My Father’s Two Year Trial Separation From Physical Form on this Nutty Rock

June 30th, 2015 my father died.  Or passed on or left his body for a more suitable environment to fit his spiritual well being.   We see people through our own tunnel vision so I can say I saw him in a way no-one else did. Or felt him or an essence or two that may have stayed dormant into the grave. I’m not sure.  What I do know is that he named me after Liberace.  I didn’t ask him until I was 34 and were in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC.  I think I asked him there so I knew I’d get the truth. Not that he would lie. My dad wasn’t eloquent but he laid out how he felt.

‘He was a hell of a piano player.’  Given my yearning to play, and I have been starting to practice again, and the fact that he rarely listened to music, or encouraged it, or talked about it, I have to believe it was part of an essence of his that he took to the grave or he was divinely inspired and named me to kick me in the direction of where to go in life, as an artist. Liberace was a hell of a piano player.

When I first moved to LA in 2013, I had a numerology reading done on my name/birthday.  The reader did a Chaldean reading, a more ancient and mystic type of numerology.  My first name (full name Lee) is 13.  This is, for the waking world, a bad luck number and he didn’t dig it either. He thought I should change my name and gave me a list to ‘improve my vibes.’ One was Lukas. With a k. So I could go around and date seven women like Dr. Detroit and lose count of my mansions and walk around and say ‘Hi, my name is Lukas with a K Barton. My vibes are tasty now, baby.’

I like my name. I like my father named me Lee and not Walter III.  I like 13 because it means death, killing off those parts of your soul that hold you back. No way, no way, Lukas with a K.

So, on Father’s Day, I thank my dad for my name.

Defining a New Genre for my Novel – Abstract Sensualism

My first novel Point of Venus  is now up for sale on (paperback) and  Amazon, Barnes and Noble etc. in both paperback and E-book.   I wrote it because I had the most intense dream of my life on February 22, 2005. I woke up in tears and longing, in that order.  The tears left, but the longing hung around for years until finally in 2009 I figured I better write it out. Three years later, I finished it. I put it aside.  The day before my father died, in the funeral parking lot right after picking out a casket, I get a call from a publisher about putting it in print.  Six months later, it is manifest.

Part of getting it out there is setting it up in Lulu and Amazon and that entails choosing a genre.  For Amazon, I finally settled on contemporary fiction – Coming of Age.  That’s true. But if I could write in a genre, I would call it ‘Abstract Sensualism’. I believe it is an entirely new genre of fiction.  Someone suggested Baudelaire would fit, but he’s been dead for 140 years so I am staking claim and I don’t think he’ll care. I invent words; I misuse already existing  words according to the mechanical editors of my book and the Chicago Manual of Style.  I suppose words taste differently to me than Noah Webster.

In any case, if you’ve read this far then you are probably interested in my book and the dream that inspired it. Well, the link to buy the book on Lulu is below. I’m on Amazon if you search my name (Lee Barton) and Point of Venus.   The dream was with a woman in a jewelry store. The woman is best described from the book:
‘Lona Margolis, early 30’s, half American and half Russian blood, tall and slender, dark blonde hair with a deep featured face like you could pick a strange fruit out her eye sockets when she blinked. She carries the heir of a mystical jungle, a burgeoning sensual modern Eve.’

So, my abstract sensualist novel is possibly a very elaborate personal ad, or the most sensual projection of my anima my higher self could conjure.  I guess we’ll find out. I know which one I prefer.

Please know my writing style is  different noise; it takes a few listens before the rhythm settles in. So be patient with it and I think it will reward you as it has me. I wish everyone a path of ever-deeping self awareness in the most peaceful, non-violent and sexiest way possible.

–your resident Love Jedi



Shadows of Mars III

Horatio woke up in tears and with an open-heart ache that felt like hippie aliens had opened him up during the night to research longing in the chakras and forgot to sew him back up again, leaving an interstellar cigarette inside to slow burn for years. He scrambled to write everything down he could remember and in the dark with his chicken scribble handwriting he may be lucky to understand half of it. Once he wrote a dream on his sheets. But he could read that entry fully which tempted him to start using his sheets as the dream dictionary and sleeping on his words might give him enough prowess to be able to walk through the dream world with strut and mastery, knowing the true symbolism of talking toast. But this morning he needed to get all of it down on paper clearly and fully. He reached for his light and started printing it with first grade cursive exercise precision. When he was done, he turned the light back off and fell dead to rights asleep again, something rare.

