Friday, August 19, 2016



3d draft & most likely final version of
Victoria’s Secret
still unsublimated, untransfigured, raw but more sensuous and carnal!
All versions @:

You may wonder with so much to wonder about on a rare 100 degree day in Seattle, why oh why Roloff what has gotten into you now… and I reply: it’s overdetermined like so much else.
  Three days a week just about I take my laptop and work in the medium-sized restaurant part of the huge – 20,000 square foot - QFC in University Village,

Generally I get there around opening time, 5 am, because except for lunch it is a quiet large space, and I have a favorite corner & no one bothers me, and the barista Norman and I have hit it off
and from that corner I can see - one block away - the huge pink window of what is now one of two of the equally largest stores in this upscale shoppers haven:
which occupies the former three stories of the now deservedly demoted Eddie Bauer. Victoria until not that long ago had about 2,000 square feet, near the same-sized Apple Computer store. Now it is as large as the adjoining Bed Board and Fuck Your Heads Off that has taken over the three floors that used to hold Barnes & Nobel. The only bookstore in University villages – five streets by five avenue blocks square – one square mile - is the recently opened Amazon – actual books – Bookstore; better than nothing, but obviously nothing like the disparu Barnes & Nobel nearest of which can be found, however, at five miles north Northgate Mall.

In Fall, when the new set of Frosh hit the University you notice droves of Asian girls hitting Victoria’s secret and  walking around campus with those little emphatic and de-emphatic pink shopping baglets that held or maybe still hold that pink panty now ready for its first college hoook-up, and I imagine you can imagine my regret at being the age I am and comparing the delights on offer with what life was like when I attended Haverford.
  A further determination is that I am deeply into the Darlings & Monster’s Saga

which  and not only in its downtown NY 70s 80s section - has carnality of all kinds  and wonderfully lusty hussies!
  Then there are those carnal dreams!
  Memory of Handke’s grandfather Sivec who in his eighties kept sticking his hand up the squealing milkmaids’ skirts… The after-effect of having translated Handke’s carnal but Lawrentian  The Beautiful Days of Aranjuez…


Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
Those snug and lacy pink panties
and their frisson
Victoria’s special want 
“kiss me through”
and or from behind
and from the front
caress me with them if they are another girlfriend’s…
that really really turns her on
Victoria want
to sniff and rip and shred and devour  
and buy another pair
to keep warm in my underwear
or pants pocket so that I will always think of her

Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
ultra delicious oh so lacy panties
snug and
tissue soft
that -
Victoria’s special want -
“fuck me through”
 from behind and from in front
which is what really turns Victoria on

Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
those delicious
bare handfulls
pink as the pink that inspires them
glittering with rhinestones she feels as slutty as a pink pig
and I turn male spit

Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
those delicious, odiferous, sweet-smelling, perfumed glittering pink silky snug lacy panties that I sniff
my especial elixir
and that
when they are funky
give me a jump start

No big surprise then
at the dream
where I devour Victoria’s panties like carnitas
steak tatar
in one famished gulp
cherry pie
with no pits to be spat out
licking the plate for left over juices

At special times
Victoria wears the reddest of red velvet hearts
you know where
and then I show Victoria how much I really love her
and really devour her until she paroxysms and is briefly in Nirvana and thirst and hunger are slaked!

For a while.

2d draft of Victoria’s Secret
Ctd. Mostly unsublimated, untransfigured, raw.

Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
those pink panties  
Victoria’s special want 
kiss me through 
and or from behind 
and from the front
that really turns her on
that Victoria wants me 
to sniff and rip off and shred and devour
and buy another pair
to keep warm in my underwear 
or pants pocket!
Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
ultra delicious panties pink
glittering with rhinestones
that -
Victoria’s special want -
I fuck through from behind and from in front
which is what really turns Victoria on
Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
those delicious pink panties
pink as the pink that inspires them
glittering with rhinestones she feels slutty and I turn male slut
Nothing very secret any more about VICTORIA’S SECRET
those delicious, odiferous glittering pink panties that I sniff as my elixir
when I’m down
and that
when funky
give me a jump start
No big surprise
for a hungry dream
where I devour Victoria’s panties
and her pink pussy in one famished gulp 

At special times
Victoria wears the reddest of red hearts
you know where
and then I show Victoria how much I really love her
and really slurp her up!
And Victoria paroxysms and is briefly in Nirvana.


Nothing very secret any more about
those pink panties that
Victoria’s special want 
I kiss through
from behind and from the front
that really turns her on
that Victoria wants me to sniff and rip off and shred and devour and buy another pair!

Nothing very secret any more about
those delicious pink panties
with glittering rhinestones
that -
Victoria’s special want -
I fuck through from behind and from in front which is what really turns Victoria on

Nothing very secret any more about
those delicious pink panties
with glittering rhinestones when she feels slutty and I turn male slut

Nothing very secret any more about
those delicious odiferous glittering pink panties that I sniff as my elexir
 when I’m down and out
that, funky, give me a jump start

Sometimes Victoria just wears a red heart
 you know where
 and I show Victoria how much I love her
 and really slurp her up!
And Victoria paroxysms and is briefly in Nirvana.

