Truthfully. In truth, not falsity, Anon. was taking plagiarism seriously. Deleting a false idea. Replacing it with the right one. But in doing so Anon. was showing Anon.'s true hand for what it was. Average. Anon. drew a blank. A blank stare. Eyes wandering up there. Anon. checkèd the time. 4:04PM. It made Anon. impatient. We were all hoping for some sort of agreement. The building adjacent, a ruinèd monument. The face of this city was about to change.
The way Anon. dismissèd Sarai, at Anon.'s hotel door at La Sanguine on La Rue Richard Lenoir, made Anon. realise that Anon. had to plan an escape from Paris, somehow. Not only had she, Sarai, somehow found Anon., found Anon. somehow, she, Sarai, was actively pursuing Anon. now. °How?° thought Anon.. °How can I escape?° I've been here eleven years now and I'm still trying to get out, Anon. recallèd as the American had said to Anon. in a bar one night out in the 5th. The 5th was like any other conjoining of Parisienne boulevards.
Honestly, every street corner looks the same when you arrive in the next arrondissement. Thank God that the face of the American was not so familiar to Anon.. It was the comfort that Anon. needèd at that time.
At that time, drinking in the 5th with an American, with his unfamiliar face as-it-was, whilst the Civil War was raging elsewhere in divers strategic locations, theatres of war, in the city, The General was taking to the pulpit to deliver a sonnet. The pulpit was stackèd chairs and tables, part of a singular barricade, with the crowd huddlèd down below in the street. The 9th. Or was it the 11th? The General's face was resolute. Even though Anon. wasn't there to see it, Anon. was gesticulating to the American what Anon. felt was appropriate for a general to do when addressing an eager crowd of his comrades.
“He's got to command attention by rising up with the glove,” Anon. said to the American.
“Ah,” replièd the American. “Taking shape of the globe.”
“Hands hands hands demands lands lands lands,” said Anon..
“He'll be out there,” said the American. “Right now, on his podium. Only, it's not like when Hitler addressed the stadium.”
“That kind of unity required absolute loyalty,” said Anon..
“Unanimity?” the American said. “No, he was just a bully.”
The American was friendly and chose to remain in his anonymity. Much like Anon. and Anon.'s psychology. Again and again in the same way, forever. In contemplation for over a decade which may be revisèd ad infinitum. The landscape was recurring, too. That same winding hill with the terracèd houses and the ever-present steeple above their rows.
An unknown man in denim was wiping the windows of the houses below. Anon. could feel the wind blowing against Anon. as Anon. stood there, out in the open, … Anon. could feel the wind blowing against Anon. … Anon. could feel the wind … punctuating the silence of the valleys. The face of the window cleaner was reflecting in the glass panes of the windows he was wiping. His face was one of determination and everything else that that expression describes.
Anon. crackèd a lip. It was worn out from the flask at Anon.'s hip. So much of that dirty mouth. Cigariyah vulgari, increpitus vulgi. The curse of the common people. Fags-and-booze. The working-class way. Palliatives for the last ten years of the socialist government war. They let us run amok. Have whatever we wantèd, so long as we didn't protest.
There was a gathering. Protesting. An exclamation of Social Darwinism and an outworking of how the disenfranchisèd felt about being marginalisèd for their lost cause, since the globe was actually cooling, not for want of thinking that global temperatures were rising, but lowering. Towards another glacial period, a slow descent to the next Ice Age. Together there, outside the government administration buildings they celebratèd their welfare wage constraints with song and dance but the sod of it was that a Kickstarter go-fund-me online petition had raisèd eight million quid for them to spend on MDMA for their street parties in protest democracies. How can you describe democracy sweetly amidst a failing economy? How can we recognise inwardly what we must do to escape poverty?
In melody, the denim society celebratèd their festivity. That particular gathering had the right kind of clothing. Stylish like the Orthodox Yiddish. Together they are one. Separatèd they're still holy. Because everyone is happy. Getting laid on the Sabbath perpetually as if it was eternity. Paradiso?
Let's go! In melody, and thirsty for what is holy, they experience their satiety. If only that could be me. Anon. felt that Anon. would give anything, in that moment of fading, to again experience the feeling of Anon.'s libido returning. Sharing. Kissing and chasing. Catching. But the effects of the common cold had got Anon. feeling old. What Anon. wouldn't give to break the mould. Invest some gold. Trade it in for a dowry, sell property, to thereby liquidate the house and join the spouse. But it's another Sabbath alone, quiet as a mouse.
It was as if there was the sound of a monk flagellating. That sweet song of ascetic suffering. A wrestling. An abandonment of carnality, forsaking the forsaking enemy. The fleshly desires and their enmity to a higher spirituality.
Assuming Christ will get you persecutèd. The landscape is Golgotha, the face is the Turin Shroud. From amidst the congregation could be heard a Hail Maryam in unison. Miriam Magdalit. Thrice great. Like Hermes, except with herpes, a hooker's disease. A jewish girl who is hookin' is one who is great lookin'. As possessèd by a djinn, or maybe a dybbuk? Exorcise me, set this dybbuk free. Hail Maryam. In Latin. A dead language, but still somehow a pidgin. There is no landscape inside a closèd cathedral. The Priest makes the Tau Posture with the mastery of the robe. He was usèd to the Tau Posture, especially in the cellar when he was divining a geomantic figure. So much repetition just so we remember much like the Mishnah, another record of a terrible author. Or is it auteur? The amateur. The amateur and the true lover (there you go, hababula). The amateur, the true lover of the pursuit.
