Wednesday, September 28, 2005


I think I've coined an interesting new word. Intmistasis is the process of cancerous growth that occurs immediately when one enters into an intimate relationship with a lover, specifically sexual. I have suffered from it since I acquired it at 16 years of life. As I attempted my first intimate encounter, not the multiple rapes at the hands of step siblings but a real puppy love, I realized even then that my psyche was permeated with the malignant tumors that rapidly grow as a result of male-female coupling. It instantly crippled and disfigured me. I was unable to maintain my own identity and was unfunctional in the traditional modes of coitus. I mutated into a leprous self-loathing which distorted my ability to choose wisely. I only was able to choose hateful, mutually self-loathing partners who also suffered from this malady. The experience of negotiating a relationship in the midst of this nightmare was say the least. All attempts at loving were thwarted and distorted by the Intimistasis stages, one through 100. By level 98 (or 98% disfunctional), I experienced nauseation and bile, unable to keep anything down. With each act of pleasure initiated by me, my partner was subsequently affected in the same modality. Vomitous lesions appeared on our genitals, drowning out the feremonal zest which propels the species to reproduce itself. All acts of reaching out where thwarted and I continue to live with this lethal condition, unable to love another and to pleasure them.

But, I can love another in "my way", and pleasure another in "my way". I love another by demanding they accept full control to my every desire and emotional need. by subjugating themselves to my primacy, I experience rapturous completion and cathexis. With each act of inner degradation of my partners life energy, I am made whole and strong. "They complete me" in their act of sacrifice of their own needs. Repression of themselves is the inner key to happiness I seek. Sexually, complete enslavement to my every repugnant desire and shameful debasement allows for a release from the inner torment of the cancerous nightmare of having to deal with another person. By removing the other person's essentiality, I experience a rebirth and reparenting of the genitalized micro-self, long ago made miniscule by the sub-stratified vaginality of each partner I absorb. My porous and flacid masculinity, terminal and extinct.

There is no cure, nor would one want there to be. I have only an anhedonic memory of communion with another, incapable of emerging as a fulfilling vessel for female life on this planet, sub-sexual and sub-aura-pleasurebrality. There is no hope for a mama's boy, castrated warf dying of intimistasis but the resignation from all attempts at effort. One must surrender, and in that surrender, die trying.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

I seem to know what's coming next

I am having an uncanny nack of predicting things lately. Cars driving out of driveways, people dawdling at mailboxes, etc. I picture something in my mind and it happens seconds later. I wonder, is that the universe creating my psychic picture in a Science of Mind kind of way, or am I predicting these events. I wonder.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Friday from hell

Hey Nick. I am writing you from the library. It is fourth period, the library service period in which I get a small break from the insanity that is the Special Ed room I work in. I am having a really difficult day. It's on the verge of being terrible. The reality is that the teacher is absent. This is the second consecutive Friday he has not been here. I believe he has decided to take longer weekends and has chosen to do so because Friday's are beyond belief. However, the impact his absence makes on the room and the day is undeniable. Everything suffers and responsibilities are shifted massively onto us. He has already made the decision to dole out HIS teaching responsibilities to the aides anyway (his job!) and when he is not in you cannot imagine the pandemonium and chaos. This is a fact. This is not my alcoholism. The truth is that I am totally overwhelmed by these days. Having to deal with his assistant and her control issues as she attemts to dominate the room (really her right as she has been there forever).  Plus the fact that the kids just become the lord of the flies. The substitute teacher sits in the backroom (WITH THE DOOR CLOSED MIND YOU) and reads his book or newspaper, smiling a smile of total inanity as he dares anyone to ask him "what the fuck are you doing? How the fuck do you get away with this, just sitting there doing nothing and feeling virtually no sense of responsibility to these students or your fucking job, you prig).

So the classroom aide takes over and decides, unilaterally, to take away the movie rights of the kids fifth and sixth period, which is OUR RESTING PERIOD AT THE END OF THE WEEK! So, instead of a calm fifth or sixth period I have now been given the responsibility of running the class doing more Dickens readings. Unfucking bearable!

