I took a week off of frustrating research, to
return with a vengeance. I've experienced
that connection with my subject, when it
is an external force using me as it's instrument,
not the other way around. I've been working
hard on establishing a nexus between my
grandfather and his role in trying to get
the Romanovs into the safe haven of
England, in 1918. All I can safely say is
that history has really fudged some
pertinent facts, and with access to
reports from British intelligence from
that era, it's possible to start fine-tuning
what actually happened, even though it's
been told a thousand times in a thousand
different ways.
Not that my grandfather was a good guy,
because I know he wasn't. But, international
spies aren't necessarily good or evil. They
collect information and barter for who they
work for, the same as any other employee
in a corporation, ultimately with their
own agenda, like anyone else. My
grandfather was a piece of work, though,
and I've always known this, but, he's even
more complex than I ever dreamed.
I used to believe he really loved America,
and distanced himself from his past, but,
now I know that part isn't true. He was
close to Lenin, and went back to the USSR
in 1920 to be the interim Minister of the
Railroad, for a specific act of espionage
at the time... Then, he came back and
stayed in Philadelphia long enough for
my mom to be conceived and born.
He and Sidney Reilly were truly wild
cards in this game of momentum towards
world revolution, following the Russian
Revolution, but, no one knows for sure
who they really worked for, only that
they worked together as associates.
Reilly was suspected as being the main
suspect in the poisoning and deaths
of his lovers and romantic rivals..
The fact that my grandmother was poisoned,
too, isn't comforting. The official spin on
her death was suicide, but, she was
a mother of six children, my mom
being the youngest, and most vulnerable.
Why would Mary leave her, by poisoning
herself? Why did my grandfather abandon
his kids shortly afterwards?
So bizarre. A few years after that, my
grandfather faked his own death, then came
back to the States, to Alameda, Cal, from what
I've discovered by family mementos. He had
changed my mom and her siblings' birth dates so
many times, on official papers and records,
that the oldest children truly did not know
what year they were born. Then he disappeared
from their lives, and didn't reappear until
they were all grown, reuniting at my mom's
wedding to my dad. He brought his other
brother, Zeno, who was a four-star French
General, and right hand to DeGaulle, Ambassador
to China, and the East. He was a great
liason to the East, coming from the ultimate
commie family, yet, firmly entrenched in
Western politics and government. Yet,
he showed tendencies towards accepting
communism, as well, at least in familial
ties.
No wonder McCarthy went mad over
this. It was certainly the plan to establish
global communism, and conspiracies
were truly real.
I've been wildly successful this week in
stumbling into a source with documented
dates and circumstances which support these
things, with some new premises. Will the
truth ever be known, even though it
seems to be decipherable?
The truth has left crumbs heavy enough
to trace back into the dark woods of London,
up to the frozen world of the Urals, which
still is engraved with my grandfather's
family name, even after the town returned
to Yekaterinburg. I hope I'm well enough
by the Spring to go to England, then to
Russia, unless the Lord wants Frank and
me to go to Israel.
It is very convoluted stuff, though.
Sidney Reilly and my mysterious
grandfather were never able to be truly
decoded, by anyone, only dismissed
as bad seeds...and now I know why. Most
disturbing is my grandfather's ostensibly
favorable position with Stalin, in the 30s,
when Stalin was busy throwing all the
old Bolsheviks in chains and killing
them off, one by one. Stalin never
seemed to care for Yakov Sverdlov,
while he lived, but, had a nearly
superstitiously fierce loyalty to him,
and respect for his American immigrant
brother... . Spooky stuff. What's it
really about? It's nauseating to think
of my own grandfather being any kind
of lackey for Stalin. It's like being
related to Hitler or Bin Laden.
The last century was a century of war
and great revolution. We seem to
forget this fact now, while we devote
our time to porn, gossip, Britney,
Paris, crap television, crappier
movies, and crappiest music.
What vehicle brought us here to
the 21st Century, the Jihad, the rising
up of Gog and Magog... what's it all mean,
and how prophetic does this stuff get?
It's going fast.
I can't sleep at all, because too many
unsettling thoughts and connections are
disturbing me.. I was drifting off, when
I felt overwhelming sorrow thinking of
Lana Clarkson, the beautiful woman
killed by Phil Spector's gun, and by
Spector, except he's going to walk, like
OJ did. This has made me literally sick
all day. I wasn't even focusing on her,
but, she darted from beneath the layers
of other cognitive processes, and it
is such an injustice.
