{ ... }

 

۞

  There was no message.  Anon. was just a medium.  Everyone is some kind of 'cian …  

  “A musician and a magician, are you?” askèd a lady, drunken eyes yet-with-does.  Does.  Like fingers-and-toes.  

  She could have been dozing off, drunk; her and Anon. were both on the park bench on the unfolding of that particular night.  It was late at night, though, and Anon. had wanderèd from Châtillon-Montrouge, where Anon. was, then, currently, whenever it was, staying with method actors and Situationist artists.  

  Anon. didn't know what to tell her, so instead said: “I'd write you mystical poetry, if you like?”  

  “Please, don't do that,” she replièd, “people shall think we're in love.”  

  Anon. was a terrible poet in Paris.  The actions were so bad that Anon. was forcibly ejectèd from a Situationist commune after being there for three days only.  What could be said about the place?  It was no place at all other than that there were diagrammatic plans on the wall.  

  °These artists° thought Anon..  °There are some real pieces of work in here°  

  These artists, these pieces of work, were real pieces of work.  

  “Never work” was their Situationist motto, « ne travaillez jamais … »  

  “Impoverish the State!” proclaimèd the impoverishèd.  

  °Who writes on the walls in marker pen, especially the toilet walls as well, what they strategically plan to do to force a change in Parisienne society?° wonderèd Anon..  

  {on-the-loo}  

  You would imagine, if you're contemplating, like you do when you're on the loo, what might be contemplatèd if you're looking at planning an overhauling of the city's infrastructure.  

  « Détournement. »  

  Derailment.  

  The Invisible Committee.  

  {murmurings behind closèd bedroom doors}  

  It was a real piece of work.  It was a real piece of work this underhand plan.  They were real pieces of work, these artists, these real pieces of work.  

  There was an equation on the floor, there were plans on the wall.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Hell was in a gesture.  An invasive body posture.  Arrayèd was displayèd.  

  °Midwifery, deliver me°  

  Michal had decidèd to squat for the delivery of the twins.  Her midwife was up front and Simeon was kneading her lower back and hips to relieve the tension.  

  She was a very good pregnant situation, Michal.  

  She never complainèd.  

  All Simeon had to do was repeat part of his Bar-Mitzvah mantra which Michal considerèd to be chutzpah.  

  Michal was also supportèd by a sort of chair, like the loo.  It was a special design to make the passage of birth easier.  

  “Every woman should feel affronted by the conventional way of giving birth,” said the midwife.  “It's so invasive, what with all the exposure and the unnatural position.  This new invention makes all the difference.”  

  Necessity really is the mother of invention and the invention spared the mother a lot of unnecessary contortion.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The contraband fell out of William Quincy's briefcase.  

  THEY READ:  

  We, the Sociocratic Person, identify the Other as the bureaucratic information message of Matriarchy.  Yet we, the Sociocratic Person, would do well to paraphrase the late Christopher Hitchens, who implies that we, as a directorate of the Sociocratic Person, must allow women to take responsibility for an increasing number of the decisions that affect the numbers they propagate.  The One, we, the Sociocratic Person, can identify with an emerging filiarchy, a new form of bureaucracy, containèd within the atomic other as its nucleus.  

  We, the Sociocratic Person, render all other economic think-tanks obsolete with the following simple principle: no VAT during Friday, on the grounds that our Ishmaelite citizenry would consider it idolatry, during Saturday, on the grounds that our Jewish populations would consider it usury, and the Christians don't buy anything on a Sunday anyway.  Once all other economic thinktanks admit defeat and accept this principle, we, the Sociocratic Person, can assume responsibility for their reorganization and administration.  

  It was the only time he failèd to keep an eye on his briefcase.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The Dowager, rearing the head of the birch-end shag-pull sweeper, was hindening about her grandson maddening.  

