{ ... }

۞

  Tulpa was in her 'jamas, her bed-night nighties.  Nighty nighties.  Two-too-young during the decade of the Naughties.  Previous to her decade of The Tens, when she would come-of-age.  

  She was practising her Yodh Mass phallic gestural phase, discovering the hidden properties of the Hebrew Alphabet.  

  Jumping up-and-down, back to the letters with as much enthusiasm and excitement as she could offer to the study of an arcana.  She thought that Opiate meant Oriano. And so, she cast an intentional spelling mistake …  

                           OPIATE

Vowel:                 OPIATO

Consonant:            ORIATO

Vowel:                     ORIANO

  Borèd.  Games.  Again.  Tulpa went scrabbling on.  Her favourite character of all was the Scarab, Upsilon, of the Coptic Alphabet. Each time she drew it amidst the other Egypto-Greek letters, she thought she could identify a face, smiling back at her with delight.  

  °Sarai!° she exclaimèd in the sanctity of her wonder.  

  Then, Tulpa took to a Haiku:  

Having was Something

Ηεσπερυς was lowering

Sexuality ascending

X

X

Geomantic Notation

. . . . .

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

X

X

Fin.

  Closèd.  She shut it.  Perfect health.  Reclining, somehow thinking, recurring, her breath was lowering and lulling her into a deep deep sleep.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Michal and Simeon were finally unitèd on the sabbath.  After years of Avi keeping them apart on the high holy day they made it their own on their wedding day.  Years later they would come to joke about how Simeon had been chasèd away by Avi all those times.  

  Above board.  All those years later, many anniversaries after, Simeon and Michal were at home.  They were retiring after a Bar Mitzvah, another smashing event and lots of broken glasses.  Even someone's spectacles, accidentally.  

  Up in the bedroom, Simeon and Michal were reminiscing about that smashing time during their irreverent youth.  

  “Get down on your knees and make me your god,” jokèd Simeon, concerning his irreverent youth.  

  {pointing down to it}  

  “Both of us, down on both knees,” replièd Michal.  

  “Are you proposing? … ” wonderèd Simeon.  

  “ … we sweep up or crawl to bed?” counterèd Michal.  

  Oft-times Avi would carry a birch-end shag-pull sweeper.  

  “This brush is a total shag-pull,” said Avi.  

  {cursing-and-sweeping}  

  Avi swept Simeon and Michal's floor every sabbath.  Avi worshippèd the ground his daughter, now Naviah, walked upon.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Come?”  

  “When?”  

  “Later?”  

  “Where?”  

  “Location's not been released yet, keeps the pigs off.”  

  {across-the-room}  

  At the illegal rave Lamed was looking out for terrorist tête-à-tête.  

Rorafes:  “If you're terrorists then the objective is to bomb a residential neighbourhood so that central government moves out-of-town.”  

Ochus:  °Oooh … there's an activist in.  Pro-activia, every mornin'°  

Ochus was believin'  

{flexin'}  

{flirtin'}  

  Immediately Lamed wantèd to fuck her.  Flatchest.  That kind of activity the night before.  Must rest.  

  “Is this the work of the leading psychologist?” Ochus askèd Maeve.  

  Maeve had given Ochus a copy of her zine.  

  Maeve was salivating slightly.  

  Maeve's zines got passèd around at an illegal rave or two.  And so one split into two and then got passèd around-a-few.  As one letter split into two, people began to know who from who.  The anonymity of Qavanagh QC, the cover of anonymity was being blown by Maeve's dirty sheets.  The pink sheets as they came to be known.  Illuminati, illuminosity, plenty of animosity.  Names-a-plenty.  Scarcely any anonymity.  She was exposing the fraudulent.  At least we got a good story.  It was the decade of The Tens.  It was bound-to-be.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Romeo ran the guns in Paris.  Alcohol, tobacco, fire-arms, oh, and candles.  It was Romeo's job to make sure that Sociocratic militants receivèd the arms ran through the record label in England.  Marionette Records on the outside, contraband on the inside.  

  Romeo was pretty good at what he did.  He made sure that the brothers-and-sisters in the city-at-war were well supplièd.  Anythin' to keep the war goin'.  

  Sociocrats finance wars, king conspirators end them.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The police stormèd Building Sixty Two shortly after.  A clue led them through.  Three-point-one-four-two.  A tip.  Anonymous.  An dark stranger facèd them.  An anonymous dark stranger with her finger on the trigger.  Sarai.  Cover-blown.  Had her codename become known?  

  She hintèd across the room …  

  {with a flick of a glance}  

  Then came her chance.  Their attention divertèd for an instant gave her the impetus to dive in the opposite direction.  

  For some reason, something that had gone missing had reachèd its way into the hands of The Situationists.  Sarai had enterèd earlier in the day.  It wasn't there.  A Logris splits a nucleus.  

  A shot flew across the room, hitting one of the walls and ricocheting up into the roof where it lodgèd itself.  Sarai had dashèd through a door into a back bedroom.  Scrambling across an unmade bed, as if one was the lover-of-make, she froze for a second.  As if she had momentarily made a mistake, she thought: °Do I take cover?  What happened to my cover?°  

  An officer reachèd the doorway.  Sarai took to the balcony outside the window, almost falling forward over the side.  She struck a pose …  

  {balancing herself a pose}  

  She could have been an angle.  Exhilaratèd by the chase, her chest was panting, her breasts tingling, her figure posing.  Photographique.  

  Shots flew into the window pane, blowing out the glass, in a vomitous cloud of shards as she turnèd her cheek, and threw her hands around her head for protection.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Maeve was struggling to count.  You see, she had known Psi-Qolog from her very first steps.  She fell over on the crêche floor.  

  “Take a memo, Miss Correspondence!” exclaimèd Psi-Qolog, hurriedly, as if time was of the essence.  

  Quickly, Miss Correspondence grabbèd her notebook, full of dots-and-lines.  

  “Group dynamics!” went Psi-Qolog.  

  {studiously}  

  °6 … 6 … 6 …° countèd Maeve.  

  {recursively}  

  Psi-Qolog lookèd on in anguish.  

  °Seven, seven, seven …° determinèd Psi-Qolog.  

  “S-e-v-e-n,” utterèd Maeve.  

  “Well, well.  My greatest success today!” sung Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence had recordèd the dots-and-lines, the movements of the children in the crêche, there were eight of them including Maeve.  

  “Time, date, location, situation,” instructèd Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence was adept at group dynamics and quantitative data recording but Psi-Qolog thought it was music they were both composing, capturing static the rhythm of the children moving and playing.  Maeve was decomposing with an eraser.  Later.  Time passèd over.  

  All the mum's had taken their little ones away, except for the one orphan, little miss Maeve Llwywllyn.  

  “Push or pull?” askèd Maeve, concerning the door, her sortie.  

  Psi-Qolog was bedazzlèd and frazzlèd.  

  {his hairs like so}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Please do not sit there to write so close to me,” said the fiddleress, “people shall say we are in love.”  

  So, Anon. couldn't be a dead-beat artist that close to a real one, Anon. realizèd after.  It would come to Anon. some time after.  Later.  That Anon. came to cheat upon the significant other for nothing but an illusion.  The artificer.  It gave Anon. some pretty sensible opinions about non-sensible things.  Non-sensible, non-eternal.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Up above the crematorium lay the lovers in wake.  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  {they sung at the funeral}  

  No Holam-Maley  

  °וֹ°  

  No “oh … ”  

  No Rebecca-Hey  

  °ה°  

  No “vah … ”  

  No “veh … ”  

  No “ziy” no “zey” no “zeker.”  

  An object.  A sullen looking woman wearing red lipstick.  Once adorèd fate, now abhorrèd it.  Too late.  Adornèd in silver jewels, not tacky gold.  Ornamental.  Very eager to speak her mind at a funeral but always hinting down to her breasts, just to make everybody feel better about the situation.  Underneath the clothes, lingerie, same colour as lipstick.  Did she make aesthetic pleas pleasing to a wandering eye before covering up in sack-cloth for poor Rebecca's funeral?  

  {Shiva sitting}  

  Pins and needles, walking on egg-shells, duck-egg colour bathroom walls.  She reachèd for the object.  A mirror.  

  No one there knew she had naturally curly hair, preening and plying to just make straight.  Running late, rather red, coitus flush, applièd some blush, just to look sombre.  A little pressure being also applièd, her eyelashes metèd out.  

