Sunday, February 5th, 2023.

 ראשון השבוה 

שבוה טובה

הוא הוביל את השבי בשבי

{ ... }

 

۞

  Psi-Qolog had observèd a group of children playing in the creche at his practice. He had given Miss Correspondence specific instructions to finish his group dynamics script complete with geomantic notation.

  SHE DREW:  

  Miss Correspondence had notèd some group behaviour. She drew the character of Via.  

  °Via. The way of this psychologist has a way with me. His words, they feel dirty all over me° thought Miss Correspondence.

  Psi-Qolog spoke a Hebrew phrase aloud …  

  “Echezu lanu shuahliym.” He could tell that Miss Correspondence couldn't understand, so he rephrasèd it in perfect English. “Come let us catch the foxes,” he said. “The demons surrounding us.”  

  Psi-Qolog was playfully referring to the children surrounding them in the creche.  

  °Echezu lanu shuahliym° thought Miss Correspondence.  

  A jealous passion of the fury, a singular Erinye, rose up within Miss Correspondence, and she repeatèd the thought three times.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The Stranger, although solely autonomous, became notorious quickly. It wasn't about publicity, as Anon. was the incredible artist, the archetypal situationist, celebrating the anonymous dark stranger– the stereotype, the figure, the Queen of Sheba, la Reine – but it was definitely about the stunt. Anon. didn't understand that the french authorities were ready for that kind of expression, especially after the recent racial tension. Yet, Anon. continuèd to create the situation. 

  “What is your purpose here?” askèd the chief of the police. 

  The chief of the police had probably been callèd out on his day off to keep the whole thing in check, not demandingly but with an air of curiosity. “What kind of expression is this?” he furtherèd. “And are we involved?” he wonderèd. 

  Anon. found materials arrangèd in anarchic stock-piles all over the city. Anon. dealt with the themes of nationalism, sexism, and racism, mainly, with installments cropping up around different locations in the city of Paris. The 5th, The 9th, The 16th. Installing one here, miraculously appearing miles-and-miles away, to install another one there. 

  Here, and, there. 

  Here, there, and everywhere. 

  Hic et ubique. 

  Anon. had to be careful not to be noticèd on the lengthy travail from the one location to the other. So Anon. movèd at night, and slept little. Remembering back, one night, the police and Anon. were embroilèd in a chase. The police mustn't have had anything better to do that night because Anon. had noticèd that the police had noticèd and that they were following with intrigue. To see where and what Anon. was going to do next. This was an egregious interplay with the street police, as Anon. knew them that night, and it led to an headquarters underground. Anon. found the way there by materials litterèd on the streets in a ticker-tape fashion. A sole, unlit firework pointèd to a street. When Anon. arrivèd at the end of the street another marker could be seen. A piece of cloth, brightly colourèd, and indicating where Anon. should go next. 

  Anon. movèd from the 9th Arrondissment to the 16th, in stages, where the epic treasure trail met its conclusion. It led to an underground parking lot. As Anon. went in, the signs were stark. In fact, a sticker postèd on a door read: FOLLOW THE CLUES. 

  In the darkest recesses of that basement Anon. found a boiler room. Inside, a warm winter coat lay beside an electric generator, some porn, and a shed-load of bric-a-brac for the means of the expression. Anon. was dumbfoundèd.

  Anon. could hear voices even further into the darkness. Anon. attemptèd to locate where the voices were coming from which led to another door. Once through, a dim light was shining from where the voices were in conversation. Anon. went through. 

  The first thing Anon. saw was a chair with a lamp. It shone on the sole chair, inviting Anon. to sit down. 

  “Please, talk to us. We know about the one with the briefcase. We want to know why you have been following the one with the briefcase, and how it is possible that you know exactly where this one will be in the city from one place to the next,” said one of the voices. 

  This was a bit of a surprise as Anon. could only acknowledge seeing the one with the briefcase the once thus far.  

  “Please, sit,” said another voice.  