And so, Christ hung his head after he had bled. And now I am coming to deny his expiation due to a kind of mitzvah enquiry situation. Yet blood is still involvèd. You can't give blood then take it back again. Bloody involvèd. Qadosh dam! Damn it all to hell. Insurrection. Against the heaven of heaven.
Eleven-eleven. No yeast for the feast. Unleaven. With Anon.'s arms outstretchèd, Anon. would plea for an embrace. Launderèd and warm, like Stoker and Robertson's money moving, digit-swapping, unawares to those involvèd in table-waiting, handjobbing, body-swapping, fluid-mixing. Sorry for repeating. I know it gets annoying. The doorbell rang only once this time.
The symbolic measuring tools of the philosophy of Freemasonry are the square and compass in Gamma formation. The special relationship's competitive wisdom; that Egyptian mysticism was lurking underneath the Western civilization of the Judaeo-Christian. In opposition and direct competition yet somehow concealèd and hidden.
Anon. was manufacturing the cross. What Anon. meant by this was that Anon. was being sanctimonious about Anon.'s faith. Anon. had promisèd Anon. would love Anon.'s brother, no matter what, but then Anon. callèd him out for being a snowflake and he was highly insultèd and took offence.
Chaos was a snowflake, her structure orderèd to fall. The white flakes fell gently from the sky onto the green hills of fertile Old Albion. Anon. set Anon.'s face to those rolling hills Anon. couldn't help from keep mentioning.
Anon. imaginèd being at the feet of the Roman Governor as a method actor awaiting Anon.'s turn to be a copycat martyr.
Anon. coverèd Anon.'s head with a Tau Robe, attempting to invoke a deity successfully. And then something occurrèd to Anon.. Anon. was dead centre in the centre of Anon.'s reality in which Anon. was struggling to form a new identity. The landscape didn't help. It was ruggèd and Anon. could see a temple up in the distance. There was a road winding up to a high place, and a castlelike turret was poking its head above the smaller buildings, rows of houses, below. Anon.'s face became flush and hot. Anon. felt that warm rush of embarrassment like when you've had your first orgasm with your girl. Emblushing. Anon.'s environment was changing. Ding! Ding! Ding!
Ablanathanalba.
Anon.'s patience, although momentarily lost in the frustration of Anon.'s surroundings, being lost in the starry architecture of Paris, during a civil war, was returning again.
The visage of noumenal Sarai was returning, just like the psychedelic dissolution of the face in the mirror many Ayah's earlier.
Anon. spoke, confidentially, to the secret heart of Anon., Anon.'s secret centre, to me, li, to me, li, his sign, tu, Lilitu.
An ellipsis of solipsis. Ipsis to Ionis. Ipsissimus. Free to roam free, no matter what your identity. Anon.'s patience was returning. A headache was recurring, just like that damn Parisienne street corner, the same at every crossèd avenue. Once again, Anon. lost sight of Anon.'s reflection, as if it was an illusion, as if it had been somehow stolen. Anon. was interrupting something. Anon. was surprisèd by this meeting. Anon. was reading what Sarai was previously holding. Ding! Ding! Ding!
°Ablanathanalba° thought Anon..
She had passèd Anon. a note that was obscurèd by moisture. Anon. read what Anon. could make out as some form of scripture. For some reason, a stiflèd giggle of amusement escapèd Anon..
There was a short pause in time.
Anon. needèd closure from Anon.'s task, whatever it had decidèd to be. Anon. was back on La Rue Richard Lenoir after a week of psychogeography and the dérive. The faces passing me by lookèd pallow and wan. When would this civil war be won? It wasn't any fun. Far, far away from Anon. was a man who would come to give Anon. therapy. A psychologist and his prodigy. And his method was bound to cure Anon..
Anon. embracèd Sarai. In Anon.'s imagination. Anon. was straining to achieve union with the Eidolon. Anon. pourèd Anon. a Vodka. Oh, Solipsistic Sarah! At the end of each and every Ayah. Anon. lookèd at a photograph of the landscape of Georgia. It advertisèd Sakartsvili as a popular destination for tourists. There was a woman on the front of the postcard landscape that meant to advertise its beauty. The face was comely.
Twins come in twos. Yihnrih. Binary. It's kinda like mitosis. We had a recessive gene, our own historical meme. But, it skippèd a generation. We inheritèd it from our grandparents. One side Romany-gypsy, the other side royalty. Probably. Ubu roi! Both Yihnrih and Ahnrah were on par. But always in competition, facing in the same direction, always in competition, for the boys. The twins and their ploys. As long as it wasn't the goys.
Goyim. A lesser people. Second class, citizen. Slave morality. Their parents wantèd them to continue to inherit the royalty and keep within the jewish family. Endogamy. Unfolding at the conclusion of our story.
Anon.'s psychosis was like being trappèd in an Ideosphere. A realm or sphere of ideas, kinda like the internet. The landscape of the Ideosphere is like the interior of a digital wallèd city. Neon. It reflectèd Anon.'s face like a crystal fractal, expanding. Growing. The neon Ideosphere was glowing.
Psychosis is pure solipsis. Again, another interior, a somewhat inferior architecture. Anon. forgot what Anon.'s reflection lookèd like; but, so does everybody without a mirror.