  Still.  Still making cosmetic.  She cranèd a neck to bed-ward.  Four people were reflecting figmentarily behind her in the mirror.  She momentarily reflectèd on her orgasm.  The ones in the mirror lookèd like so much more than the one she wantèd to look like inside of herself.  In the room with her, her lover and her partner.  Her's children's father.  A somewhat sullen room, a somewhat sullen woman, despite the strength of her orgasm.  In relation to her he bore some resemblance.  They were mourning a double loss, feeling a mutual orgasm.  How life loves such a destruction.  The total contradiction.  

  Poor Rebecca, poor Gideon.  Their name still remainèd above the shop.  Their still remains were six feet under.  

  “We've hit the middle, Michal,” said Simeon.  “At least we've made it over half-way, successfully, hey.  Shame about poor Gid, trying to cheat death, the crazy alchemical yid.  What does he think he did?”  

  “That's all he ever did,” replièd Michal.  “Mix a potion, concoct a concoction, a crazy alcehmical solution to the dire conundrum of his ailing daughter, our dear daughter.”  

  °Batkha°  

  “Rebecca, his one-and-only.  If only, iym rak,” she went on.  

  °The wake downstairs° thought Simeon.  “We should rejoin them,” he said.  

  A sole tear ran amok over make-up.  

  “I'll have to start all over again now,” utterèd Michal.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The winning goal came just in time.  The final result: 4-2.  Thanks to the formation of Gamma they defeated the formation of Delta.  A right-angle beats a triangle, at a ratio of two-to-one.  

  Astonishment at the bookies amongst the laddies!  A bookmaker and a broker were exchanging numbers and trading futures.  The final results came in on a screen above their heads.  

  “Four-Two was it that did it?”  

  “Six pointer.”  

  “Seven below her, Athena…” referring to another number.  

  On the Isopsephy machine.  

IT READ:  

1:1:1:2:1

Α Θ Ε Ν Α

1:9:8:5:1

1:8:4:6

9:3:1

Θ Γ Κ

9:3:1

3:4

7

Ζ

  “Isopsephy fruit machine!”  

  “Are you a gambler?”  

  Another Isopsephy fruit machine read S-A-R-A-H.  

  “This one says we need to reach Zeta.”  

  {pointing towards it}  

  The skin-heads were adept at reading Greek characters, and their mathematical skills were excellent since the local bookmakers had installèd these new Isopsephy machine games in the fashion of the gamblers trademark fruit machine.  One could be forgiven for referring to them as fruit machines, since, idiomatically this is how they came to be known, basèd on the reputation of their predecessors.  Instead of betting on images of rolling fruit, people were betting on tables of figures, cascading Greek letters with numerological properties.  

  “She's got cheeky properties that S-A-R-A-H,” said a player, reading the Isopsephy of Sarah.  “I wonder what character lies below her?”  

  {distracting him from it}  

  A skin-head was getting carrièd away from looking at it.  

  Screens above their heads were broadcasting the fight from earlier.  It was pay-per-view, they knew that they would have to have a gamble.  

  “What a figure!” said a money-counter.  

  “That's Athena,” said a bet winner, “she gives a good return if you know how to play her.”  

  Jack Stoker was checking the bookies for market stock tips.  Binary numbers fell before his eyes.  He had knickèd Robertson's watch 'cause it looked cool watching it.  All those dots-and-lines were assembling themselves as geomantic figures.  

  A gambling man lost a large number, on a costly figure, when betting on tables of figures such as Athena.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Exceed by delicacy,”  

  “Drink by the eight and ninety rules of art,”  

  {a sip}  

  {a wet lip}  

  {a fresh palette}  

  The ruminationaries were seatèd at tables.  

  “The revolution is revolting,”  

  “Put it down,”  

  Shots of liquor did not pass until the eighty ninth measure had been addressèd.  

  “How are we dressed?”  

  The power relation lay within the problematic program; practices of power were mutually intersecting.  The denial of the vanguard was lessening the role of any one set of individuals.  No one individual could represent every individual.  

  “Can every individual be represented by one individual?”  

  “Any idea of the social space requires an analysis reduced to the relationships of the individual.”  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Llugnurgus was up and out of bed three times in one night.  Most nights.  Passing water.  This was when Llugnurgus was much much older.  When he wasn't passing water he was a lousy wine consumer.  Turning wine to water every time he went for a wee, thaumaturgy.  

  {passing the river}  

  People would come out of the night club and see him walking by.  

  {staggers drunk}  

  {curses no one}  

  {addresses everyone}  

  “Revolving door, married within a year!” he would drunkenly shout.  

  Llugnurgus shoutèd at the youthful night population as if in consternation on a Joycean peregrination.  The same people saw him in church the very next day, every Sunday, the morning after the night before.  The church had a revolving door.  It was the nightclub the night before.  

  Two in, two out.  Full to the rafters every Saturday night, as if it was a rite.  As if it was a rite of passage to be out all night.  

  Two in, two out.  Full to the rafters every Sunday morning, hearing the preaching.  

  “Consummating heaven and earth again, vicar?” one would heckle.  

  “Married within a year!” Llugnurgus respondèd.  

  {one finger points to the sky}  

  Llugnurgus was an experimental philosopher.  A messiah abuser.  People would come to hear the gospel.  

  {steeple}  

  “The Pope now says it might be legal to use a condom.  Legal?” said Llugnurgus, “what does The Pope think he is, political?  Anyway, back to what's crucial.  The condom issue.  The Pope's not that sure about ratifying the sanction of it yet.” Llugnurgus went on: “he's still thinking about losing it.”  

  “Oneg for Olam,” said one from the Congregation.  

  “Olam for Oneg,” replièd Llugnurgus.  

  “Rechteg-peg,” slurrèd one.  

  {hungover}  

  For months after, time passèd, with much laughter.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  An Internet virus had been spawnèd by an anonymous, faceless, soulless, part of the Ideosphere; The Parasitic Host Anonymous of the individual's idiocosm when imputtèd en masse by a plurality of dirty words.  

  Screen-names like Ku7t51e.  Cutesie.  D3ad51e.  Deadsie.  

  {corruptingly}  

  The I, the You, the Me; the anonymity.  

  No names, no ones to blames.  

  It was a random mutation occurring from information recurring and binary numbers exchanging advertising pathogens.  

  Google Adwords had startèd directing the unsuspecting towards child porn websites.  And because of the traffic, new contraband sites were coming into existence, automatically creatèd by the Ideosphere.  

  “Hands, hands, hands demands contrabands,” said Quincy to Robertson.  

  {on-the-blower}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  In the sociocratic think tank something was going down.  While everyone else was wondering whether it was evil or not, some of the biggest evil was going down.  It started off lightly and then got serious quickly.  

  “Thank fuck for carbon or we wouldn't have fizzy … ”  

  “Not another carbon deficiency!”  

  “Not another deficit, surely?”  

  Conversations were blurring into a semblance of endings.  

  “...-py,”  

  “...-ty,”  

  The ending of the word was all that could be heard, ideas were bouncing off the walls.  

  “Absurd!”  

  The sociocrats, or rather Ingsoc. as they jokingly likèd to call themselves, were chatting shit.  Tête-à-tête around another round of café.  Once around the block and back to the café.  Four lefts later and they were back where they began.  Scratch that, starting over from square one.  The square root of minus one.  

  Ingsoc.'s work was more serious than their little play-on-words.  In fact, it was a complete détournement of a religious text to suit the purposes of diverting Muslim attention from the Sharia Law of Islam's own invention to one of Ingsoc.'s own creation.  Rock the Qasbah!  All of this, mind you, to remain unknown.  

  Ingsoc. got chattin' again,  

  “How about this,” suggestèd a sociocrat technocrat twat.  “Verse one: Hadith! The manifestation of Night.  Religion of the Moon, Religion of the Stars, et cetera, et cetera.  Something about the Sabians and then something more about Egyptology, maybe.  How about Coptic Greek as the script?  You know, make it look nice-and-pretty …  What was the role of Nut in the Egyptian pantheon?”  

  “How do you tell a Shi'ite from a Sunni?”  

  “Ask a Sufi.”  

  And on it went into the night and beyond.  

  Commonality surrounding poetry.  Carvossier.  Another Carvossier.  Sociocratic tête-à-tête.  Sober up, another round of café.  

  Liber AL vel Legis.  The Book of The Law.  Sharia Law did not know what it was in for.  The text was a big text with a lot of misdemeanours, to say the least, that socially could only be applicable to one time frame.  One time frame and one people.  Egypt.  The civilization of Egypt and the civilization of the Arab world.  The poet to the prophet.  The prophet to the poet.  It was all about love as we know it.  A verse read, Love is the Law, Love under Will.  Oh, and the stars, Come forth o' children under the stars and take your fill of love.  

  °Ah, the gemmed azure° thought Mister Magog.  

  Mister Magog tippèd his brandy glass to refract a glow from the moon.  

