Working Title: a meta-thetical story (part 5)

May – Dec 2019

⏀B

97

Maybe the only Solace God can offer is reset. After all, God created a vamp haphazardly, and, grandiloquent that God is, made us all blind like the prince, who could not differentiate between glass et wood – though wood is far beautiful unless you are, like myself, Galileo in love with heavens. Yet he recants. The wordsmiths have interweave, too, to define our work, since the spider has made me incoherent. And some critic after browsing 9 pages here et there would say, it seems that the writer of this your fav expletive here seems to us to be an idle, reticent, witless Samurai living in solipsist’s paradise – maybe, to appear impartial, such a critic may exchange Samurai for harlequin; after all, I am entrapping poor souls for the spider, pro bono, gratuitously. Why? Do you know the best way to make people eat out of your hand. No. Think about it, take Oswald for a hint. You are saying if you say the lie enough number of times, people will take it for truth. Not exactly; while this method is rather good, but greater still is when a known criminal begins preaching. But that’s a good thing. Only if people know that the criminal had a change of heart for the better. Instead, everybody knows the irredeemable nature of the hypothetical creature. If s/he calls Donald Rumsfeld a wolf, people will begin worshipping that duck like Greeks did Artemis – try as you may, they won’t remember Armstrong, busy as they would be in creating temples for Grecian Bills.

My dear Cassandra, please excuse me for this brief inter-ruption: since calls Donald … these lines are brought to you by Faber 98 Castell DESSIN ╚■ 2001 2½ = HB pb pencil with rubber eraser. Its bar-code (which reminds me of magnetic-pole reversal epochs) is 4 double-O 5 4 Zero 1 1 2 1 double-O 8 with 14 engraved before the 4. Don’t look at me Agapē Agape, please continue. Faber never published Kafka or Heidegger for that matter, hardback or otherwise, not in a millennial times. We are harking back to the impossibility theorem. Just like you didn’t tell that you erased et corrected et added l to millennial (et searched in futile for its correct spelling in a dixionary) you need not to say hark back every time we hopscotch around in this web. Isn’t spider sacred or something. Yes, who haven’t been bitten by a black widow can make rules for eternity: Da Vinci can never understand the pain of Mona Lisa smiling for eternity. To shun such examples is the reason why certain religions forbid anthropomorphic depictions. No, that’s Apollonian dislike for the Dionysian: the flourish, the swoosh, the stroke, the doubt as oppose to everything being bound by the rules, Norma, ought to be’s – I am more Apollonian: the red cards, the statistics, the running commentary, the dot despite the fact that everything ends in 3 dots. You are again being pessimistic. Because I know neither camp likes to see their face in me. You know you mix Ionic with Doric, Romantic with Gothic – but whom am I indulging, for I do the same. Why. Perhaps, it’s a curse placed on writers. All we ever come up with is ½ truths worse than lies. After this chorus, can we go back to your story.

99

I am not interested in telling it. Why not. It ends like most love stories, and if you can’t write that One Story, Arabian Nights are a-nothing. But you wrote that journey is everything. Yes, and in the end I was back to square H1. You mean …. A raven W S Um; I think therefore starlings bark at me. Starlings are darlings. You don’t see but sparrows are afraid of crows; they, however, let starlings go near themselves, while taking breadcrumbs. And how do the starlings reply, they run after the sparrows. In this Hobson’s choice, a war of all against all is raging; herein, Love is madness. Love for all is tolerated insofar as it is understood that the person so professing has lost the capability or the desire to love anyone in particular. This, dear reader, is another attempt to render impossible the statement everything is possible. Right, you are insufferable. Why do you write f like long s. I wish I could tell you that House of Leaves is the reason for it, neither is Turkish an influence on i without title, though Greek has something to do with my small t. You will embroil yourself in Cypriot issue by omission of the title deed. Thankfully, there exists the clause of dual jeopardy. In other words. In other words, I am already dead. Excellent. That was the only way possible for me to get out of Gulag. And here I was thinking, you were in the S’rn Ocean, impersonating Jonah.

100

Not many whales were left due to the poaching. Some sharks did give us a chase, but more à la Countess Rostova than out of genuine desire – you don’t see, but oil spills are harming sea species in more ways than just killing them. This, I take it, is your delusion of economic persecution speaking sympathetically. With a critique like you, we don’t need others. Truth is bitter. So, let’s honey-coat it with square-brackets. And, you want me to equate the UNO with Babylon or what. Yes. Based on what evidence. Ours is avant- or après-evidence, never accepted in a court of law; our precedent is history, and that tower of Babylon, NY surely holds more languages than the historic city. They got machine translators, too; the problem is not that many languages are spoken, but there being a lack of understanding. Despite days of deliberations, they remain deadlocked. Perhaps, their Realist individualism win over the shared benefits; religions are against both mixing with others – adulteration, they shout, as well as individualistic tendencies – revolution, they cry, failing to see that each religion was a revolution at its advent: Jesus may well have been a reformer out to redeem lost sheep, Paul, however, created a new religion, which he inscribed to the former. Unlike H. G. Wells, most forget the author, remembering only the inscription. You also had forgotten that cracks appear in walls, which claim to be a solid whole, whenever the individual bricks are attracted to Zoroastrian or Spanish women – the cracks appear due to our failure to be familiar with the future, for we forget the past experiences: we think that since today we belong to one wall, we will remain so for eternity. This rigidity attracts attacks on Joseph, you say. Indeed, spaces are left in the railway tracks in order to cope with weather conditions. But he was innocent. So, too, is the magnet, this doesn’t mean that attraxion doesn’t occur – you hear, clapping is coming together of two hands. That’s why some religions stone the victim of rape. No, that’s stigma of impurity; nobody is going to stone Joseph for being so beautiful as to attract some queen – such lot befalls only upon women; they are even encouraged by books, TV et more to commit suicide than to report. Since inception, Abrahamic religions have produced women from the rib-cage of man. Well, the Greco-Romans were fond more of the cranium et thigh. Islam doesn’t claim the same, but its adherents bet the same way, giving body of women to the men’s command – forgetting the edict of Islam against cropped hair of men, they dare to tell what ought to be the length of women’s hair; even small girls aren’t free from this duplicity. They still blame Eve for evic⏀, knowing not that had Satan not lured them, God would have thrown them anyway. Why, Michael, are they not eating the rheum. You have forbidden them, Sire. And Our trusted lieutenant, Lucifer, what’s he up to. He is learning ways of becoming a snake; it is a bit difficult to contort one’s body. We have Created the Universe not for these fools to lay naked in the Garden of Eden. Away 102 with them. Patience, Sire, patience – all in good time. After this Paulo Coelho meets Mark Twine can we go back to your search of Soul-Mate.