Shadows of Mars II

Today (February 11th)  is what I call my second birthday, the date I was officially brought home by my folks after being adopted.  So I celebrated today by getting into SAG-AFTRA.  I think it’s the best birthday gift I’ve given myself in quite a while.  Today is also Burt Reynolds and Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s birthday, a snazzy showbiz combo.   One day someone will write this about me, especially if end up appearing in Son of Smokey and the Bandit, which I am certain is being dreamed up as a reboot right now in a back office in Hollywood.

As I said last week, I’m starting to feel my way into a new novel; it takes a while to break in and bits and pieces are stumbling out. I’m sharing the process just for something different, a public record of the creative madness.

Somewhere along the line Horatio Wilson got married and didn’t know to whom.

He dreamt of a wedding but Horatio Wilson was not sentimental. It backed up the soul plumbing.

Broken pieces of each other rolled up into an edible sponge, to soak itself to joyful return to the invisible godhead’s front lawn shrubbery.


Inside his Inner Sanctum Heart, which he imagined as a Supercollider made of extinct, exotic flowers, plants and trees was a thorn bugle with lipstick around the tip and somewhere inside him he wondered whose lip prints they were.

            The thorn bugle was filled with primordial or maybe post-mordial caramel laced with sounds that he did not recognize and when his heart beat off the path, which happened several hundred times a day, it would jar that thorn and send a pranhic surge with bits of the sounds that caused Horatio to jerk quickly and drop a lot of forks for no apparent reason. But the sounds began to unravel and smooth out and he began to hear a music and then it would stop when the missing lips were discovered, as if the thorn bugle were built around the lipstick and so the missing lips were the only soil that could fully unravel what it held for what could be lonesome centuries.   This horrified Horatio, that he didn’t really belong to himself. Or even God or the twelfth intergalactic council of whoever really runs the show on Earth. He belonged to her. And he didn’t recognize the lips and so, without fully knowing why, Horatio, on this latest Valentine’s Day, a day when he usually felt like abducting the CEO of Hallmark Channel and forcing him or her to watch their own movies until a five gallon whiskey loneliness broke them down until they became a character in a Tom Waits song, instead made an inventory of all the women he loved, could have loved, wanted to love, anyone that left even a fake phone number on his bathroom stall, he wrote them all down starting while taking a bath. If he had a hunch about past lives, he did that too. It took several hoursand was an exercise in forensics, housecleaning, maneuvering through a hundred wombs to get to a broken paradise where they first met.

Peggy Guggenheim

Come to me,
Peggy Guggenheim
Sponsor me,
Peggy Guggenheim;
span your wealthy, knowing wings
over the brushes and voices that cannot sing
without you.

Maybe you’ve reincarnated as a dolphin,
Peggy Guggenheim
And Jackson Pollock is a sparrow

Well I once was a spider
and now I have eight hungry limbs
right now the the scene’s too dim
without your pulse and push.

So use your higher dolphin intelligence,
Peggy Guggenheim
and send me a human suitor with real humming eyes
Peggy Guggenheim
I’m gasping for art
and I got a symphony of sorts about to start
and before I waltz through that green heart shaped door
with that electric amoeba inside
I wonder if that’s you on the other side.

If you send me this sponsor,
Peggy Guggenheim
I’ll fight to have every Sea World closed down,
Peggy Guggenheim
and every dolphin will be free
and I can fan out like a tree
on acid.


Storm Before the Calm

I believe you can always peel away a layer of a cliche and find another truth lumbering beneath it.  Right now it’s a quiet chaos before seeing clearly which I need very very soon.  As I’ve mentioned before I’ve been in this challenging cycle over the last few years, with the weird tragic center-peice of my birth father and his wife/partner.  Other smaller little little asteroids made of barstool gum loaded with morning coffee and other undesirable types of breath have revolved around this one issue and now for the first time in a long time I feel a sense of final emergence, killing a cycle of familiar habits and old hurts that are too much to bear on a budget at times.  It’s articulating all of this as it’s happening that’s my task in life, and a foot’s been taken off one of my creative veins while tussling with whether to move to LA or stay here and fight the fight.  I’m tired of fighting though.  Healing winds of West seem to call and then disappear.  Swirl around the signal is getting stronger but I’m getting closer to the signal when the winds are strongest.   What’s best for the old rustic soul and what serves the world are where I should live next.  One thing for sure, no Friday night bullets.  No garbage swirling on the streets.  I’ve been closed for renovations but grand reopening is coming soon.  New menu and no more pictures of the food,my soul is going upscale.

