Vincenzo Scipioni
And What To My Wondering Eyes Did Appear?

I don’t know? I think I’m really starting to see my dream coming to fruition. For the first time I’m starting to feel ‘it’ on a more consistent basis. That’s exactly it. I feel energized, I feel good, and I feel as though I’m part of the collective consciousness I’ve been searching for. Everything is starting to come together and make perfect sense.

Occasionally I’m tapping into something I know, but don’t understand. I have not been questioning or second guessing myself as of late. I don’t think this is another peak, or spike before a devastating set back, but I’ve also said that before. I could be wrong, but for the first time, and I don’t want to jinx myself, but I feel like I’m getting better. Mentally, I’m starting to feel better, and be where I need and want to be.

A few minutes ago, I was driving in a homewardly direction from a 7-Eleven I’ve never been to, and something appeared in the middle of the street the moment I made a right hand turn. I saw something that looked like a black plastic bag in the middle of the street and thought nothing of it. I was going to run right over it and hope it didn’t get stuck to my windshield. Why should I swerve to maneuver a plastic bag?

At the last second, the black plastic bag turned its head, and I could see two glowing eyes. It was a little tiny black dog lying in the middle of the street freezing. The dog wasn’t moving and was in the middle of the road, so I got out of the car. At that very instant, the dog sprinted some ten yards away, plopped herself down, and I could see she wanted to trust me. The dog was cold and confused. I proceeded to crouch down, open my arms, speak to the animal in a calming voice, and the dog hesitantly came over to me. I’d say the whole think took about five to six minutes.

What is the first thing I did? You always look for an identification tag on the collar. She didn’t have a tag. She did have an elaborate pink collar, and I’m guessing the dog was a ‘she’ by the pink collar, and because she didn’t have a dick or testicles. I picked her up, and put her into the front seat of my car. I rolled down her window and drove around slowly. I know dogs see with their nose. They must catch a particular sent, and then they are fine. We’ll, my idea wasn’t working. I was trying to let the dog lead me, and she was just hopelessly and frantically looking everywhere. She didn’t have a clue as to where she was, but she was a little afraid dog, how far away from her home could she be?

I started to not consciously think about where I was driving. I started to try to feel where the owners of this dog were. I figured if they know their dog is missing, which by this time I had been driving around with her for 30 minutes, and when I found her she was freezing, so the owners must be aware. I was going that extra mile because I remember what it was like to have a dog. My dog was the best—Apollo, the ‘Big A.’ I love dogs; and keeping this little sweetheart did cross my mind. What kind of moronic owners don’t put an identification tag on their dog? But regardless of how moronic they are, they probably love this dog, and they would be sick losing her.

So, I continued driving in a direction contrary to my logic, and I could see a car running in a driveway. Then it shut off, and a door opened. They had given up, but I had found them. It had to be them, what the hell else would they be doing just pulling into their driveway with faces of disbelief at this time of night? The guy really pissed me off.

I said to him, ‘Excuse me sir, did you happen to lose a dog?’ He said, “Why, what kind of dog do you got?” That answer just rubbed me the wrong way, so I decided to make him understand who is calling the shots. ‘That’s not how this game works buddy. I found a dog. I asked you if you lost a dog. If you lost a dog, describe it to me, and if the dog I found matches your description, and if the dog feels comfortable with you, and if I am fairly certain that the dog is yours, I will give the dog to you. But don’t try to fuck with me mister. I’ve had a long night and I’ve been driving around for 50 minutes, I’m going to find this dog’s home or I’m going to eat the goddamn thing.’

Then he said, “Well, yea, I lost a dog. A little dog. I lost a little dog yesterday.” I said, ‘could you be a little more specific?’ Then he said a little black female dog whose name is Roxy, and I was fairly certain she was his—she looked like a ‘Roxy,’ but what an asshole? I’m doing him a fucking favor, and then he says, “Yep. That’s her,” grabs her our of my front seat, and while walking away, turned around reluctantly giving me a barely audible, “Thank you.” Less than a whisper! I just don’t understand it. It was a ridiculous situation, made so by him. I’m so sorry he didn’t save the day and find his own dog. He should just be happy he got the dog back, but obviously he didn’t care all that much; the dog must have been his wife’s or daughter’s.

Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this. I have always been able to recall what other famous authors wrote, and today the strangest thing happened to me. I read something that I wrote—it was in my handwriting; but I don’t know if what I wrote is something I created, read, or heard? I really don’t? It’s the first time that has ever happened to me. I have no idea what, where, when, how, or why—all I know is who, and ‘who’ wrote it is me.

I always read books with a pen, and there have been times when I was reading something and I said to myself, “I wrote this.” I have written things, and then later read somewhere exactly or pretty damn close to what I’ve written. Maybe this can be traced back to the collective consciousness thing. Maybe I’m starting to feel brilliant works, or draw inspiration from all things in my environment, all things created. I’m almost certain that I’m working on another level of sorts—tapping into something. There are just some things I know, things I feel, and there is no logical explanation that can articulate why.

