{ ... }

 

۞

  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.  

۝