On the ship, I found twine. Don’t tell me. Tell you what. That you had met Mark Twine on the ship. I was talking about some rope of jute. What kind of place was that for talking about twine. My adenoia burst: Soul-Mate is one’s twin, and you were talking about Twine and continuing my story, and as I was on the ship anyway, so twine that I had seen there seemed like a good place to begin; but, tell me, have you met any great author. Nope. Amazingly, I haven’t found any dead one either, as if somebody is writing under the various noms du plume throughout history. I wonder on what shore Murakami had found Kafka. It couldn’t have been Normandy. Why not. That place is beaming with nostalghic veterans. What about those who died there. They stalked their loved ones back home; you don’t see but ghosts give importance to places where they were given importance, and those who lived on after fighting found that there worth was a medal they cannot eat; many of the families et beloveds shunned these shell-shocked (I know it is PTSD, but during the times of Abraham, Herschel had not discovered Uranus) privates, (nor did the translator at Kino bothered with correcting this goof-up). Why are you pausing for so long. It is the side-effect of being dead; one becomes part of an infinite jest. Excellent. No, really, after death, you begin to see things; you think therefore you pause: wait, where had I seen or heard or smelled this; everything you thought, said, wrote or chose not to think, say, write is all held against you in Vox Populi – the sixth act of every 5-act drama – known otherwise as the general public et pro critics dissecting your every move, debating on its pro et contra. This is synopsis of Kafka’s Trial. Well, that was for the living, I am talking about the actual bureaucratiz⏀ of Heavens for the dead ones. There are or at least the condemned experience levels in J’accuse tu. The lowest rung I have found is 6, while the highest is 10½ or 11. At 11 or sometimes 10, I begin to ask for forgiveness of God. That results in level 9, 8, 7 where I naïvely think God has forgiven me. At level 6, I begin to think of myself as a transcendent being, even the transcendent being. Instantly you are reminded or at least you remember a certain wish or want unfulfilled. Sometimes at 7, 8 or 9 you remember something and despite being explicitly told to remain silent, you say, think or write something which borders on mockery or outright slur. Of course, I am no stoic, but sometimes I think God makes me say stuff, in order to make me experience the wrath of 11. What do you think will happen, if you reach the level 12. I would become mad, I suppose – Nietzsche was lucky, he got mad prior to dying. I 104 will have no recourse left, entrapped as I am for eternity. Can’t you go below level 6. Like Gog Magog, it appears, I am bound to stall, for I can’t help thinking of myself as a transcendent being at that level. Any word of advice. If you are in the living realm, get married: instead of receiving red card from God, receive a real dressing down under …. But if somebody is already dead, then what. Their situ⏀ is as hopeless as the ball in soccer being thrown around by pad populi till it finds itself in the net and end up claiming transcendence, repeat. After this divine comedium can we go back to South Pole.