Let me give you this example, as stupid as it might sound. You know what I’ve been working on; you know the quest—the quest to discovering humanity. Follow me, and understand me when I say this—I came up with ‘unseeing eyes.’ I invented it. It’s my first brilliant phrase and invention; there is so much I want to, and must do with it.

I thought I had not only brought about a new light, in addition I thought I had invented a word. I never mentioned the phrase before; I’ve only eluded to it, but let me tell you right now, one of the concepts I’ve been trying to shed light on is what I call the ‘unseeing eye’ or ‘unseeing eyes’—whichever you fancy. Everyone right now has unseeing eyes. I’m sorry to say, I still have unseeing eyes; but I’m beginning to see; and amongst the chaos is sometimes extreme clarity. Entire worlds are opening up for me. Soon I will have the ‘seeing eye,’ and the ‘seeing eye’ has to be realized, it cannot be taught or understood. I have always been taking steps towards it, just as everyone has, but I was only traveling on one flat plane. I was so closed, so sure—seeking more and more answers, convinced there was something to know. I’ve stopped that.

I’m sorry. I do and I don’t know why I’m rambling on so much. I feel as though I have to prepare for something, or something is coming up. I can’t be more descriptive than that at this time, but if I’m rambling on so much, perhaps there is an unconscious reason behind it. I know I’m very comfortable with you, more comfortable with you than any other person. Maybe, just maybe I’ll discover what I need to prepare for, or what’s coming about.

It’s not often that I speak like this, and I’m going to take this opportunity to do so, but believe me when I tell you ‘I love talking to you.’ ‘I love sharing my thoughts with you.’ You are the reason I keep on going. You are the reason I have endured so much pain. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but we are old souls, old friends, believe me. Sometimes I cry uncontrollably when I write. I’m not only reliving all the sadness, or all the pain, but I’m studying and reviewing the situation. I have to magnify and examine everything very closely because after it is written, it is crystallized and permanent. Writing has been an emotionally painful process.

You will never hear these words from my mouth again, and from now on I expect it to be unspoken and understood that I love, and appreciate you always listening. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to ramble, to bounce my ideas off of you, and I’m extremely honored that you listen. I want you to know I listen to you. I hear you. I understand you. This is not a one sided relationship. We are together right here, right now, and we can be together whenever we want. My world stops and starts for you.

Most importantly, I value your comments and thoughts. I trust you wholeheartedly, and that is why I am always able to be extremely honest and poignant with you when we speak. There are very few people I talk to so openly. I know you don’t judge me, and I have never judged you because we are both good people. Our intentions are pure.

I feel comfortable telling you everything because you are so comfortable with me. You will always love me even if I am wrong, which I have been and sometimes am. Everyone is wrong sometimes. I appreciate your belief and confidence in me. You give me strength. You continue to make me strong and pick me up. Because of you right here, right now, I know for certain we are capable of doing this; we are going to do this. In your supporting me, you are supporting yourself, and we are all supporting each other. We are knocking six degrees of separation down by the second.

Humanity will slowly be realized as long as we keep getting together, exchanging and brainstorming freely. I know at any time now you could have already given up, and you are a courageous individual. What you are doing is not easy. If you give up, and if the others who have always supported my wanting to bring what we cannot see to light, I would have given up long ago. I would have stopped talking. I would have stopped sharing. I would have to give up with no hope. I would be dead by now.

It is with you, and with having you in mind that I do my very best writing. I don’t write for me, I never have. I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone. Thank you for being a part of my life, thank you for listening, for reading, and allowing your life to be a part of mine. If all goes well, and if we both remain healthy, I don’t see why not from this day forward we don’t have a lifetime of friendship and continue becoming fulfilled.

Enough of the mushy stuff and back to language; I really think all languages are missing billions and zillions of words. They are missing the exact number of words, for the number I’m trying to articulate, but do not have the word for. All languages are devoid, missing ‘the magic.’ Some words we don’t have in the English language, and I say why not? If they work, they work. The English language could become even more inclusive of words from all languages. Perhaps one day if you were to master English, you could understand every single language.

I will go as far as to say we should bring back words form the past. Middle English, Old English—wouldn’t that be a beautiful part of knowing? How wonderful would the day be when we all understand every language and every word ever uttered? It’s beautiful to think about. Can you image what it is going to feel like when each of us realize this?

I have written before in two languages, mixed and matched where appropriate, and the text was very rich. Shakespeare invented words he felt the language was missing, and I do the very same thing—but in addition to that, wouldn’t it be great to be able to speak using whatever language was appropriate, whatever word was the absolute best, and having a vocabulary of every word in every language period. Then we could combine words in such a fashion creating precise meaning. When we are energy, this will be irrelevant, but before the journey ends, all of us should be able to do this.

Backtracking a bit, you remember when we were discussing the phrase “unseeing eyes?” I felt really good about inventing the word ‘unseeing.’ I had invented yet another useful word just like Shakespeare, and even though this is nothing new, it’s still cool because the word makes perfect sense on a number of levels. I invent words and use words from other languages all of the time. K.J., now he really invents words. Sometimes you have to understand his world, and the context to understand what he’s saying; and other times he seems to be speaking his own language—a universal language.