Anon. was going through Anon.'s redactèd notes. Classifièd, you might say. Classifièd and put away. Out of sight, out of mind. The hills were still rolling. Upon them, Anon. could see a man and his dog strolling. As Anon. was looking out of Anon.'s window, onto that familiar winding hill with the row of terracèd houses a faint rainbow appearèd, the lines of which were blurring as they were refracting. Anon. returnèd to Anon.'s note-taking and personal redacting. Anon. could feel Anon.'s furrowèd brow relaxing. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ablanathanalba.
There was a long pause.
And then yet another ding sound. Was it annoying or was it profound? There was no one around. Except for the sound, the sound of the children's voices ran around, ran around the playground. And then a bell ringer brought them back to order.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Anon. heard the door bell ring. Anon. didn't know or realise that Anon. would have to explain everything. Something was missing. Anon.'s testimony. Red for blood. White for the win. Testimony blues.
Anon. was moving quickly; moving through the ruinèd city quickly. At pace as if it was a race. A race against time – time-on-chime – to be there right on time to intercept a Logris at the intersection of the boulevards of Paris.
Anon. struck another cigarette up. Lit right up. Pullèd. Inhalèd. Exhalèd. Felt the cool mist mix with the noxious gases. The city-at-war was a wasteland of ruin. Dusty streets. Smashèd shop windows. Anon. closèd Anon.'s eyes and saw her, Solipsistic Sarah, staring back at Anon.. « Une visage sans visage. » Striking one up was letting one down. Anon. cast Anon.'s eyes down. Down to the ground. There was refuse littering the cobbles of the street underneath Anon.'s feet. Anon. closèd Anon.'s eyes again. This time she starèd at Anon. in sepia. She sings in sepia, Solipsistic Sarah. She enterèd through that place reservèd for her in Anon.'s mind's eye. And then Anon. openèd Anon.'s eyes and saw the pink, watercolour dawn skies. Free from the superficial lies. It's impossible for a dawn sky to tell a lie.
Anon. was in a pair of boots. Anon. needèd sturdy footwear to traverse the winding hill that lay outside the wallèd city of the Ideosphere. Anon.'s face was serene. Anon. was in a pair of boots. The reason Anon. noticèd this for the second time was because Anon. realisèd that Anon. needèd to retie the laces properly. So, Anon. did it. Anon. openèd the front door of Anon.'s abode to the valley. At the bottom of it, Anon. saw the denim flag-waving party. A local custom. Anon.'s face was serene.
It was good to be back home from war-torn Paris, in the rural countryside. Anon. lit a cigarette and inhalèd the smoke along with the fresh country air. A friend of Anon.'s who Anon. had not seen for ages was walking up the road towards Anon.. Anon. lookèd ahead towards him and he recognisèd Anon. and wavèd. Anon. took another hit from the lit smoke by which time he had reachèd where Anon. was standing. Anon. said hello and greetèd him then passèd him the lit smoke. The present landscape was anathema to war-torn Paris.
“What was it like over there?” said Anon.'s friend.
Without having to say a single word, Anon.'s face said it all.
Anon. was pullèd into a waking vision of Paris upon where Anon. heard a knock at the door. Anon. felt Anon.'s spine bolt upwards from Anon.'s recline.
Thousands of doorways linèd a long corridor. Faces were indentèd into the walls. The ectoplasm of protoplasm, projectèd from their immediatist experiences past gone. And then it was gone. The hallway corridor recedèd, rescindèd, like an envelope folding in upon itself. Anon.'s attention was brought back to the knock at the door. It restatèd itself with another knock.
Knock, knock. Anon. suddenly noticèd the sound of the clock. Tick-tock.
Knock.
Anon. felt startlèd.
Knock, knock.
°Should I answer it?°
The cruel hallway of the second floor of the La Sanguine Hotel awaitèd Anon.. °Had she appearèd to me? Crossèd over into my reality?° There was only one way to find out. Anon. got up slowly. Caught a reflection of the mirror, again, looking back at Anon.. “Hello?” came the question.
The dream was of a desolate room. The furnishings were minimal, a bed and a bedside table. In the vision Anon. ponderèd for a brief moment what La Rue Richard Lenoir must look like outside now after those days of fighting but Anon. couldn't because the curtains had remainèd closèd for some time now. Instead, Anon. peerèd through the looking glass on Anon.'s hotel door before saying anything in response. It was Sarai. Unmistakeably. Anon. said to her, through the door, “begone!” concludingly.
Anon. couldn't help but laugh aloud. Now suddenly amongst a busy crowd. Visions of the future could be read in the faces of every passer-by. No one stoppèd Anon. to ask Anon. why Anon. was laughing so erratically.
°Who laughs in the face of evil?° thought Anon..
{manic}
°Madness° Anon. concludèd.
The Stranger grows inside me. Not so if it's endogamy. Not-to-do { פיה } don't bring this name down from above Keter. Or else! Or else you'll have me after. That's my little finger. Finger-to-finger. You make it hell for people. Sartre was right. You disgusting human. The stinking body according to The Mandaean. I don't want to hate his guts. Do it anyway, they smell. It's not what he sees, or what he says, but what he smells. The sweet-smelling savour. Hebrew BBQ. His guts. Why, have you droppèd them? Why have you droppèd them? Pigs are flying low. Probably why they're not kashrut.
Anyway, Ipsis is classifièd. { ***** } Redactèd. Ipsis. Solipsis is an advertisement.
ADVERT READS:
If I've met The LORD in Taxal, I'd love to meet him in Israel. Never mind that, look at this one. Let's play! Safely. L'haleyl Sarai. Now I love you. No. I'm so done with Christianity and its boring slave morality. It's got one thousand and fifty mitzvahs. Not that hard. Dead easy, show you how to do it. Give you that later.