How in the world could this jury not
convict him? How could they believe
this gorgeous and loved woman would
actually put the gun in her own mouth
and fire... Wow. It's upsetting.
Then I started thinking about how full
of dreams I was when I was in my teens
and 20s, like she was when she first
got starring roles in Roger Corman
kitsch movies, like "Barbarian Queen"
and some other great roles which made
her life seem like it was headed in that
same direction as her idol Marilyn Monroe.
She threw herself into her work, like I've
always done. When I was a kid, I played
guitar and bass, sang, and was cute enough
to have no problem getting hired for working
bands. I really believed I was going to be
a rock star, or great actress. I felt my life
was on that course. I even had some of
the guys in top bands in the city call me
because they kept hearing my name and
wanted to know me. Boy, did that swell
my hopes to keep me afloat through the
reality of the music business.
A very nice record producer, Dexter
Wansel, took me under his wing,
during a summer internship for a
semester at Temple U's "The Business Of
Music" program.
I can still recall how magical it was for
me to be interning there, part of the
real industry, at Sigma Sound in
Philly, the place where the legendary
David Bowie recorded "Young Americans"
and across the street from my dad's
dress factory. As a kid, I always dreamed
of being part of that very place, and it
was a dream come true to be there
and for a top record producer to take
an interest in me.
One day, he bought me lunch, and told
me how much he liked me, and that's
why he was going to do something that
I would never forgive him for, until i
was older and could understand why
he did it. He told me that I was not
going to be Madonna, or Debra Harry,
or Annie Wilson, or anyone. I didn't
have what we now call that "X" factor.
He told me to change my educational
goals, and get a career.
So, after hating his guts and crying
my eyes out for an interminable number
of days, still not believing him, I was
flattered when the top instructor of
our program invited me up to Manhattan
to meet with him. He beguiled me with
dreams of doing soap opera, commercial
work, and cutting a demo which he would
finance. As cliched as this next part is,
it absolutely is the reality in most girls'
lives while reaching for the stars. He
really wanted me to be his mistress.
I did what all temperamental adolescent
egotistical artists do, which is to do drugs,
and spin out. But, my interlude with this
lifestyle didn't last long. My dad put me
in rehab back when it was considered
declasse' and humiliating. I accepted
Jesus Christ and cast off all my vain
dreams and ideas about myself. I went
back to college, this time, as premed.
Dexter saved my life. Phil Spector
took Lana's life. How different her
life would have been if she had been
able to decide, at 40, that maybe she
wanted a kid, and a normal life. She
was heading in that direction, even
reinventing herself as a writer and
comedienne.
Life is full of mysteries, and it's when
I am haunted by the sad scepter of
this ethereal and lovely loved woman
when I feel confused about why I
was rescued. The fact that Lana still
pursued her dreams in that industry
indicated that she was tough, not
a "melty little person" as that bitch,
Jennifer Hayes-Reidl, the orange
botox barbi attested.
Punkin Pie, the orange shrivelled up
pimp-lady, sold this poor lady out,
for a few lousy opportunities to feather
her foul and rotten nest. I pray for
her to repent, especially if this trial
repeats next year. What she did was
horrible. There's nothing worse than
giving false witness, and in fact, it's
cited as being as heinous and venal
as murder, itself.
We all have different dreams at different
stages of life. Where there's life, there's
always hope. I do not believe that Lana
Clarkson killed herself in that vile little
man's home.
He's going to wind up killing that young
wife of his, or her mom, now that he
feels invincible. It's unbelievable how
some men get away with murder.
Which takes me full circle back to another
gorgeous woman, who I also never knew,
but, find myself thinking and dreaming
about: My grandmother, Mary, who I
was named for. Did Mary kill herself,
like the defense claims Lana did, or did
my grandfather kill her?
What happens to men who never get
caught, or get around the law? What
happens to the poor women like my
grandma, Lana, and even Marilyn
Monroe, who are blamed for their
own suicides, when powerful men
find it expedient for them to leave
the world. As if it's not bad enough
to rob them of life, they are poisoned
by a shameful legacy.
It's not right.
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