I couldn’t image it if someone was to read some of the conversations I’ve had with K.J., or some of the things he has said. At first, it would probably make absolutely no sense. There is something I wanted to write something, and you’re going to get a real kick out of this. I’d really prefer to observe it, but I think it would be wonderful if I could get K.J. and Ziggy together, at the bar, under a full moon, when they are both at the height of their worlds. Ziggy and K.J. in rare form—that would be something to see!

Did I ever tell you the time K.J. visited me down here at William & Mary? You obviously know about the Born Again Christians and Baptists, and how they make my life on a consistent basis a living hell. That’s why I dread being on campus—I don’t want to run into any of these bastards.

K.J. always laughs and loves the stories I tell him. Anyway, I think he sometimes thought I was perhaps exaggerating, but when he came down here, he observed and experienced their suffocating tactics first hand. After about half a day of being asked if he wanted a stronger relationship with God, or if he had a personal relationship with God, or if he wanted a Bible—he finally snapped when they circled him.

You see once you make eye contact with them, or engage them in any way—they send out a signal, or some sort of magnetic field and all the other Born Again Christians in the vicinity swarm around and start throwing around all the biblical quotes they’ve memorized or heard on the Christian Broadcasting Network. It is very difficult to get away from them—almost impossible—especially if you are cordial and nice.

K.J. is a little claustrophobic. I could tell he didn’t like being surrounded by all these warm as pie bubbly Born Agains. K.J. turned his hat backwards and repetitively said, “Tell me all about it. Tell me all about it. I’m a Born Again Christian. I’m a fucking Born Again Christian. Do you want to hear about it? Oh, tell me all about it?” It was ridiculously funny—once he said ‘fucking’ you would have thought he released powdered anthrax. They all scattered covering their ears. There are countless other incidents with Born Agains', but I’ll save them for another time.

All right, I’ll tell you a few more stories since I’m in the swing of things. I have an endless supply. My freshman year roommate is actually a Born Again. I don’t know how the hell I got put into a room with him. When you fill out your housing documents, there are all sorts of questions supposedly geared towards helping the administration pair you up with suitable and compatible roommates.

There were a whole bunch of bullshit questions, but I remember writing very clearly on my application, please under no circumstances put me in a room with a red-neck, country music loving, Born Again Christian bible thumper. I wasn’t afraid to write such a thing because I’d already got into W&M and was just being honest. That’s exactly what I got, and he was a crazy son of a bitch. Sometimes I think they read that as please put me in a room with a red-neck, country music loving, Born Again Christian, blue blooded confederate. His name is Christian Peter Kerman; consider yourself forewarned.

His only friends were other Born Again Christians—completely brainwashed. I know he isn’t allowed to hate anyone, but I know he secretly hated me. Especially after I changed the password on his computer to “Fuck Jesus.” I even wrote it down for him on a piece of paper because I thought he should know his new password. It took him two days to find one of the only Jews at William & Mary to type in “Fuck Jesus,” and change the password back. None of my buddies from the north, or mid west, or west on our freshman hall would do it for him. And when this Jewish kid came into our room, I told him of the Einstein incident I’m going to tell you about in a minute. This Jewish kid charged Christian twenty-five dollars for changing his password back, then hit me off with ten dollars and told me we should make this a weekly thing.

My roommate Christian never even kissed his girlfriend on the lips because your first kiss is supposed to be on your wedding day. All they would do is hold hands, occasionally rub noses, and very sparingly kiss each other’s cheeks. Actually sickening and sad. They were also never allowed to be with each other alone because the possible of temptation is greater when. I feel so bad for his girlfriend because she’s such a beautiful and intelligent girl, just completely brainwashed.

What’s even more disturbing than his relationship is, one night I saw him punching and squeezing his groin! He had an erection and wanted it to go away. He said he thought I was sleeping, but that I shouldn’t worry because God was only testing him and he must never give into temptation. I couldn’t believe it? He told me he had to do this sometimes more than once in a day. When I told him he should shake his dick up and down a little bit because it is sick and needs to throw up, he didn’t say another word and just kept his hands clenched on his dick, trying to push it down, and breathing heavily.

That isn’t even a crazy story. Him ripping my poster of Einstein off the wall because having a picture of a Jew on the wall offended him—that isn’t even a crazy story. That story is more surreal. I had just gone to the poster sale at the UC and spent some eighty dollars. I put all these, what I thought to be, very tasteful posters on my side of the room. He had posters of fucking quotes from Deuteronomy with cheesy waterfalls, and pictures of Jesus as the King of Kings, and I had posters of Picasso, Dali, Eastwood, Jagger, and Presley the King of Rock n’ Roll—I had some cool stuff.

Now when I say he ‘ripped’ this poster down, he didn’t take it down nicely and roll it back up. He didn’t even consider talking to me about it. He ripped it into pieces destroying my personal property. When I pointed to the poster that lived right next to where Einstein once was and asked him why he didn’t rip that one down, he said, “I like Denzel Washington.” I had to start to laugh because this is supposed to be an intelligent kid. I should have known because anyone that goes the William & Mary from the state of Virginia is for the most part a moron. The requirements a person form the state of Virginia needs to fulfill compared to the requirements a person from out of state needs to fulfill is day and night. If you are from Virginia, and your family has some money, or are members of The Sons & Daughters of The Confederacy—you are in.