Friday, August 12, 2016


ur-fascism/? UMBERTO ECO  Umberto Eco’s recollection of his change of political allegiance at an early age brings to mind that of someone a few years his junior, that is, of a fortunate son - and I say “fortunate” with respect to that part of my parentage as compared to the unfortunate children fated to have Nazi criminals as progenitors.            While writing Screen Memories, the psychoanalytically oriented memoir of my German-American childhood and youth, I discovered that at the latest by age six I was a fervent nationalist. When my parents – two of the earliest NAZI opponents participants in the 20th of July attempt to eliminate Hitler who only by a fluke survived execution and the April 1945 siege of Berlin – placed a Christmas call to me, from Istambul, in 1942, who was kept safe in the ancient monastery in Vornbach am Inn in southeastern Bavaria, I shocked them singing, proudly, the infamous German navy anthem “We lay off the coast of Madagascar, and had the plague on board,”
which song I think must have sunk into my self-pitying little boys being as it described the essence of my feeling outcast and lonely, imprisoned and threatened, marooned. The other song that sank into boy would be manhood is Uhland’s 1807 German army song Ich hatte einen Kameraden where the line “As though he were part of me” takes its psychosomatic bite of a boy’s soul [Als wär's ein Stück von mir.]

Back at our place for Christmas 1944, now that the bombers had beome accurate, at the outskirts of Bremen, I made a serious sacrfice, I gifted my collection of lead soldiers to one of my grandmother’s sea-faring friends, a visiting U-Boat captain - this young armaments expert  knew that U-Boats required heavy loads of lead during their diving operations; this, best to my recollection, my sole contribution to the war effort.                        I learned to read at age four on my mother’s Christmas gift, a magic writing tablet of the kind that elicited Freud’s A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis., but what I read, aside the usual children’s book and fairy tales, were the war time newspapers, which I picked up during extensive railway travels; and I listened to the radio; my near sole company was my hated governesses who, so a childhood friend my age informed me recently, was not a Nazi either. And I don't think it was sheer contrariness that made me into a childhood Nazi.      Change in fealty in Spring 1945 was due to several factors. One fine morning in April the left-overs of a thoroughly beat-up batallion, the first soldiers I had seen from really close-up, and that had fought at Arnheim / Nijmegen during the Battle of the Bulge and had been marched hundreds of miles to participate in the defense of Bremen, were encamped around our pond –  my girl cousin child bride Nona von Lehndorf [von Haeften], and I schlepped water 100 yards or so from our deep well to these soldiers, there already was no electriity for the pump, the pond was porofoundly brackish. Nona was not as fortunate as I, her father Heini, my mother’s favorite cousin, had been hung as the conspirator’s courier; the Wolf’s Lair moreover had been built on her parent’s property. Close calls all around. That afternoon she and I started hearing splashings in the pound, louder than that made by the carps and pikes, and then observed the soldiers picking up their assorted armaments, tossing them. There was not going to be a defense of Bremen, at least not for these fellows, while the elegant officers - I well recall the red piping on their trousers - continued with tea on our veranda and all the beautiful women and grandmothers. However, what sealed my disaffection was not only finding out what had transpired and what my parents had gone through but the reappearance of my beloved grandfather Werner von Alvensleben
who had been at the head of the list of those who were to be killed on the Night of the Long Knives but who via several flukes had escaped that fate but to spend most of the years of the 12 year Reich in four different concentration camps, and that he had been tortured. The Bremen OSS contingent whose special favorites we and our party place became and the American soldiers and their plenty all struck me as immensely attractive and nice guys as did the music they broadcast from the American Forced Network.

So it is not that surprising that later in life I would do considerable research on the efforts of the opposition, and not so surprisingly have developed a life-long allergy also to any murmur of nationalism in my soul. Poor Guenter Grass who felt so ashamed of his adolescent SS membership that he did not reveal it until late in life. Poor Freedomfries consumers and the like who have never shown shame that I have noticed in the many years in the U.S.A. Perhaps children ought not to be “nationalized” as it were? Just told that they are a species of monkey? 

Monday, August 08, 2016


darlingS & monsters 
Part of the Return Section,
the long long opening...

The opening of the CEECEE section.
(when done D & M will be app. 500,000 short! I have one fifth, it's a triple memorial, two rememberances converging on a present writing & incorporating a parallel memoir ALWAYS THE WRONG PEOPLE)
A hell of a lot of sex in the beginning, it is set in the Tribeca/ Soho of the 70s and 80s & makes contact with the then 
let me know what you think, on the comment section or via facebook or e-mail


The cab stopped smartly at the front of my loft building in Tribeca, in downtown Manhattan, as I continued to chat with the driver, who was from Madras, and as I was tipping him, generously, as I did even when I was broke, which I was not then: I had a small stipend subsequent to the recent catastrophe that allowed me to analyze all that had gone wrong. The driver, Ahmed, who was from Madras, and I had had a lively chat about Mumbay which had been much safer, as had Karachi, when I had visited fifteen years earlier and where I had walked, in horror, through Falk/ Fuckland Road and its cages full of whores and admired the Zoroaster’s consign their dead to the tops of trees where vultures fed on the flesh, leaving nothing but skeletons. The vultures, so I had read, were in trouble, the eggshells were breaking too soon, fragile, DDT, or one or the other carcinogen, the flesh rotted and liquefied and dropped down on passersby on the bluffs. I had also been with a whore, which I did not mention to Ahmed, which whore and I had picked each other up along the fine Mumbay quay. However, I had gone completely cold in her barren but clean room and been unable to perform as I had had a powerful urge just a short while before. Nothing that the attractive girl did to revive the recent ardor had the least effect: the more she tried the colder I felt, an onslaught was impending, a major intestinal event of what in Mexico was called Moctezuma’s revenge, but for the sake of my presence in India I called “the Raj’s revenge.” I felt that I must have picked up the bug in Karachi, the Hellenic Splendor’s previous port of call, or shipboard; this was my first day in Mumbay and I hadn’t been with a woman since the day of the freighter’s departure months earlier in Brooklyn, specifically with a new young girlfriend.  ...