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Anon. was energetically running the streets of Paris in between the barricades. Anon. ran Paris with a tourniquet on. Anon. ran Paris with a tourniquet on, strappèd to Anon.'s thigh. Anon. ran Paris with a tourniquet on, strappèd to Anon.'s thigh because Anon. was so manically high. The city was Anon.'s playground. The crumbling war-torn buildings were Anon.'s background. Anon.'s face was an oil painting of a foreground. A sound led Anon. down to the subway underground. To a fiddleress.
Sarai enterèd a desolate room. Doom in a room. Marionette Records' basement venue. She was looking for codename Lamed at a rave party organisèd by what was loosely referrèd to as the techno-eco-system. The only good system is a sound system. Except, for, maybe, the Solar System. She couldn't see any sign of him.
Corruptingly adore me for my power absolutely. The I, the You, the Me. All and each in anonymity. Anon. decidèd to get on-the-blower and manufacture a conversation replete with dirty words. Anon. rememberèd back to a time when Anon. saw a group of people singing at a funeral. It was the day after a weeks-long observance of the Jewish custom known as Shiva. Ten legs, ten arms, a miynyan. Anon. was studiously reading Hebrew words from the calendar's weekly Torah portion. Anon. kept recurring to the title of the “Parashah”. Parashah Shofetim. Torah loves a recursion for the sake of its tradition.
My hairs were splayèd to-and-fro, hairs like so, and there was me, looking more-and-more Yiddish from the Hebrew aura glow.
Across-the-line, across a sea's worth of reception, Anon. was breaking up. Bad waves. Anon. found that Anon. was thrust back into war-torn Paris. The building veneers of the boulevards below were all blown out and every street corner as far as the eye could see lookèd the same. If you could have seen Anon.'s face you would have been able to see how lost Anon. had become; how lost Anon. felt. Anon. was in the hotel on La Rue Richard Lenoir. Anon. took a small vile of cocaine from Anon.'s damp pocket, emptièd it onto the bedside table, rollèd up one of Anon.'s many tatty handwritten notes and snortèd a line. Anon. lookèd out of the hotel window at the shatterèd veneers of the city-at-war. Anon. caught a reflection in the mirror of the door. Anon.'s facial expression said °why was I here? And who was I for?° All for the love of « j'adore! »
With a flick of a glance, Anon. was in a trance. Glances, glances, places, trances. Anon. was staring across a busy Parisienne street as Anon. sat in the typical roadside café, sipping an espresso as an awning coverèd Anon. overhead. Anon. thought about the face of The Stranger. A woman on a balcony was balancing herself a pose, across from view. She could have been an angle. A sultry model. Her chest was panting. Suddenly, gunshots blew out the window behind her. Anon.'s face droppèd. When Anon. lookèd again she was gone.
The people there were surprisèd and amusèd that The Shaman of the Marionette Records description, off his prescription medication, was assuming to be a devil to his people, going nakèd for a sign. Just like Yeshayahu, except he never got sawn in half like his predecessor, but he still believèd he was some sort of prophet.
Profit-and-loss by class. A glass does smash. A hot piece-of-ass. The resolution and explanation, as the matter is drawn together, the strands of the plot which informèd the personal narrative, could only be surmisèd at the denouement. It renders present absent.
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I usèd to be into qesem-anontology until I was told by many that it was bad for me. I mean, how do you force someone to agree with you coercively?
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The media lie perpetually or is it the ones we elect to represent us fairly? Honestly. Here here, there there, play fair. Life is absolutely fair. The only absolute I believe in. Life. No matter how you choose to experience it. The only experience I believe in. Life. There's no alternative to it. No alternative to life. Except for maybe strife.
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An elipsis of solipsis. Solipsistic soteriology. Call me. Free me from my existentiality. It's free and it doesn't cost anybody! So, instead of participating in qesem-anontology something else occurrèd to me. ºI've got a better sport than that: drink this.º That lunch time pint of beer was a bad decision, trappèd in the same location, the bus station.
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And then I heard a shot. The one that the civil war forgot. The young futbolista, joinèd underneath-the-ground with his fiera sister. They joinèd up for the riot since they felt their life was too quiet. Just to try it. But it wasn't long before they met the periodista who wrote: La guerra è finita. Bruciaté La Mona Lisa. Civilta è finita. Nascondeté La Mona Lisa.
Orderèd affairs. Anon. was into being a part of a part of pairs. It startèd on the stairs. What we refer to as striatèd space. How traffic lights stop traffic and street corners break up the fluxes. Smooth space is open. Like a field. A more natural landscape. It produces a fairer complexion. The pair. Both fair, with fair hair. Embarrassingly strawberry blonde. Nice colours. Set against shirt collars with the backdrop of church spires.
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In unison, a tone bend reaches an octave. What could be referrèd to as a septette. Music helps us to forget. Gently. Gently I approachèd her, Miss Demeanor.
“I like what you're wearing,” I said to her, and followèd it up with, “how about when you're not?”
“Not what?” she replièd.
“Wearing it,” I said.
Secretly. Secretly I had a better chat up line. But, it was one that I was reserving for my marriage years.
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Anon. was making a point. Gesturing with hands, gesticulating as they call it, reiterating backwards with the hands. If gestures could tell the truth they would lie about about the words. Anon.'s vocabulary was the falsity. The gestures were sincerity.