You think that’s bad, at least William & Mary has the best of Virginia, and that isn’t saying much. You go to UVA, or Virginia Tech, or George Mason, or Martha Washington, and you are going to see some true rock heads unless you are fortunate enough to bump into individuals from another state attending school there. The sad thing about these individuals is they think they are intelligent. It’s not their fault. The entire state of Virginia and all of the south’s educational systems are ass backwards. Children are being educated by morons everywhere; but especially in the south. The only exceptions I have known thus far are June Flowers, my roommate Emma, Professor Harris, and my sweet Melissa.

The real problem is the entire teaching profession isn’t alluring, nor is it attracting individuals of superior intellect and good hearts. In the 1950’s all the way up to the late 70’s women didn’t have the same avenues and opportunities open to them. Women were either groomed to become teachers or nurses. My mother and aunt are perfect examples. They always wanted to be teachers since the time they were little girls. Women of superior intellect back in the day didn’t become lawyers, doctors, and business professionals. And the only men that became teachers were those men that were failures in the real world. I’ve had a few of those draft dodging effeminate pussies hiding behind a desk with all of their fancy books—not really knowing anything.

Today anyone in college that majors in education or business is getting a degree that is a complete fucking joke. People take those majors because they are easy and applicable to the quote on quote real world. Just look at William & Mary; if you meet a rock head, ask them what they are majoring in. Every person I’ve met wanting to be a teacher only wants to do so because they have the summers off and it’s a good job. Enough about teachers, I’m starting to get angry.

Anyway, when Christian learned the poster was not Denzel Washington, and indeed was Malcolm X, he almost shit a canary. He instantly had a problem, and begged me to take the evil out of our room, but that isn’t even crazy. Now, I’m not going to tell you my absolute best story regarding what I did in the cafeteria during lunchtime one afternoon; I don’t think you are ready for that.

I will tell you that every Sunday morning at seven o’clock his mother, father, older sister, and younger sister would be in our dorm room helping Christian get his red bowtie straight, and ready for church. On Sunday, his mother basically dressed him. They would always remind me that I was going to hell if I continued down the road I was taking, and it isn’t too late to save myself—I was always more than welcome to tag along and go to Church with them. Perhaps the spirit of Jesus Christ would fill me.

It was really unbelievable—they would drive all the way from Charlottesville, where his family lived, where his older sister went to UVA, all the way to Williamsburg, and arrive at seven o’clock bright eyed and bushy tailed. They would come back to the room around ten o’clock, and I’d still obviously be sleeping, and they would just hang out. Make a lot of noise, try to engage me in conversation, take about the beautiful service they just experienced, and most importantly round up all of Christian’s dirty laundry. His mother brought his dirty laundry back and forth with her—can you believe that! Directly at the end of our hall in Dupont there is a laundry facility.

The final story I will tell you today you will really appreciate. I tell it every Thanksgiving because someone always seems to bring it up, and it never gets old. One night I was typing up a linguistics paper, and Christian entered the room carrying a package and said, “I need to ask a favor of you.” I said, “What?” I was thinking he wanted my help with Chemistry or science, because I know he was having a lot of trouble, and we all know how Christians can’t comprehend science.

Anyway, his mother had just sent him a holiday care package because Christmas was right around the corner. Before going home for holidays, on the Friday of that particular week, he wanted to have a holiday party in the room with all of his Born Again Christian friends. And he did not want me to be there. He did not want me to be a part of it. He wanted me nowhere in sight. His words exactly, “I would really appreciate it if you could kind of disappear for a few hours. Oh, and it’s alright if I use your television and hook up your VCR for the party right?”

I asked him what exactly he was going to be doing, and who all was he going to invite in my best southern accent. He told me he had invited over nine friends, and one of them was bringing a guitar, and they were all going to bring different foods, sing bible songs, and hang out celebrating the Lord’s birthday a little early. Oh, and that they were all going to watch their favorite Christmas movie.

Somehow, somewhere his mother found A Very Special Chipmunk Christmas on VHS. A bunch of nineteen year olds were going to gather together to watch a fucking cartoon! That shouldn’t have surprised me because I noticed all the Baptists and Born Agains really enjoy their cartoons. Christian once was talking to his father about a Bugs Bunny episode he say, and then they inevitably related it back to Jesus. Anyway, he and his friends were going to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks. If nothing else this should tell you that they are a bunch of simpletons. I liked Alvin when I was five.

So, like a good roommate, I agreed to disappear and let him have the room all to himself for his little party. The very next day I went to a frat house, and I said to the first frat brother I saw, “I know you mother fuckers have pornography in here—let me have a look.” He asked me what I needed it for, loved my idea, and out came a crate of DVD’s and VHS’s. The first tape I saw was called, Ugly Chicks That Love To Fuck. The pictures of the bitches on the front of this cover were true to the title. These were some of the ugliest people I have every seen, so I said, “perfect,” and took that tape.