I cannot tell you the effect that days like this have on my serenity, my sobriety (especially on Fridays, WITH A BIG CHECK IN THE MAIL ARRIVING TOMORROW) and my general sense that my life is in a place that I cannot stand! I am so goddamn angry about this day I can't stand it! I am praying sporadically and trying to detach but I can't because I have to be here. I am praying to god for some form of acceptance but all I feel is resentment at everyone, particularly my colleagues and friends who do not have to get up at five-frickin-AM in the manana and deal with things that not a single one of my friends could possibly do. And that's a fact man! I am having a very difficult time dealing with this. I am finding that I no longer really choose to talk to these people who don't have to do what I do, have casual time or leisure time for some reason I can't comprehend, goddamn trust fund fuckers! THIS IS NOT THE WAY I CHOOSE TO LIVE MY LIFE! THIS IS NOT THE WAY I PICTURED IT!

When days like this happen, when I get to Friday and shit goes down when I'm whipped tired and beat, I lose gratitude as fast as you can say jack rabbit. The truth is, however, that I have not acted out inappropriately, am behaving professionally, haven't fucked anything up but want to BURN SOME SHIT! This is reality combined with alcoholism tempered by the program. This too shall pass. I know it and just have to hold on. I haven't been this dizzy since my relapse.

I must not forget to breathe. I have God and the program. This is Friday. Tomorrow is another day. We will be tested and there will be tribulation. But "Be of good courage" he says. "Be of good cheer".

I'll talk to you later.


Wednesday, September 21, 2005

How I envisioned it (but still do)

By this time in my life I would have been heralded as the great acting genius of the planet. Either that or the great guitar genius of the planet. I do not play guitar so that seems a rather remote possibility. I would have toured the world performing in many languages, or at least english, performing the great Shakespearean works of the day. Not today but yesterday. My wife and I, and our two children (Ernan y La Susi) would rest casually in our lovely home in the british highlands. By day I would drive into town and order a Turkish coffee and other comestibles. Finely fit and in herculean shape, I would drive then to the ocean, where I would begin my swim and tussle with the porpoises. Afterwards, a lie on the sand later, I head home in my Astin Martin, driving up the winding roads of Britannia to the top of my villa. I would speak to my agent, who had an offer of work in a new Fentolini film shooting in Brussels. I would not return his call that day, but several days later. As night fell, my wife Antonia and I go for dinner at the fine hewn Indian restaurant "Indira" for lightly basted Chapati dipped in Dahl, followed by Some Samosas and Papadam. She orders a Sweet Lahsi as the lassie across the restaurant eyes me from afar, knowing all too well who I am. The immortal one. The Machiavelli of the movies. Antonino and Antonio, together, swaddling in silks and florid fabric.

I go home, play a game of Kinof with Ernan ( he beats me 5 to 3) and I proceed to my study, drinking sherry and opening up the script to my new one-man show "the Ganif", not to be confused with the yiddish translation. This Celtic Rhyme Song has been my masterpiece dream all my life. Ever since I moved to the UK and assumed the mantle to the throne of the stage. I browse, mildly, at my neglected George Bernard Shaw mini-series ( I would play both he and the audience who assaults him with fruits and vegetables-modern technology), and begin late night sessions of fricative and plosive excercises. My diction is legendary. The finest that any human has attained. I begin verbal tumbling scales, running arias as fast as the wind, and am deeply satisfied at my primacy over the rest of the plebian competition. I laugh, that hopelessly arrogant smug grunt, at my settled position as the grand thespian of all time.

My newest play will begin next week. A mountainous tour de Farce about the life of Marley (Jacob and Bob). This will be performed in fridgian cadences laced with jamaican sugar beet twango. I have grown dreadlocks and wear padlocks in this marvelous, musical feast. All the performances are sold-out until the end of the trimester. Yes, Antonia is girthed with another charmed and golden child. I will call him.....Tony, in deference to my Italian uncle, soon to depart us, a victim of gout.

This life. This time. Me...god and lord of the overworld and seer, prophecier of the generations of actors. Genius beyond genius. And rich beyond riches. This is me.

But, if she is a girl...