  “You see,” Mister Magog spoke aloud, “the religion of the stars, Islam, encompasses the manifold manifestations of the moon.  The stars belong to Sabiah.”  

  {Republika}  

  It was a full moon, that night.  

  “Do you, ladies and gentlemen,” askèd Mister Magog, “know anything of the seventh direction?”  

  “And what of the seventh direction?” askèd Tulpa, much older and estrangèd from her surrogate father.  

  The people from The Grand newspaper were there, including Telly.  Telly vs. Sally.  Sally reporting back to Quincy.  

  The Yids from Tottenham Ton, Mister Donald Baggs, Mister Donald Burns, and their faithful wives, Connie and Connie, had joinèd their good friend, Magog, for the third round of tête-à-tête that day.  A la that night.  Moonlight.  Moonlighting.  

  “But when, if the tale's true, the pestle of the moon, it pounds up all anew,” said Magog, “it encompasses the world and holds it in the bosom of its changing face … There she is, our full moon!”  

  Mister Magog lowerèd his brandy glass and pointèd up to it, the pestle of the moon, pounding up all anew.  He continuèd, “On the other side of the globe, the dark side of the whole of the moon, Eous, has risen!” exclaimèd Magog.  “This is the first manifestation according to the seventh direction of the changing face of Eous.”  

  Mister Magog lookèd down into his brandy glass as he swilled it, divining the reflection of the moon from within it.  He pointèd to the empty space in the west of the sky, and said, “Eous waxes as a half moon in the West … Eous wanes as a half-moon in the East.  And in the corners, the crescent.”  

  The manifold manifestations of the moon were the regulatory periods of the seventh direction.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  One tradition was speaking.  

  “What's British nationalism about?”  

  “Jerusalem, according to Mister William Blake.”  

  “Tell me, why the army sing “Jerusalem” about Britain.”  

  “Cause it's worth fighting for.”  

  “Maybe we're not so fascist after all.”  

  “Autocrat.”  

  “Sociocrat technocrat twat!”  

  One of the subbers from The Grand newspaper was swannin' avant, bypassing the racial discussion by keeping to his side of the road on the pavement walking by.  But he had a joke about the twat.  

  “Twotting, fishing, broadcasting!” yellèd the subber, about journalistic reporting.  

  The subber yellèd the terrible pun from across the road and also performèd the gesture.  

  {fishing line}  

  The subber lookèd like a right twat doing it. But, for the gesture, it was worth it.  The subber's editor was the one interviewing the broad demographic about racism that day.  

  {vox pop}  

  The broad demographic: a catalogue of people.  A literary cynic, one who supportèd conscription, a bruiser, and of course a member of the English Defence League, the autocrat.  The member of the EDL felt that sociocrat and technocrat were valid definitions according to his political persuasions.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Sometimes it's what …  

  {not-to-do}  

  Tearing through the number two as if a paper note was all there was to tear through.  As if Sudoku was a magic square and irony was a seat with no chair.  The only thing that stands up to criticism: a two leggèd chair with no seat.  

  Sudoku became a crossword as numbers turnèd to letters and brought agreement to the characters.  

  “Quickly!  Corrupt one word with another,” said Witham Sispa to his musa.  

  Witham Sispa sat alone in metaphysical contemplation.  

  On a scrap piece of paper he drew a square of opposition.  

IT LOOKED LIKE SO:  

۞

  On each side of the part of the symbol that was a square Witham Sispa wrote a message.  Each message was in direct agreement and direct competition.  Witham Sispa was a civil war 'cian, a Logician, and a pretty adept magician.  It was a perfect syllogism.  

  He read it aloud to Sarah, his musa …  

  “All Hebrews are Israelites.”  

  This message ran along the top side of the image.  

  “All Hebrews are not Israelites.”  

  This part of the message was inverted and upsidedown in opposition to the initial preposition.  

  “Some Hebrews are Israelites.”  

  This was a sub-contrary that ran along the left side of the shape between the preposition and the contradistinction.  

  « Au contraire… » said Witham Sispa, and concludèd: “Some Hebrews are not Israelites.”  

  The final solution to the Jewish question was one of mutual toleration; two different types of peoples' rights to co-exist together.  Mister O'Niste enterèd the room to enquire of Mister Sispa.  It was a large room on the second floor of a Parissien boulevard.  The daylight shone in through a large bay window.  

  O'Niste strollèd over and lookèd at the piece of paper over Witham Sispa's shoulder.  

  “Aha! Mutual toleration,” he said.  

  “The mutual toleration of sub-contraries,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  “Our understanding of a Hebrew transmission accords to all classes of tribe definition,” said Mister O'Niste.  “And how do you tell tell a Shi'ite from a Sunni?”  

  “How?” wonderèd Witham Sispa.  

  “Ask a Sufi!” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Tobacco is no longer merely a harmful product.  It is a harmful economy, especially because it is linked to VAT,” said Quincy.  “Which, if it becomes an economy,” continuèd Quincy, “its consumption is governed by mathematical principles.  It seems almost unreasonable to suggest that if one person decides to stop smoking, another may be drawn to the product, which has had so much commercial investment, through advertising, that to add more value to the product through tax engenders the further increased consumption of it in what can only be described as a Descartian machine with the hidden hand of the market underneath it.”  

  Quincy went on at length.  

  “There is no value in smoking tobacco, let's remove the tax,” he said to the newsroom.  “It'll save The NHS a lot of hassle.”  

  The sub-editors were joking around outside in the smoking area, relegatèd to their perspex booths which only seemèd to intoxicate them more, but the pariahs were having a laugh, blaming their ills on the most pious man who had ever succumbèd to tobacco addiction.  

  One said: “That Spurgeon's just smoked another fag.”  

  Another replièd: “Shot him down for his homosocial behaviour.”  

  “Have you ever seen him cock it?” coughèd a cougher.  

  “Never, he's a vicar,” mutterèd a mutterer'er.  

  A stutterer'er and a splutterer'er.  

  The subbers had the knack of sending up historical personalities, each one well versèd in the biographies of libraries.  This week it just happenèd to be Charles Spurgeon, the one-time-famous preacher, the week after it'd be Franz Kafka for lack of an orator.  

  “Kafka's back,” said a back-spacer.  

  “Crawling all over it,” said an editor of the letter.  

  “Crusting over crustaceon,” said another.  

  {laughter ensues}  

  “Russell's back,” said a reader of the philosopher Peter.  

  “Moistening all over it,” replièd a book reviewer.  

  “Swimming all over Mammalien.”  

  No one got the joke about evolution.  

  “Scarcely any animals,” said an activist.  

  “We'll have almost murdered the lot of 'em until a lion stands up on hind legs in protest.”  

  “A lion hindening?”  

  Too much confrontation with the unconscious the night previous.  Too much LSD.  Too much Charlie.  The news was happening quickly and getting untruthful biasly.  

  {visions of the future ensuing}  

  “Lions were walking on hind legs,” said a hangover.  

  “Noses-and-faces?”  

  “It looked like an arse but it had a tail on it.”  

  “Oh, fuck me, lions or horses?”  

  “A cock just lifted itself up.”  

  “Headless chickens as well?”  

  °shift°  

  “Was Bach a messiah or a composer?”  

  °shift°  

  “In crossing sticks…”  

  “Can one snap twigs?”  

  {descent into argument}  

  “Incandescent.”  

  “It means light from heat.”  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The equality of numbers could be found within those of similar values.  

  “How many angles in a square?” askèd the teacher.  

  The teacher was a sister, a nun who happened-to-be a prayer.  Of course, she wore a robe with a hood, the typical monastery garb.  The sister was holding the gawel.  The gawel was a big wooden cane.  The sister bore the gawel in front of those at school.  She knockèd it against the floor.  

  Knock.  

  Knock.  

  {knock}  

  “One,” replièd Tulpa, trying to outsmart her.  

  “And how many angles in a oblong?” askèd the teacher.  

  The teacher again addressèd the class with a knock of the gawel.  

  {knock, knock}  

  “Two,” counterèd Katherine.  

  Of course they were talking about the differences between equality.  Inequality discriminating fairly.  

  “And the triangle?” quizzèd the teacher.  

  By the end of the gawel, knocking on the floor,  

  the sister was trying to hint to the wrong answer …  

  {knock}  

  “One,” offered Virginie, “if it's equilateral …  

  {knock, knock}  

  … and five in a perfect circle.”  

  “Always ending with e towards a,” addèd the teacher.  

  “Egalitaire?” posèd Tulpa.  

  {the question}  

  “Foursquare,” replièd Katherine.  

  “And one can also be … « la ligne » … ” said Virginie  

  {concludingly}  

  « Fin. »  

  Tulpa wrote it all down in her exercise book.  