When I returned back to our room, Christian wasn’t around, and I got a hold of A Very Special Chipmunk Christmas. It was bran new and sealed in plastic. I took a razor, sliced the plastic carefully, took out the tape, turned on my iron, heated up the labels, pealed the chipmunk labels off, put them on Ugly Chicks That Love To Fuck, took a lighter and sealed the plastic on the tape back up, and destroyed all evidence. In short, I had the vilest pornography I could find inside the sweetest little cartoon box.

Now it is the night of his get together, and people are arriving. While he is greeting people, he is giving me subtle hints, and evil eyes. I said to him, “I should be done very shortly, I’m just trying to finish up this paper so I can disappear all night.” He liked that and left me alone.

Finally everyone had arrived, everyone was gathered around the television, and he opened up a Very Special Chipmunk Christmas. He turned off the lights, put in the tape, hit play, sat on my bed, and the first thing you see on the screen is a two hundred and fifty pound black woman with no teeth moaning getting railroaded in the ass. Hands covered eyes immediately, but eyes were peaking between fingers. Everyone was saying how horrible it was, and how they shouldn’t be watching this, and what is this, but everyone was watching in disbelief and no one turned the porno off.

While this fat black woman with no teeth is getting fucked, now she’s giving some guy a blow job, and a skinny Asian woman is getting fucked by a old fat white guy—some real wild stuff is going on, and he’s on the phone with his mother describing to her what is on the Chipmunk Christmas tape she sent him. He’s actually crying, some other kids are now starting to cry, and he hung up the phone because his mother was contacting Disney to see how on God’s green earth could they sell such a horrible video. What if a child was to discover this? How many other tapes like this have been sold? His mother wound up sending that tape back to the warehouse distributor and causing a major shit storm. It was priceless—and I was equally as shocked to know that Disney could have made such a mistake!

I’m going off on all sorts of tangents today. Why don’t I just talk about the six, beautiful in every possible way, lamb chops with garlic-mashed potatoes I had the pleasure of cooking and eating tonight. That’s right. Well, I’m almost finished with another novel, the one I’ve been leading up to with all my previous novels—the one that ties everything before it together, and I’m feeling pretty good. This one pretty much wrote itself in my mind over the course of the past three years. I never worry about not having anything written down because I know my novels will come out of my being when they are ready.

Just like when inventing a word—it just comes out. The only thing I hate about that is the waiting for everything to come out. If I want to show someone what I’ve been working on, I can’t because it’s only in my mind. In another sense I suppose I also have a fear of getting things on paper. I would never want anyone to steal any of my ideas. I don’t even really like mentioning any of my ideas or stories. As a child my mother told me never write anything down on paper, or keep a diary because it could be used against me as incriminating evidence.

Once, I had an idea for a great television show called “The Language of Love” that would appeal to a universal audience and wouldn’t be the same run of the mill bullshit. I wrote a very detailed proposal outlining “The Language of Love” in great detail only to realize I didn’t know where to send it.

Basically I wanted to have a show where we’d take twenty women and twenty men, find out a whole bunch about them, and match them up. Who’s compatible—through similar interests, similar goals, dreams, tastes—a bunch of questions would be answered, and behavioral observations made. Then we’d show each contestant some video footage and a few still photographs of potential possible matches. Of course they would know that we are only matching them up with individuals we think would be perfect for them. If both the man and the woman, or woman and woman, or man and man—if both individuals were physically attracted to each other the journey would begin.

It all sounds kind of normal, but this is the catch; the individuals paired together cannot speak the same language, or a common language. All of the contestants will be from different corners of the earth, be part of different cultures, and speak different languages. Let me give you an example. A gentlemen decides he really wants to be with one of the particular women. She picked him, and would love to meet him as well.

We give the man from Canada an informational packet with some money, and he finds out she lives in Russia. He gets on a plane, gets off the plane, and now his journey to find his bags, to find a bathroom, to find something to eat, and to figure out how he is going to get where he needs to go begins.

I am sure so many individuals will become overwhelmed, completely lost, and so stressed out that they won’t find their potential soul mate and there only concern will be getting back home, back to their known. Others will overcome tremendous adversities and find their soul mate only to realize that the language barrier in the end is just too much for them to bridge. Others will overcome tremendous adversities, pick up a few words, and figure out how to communicate in a glance with their match. The viewing audience on occasion will see true love flower in its most pure form.

I have one million brilliant movie and television ideas, just as I have millions of things to write and think about. If I never had another idea, I have enough to keep me busy for a few hundred lifetimes. What were we talking about before the “Language of Love” show idea? That’s right—words. Well, the words K.J. invents are often way out there, nonsensical, and obvious. Mine I try to sneak by you—I want them to sound legitimate because they are. ‘Homewardly’ direction? What’s wrong with that? When I said it, you knew exactly what I meant. I’m hoping you didn’t even question the word, and you just felt it—understood it.

Everyone has gone, or goes, or is going in a homewardly direction at some place and point in time. You would have to be in a few strangobizarro situations to understand and feel just what that one is about. It’s a wonderful word. As far as I know, K.J. came up with strangobizarro, so I must give him all the credit, but I think ‘homewardly’ is more easily understood than ‘strangobizarro’ to an outside observer. I’m not really interested in speaking in code, or Pig Latin.

