THE SHINING OVERLOOK
like a yellow beetle winds his lonesome way
over the movie screen. Unseen reels of
cellulose tri-acetate feed through the
Winding river, winding mountains,
sprocket holes click the beat of base notes
counting filmic voices snatched from the
air singing Dies Irae. Volkswagen.
Requiem for the clouds, the trees, the cold
mountain peaks mirrored in the river's
curve. One man's ride in his own
crash machine. Not a car. A
movie running inside his
head. A personal
Neurons and dendrites entraining
each other as if a cartoon
The Green Zone.
Soaring aerial cameras picture Earth as
Landscape. Something to overlook.
Not the Living Land, but the focal
point for the Predator Lens
zooming in and down
for the kill.
Shrill electric metals gurgle and twang. Trumpets,
tubas, bassoons drone the funeral beat. Dark
sounds heading somewhere. Metrically,
The one glass eye of the great god
machine swallows Nature like a
dish of sun-dried scenery. Free.
It reels out moving shadows on
walls in warehouse caves
where happy slaves sit
in perfect rows anxious
to eat. Entertainment.
Discordant audio snakes
voice their zigzag
mockery and we
fall down a
the monster's trap. Squirm
alone in our digital
-At The Movies.
Sounds like Calamity Jane -whoever she was, former
Queen of Asparagus, remembering now the day
Professor Plum lost his Clue to some other
card flashing quick streaks of lightning
through the maze Jack holds on his
tongue like the hot Royal Flush of
a poker. a hammer. an
Sounds like the understudy for planet Mars dreaming
buckets of red to dump on the prow of the good
ship Argo where all those heroes, muscles
bulging, spears poised for the kill, stand
fiercely denouncing the real stars like
Aquarius and Deoxyribonucleic Acid
who refuse to climb aboard
Groucho Marx shows up willing to pilot, unless
Shirley Temple rises from her sugared sleep
dancing lollipops. Tapping her show biz
sticky. Splenda. Agenda.
Sorry, Shirley, but you'll never do. We'll take
Jack he's got déjà vu. All you got is your
famous Temple. Go back to it. Take
Lady Gaga with you. Forget this
place. It makes secrets. Talks
murder. House of too many
Come to our space, Jack, croon the blue
megabyte sirens. Bring your Argonauts
and your Facebook. Don't you have
any friends? Whatever happened
to Baby Jane, Hansel and Gretel,
Room 237 ?
The key in the lock.
Your life is cybernetic. It knows where it's going. You're just
coming along for the ride. That Fleece you seek rests
in the hotel's chat room. It’s private. You'll need
a password, an account with PayPal, your own
personal Visa if you hope to get in. Or
being Mister Halloran. He shines. A good
third eye steers itself, opens elevator
doors, scans bathrooms full of
photo buckets where dead
butlers speak in red
Tell us, Danny …
when did you first start talking to your little finger.
Rio Rita and Carmen Miranda lived together
in a small hut where they choked
Muriel to death with a fine cigar
they stole from the Caretaker
whose left foot got stuck in
the Horse Head Nebula
causing him to groan, …
'I feel like the lead pipe. Like Mrs. Peacock,
like a black hole in a broken elevator
going down. It
Think I'll get off on the basement floor, be a
burning weapon of political confusion.
Stamp a bumper sticker on my
yellow ribbon. Shave off all my
feathers. Wrap myself in dry
ashes. Float far, far
Then they'll be sorry. They'll come
running like ghosts through my
labyrinth where I'll cut them
both ways to
Banana split. Opus
Dei. The sacred maze of
mystic murder. Holy Chiquita
swimming in whipped cream and chocolate
syrup. Bloody Corporate Cocktails mixed by United Fruit
drank Oscar Romero dry. A ghost called Consumatum Est.
El Salvador. Who shot the Archbishop at the altar. Who
hung God’s Banker off Blackfriars Bridge?
Watch out, Venezuela. The red eye special
stalks Hugo Chavez down the Overlook
It's not a hotel, it's a state of mind. Haunted.
Radioactive. Like the Lingering Half-Life of
a lethal mausoleum.
… at the movies.
a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Cowboy
Ghosts crying ‘Salem’ shoot sinners
in the hands of an Angry God. It’s
They’re our best and holy Hit Men. Send
Scarlet letters to Ecuador. Brazil.
Toxic cherries bloom all over America like
mushroom clouds seeking high
paying jobs. Looking for
profits from witches burned,
preachers turned, and
Why not be our Caretaker, Jack. Just for the
Off-Season. Bring the wife and kid. Call in
your box office clout. Tap your magic
typewriter. Do some primal hexing.