IT READ:  

1=5, perfect circle  

a - b, b - c, c - d, d - e, e - a  

1=4, foursquare.  

1=3, equality.  

4=2, oblong.  

0=3 ?  String Theory!  The hypothesis of the hypotenuse … I muse.  

  The bells began to ring as she closèd her exercise book.  

  °Ablanathanalba° she musèd no longer.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “It's like they're resurrecting Thule.”  

  It gets dangerous to foster beliefs.  

  “As long as we're facing south, it doesn't matter,” said solidarity, with the luck of the Tens.  

  {in a pair of boots}  

  It was just the look of the Tens.  

  {in a pair of boots}  

  “Ain't none among the enemy,” said courage.  

  “Only a few more days of the Tens until they're all locked up anyway,” said one who was far from being a revolutionary.  “Draw on the elements when you get cold.”  

  {passing a lit smoke}  

  The single last lit smoke was passèd from hand to hand, and then went out.  

  A flare was shot from the horizon and a plume of luminous smoke trailèd behind it.  And then it went out.  The soldiers and 'cians in their respective barricade fortifications fell silent.  A silence fell over the entire city.  And then there was a shout.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Mister William Quincy had had to have words with the autonomous zoners.  

  “One has to work hard for money and success,” said Mister William Quincy.  “Why it is good to conserve: it's a simple principle.  That's why I vote centre-right.  It's more responsible.  The same is true for a socialist government, in the binary sense.  If we are to create wealth for welfare then the government has to promote excessive consumption.  How does one feel after excessive consumption?  Sick, yet wanting more.  Richie Hawtin, minimal techno DJ, uses a sample in one of his tunes,” Quincy went on.  “It goes something along the lines of I hope you suffer, so that the thirst to consume lessens.”  

  Increpitus vulgi.  The curse of the common people.  Fags-and-booze, the working class way.  Hand-to-mouth existence.  Palliatives for the last ten years of the socialist government war.  

  “We had to,”  

  “I was there too,”  

  “Are you a drug addict, or what, you?”  

  °They let us run amok – amok all over make-up – they let us run amok at home, and have whatever we wanted so long as we didn't protest.  We were a temporary autonomous zone, an underground clique with subterranean stereo high-fidelity chic.°  

  “The only good system is a sound system.”  

  “Yeah, but there's no Vordhosbn.”  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Down in South Ossetia.  Oh, Georgia.  A hardcase to crack.  He keeps his briefcase on him at-all-times.  As long as the Home Office know about it.  It is it.  Call it what you want.  End game.  The terrorist has an arm.  Scatter-bomb.  Cluster-fuck.  There was nothing the agency could do.  One got through and the company did not find out who got it through.  Too many code-names, too many callsigns, too many personalities.  The agents of agencies had renderèd themselves non-entities.  

  Lamed told the others in the company that whoever had got that last Logris had made a copy of the dirty words on the USB storage facility and was moving it rapidly.  The agents called them dirty words in the company.  Dirty intelligence, dirty hands.  The agents thought that they had the goods on most of them.  They left the rest of them to the rest of them.  

  “Down with the rest of them, up with the best of them,” toastèd Lamed.  

  “Bottoms up, skirts down,” jokèd Sarai.  

  The end was in sight.  USA.  USB.  University of South Carolina.  USC.  University of South Dakota.  USD.  USE.  Recurringly.  

  {terrorists move quickly}  

  Kaiaphas had instructèd all the major airports in the United States of America, or the tribe of Dan as he callèd them colloquially, to conduct a series of searches of everyone's luggage for USB sticks.  The same went for Israel, Benjamin and Yehoudah.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The pure analysis of phenomenal appearances cannot decide between divergent orientations of thought.  The noumenon of the One, the phenomenon of the Other.  

  Ego alterum.  

  Qua intus sunt vos, Ego.  

  Non diffiteor mei.  

  Ego ipse, ipsa mei.  

  Sed multa.  

  °The Other, ha’akheyr° Psi-Qolog musèd.  °The locus of the Other emits a message; a signifying form that depends on the effect of alienated needs which deviate from the signifier.  Satisfaction of needs situate themselves within the recognition of the Other.  The Other affects desire; symbols, language, and places represent the Other°  

  Psi-Qolog lookèd into the mind’s eye of Maeve.  He cast a vacant stare into the vast black hole at the centre of the triangle.  The one she was playing her face through.  

  {ding}  

  Psi-Qolog felt nostalgic and his memories became static.  He rememberèd that time when Maeve had been struggling to count, the time she had made it to the number seven for the very first time.  It was at that time that she had made it to age seven for the very first time.  Something else rather significant had taken place that day.  

  Maeve had abandonèd her play compositions, ceasèd to identify with the characters as real, active facets of her personality and psyche and simply pointèd to the mirror in Psi-Qolog’s office and said “me” thereby recognizing herself.  

  Psi-Qolog rememberèd entering Maeve’s triangle as the symbolic father in the eponymous interplay with the Other; his major discoveries were made later.  

  Psi-Qolog clearly saw in his imaginations from that crucial day, how he, in a moment of delightful play, took Maeve’s hands into his own and said: “Aniy ha’akheyr, ha’akheyr aniy.”  It was a Hebrew phrase, meaning, I am the Other, the Other am I.  If I am a father, then I am the Other.  If I am a woman, then I am the Other.  Except there is no “am” in Hebrew grammatology.  Much like Quincy and his Anontology.  There is no is in Hebrew grammatolgy.  Again like Quincy and his prophecy.  There is no is.  It just happens.  

  Maeve and Psi-Qolog found unity in the Other, in each other, separatèd as individuals.  The two of them, both of their hands were embracèd as those words were spoken.  

  Then, Psi-Qolog gesturèd to Maeve by pointing to her, insinuating that she do the same, and as both of them had acknowledgèd this, a phenomenon occurrèd: phenomanonymous.  Without a cue, they both exclaimèd, as one: “ ‘‘ You! ’’ ”  

  °If I am the Other, then you are the identifier; the sign and the signifier.  The truth is I am a liar° thought the author of Maeve's character, as did the meta-reader of Maeve's character.  

  Finally, Psi-Qolog pickèd up Maeve and placèd her down to sit in front of the mirror.  Psi-Qolog then withdrew to resume his position as the objective Other.  Maeve ecstatically pointèd to her reflection in the mirror and exclaimèd: “Me!” singularly, without duality, identifying identity.  

  “In a regressive filiarchy, the instability of its genus loci produces echolalia.  The sound of the children's voices ran around, ran around the playground.  Regression to a premirror stage in which the individual forms a fusional dyad with what is no longer perceived as an alterity, as an Other.”  

  Psi-Qolog was speaking to Anon., confidentially.  He was using Maeve as an example as Anon. saw their interplay with the mirror.  

  “The unconscious is the discourse of the Other,” said Psi-Qolog, “the beyond in which the recognition of desire is bound up with the desire of recognition.”  

  The Other: the object of desire.  

  Sarai was not only an object of Anon.'s desire, at the end of each and every Ayah; Sarai was the image– « une visage sans visage » – that structurèd Anon.'s identity.  Sarai's image was in Anon.'s own.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  I was wiring a bomb.  

  {psychosis}  

  Someone was taking another bomb.  

  {solipsis}  

  {classifièd}  

  I met her at a party later on.  

  {*****}  

  {classifièd}  

  I thought that ***** was from the wrong Party.  

  Great-looking.  Looking, naughty.  

  “Party?” said *****.  

  “Line?” replièd a minister.  

  {blurring the lines}  

  “I'll take a line for the Prime Minister,” said a heroine.  

  “In Bogota, Colombia?” replièd a translator.  

  “¿Habla? They'll need a speech-writer,” said the minister.  

  “I'd work for Ahmadinejad's son,” said a fighter.  

  “If you're picking a fight with them, you're picking a fight with us,” said a blighter.  

  One could have said, a mere year earlier, that the future of the State was dire.  When money goes under, people go over-the-top.  Institutions crumblèd and people fled the very next day.  People fled into the arms of gangs.  You don't have to be a violent person to get protection from a violent gang.  

  It was as if overnight the normal and sensible society had fled away.  Since a hacker working for a newly formed sociocratic think-tank introducèd the Adword æther gate phage control as a anti-meme panacea to the Internet the average user should have known that something was up.  Google began to eat itself.  The Self-Itself, the users callèd it.  Call it what you want.  When everything in a society depends on the Ideosphere in its entirety what do you think happens when it ceases to exist?  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Fascinating story, Shabbetai Tzvi.  He took Qabalah too literally,” said Psi-Qolog.  