I watched Behind the Candelabra, the biopic of Liberace starring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as his young (20 something???) lover.  It got raves at Cannes and made me wonder if the French have started to eat too many Freedom Fries or  Triple Bypass burgers dipped in Honey BooBoo sauce. The film I saw was disappointing. Michael Douglas did an admirable job as Liberace and kudos to him for coming back from throat cancer.  What was disappointing was casting of Matt Damon, a 42 year old muscle laden kind of macho man type as what was supposed to be a 20 something gay man with what I imagine as a great capacity for softness and deep intimacy with Liberace.  I did not see that. It’s no knock on Matt Damon; he’s not the type. It’s like casting me as Vin Diesel’s muscly nemesis in one of those Vin Diesel type films. I’m totally wrong.  There were lines in the film where Matt Damon’s character said something like ‘Oh, you’re not after that queen (implying another gay man)’ and maybe it’s me but it sure came across as awkward. He didn’t look totally comfortable saying some of the lines. I could feel it. It was a weird vibe overall and to me, what could have been a deeply intimate complex portrayal between two people trying to love each other instead was something of a made for TV movie.  Compare it with Brokeback Mountain, which is a poignant and beautiful film in my opinion.

And one reviewer stated how bold and daring it was to show them having sex, meaning Matt Damon pounding on top of Michael Douglas. I disagree. I think if the emotional connection between the two were more dynamic, you wouldn’t need to show it. It’s a compensation instead of enhancement.

The whole point to me is how important casting becomes. This was an OK film to me but could have been something more. And also how some films seem to generate raves when they’re not much more than the top of the bell curve.  Maybe our standards are dipping.  We’re too ‘bot’, something. The state of American cinema is….loud. Very loud.

The other trend I notice is watching Star Trek: The Dark Night Rises which I enjoyed.  In the film, four characters: Spock, Kirk, Khan and Admiral Pike, all cried one single tear in various touching scenes. It’s on the rise in film. One tear only with no change in facial expression that glides down the cheek. I don;t know how they do it.  When I cry, my face is twisted and ugly and tears come out of all sorts of orifii and in bunches. I wonder if the actors really have mastered muscle control or Visine is making a million dollars off Star Trek.  If it’s the former, my acting career has hit a snag .

Good night and “bullocks to Don Revie!”


I have a job for you fashion-knowledgeable person most likely of female persuasion

I wrote a novel.  I’ve mentioned it at times, why hell I’ve even done the thing every writer loves to do and quoted myself, which I also do to dramatically have the last word in an increasingly inane conversation and then walk away. I digress, it’s the weather, stirring up my invisible female parts.

That’s a great transition as in my novel the main character is female and while most of it is a bit of a introspective serendipitous journey, she does have moments where she picks out her clothes, her shoes and she also gets interstellar signals from her higher self on dress sketches from each of the planets.

A friend of mine who is a literary agent  noted that my lack of knowledge of the technical aspects of women’s clothing is obvious.  So, here is what I need:

Someone who is familiar with women’s shoes, women’s clothing and at least a basic understanding of designing dresses and explaining such to read my novel and help me correct mistakes/oversights in those parts where clothing/shoes are described. Also, to possibly glance over the dress descriptions (There are 10, of a page or less each) so they make sense.

This is not proofreading!  It’s just reading the book as you natural lovely feminine self and when I say ‘flat heels’ or something masculine and ignorant, make a note.

You’ll get a nice flat $100 and acknowledgement in the book when it gets published.  If more work needs done, we’ll chat at that point.

If you are that person or know that person please let me know. It should be a joyful read as I’m pleased with the book itself.

Email me ( or respond in the reply box below on my WEB page.  Either way, I’ll get it.