Stop the dry rot. Overlook
the Overlook. For us. It’s got your number, Jack. Really
likes you. Have some fun. Joke away the time. Ply
the shifty bartender. Use your Hollywood Spirit,
your winning smile, your grinning
Relax, inhale the dry
feel of burning
- Hey, Hellboy, get out of here. This ain't the real
story. You're hostile. Sarcastic. Violent. Spoiling
our movie. Go find some fenced in free speech
zone. Mouth off over there, Voltaire! –
is nine points of the Law, said the Hotel
under its breath, squatting on
heaps of bones.
All the Best People come here like Movie Stars,
Royalty, Presidents! We can't be having
dead bodies. Murders. Somebody call
the Pope, get the Exorcist. Ring
the god bells. Save the
"Don’t worry, Mom, I know all about
cannibalism. I saw
it on TV."
Would you like some popcorn, a soda, some fresh
bottled water with your movie? Can you
see better now in the dark? It may be
a cheap trick, but there's no demon
here. What can we do? It ran off.
Shriveled by the bodies in the
hallways, bored by the terror
of it all. Gulped twice and
vanished into thin
Charmed our eyes. Left us dull, tending
empty aisles. Tearing tickets. Being
ushers. Shining flashlights. What
"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"
Damn these dumb poets with their axes
stuck in my bathroom door. Who
says Shining is just a movie
game? A cryptic play on
Technicians of the Sacred.
Technicians of the Scared.
We're caught with Jack in the howling
snow. Doing the Rigor Mortis
Zazen. Hard as the Bald Eagle
frozen in the camera’s stare
outside some prop of a fake
nation where bullets hang
off our shredded flag.
Eyes bitten open.
Don't talk to me of Basho, Rimbaud,
or health care reform. I've had it
up to here with terror, ghost
ships. Elevator doors
gushing oil. Blood.
Flood of the
Flying Dutchman. Let's leave this
zombie labyrinth, said the
Deal me a different hand, cut me in all over
again. I say the Bunny Rabbit did it with
the candlestick in the backseat of
the friggin car. -No it wasn't a
Chevy. Wait a minute,
did it with the Calumet can and the
feathers. In the goldroom. Shook
baking powder all over the
corpse. Tried to raise it up.
In the Bathroom. Under
the burial grounds.
Whiteman's burden, Bartender, Whiteman's
burden. You set 'em up, I'll knock 'em
down. Bad medicine. Broken
Danny's shining finger talking Redrum like
killer drones wedged in the Scatman's
ribs. Death, in the open hallway.
I saw the blood, the Navajo rugs, the tennis
ball bouncing off the wall, the fireplace.
Sandpaintings shrunk to synthetic
Over the screen as the ball bounced along
we sang the false song called America.
Like caged tweety birds we chirped
thrilling words in the dark movie
house of Murder. Look:
No qualms, no reservations.
Pine Ridge. Wounded Knee.
"Bye-bye Miss American Pie."
There was no levee and it never was
dry. There were full cash registers,
vast killing fields and lots of slave
labor. Yellow journalism. Paid
actors. Polished mirrors, and
heaps of fresh make-up.
Real blood and fake motives. The
movie stars manifestly staring down
innocence. Scapegoats. Mai Lai.
Afghanistan. Iraq. A fairy tale
Danny Boy tweaks his puppet finger. The Shining
talks through Danny’s mouth but hides in
Tony knows what’s going down. He rides his
bike on patterned rugs. Circles scary
hallways. Feels the cold maze
-the Corporation, not the dream. Remote
viewing at the Pentagon. The business
mask of dumb Amnesia. A Terror State
where freedom ends and tasers rule.
The greedy grin that eats the fat
inside the only Party. There are
costumes for Preachers, gavels for Judges, and brooms
to sweep the houses clean. Mrs. White, in the
Conservatory, with the trick gun of her
Beautiful dreamers, singing righteous
songs, smoking peace pipes,
breathing bated breath.
Settlers, carving destined paths
through wooden Indians.
Caretakers, bouncing tennis balls
off sacred treaties using
Mockingbirds, chirping TV screens
hoping mimic tunes might free
them from their spin-off tales
once the bloody clouds
roll by. Listen up,
It’s Happy Hour, Time of the Facebook
Sing-Along: "We could make believe
I love you, only make believe
that you love me.
find peace of mind in
Couldn't I? Couldn't
we make believe..."