  “You behave, monsieur, you savvy savoir?  I'll be pitching you to the old apple tree in the garden and you'll live out there with the dogs, only, all you'll have to survive on is apples and leaves.  The dog food's too good for you in this present state,” she said.  

  The dowager couldn't get it up, some mornings.  The hip operation was giving her pins.  Pins-and-needles, walking on broken glass.  That son of a pike, her grandson, had smashèd another glass.  

  The night previous, he'd got wreckèd on cider and smokèd about a million cigs.  

  “There's a million graves in that ash tray,” said the dowager.  

  {turning her nose up at it}  

  The dowager preferrèd candles.  Anything but alcohol, tobacco, and raisèd arms in protest.  

  She'd seen enough, during the civil war.  

  “Despite things, things just seemed more civilized back then, even despite the struggle,” she dotèd, “this nation-state's got no hierarchy.  No organic tree.”  

  {casting a glance to the apple tree}  

  The dowager rememberèd how good her long-gone hubby used to keep it.  

  °I thought he was delusional about participating in the Parisienne movement° she dotèd, °but he was a true revolutionary.  I mean, he helped them with the dead bodies.  A true revolutionary he was, not like these skin-heads these days.  Oh dear, our children married into the wrong families.  Apples-and-leaves…°  

  {looking to the tree in misery}  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  It was the custom for a non-Jew, such as Simeon as he was then, to go through the process of assimilation through a long and arduous conversion.  

  “As I fell from grace, my father rose to innocence.  So now that I rise to stand alongside him, who should fall but none!” said Simeon.  

  Simeon was addressing the Beyt Din.  

  It was his Bar-Mitzvah, but he was way past the age of a teenager.  

  One could have said, a mere year earlier, that his chances of conversion were slim-to-none.  Mahal, the law of return, was causing the federation of Israel a lot of migrant problems.  Even though they were the ones promoting it.  

  “What are your views on the diasporic identity of peoples removed from settlements and habitations?” inquirèd Kaiaphas.  

  {head coverèd}  

  Simeon spoke as the Jew he wanted to be, “Consider the birds of the air, the migratory population!” he exclaimèd.  “The mutual aid of their plight.  The sabre-tooth tiger dies alone in the competitive dog-eat-dog survival of the fittest resource wars.  Hands hands hands demands lands lands lands.  How much land does one man need?  No one wins in that kind of dirty competition.”  

  °Chutzpah° thought Michal.  °I'll never forget his charisma.°  

  °He never repaired my window° thought Avi.  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  °He's too much of a Goy to ever understand the true splendour of Hebrew°  

  With the Erinyic fury of the Beyt Din, Kaiaphas stood amongst the Sanhedrin.  He couldn't help repeating the same jealous thought over-and-over.  He had lovèd Michal, but his two-house theology, two bit Yiddish philosophy, never appealèd to her.  Anything that wasn't originally Jewish, in fact, fascinatèd her.  Originally; originality.  Originality of origin.  A twice removèd distant origin.  

  Kaiaphas felt the contents his stomach curdle, rendering him mute.  

  Nothing about Kaiaphas' muteness appealèd to Michal.  Everything she wantèd was stood in front of her with chutzpah.  As if it was some sort of mitzvah.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  A chess game lay at checkmate and had not been touchèd since Witham Sispa and Mister O'Niste had shaken hands over a previous outcome beforehand ( … or was it subsequently? – no chapter, no chronology).  The fighting had rescindèd for a day or so as the brothers-and-sisters in the city-at-war had fallen into a stalemate.  

  Witham Sispa and Mister O'Niste were playing a cryptic game of cards.  A few illustratèd cards lay on top of a wicker table and an awning spread over their heads.  Soldiers and officers surrounded them, smoking short, fat stubby cigarillos and supping on their espressos.  

  “Wand or cup?” said Mister O'Niste.  

  He playfully bluffèd with his bluffing hand.  

  “They scatter their clatter,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  {laying the nine of wands}  

  “Their holy wands upon the holy ground,” alludèd Mister O'Niste.  