In other news you can’t really use I’m moving from my Radio Shack by the end of July, maybe earlier.   Living in an illegal space surrounded by cops and a Super-Fascist-Orwell Cop camera I can see from my window That Does Not Prevent A Guy From Getting a Cap in His Ass Around the Corner has worn me to the nub. Plus I think my landowners are more vegetable oil than human, unctuous and not worth dipping Ore-Ida’s in for warming.

The battle now is LA or NY.  I never thought I’d consider LA but the prices here for glorified shit-holes look like they’re in pesos, and to stay here means living way out towards the warning track in the left center field wall, to be basebally about it. So I’m tussling, also tussling because I have ground my teeth into an unmagical absinthe powder form extreme stress over the last three years and am working on healing them,. I also have an acting career’s that careening toward me and then it seems to get within a hundred yards and stops off for a martini at a bar on Venus before making it’s way into my physical world.  Everything is up in the air and that’s when I say, I bow down to thee Pluto. Pluto destroys.  Then transforms the rubble into something beautiful, or someone if you’re in my imagery.  I like destruction that gets rid of garbage you don’t want in your life anymore, and I don’t like the smell of garbage.  Grappling down to the nubs.  Home, work, love all are blurry, smudges on the radar screen right now so as things come together or fall apart or both hopefully I’ll get clarity on at least what state I’ll live in.

I promised myself I wouldn’t leave NYC if I felt I still had business here.  I know about moving to distract oneself from bigger challenges that’ll follow you around no matter where you shower. Then again,  the Pacific Ocean is not here.

Life is a beehive.

And remember, “Bullocks to Don Revie!”


Kraft Instant Powdered Mac’N’ Serendipity

Sometimes my life feels like a ball of yarn with both ends tucked in the inside and I have to pull at loops until the whole thing unravels.  Once and everything.  Sometimes there are more than two ends that attract each other like magnets, and clack through coincidences in life that seem like they were spat out by Screenwriter Plot Generator v2.0.

Last night I spoke to a friend I hadn’t spoken to for at least a half dozen years. We went to graduate school together in Iowa seventeen years ago, lived together with two other people, so I’v known him almost half my life.  Last night, we were chatting and I realized I knew at one point he worked at Highmark, the super conglomerate insurance company.  He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two children. I asked him if he knew ‘Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks’. (I am protecting her identity, sorry if there really is a Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks; it’s not you, baby.).
“You mean ole Stickers?”
“Yes. Ole Stickers”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she gave birth to me.”   So my friend, working in a company with thousands of employees, knew my birth mother.   Now, I was born near Pittsburgh.   My family is from there. My parents now live in Greensburg, PA, their house being five minutes from Catholic Charities, the organization through which I was adopted.   One of my close friends happened to move to Mt. Lebanon, right outside of Pittsburgh, near my Uncle, My friend lives there now and worked with my birth mother, who also lives in Pittsburgh.

I don’t believe in coincidence.  But clearly the earth’s energetic grids have a secret transatlantic cable from my life right to Three Rivers Point.  I can’t make anything of it yet.  Who knows, maybe it means that all of these events are pushing me to go there and fulfill my destiny and buy a basketball accidentally printed with the Pirates logo on it and then bounce it down the aisles at Toys’R’Us and get busted and become mayor.  I don’t know, but there’s always some activity in the landmass.   But this gets the Serendipity Award of 2013 thus far.

My dog’s 18.5 years old.  That’s about 130 human years. Take that, world’s oldest Japanese woman.  Try living that long pooping outside and walking around naked with only a collar around your neck.   I was trying to  date the history of nicknames I’ve given my dog over the years. Anyone who’s had a dog knows you go through nickname epochs. One sticks, then it fades, there’s usually an interim spell where a bunch of new nicknames are tried out  until a new one emerges, like conception.  Thinking back I came up with these, from most recent to earliest:

Creamy Biscuits
Pumpkin Pie Head
Auggie Ben Doggie
Squashy Nugget
Beasty Feast
Scrunchy Pies
Moosifer (when she is being naughty)
Lil Pooter (This was the first, in 1995).

I’ll keep adding to this as I go deep into hypnotherapy to recover memories from being in the womb and nicknames for my dog.

Good night and “BULLOCKS to DON REVIE!”