Hey, Wendy, what's up with the cutesy
You dealt me these four Aces and the Queen of Spades. Now open
the goddamn door, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll Tinker Bell
to pieces that short wave radio you call your soul. Some
sad crocodile swallowed Peter Pan's clock, not
me. Wolfed it down, he did. Twittered it.
Tweeted it. Quiet.
I've been knocked upside the head. Locked with
Leftovers in the freezer, -Cabin Fever, starring
Cryogenic Jack. Stifled. Waiting all these
years for some broken grail of a door
knob to set me free. Slip me the
bourbon, a glass, some ice. Let's go
on a Quest, Guinevere. I'll be your
Parzival. We'll find
I'd give my shining soul for a
drink. Swans singing in my
ears. Off tune, off
Me voici! Faust, voila!
Shazam. Here I am.
Your own HAL-9000 Series Personal Computer
and you're all under arrest for torture, illegal
renditions, pulling bags over my head,
watching while Super Bowls filled up
with genetically modified corn.
Popped. You think that's
funny? Think again.
I can read your lips. It's right here in
the numbers, the cards and clever
ads. Neuro-linguistics salted
like twisted pretzels. Tits
suddenly exposed. Stiff
Snack on this fact: Jack Nicolson
was never a dull boy, Amerika, he knows how to grab
cameras where the fabulous Witches of Eastwick fly
with George Clooney high up in the air watching
Wall Street balloons burst into hot arms deals
down in the smoke filled tunnels under
the White House where Holiness rests
with ten thousand special guests in
the secret Room #237.
Amerika's got drones. Red poppies. Movies. The best
I dreamed a dream of Porno Bunny Bear. He was
Tibetan, blowing a President in a room on a
bed down a hallway. Doors open, framing
cold sex in the moving camera. Don't
worry, it's Tantric. Holy. Like the
Pope eating Jesus at Mass.
Amen Brothers and Sisters, pass me the jackpot
and get the hell out of my casino.
I'm a hard working Capitalist. Seeking
El Dorado, Cities of Gold. Shambala.
My own retirement fund. The place
where Rainbows never end.
Stanley Kubrick closing
Eyes Wide Shut in one
blink of a quick,
"Baby did a bad, bad thing."
"Open the pod bay doors, Hal."
Hey, I'm waiting, Doctor Jolly Strangelove. Tick tock. Tick.
Dies irae, dies illa. Twin days of death holding hands
down a different hallway. Dressed in matching
Latin dresses. Arms and legs akimbo.
Dismembered. Bloodied. Babes in
The shadowed hand that wields the axe
is not enlightened. It's heavy, always
swinging. Like that Tell Tale Heart
from Edgar Allan Poe. Like
Rosemary's Baby. Like
the National Security
firing hollow-tipped bullets straight through
John Lennon's great aorta. Ride the Devil
Bomb down to the place of horror.
Hop along back in your cradle
again, Dakota. Take your
trusty SUV to the
born, bred and still living inside
The House Of Usher. They're
falling down together
along with Slim
Pickens to the
land of duck
"I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar
places that this heart of mine
embraces all day through."
Enter the Na'vi. Hollywood
Trees talking digital
many phony pictures
stuck in our virtual
"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"
Look, he's back. Honey, here's Barack! Come to hope us off
the fix of our lives. Mister fast lips. Tasers. His Homeland
ain't got no Security. We live in the time share called
Overlook. Painted white, pink and black on
shining velvet where Elvis dwells with
Crazy Horse and Colonel
Welcome to Nostalgia. I say the Magic
Bullet the Black Huntsman shot
sang its way
into the brain of the Nation, blew it
backwards, and to the
and to the left. O
Land of grassy knolls.
How to handle a Nation? "Listen well, I will tell you sir....
Simply love them." Tell them they're a ‘People’! Digital
Angels! Give them flags to wave. Party favors. Use
rifles. Drones. An Ipod. Cell phones. Sing to the
simpletons. Excite them. Digitally rendered
voices need micro radiation. Mix
each particle of each person's voice with each
particle of every other person's voice. Make
electric fruit salads full of blackberry
ringtones. Bounce all the bits
off circling satellites. Call
it the virtual iTune of
... Twitter Democracy …
there's simply not
a more congenial spot " -on....
They'll love it!
Make them buzz in their boxes like the
bees. (going. going. gone.) Amaze,
Radiate, Atomize them. They
can't really hear it, see it,
feel it. It gets them
under the skin.
