The enigma TNG - the fatal star is the music of.. The Baroness is Winona Ryder...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPpm_0dGjzo&list=RDgPpm_0dGjzo&start_radio=1




Cobra Commander (Hanno Jason Leigh): … "... See, she is the Baroness.. and she is everywhere, and she his evil incarnate.. the Baroness she literally is the Satanic cults that tortured naked boys in the 1980's.. she the Baroness is those Satanic cults incarnate..  that it's hard, inconceivable difficult, to analyze her in a sense or style that is autobiographical.   And all of the above is untrue as long as the Baroness always ALWAYS has the face of Winona Ryder in "The Crucible".. as long as she the Baroness always has the look of fear on Winona Ryder's face in the Crucible.. when John Proctor Daniel Day Lewis is attacking her in the forest.. then she is the real true-blue honest and deeply compassionate deeply innocent Baroness.. and also as long as the Baroness has Winona Ryder's implacable, stern, immobile facial expression when Winona Ryder is in the courtroom as Abigail Williams.. when she is not smiling when she Winona Ryder Abigail Williams is not smiling when her face is implacable.. as long as that is the face of the Baroness.. she is honest and true-blue.. and deeply complex and she is Isabelle Archer and she is compassionate...

        …".. aahhh.. on to discussing Scarlet.. Style is important. There is a style to writing that defines the vernacular, that defines the soul of the writer, if you will. Style is what I seek for in this town, to be the inside-man of autobiographical exegesis, the autobiographical exegesis of a town, of an industrial-military complex. The Baroness.  Or Scarlet.... she takes over towns, town after town- is the takeover of towns the military-industrial complex? Is it made up of towns, of small towns? See, I want to stay in a given town. But I never can for long, not longer than a day. It's a consumer ethic of town

The Baroness.  Or Scarlet.  She wants to kill every woman who looks like her, so she's the only woman who looks like her, so she's the only face looking back at someone in the mirror, only her face in a mirror- her face a mirror, a mirror into our souls? Into the internal optics of our souls? So our souls are a wilderness of mirrors? .. every question mark is an optics, to invent by a mirror gaze which is a mirro that doesn't invent itself gazing into our souls an optics of mirror-industrial complex, inside our internal soul-workings a military-industrial optics of – what? - satellite laser technology?

Cobra agent: Were you Sherlock Holmes in a former existance, boss?

Cobra Commander (Hanno Jason Leigh): Good question. Who was Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, the land-tycoon of crime, who bought up crime-real estate until he was on a margin of majority, like the PC party once in Canada. Sherlock Holmes was merely an entrepreneur, if that, a private, concerning citizen concerning himself with business he had no nose in, no business or shares in, as if the public corporation which is a town or city or city or town was prey to the intellect of a man with no shares. He was like some no-account swindler, who saw law and local politics as a house of cards because only so would it match Sherlock Holmes's moral sensibilities or intellect. Which was it, his moral sensibilities or intellect, which he had to have stock in a corporation to digest his events well? Moral sensibilities? He had none, according to repute. But, in fact, he had as many moral sensibilities as species of cocaine in his pipe for forensic analysis. In other words, widely distributed into meaninglessness, a sortin' morality of cocaine sortings. He had an indifferent interest in the public good, as long as if provided a sufficiently challenging mystery to solve. If it was a mystery that appealed to him, as a claimant, in the form of a man, I believe, usually a man, walking into his office to appeal for his help in local politics. Such men would appeal to Anton Checkov as well for advice. (pause) This is a dark game we're playing, with dark characters, even darker colours, dark colours made evil to serve proof of evil, to make a character of the character of fiction or evil, are we fighting the most brilliant of foes? Is it a laser-show, a loser-show, typographics?- nonsense, my dear Watson, which we're fighting? The work-ethic of lasers which take no time to reach their destination because they're already at their destination, like the two coordinates of a quantum particle across the breadths of outer space, before they leave. Colours, colours, and colours- because colours have no distance, colours have no shape to distance, colours have an imaginary soft-focus suggestion of quiessence which they call distance, a distant colour. Or not. Are there simply colours, vivid, ink-toned colours, which are vivid for their distance? Vivid as a vivid traversing of distance for stormy weathers, by all-encompassive tempests, colours which are tempests and therefore great, mountainous distances, tornadoes which are mountains, paintings which know colour therefore know women and thereby know mountains of scale.