Sarai was beckoning glancing. Her face was materialising again. Just like the psychedelic visage in the mirror. Something afoot in the metaphysical upholder of the symbolic order. I am the The Other. The Other am I. So, why lie? Trust. Tryst. If it wasn't for the middle finger Anon. would have got-the-fist.
***** confession is classifièd. *****'s codename is classifièd. *****'s location is classifièd. What can be said? ***** trièd. What we attemptèd to do was tell a story through a prism you could see through. But the most important detail has been redactèd. The very name. Phenomanonymous. But, there was someone with a name … someone to blame!
Sarai was deep behind the lines in the city-at-war. The landscape seemèd as if it would be perpetual rubble. Her face was showing signs of the trouble. She thought about The One she was pursuing. If she had a name to place the face she could distance the matter with some space. °Through his years° she thought. °He looks seasoned and weathered.° She longèd for the rolling hills of Old Albion, fair Jerusalem. She held back tears and instead thought of him, through his years. She leanèd on her sniper rifle, aimèd at the General, pointing down to it, pointing down to him from her perch in the starry architecture. She adjustèd the sight. Lamed passèd her some water.
“I'd rather you'd offer me the wine,” said Sarai to Lamed.
“Better save some for later,” he said.
Sarai stubbèd out a burning cigarette she had been cradling between thumb-and-forefinger. She immediately lit another cigarette straight after. Lamed sighèd.
“There's a million graves in that ash tray,” he said.
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It was a firm handshake after. I'm desperately trying to finish this chapter but I'm now being told that I have to find an additional employer.
°Would we worry?°
Money is not an object. An object within an object is a package. A gift. Waiting. Waiting for an opening.
“I like what you are wearing,” referring to an engagement ring as well as the dressy thing. But, of course, I'm not into encouraging cheating. So I paid the compliment and left the chat up lines for my marriage years. But I felt guilty for the past couple of years. Still a bit preoccupièd by my anxious fears. Not truly free, confidence eludes me. But I'd like to think that I'm still good company.
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But it remains to be seen, so we spend our time turning pages, thinking about landscapes and faces, but most of all Sarai, prying open the third eye, wondering if the time is drawing nigh.
°Is something at hand or is it afoot?° thought Anon., musingly. Anon. lookèd through Anon.'s diary which containèd the evidence of Anon.'s idolatry. A record kept of the results, the results of spiritual tumults. Anon. closèd it shut, and as Anon. did, Anon. reminiscèd about this one barkeep Anon. used to know who gainèd notoriety for his hospitality until he had to close for business completely. There just wasn't the money. Would we worry?
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When I usèd to be a subber I knew how to exchange a player. Bid for a figure. Sixty-over-forty, we're trading. Losing. Losing other people's money only to win it back for them instantly on the LSE, London Stock Exchange, momentarily later.
What a figure! Just like Athena.
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Anon. turnèd Anon.'s nose up at it. It was a salad, caringly preparèd for Anon. by The Situationists of Châtillon-Montrouge. It wasn't that it was dirty food made by dirty people. Quite the opposite, actually. It was because Anon. felt so shabby in Anon.'s present company. Shambolic. And all Anon. wantèd to do was continue in Anon.'s present state. Borderline feral. We were all in a tall apartment tower block. Building Sixty-Two. The clue. Led them through. Yet again, Anon. was without a shoe. The faces of The Situationists were welcoming, not at all threatening. Anon. ate the salad, composèd of apples-and-leaves, anyway, as dirty as Anon. was. Anon. hadn't even washèd up before Anon. had begun to eat. But, Anon. did do the dishes after in gratitude for their hospitality. As Anon. stood there at the sink, soaping the plates and putting them on the drying rack, Anon. cast a glance to an apple tree outside the window. It stood, solely, in the centre of the common ground to be enjoyèd by all the neighbours. Anon. lookèd at the tree in misery and considerèd Anon.'s present company.
With pressure Anon. felt Anon.'s sleep apnoea cause Anon. to have a seizure. A respiration failure. Anon. still remembers. The feeling of waking up on that cold floor, wondering what Anon. was doing there and who Anon. was for.
Moments before, before we were to perform the war. A whore. Some kind of undercover sex worker. Under the covers. Two lovers. Wars and whores. Venus and Mars. Feeling opportunistic. With the dick. Anon. lookèd down at it as Anon. was fucking it and exclaimèd aloud: “you cunt.” For a brief moment it was impressive. The cunt. But too crude to interrupt her conjugation with her next metamour. Paramour. Pluraliym. Many. One or many? Many. Pluraliym.
On-the-door was a note. A sign that read °FOLLOW THE CLUES.° Anon. soon learnèd that it was put there by the proprietor of the apartment building, the apartment of the arrondissement, to lead Anon. to the stockpile of junk that he wantèd Anon. to assemble into another situationist instalment somewhere in the city of Paris. So, Anon. decidèd that Anon. would do it there. When Anon. got to the car park in the basement Anon. reminiscèd about the Marionette Records Doom nightclub events which were also underground, underground so that the sound could not escape and thereby nobody there could escape their fate. It was late. But Anon. had come across a bicycle that had been unchainèd and a hacksaw lay at the feet of the wheels with it's blade removèd. A man, slightly annoyèd, approachèd Anon., and warnèd Anon. not to tamper with the bicycle which was his property. He was leaving for work early. Even though Anon. had been previously mistaken that it was late. Trappèd by fate. Not feeling too great. Lost. And without a home. Homeless. By choice. Even though Anon. had a loving family, Anon. felt that something was apprehending. Anon. went outside and noticèd a building that appearèd to be a shop. Above the shop it read « La Poste. » It read. All of a sudden, a woman came to greet Anon. and said she was the secretary for the owner of the property. She held a stack of papers with which to advise Anon..