It was very difficult to reach there, partly because of my personal inexperience, but also due to severe weather condi⏀s; we were constantly losing direxion; radio equipment would fail sometimes, and on several occasions, it got tuned in to unknown frequencies: strange noises coming from God knows where; and instead of digits et letters, symbols ruled supreme. Are you familiar with the concept in physics of Almost Everywhere. No. Amid the space-time fabric, there exist certain places, where laws of physics as we know them do not apply. It is just electromagnetism wrecking havoc with human brains attuned to a certain sort of reality, coupled with acoustics et lack of sunlight. I am telling you, it wasn’t mass delusion that caused us to see symbols where only dots et digits should have been; that we felt the emptiness between Almost and Everywhere, like one hand holds another.∗ But you did reach the South Pole. That’s what the maps said, though we had lost two, or was it three team-members to a crevice during a blizzard that had made it impossible for us to see our hands. ∗It is a matter of perspective: the objective reality or truth is not beholden to an observer’s viewpoint of an event; the special general theory of relativity merely takes a favorable view of human shortcomings arising out of too much reliance on our senses, just like a law of cricket accommodates spin bowlers’ bent of arm over et above that of a fast bowler’s – regardless of what I thought, fancy remained fancy and was not fencer when I misread the partial word as seen from afar.∎ It was almost impossible in any way you had looked at it. I have looked for your almost everything, it is a mathematical concept of measure. When. Just now. But you never went anywhere. When one fight against fire for long periods of time, even if one doesn’t receive 3rd degree burns, tips of one’s index fingers may develop a blister or two. In other words. In other words, your madness is contagious. So, you, too, experience fits of madness. Well, I thought I saw worms getting out of your ears. But you know I don’t have ears. Yes, but you can’t blame Joaquin for thinking scarlet blood gushing through fiber optics. But tell me what St John would have thought when he read God is vengeance; God is Love – Love is not vengeance. Love is vengeance; it must have been some clerical error – people think that Love 106 is not vengeance, but it actually is vengeance against those who hurt our love. You are justifying those, who after failing to possess their beloved, try to hurt the beloved. I am not, but God takes revenge on those who habitually vvander off the Golden Path; moreover, we want to possess Beloved, that’s why Joaquin was so disappointed when he was told that the voice talks to thousands of people. Or VALLIS had talked to so many people that when Wallace found out that he wasn’t special, he committed felo de se. Can it make you a billionaire. Yes, if only it tell somebody, how to grow hair on our scalp cost effectively and without any side-effects. Or, Darwinists that we are, if it told us, how to remove unwanted hair from our bodies. Do you know about the proverb: may God not give fingernails to a bald one. Can’t say I do, but why so. Because Caligula becomes a reality. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Absolutely, with MJ-12 calling the shots, even US, Russian et Chinese Presidents are puppets whose minds are constantly scanned for any latent mastership thoughts. How do you know. And some say they were 12 and the 13th was a ghost. Where did they met. At Cremlin. You mean Kremlin. Even if I say ЖязмгІи, they won’t understand; you’d ask me, but what did they say. Indeed. They laughed mostly; you don’t hear but they had had written a macro – everything goes according to that script. Surely they aren’t gods. If they had said in this year, earth would quake, et Teutons don’t obey, they cause a dam burst or some nuclear weapon is tested at a fracture zone, or the isostatic adjustment is disturbed. But how? Aren’t you familiar with MK-ULTRA. It was discontinued. Is it that impossible to revive a ½-dead programme – a death certificate can be purchased at a minimal cost, anyway. And how do they do it. Radio frequencies are everywhere – even our bodies double as a good receiver for their transmission: put your tape recorder’s antenna in your mouth for better reception. I am doing no such thing. But can’t you hear their buzz. That, too, must be a side-effect of being dead – but since you can go anywhere, you must be on Mt Everest’s peak, also. Yes, but I’d like to be on Olympus Mons. Can’t you go there. I am stuck on Earth. But you weren’t stuck at the South Pole. No, we did turn back, this time it wasn’t so difficult: no sand dunes shifted, no sink-hole appeared, sun didn’t bake us alive, and we found wells of fresh water along the way. What are you talking about. I was joking; but when we reached the point where our ship was supposed to arrive, we discovered we were in Siberia. That’s impossible. Going South f. Detroit, the 1st foreign country we encounter is that of Celine Dion. That et Keats notwithstanding, but it is impossible to find yourself …. Impossible, I hear, I thought you think everything is possible. Don’t pull my leg. I am not, but that’s what happened. You must be mistaken. The only way that was possible was that the locals made fools of us, perhaps at the behest of MJ-12. Or aliens. Or bigfoot. Or Southpole Underground Society. S.U.S is a palindrome: I own the list is like infinite 108 regress. Why did you say I own as if you can actually own something – Wallace, you know. It is better to be called a megalomaniac by these Freudian critics, then to say I admit, and hear them giggle, we think that this writer thinks that the world thinks that he is thinking that he is guilty. This still was an example of finite regress. Thank God for the tool or weapon of languages, it prevents us from such hyperbole. But gives us another headache, too. What’s that. A simple No at the end of a statement let us deny that statement. Such as. Well, even if I prove that 9/11 occurred b/c emergency Nos in many countries happen to be 9 1 1, a F.A.G, with some Harvard University degree can chuckle and deny it, | we can all go to sleep peacefully thinking there’s no God, so what: who needs God when we have FAGs to protect us even from devilish aliens, which God had not known to even exist, otherwise He’d have given some hint to Moses:-

Prepare (thee) for the supra-Armageddon with aliens f. Capricorn Galaxy. And what are aliens, Sire. Before We Created humans, We Made these humanoid creatures, but they remained asexual, being a-tempted by Lucifer. Their Original Sin is not to copulate at all. Then how do these filthy creatures – thanks be to language – still exist. Well, they are immortal; you see, through copulation, man disseminate his seed to posterity. These rascals instead of eating from the Tree of Life, ate an apple from the Tree of Knowledge – that’s why the first lessons of your child is A for Apple – and came to know of Euclidean Plane. What is Euclidean Plane, Sire. Even Euclid didn’t know about his plane. But you are God. First, this is not Maths 101; second, We will reveal it when We Think time is appropriate; third, aliens have found a way to ctrl+Ur mind, that’s why you are asking so many questions and not listening to Us. But what is 101. We told you these symbols are Lucifer’s work. I had forgotten, Sire. Now, since these aliens are immortal, you must populate the World with (a) billion souls. Then what, Sire. When the evil aliens come, these miserable diseased humans would be the canon fodder. Would we win, Sire. Hopefully, after eating these wretched, sick humans, they would contract some disease and die. Is there no other way, Sire. You question Our Wisdom. No, Sire, it’s only that killing so many people seems wrong. When We Created this (Our) universe, We (sure) done everything (in a) very measured (way). (Ye) don’t smell, but when ℇ|3 flutters in Chi, it causes Katrina in TX, Marfa; now do as We Bid, and hopefully ye shall be victorious – Michael, but they would succeed, right. Yes, Sire; I’d personally see to it that St Travolta ….

