me).
What is revolting (or should be) is how these valueless back channelers are as power-makers behind thrones of faked democracies, nepotism monarchies, and several real operating juntas (definitely include #Egypt). Too busy with global war economy bunker-bombing and droning while rescuing feigned kidnapped girls thousands of innocent die and are tortured anywhere in MENA, and beyond. Their ABC/Reuters report no facts leaving you and me to tell others WTF is actually taking place, everywhere.
Throw in Earth destructo-derbys to ferret out (read more is never enough) natural wonders while watching (in person) California Chrome win the Kentucky Derby, wire-to- wire, we note a typical day in the non-life of the bigga worms in charge.
How they got and get to rule over the Sheeple worm farm is a blistering Jungian analysis for another installment, Prof A. Yet, in a personal campaign to behead same by naming them – including their latest unpublished selfies, trumped up bios, and actual contact numbers with emails – more will be revealed.
Rats under your bed, or scurrying around a courtroom, are live-feed ire-symbolic statements not to be ignored. Choice of removal for the vermin varies, depending on climate and impending timeframes necessary to be free from the corrupting intruders.
Rats come in packs as we learned from Frank Sinatra and Vegas movies. One must move quickly to put down the point guard to not be over run by an impending gnawing rat stampede in unity singing and dancing, My Way.
Rice rats, roof rats, and field mice have attempted over the last seven years in Alfombra (not Tibet) to take siege of the mini-kitchen. This fourteen foot-high ceiling region is patrolled by an expanding troop of geckos. Reptilian in nature, the lizards take no prisoners consuming moths, roaches, flies, and other insectoids if they dare enter the geckos’ munchie zone. Rats are not on their menu. Occasionally a feeding frenzy occurs on the cement sand finished walls above the kitchen counters. A scurry flurry over an invasion of Mayan stingless bees pushes up the number of geckos present. The battle begins with one, then three, and jumps to six to end with nine geckos of different shapes and color patterns working out a solution who eats what, when, and where. Too frantic, tails of relatives are bitten off to sprout again – such an adaption.
My first rat appeared one late evening peering over the door. The Little Temple on the Mt. cabina is open under the eaves. The visiting rat’s appearance activated black Cocker Spaniel Dewey to go into attack mode. After three nights of Dewey stakeouts, the rice rat decided to go for it and catapulted him/her self from the top edge of the closed door onto iron racks sitting over the stainless steel stove’s top. Dewey could not see his prey, but he could smell it getting closer. The deaf rat now in frozen mode waited while silent Dewey also waited. It was silent movie mammalian Mexican standoff.
I watched snuggled behind mosquito netting on the Bali-style bed with a direct view of the mini-kitchenette. This space is illuminated with four psychedelic LED lights I purchased from IKEA. I might be straight and sober, but this does not mean I do not appreciate a light show as a nightlight.
More unimportant Intel: I was an organic snotty chef in another life. Yet, I no longer need a huge food arena to produce tasty treats. Thus, I have no problem having sleeping quarters not separate from a food prep area. Such open space design will probably shock my sister-in-law, if she dares to visit the wilds of Finca Vigia.
After what seemed too many chapters of reading a book, the rat really went for it. He/she leaped from the top of the stove towards a three-tiered hanging basket of hushed avocadoes, fragrant garlic, bagged dog treats, and Elizabeth Arden glossy red colored peppers. Miscalculating his/her landing, Dewey pounced and adroitly administered his death bite onto the rat’s neck as it bounced onto the terracotta-tiled floor.
Proudly Dewey retired to his sleeping basket satisfied he had finished his workweek. I took a paper towel and administered retrieval while wearing a headlight carrying Dewey’s trophy out to the veranda. I pitched the limp body over the bamboo railing into the vast darkish jungle below. The idea of immediate organic composting is learned local jungle knowledge. Within minutes, zillions of certain classified voracious ants will consume anything with warm blood as long as it has no breath.
Today, I sleep on a different bed. I moved the Bali-style king-sized bed out to the bamboo cabina I call Bali-Who. A husband dying next to you at 4 AM in the morning during the setting of a full moon demanded certain rearrangements. The latest bed is modern in style. It is a Wenge wood platform bed with a memory foam mattress, too low to the floor but truly stylish for a jungle hermitage. The only stuff this bed traps under it – doggie hair dust bunnies. Any lurid rats are imaginary or sending Troll notes on Twitter?
Dewey moved onto the big rat hunt in the sky, while I was away, two times ago. I sorely miss his sweetie pie security protections. He provided a rat/mouse free interior environment in exchange for cuddling during thunder and lightning storms. Events like these where the boomers are beyond brash rattle the roof over our heads. It is frightening if at the same time an earthquake occurs. Such localized planetary disturbances cause the entire gecko army to retreat to safer accommodations between the bamboo inner roof and the outer metal roof.
Today, during increasing global warming deluges Marlena, my trained German girl canine, finds refuge glued to me. Snooky Pants Robalo, a rescue from a rescue, takes to his safety digs, his rattan basket. Because of his street smarts (not unlike Peter the Painter), he exhibits no fear of storms outside. Yet, Snooky is agoraphobic and cannot go out from the cabina unless accompanied by gorgeous guard dog Marlena.
I interject doggie stories to inform you I am not totally against the millions of cat and dog Menes on Fedbook.
At night, none of us ventures outside from the safety of the cabina. Most of what is naturally happening is taking place during the dark hours in the rainforest. This is not to say there is not an immense amount of constant going on during daylight hours. Here at latitude nine on the Monkey’s Bridge we survive with 12-hours of daylight and 12-hours of starlight interspersed with moons scary-larger every 28 days. Nearing full wax, moonlight offers so much off-world radiance across this section of the spaceship the entire tropical landscape turns into an impressionistic deep violet purple and lavender vision. Such a romancing is as surreal as a painting by Peter, but without human faces on rats or crazy corrupt characters deciding one’s fate.
If you identify with my blabbering, may your gentle life from this point into a possible future become soul food jazzy inside a rat-less abode. Further, I wish for you simple satisfactions while watching moonlight cha-cha across an expanse of newfound freedoms, within and without.
From elegant less is always far-out beautifully more (modified Hippie girl talk), I offer true to life non-fixation writings for those suffering from the tyranny of power mongers. What is prior or yet to be is not an escape hatch, but a micro peace offering for our plight.
Humanity deserves a re-boot even with the atrocities we wreck havoc upon each other, the wild creatures, and this glorious third rock from the sun. At times, I realize my crystalized cynical rants are tough to chew-on. Yet, I ask for your consideration. Not because I relish your acceptance, rather I see no other way out a Moriches Inlet* for emotional well being than nailing it, the way I see it.
Ya know, what I mean, Barry? Right or left politics makes no difference in manifestation.
The way out is through a maze of our own Maya. Jung taught me the living constancy of intimacy. Life clarified naïve me not to fear authority or buy into bull corn bubbling up from my Scottish sea captain gene pool. The whole act could be over with a cosmic strike of a Yucatan-sized asteroid, a small piercing bite to the throat, a rogue wave in high seas, or an earthquake registering a 9 for too long.