“Invest in our society,” she told Anon.. “Use the papers to apply for a bank account and then you can live and work here.” Fear. Fear preventèd it because Anon. was confrontèd by it. It is it. Bit-by-bit. Anon. ran away from it. As if Anon. didn't give a shit. Separate ways.
We fearèd another face. And we facèd another fear. Quote-unquote Edward Lear.
Anon. enterèd into the wrong door. It frightenèd the neighbour who was living there. Anon. backèd away, just as astonishèd as she was. Châtillon-Montrouge was and is an urban suburb of Paris. Mostly rows of apartment buildings, stackèd on top of each other, rising high. Anon. would never forget her face when Anon. trièd to enter that wrong address. It was shock.
The Situationists were pointing down to it. The train ticket. They'd bought Anon. a sandwich and a day-saver travel pass.
“You have to leave,” one said. “You're scaring the neighbours.”
Anon. knelt down to the floor, to put Anon.'s shoes on. As Anon. knelt down to the floor, Anon. said, “no respite from this civil war.”
Anon. was feeling paranoid. Anon. was feeling the feeling rising. The dictatorship of the king conspirators was putting up its resistance to the direct action of the militant sociocrats in the city-at-war. A sneer, a jeer. That ruinèd building veneer. There was a distant cheer. A rally. A rally of soldiers. Now taking orders. Like the waitress, with her hair dyèd russet. Could she be complicit? Was she a conspirator? Anon. rememberèd that immediately Anon. wanted to fuck her. Was she a sociocrat? Would she die for a cause like that?
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For I am dividèd for love's sake for the chance of union. Me dividèd by you equals them. Something Plato could never get his head around. But, one thing me and the preeminent philosopher have in common is that we are both an historian. I anticipate a satellite state. The whole world run by Israel as an emerging empire. From the Euphrates to the Nile. Greater Israel, in it's early days.
Frightenèd by the Amalekite. All is harm, all is fright. Violent night, solely night. We must destroy the Amalekite. And the Amalekite and their adjoining satellite. Proxy war. Currently raging. Power is staging, staging its own murder, as the cries of a Moslem mother weep for the son she has burièd under. Anyhow, this empire, emerging, it's definitely not a protest democracy. It's a wealth-regulatèd oligarchy. I'm not Machiavelli. I believe in the Union. A rural reunion. On fair Old Albion.
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Pointing down to it. The necktie runs down from the collar to draw the female gaze down to its appropriate attention. Attention. Appropriatèd. Expropriatèd proles were digging holes, in-the-pit, days before the general strike, which would be a continuation of the work. That's until they would send the strike breakers in, that is. The miners would have to meet in the tavern in the 5th to listen to the orator. Pauses for questions after. No one really knew where the next pay cheque would be coming from so the people gatherèd were discussing the potential for a credit union, a way to save money, collectively, should they not have the employability.
A check-point worker mans the gate in Jerusalem, not the one of fair Old Albion, the one in which the fighting goes on-and-on. Anything but halcyon. Call it Yehoudah's protection racket whilst preparations are being made for the genesis of a new empire, balkanising the middle east in order to control it and stake a claim in the region. By deception. By deception thou shalt make war. Only thus.
The soldier at the border was invoking haganah. In a pair of boots. Even though it was the luck of the decade of the Tens, to the soldier, the check-point worker, it was still two hundred and fifty years until the messiah, Shavuot ha'Gadol, the great rest, no harvest, fallow land. The check-point worker raisèd his hand.
“Wait here for me, please,” he said, in Hebrew, to the car that had arrivèd at the gate. “Do you have your identification papers?”
There was an Arab in the car, already possessèd by a cyclical tick, tick, tick. The money, again. The till, again. He was a long way from home and the delay at the gate was making him late.
“Gotta put food on the plate,” he replièd, passing his papers across.
And then the soldier let him pass. Anyone doing that commute would not have the social mobility to raise his social class. Second class, citizen.
In a pair of boots. The check-point worker retied his laces, tightening the thick bootstraps around his ankles before reaching for his Siddur prayer book. Another car door. It would have to wait. The food. The plate. The job was not a priority when it came to recite the melody. The Siddur is an entire people's history.
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QC thinks about democracy. Queens council, in trouble. Up-the-duff! My poker playing hands and my face's bluff was enough to make it look just that tough. Rough. Pilly willy was shame instead of fame. Tame. Now it's almost time to go outside and fuck-the-world in order for it to continue. Aliyah is ten per cent. 20% emigration back into the diaspora tomorra. Hope they arrive before the sabbath. I pray that your flight will not be upon the sabbath, just like Ribboni did. Riboynoy shoyl Oyloym. Confederatziyah ha'Ultimativiyt. Confederate-voter. Jared Kushner messiah.