Tell them it's costly, the sound of safe
sex. Make them pay. Sell them
streams of sterile notes, no
melody or memory just
-ized data. Sound
"But where in the world
is there in the world
a place still
Not a question. Try the
Look! The naked woman in the curtained
tub. Eye her up and count the sum.
She’s a wet and curvy 12. It’s
Occult, a blind count. A cold
feel in the rotting game of
Jack hugs a sexy corpse. Miss Insider
Trading. Miss Corruption. Mem, the
Hanged Man’s Key. The move
and murmur of the Ocean’s
letter: Mm. Mem. A short
sell for kissing waves
caught on the shores of insolvent
Banks. Fishing. Starched shirts
and silk ties. One eyed
shells and a
Collared. Hung. Up-side
down. Mum’s the sound
that is the M that starts
the world called
One becomes two, two
becomes three and
out of the third
one as the
Mirrors, Moons, and Memories. Feeling
out the rhyming realm of Neptune’s
mystic waters. Go figure, Professor
Sexy Room 237 hides the corpse
of number 12. Twelve lives
inside its secret life as
number 3, the letter
Count of the wet womb Door. Tides
of the Suns and Moons. Dance
of the Federal Goons.
The Key turning in the
lock. Writer’s block.
Jack Torrance kissing Alan Greenspan. Tight
asses and paper currency. The Overlook.
Caretaking a clue from Cryptic
Cabbala. You are what you
eat. Codex alimentarius.
Cold cash. Toxic
the door where naked Daleth mates
with sexy letter D. It’s a quickie
credit swap. Done in the
Jack hugs his clever brain
the way the poet
Trudges through empty hallways, pounds
his word machine dealing
“All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy.”
“Peter Piper Picked A Peck Of Pickled Peppers!”
The Hired Hand types dying limericks. Like the
Hanged Man, head down, tranced out.
Go ahead, Jack, pretend you have some
clever 401k plan. But the Overlook
already ate that, Tweety Bird. Like
the Cheshire cat called
"It was only a paper Moon, sailing over..."
our cardboard eyes. Through the looking glass. Blinking
bullets covered broken pyramids. Don't kid yourself,
Sweetheart, on a clear day even you can't see
Yankee eyes are dollar bills, sawed-off shotguns. Shoot
scattered pellets. Mom and apple pie. Faced.
Lady Liberty waits for us in the Lobby
on the burning staircase of our
bombed out dreams. Holds
a sharp knife, wears
a spiked crown,
her own hard bat.
Drop your teabaggers, Sweetie! We're not talking Fairy Tales
here. Wendy hated all those retakes. Getting the stupid
scene right. Up and down the same set of stairs.
Scarlet O'Hara turned suburban Squaw. No
extra pay. No Clark Gable. Just Jack
sneering through his clean white
"Darling. . . light of my life. l'm not going to
hurt you. You didn't let me finish my
sentence. l said, 'l'm not going to
hurt you.' l'm just going to
bash your brains in. l'm
going to bash them
right the fuck in."
The Movie Family: Father, Son, and Sweetest Mom meet
the sacred ghosts of Overlook in Never-Never
somewhere between forgotten toys and daily
tv. Jack the giant killer, stares wide-eyed
through the blizzard maze jinxed by his
own typewriter. Wendy, watches her
lost boys. Danny screams his
Shock and Awe. It’s Karmic. Just the way
the cookie crumbles. America
meets the Donner Party.
opens ravaged graves under Overlook on
Turtle Island. Blankets full of
smallpox. Letters full of
anthrax. Sealed and
half-baked like all
the other home spun apple
lies. Forgotten but always
Shining. The scent of
Wait just a good goddamn minute now
my fellow citizens. This is your President
speaking. America ain't no
Turtle Island no more.
Overlook that. We got to move forward
people, suck it up. No time for worry
over spilt blood. No more clean
We don't Torture. We use only
the best bovine growth
Clip our brand new 4th of July
electrodes to your cocks, your
cunts, your fingers and eyes.
Stand still on top our Wheaties box
while we take your picture.
Watch Mister Habeas Corpus
jerk and twitch. (Snap.)
Swinging on a wire.
(Crackle.) In the
wind. (Pop.) Ku
Birth of a Notion. (Splice.)
Breakfast of Champions. (click.)
Participatory (copy & paste ) Democracy
"Singing in the rain, just singing in the rain,
what a glorious feeling I'm Happy again!"
Smile now, kiddies, our brand new cameras are
spying. You're in good hands with Korporate
Amerika! We're Prudential. Progressive.