110

At this point, I must become Nero and bang your head with my violin. But you know, I don’t have a head. Where is Beloved. On Olympus Mon interceding on my be½. You sure have a severed head. Ask the grasshopper. What, but you should have got yourself a better ½. Or was it a mentis. Cricket, perhaps. It’s constantly chirping in my head – but why do you think most sports involve net or six. Six is Phœnicians’ favourite number; that’s why we measure time in 60s – and cricket at least doesn’t have a net. Net practice involves net. Now don’t spin a web around my mind. I am not but most sports with the excep⏀ of chess, Hex or go are Dionysian in nature. How so. Since they are based either on an extra-human agency called luck, or they involve physical excursion. What about Shakespearean sport. What’s that. For him sex = sport, and beside physical excursion, of course, sex as well as your Hex = 6; while chess can be rendered as you well know into χεςς, which is a roundabout way …. Not my favorite game, please. But what do you care, you don’t have hands to play. How do goats satisfy themselves. They don’t go to church. What? Satisfaction orgyneted in priestly clan; they were not allowed to marry. Not by Malthus, I suppose. No, their celibacy was in the name of Lord, which if means 1 God – Nietzsche called it monotonoism – then you know He was unmarried. So, they want to become 111 God or something. That’s the plan, otherwise, you won’t sell Paradis by sq. inch to whomever bloody loved to be made fool of and released the pressure both from his heart et pocket for the pleasure of this religious charlatan. But you have read my contra Nietzsche: The king needed the pope as much as …. Yes, I remember, but at least the king gave his feudal lords something tangible, both as reward or punishment. Not all kings were magnanimous either. Correct, but were feudal lords serving under such kings forgiving towards the serfs under their respective commands; when they saw the king to be a wayward leech, these lords imitated his transgressions even more severely in their small fiefdoms. This surely would have resulted in more instances of domestic violence. Still, you are against killing of such kings. Yes. Dichotomy, I say – the same you were fond to catch in Nietzschet. I am against killing them in cold blood or through trials, not deposing them; however, it is difficult to see whether the next ruler would not turn out to be Ivan the Terrible, since the successor would inherit the same sort of institu⏀ as his predecessor, and it is much easier to continue the former order as 𝓝apoleon did by re-introducing under another name, the same legions, which the Revolution had disbanded, than to truly revolutionized the system. Regardless, you love the Roman concept of Piety, of Pater familia. While Manism is present in many regions, Romans besides turning Zeus to Iv Pater, also had liber pater. The free father, you say. It is, in fact, an epithet of Bacchus. While prior to death, you had converted to full time Apollonianism. More like Solntseism. What’s that. In Russia do as Russians do. I had forgotten that you were in Russia. They call them bogs there. Whom. The gods. But bogs are soft marshy land. And we are neck deep in this bog; if only we can have a day of judgment against all these gods. What will you do. Give them a Ferrari each to some other universe, where they can have their perspective enlarged. Godspeed, but why. Here in this human world they can only talk about illegitimate issues non-stop without care for Black Eye Peas. Will.I.am – that’s got Louis XVI pleading later. Someday it will have 600XVI pleading, too. But what does BlEeP has to do with this. The hieroglyph for vowel i is eye. Then, why convert to Solism – the eye of Horus. I hadn’t worshipped Sun, I loved it as one of the feminine hypostases of my Beloved. You lost me. For once the Sun was considered female, though the Slavic trad⏀ still gave more importance to Moon, or Mesyats – the male counterpart – and considered him to be the progenitor of mankind. Yeah, alone he procreated, that’s why it is not Rosie, Ria, Sarah who scores a goal but White or Percival or Gregarious. Still one thing is good: a goal scored by Li Yang cannot be advance plagiarized by Yin Li, and v.v. Weren’t you part of some werewolf guild. No, chi held all rights to my work, 113 and he threw it into fire. But how did contra Wagner survived. I had hid it somewhere, though may be he thought that it was somebody else’s work, after all, you don’t expect a script-writer to dissect so-called philosophy. But you did it anyway. I don’t know what palindroma had bitten me. Well, you are a Letterman, and as Nietzschet had said, once upon a time various forms of art were practiced by the same people. Do you know a palindrome stalked Letterman, or that he joked sexually about another palindrome. Almost. He had ringing in his head because of Foo Fighter planes or the car-racing commentary. After this Palindrama, can we return to Slav mythology.

Of course; I met the founder of Ynglism. The first alien, who was pleased to land on this our Rodforsaken Earth, you say. No, I meant Aleksandr Khinevich, but back then Samuel RD would have seen 3 suns. And 2 moons. But those aliens hated black men. What about black women. I personally hyperlike Ciara. I know you are one of one. I am not, but think ye those aliens made blacks for sugar-cane plant⏀ fields. What can I say. In one word, Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe it is, but when Moskva was burning and Rostopchin was printing μsoft Excel® sheets, where was Samuel. He was looking through Swastika, but what itsy bitsy has bitten you. Some Roжanitsy may have fallen in love with me, too Do you know what 2019 is in mirror writing. Nope, it’s eros. A trick of cupid, then. As usually happens, that year was held the archery world cup – who would have thought that the 3 hegemons would reach the semi-finals. I am listening. And snake-eating-itself is the number of the beast. Tell me, you hadn’t observed religious rituals, but come eschatology, and you suddenly get excited. I am not born of Tiki – the Narcissist. Yet you behave …. My Beloved is a Woman, Who embodies Mount Meru as well as Mitra et Veruna. I don’t like your jumping from one region to another. I am master relator. You mean realtor. Something like that but to answer your remark, I liked the concept of Divine Justice. Now you don’t. I confess I find my current situ⏀ more painful than I thought I deserved but this at least means that Genghis or Hitler are also in much severe pain than I am. You have not met them, then. Not at all – the only famous person I ever met was Murakami back when I was alive. And you did not ask him about Kafka. You tend not to care about the Afterlife when you are alive; then again it was perhaps prior to the public⏀ of that novel; then, moreover again, perhaps, he wasn’t famous back then; furthermore, how can you be sure that the person you met was Murakami; and, furthermoreover, if he was Murakami, how can you be sure that he factually wrote it all. This doubt is the Modus Operandi of the evil one, my eschatological prophet. I am not born of Mercury – the Messenger. 115 Yet you pray …. My Beloved is mir.rai.vera.svet, though when I was given a choice, I said no – you hear, I said no to Peace, to Paradise, to Faith, to Holy, thus I doomed myself like a Kafkaesque story, which, after an early revela⏀ moves like a dead-line towards the inevitable. You were lucky, not everybody receives the chance to decide their fate; but how did it all come to pass.