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INSTRUCTION MANUAL
I offerèd my hand to Eous. It was a Theurgickal ritual. Utilitarian and ethical. Turning right to cast another symbol. After conjuring Hesperus, the evening star, it's form, devoid of any visible gender, went disappearing. But something was occuring. I rang my ceremonial bells. A red orb was rising north. I could see it before it meltèd away again. Calling forth. Then I made the sound of silence, a finger to my mouth, affirming my esoteric catechism. I felt absent mindèd, but, I was still lockèd deep into a trance-like state. Glances, glances, places, trances. I'd made a private spectacle of the dramatisation of my own imagination but there the scene endèd. I broke the spell by washing once and once again. I remindèd myself that cleanliness was next to godliness. I rubbèd both of my thumbs together and placèd each finger to its opposite corresponder. It was a hangover. A meditative practice of the Theurgickal ritual. The death posture is vital to the ritual. In fact, it's a form of high yoga. A state of neither-neither. Considering forever. I came to be a charlatan, grade-A mystickal author. I burnèd my own literature. To aspire, I committèd it to fire upon the ceremonial pyre. Then, when ashes became ashes, I made the posture, more like a gesture, the Sign of the Earth – one arm raisèd, one arm lowerèd – and put the dust to dust. I wasn't fuss'd. And then I began to speak in tongues, noticing how glossolalia could activate a dormant region of my brain. There was no message, only a medium. Ironically, the only thing that stands up to criticism is a two-leggèd chair with no seat!
THIS IS NOT AN INSTRUCTION
The entrance to the interrogation room was lockèd tight.
Erinyes: °Violent night°
°Solely night°
°All is harm°
°All is fright°
It took three whole days before Anon. managèd to make Anon.'s exit. Anon. had felt so trappèd. The entrance was bustèd. Bustèd open by Sarai. Once outside she flèd. Or disappearèd. Had she appearèd to Anon.? To haunt Anon.? Was Anon. perceiving reality correctly?
Sensual and every other ending with 'ual. Like, with-you-all. A withdrawal. Always withdrawing. Passing water was a lousy wine consumer. The wedding at Cana. Wine to water with a Bat Yam daughter. Daughter of the water. There was another one that was two feet shorter while one was lying six feet under.
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Looking at it. The top bit. Groovy below. I enjoyèd the show but not the vicariousness. It was a mess. Loneliness. Anon. can deal. Just wanna make it real. The real one and the real one. Water to wine, through the grapevine. Rain feeds the leaves, the leaves bud the fruit, the feet press the wine, I drink it and feel fine. Then I pass water to a daughter. Responsible after. Ever after.
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Sarai cast her mind back to when she came of age. Much like Tulpa and her upside-down-eye. But Sarai was now a Mossad-sanctionèd spy. Complicit with the lie. The only thing that was actually true was that the sky was actually blue. It joinèd a suturèd horizon to the ruins of the Parisienne landscape. Ruins. Ruinèd. °My temple is in ruin° thought Sarai. Considering her sexuality she lookèd into the mirror. Lingerie same colour as lipstick.
Passing-the-shot, a shot glass full of Underberg, much more palatable than the rank whisky of the untouchables. Anon. was in some bar again; the 16th this time. It was last orders. The bar would be about to close. Anon. slept on a park bench that night. The Erinyes carrièd Anon. away with their dastardly melody. Violent night. Solely night. All is harm. All is fright. Like some sort of fucked up nursery rhyme.
RESULTS
Eous was a cancerous apotheosis. A zenith of the dramatisation of my imagination. A literary abstraction and a haphazard conjuration. Lokupleto resents it. Untie me. Infidelity and sexual promiscuity. I guess I was learning something about my own identity and where it would lead me. Into the arms. The arms that had gone missing; if only the Venus de Milo was a weapon! I was constraining a feeling of how to attempt to avoid the sounding of the ending of the words going rhyming. It was true. It was getting annoying.
When Ismus met Qadmus there was a great great fuss. Like the Anschluß. A pact. Not like the one broken between Ahnrah and Ochus. What a fuss! Like the Anschluß. What a mess. The Nes is the dress. Nes is a Hebrew word for miracle, like the golden door bell, the only thing the robber thinks not to knick. Red brick. Red brick, back road, university girl.
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I cast a glance to the old apple tree in the garden. I admirèd the apples and leaves for their hardy disposition in spite of the beauty they displayèd. A tear came to my eye as I ponderèd upon the fact that we are all going to die. One day, that is. °What? Don't they teach you that shit in school?° It was a welling, the water of my eyes was swelling as I felt my emotions moving. But, what happenèd after that was not what I was expecting. I let out a burst of laughter. You can't laugh when you're dead so I thought I'd better start enjoying it now.
Insistingly. I was interceding for my family. Until the constant repetition made it inane. Almost drove me insane. Been there many times before, though.
It's okay to appear crazy at first because you can act normal later. Richard Nixon and Hunter S. Thompson. Which one of 'em was which one of 'em? I seriously used to think like that. That there would be this zenith standoff, probably during my nadir, when I decidèd it might be a good idea to have two women fighting over me, all-the-while believing that the confusion that that would cause would buy me the time to make the right decision.
Now's the fucking time for faux-pride, while I hide, tuning up, getting ready, like when my mammy caught me running around with rocks in my backpack. °Just getting ready° I told her then, apparently. Pushed by the head teacher to be a high achiever.
Another time I was precariously hanging off the stairway bannister pretending to be a bat. Bat. Battlefield. Strategic thinking, as a child, not fully knowing. As an adult now understanding. Thanks to Adonai. The Name means many things.
We protect it, we fight for it, we love it. It goes right back to it. It is it. There is no present tense. It just fucking happens. At any rate, it happened-to-be. We creatèd The One who helps us forget, our best kept secret. « Decret. » Executive order.
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Generals are pussies. Tzahal Ĥayal. Praise the soldier. Fuck the unknowns. Front lines, back queues. White bled red. Red for blood, white for-the-win, testimony blues. Testimony blues, testimony blues, we'll sing it when we're winning and we'll sing it when we lose. Testimony blues, testimony blues, testimony, testimony, testimony blues.