  Anon. obligèd and sat in the chair. Three police officers surroundèd Anon. in interrogation fashion. 

  “Are you an intelligence agent?” said one of them.  

  Amidst the darkness, a quorum of them were shroudèd.

  Anon. said nothing in reply. One of the officers reachèd into a dark corner and producèd a typewriter. The officer placèd it on Anon.'s lap. 

  “Disassemble it, now,” demandèd the officer.  

  Without hesitation, Anon. tappèd on the keys. Nothing happenèd, so it must have been that the levers were not responding to the keys. Anon. lookèd at the levers. Drawing one of them back, Anon. saw an intricacy of ribbons of differing colours. Anon. gently withdrew the one prong that was being held gently between the thumb-and-forefinger. It removèd the whole set. Anon. saw two small cannisters, twinnèd, and hidden underneath the keys. Anon. knew exactly what Anon. had to do. 

  Anon. countèd the number of colourèd ribbons. Four in total. Anon. tore one of them. Green. It was so delicate that it rippèd immediately. Something movèd underneath the keys. Anon. heard a ticking sound begin. It soundèd rather slow, as if it movèd per second. Anon. couldn’t see what was causing the motion. Anon. put an entire left hand into the vacuous space where the levers had been removèd. Anon. felt a rubber band circling around two metal discs, then, withdrew the left hand.  

  “You have just over sixty seconds to disarm this bomb,” said another officer.  

  The other officer's face was undiscernable within the darkness. Noumenal abstractness. 

  In the pale light, Anon. could make out a blue ribbon, a red ribbon, a yellow ribbon. 

  “One of the coloured wires stops the timer. If you sever the other two, the timer is overrode and we all die,” said the officer. 

  The yellow ribbon led directly to the centre of one of the metal discs. The biggest one. The red ribbon led directly to the centre of the smaller disc. The blue ribbon ran from somewhere in the middle of the ticking device. Anon. archèd Anon.'s neck right round, gently lifting the typewriter up to listen underneath. There were two ticking sounds in unison yet minisculely out-of-time with each other. The blue ribbon came out into view then back out-of-sight underneath the keys. 

  Anon. grabbèd the lamp intensely and yankèd it round to shine inside the gap. Anon. could just make out that the blue ribbon was joinèd to the other two at an intersecting point. 

  Thirty seconds had passèd and Anon. was getting nervous. A split decision was made. Immediately Anon. made it. Anon. tore the blue ribbon at the nearest point that it was joinèd to one of the cannisters. Nothing happenèd. Or at least, that's what Anon. thought initially, since the ticking kept going. 

  Again, Anon. liftèd the device to listen underneath. The unison ticking had stoppèd, but the timer kept going. Anon. repeatèd the experiment with the blue ribbon attachèd to the other cannister, removing the other connection. 

  Anon. felt a sharp blunt blow to the right temple of Anon.'s head. Anon. droppèd the typewriter on-the-floor. Anon. couldn't tell whether the remaining ticking sound had ceasèd. Anon. turnèd a throbbing head sideways to check. Another blunt and heavy blow came to the other side of Anon.'s head and consciousness was lost. 

  Phenomanonymous in the darkness. 

  Noumenal abstractness.  

  Eous. 

۝

Fabula X.

Fabula X.

۞

  Cancer Yehoudah. Tax them five per cent higher. No VAT at weekends. Ten per cent higher during the four day week. Monday through Thursday, Tiwday through Thor-day. All of them at war against each other every single day. Without a Naviah lover, another Yiddish concocter was struggling for an answer. 

  “A drastic disease requires a drastic cure,” said Mister Gid to his one-and-only daughter, Rebecca. 

  “Oh me, oh me, oh my,” groanèd Rebecca. “Cure me, my father.” 

  Gideon Cohen was all over the show, swaying from to-to-fro, drunk on his own medicine. Rebecca was dying slowly, aging quickly. It painèd Mister Cohen to his ruddy heart that his sole heiress might not have a claim to his malachim throne, his shabbat blessèd home. He struck the basest of metals with the gawel. 