Not only had we travelled in space, but also in time to 1919. That somehow is weirder than finding you in Siberia. I know, but after spending a night in a cave, we found ourselves in a diff era. different or difficult. You know. But how do you explain it. Is there no other way to forward this our story than to ask silly ques⏀s. Now, wait a minute …. Don’t handover yourself to Aljazeera. And let you play the victim card. I’ll let you play the magnanimous card in some Ford ad. I have grandslam. But not the Trump card going for star wars 2.0 in order to prevent Elohim from pleasing itself to dissent on this our Godforsaken Earth. You know you are zeroing on a v. small detail. You know zero is an Arabic word. Cipher you mean, but what has that to do with anything. The cave mouth was round. So, you were reborn when you got out. In a way, though I am Cæsarian. Oh, so you are 116 Alcyone. Who? A reincarn⏀ of Jiddu Krishnamurti – in the 28th century Anno Domini. I thought he was the reverse of Bismarck, or I am more the kin of La Cura, or what’s with the Anno Domini business. What? G. Dumézil’s trif⏀l hypothesis. You lost me again. The 3 classes of the warrior, the priest, and the farmer in the pre-Christian Slavic trad⏀. Like Father, Son et the Holy Priest. More like GoDaddy, #tag et the Dollar-string. You must know the answer to that famous mystery, too. It was William ‘Billy’ Dhalgren. Not that one. The string theory – I’d ask the guy, if I found him, and if I haven’t forgotten. I thought you cannot forget. Sometimes the speed of bus is slower than expected. 7.86 m-2 instead of 786. It’s a bus, not Voyager in the Oort clouds. But data travels much faster surely. And that can cause data to be misplaced. After this rounding error can we go back. In time. Have it your way. Before alkali were christened so, or should I say Arabianed so, it was as if a qualia – we pointed fingers towards an abstract no⏀ and said thus. For all its Shakespearean melodrama, what’s your point. Captain Cook is deemed worthy by virtue of being the first human to set foot where pagan kangaroos jumped – as if Aboriginal people had not existed. You are attacking pioneers, I take it, but they are important. The whole be the first saga has created multiple controversies where none should have been. Now don’t be a Hyperborean. I am not. But …. What. Usually, you give a rejoinder of some sorts. The Wagnerian sort want to enclose themselves in Arkaim inside moot, or brag about the City of Bridge; I’d rather give them the whole NASA to create some spaceship and go to Mercury now than to wait for a few more centuries when that planet would be swallowed by the Sun – but they shouldn’t mind, after all, they love fire – in the mean time, they can give their helmets airs as well as tell us mere mortals that by mixing with us, they are doing us a favor. Somebody has forgotten the weight of the paperclip. Hopefully, then, they would find the best mode of transport, and soon. Alright, it’s a very human problem that we like to live in the past and make plans et planes for the future, all the while ignoring the present. FDRs of this our World are interested more in preserving heritage site than the living human beings. He gave to the depressed the New Deal. And signed Roerich Pact prior to WW2, so that while Great War was raging, the Vril Society could work peacefully. You know he wasn’t a clairvoyant, and that pact was never implemented. But Hitler was. How come. If you know you are going to start a war tomorrow, you can tell it to your embassy in Poland so they can run for cover; also, the military command would think twice before launching an attack on a protected site, and if the commander-in-chief gives express order not to attack the Vril Society citing an interna⏀l treaty – which the supreme court of the law in your land recognize as the highest law governing therein – then you can listen to The Decemberists’ song but your hands remain bound. Where are we going with this. To the land of M.I Kutuzov, who was related to our Helena …. Don’t tell me that he was related to Pierre’s first wife. I wasn’t going to but you keep interrupting me. Carry on. If you haven’t forgotten the name of the Pact, Helena Roerich should surprise you. You mean …. Yes: before McCarthy saw Communists even in the sheep wool imported from Australia, these Roerichs actively championed the cause of USSR; still FDR chose to sign pact with the devil, so to speak. US et USSR were allies in the WW2, remember. The US despite Churchill, wasn’t ready to embrace the bear otherwise yet by signing the Pact limited its op⏀s of manœuver, while knowing full well the overall trajectory of Nazi Party, which had cocooned itself in The Secret Doctrine of another Russian Helena – Petrova Blavatsky – whose work was intriguingly published in 1888; though the chutzpa is that Swastika and David Star both appear in this boxing ring of War of all against all, while Om serenely watches from Without. Drink some tea, you would have developed strap-throat by now. You know I don’t 119 have a throat. I know – I was only kidding. I know, though neither have I a kidney to throw out the extra sugar. Or vitamins for that matter. Thankfully, my table salt doesn’t contain 84 minerals. Natriumchloride all the way. The first Solonaut had Truman jingling, though a little pinch of Odin doesn’t hurt, I suppose. Indeed, you might lie to protect an innocent child. We all have a little child within us, wanting the toy called World. Or Beloved – by the way, I had thrown into the fire the lyrics you had copied of Woodkid’s Golden Age, the Ghostpoet’s song, Gravity Grave by The Verve, Evanescence’s Wake Me Up, Blind of Chapel Club … was there any other. Can’t recall – but wherefore the St Bartholomew’s Night. You don’t hear but copyright is a bit problematic for the living, and copying your shorthand is rather cumbersome. No, I know the Bittersweet Fiasco, and the Ashtree’s sarcastic remark on that being the best song the editors of Rolling Stone had came up in 2 decades. You mean the band. Well both of these entities owed it to Paulo Coelho’s Be Like a Rolling Stone, but he wasn’t a big fan of copyrights, so no lawyer is going to siphon off their hard-earned money. You seem to be a huge fan of The Verve. And of Creed. OK. And in spite of calling on other fans, never to buy that song, since its proceeds are going neither to The Verve nor the actual creators of the jingle, I myself am not a fan of United Nations or Anarchy. OK. Just OK. What do you want me to say. You could ask what I like instead. Have it your way. Katechon. Who is she. As Greeks would have it, it’s either masculine, or the neutral: τό κατέχον. Go on, I don’t want to say anything presently. It is a ruler or a kingdom that prevents the evil one from manifesting itself fully. Both the Anarchy et 1984: a Big Brother Story are antitheses to this concept; however, it has been pointed out the Katechon also impedes the Golden Age since for Thy Kingdom to Come, it is a necessary condi⏀ that evil rule come first – though, I never properly understood the difference b/w necessary et sufficient condi⏀s. Hmmm. Since my P.Coelhoid 2nd mind is Kafka, I want to talk about Castle et Trial. Yes. Trial usu. represents the Order ½, wherefore Law – the police is the other ½. However, in the Kafkaesque binary, Law is restricted to the Trial, while the Castle is the ordered space, the disciplinary prison molding everything inside into uniformity: it doesn’t matter whether you are the jailor, the guard or the prisoner, for all become caged in the same sequence, looking through the same vista. A Foucaultian or –dian scholar would recognize the same in the case of asylums for the mentally disturbed et their 121 care-givers. However, I begin to intuitively see here another case – that of Arkaim or any similar Society. The monarch becomes nothing but a posh prisoner in that panopticon: everybody gazes at Q. Elisabeth; the Parliament passes bills in the name of the Crown, but where is the Crown. (3 lions took it.) Exactly. What? You said 3 lions took it. Took what. Am I speaking to myself again. (It’s just my humble opinion / but one that I believe in.) Stop it. The lion. The song. What are you talking about, I may have dozed off. I got this mental Turret’s disease. Doric or Ionic. Don’t make a joke out of it. Say please. And thank you if only you would stop it. The song. My 2nd mind from overwhelming me. Don’t laugh. Alright, but spill out what’s bothering you. I had had something printed for me. The notes on Office Writings. No, about Homeomorphism. Can’t remember seeing them. Wrote by SM LaValle, something about donut et Cambridge University Press. What might be the problem. The house. What house. On page 4, I had printed the image of an upside down house – its found⏀s would have made MC Hall proud. You have become too enigmatic. Blood, black blood is coming out; or is it the house that’s being born. Ask Dante or some dentist. No root canal, it’s a case of obstetrician. (And the doctor et nurses all went to the house of Sharon Tate.) No, don’t hurt my mother; she doesn’t know how to fight. What? Per topology, man’s body is different than the woman’s. Difference Feminism says cheers for this 122 original research. Any open interval of ℝ or Zeno’s Arrow is homeomorphic to any other open interval or Arrow length via continuous mapping:

