Cursed?

The Morbid Curse of Robert Todd Lincoln?

Robert Todd Lincoln, the president's oldest son, was at Lincoln's side when he
passed away in 1865. Years later, as Secretary of War, Todd Lincoln was present
and ready to meet President James A Garfield, when Garfield was assassinated. And,
when Todd Lincoln entered the Pan-American Exposition Hall in Buffalo, NY,
President William McKinley was assassinated by an anarchist.

That's a Novel Idea

Yet another long night to burn away... I never got around to writing last night. It will just have to wait until I'm finished with that book, "earthly powers." I'm almost finished, it's winding down, and like the rest of it, I have no idea what to expect next. I'm finding it most enjoyable to read a book that I knew absolutely nothing about before I read it. No expectations whatsoever. It's almost as good as having a preconcepted expectation completely blown asunder. The book follows the exploits of one Kenneth Toomey, a British novelist, play and screen writer. It has really made me realize that I should be writing more than I am. I have at least two or three decent ideas for novels every week, and rarely do I even write down the idea let alone start making plans for them. I sorely need one of those tiny pocket notebooks, the infamous writer's notebook, to keep my little ideas in, with a tiny little pen to jot said ideas and notes into the aforementioned tiny notebook. This French mystery writer I heard about, whose name I can't remember off hand, used to clip bizarre articles from the newspapers and keep them in a file until it was time to write another book, and then he would lay all the articles out and find a way to connect all those disparate stories into one coherent, if not absurd plot. He was known for breaking all the rules of writing a mystery. For instance, Don't introduce new characters after the first 1/3 of the book. He had a book where the killer in this particular mystery wasn't introduced until the last chapter. There were many more examples, but alas, I cannot remember them off hand. This mystery author has an apparent cult following, and his books have been out of print for years and years now. Several publishers are looking into reprints and translations and such, but no one seems to know who owns the rights to the material any longer, as the man's family seems to have vanished from the planet. That could be a plot of a book in itself... a literary agent's hunt around the world for the long-lost relatives of a famous writer. It could be a great farcical goose chase, absurd and romantic, filled with mystery and intrigue. Some day.

AN ODE TO JOHNNY

AN ODE TO JOHNNY,

Oh –
What a tangled web we weave,
when we leave,
on a plane for outer Space,
just in case,
the Human race
is drugged and laced
with a case –
of Demerol.
The missing flange will cause the crash,
a mélange of missing matzah balls.
We of the storm, the crazy bunch,
lunatics out for our evening lunch,
such it is – a miniature replica,
of Hermes' touch.
He spoke in tones of shouted hush,
"My rain is such a lovely dish, much demanded over Jesus fish."
Why, oh why, I asked, replied.
"The silvery serpent of momma's pasta perpetuates the crime.
It is the crime of time to which we bind,
our souls, not soles to the ground we grind."
But feet are used for walking and that's just what they'll do.
"But sidereal rebirth is just a toy,
a game we play for our little child.
Stirrings of faith thus are mild,
his dose is but a slice of toast;
The Aquarian bride is much too wild.”
Yet, the Dark Night comes, this I boast,
Wide and open, the Holy Ghost.
"The silver lining is just as close, ultra maroon and violet too."
Initiation, this I do and wear the shoes,
a sandal ankh and Horus knocks."
In lieu of socks, I open the Door made of clocks.
"An ape, a monkey, a little Baboon?"
It was, it was, I said thus told,
What have you to do with this, so bold?
"He is my friend," Hermes said, "And I wish to buy some booze."
Well come right in, I've nothing to lose.
My soul is yours and Gods to use.
Leave your suitcase at the door,
with the spittle and slobber
of my Egyptian alma mater,
Said to me, Osiris Father,
Isis, Sister, sacred Mother.
Oh the trouble brewing double,
Ode to Joy, my Space Brother.

-Jeremiah Messiah
9-20/21-04