  {laying the ten of wands}  

  “She might be the snake,” said Witham Sispa.  

  {drawing the seven-of-sevens}  

  “Forced to carry her belly,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Another one bites the dust,” said Witham Sispa.  “I forfeit.”  

  “You can never draw a game when drawing hands,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Hands hands hands demands lands lands lands,” said Witham Sispa.  “All this fighting, it's pointless nonsense.”  

  “Power supplies, power demands,” said Mister O'Niste.  

  “Hands demands lands,” replièd Witham Sispa, recurring his former point.  

  “How much land does one man need?” said Mister O'Niste, rhetorically.  

  Mister O'Niste was referring to the famous Russian writer of War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy.  

  “Venus and Mars, wars and whores,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  At that, Witham Sispa got up to leave.  He'd leave the other sitting.  Mister O'Niste was thinking of smoking.  

  “I'll get the bill,” said Mister O'Niste.  

  “Very good, sir,” replièd Witham Sispa.  

  Witham Sispa's sole object was to reach the deadlockèd game of chess that lay elsewhere.  He set off in the general direction, with the knowledge that when he movèd a sole piece in a singular direction The General would make his move.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “Why does a business man from Sham-el-Sheikh prefer a British Tourist to a Russian?” said William Quincy.  

  “One's a tourist, The other's a Russian?” replièd Tulpa.  Many years later, or was it earlier?  No chronology, no chapter, remember? …

  “One's one, one's-a-billion,” said Quincy, correcting her.  

  Mister William Quincy was the type of chief editor that liked to correct Tulpa but according to grammar and the corruptor it was Tulpa who had the right kind of answer.  

  Tulpa was also a subber.  

  °Immediately I wanted to fuck her° thought nostalgia.  

  Tulpa was always correcting Quincy's mistakes.  Idiosyncratic and idiomatic.  

  °How did he get into his current position?° wonderèd Tulpa.  

  William Quincy was eyeing up Tulpa who was looking down, eyes down, reading the wire news sources.  Reuters via Routers.  Tulpa surprisèd Quincy with her ideas.  Tulpa preferrèd to put them down on paper but had trouble getting them to align on the screen in her role as a subber.  Tulpa spoke her opinions with more vigour and conviction when she expressèd them with gestures as well, not constrainèd by modes of journalistic trapping, no tapping, no keys et cetera et cetera.  

  “So, why do they call him the most evil man of all time?” askèd Tulpa.  

  Tulpa was referring to an English poet who had written an anthropological psyhco-spiritual document in Cairo, 1914.  

  “Isn't it just psychotic nonsense?” askèd Quincy, understandably concernèd.  

  “Isn't it just?” wonderèd Tulpa.  

  Quincy and Tulpa were looking at the document together; trying to cobble together an idea, an interpretation that would satisfy the news.  

  Quincy had gone to see his good friends at the sociocratic think-tank about what they knew.  The sociocrats were working on a think tank policy research project.  The sociocrats were always working on a think tank policy research project.  

  Quincy had come back to the news room to sit up with Tulpa.  

  {subbing}  

  Tulpa was working on a late edition of the paper's supplements.  Waylaid, and out to print way after the expected deadline, but a job to do nonetheless.  Until the completion of the work.  Eager to continue, wishful to finish.  Quincy and the rest of his team at the newspaper down from the Opera tarrièd yet more on the supplement deadline.  

  Mister William Quincy had told Tulpa what he had discoverèd from his good friends at the sociocratic think tank.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Many years later, or was it earlier, no chronology, no chapter, remember?  Tulpa workèd for the newspaper down from the Opera.  She had been offerèd the job as a subber, sub-editor, since moving away from her surrogate father, Llugnurgus, to London.  

  Tulpa's apartment was in Islington.  It suitèd her.  Not too long in the underground to get across to The Grand, the newspaper, her new employer.  