  The king conspirator and the false messiah stood before the Beyt Din.  

  “What are your motivations for wanting to join the tribes of Israel?” askèd Kaiaphas.  

  “My Midrashiy?” replièd Psi-Qolog, “bears implications for the future of the Jewish people.”  

  “What kind of teaching is it?” said Mister Cohen.  

  Mister Cohen, Gid, was all over the shop because of the medication he was self-administering.  Continuing, self-administering.  

  “A King is no kind of thing,” said Psi-Qolog.  “Gentlemen, we know that Malach is present wherever we invoke it.”  

  “Nu, how very now that we know who malachah is and that she is present wherever we invoke her,” replièd Gid.  

  There was a pause for a second whilst Psi-Qolog clearèd his throat.  He continuèd.  

  “The work of my predecessor, Immanuel Velikovsky, clearly shows that the people Israel belong together, the north and the south to be united, and rule a nation-state as successfully as Ha'Mashiac Daviyd.  Keeping two houses united as the kingdom.  This fair Isle, old Albion, represents the United Kingdom.  There's a reason why the British Army sing Jerusalem as their marching anthem.  They know what they're leaving behind.  William Blake, too, the great poet and visionary mystic, affirms to us through his words that this is the Israel where Ma'shiach resides.”  

  ° ° ° Nu? ° ° ° they wonderèd.  

  {collectively}  

  “Nu?  How now,” wonderèd Kaiaphas.  

  {his head coverèd}  

  “The Final Solution to the Jewish Question is a fundamental numerological Christian problem.  Absolutely all of them,” said Psi-Qolog.  “The United States of America represent a Danian tribal consecration supporting the tribes of Benjamin and Yehoudah.  I don't need to humour you gentlemen about the lobby for the reconstruction of the Third Temple, do I?”  

  “We're a Reform congregation.  We don't believe in it,” said Mister Cohen.  

  {uncovering his head}  

  “Our understanding of a Hebrew transmission accords to all classes of tribe definition,” replièd Psi-Qolog.  “History has misled us.  History has scattered us.  Persecution has displaced us but most of all the diaspora has gathered us in strategic locations around the world.  The red, the white, the blue, between me and you, nu nu, stand for the lost tribes' Two House theology.  Surely, it is the conclusion of an entire history.  The beginning of an end.  B'reyshiyt ha'sof hayah m'dabeyr.  In a manner of speaking.  We have to invest in this idea.  We have to rewrite the history of the Israelites.”  

  Kaiaphas seemed to agree.  Kaiaphas thought about Shabbetai Tzvi.  

  “Fascinating story, Shabbetai Tzvi.  He took it upon himself personally,” he said.  

  “Fascinating story, Shabbetai Tzvi,” replièd Psi-Qolog.  “He went on Hajj for the dowry.”  

  The small Quorum burst into laughter.  

  ° ° ° But we do agree, he was the messiah ° ° ° again they did wonder.  

  The small messianic meeting ended, without any hysteria.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  This is Maximillian.  Maximillian has authorization.  Authorization to press the button.  It looks more bloody red than Kaiaphas's bloody red phone.  This is Maximillian.  Thanks-a-one.  

  Maximillian addresses no one.  

  “Ezekiel 3:18 … If I say to the wicked, You shall surely die, and you give him no warning, nor speak to warn the wicked from his wicked way, in order to save his life, that wicked person shall die for his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand.”  

  Maximillian condemns all and justifies it with scripture.  

  “Matthew 10:21 … and brother shall rise against brother.”  

  °We're about to nuke the entire continent of Africa° Maximillian does ponder.  

  {looking at the red button}  

  °Fire regenerates the earth° muses Maximillian, then recites …  

  “2 Peter 3:10 … And all the elements shall burn with fervent heat … ”  

  °3 … 2 … 1 … °  

  {red button}  

  ° … °  

  ° … °  

  ° … °  

  Maximillian appearèd as a spectacle, adjusting his precision glasses.  Rayban on-the-side.  

  “People of America.  Brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, to all of our sons and daughters…

  {a steady breath}  

  {pipe below camera}  

  “We are shocked and appalled at the lowest reaches our enemies with nuclear capabilities, the Axis powers standing in arms against us, Korea, Iran, we condemn you … ”  

  {indemnity}  

  {off-camera after}  

  “Well at least the civil war's over,” said Maximillian to his right-hand man, left-hand path walker, Mister Magog.  

  “Gog and Magog, no more,” said the pious jew.  

  “At least we're free,” replièd Maximillian.  

  Iran and North Korea were already and immanently at the stage of the sixteenth day of military mobilization, making inroads towards the strategic locations that The US were occupying.  

  The President and Magog were languishing in the propaganda of the deed.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Kovax was a fundamental Roman Catholic, but Kovax hatèd red wine.  So, when Kovax went up to the Magister at the front of the church service, where the sanctuary light glowèd constantly, Kovax would cross his arms across his chest and ask for the blessing and not the blood.  

  °God forbid I should see any blood-shed on my rounds° thought Kovax.  

  “May Eous be with thee,” said the Magister to Kovax.  

  Mass was gnostic.  Undoubtèdly.  

  “And also with thee,” replièd Kovax.  

  “Eous is risen,” promptèd the Magister.  

  “Eous is risen,” Kovax replièd.  

  {the star rises at 5AM}  

  Kovax rose at about 5AM.  A clock rang three times …  

  {ding}  

  {ding}  

  {ding}  

  A cock crowèd three times, which always woke Kovax from Kovax's vodka inducèd sleep.  Kovax took to his Chelovyek notebook to write a Haiku …  

IT READ:  

обезглавлен

предан и убит

пропоет петух  

  Kovax always drank himself to sleep.  Kovax put his strap-on on with a hangover.  If Kovax could get airport clearance, Kovax would prolly police the world.  Kovax lovèd his undercover.  Kovax lovèd his lover Georgia under-the-covers.  Under the cover of night Kovax would walk the beat territory; looking for a fight.  

  Under the cover of night.  All is harm.  All is fright.  

  Kovax wantèd to take it further, °Of course, I'm not a virgin, but I'd love to be someone like The Pope.  Vicarious Filii Dei.  Free-to-roam.  I'd take my strap-on into Gaza, as if the robe was a fake ID° thinks the thinker.  Just another dangerous idea.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  {QC thinks about democracy}

  °I'm QC.  I'll run for everybody, except Ahmadinejad's son.  Cairo Sharia Law belongs in Egypt.  We're not 'avin any of it over 'ere, thank you very much.  I'm not a Tourist.  I'm a lover and a fighter.  A real blighter.  Aphrodite over Blighty, as we say.  I'm all over Albion.  It may as well be Jerusalem for all I care.  Actually, though, we do think about foreign policy in the EDL.  Take Johannesburg, for example.  The niggers can have the bananas.  Anyway, the foreigners.  Anyone who doesn't fall into line with us°  

  { … }  

  °The law of return is ten per cent.  We know all about Mahal and our brothers-and-sisters in Israel.  But we're Ephraim and we're splendidly isolated°  

  “Commerce with all, alliance with none,” said one.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The truth is brought forth with laughter.  If only we could just banish the sound of it, sometimes.  

  Psi-Qolog was very good at peturbing his unusual sense of humour, cracking up at the best of times.  Peturbations in situations at the worst of times.

  “If you've not got a problem I can't charge you.  See me anyway,” as Psi-Qolog likèd to say.  “But, if you've got a problem or a complaint, then no matter what I'm charging you because there's no such thing as either one of them.”  

  Those that were curèd were curèd instantly if mirth gesturèd ensuingly.  If they didn't get the joke, though, patients would return again.  

  {patience returning again}  

  “I don't get it,” said one patient.  

  {returning}  

  “Call it what you want.  I'll try and explain it.  What is it?” replièd Psi-Qolog.  

  “My problem extends to a host,” said the one in question.  

  {confidentially}  

  Confidentiality meant maintaining anonymity.  

  “Does it satisfy you, your psychology?” askèd Psi-Qolog.  

  Psi-Qolog was prescribing psychogeography, long walks outside the city, a proper getaway for a Sunday in the village or the valley, and to return to work refreshèd on a Monday, rising early.  

  “You could have invented a ghost,” said Psi-Qolog, “any obsessive behaviour patterns?”  

  “A few.”  

  “Like what?”  

  “I lock my door, get half way down the hall, wonder whether it's locked or not, force myself to go back and check because if I'm not reassured it might turn into a bad coincidence somewhere else.”  

  “Well, I can't live with that on my conscience,” replièd Psi-Qolog.  “Your coincidences, they are references to the past.  That they are recurring in the present means that there they remain, in the past, unaddressèd, stuck within the living past.”  