RESULTS
°To spite her arse° I thought, at-the-time, that it was a good idea to slash the cock job, fill a wine glass with blood, and conjure some spirits. The wine glass remainèd intact but I may as well have smashèd up some spirits. Would rather have broken the mazel tov glass for a hot piece-of-ass and to know my place in the social class. I wonder if (((they))) are strong enough to carry me? Carry me, carry me, upon a high chair during my Bar Qayyma. I don't want to get down off it, the Bar Qayyma high chair.
Sit the babe up there. Every muscle will break during labour, you'll need a suture. Cauter. Court her. Caught-her-eyes, cauterise. Cauterisèd, too. Get the blowtorch out. After the chainsaw, that is.
Pissing. Pissing away my money. Prefer laundering with my dual citizenship identity. Aliyah and conscription, Ha'Aretz and the newspaper.
Haganah.
Enacting. Perform the war. Are you sure? Sure.
We thought we'd give it a go. I've always wantèd to have a go at something kewl like that.
Boom! Sixty-over-forty. We're trading. Losing. LSE bell goes ding! Baby. Baby. Baby. Shit and talcum powder. What an aphrodisiac!
Bust. Busty. Misty. Misty mountains. How else do you think we found out? The snow-cappèd mountains were all roundabout. Surrounding us. Encirclement complex. Actually, no. Russia is our satellite.
She laughèd. Laughèd at the insinuation of it. That you could be anything than what you already are. Mocking. Shocking what passes for truth these days. It's certainly no longer any kind of autobiography. More like a diary entry, for all-to-see.
Loving my fathers. There's always someone up above even if there's a disownèd son down below. So, you've got it good, but I just want it that bad. Not quite comfortable with either. Neither-neither. Never never. Either either, it doesn't matter. Or is it both things?
Spacking out because I'm on the spectrum. Autists and spergs. You should be able to express your autism but it's not always welcome. I used to do theurgy, you know. Yeah? Me neither.
A libidinous interruption causes a psychological excursion. The slave psychology affects the master. Why did we elect a token nigger to run the gamut in America? In one word: Kushi { כושי }. My nigga! Kushim! { כושים }. My niggas! My nigga, down Beta. Looking for Sh'khorah, like Shir Shirim. He's a light from Africa, the token nigger. Now we're into Jared Kushner as our messiah of the voter, he's just got to stake his claim to power and impeach his father. By law. I'll appoint him, in due course. The false prophet and the antichrist. Massive market in America (or the tribe of Dan, or it Manasseh? Give you that later). Just gotta fulfil The Book. You'll meet him. I believèd him. And now you're a girl.
Couldn't do it to her if I trièd. It wouldn't be fair on “c”. “C” is out of the alphabet for the war. What war? Somehow it always comes down to the war. Rising up. Our wars are conversation. Over here it's a situation. The Situation Room. Where The Generals sign their ceasefires. I don't think we'll have another war after the last three. What does Freyja say?
The negativity of absence is a quantum valence. Sxienxe. Light came first. So that's hydrogen and helium. Water came next. So that's hydrogen and oxygen. Heaven. The waters above the heavens. The mayims and the shamayims. Washing my yadayims. Cleans. Cleanses. Lenses. Cleansing. Lensing. Looking through the spectacle. No plural. Cleansèd. Zzz. A. B. C. One. Two. Three.
Dismissèd. The classroom. On recess. Play time. Outside. An embrace. A kiss chase. A slipper and a tripper on an untied shoelace. Another fall from grace. Some people are ace. Only just learnèd that I, personally, am “demi” on the intersectional spectrum. A connection to a plectrum. The only thing that's causing a vibration. Still waiting for that someone. To vibe to. Sexual line up? I like what you're wearing, how about when you're not? Not what? Wearing it. It is it. I lovèd you from the first moment I felt it. She felt it. A soapy armpit.
I stood amidst the congregation of Mass to Eous. Pious towards Eous. Religion of the stars. I was pointing down to it. The shame of it. The pity of it. The kindness of a bent up cigarette that got lit. The civil war was over. Passing by was a street sweeper. Overwhelmèd by the enormity of the task of rebuilding and reconstruction that lay ahead of him and every other person who'd been left behind by the warring factions to clean up the mess. The street sweeper went about his business, doing his duty, all-the-while cursing-and-sweeping.
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Anon. drearily rollèd over, like an undercover officer, under the covers with the shivers. Anon. had been dreaming about rivers and how the water table rises. So many feet above sea level, Anon. screwèd Anon.'s face up to make it dischevelle.
You see, the mirror was a projection of Anon., as if Anon. would made the reflection disappear when all it was was an illusion, steaming glass confusion. That was Anon.'s next destination. The bathroom. To tidy up Anon.'s appearance and check again as to the reflection's momentary disappearance.
Ravdak davar is a backwards talk. A backwards way of talking. Talking up to something. Almost like the hoo-goo, hoh-goh, hah-gah. Almost. But, more like a palindrome. It's a Hebrew word that goes the same forwards as backwards. Like RACECAR. Ravdak davar, like racecar. Speedy. Vroom vroom. But the words acquire power, power that stages its own murder. He who was killèd by the sword and yet livèd. Who can stand against him? A Magen. A shield. An amulet of protection.
“Did you remember to bring protection?”
“Depends which kind.”
“Both kinds. One to pack heat and the other for the one you're about to meet.”
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