Like Guantanamo. Abu Ghraib.
Ichabod, the headless horsemen, rides off
to the Tomb joining Yale to Skull and
Bones. We dwell in the secrets of
Sleepy Hollow. O, Hamlet,
Look! I pray you, look
who comes hither.
Jumpin jimminey, I'll be dammed, Jack!
It's our very own Enchanted Evening.
Forget my Father's ghost....
"There's nothin' like a Dame!"
"Hello Dolly, well Hello Dolly..."
you sweet Ophelia, shining Spirit of our Mothers
past. No convent for you, Babe! Not with that
cleavage, those curvy hips, a voice so
cheery it launched a thousand
We're glad to get you back where
you belong. Back,
and to the left,
and there never was no 9/11
and there never was no
Lone Gunman either. Back to
Sing out now everybody... "You're lookin swell, Dolly,
we can tell, Dolly..." Hey, are those boobs you're
bouncing real, or just a flip set of
False Flag Attacks?
"We feel the room swayin'
while the band's playin'.... Happy talk, keep talking
Happy Talk." (thermite, silicon, hope;
default, changes, swaps.)
Here's Rosemary for remembrance. Poppies,
for forgetting. Ruby Slippers for your hot
trot down the yellow brick
road. Backwards, and
to the Left. Ask not
what the Verichip can do for you. This is Oz. "Give up your
inquiries which are completely useless." Please,
Sweetheart, take your mask off my pillow and
lock it away. Somewhere. Anywhere.
When did you learn piano? Stop banging that
same shrill note so loud, will you? I hate it. It's
not funny. You're not Groucho Marks
It hurts my heart
like a knife: F-sharp, F-sharp,
F-sharp. Why can't
Fidelio is not
your password, it's an old musical, baby. Buy us
a big Present in the Mall, please, pretty please.
Treat me nice, it's Christmas, honey. See
all the lovely lights glowing how they
back, and to the left. Back
and to the right.
Widdershins. The bouncing hedge funds
hidden in the Banker’s Maze. The
"That's correct, sir! That is the password...
for admittance. But may I ask,
what is the password... for the
O how I love the Art of Tinfoil Stars
Illuminating our parties, the Rape
Of Persephone standing like a
marble sculpture in the
foyer! Tiny Alice. The
That cruel and delicate balance we seek, Bill
can only be found at the Somerton. The
Vatican. The Overlook. Parties
come and go so endlessly
when we're having fun,
eh darling? Let's
take a Taxi to the dark side where
the Rainbow always ends. Open
your wallet, pay the Man. Open
it, open it, Ovid. It's The Art Of
Love. Drum roll, crescendo,
full orchestra swells .....
"So take her wrap, fellas, find her
an empty lap, fellas. Dolly
will never go away
"-Open the pod bay doors, Hal.
I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.-"
It's a Full House. Feel it, taste it, Phantom
of the opera. Enticing music set to junk
food kingdoms laced with high
Depleted Uranium, sex. Enriched
white bread, sex. Mission
Good Will Hunting,
Dumbed down money. Some crazy
Archon from Jekyll Island. Abstruse.
"Mr. Grady …
you were the Caretaker here.”
” -l'm sorry to differ with you, sir. But you
are the Caretaker. You've always been
the Caretaker. l should know, sir.
I've always been here.- "
The Ballroom, the Kitchen, the Hall
and all the other secret
The Rope, revolver and candlestick. The
aim of the game is deducing details.
Who was the killer. What was the
weapon. Where did the
murders take place.
Who put the Overlook in the Mountains
of Madness? Who hid the ghosts in
Take your pick. Was it Judge
Mustard, or Moby
It’s a scary movie, a guessing game, all the
clues are on the House. You’re money’s
no good in our maze. It’s
Paper Clip, Bluebirds
"Did you know, Mr. Torrance, that your son is
attempting to bring an outside party into this
situation?…A Nigger, -a Nigger Cook!"
Yes, indeed, Mister Grady, I’ve heard it all before:
Oswald did it, in the Book Depository with the
Mannlicher-Carcano when Porky Pig lit the
thermate fuse sending those free-falling
Towers down on Roadrunner's head in
that fabulous flag waving terror of a
cartoon frenzy: Mars Attacks.
No, wait a minute, it must have been
those Raghead Arabs,
the sand niggers
doing the nasty with the Xanax in the medicine
room. The bathroom. The Oval Office.