  The past was tense.  The present was amending the past to create an alternative in the future.  Psi-Qolog was referring to an obscure gloss over a Talmud passage that describèd the past as living.  Living, and active in creating.  

  The present environment was giving Psi-Qolog a headache.  Business was good so he was having to spend more-and-more time in the office-misrad.  

  Misrad-qatanah.  

  °This misrad needs a house-plant.  I can't treat a recurring headache any other way° thought Psi-Qolog.  °Cracking headache.  This case is a hardcase to crack.°  

  He lookèd toward his briefcase.  

  All Psi-Qolog wantèd to do was make his patients laugh but some of them weren't that funny.  The patients, that is.  Psi-Qolog crackèd up everytime, if not for the mirth then for the madness.  

  “I mean, it's not even funny.  My life is tragically empty,” said one.  

  { … }  

  “It doesn't have to be funny.  Just emote for me.  Insult me, patronize me, reach me,” said Psi-Qolog, selfishly and self-indulgently, in an attempt at transference of free association according to the Jungian interpretation.  

  Psi-Qolog didn't prescribe pharmaceuticals.  Somebody had told him that laughter was the best medicine but it didn't always work for the people.  It got his goat every time.  The scapegoat was speaking to him.  

  “I mean, it's not even funny,” she said.  

  “Just emote for me,” said Psi-Qolog.  Psi-Qolog’s hands were moving repetitiously, gesturing rhetorically.  

  °Is he ignoring me?° thought the scapegoat.  

  The scapegoat was a psychoanalytic archetype; a monstrous Jungian symbol of semiotic betrayal, one who would blame themselves for the problems of others.  Middle-class dilettantes taking on the problems of the world.  First world problems.  

  Psi-Qolog cast his mind to the Solomonic allegory.  °It was a bad day for ritual purity when the blood of the scapegoat was dripped upon the mercy seat° he thought.  

  The scapegoat was sat across from Psi-Qolog, in the seat, in need of mercy.  

  “Insult me, patronize me, reach me,” repeatèd Psi-Qolog, repeatedly.  

  Psi-Qolog was a very selfish and narcissistic managerial personality.  His ego had fillèd the entirety of the building completely.  He thought that his own conundrums, problems, complexes and illusions applièd to every one else's.  He was the master in the art of projection and transference.  

  Somehow, it workèd, even though Psi-Qolog had been trainèd as a physician to interpret it as wrong.  

  “We must understand it,” said Psi-Qolog, “no matter what it is, it's human, and that's good enough for me.”  

  “Me too,” said the patient.  

  {patience returning}  

  “You're cured.  I can't charge you.  See me anyway.  Same time next week?”  

۝

{ ... }

Fabula XII.

۞

  Kaiaphas was ranting on again about the philosophy he was struggling to envisage.  

  “The Solomonic Temple, configurèd as the human body, consummated to the earth, the burial of Ha'Shem in stone, a Jewish trap, designed to imprison ha'shekhinah in the anatomical mind's eye of its anatomical-like construction,” he went on.  

{ … }  

  This is what it soundèd like to others who listened to Kaiaphas' yiddish philosophy,  

  °Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah°

  °Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah°

  °Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah°

  Yaddah.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

Ismus places himself amidst the hostile to hegemony, rallies infidelity to monotony.  

Anthropos at the centre, Ismus stalking around the outskirts.  

Ismus attributes human characteristics to humans.  When Ismus sees an inanimate object, such as a jug, or spoon, Ismus condemns the jug's sloth for being so ornamentally sedate and the gluttony of the spoon!  

{places the spoon inside of the jug}  

Ismus, already notèd for his penchant for the use of the word absolutely can be known to say it most when a fund of people gather together to oppose the political doctrine of absolute rule.  

The Dictator.  

Ismus was falsely accusèd as the initiator of Antiblackism.  This was merely a reaction by ultraleft-wing-orthodox-brown-eyed-people, covetous of his affection for the Albino race which Ismus created from his lack of colour.  

Everyone has red eyes in a photo.  

In fact, Ismus was never anti anything.  Not anticapitalist, nor anticlerical, neither: anticolonial, anticommercial, anticommunist, antielitist, antirevolutionist, antifascist, antifeminist, antiferromagnetist, antihumanist, antiliberalist, antimaterialist, antimilitarist, antinepotist, antinomianist, antiquarianist, antiracist – … hey, I might not agree with this one, says Ismus, but I have seen your sons and daughters die for the rights of the White Supremacist to enjoy his views and the Black Panthers to call each other N**gers … – antiradicalist, antirationalist, antirealist, antireductionist, antiritualist, antiromanticist – … heaven knows why they exist! – and antiterrorist … … if I was, remarks Ismus, they wouldn't exist, get the jist?  

In fact, Ismus has been present at all the demonstrations to oppose these groups.  Ismus encounters his twin sister, the archetypal goddess Aphor.  

Vanity of vanities!  All is vanity.  What is not is not counted.  

Ismus accidentally gave birth to the notion of apocalypticism due to a love for the sound of alarm clocks.  

The promptness of it!  

Ismus became addictèd to the look of fear in people's eyes as they were rudely awoken from their peaceful slumber, but because Ismus had to present himself before the alarm went off and his ethereal presence began to interfere with their dreams.  Visions of the end of the world aboundèd and were suddenly realizèd with primal fear at the jolt of 6.30AM.  Before that, anyone who was thought to predict the end of the world was just plain crazy!  

While everybody was caught worrying about the end Ismus was hatching a plan to avert the ontological mistake.  Ismus couldn't help but notice a Western trend of travelers searching for that most elusive rite of awakening.  They didn't really know what they were looking for or where they were going so he sent them to the Amazonian jungles to be initiatèd by the shaman-peoples.  Once set into an hallucinogenic trance Ismus appeared to them in a pixie form to reveal to them the beginning of the end and so the Archaic Revival was born in their hearts and minds.  Doomsday avertèd.  

When Ismus saw what that Pythagoras was up to with the wicked mathematical cult and their crude angles, Ismus cursèd them all with muteness.  History would come to vindicate the phenomena as Pythagorean wisdom, the vow of silence, and the secret society.  

{successfully invoking a deity}

Just like the alarm clock incidents Ismuses meddling had had repercussions.  People meeting in secret to undermine the open society botherèd Ismus so he had had to present himself at every clandestine fellowship since the days of Pythagora.  This weighèd in heavy on Ismuses busy schedule.  In order to lighten his workload Ismus sent in the most beautiful of foreign women as moles to the conspirators to intermarry and have families which would assimilate the deceptive dogmas when their children would demand that they go to public school.  

Whenever Ismus caught somebody being too reflective or introspective he would ruin the succession of memories, especially the most happiest of ones with a sudden realization that they had to be up super early on Monday morning.  

°5.30AM° thinks Ismus …  

{rubbing hands with glee}  

And every time a businessperson instructèd a lawyer to write a contract and the lawyer markèd a clause with an asterice Ismus would cry, What type of thaumaturgy does this!  

– while witnessing another celestial body flee from its constellation.  

Out of space and onto the spare page!  

However, the main consequence of the Archaic Revival cover-up by Ismus happenèd to be an evolutionary throwback where human fetuses were showing signs of growing tails!  As if the reptilian brain wasn't bad enough.  Ismus began to realize that every cause had a reaction and the Taoists were his least favourite espousal.  

The Atheos sect were always Ismuses favourite espousal.  It simply meant that Ismus didn't have to bother with them.  They could be left to their own devices.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

“Viva la Sociocracie!”  

“¡No Pasaran!”  

A king conspirator wouldn't let a single identity in.  All the brothers-and-sisters were wearing the same garments.  They relièd on their mystery.  The mystery of their appearance.  Its disappearance.  They had coverèd their faces.  

When The President goes abroad for foreign policy no one, not even the best in the Mossad, can read him.  His enigmatic presence relièd on the absence and forgetting of his identity when in the Freemasonry.  In fact, all who were robèd could have been The President.  There was no discrimination.  

There was absolute loyalty.  As if religion demandèd absolute piety no matter which deity was invokèd successfully.  They had successfully invokèd a deity.  

“The individual is The Party,” said The President.  

{enrobèd}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

When the agents of the agency were on-the-wire they knew they were being listenèd to.  All the more reason to manufacture dirty words.  The dirty word draws a dirty word over the dirty word's dirty word.  This is how the agents were trained to talk when on-the-wire.  

Deceivers all I speak unto thee.  Jabberwocky: hoo-goo, hoh-goh, hah-gah.  There were strict rules for conversation.  Our conversations were being directèd and monitorèd by The Agency of the Letter.  As our propaganda bureau, the words were recordèd and the tapes were doctorèd.  These phoney situations had a phoney context.  Telephone context contraband tête-à-tête.  