x → ⅟x

establishes that (0, 1) et (1, ∞) are homeomorphic, while

x → 2 tan-1 (x) / П

establishes that (-1, 1) + all of are ℝ homeomorphic – though I never understood bijective (one-to-one et onto). Hmmm. You should eat something that will give you energy. They say water makes your mind awake. One should sync one’s life with Circadian Rhythms. If you let me. But you can. How? Just press the reset button. You know I can’t do that, but you can. You know I don’t have arms or fingers for that matter. How do you satisfy yourself. In Imaginarium. How would we ever complete this our story. By writing Fin in all caps anywhere you please. Every day, Gog Magog say today we will, but the night mocks the running rabbit. Parental advisory: Mocking Kills / Do not judge, lest ye be judged. No, for our work such an advisory ought to be

NOT TO BE SOLD TO THE PERSONS UNDER THE AGE OF 25, OR TO THOSE WITH A TENDENCY OF SELF-HARM OR OF HURTING OTHERS

Physically, I presume. Indeed. What about the psychological harm. What about it. In domestic environment, it is hard to gauge the systemic psychological abuse of the weak like women et children; you see, mothers would make a remark and forget about it, while children, since 123 being dependent on their respective mothers, must return to her bosom, ostensibly forgetting the whole event, but repetitive drops of water at the same spot can even make a stone equivalent to a donut, while I am talking about the fragile minds of children. What’s your point. First a joke: leave children on their own, but if you see a child in distress, call this number given in asterisk as one ad goes. After this addition can you raise my awareness also. Somebody said that mental scars heal with time but the physical ones remain; perhaps that person never experienced psychological torture. Just like you had never experienced its v. v. You are forgetting something – though now I know why I can’t understand injective. No, you no longer have your scarred torso about. At shutting the eye, the mountain disappears. Perhaps. But I by remembering the name of India Dale-Hill long after I had last seen her, know that I hyperlike someone. I know you are one of one. OK, so like priests, Pythagoras decided that we, too, shall have a secret language, only revealed to the initiated – for the uninitiated like myself, it is easy to comprehend 1:2 = ?:8 but not a:b = x:d, to illustrate the . via a simple e.g. After this QED can we go back to the Land of the Rus. Or mat.syra.zemlya. What’s that. Damp Mother Earth. And the connexion is. PIE. I have eaten, thank you. Photosynthesis then, but could you please stop interrupting … good, so:

one of the root meaning of Rus happens to be bright, which got Rodnovers excited on the scale of Nazis, who ironically considered the Slavs inferior – perhaps the whole WW2 boils down, like WW1 had been before, to slay lest ye be slain. I interrupt because you easily go off-track. It’s not that I don’t like our convers⏀ – to tell you the truth, cut melodrama et Hamlet’s quotes on quotes – as one lady had complained of that play – even Shakespeare doesn’t have great dialogue, and Wallace was good except for where the two spies sing Bruce Springsteen backwards et forwards to each other …. That’s some self-holiness going on here. Again you interrupt me before I could give one strong counter-example. Which is. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I am not, but you think that Nietzsche rightly complained of dialectics like Plato’s. I thought he was talking about Scientology. Plato? Nietzsche. Why do you spell his name Neit-. Burnstain Universe, but you, too, add a t sometimes. Touché – though Y. Murya won Grazprom championship in Kazan, congrats. OK, so:

like Zeus, Slavs had Deivos, which became Rod or Perun – thunder from the root of ∗per or ∗perkw, which means to strike or to splinter, like a tree is, and shares root with Latin «quercus»; do you know what that means. No, but I know something which knows everything. You mean God. Siri or Wikipædia. That’s cheating. As if I don’t know where you come up with your trove of knowledge. Perhaps, but if as you say everything is on line, even stuff that I have come to know otherwise would be available on line, too. Such as. Such as songlines. You mean lyrics. No the ancient lines, which Aboriginal say were carved by Dreamtime creatures – Sydney Olympics had this myth part of its ceremony. And what exactly is this your Dreamtime. The time prior to time, when these creatures descended on the Earth and made it habitual for humans. Like aliens. Perhaps. I don’t like this theory. A-OK et oak. Oak? Quercus means tree, especially oak. Well? Back when I was alive, I wouldn’t like to live near trees b/c they happen to be a good antenna for receiving Zeus or Thor’s wrath. For the same reason, I discouraged at least the date-palm, which always reared its head one place or another. Et tu Brutus. Yes, Sire. We were destined to meet. P/h, but you wouldn’t have by any chance met a guy, who was hanged by unknown people in an empty lot near my old house. Do you know his identity. 𝓝ope. I thought you are going to complete 𝓝apoleon. Not the devil himself, but only the possessed die, though ye know not – Joan of Arc. Let me complete this our arc:

The symbols of Rod are thunder, six-petal rose inside a circle or any wheel symbol. My old house had lattice work, which contained a six-petal flower motif inside diamond. And were there any bricks whereon were embossed a six-petal flower inside a circle. Do not play Wallace with me. His inspiration might have been the colour scheme of Wimbledon Championships, but do indulge me: __|__ yes or no. This ain’t a court –

room drama. It always is: we are constantly being judged; even those who cannot read themselves are claimant: we understand you; what’s more, we know you to your depths. And what’s worse is these religious types: they claim they understand Jesus, Moses, Manes, the Prophet of Islam, Buddha et others, and, furthermore, they claim we adhere to you, we abide by you, when all they abide by is their own narrow version of their particular culture, and what is not materialism, is nothing but some form of Manism, where death is celebrated for eons, even as neonatal die of mal-nutri⏀. You wouldn’t let me, but it is much more easy to see the face et eyes – the doorways to soul – of others than one’s own. They ought to begin in the mirror (I’ll . you to the mirror) yes, please. What? Nothing, but for me it’s the tone, the manner of speaking, which seals the deal. I know you don’t have eyes. I am not alone. Yes, there are other souls around you. Yes – but what’s it going to be Yes or No. I don’t know. Nada is far better than why. Why? No also affirms something: There is light. No. Consequently, there is darkness. I believe in grayscale. Better believe than not at all. Is this really you. Yes, for better or for worse. Casablanca, correct. Though I would rather fly with Rihanna et Nicky. I thought you don’t like Nicky. Nicholas Cage – though in general I don’t like rap music. One surmises that from your work. But I did like Stereo Mcs; h/e, I have not found the lyrics for my most fav rap song ever: Stop at Nothing. Buy the album, they might be on trasera or in the booklet. You know I don’t have legs or feet et toes for that matter. So you can’t go to a music shop. Neither have I a credit card – to stop your next ques⏀ in the bud. So. Don’t you want to change your answer – let me finish – for a long time, I was unable to accept what I was going through: Why? I would ask constantly – why (me), why (not somebody else), why (my destiny is not better than this), why (so forth et so on) – why had become the truncated form of doubt of self et of God till I saw supervi(sor) on the jacket of a guard or something in a volleyball match. And this anecdote should help the readers through …. Acceptance: if not all, most of it was decided for you in the time prior to time. Great speech, Mr Hawking. This isn’t a speech, and even a broken clock with two hands is correct twice a day, just so this Story – an Ocean – that let you see the Truth through its surface: a brief ray of Sunlight hit the darkness. But even you don’t know yet you want the reader to realize it. A reader just might hear the quiet buzzing of a red Coleman vacuum cleaner and realize that Dark Matter is all around us, for b/w the walls or marquee or the circle drawn by Circe happens to be Space, which we can disturb like photons piercing a dark room, but not outsmart (s wave ur flag)

I became Her orderly, unlike JFK. What are you saying. Or was it Nixon in the Gold Standard – whatever. Natasha was a comrade. I thought you hate communism. Love is blind. Don’t let me see you loving a snake. You know what I mean, plus how could I have known that Natasha would be a comrade. Wasn’t everybody in Russia back then – even Rasputin was, that’s why he was killed. Indeed, and Lenin must have resurrected him, but seeing his influence, had him killed again, or in another version Rasputin topologically transformed self into Stalin; that’s why he wrote a treatise two yrs prior to his death, knowing that this time, he was going away for good. You surely would have met at least one of these 3. Even Dante would have been forbidden had he been sent for in 3001 Anno Something to become the poet-laureate of the Divine Court. OK, but you were orderly ….

In a small village near Lensk which was Russian equivalent of Kafkaesque China: people would freeze to death in one room while others would be drinking to their health from Samovar in another. They heard the news: Tsar Nicholas has been killed, a teardrop in one or two old eyes till somebody said, but he is dead for these many years. Oh my Rod, it must be a joke – another round of Vodka.

Not Natasha, she heard about the revolu⏀ et the Russian defeat in the WW1, while she was in the city with her mother, and was outraged instantly. Her anger she channeled into n⏀l fervor, and when her maternal GM gave her a few coins on her – the GM’s – name day, she bought an envelope et postage.

Those perforated stamps had been outlawed, but the news reached the local post office a bit late; then again the local PM may have wanted to keep some semblance of Ancien Regime, being related by blood to a local prince + personal nostalghia: since most of his old world order was tumbling around him – a month ago the doctor, his childhood friend, had died – this new development was too much for his weak heart. Later, when the PM refused to co-operate with the new local officials, he was executed. On account of this, the local P.O remained shut for some time, and letters sent to Lensk et surrounding areas had to be placed in the ℅ D.L.O, as if the place had ceased to exist.