It was early on a Sunday morning in June and it felt quite idyllic at the spot I stood on with the sun shooting through the streets and glistening all around and the early morning cool breeze from the Northwest, and so before entering my building I decided to take a look around, to take a deep breath, to re-orient myself in what had been my immediate visual sphere for so many years, and I put down my bag.     The building opposite mine of course deserved the first look of recognition that, reassuringly, it still existed and not only in my imagination, that nothing appeared to have changed during my absence: its façade still a first rate example of turn of the 19th century American mercantile architecture with certain requisite doodads as it could and can still be found in nearly all American cities that had been a city of some kind during that time, and I continued to be proud that I was hip to the fact that the Ganymede - the building’s name stenciled in protruding sandstone lettering above the entrance - was a mere twenty feet deep, that it was mostly façade, that it was a three-quarters-of-a-block wide six-story tall lady that, as it were, had a substantial shelf but a very flat ass!  And flat-assed Robin of the many years ago came to mind. And no eyes out back to the West, windowless! The other, fourth quarter of the block, its northern section, was now a parking lot – who knows what it might have been at some time was a thought that flitted through my mind at each of the many holes in the street scene downtown - whose attendant doubled as the Ganymede’s super, my friend Egbert Romain, a Trinidad-Tobagonian, evidently of both British and French slavery extraction with the physique of Sugar Ray Robinson, an idol of my American bantam weight youth when my stepfather, noting excess energies, had put some boxing stuff up in the garage and I had started to watch boxers on 50s television.                   There had been a time that I had planned for Egbert to be both body guard and chauffeur and conversationalist if the well-dreamed fantasies of grand success and buying the Ganymede and the printing shop on its third floor, had materialized, Egbert was a delight to talk to, his pidgin was sweet and if things had gone really well I or if the partnership had held – we had even planned to acquire the Elysian a few blocks north on Hudson, a chunky square Florentine four story job, painted battle-ship grey at present, with stairs leading up from left and right to a small balcony platform entrance perfect for holding forth and mounting the Blakean flag of the enterprise, at its center the swimmer who, however, reaches the water and does not drown as the enterprise did in a sea of debt and corruption and thievery and endless lawsuits -  one of the great messes, one of those complete de-constructionist, insides turned out affairs that reveals everything, and what an everything it was.              Just now there was no sign of Egbert or his relief man, a cousin of his, who always wore one of these knitted rainbow-colored Rasta caps no matter the heat and whose exotic ancient colonial British name eluded me at the moment - it was altogether still too early in the morning, though I would not have minded to hear the sweet laid-back reggae sound of Toots and the Maytals.  And there, from the fourth floor fire escape railing, still dangled, in the breeze, the remnants of the South-American rope bridge that at one time, briefly, connected that fourth floor of the mercantile façade to the fourth floor roof of the so very obscure building opposite whose loft and roof was mine. That rope bridge had made for a fine and famous photo on the front page of the Post the day we strung it up and showed it to the world. How unfortunate that the city would prove humorless and made us cut it down in short order. Things hadn’t worked out as planned, as envisioned, as dreamed - and I punched “You can’t always get what you want” in the Juke Box in my mind and assured myself I wasn’t going to be grumpy, was I now, after all I had gotten what I really wanted, my kitbag of experience that I had lacked, a past a real past, and rather more of it than I could have dreamed and what an ”egg of experience” I now had to brood on and … wasn’t that one of our downtown space cadets floating high up in the breeze? a left-over from the Saturday night that had been. Magdalena? Was she, the so bereft after she and her boyfriend Zejlko had split up against all our odds that this couple would hold forever, still in space-cadet mode? No, on a closer look it was just a balloon, with furles; my fantasy was just a tad too vivid.
  From my fourth-floor corner office in the Ganymede I had always looked forward to this first slither of the sun shooting in from the East as I got to work, after a swim in Mr. Woolworth’s marble swimming pool in basement of the eponymous Woolworth Tower, just a few blocks over, often taking my swim in company of the mayor of the city who dog-paddled and politicked, aquatically greeting fellow swimmers, body guards on either side, before dashing across City Hall Park to his office. Noticeably, the mayor, a man with a surprisingly small head for such a tall frame, never lost the makings, modest pregnancy of a pot belly, and I attributed this phenomenon to his needing to consume a lot of chicken during civic luncheons. Pregnant with chicken fat he was, looking a lot like Jack Perdue a purveyor of chicken on T.V.                              At about seven in the morning in summer the sun shone directly into the two east-facing windows of my office… I quote my analytic friend, Rose Reich-Habsburg's description: "Yugi sougt to get to his office early for all the obvious reasons, because the few hours before the office opened, and the hours after closing, after a late afternoon nap, was when "the real work," as he called it, “my work,” got done;  so-called normal working hours consisted of fragments, interruptions, distractions that left him frazzled until he took his afternoon nap.  It was a sunny morning and the sun glinting along and half through the edges of the louvres of the two large East-facing windows seemed to electrify the motes especially at that time of day, also in my head; but the sun, or rather the earth's incline to it, would soon be concealed, first by the Internal Revenue Service [IRS] cantilevering box diagonally opposite, severely, eliminating even sun aura; by the 70 story Woolworth Tower towering over the IRS and then by the huge slabs to the south. One wonderful Southwest shaft reappeared briefly late in the late afternoon through the south facing windows, a shaft that shot in between an ATT tower on Greenwich Street, to the west of the North Tower, on Greenwich Street, and yet another hulk, shooting in through the two south-facing windows of Yuri’s office and back out through the ones that faced East across the street, but to draw dim reflections from the unwashed windows on the loft opposite, on the other side of the streer. At those moments the light played quite enchantingly in Yuri’s big, square high-ceilinged room. I always looked forward to that last sudden slither of the sun. In winter the sun existed as an absence. But because the sun shone directly into the two east facing windows at this time, around 7 of the morning Yuri, and often I, who visited him in my capacity as his friend and shrink, could not make out what if anything might be transpiring at the top, equivalent fourth floor in the building opposite, and even if the sun had not blinded Yuri, me, us, its double-insulated windows unwashed outside since the day Lincoln had spent a night in the half of it that had been a hotel during the Civil War, all I might have been able to make out was whether, possibly, one or the other light had come on to dispel the there gloom. So I presumed that Yuri’s somnolent 'Roos, who were over-staying their welcome by a year, were, as was their custom, sleeping through the finest part of the day, to start hopping, tentatively, out from under their drugged states sometime around noon,  readying themselves for another drug filled alcoholic nite, another romp with “Dancing Matilda.” “My 'Roos." Yuri said, " are a Maoist theater troupe, Night Shift, led by an actor who was great when he rode a horse called horse, and an Aussie Revo who cultivated the cultivation of marijuana plants under the influence of neon, in the crawl space, beneath the stairs that led to Yuri's small bedroom on top of the loft, sort of like a captain's bridge, anyway that's how I thought of it, or referred to it when describing its, Yuris sometimes nighttime location.