“It's when they're not broadcasting we should be listening,” said Sarai.  

“What would happen if we killed the wire and stayed in range?” pondered *****.  

“It depends,” said Sarai.  

“It depends on what?” replièd *****.  

“It depends whether the range can reach the signal,” Sarai said.  

“What's the jurisdiction of the signal?” said *****.  

“It's all measurements,” said Sarai.  

“Do them now,” instructèd *****.  

“I'm on it,” said Sarai.  

{measuring tools}  

۝

{ ... }

۞

“What are you digging into there with that fork?” said a hungry one.  

“Soya, mate. Do you want some?” said a Vegan one.  

“Nah, mate … It's just not chicken, mate … ” said the hungry one …  

{turning a nose up at it}

{hungering on}

“Everything tastes like chicken, mate.  Have some … ” said the Vegan one …  

{offering on}  

“Nah, mate … It's just not chicken, mate … ” said the stubborn one.  

“Is there something suspicious about it?” said the other one …  

{being open}  

“Yeah, I just don't trust it.”  

Suspicion was the crime.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

Not-one-jot.  Not-one-tittle.  The only true followers of the following were gathering.  

“One hand up, one hand down … A poker player.  One hand up, one hand down … The Crucifixion.  He was trying to keep a straight face,” said Llugnurgus, concerning Isuas.  

{assuming Christ}  

“Agonizing,” said one from Veolia, the rubbish dumping company. 

“Agonizingly witty.”  

Rubbish dumping company.  

{from amidst the congregation}  

They lovèd a good joke about The Crucifixion.  

Llugnurgus's portrayal was not to scale.  

“He's off his cross today,” said Llugnurgus as if Isuas.  “Sober for it.  They carried him home like that the previous night, the wedding at Cana.”  

{the Tau posture}  

{head hung}  

{arms outstretchèd}  

“Bibbers-and-sinners, brothers-in-arms,” said The Law, two police officers sat next to each other on a

pew.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

° … upsilon, zed … ° countèd Tulpa, in her pretty dazèd head.  Shadda became an Upsilon over the Hebrew character Lamed.  Her thirst was satisfièd.  And so, she continuèd, and countèd herself to bed.  Shadda flew over the Hebrew character Lamed.  Lamed said to Hah, ha ha ha.  And the whisperer sent her to sleep.  Her dream was exactly as she had read her head to bed.  

IT READ:

υυّ … ζ

ههه … ל

The next thing Tulpa knew, she was flung back into her recurring nightmare.  She was amidst a nightmare filled with eevoks of leather whips, horses mouths, dark shrivelèd skin, metal against bones, and crampèd, tortuous conditions.  She was wet, wet with sweat, dehydratèd and arrid.  The rain had tarrièd and tarrièd for years.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

In the sociocratic think-tank personalities were nobodies, for a brief minute.  

“Limited company,” said company, limitedly.  

“Limited liability,” said liability, limitedly.  

“Running guns for money?” said a personality about the mercenary.  

{consequentially}  

“That's twenty per cent of our economy,” said Mister William Quincy.  

“You remove one black market and a worse one replaces it,” replièd Burnsie.  

That was Mister Donald Burns to the entire company.  

“So what are we going to do about child porn, socially?” wonderèd Bagsie.  

That was Mister Donald Baggs, and the scandal was appreciating quickly.  

On the television, a broadcast was broadcasting.

IT SAID:

AN EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGIST HAS ALLOWED A SEX OFFENDER INTO HIS PRACTICE.  CHILDREN PLAY OUTSIDE IN THE CRECHE WHILE THE PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT ENSUES.  JUST LOOK AT THE POOR MAN SQUIRM.  HE'S VERY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS HARD-CASE.  JUST LOOK AT HOW HE KEEPS AN EYE ON HIS BRIEFCASE.  

“Can you turn that sqwaking television down please for just one minute, please?” said Robertson.  

Time went crazy for a minute.

۝

{ ... }

 ۞

╔╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜

┴╔╜╪╠╦╥┬╔╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔

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╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╠

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╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╦╪╔╜┴┬╥╦╠┬┴╔╜╪╠╦╥╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪

╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╠╪╔╜┴┬╥╦┴╔╜╪╠╦╥┬╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜

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╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╩╨╩╣╪╓ØØ╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╔╜╪╠╦╥┬┴

╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╥┬┴╜╔╪╠╦╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜┴╔╜╪╠╦╥┬

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┴╔╜╪╠╦╥┬╔╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔

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╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╦┬┴╔╜╪╠╦╥

╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╥┬┴╔╜╪╠╦

╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╦╥┬┴╔╜╪╠

╜╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╪╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╠╦╥┬┴╔╜╪

°The Ideosphere is against us, one crept in, through the middle.  We wanted to lure it in.  The cheeky devil, with cheeky properties, there was something suspicious about it°  

°Is the Ideosphere able to think?°  

It was a virus.  Robertson creatèd an Ethergate phage control system.  It workèd on the principle of mimiqing properties, cheeky properties, of the memes that were to be destroyèd.  Before it was possible to destroy them, copies of them had to be made, to learn them, understand them, assimilate them, recode them, then redistribute them as anti-memes.  

“The Panacea meme is our best success yet,” said Robertson. “It lures the particularly nasty, more nasty than cheeky, lures the Adword meme responsible for the filth that the EDL are being blamed for.  The don-don-donny-don-don of the whole scandal.  We're knicking it, booking it, rebranding it, and banning it.  Redistributing it.”  

“Redistributing it,” said William Quincy, overseeing it, “we'll monitor the server activity of The Ideosphere.  We were a bit worried when we saw a massive spike running through our peak-flowmeter, affecting all servers.”  

“We held our breath when we saw that spike,” addèd Robertson.  “Honestly, every one around the table thought something might go wrong with the entire Internet.”  

The red phone rang.  Robertson pickèd up the red phone.  Apparently it was Mossad approvèd, but it lookèd ridiculous, the phone.  It was a major distraction.  Robertson pickèd it up.  It was Stoker, from earlier.  Moments before the moment earlier.  No chronology, no chapter, remember?  

“What the fuck did you guys do, just now?” said Stoker.  “I was looking at the peak-flow-meter over here and I could have sworn that that particular spike would have brought the whole house-of-cards down.”  

“Yeah, it's okay,” replièd Robertson.  “We were worried too, there, for a minute.  Fuck knows what we would've have done for a back-up.”  

When you run an anti-meme that makes itself effective through a permeating virus it's bound to throw something up.  There's only one Internet, the server-of-servers, and an anti-meme has the power to destroy the lot.  

In that moment, when the spike went up on the peak-flow-meter, they the sociocrats thought, if not for a brief moment, that they could have been the destroyers of society instead of the messiah of the voter.  

“I've got some interesting conversations from the Kraaksers, those autonomous zoners, on tape,” said Stoker, as if Robertson was listening.  

“Yeah, we're going to need that,” replièd Robertson, “those Kropotkin acolytes have an idea or two about cybernetic governance, at least, if they could organize more than a people's kitchen.  Send it over in an email on the Comma server.”  

۝

{ ... }

۞

The following is what a cacophonous newsroom sounds like.  

“We'll just keep pushing it,” said a subber.  

“The same server's serving it,” said a typesetter.  

“We can't call it anything!” said an editor.  

“Everytime I press save it won't type anything,” said the writer.  

“Jewellery or Skirtery?” said a woman, feeling flirty.  

“Hose-end-uppery,”

“Berthold Brecht, anyone?”

“Coffee at 5AM do?”

“Yeah, it's a haiku-do,”

“Paper or two,”

“Paper or two to do,”

“Well that makes two,”

Tearing through the number two.  Puff-of-logic.  Sudoku.  A paper-or-two to do.  To do.  To do.  To go.  

“I'll take one-to-go,”

“Hurry up, it's time-to-go,”

“Time-on-chime, we're right-on-time!”

Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, preceding every deadline.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

“Temporary?”  

“Immediately,”  

Techno-eco-system.  Shaman description, Terence McKenna schizo explanation: The Shaman came bounding down the stairs to the Marionette Records Doom night.  It was as if the music was a contraband hallucinogen.  Neon glow sticks lay on a table next to illuminous marker pens and the walls were arrayèd with amateur art left as a memento on scrolls unrolled, paper on the walls.  Grafs.  Giraffes.  Haikus.  Cartoons. 

Every one there had their own unique artistic license.  Bufoons and loons.  Great choons!  

There was an autonomous zoner, a gentleman using the pseudonym of Catherine Cooper, who said: “I'd rather create a name that wasn't mine because I don't want people to attach the ideas to me because then people start to go, “oh ***** says this,” and the ideas become individualized.  We live in a very individualized society.”  