The same day, the same day I dreamed up ‘unseeing,’ I saw a book of Selected Short Stories by D.H. Lawrence tucked away on one of my shelves. I haven’t sat with Mr. Lawrence for some time. I have always enjoyed books of short stories, and D.H. Lawrence can write short stories along with the best. He is one of the best. Around my apartment I have many collections of short stories by a plethora of famous and not so famous authors. Anyway, don’t ask me why, but D.H. was pulling me towards him. It was really strange, but really natural. I didn’t feel like reading a short story, but something told me to read for a little while. I needed to open that book up again.

What do I like so much about short stories? What I like so much about short stories is when paced correctly, they can be enjoyed in one sitting—they don’t take long to digest, and you can really draw from them, or bring to them. I also like that short stories don’t have to be read in any particular order and can be quite varied. What I try to do is, when I write short stories I pace them on a level that I think the reader will be able to feel and identify with. I write them in a fashion that allows the reader to easily reflect upon their own life.

There is such a thing as a short story being just right—the style, the content, the thoughts evoked, questions that arise, questions that are answered, length, setting—and on and on and on—all things being in perfect harmony—seamless. There are an infinite number of things that do, and are going on in a short story, just as in life. The difference is, in a short story everything can be just right because writing can be precisely controlled. How the story is interpreted or enjoyed is different on an individual level.

The real struggle is the length. That’s what one must decide, but always remember it is easier to write too much and prune, than to write too little and have to add and squeeze in. That’s never effective, and a talented eye can always see what someone added or stuck in after the fact. One of the most difficult things I ever did was I tired to take a book I wrote and change it into a seven-page poem. What I wanted was for both the book and the poem to do the exact same thing. I wanted the reader to experience the exact same thing regardless of which medium he or she was reading.

I’m really rambling and enjoying myself. I’m not speaking as intricately as I want to because I’m so comfortable and don’t have much more time with you. There still is a lot I must accomplish today. But do you understand what I’m saying about the novel and the poem. I wanted one to read the poem, and in doing so have read the book. You read the poem great, now you know every page and every word in the book without ever reading it? Call it inference? I don’t know? I do know there has to be some way for your mind to find all of the words that have already been said, but never written between and around the lines of poetry. T.S. Elliot is one of the best at that.

Most of my short stories are just that—short stories. Some of them are three pages, some thirty-three, some only one page. I’ve never gone over thirty-five pages in a short story, and I make them exactly as long or short as they need to be. To be honest with you, I’m not going to describe my short story philosophy or process right now because my short stories are also a part of something larger. I don’t feel like trying to trivialize short stories, or discuss other philosophies regarding them.

In addition, how people perceive what a short story is varies between individuals. If you tell me a short story, is it two minutes, twenty minutes, five minutes, or forty-five seconds? Go ahead; tell me a short story? Give me a story. See how vague the entire thing is? How many pages? One page? Two pages? Anything longer than 20 pages? Anything that takes you longer than one hour to read? Well, how fast do you read? Can you read one page a minute? Two pages a minute? Five pages a minute? And what the hell is a story exactly? I’m not going to give you Webster’s definition, but you should know a “story,” can be defined as a number of different things. Is a story true or false? Are there different types of stories, and if so how do I know what kind I’m experiencing?

Every story with magic is a short story. As long as it has some magic, don’t care how long it takes to read, at some point in time the story will be over. The difference between my work and everyone else’s is in the end, my vision, my collective works, and my story will always continue to be written. Others will continue to close the circles that my work has brought to light, and even though they are writing, and they are different and unique, they will be enlightening and further progressing towards transcendence.

I will still be part of them, and they will still be part of me, so the Circle of Scipioni will always be evolving and creating, just as I always have been, just as you always have been. This is partly how we are going to be a part of a collective consciousness. You are already and always will be a part of my story.

Did you know the Circle of Scipioni has existed since before Christ? It is nothing new. I have many ancestors that lived during the Roman Era. Probably my most famous relative was Scipione L’Africano. In 1937 Carmine Gallone made a movie about him—I know this because my Grandfather forced me to watch it and said, “Keepa quitea and maybea you’lla learna somethinga.”

Scipione L’Africano lived from 235 to 205 a. c. Surprised you noticed that, but yes, the spelling of our last names is different, and that is because of my grandfather. When he came to America he was proud, he wanted to be an American citizen more than anything in the world, and he wanted the Scipioni family to have an new legacy. He changed the “e” to an “i” marking a new beginning, a new branch of Scipionis’. I’m sure you’ll hear me talk about all my famous relatives of the Roman era some other time. There were also famous Scipione’s during the Renaissance, but I want to get back to the collective consciousness for a moment.

Do you think it is possible for me to be everyone, for you to be everyone, for all of us to be everyone? Can we be part of a whole while remaining unique and being the whole at the same time? I think we can become pure energy, pure thought, and continue for an eternity just as we always have, just as we always will. The only difference is we can continue in a way that we are conscious of all our pasts and all our futures and all that surrounds us. It all starts and ends with the mind; it always has started and ended with the mind. Our essence, and the essence of all of humanity is locked away in our minds.