   “Are you all right?” a voice interrupted me, my reverie.                      “Oh… ” I said to someone I instantly recognized as a commuter who must have just stepped out of the nearby Hudson Tubes.                   “You had your eyes closed and were just standing there, starting to sway.”
   “You didn’t see a dog falling off the roof, did you?” I said to him, associating this Jersey commuter with one just like him who had been frightened out of his wits when one of my and Elle’s one-year-old German shepherd mix puppies had fallen off the balustrade of my loft roof and landed on the sidewalk, barely missing him.
   “Dogs falling out of the sky in Manhattan, I’m going straight back to Jersey,” had been that commuter’s memorable words. That dog’s fall, that dog accident, that accident due to an impulsive leap, or to too fast running, to that slip, had been a sign, symbolic retrospectively, of Elle’s and my love for each other’s impending crash, doom, the first sign that I could put my finger on: I was over-extended. The dog had broken one leg and limped off, dragged himself to the landfill, to our beach, a hundred yards further West where, tracking his blood spoor, I found him and had carried him in my arms to the animal hospital where they were amazed that he had survived a four-floor fall and had only one broken leg to show for the experience. They said they would also check his internal organs, that there was no bleeding. It was pure chance that I had encountered that commuter these years ago. The dog had fallen off while I had been walking down the stairs, the commuter was standing right next to the blood-stained spot where Wolfie had landed.
   This commuter now gave me a very strange, somewhat frightened look as he stepped back and said “have a good day” and hurried off.             I now turned around and was glad to note that nothing seemed to have changed on “my” building. Its ground floor had a pizza joint, at the corner, and the pizza joit was still a pizza joint, opposite the modernistic maroon and greenish glass multi monstrosity the third generation modernistic IRS building on the side street corner. The pizza joint adjoined a now girlie lounge that occupied what had been the Boar Head, a restaurant, which had been frequented by the merchants that had once dominated the area and that I in my fantasy future had turned into the Central Europe that served Leber-knoedel Suppe, Goose; and other central European specialties and where chiefly writers and editors and artists hung out. In my fantasy I had even imported the chef and his family from Prague. Next to the Girlie Lounge entrance was the now metal door entrance to “my” building which was such an obscure dark grey lady she might actually - to a certain kind of observer - become noticeable for her very obscurity, certainly for no other reason, as though she were trying just a bit too hard to hide but going about it in too obvious a manner. What she is hiding is that she is bifurcated, that she is two buildings of very different kind that were joined at some point early in their unheralded past, that one of her shoulders is higher or lower than the other, that she is askew, and you used the staircase, the marbled stairs from the southern half or two thirds, that was once a hotel, that dated back to the civil war era, rumor fantasy had it that Lincoln slept here, perhaps even in the same perch that I now occupied. Marble, of course, is about the last component you expected as you looked at that considerable expanse of black and gray paint, those uninviting surfaces with placards that people kept pasting there.
 I had seen the destruction of Lower Manhattan starting in the late 60s as Danny Lion photographed it and it was amazing that of all the buildings that had survived the wrecking ball was this gray corner once Civil War hotel with its barge of a roof and ships construction that swayed and creaked when the Arctic Northwest Express hit in Fall and Winter, and when it hit the Wall, the wall of downtown sky scrapers, it broadsided them, slammed into that Wall and the Wall turned the Express around, compressed it, from a Northwesterly into a South to North jet exhaust (like the Subway right below) that swirled garbage and garbage cans through the narrows of West Broad as high as the fourth floor of my office and the top floor of the loft on the way North uptown. Memorable, no? N’est pas?
 I finally picked up my bag and felt hunger pangs and put my keys away and turned to the adjacent Greek Greasy Spoon, the buildings only other ground floor enterprise, a six-foot-wide sliver, twenty feet deep, too, its one big window steamed as it had been always all these years at this hour, a steam bath of a breakfast joint, just as always, who made excellent eggs and home-fries. I had been looking forward to having a few goodbye breakfasts there and decided, for old time’s sake, to have one of them right there and then.                   The aging Greek, all wattles, looked cooked blonde-white like his noodles when they came steaming out of his pressure cooker or steam-bath or whatever that enclosure was, offered a grunt of recognition for a greeting. No “long time no see” as I had expected. Time must pass differently for him I concluded and said “the usual” and he failed to ask what my “the usual” was – it had been a few years - but poured the usual tepid coffee and turned three eggs into the fluffiest of scrambles that I spread across my toast, and toasted the fries just right. It was then that I could feel it taking hold, the past, I was starting to enter it, I was eating it, I had entered the past, someone who had not had a past, who had written himself out of his European past in college, and who had written the childhood out of himself, now had his American past to step into, if only for a time, and not just any past, but a past that I was already writing about, a fairly recent past yet also one that I had felt I had put behind me. A past during which I felt I had done it all or at least a lot of it wrong – Always the Wrong People, the title of the memoir of my twenty five years in New York – and I well knew that the equation “wrongness” involved me, moi meme, that I was one side of it. Yet: “No over-berating yourself,” I told myself, “no satisfying whatever tad of disgusting heroic masochism might reside in you, a cool assessment is what is needed,” but enough wrong, just enough to make difficult success even more difficult. “Always the wrong people” it had been, wrong women too! And far too many! I had succumbed far too often! At least half the time, and that was bad enough. And not been discrete. Live and learn, never live long enough! – was another truism for which my internal jukebox lacked a melody.                            I recalled the wounded shepherd puppy dragging its broken leg to the landfill to nurse himself! Moi meme! But pretty well recovered now, just a tad of a limp! The dog that had slunk away to nurse its broken leg, just like myself when the Ganymede Elysian field dream had imploded. I had been a shmuck I concluded. My experience of the city that had glistened and still glistened so temptingly if seen from the distant cliffs, it had singed the wings of this moth while it itself had turned into a glittering pile of garbage.      I pulled out my medium-sized three ring note book with the legend “Always the Wrong People” & the Roman numeral “I” neatly inscribed on a label pasted in the upper right hand corner of its plastic cover and started to read its opening and make emendations:


I grabbed the phone: it wasn’t Elle as I had feared Elle who for reasons that were entirely beyond me despite having been multiply unfaithful and leaving me and then having been kicked out of my life had decided - while trying to entrap her current boyfiend! - to pursue me after she and the Heartache Kid had been through a breakup that lasted seemngly forever until I told her I wanted her out of my life. „Kiss me through my panties!” „Spank me!” Whew!
No, it was not darling ballerina Elle but CeeCee the biggest heart-ache prior to Elle! Well... anyhoo. During my twenty five years in New York!                               There had been others in adolescence and shortly after, and even earlier, I wasn’t called, people didn’t call me the Heartache Kid for nothing! The then, now biggest previous Heartache the Heartach Kid reminded himself right there and then. It had taken that trip on the Hellenic Splendor halfway around the world, of which I had just the briefest of deja vues, to heal the scratches  - “Catskills skilled cats cats kill” had been the dream shorthand for CeeCee and my affair in those anything but comical foothills – the scratches she had administered to my vulnerable stupid heart, a heart that actually ought to have become scar tissued as only a muliply injured heart can! A wonder I thought to myself, thinking back, that until I seemed finally – I prayed – made myself invulnerable by seceding from the scene, fleeing – that I and my heart had actually lasted as long as I did.
CeeCee had been the constant and I mean constant deja vue, as Elle’s previous edition, especially during the analytic sessions with Enigma, during Elle’s and my break-up. That break-up had been well examined, that had proved really interesting to do that, dream by dream and step by step, as compared to CeeCee’s and mine that had been suffered in the ignorance of oblivion in oblivious ignorance, in acting out.               I now could pride myself that I knew where my fault (s) lay in the break-up, my contribution. CeeCee and I had never lived together, not as much had become involved. She had not suffered from sudden neglect after a torrid opening, she had not been yet another of the „most beautiful woman in the world” who turned into my „emasculating governess.” The „hunk,” the apparent „it boy” by the evidence of how the pretty one were seizing on me, had not turned into... what? A sudden monk? That was a part of the problem that I brought with me to the proceedings of our Elle’s and my near marriage, well yes, and if I didn’t have an invariable  Albatross a beloved never hated Albatross around my neck the revolutionary enterprise or work of some kind, and never enough money to run away for a permanent Wild Palms, my work, invariably an Albatross of some kind about. 
And I had even had the dream  -referring to my neglect of Elle and its dreadful conseqeunce - that said „remember that and don’t forget it!” Talking about talking super-ego dreams where I address myself! And then starting to write the book that would make all the ladies happy: The Well Laid Woman!
   CeeCee’s and my affair had been the rehearsal for the far more calamitous, the catastrophe of Elle’s and my breakup – a break-up under analysis no less, ah what you can learn what you experience when denial is thrown overboard and a thousand eyes cry their hearts out at what they now behold.
CeeCee felt she always knew where I was, that we were in constant contact and communication, which played into a fantasy relationship I had had with my mostly absent  mother, my conscience, that she knew what I was doing, it was spooky to find out how often CeeCee had been right. The first time I had made love to her in a bed she had pretended and wanted me to pretend, and I had, that I was her father, and when I made calm gentle love to her, diddling her clit to make sure she would come, it had been perfect for her. “Perfect” she had said, and my cock had felt awfully snug inside her cunt, well and snugly held, a memorably unique sensation, though the breach of the Oedipal order, if only as pretense, introduced a troubling note – musically forewarning, like the repeated opening of Mozar’s Haffner
 - into my sleep, once we did get to sleep that night. There also had been humor. I had heard of I.U.D.s but never encountered or seen one. When I started to fuck CeeCee, after petting that she loved as much as I did, something inside her womb started to tickle my cock and I told her „What’s that inside you that’s tickling my cock?”, and she said, „Oh, that’s my I.U.D.” And I said, „it’s tickling me!” and CeeCee said „You’re not the only one!” Twenty six lover had been there – no, she had not had the good sense to get an I.U.D. prior to losing her virginity nor after I forgot whether it was her first or second abortion. CeeCee at age twenty six still dressed mostly in some variation of schoolgirl uniform but had been virginal only until age sixteen and had been gyrating and hot to trot as soon as she heard Elvis Presley at fourteen.