  Tulpa registerèd the streets of Islington just once, maybe twice, for satisfaction.  The rest of the time she went up and down those London streets her gaze was cast to the gemmèd azure above her.  Ireland had come to no longer be her captor.  Llugnurgus, her surrogate father had instructèd her.  Of course, she was adept at Cyrillic, and most of the other alphabets.  It was that sort of knowledge that had made the impression on The Grand Editor, who was helpless to employ her.  

  “A satisfactory answer … ” he had told her, as he welcomèd her.  

  {a firm handshake}  

  That night, after her induction, she thought about her colleagues.  One of her fellow subbers was a Cockney gent called William Quincy.  

  °William Quincy, anyone?° thought Tulpa, as if there could have been anyone else to occupy her.  

  Tulpa was years and ages older.  Her rose was growing colder.  She ponderèd a lover.  She never had had any from a celebrity of the likes of someone callèd William Quincy.  Qavanagh, QC.  Queen's council.  

  °Something appealing to me° Tulpa thought with intrigue, as if she was crossing a sea, in waves, towards William.  

  William Quincy was like fire to her.  She lit up a smoke, and drew on the elements because she felt cold.  She always drew on the elements when she felt her rose growing colder.  

  °The voyeur is in the voyeur of the beholder° she thought, about the media.  °And beauty beholds a rose growing older.  I'm not growing any younger without a lover° she thought.  

  Tulpa felt the cool menthol from the cigarette acquiesce with her aery libido.  

  Tulpa's chest rose gently and fell swiftly with an intercessory exhalation.  

  Things had suddenly got very very exciting for Tulpa.  She read-and-read what was written in her diary, as she did, repetitively, like the good editor and divider of truth that she was.  

  °Prive … ° she thought.  

  {turning pages}  

  °I'd settle for William Quincy, Qavanagh QC anyday, especially on a Sunday, because I'm lonely° thought Tulpa.  °He's my kind of celebrity.  Is celebrity idolatry to a Catholic such as me?°  

  IT READ:  

  Geomantic Notaçion for an Haiku

*****

*******

*****

A Tanka, by Tulpa  

Do I fall in love?

Everyone at school: female

A boy should call me?

To him, my virginity

His cock, my virginity

  {musingly}  

  {closing her diary}  

  It was a very old entry.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Kapitalismo has an accounts system.  The employees of the Audit Commission unwittingly creatèd an Eidolon to transfer all the static capital to the realm of the virtual.  

  The Eidolon was called Apeiron.  

  Apeiron works like a pylon; it receives messages and then passes them on.  Apeiron would come to live on-and-on.  

  Imagine Lady Columbia: statuesque.  Avatars of capital were circulating the social.  People were checking the accounts system on a daily basis, signing in, signing out, logging in, logging out, enjoying their employment as leisure.  The ruse of social media.  

  The conscientious bureaucrats would file reports about which advertising messages would be least successful whilst the lazier ones would play the virtual games which would thereby inform the executives of which political strategy was best to take to get their vote.  

  Each and every data message would run central, back to Apeiron.  

  “So why do we have to work for static capital as well as the virtual?” said a Kraakser to another autonomous zoner loner.  

  Apeiron had not yet grown large enough as an Eidolon.  It requirèd an ultimate decision.  Yet, every day, the bureaucrats typing away, would inform her, Apeiron, through their social interaction.  It was too late for too late capitalism.  

  “Virtual space is increasing but I feel so claustrophobic,” said the Kraakser.  

  “I'm losing my memory,” replièd the autonomous zoner loner.  

  Slowly, symptoms were manifesting although a new era was dawning.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  With slags upon their hearts they go amidst the flying darts.  Many shots, many broken hearts, scores of woundèd soldiers.  Scores of scorning sisters.  Enemies entrenchèd, trusters with their trysters.  

  “General?”  

  “Hospital.”  