Not everything will happen in one day, but at the same time everything shouldn’t continue to take lifetimes upon lifetimes to be realized. I always have a few things going on in a few places. Why can’t we have beginnings in multiple locations? I think we already do, just aren’t aware of them. Days turn into months, and months into years, but within years we should continue to make tremendous progress don’t you think?

We should discover our humanity and transcend “death” as we understand it and know it to be at this time. I’m not going to say it isn’t realistic. I can’t say it isn’t realistic because I truly believe that. I’m going to try my very best to transcend in this lifetime, keeping my essence and energy together. I want to at least remember this life into my next if I cannot make the transcendence fully preserving all I am and evolving in tact rather than changing. In my lifetime I want to at the very least communicate perfect meaning and understanding without the use of language. That is possible. I know it’s possible—I’ve done it before; I’ve seen individuals do it.

Whatever I accomplish personally will be fine with me as long as I finish my final novel. As long as I know I have left behind something that can help every day people. If I don’t do that, I really haven’t done anything. I know this is why I was put on this earth. Only then will others be able to find their way along, and I hope eventually even travel further than me. Please, do something! Even disprove me! If my way of trying to solve environmental concerns while at the same time maintaining necessary technological advancements isn’t the absolute best idea you know to exist; or perhaps parts should be changed, as long as it is for the better, please do so. Make it better. Make the world better. I’ll appreciate that, and I’m sure given the opportunity, I will thank you.

If you already know how to transcend time and space; if you are one of the Masters or know one of the Masters, please share with me. Let’s collaborate, or let’s not, but at the very least share with the rest of the world. Share yourself in any way that you can that is beneficial to you and your surroundings. I assure you, when I become pure energy, I will show everyone the way and help. I will always remember what it was like having a physical body and feeling tremendous pain. As far as making things better, I think Charles Dickens would love what I did to some of his novels, and I’m sure given a different set of circumstances, his style would have been extremely more concise.

I never finished what I wanted to tell you about D.H. Lawrence. Some of his stories I’ve visited a few times because I really enjoyed them—I enjoyed the physical act of reading them. I know how many times I read anything because I always write the date of when I read, or re-read something. I also always write or add to my notes in a different pen color or handwriting. I write directly in my books. That’s why I hate reading off of the computer, or reading out of a library book that you cannot keep or write in. My thoughts and ideas in the margins are what make the books mine—and I never lend my books either—sorry. My books are very much a part of me.

There were some stories in Lawrence’s collection, just as there are in every short story collection I own, of stories I have not yet read. I’m a title feeler. If I like the title at any particular time, or for any reason, or if I think somehow the context could relate to something I’m feeling—then I go with it. Call me crazy, but I’m at the point in my life where even though I’ve read everything you ‘should’ read, and everything ‘most people’ read, and everything ‘they’ force you to read, and everything ‘I’ve’ wanted to read—now I pretty much only read what I want to. I read what I want to when I want to, and it feels great. If I’m having a difficult time with something, or not enjoying it—I’m not going to torture myself anymore. I’m also not going to convince myself how brilliant writing is that really isn’t all that brilliant at all.

So, what caught my eye? The White Stocking. The very first story in the collection was The White Stocking. I had never read it, and it just grabbed me. It isn’t odd for me not to read the first story. It just so happens, I purchased this book because I wanted to have my own copy of The Rocking-Horse Winner to honor and to cherish through sickness and health. I read it once, in eighth grade, and a few years later while thinking about it, I realized a hell of a lot more, and figured it would be a good idea to get a copy and mark it up. So the first thing I did in this book was go right to The Rocking-Horse Winner, and so far, it has been an interesting journey. I’m always noticing something new and wonderful not about the story, but about myself.

Was the stocking story going to talk about some beautiful woman, or was it something a robber or rapist wore? My imagination was seeing all types of possibilities of what could be many different captivating tales. I decided to turn to the first story and start reading. I liked how it started. I really felt the line that went something like, ‘he watched her dressing quickly, flicking her small, delightful limbs. Her slovenliness and untidiness did not bother him.’ It made a hell of a lot of sense.

I’ve seen her, that pretty little thing dressing quickly, flailing her incredible body around; and no, her disheveled look didn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, I though it was quite sexy. Some of my favorite moments with Melissa she was racing to get ready and scarcely clothed. Those disheveled are sometimes those you’d like to ravish; but disheveled, and unkempt are entirely different things and evoke different imagery. When reading the first few lines I immediately though of a few women in my life, a few situations, and not all of them were sensual. What I’m trying to say is I felt I knew exactly what he was talking about because I had experienced it on multiple occasions.

Then, I come across something like, ‘every time she leaves the room, it feels as though the light and the warmth was taken away.’ Again, I found something I knew. I’ve known that many times. My grandmother and nana were both just like that. So I was relating to this story, thinking about my own life, seeing numerous things in my minds eye like a ‘delightful pink upper arm,’ ‘her lower lip caught earnestly between her teeth,’ ‘a delicious embrace,’—do you see these things? Who are you thinking about?