Clive Owen Time Machine

In my acting class I am being asked to pick a scene that’s reflective of my ‘type’ which is harder than it seems.   I need to know my type so I don’t try for roles that seek ‘a typical Wall Street banker type with an extra macho streak – wants to own his own buffalo wings bar with topless servers while using their breasts for ad space “. This is not me.  Casting is so important. It can make or kill a film.

I was watching Elizabeth: The Golden Age the other night as I have never seen it since I already  know how that story ends anyway but enjoyed the first. About ten-fifteen minutes in, all is proper and Golden Agey and then Sir Walter Raleigh appears to present his gifts from the new world to the Queen.   I would expect Mr. Raleigh to be a little haggard, a little unkempt, maybe a bit of a coconut gut but in walks Clive Owen as Clive Oweny as ever, looking a Queen Elizabeth like a six foot macaroon he was going to stuff in his cheeks.  As some know, I consider Clive Owen the asymptote of masculinity; others may approach, but never reach as they approach infinity.   Here, he looked like he stepped into the Clive Owen Time Machine, which was shaped like him except slightly larger, whisked himself off to 1600 just to seduce Queen Elizabeth. He was dressed like he borrowed one of Russell Crowe’s extra coats from Master and Commander because he was late to the shoot.   And there he was, from the 21st Century, showing the Queen what a potato was “You eat it” as he held it up like a prism.  Clive Owen saying in extra clothes to the Queen “THis is a potato, you eat it” ruined the rest of the film; it made it ridiculous because I know it wasn’t Sir Walter Raleigh; it was Clive Owen, out of his time machine, proving he could seduce any woman in history.  He’s like Waldo.   If he would have ridden in on a Harley I would have been impressed with the film and then he did a Voiceover like Sin City (There was that tension in the court, the kind you find under warrior’s armpit six minutes before going to battle a sloth. I knew the one way to get the Queen was the way I knew on the streets; flashing a potato.”).   Of course, the Queen got to make out with him even as he knocked up on of her court ladies.

I look forward to the next rendition of Joan of Arc.  I have a hunch who will hang glide in wearing a biker jacket.

My scenes are Shakespeare, doc Brown and Father Karras from Shakespeare in Love, Back to the Future, and The Exorcist, a nice little blend.  We’ll see.  I did a liver flush last night and I’m a little fatigued.  Tired on many fronts; uncertainty’s  abound, crops are plentiful.


Born again retroactive postdated internet virginity

Welcome to the first blog of   My new WEB site is operational and everyone who followed my other one should be transferred to this.  This is my hope and dream.

Every night now life gets more uncertain in all areas. I may be unemployed in May, at least from desk job and I think for a temporal forever as I look to skip to a new live wire with rubber tap shoes. We’ll see what happens.  I’m in an acting class that’s timely and practical and forcing me to go to work.  Daddy has some ancient fish to feed, so to speak.

Living area is next.  I should stay in New York but LA prices for a REAL sun drenched 1BR, not a NYC REAL sun drenched 1BR.  Now, on Craigslist I often see ads for Rubenesque women and sun-drenched apartments when I’d more inclined towards sun-drenched women and Rubenesque apartments and LA and the Pacific ocean might just have that dyslexic funk for living and loving.  My fake lease ends July 31st and sometimes I feel NYC and I have unfinished business so I must give NYC the five point exploding heart technique of love, or when I talk to my dog, bursting love poop.    Something special is about to happen here, not sure exactly what but something creamy.  I can feel it because some hours I feel energized and some completely exhausted for no apparent reason but those inner reasons are the ones that really cause the sunspots so I dig. And right now, everything is up in the air.  Except my penis. That’s still floating at sea level. Somewhere is life and somewhere is death and the confusion gargling between the two is where Sex lies on its teeth, whistling for missing harmony. My dad asked me a couple of weeks ago if I had any desire to get married and I said ‘Yes, mein Papa, but I’m not going to do it just to do it. That sounds like one lousy wedding.”  He laughed and I started walking down that path everyone does at some point, looking back at chances and wondering if there were any missed and only in those secret corners of the heart do they loiter for release on a good, doubled baked deathbed.  I’ve had my chances at mating.  Really quite a few when I started taking inventory. ONe of the few Bible passages I do take solace in is that looking back turns you to a salt lick.  And I really can’t say I feel I missed a boat, I mean a lifetime-boat, not an evening one-ff pleasure cruise.

Ask me again in a year.

Good night to the B-side dreamers.