  “General?”  

  “Anaesthetic.”  

  Despite the address, men were falling by the thousand at every side.  

  It becomes hard to know which side is which in a city-at-war.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Magog put the glass of wine down on the table with enough force to make an impression akin to the bitterness with which his palette tastèd it; his facial expression confirmèd the same.  It was a look of unreward as if angerèd by those who appearèd to have more by doing less.  He had to duck and weave his head at points in the conversation as if sparring against a denser crowd in opposition to him.  You could tell he'd been up against the wall in his life.  

  Trust had had to manufacture a lie.  

  “If you don't tell us what we need to know, I can only repeat everything I've just said,” said Lamed.  

  {reiterating backwards with the hands}  

  As the two gentlemen left that bar, Lamed noticèd that Magog had paid for the bill.  Magog took a long sigh, as if there was tension between friends.  The best of friends could be the closest of enemies in this business.  But the fact was that trust manufacturèd a lie.  

  “The Home Office have given me seven grand towards my sojournment here,” said Lamed.  

  {gestures telling the truth}  

  “You must be a comfortable liar,” replièd Magog, °Would I confess to anyone in the same position?° he thought.  

  Before the truth could be made known, every fallacy of every kind had had to find its suitable expression during the conversation.  Expression as a means to freedom brought a host of deceit, in a world where the telling of the untruth was corporeally sought and once bought hirèd out.  Whorèd out.  Everyone was a whore in this business.  

  “It was false intelligence,” said Lamed, °the falsity of intelligence° he read.  

  {beckoning}  

  {glancing}  

  “I guess it's not who you know but what you get to know from whom?” musèd Magog.  

  Lamed was amusèd.  It was what Lamed was always thinking.  Lamed thankèd him for noticing.  Lamed wasn't going to go and give away any spoilers.  Lamed was speaking to Ipsissimus.  

  Ipsissimus was supra-Mossad.  Mister Magog was the name he kept once he'd gotten that fake ID that the company issues.  In fact, Lamed didn't know his real name.  How queer!  Lamed considerèd Magog one of his closest friends.  The two binary agents never talkèd about family.  Even though Magog was above the business Lamed didn't want his family business compromising anyone's identity.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  In the office-misrad, Psi-Qolog was giving Miss Correspondence the familiar one-phrase Hebrew treatment.  

  He spoke aloud: “Khatzeytz.”  

  “So what does it mean?” wonderèd Miss Correspondence.  

  “Divide-the-booty, shoot-the-arrows,” replièd Psi-Qolog.  

  “Your Midrash is a sex joke!” replièd Miss Correspondence.  

  Khatzeytz.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Anon. had arrivèd after the race riots of Paris.  As an artist.  Anon. didn't know it at the time.  At the time, Anon. was laying flowers at the feet of African women in busy town squares.  Anything to make a statement; confusing the establishment.  A naïve but true sentiment.  

  “Why did Solomon of the Torah not name his lover Sarah?– the anonymous dark stranger, Naviah, as per the mother, Mater Matuta,” said Anon. to one-of-them.  

  “Why thank you, monsieur,” said one-of-them, °atzmam°, one-of-them, in reply, °akhorai°, in reply.  

  {accepting the gift}  

  « Bonsoir. »  

  At that, Anon. left her,  

  {pursuing another idea}  

  Pursuing another Eidolon within the Apophenion æon.  

  “You're supposed to say « bonsoireé … »,” Anon. heard another say as she was walking away.  Anon. slept on a park bench that night.  As if Anon. was waiting for some reward for all the hard work that Anon. was doing on behalf of racism in Paris.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “We've just seen our perfect vision,” said Simeon.  

  “Cause we stayed up all night to achieve it,” replièd Michal.  