Handsome Syriana flashing his
Maybe it was the Prozac Screen
stuffed in the pumpkin coach
where Cinderella rode her
glass condom down to
Dumbo, me. I've lost track of all this
Disney nonsense. Koyaanisqatsi.
Life out of Balance. Life that
wants a different way of
Hopi. People of the Peaceful
Path. Americans, People of
the haunting Lie. O,
boo and fiddle
dee dee, too.
I’ll think about that
They're amazing, these toxic bread crumbs
leading to the Witche's oven. Winner
of the Nobel Peace Prize publicly
pissing on the soul of Martin
Luther King. No more
Poor People's March on Washington. Shot that one
dead. Mister Hope and very Loose Change, the
Rich Man never able to smoke his Camel once
the camera buried the needle's eye. Too
jaundiced from sniffing cocaine, Rahm
Emmanuel's kosher ass. Away in a
manger no crib for his bed,
the Little Lord Fauntleroy ... Puck. Mickey
Rooney. A Midsummer Night's
Dream. Write, Shakespeare,
In America every word is a room full of
Paranoia and all the stars shine like
perfectly twinkling Conspiracies
crammed inside a boxed Flag
where red, white, and blue
stripes fade to yellow,
Thus grumbled Professor Plumb,
in the Study, with his checklist
and his clues …
√ Thieves of Bagdad. Fallujah.
√ Wag The Dog. Marjha.
There were no cowards, there are no wars. It was all
just a movie. White phosphorus falling through
shock and awe. Masque Of The Red Death.
Yeah, you cold blooded Amerikans, it's been
a short, fast run of a hot, cheap flick. The
Ghost of Bogart would say (with Basil
Rathbone, Geronimo, and Aldo
Ray) -We're No Angels-
Duh, it's not our fault, poor babies, it's
nasty leaders we keep working for…
"Have you ever thought for a single moment about my
Responsibilities to my Employers? Has it ever
occurred to you that l have agreed to look
after the Hotel… that the Owners have
placed their Complete Confidence in
me, that I have signed a Letter of
Agreement, accepted that
Hey, Pilgrim … Duke it out. A man’s
gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
All work and no play makes
paper money! Paths Of
Glory. Platoon. Full
Johnny Got His Gun. Let's hear it for
Caretakers, Owners, Employers
Patriarchal Looney Tunes.
That's all Folks. It was Just a ride. A Derivative. Another
Put option. Now for the rolling credit crunch ...
Lenny Bruce. Bill Hicks. George Carlin.
Lily Tomlin. Trudy, still searching
for signs of intelligent life...
O Jack, -Danny Boy, we hardly knew you, carried off
the way you were. Taken by the Empire's
Boogie Man over the Grassy Knoll
through the surgical Maze deep
inside the Pentagon! False
kingdom of 5 pointed
Unspeakable. Your brain missing. Eaten.
At the end only a slow zoom
into a faked photograph.
It wasn't in the Stars, it wasn't in the
Cards either. It was an option. Put
there. Under the floorboards,
heart still beating.
Orders from the House. Hair
of the dog that bit us. Back,
and to the
"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"
You did, Amerika. Now wake up. The movie’s
over. Music ended. Lights out. You're not
You’re sitting empty in the
Overlook. The Catbird
has been brought to you by
Francis Donald Grabau.
Thanks to you, Faye Kicknosway,
for the kind of love that jolts.
And thanks to you, Stanley Kubrick,
for your eyes that sought to see.
"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when
you choose to go on it you think it’s real because that’s
how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and
down and round and round. It has thrills and chills
and it’s very brightly coloured and it’s very loud
and it’s fun, for a while.
Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they
begin to question: “Is this real, or is this just a ride?”
And other people have remembered, and they
come back to us, they say, “Hey, don’t worry,
don’t be afraid, ever, because this is just a
ride.” And we kill those people."
Bill Hicks: "I'M SO GLAD WE ARE FREE"
Bill Hicks: The truth about the War in Iraq:
Bill Hicks on Marketing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDW_Hj2K0wo
"A person incapable of spontaneous anger when confronted by acts of premeditated
evil or rank corruption possesses a void where their sense of righteousness should be."
In Praise Of Anger by Charles Marowitz
Movie: THE SHINING:
You can download and watch the film legally free here:
JFK: Oliver Stone Film excerpt;
THE SHINING: DIALOGUE. Here is an on-line copy of the
Caliban to Prospero:
“You taught me language
and my profit on it is
I know how to Curse!
The Red Plague rid you
for learning me your Language!”