Friday, September 16, 2005

Jesus and the witches

Make no mistake, they are among us. They are in our classrooms, at our sanctuaries, in our dreams even. They come, with massive intent, to clairfy their need to damage the part of us where we exist. When you are one with the force, the witches come. They come, dressed in simple clothes and bringing smiles of decay. They understand our protection. We are indeed protected, in truth. But they use the one part of us which they can communicate: the ego. They can't touch us, but they can convince us that we can touch ourselves. They are very easy to identify. The run the show. They are in charge of just about everything in our physical world. They come, relentlessly, to convince us of their ideas of our unholiness. this is their strength. It is proactive. It is evil.

They come clothed in the innocence of our children. They come in the heartwarming sights and sounds of our culture. They come attacking those who didn't come to New Orleans fast enough. Then they condemn those who did. it is the same random idea, repeated over and over again, that the highest among us is irrelevant. They fire their beams of darkness and our minds are corrupted. They use vertigo as a means to confuse. Even their medication comes couched in prett colors, with healing purple husks of yellow and gold. The eyes, the eyes give it away every single time. they sing the lovely song of the wicked: I fear you. I fear your god. I fear the truth that is the very essence of your gift and humanity. Your king, the lowliest of the low, is the highest of the high. The christ speaks gently and with massive, eternal force. and so, the wicked, ignore their own skin, both inside and out. They choose to ignore their peril and pursue yet more forces of material wealth, both internal and external. Ideas mixed with silver mixed with bombs or letters. But the king of kings, the father, annihilates the unbridled terrible ones with forgiveness, the most powerful force of all, more powerful than love.

The scandalous compute the essence of your heart and are wracked with gnashing of teeth and fire. To feel your true nature is to deactivate the putridity at the heart of the lie. Hosanna, Hosanna, Come thee the way of the lord, come to reveal the lie of fear and separation. The nadir of specialness. the spectre of the beast.

I forgive thee, eye of hell, and cast thee out of thy sight and mind. I forgive all! I am life eternal. You are summoned to wake.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

I use (Kisho)

I got a call from a young woman at the Recovery Center. She didn't know I was on the line. She began talking about me and my habits. She was talking to someone else through a third party. I heard every word. "Tony Forkush, he uses (Kisho)." I knew what she meant. I have been trying to take care of my (Kisho) problem for years. She seemed pretty concerned. She was in San Diego. That's for sure. A dirty blonde, a little like my sister who I don't have.

Man oh man, this (Kisho) problem. I gotta get off it.

The age of compressed reason

I just lost one of my favorite blogs since I started here. It simply disappeared, like the chimera. gone. How can I recreate what I just said. It was from God. It was perfection. And it was for my eyes only. Okay, here goes.
Remember a time before compression? No, its not going to happen. I wrote the perfect blog. I'm not kidding. IT was outrageous. It's gone. I'm not supposed to be a writer. I hate God. How could he have had me lose this blog. It was the devil. I had a perfect blog. I know it. YOu don't know it. I'm so fucking pissed off. Okay here goes.
Remember a time, long ago, a time before the age of compressed reason. Let's take vinyl, shall we? (this fucking sucks) There was a simpler time, yes, a simpler time when listening to vinyl was marvelous for it's imperfections. The stylus and the turntable, warpable plastic, the etch-a-scratch warble of the record. Ahhh yes. I remember it too. Well, that doesn't really exist anymore. We have entered the age, long ago rather, of compressble reality. Since the warm tubes and dots of our sounds and sights turned from Analog to Digitrog, we have begun to lose our elasticity as far as being human is concerned. We keep getting smaller and smaller, our souls have less air in them. We are merely recreating reality as technological flora rather than seeing nature and reproducing wood and sky, stars and moon. The sheen is the thing now. There is no interaction of humanity because it has been compressed out. Turned into digits, style over substance. as we go High Def, the simple act of letting our hair grow out has been replaced by a plastacine shimmer over our domes, our hands turn to wires and sinews to chips. We are seeing the logic of the machine, through it's eyes, through our analagous desires to feel and connect. WE MUST CUT THE MESH AND ENTER THE FORMER FOREST OF SPACIOUSNESS AND ELASTICITY! There is too much digital pressure on our cortexes and muscles. There is far too much weight on our conciousnesses to bear this crushing, cybermortal paradigm. Jesus was a shape shifter who understood that compression was synonymous with heft. Lack of weight, symbolized by the money changers and saducees, wearing black, the only "color" of a compressed age, sought to remove that lightness. The prince of Darkness comes in the digital and high definition spectrum. Turn back to the age of a feather. The seventies, with its middle earth technology, and disco as its anthem, was the only true renaissance of the human and heavenly realms. We can return. Time machines exist and must be taken back. Back through the time tunnel of our flight from a mausoleum to a lake.