   And here I was back in the Big Dark City and its Heart of Darkness, three of whose ventricles I had come to know, two of them via CeeCee or because she and I had worked together. You needed to work all night to penetrate the heart of darkness and the spiders of the dark and to stay awake at those hours requires stronger meds and the trail of that medicine might could did also led to one of the entrances to the heart of darkness, and I had shied back, that was too black and dangerous, I lacked resolve, that domain was too deep and wide ranging for me. Inadvertencies. Who goes to the Big City and looks for its heart of Darkness? As a cab driver to take you! 

Monday, June 13, 2016



michael roloff

 Seattle 13 hours ago

I agree with Ms. Prose and friend Ben Moser. As the child reader of a yuppie father’s uncut treasury of the world’s fairy tales and living in a rural fairy-tale world I turned – e.g.- the B-17 that nearly crashed into our house, as it approached screeching, into the fairy tale bird Griffen. By age 11 I was writing fairy tales of my own, they grew inside me like dreams, and so no wonder that I so much love the early Guenter Grass fairy tale novels & Walter Benjamin’s essay on fairy tale writing. I did not anticipate that emigrating into a different language and culture would deprive me of the soil out of which I wrote, or that something wrote me. I wrote a lot of stories in college, only one of which approached the quality, and then concluded that I needed a lot of experience to write again. 25 years as editor in New York provided that experience in spades, and then some. Like Benjamin I have written a biography, of Peter Handke whose work I introduced into this country and translated and of course I continue to read his work. Ah, what would I have done the past thirty years without Handke and Freud! But I lack the time – while writing – and ability or willingness  to read much else. I had hoped to be done with my work a decade ago and get on a tramp steamer as I had once before, with steamer trunks full of books, so as to become well- read again. I started to read at age four, my mother gave me a magic writing tablet of wax, and if you rubbed it, magically letters turned into words.

Saturday, June 04, 2016




 “Sour/The good and bad of it”
The first blackberries are late this year - it was a late Spring.
The blackberries will be that much more plentiful in fall - most will rot in the early rains.
Most did."

“Senor Heron” is the best* of me, which, however, in that respect, manifests itself rarely – the only other “still still” poem an incidental poet like myself recalls trying to perfect is entitled “Ras-a-Tanura” and was composed with the Hellenic Splendor at weeks-long anchor at that oil-loading station adjacent to Bahrein, Saudi Arabia

I observed those huge, ocean-going cows, the tankers, arriving high out of the water, gradually sinking, so that little of them remained above the water line. 
I no longer have a copy of Ras-a-Tanura, but recall Phyllis Seidel much liking it, Fred Seidel’s former wife, who seems to have retired as far away from Fred as possible in the South of France! I quite understand! The Ferguson girls did not luck out with their talented writer husbands Fred and Frank Conroy!
Even experiences that might lead to poetic moments of that kind are rare, although the Persian Gulf afforded yet a second one. A few days before arriving at Ras-a-Tanura the Hellenic Splendor passed through Straits of Hormuz, a famously tricky passage:

at half speed, say 7 knots, and at night, on a full moon, the sandy cliffs on all sides looking memorably ghostly, the silver sheen on a windless gulf, the 12 thousand ton vessel’s metal hull suddenly far less vibratious, and the porpoises surfing on the bow wave! Nirvana!
“Sour” and “Heron” are from my completed collection of chiefly - occasionally long and demanding - prose poems STEEPED IN SEATTLE [better than in an old tea bag anyhow!] 
With quite a bunch of them now pre-published, I need to make the entirety accessible - it certainly has found some splendid endorsements – fine pieces about the weather and my fine feathered friends here.