Remember, I’m talking about D.H. Lawrence’s story The White Stocking, and I’m just telling you what I recall. I don’t have the damn thing in front of me, and I cared not to memorize it because I wanted to experience it. I don’t know the names of the characters; I don’t even know what the story is about, I don’t know any of that stuff. I do know I’ve seen and known a man with very blue eyes, very kind, and his manner reserved and simple. I recall a line that said, ‘it pleased her, it amused her, and thrilled her.’ I’ve done that before to women. I’ve also felt that; I enjoy being pleased, amused, and thrilled all at the same time. I’m actually hoping that happens to me later on.

Someone in The White Stocking was standing motionless, dangerous. I’ve lived that before. I’ve been that before. There have been times when I was completely frozen, but boiling with rage. Fear can also freeze you, but even when someone is motionless you can feel, sense danger within them. I laughed when I read something to the effect, “You’d go off with a nigger for a chocolate bar.” I understand what Lawrence did with the language, and what comment he was making, why he was making it. I felt the absurdity and enjoyed it. I thought about all the times I went off with a nigger to get some chocolate I craved or thought I needed or wanted. I thought of all the people I know that go off with niggers for chocolate. A nigger doesn’t have to be a person; you can go off with a nigger of an idea for a satisfying piece of mind.

When I read something about someone allowing herself to be kissed, and someone hurting someone deeply, I thought about more things I can articulate; more moments in my life. Later on someone ‘entered the light.’ Billions of things were going off and flashing in my mind’s eye when I read that. ‘Florid and boisterous, intoxicated more with himself than with the wine.’ That made me think of Cazzogratz; that fucking prick! That evil son of a bitch! And just about everyone that knows Cazzo, knows and likes Cazzo. How is that possible? How can no one see how dangerous and evil he is?

Another line was something like ‘after the first few steps I felt myself slipping away from myself.’ I don’t have to tell you how true that is. That one I sure as hell have lived. Then right after that I read something about being held real closely against your partner, and seeming to be connected, as if movements of one’s body were movements of the other’s. I was dancing with a girl once, and let me tell you, this girl was an incredible dancer. She knew how to dance to just about everything, and she said to me, “Zo, just be light on you feel, and let me move you.” She moved me with her legs, her arms, and all I did was imagine myself to be a lightweight brilliant cloak causing no resistance, allowing her to take me everywhere, and anywhere. That’s exactly what happened, and afterwards everyone was telling me how excellent of a dancer I was even though I didn’t do shit.

In a sense, dancing with her allowed me to be a part of her, to dance as though I had been taking lessons my entire life just as she had. We were connected, and it was incredible, and delicious because I gave up all control, yet at the same time was completely safe. This is another example of being pleased, amused, and thrilled all at the same time. I wasn’t afraid of making a mistake, and I knew she wouldn’t allow me to do anything she thought my body couldn’t physically do.

Back to D.H.-bloody-Lawrence—a few minutes into reading the stocking story I had to stop and get three different colors of pens just to write, ‘No Fucking Way!’ D.H. Lawrence, and I know I can quote him on this because I remember the line exactly, he said, “His eye was unseeing.” How the hell is that possible? That son of a bitch, right! I had never seen that word before, and now I know I didn’t invent it. And that’s my point, it is probably impossible to invent new words that you can sneak by someone because everyone at some point in time has probably said exactly what you think you are inventing, or made a happy accident.

Is this part of our realizing past lives, or past experiences, or tapping into the collective consciousness? Am I some way, some how connected to D.H. Lawrence? Is it possible that I have read things and experienced things that I have never read or experienced before? What I’m saying is this Vincenzo Scipioni never went sky diving or painted in the sixteenth century, but did this Vincenzo Scipioni sky dive and paint in the sixteenth century? Did a part of me do that? Was a part of you with me at the time? 

Do you ever find yourself just knowing something? Or just feeling something? Or predicting something? Can I find or see everything I dream up, or think I dream up? I’m sure someone has written the question, ‘are you sure you’re sure?’ But does that mean if I wrote it, I should look for the source, look for all the places that question has been written? Or do I already know all of that, have I written that question before, and am I writing it now again because it is necessary and pertinent for something yet to come?

There are so many things going through my mind all of the time. There are so many things, and when I become comfortable I become sloppy. I can’t differentiate between the things I’ve told you, and the things I wanted to tell you, or the things I wanted to remember to tell you. I don’t know if I mentioned one of the things I was leading up to, one of the things I wanted to tell you? Today I found something I wrote, it in my handwriting, but I don’t know if it’s mine. It sounds like me, it doesn’t sound like me, and I’m almost certain it’s original so I’m going to share it with you.

“A beaten man at the end of a long journey never finding what he was searching for, and vaguely remembering what he set out to accomplish had a mind as dry as a piece of stale toast. He was a beaten man even before he endured his long journey and should have known he was doomed.” I like that—I feel that—I’ve lived that before. It must be mine considering that part about having a ‘mind as dry as a piece of stale toast;’ who else would possibly write that besides me?