The age of compressed reason

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

RE: Rebecca Gray in a Play

I am writing you from the Hollywood High School library as we speak. I have now returned to my previous Kafkaesque existence. Quiet and libertine. I feel so official again. The relapse sent me spinning out into anarchy but the pensive and fastidious side of me won again. I will no doubt spend a lifetime here in the school system, nursing ideas of what could have been had I had to ride the bus...ooops.

Buses are very good modes of transportation and meditation. You will find that you begin to think more idyly, thoughts of long medeterranean vacations fly through your bonce as your are whisked back to your Brazil like reality of a city with no power...literally.

But, ahhh, the lunchtime. That half hour of desultory numbness which feeds the repaste of the soul. The bologna (as opposed to balony) and cheese sandmich frothing forth dreams of a scholarly I outta be. I just typed a test for my teachers students. I am useful damnit! That's what they say. And we know who they are. The Christians.

But I'm happy to evolve from my sadomasichistic judaism to a new found normalcy of christian kin. A glendalese evolution away from my New Yawkish past, breeding me away from all things of the mind and into the passive heart of "I've gotta be good or else, there go the teeth from all the gnashing". And the worms burn as the fire never quenches.

Almost lunch time.

Pieste resistance and Bon Appetite my luck ducky swirl.

Mooch TonyF

Friday, September 02, 2005


I am still dealing with this illness. It is the most peculiar thing I have been through in years. A stress induced vertigo, parkinsons, palsy with involuntary muscle spasms and speech difficulty. There is also a shift in breathing as well. The doctors have told me that all scans are normal. Completely normal. Stress can kill. It can change everything you experience. I am now at a turning point in having to deal with it. Incorporating relaxation techniques are very helpful. But the real key is a new trust and faith in my safety. I am truly changing. I feel that the maladay is a temporary reaction to the trauma of real change. Those ideas and beliefs I have held about myself all my life and now being exposed and my body is freaking out. I can understand why people stay distracted. Anything at all is better than going through this horror. But, if the change takes, then this struggle will be worth it. We cannot attempt to stay the same. We can try, but the soul knows itself and what it truly is and loves. So, I will go back to the park tomorrow and have a picnic. I plan on taking a tuna sandwich. It has been over 35 years since I have done this. I used to do it all the time when I was a kid. I pray for acceptance of where I am now. I will shake, rattle and roll into Griffith Park and find the solace place. The world and my mind are two of the great stressors. But this is coping. I can and will get through this.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Leggo my ego

War of the Worlds, Steven Speilbergs modern day allegory, had more resonance to it than we could have possibly imagined. How does he know what he knows? Who could have imagined the images we are seeing each night? There is very little to say. I am numb. Could he have seen something that we all knew was coming but couldn't wrap ourselves around? This a time of tremendous challenge. How we chose to perceive the world, as it is today, is very much critical to our ability to find safety in all the moments of our life. One man can see it from a political perspective, another a religious perspective. I chose to see it from a perception of personal serenity. We are shown, all to clearly, that change is truly the only thing that lasts. If we can understand that, then we have the opportunity to clear away the terrible, suffering need to control that which we cannot. I can't put these images on TV into a social perspective, I don't understand it to that degree, even though that is how it's being shown. But I do take it as a call to deeper contemplation and deeper submerging into the self. There is no more time to waste avoiding knowing who you are. Now is the only time. Find yourself truly today. You will see the forest that you have been hiding from yourself because of your shame. You will find the truth inside.