Seattle has the best summers. We are having one this June!

Summers are best in Seattle.
It’s just that you can never get all of the winter sadness out of the local noggins!

The greatest of discoveries at Urizen Books, the author and “accredited hermit crab” Michael Brodsky came briefly out from under his rock and another major novel in the making & me, merely hoping that he might like me “Heron,” he responded at lovely length:

"Michael--I've read your poem a few times. Anything I can say will immediately sound false, flat, anthologizable in the worst way.

In any event--Fact is, I found it very moving: I have the softest spot for niche birds, evidently. Am haunted by the phrase "adapted beyond all recognition". Of course a poem is infinitely more than the sum of its memorable phrases. 

Sorry--I cannot write too coherently about poetry although "I know what I like" (Dickinson, Hopkins, Mallarme, Trakl). Though by the same token I think poetry-specialist gasbags like Bloom should keep their hands off prose.

Liked, too, the split between complete fusion with the bird and delicate distancing.

I hope you continue. Hope you have many more such niche creatures up your sleeve.

I also have a set of SEATTLE SKETCHES drafted, though - with novels & one other Memoir, and the second half of The Devoloping Account of Time in Baja in need to be tied down [a la “Tie me Kangaroo, down!”] - I doubt whether the sketches will ever be more than that.  

With SCREEN MEMORIES, the memoir of my German childhood & American youth done – it was meant to be last thing I’d do, but I then figured “what if you drop dead isn’t SCR.M in some ways most important?” I realized I was tempting fate once more by shooting ahead in that manner. “At least get that done!” I told meself while continuing to noodle over the huge novel project. And so I did – but for one more revision I suppose prior to publication. Here a few Links to a few parts that I have put on line:

The Handke project

is in fair shape but for the

part, which could afford contributions from the wealth of scholars devoting themselves to that fine wrinkle in time-space that the Kid from Griffen, the Griffen Kid, “Kid Griffen” has introduced into the Logos;
and but for the

part of the Handke Project that has material on each and every one of Handke’s approximately 100 publications, withal that… who would have thought he would be so immensely productive and diligent!... 
and so you find me, too,going back into monkish mode after indulging myself by taking a month-long look at Handke’s latest play DIE UNSCHHULDIGEN & ICH, or as I might have it in Amurrcian THE NOT SO INNOCENT INNOCENTS & I BY THE SIDE OF THE COUNTRY ROAD: below link will lead you to a complex result and what the German reviewers say. 

Aside last June’s premiere of Scott Abbott’s and my translation of Handke’s THE BEAUTIFUL DAYS OF ARANJUEZ

there have been no further productions. With Seagull Books Kolkata now Handke’s chief publisher, we are far back in the que there & I am looking for someone to do it now while I am still around and need my share of the royalties. Friend and  novelist Jim Krusoe had a fine response to Aranjuez:

"I found Aranjeuz nearly unbearably beautiful and sad, though I suppose I find a lot of beauty really sad these days, like a farewell to the world. Not so much for me, though that’s coming of course, but for the dumb human race. In any case, as much as the liebestod it was the odd turns it took along the way that were also masterful."

I also need to assemble the variety of pieces I have written about Handke’s theater work into a single publication. The feat there is to have figured out how these pieces work on an audience.

Thus this finds me 
in the position tocomplete HEART-ACHE: BREAK-UP UNDER ANALYSIS; ANNOTION OF A STORY  which is a part of the huge DARLINGS & MONSTERS SPIRAL that was one reason why I left NY City in the mid-8os, and that then proved insuperable for someone who has his moments of genius* but not on as extensive and continuous a scale as the initial grandiosity required: the ball of wax I found I had written myself into, with my truly ancient Austrian-American narrator Fritz von Habsburg and his cast of patients. Thus all there will be of DM SPIRAL is a quite marvelous 50 k opening section- to continue at that point would have required total undisturbed concentration for years on end, one pointillist point an hour! In the same mode in which I composed GRADUATION BOOGIE, which took on year of living with a bee-keep, in the St. Monica Mts, just below Bony Ridge right next to the Preserve, and became the one successful legit screenplay of mine - amis ancienne George Malko, who took a close look at the original Fellinesque DARLINGS  & MONSTERS outline, suggested that if I elaborated on one extended scene it would do the trick of having a complete minuscule version of what I had in mind, and he was right.

In the process of fleshing out the DARLINGS & MONSTERS SAGA, in addition to HEART-ACHE, the Story, I have managed to accumulate and draft most of what I need for BREAK-UP UNDER ANALYISIS (B.U.A.0, but I am not going to slap slap just slap it together!

I wrote up my analysis and analytic training about ten years ago as A Patient’s Experience of his Analysis and I tell myself that the complete regression that adjudicated the event must account at least in part why me amygdala is as freshened  as a newborn billy goat’s:  Memories - especially now that I have done the memoir Screen Memories (of my German Childhood & American Youth) are so rich that I feel if I did a memoir of my 25 years in New York (which I am titling ALWAYS THE WRONG PEOPLE… and the really were during far too many crucial moments) it could be done one volume per year. There Knaeckebrod~ eat that! Not kidding! 