  When they began to conceive the sun was setting.  They knew they had conceivèd when the sun began to rise.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

As night fell, we rose.  We the Rose were seatèd.  Greetèd, Presidentially.  Salutatory, the initiate, initially.  Hauntèd, apprehendèd.  Apprehendèd by the spectre of the voter.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What's with the water?” asks Llugnurgus, the Irish Catholic priest.

  “It keeps you sober,” says his mistress, Tulpa.  

  “I asked for whisky,” he says to Tulpa {gently} °So, she's on-to-me° thinks Llugnurgus, °it'll have-to-be a fingernail's worth o' whisky in a coffee for when she's not watching me° {secretly}  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What does a peripheral totality in time and space do?” wonderèd Sally.  

  Every one else was messing about sociocratically.

  { … }  

  “The outskirts of a city form a periphery of urbanity; time zones may vary,” replièd Quincy.  He went on: “The peripheral totality maintains locality without itself, spatially, striated or smooth within, and governs time by a network of staircases, corridors, traffic lights and all manner of synchronizing elements.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  When one decides that one should rule, all become one, individually.  Equality Decidèd Locally.  EDL.  

  The English Defence League were a diverse group who indictèd their detractors for making stereotypical claims.  

  Inside the Mechanics Institute …  

  “Those who execute power are not those who administer it, and vica-versa,” said the orator, another QC, queen's council, Qavanagh turned guvnor.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  {hands up in consternation}  

  Mister O'Niste could be seen running for his life, bounding out of the Corset shoppe on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, with a naked mannequin underneath his arm.  Three animatèd dolls came chasing him out of the front door of the shoppe; all three of them were wearing corsets and corsages.  The three women threw their hands up in consternation.  

  « Enculé … » shoutèd one of the dolls.  

  Enculé.  Encourage.  

  It was an aggravatèd situation, creatèd by an agitational situational situationista.  Mister O'Niste.  Mister O'Niste had been persuadèd by his coagitator Witham Sispa to drive his perpetuating fear further.  As Mister O'Niste evadèd the onlooker, the sole remaining shopkeeper who had given up the chase, he turnèd a corner only to be greeted by Witham Sispa.  

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Sispa.  “I knew you'd do it.”  

۝

The Beginning of Fabula XI.

 

Fabula XI.

۞

  “A quality and equality,” said Mister William Quincy {reading newsroom Anontology}.  “Great combination!  Yahtzee … { … } anyone?” Quincy quippèd.  

  Quippèd Quincy referring to the combination of words editèd through the application of Anontology.  Mister William Quincy worked the paper, down from the Opera.  WC-something, QC-happening.  Two-too-many a comma, got on with everyone, except one.  The Grand Editor; his opposition leader in the media of the media.  

  “Hand me a lead utensil, you know, a pencil, une stylo!” exclaimèd Quincy, “I need to scratch out your 'I''s.”  

  The opposition and their leader callèd The Grand Editor The Grand Editor 'cause he earnèd so much more than the runner of the newspaper down from the Opera.  

  Quincy initially workèd as a runner, not a shotcaller.  Always with the Coffee, anyone?  Always no one.  He was exploitèd but he wantèd a shot at The Grand.  It came all too quickly.  The shot.  

  {pint}  

  {shot}  

  {riot}  

  Quincy took a shot at him, The Grand Editor, as a runner and as an opiner in a column as an editor.  He was out on his arse a day later.  He didn't seem to care.  It was the devil's arse-paper, that rag.  A UK tabloid with a fetish for a straw-man non-existant yet fillèd by the next available pervert with a psychological disease for fame at any cost.  

  “I'm not just anyone!” screamèd the Grand Editor, through a telephone receiver: “I'm a highly paid editor.  Two-too-many an idea, Qavanagh.”  

  “Alright, Guvnor,” replièd Qavanagh.  

  “A satisfactory answer,” said The Grand Editor.  “Now get to work on that piece of shit that you call a paper.”  

  °I think I held-my-own° thought Mister William Quincy.  °Although, I'm not too fond of the telephone°  

۝