  “Aurum, aum'ha!” he exclaimèd. 

  “Malachah,” coughèd Rebecca. 

  She was dying for another sip of what was killing her father. He wouldn't allow her the privilege. His work took precedent over her. If only he wasn't so selfish they might have understood each other. 

  “I'm just yet to finish the formula, Rebecca.” 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  SRY, not really, it just gets funny. Until it gets extinguishèd. Unless it goes beyond a joke. A skinhead shot-one-off which meant that when The Grand caught fire there wasn't a blower to go on.

  {on the blower} 

  “We've got a fire here. Everyone's been evacuated safely, can you send in the Polish to take care of it?” 

  All of the subbers and news editors were watching all their hard work go up in flames.  

  Up in flames. Down in cinders.  

  The one responsible for the disaster was seeking counsel from his friend. 

  “We could get in trouble, cause it means a lot of things to a lot of different people,” spoke counsel. 

  “I didn't mean to take the mazel, I just wanted to shoot-one-off,” said naivety.  

  “You deserve the gawel for that, fuckup,” replièd responsibility.  

  It was only a small fire, but all the papers around the office set alight quickly. There was nothing to extinguish it since the skin-head that had shot-one-off had disablèd the fire extinguisher in order to pull off the prank of lighting a firework into the distance, the general direction of The Grand newspaper building. 

  A sole figure was glad to see the back of it. Telly was on the balcony across from Tottenham Ton. He saw his future empire going up like a pyre. A tear came to a crier. It was the End of an Ayah. 

  °I'm an executive. I'm leaving° he thought. 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What do you think of the Federation?” 

  “It's only a young nation,” 

  “They're bound-to-be irresponsible,” 

  IT DEMANDS: 

  IMAGINATION. PARTICIPATION. THEY DEMAND.  

  “Who are they?”  

  “The Media.”  

  When the demands of a boy's republic aren't met …  

  The Sociocrative vivre of the oevre of one less than half a dozen were marching on San Franscisco, to smash the fuck out of a Deutsche Welle office and put a NAFTA straight through. A trade embrago straight through a window. 

  “Man, you shoulda seen it blow!”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  They were stoppèd at the door and askèd for credentials. Namely, which party. Also, no drug policy. 

  “Free thinkers don't need to do drugs,” said a hard-case, 

  {on-the-door} 

  Some skin-heads were playing wraps, cards on knuckles. An elderly dowager dusting by on a duster. The crone was keeping-it-dusty, making more mess than she was cleaning up with all her dandruff coming off.  

  “What a flake, that Nan!” said one.  

  {slightly annoyèd}  

  “This is supposed to be a serious meeting. Can someone please, tell her to stop dusting.”  

  “Well, that's employment,” said her skin-head grandson.  

  “Ouch, my knuckles!” said a wrappèd to the wrapper.  

  “I'm voting British National Party. Who are you voting for, skinhead?” 

  “English Defence League. No question.”  

  “Well, we're all white, we should have the jobs, either either, it doesn't matter. Just remember that you're white.”  

  “No probs, we can just smash the shit out of every paki shop on the corner.”  

  Just around the corner another racist movement was happening.  

  {above the shop}  

  The paki shop.  

  “Darkness is all around us,” said Asif to Iziz.  

  “We're living through dark times,” said Iziz to Asif.  

  Above the shop it read COHEN. An Ishmaelite family, a Jewish name. Hereditarily and momentarily, a family. Like cousins, actually.  

  “It'd cost my family a hell of a lot of money,” said the son of the one with the dowry.  

  “Why, are you family?”  

  “Yeah, she's my cousin, actually.”  

  Hunty: the father of the community. He knew everyone and everybody. EDL security. He likèd to go and get into a fight every single Saturday. 

  “Is that his family?”  

  “Yeah, cousin actually.”  

۝