Anon. was the individual there wearing a V-for-Vendetta Anonymous mask.  Anon. was masquerading.  Masquerade façade!  

“The reason is,” Anon. said, “that these days, the idea of the individual is far less important than the idea of the social.”  

Catherine Cooper The Communist:  “In an age where advertising campaigns, such as “I Am Reebok,” commodify the liberty of the consumer in exchange for their identity, an autonomous zoner feels happier to identify with the group project, or in political terms “the social.””  

{an autonomous zoner feels happier}  

“You can freely express yourself as an individual,” Anon. said, “it's just in terms of when it's more to do with the mass media and publicity that the ideas that have developed throughout history cannot be attributed to anybody.”  

“Catherine Cooper is a Communist,” said one-of-them.  

° ° ° Catherine Cooper is a Communist ° ° ° repeatèd all-of-them.  

“It's the way that I see things which is influenced by others,” Anon. said.  

{V-for-Vendetta mask on}

۝

{ ... }

۞

Jack Stoker, the Stock Market broker, sees tables of figures, binary numbers, flashing before his eyes on a screen above the heads of numbers below.  

Three hundred years ago... Black Tulips crash the stock market, believe it or not.  Three hundred years later, Gold and Oil recover it on the FTSE All-Share.  And then City Bank America let slip 44.67E unnoticed.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

The One.  

The One, and The Other.  The Metaphysical Upholder of the Symbolic Order.  

The Stranger, the identity of every following and previous character.  

The Follower: the One who emerges after.  The author and the implièd reader.  

The Other, The Follower and The Following.  

In the beginning the end was speaking.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

°Do I value myself?° thought Anon..  

{rhetorically}

Anon. recountèd the tale of the destruction of Anon.'s passport in Paris, destroying citizenship to become stateless.  It was the worst state to be in.  

“By losing your identity completely you preserved your own truth,” said Psi-Qolog.  

It wasn't the first time Psi-Qolog had had to say something along those lines.  Psi-Qolog was a very rhetorical man.  He thought that to restate the statement addèd some consistency to his therapy.  Psi-Qolog massagèd his temple more thoroughly before continuing.  

“A revolt against institutional oppression, which you believe has commodified and therefore alienated your liberty.  The situationist action you describe was too reformist.  Instead of interpreting it as revolutionary passivity, we would do better to understand it as resistance to reformism.”  

{time passes over}  

The white office-misrad clock hanging on-the-wall span one full revolution.  The secret hand moving backwards in time went one full gyration.  The sun shone into Psi-Qolog's office-misrad, and onto that new maidenhair fern he had employèd to treat his recurring headache.  Psi-Qolog had read that paracetomol could treat an ailing plant, so if the leaves would start to show signs of wilting he would treat it with pharmaceuticals in order to treat his recurring headache.  Psi-Qolog never prescribed his patients with pharmaceuticals.  

The maidenhair fern; the dowager.  

°Thence come the maiden mighty in wisdom° thought Psi-Qolog.  

His thought was a referent to the old dowager who had walked in; his next patient.  She sat on a chair, surroundèd by the children's echolalia in the creche.  The maiden in the chair was slightly losing her hair.  

°Just look at her over there!° thought Psi-Qolog, °that maiden in the chair, slightly losing her hair.  I mean, it's just ironic that her maiden name was Fern!°  

Psi-Qolog heard the ticking of the clock's second hand breaking the silence between himself and Anon..  

“The One,” continuèd Psi-Qolog, “will therefore be empowered to fix the dual movement of progression and regression that expresses the nature of the Dyad.  A singular consciousness appears as a Monad.  The psychosis fragmented the Monad into a Dyad.  The Monad is a circle with a gravitational centrepoint of cognizance relating to the fixity of identity.  Its circumference, the boundary fixed by your institutionalized liberty.  The Dyad reproduces indefinitely, and can only do so in disorder unless The One imposes the effectiveness of its unity at each successive stage of the reproduction of the Dyad.  Each progressive stage of your psychosis has expanded the circumference of the Monad, as if it had to in order to contain the multifarious reproduction of the Dyad, rendering the centrepoint less gravitational and your identity less fixed.  That which separates, divides, splits, must be taken away from the Other, from the feminine, the feminine in your story, the alluder'er, the dark stranger, momentarily solipsistically fragmentary.”  

“No, doctor.  My avatar,” replièd Anon., “she crossed over into reality.”  

“And where is she now, this Sarai?” askèd Psi-Qolog.  

“Alone,” replièd Anon., “alone in the closed circle of my soul, this theatre for the representation of likeness, that vertigo of the self that recognizes nothing but itself now.”  

“The self, the very self, the self-itself, defining itself,” spoke Psi-Qolog.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

“Anontology dwells on the Nothing, the being without being, that renders us tense without presence, absence without presence,” said Mister O'Niste to Witham Sispa, in another faint and dithering whisper.  

“Or does it render us absent with its prescience?” Witham Sispa retortèd.  

“Anontology can harldy be,” said a third party, “because because cannot be because because causes the being not to be, compared to an ontological anarchy.”  

When a third party, a third party who has no relation to the story, is attempting to explain something ontological then it appears as an ontological scandal.  

“That's the thing about the thing.” O'Niste, again dithering.  

The third party refrainèd from interrupting.  

Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  

Not ablanathanalba, more like Martin Heidegger!  Heidegger's "ding."  

۝

{ ... }

۞

GET OUT.  

°Get used to it° I thought.  °You're a journalist°  

But I was being extradictèd via the British Embassy after destroying my identity, only to take up this new one that I now lie to you by.  If only I could tell you the whole truth about the intelligence that I acquirèd on the streets of Paris in the first week of my convalescence.  

The truth was the one that could be false.  The truth, the truth, and the truth.  The half-truth and nothing but the lie.  The truth is: I'm a liar.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

{across a telephone}

{crossing a sea}

It was a long story, cut short.  

The Other:  “I knew it! I knew you'd leave me here,”  

{waiting for nothing}  

The One:  “A jealousy is consuming me,”  

°The One says leave me, The Other says don't leave me°  

{waiting for a reply}  

The conversation was taking place across a sea's worth of reception, breaking-up, bad waves.  

The One:  “If I give you a time can you come and join me?”

The Other:  “You're going to have to stop treating me like some Other.  I know we've not establishèd whether we are each other's significant other just yet, but, I told you before you left that I'm still not ready to exhume what happened to me because of the last One.” °and yet, I remember° she rememberèd.  

The One:  “How about the 9th? You'll be in France then, right?”  

The Other:  “I'm too much of an experienced traveller to know that if I come looking for you in a city like Paris we'll miss each other somehow inevitably.”  

The One:  “Listen, I'm not The One for you,”  

  The One lost the call completely, abandoning The Other on the end of the line.  Abandoning The Other.  Abandoning, reckless.  Reckless abandon.  

  The One didn’t truly appreciate what was so significant about the significant other.  Until it was over.  The phonecall.  

۝

{ ... }

THE END.

۞

  Witham Sispa was moving through a time that had temporarily lost sight of his own reflection.  It went missing for weeks; no substance, no separation.  Mister O’Niste was waiting for Mister Sispa in the train station mist.  

  The sound of the locomotive clackèd closer.  Clack clack clack, down upon the beaten leaden track.  It was the way back.  The steam blew in from the chimney turret.  Choo, at a distance, choo-hoo, nearer and nearer, the final destination of the men from the mirror.  

  Mister O’Niste was a ruminationary.  He blew on a thick black cigar full of tar.  On the road below, the noise of the automobile car.  Beep beep, parp parp, the noises of automobiles shrill and sharp.  In the air up there, the smoggy fog from the industrious town of the Parisienne quarter of Voltaire.  The day, the week, the year, had been an entirely grey affair.  

  Mister O’Niste wore an extraordinarily large black top hat.  It went up-and-up and then outwards a little, widening, up towards the top, but the top remained flat.  The hat was so large in actual fact that the hat was linèd with lead to stop the haughty thing from tipping and falling from Mister O’Niste’s head.  His coat ran down, from the top of his shoulders, the coat ran down to his thigh, a sumptuous and elegant brown.  

  Mister O’Niste took another puff from the cigar full of tar and blew the smoke around his crown.  

  The steam, the fog, and the smoggy smog was gathering in and around the two men and the sky was thinking of raining.  The bell from the train sounded off.  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  

  °ablanathanalba°  

  Was it Witham Sispa or Mister Magog who left with Mister O’Niste in the mist and the fog?  

  Phenomanonymous.  Noumenal abstractness.  

۝