Reason that I am so late are not simply that I am slow and a slow digester & dreamer, and that I, a Proustian writer with a very small p,
knew as of my senior college year – with the then stories about the past written, that I needed experience of this country and the world. I then got experience in spades, up the gazoo during my 25 New York years. 

The delay is due in part, about ten years of it, to financial reasons. The small stipend I had when the carnally weak left a so distracting New York in 1985 disparu in Mexico about 20 years ago, I got the analysis and training and about 15 years of freedom out of it. I have been un-able to collect on my judgments in the many hundred of thousand dollars against an ex-partner in Urizen Books, in Palermo - not being the King of Spain, do not feel it wise to turn my King’s ransom of  judgments over to the Cosa Nostre; and, Roger Straus, culture vulture monster par excellence, dancing it then turned out on the verge of bankruptcy all those many years, managed to trick me out of three quarters of my participation in royalty-generating 20 Hesse books, chiefly there, that I brought the firm in the 1960s and that made millions for him; and his successors have been just as dastardly and not made good on the contract

and what a difference in my life and in the life of small Urizen Books

those moneys would have made during the time that these titles were really earning in the 70s through the eighties, these several hundred thousand dollar that I am out. Same set of brutal mouth on Donald Trump’s I just noticed the other day. It costs far too much to sue, especially from afar, and the titles still earn, but a pittance of what they used to. New York, city of thieves, is not for those brought up too trusting and over-protected, in my case even with bombs falling all around. Get an agent or at least a lawyer as soon as you venture into these fields. Actually, I was warned about Roger (“The Crook”) cherry-picking Straus, by Cecil Hemley, the founder of Noonday Books which he sold to Straus, and to whom friend Paula Diamond introduced me: and even so he managed it. Also, beware of the physically nauseatingly ugly – beautifully ugly is another and very interesting matter.

Also, I haven’t hustled the hustleble work of mine as I ought to have! I am not sure if anything positive derived from suddenly finding myself impoverished in Mexico. I was going to move from the so comfortable rural Mulege to Michoacan (the Mexican Michigan!) to the tribe that worships the Monarch Butterfly in the tropical conifers at 8,000 feet. The drive, the urgency with which I had left New York subsided under pastoral circumstances, a lot of Handke work had already been done, as well as my analytic education.   During those three Mexican years I translated two Erich Wolfgang Skwara novels, among them the marvelous The Plage of Siena; wrote a few Handke lectures for the annual  Austrian shin ding at U.C. Riverside, and recall working forever on the shaggiest of long shaggy screen play stories about a huge bird that is created using ancient DNA, it its incidents were amusing the hell out of me and my producer; and reading and walking and swimming a lot, and riding my mule, Durango! The work I then did in Seattle that produced Write Some Numb’s, Bitch! [link below] is priceless.

HEART-ACHE: BREAK-UP UNDER ANALYSIS: ANNOTATION OF A STORY will also be a bitter-sweet sweet and bitter memorialization of Downtown Manhattan, Tribeca of the years 1975-1985. It incorporates the gist of my “Downtown Stories” Jim the Pioner, The Fighting Building, Betsy’s Fridge, etc., and I note, now that I am well into the book, shades, at its edges, of Alan Silitoe’s Saturday  Night & Sunday Morning. I could do a lot worse than doing half as well as that. It will also most certainly the second most sex filled book by a Haverford author, which probably is not saying much considering Haverford would be a lot if we acknowledge Nicholas Baker as the current champion in that field, not just as Haverfordian. Here links to a few things along that line at Literotica:

You will not hear much from me until year’s end when friend and fellow Handke translator Scott Abbott and I will conduct an on-line discussion on the occasion of the U.S. publication, ten years after the German one, and many a year after the its publication in most major languages, of Peter Handke’s MORAVIAN NIGHT

and then when BUA comes out of the oven, or I emit one last fart as I descend into
The so-called “best of me” as someone through whom the fairy tale teller speaks too rarely, age twelve with the tale how a hill acquired the name Duevelsberg; or Sandro  freshman year, or the HEART-ACHE: THE STORY and can be, has been accessed, dragged out of me via a few translations, the sixty-five poem I translated for my edition of OH THE CHIMNEYS that I put together in the 60s for Farrar, Straus; the translation of Handke’s WALK ABOUT THE VILLAGES experience left me a husk, it accessed every part of me, ARIADNE PRESS in the 1990s

And Josef Winkler’s FLOWERS FOR JEAN GENET. 
I won’t mention here those texts that dragged me down. I also knew early on that I would acquire considerable satisfaction on being an editor helpmate, servant, and the most amazing work along that line is briefly described here:

also see this:

June 5, 2016

The City named after Chief Sealth.

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MICHAEL ROLOFF Member Seattle Psychoanalytic Institute and Society this LYNX will LEAP you to all my HANDKE project sites and BLOGS: "MAY THE FOGGY DEW BEDIAMONDIZE YOUR HOOSPRINGS!" {J. Joyce} "Sryde Lyde Myde Vorworde Vorhorde Vorborde" [von Alvensleben] contact via my website