It took a year for Natasha to receive a reply from Felix Dzerzhinsky for her letter addressed to Grigory Petrovsky, the Minister of Interior, Moskva. Her request for Party membership had been thereby granted; moreover, she was made with immediate effect, the local party head, et could have appointed others on pos⏀s such as local G.S + y.t to help her in advancing the party agenda in that area, bringing awareness to the locals et al generic issues.

The biggest was the callous nature of the locals, who showed no care for what was happening at Petrograd or Peter’s burg or whomever-grad et -burg. Do I get to eat the next time is a ques⏀ which one way or another is related to money, and those times were less than ideal in re, of course. However, beside monetary problems and exploit⏀ – continued despite Revolu⏀ – what fuelled the fire was the injustice that these people brought upon themselves by remaining idle. Blame it on the weather, but these villagers were too rigid to be shaken from their roots despite the political upheavals that shook Russia, nay 130 Europe in general during the second decade.

I et the team-leader were like blessing in disguise, Natasha would have thought. We needed food et water. She needed G.S et orderly. A perfect match.

Yes, you are thinking: but how did the narrator learn Russian – well, our sojourn in the cave was anabiotic, I suppose, and when we returned to life, we all had learned something inexplicably, but except for me et the team-leader, others went cuckooed, running after mirage. Some killed themselves. The team-leader killed one in self-defence, while I killed 3 like a rancher do’ ill horse. And then there were none, except their ghosts haunting our dreams et reveries. We walked aimlessly beside a river, its surface a thin crust of ice. At times one thought: plunge into its depth, you will find Truth. But Truth can be Minotaur ready to eat you without care for Prometheus. You know that if you keep always on one side of the river bank, you will find a hearth being used for cooking food / receiving warmth / pyromancy / hiding evidence (either by burning blood-soaked clothes or through creating a false positive) – can’t help enumerating, out of habit, I infer, though the reader is also lured thereby to ignore the manifest and add other possible scenarios of their own accord.

Natasha was cooking food when I saw her. Her face was glowing red, whereon worry was writ large, which I read instantaneously despite our euphoric hunger making cobwebs on our lenses. She felt she was not doing enough for 131 her n⏀, knowing not that she was just a statistic with the Politburo, happy that their outreach extends to far-flung areas.

While Johnaten remained well-poised, I under the guise of dehydr⏀, fell onto my knees afore the Beloved, who started to her feet, letting the ladle drop in the cauldron, which emitted droplets of hot stew.

She said: What happened. J. replied: He is thirsty for some days. She went inside and came back with a pitcher. After drinking it all, I said: I AM THIRSTY. She intuitively knew et blushed.

The problem is that this our World likes et perpetuates Realism; nobody likes a childish person, who still remembers the boy who cried wolf – and the greatest epitome of idealism is none other than one who loves You.

When the thought to offer us work with her, first entered her mind ….

You know I don’t want to tell this story, my mind is being virtually bombarded with my juvenile work: one missile after another RPG is hitting myself. They say in hell that angels would torture you with the music you had heard by playing it in a loop over et over et over et again: or that barring Solomon, all the wealthy would be given to wear red-hot gold; that the habitual drinkers would be made to drink rum admixed with molten lead, arsenic, mercury – that murderers would be continuously murdered in the same wise. Welcome to Hubris. Where a pebble is a mountain, for whose heart is the biggest white giant a dwarf. In this Cosmic® Truman™ Show SM,

She chose J. to be G.S, and me to be her orderly. This brought to my mind the bad old days of chi. I resented J., was jealous of him – even though I would tell you otherwise, I felt envious of Keats, when I read that he died at the age of 28 (actually anybody dead under the age of 40); however, I did not like one bit the poetry that he wrote posthumously – couldn’t he just be fascinated by beauteous Heaven. On the other hand, I wished that instead of late Sri Shiv Kumar, I had wrote [One Girl] in honor of Her, and sung it à la Kumar S(h)anu for Her.

In 1923, after seeing a dream involving Natasha et J., I confessed my love unto her via a letter in most bizarre words possible – me, who is the weaver of words.

The reply I received was seeing her laughing whole-heartedly at a bad joke of J. That night I spent in agony, planning a perfect murder. But in the morning, I killed Johnaten at point blank range in front of Natasha.

sympathetic lightning is the car on a loop sembling reality. You are familiar with most of the characters in this show, but the only one you remember is from Six Feet Under, and a house to boot. When Shoemaker-Levy makes an impact on your World, you know you are to blame, for you had sung in unison with Nietzsche, Jupiter is dead. My criticism of Nietzsche is self-critique. Too late, since the spider with 6 legs had stretched its tentacles to the inner core by then.

133

All my whys seem to emerge from her’s: why (did you kill him). I need to possess you. But you know, I must report this. And I surrender unto You, my Love. Natasha wept at her mother’s shoulder and told her what had transpired. Her mother told her, but nobody is coming to ask about this. Natasha replied: One must set a far higher criterion for one’s self than for the others, and I thought him to be part of me; let this be my fault also: let me be incarcerated in this big World without him.

Her mother said, I should tell you the saddest story, at this your life’s saddest moment, which is no time for a story: When they were young / They thought, their time shall remain still / Forever like this / When they look the same / Knowing not that when they shall grow-up / She will be the most beautiful fish / He the most ugliest toad / Drawn to one another in different times and spaces / Andalucía.

Max, I remember now, it was Doves’ song that you burnt but even CO could not make me shed tears that day. Natasha, still weeping, handed me over to the local police.

J. was given a medal et state funeral – that was the time when the government was itching to find heroes amid the debris left from the Revolu⏀ and then the in-fighting b/w the Revolu⏀aries. I was dubbed a Menshevik attempting to wreck the edifice of Rev, nay the whole USSR, and was later sentenced to life in a prison, where when I just could not take it anymore from the guards et prisoners alike, I committed suicide. 3 yrs later, I was pardoned under general amnesty.

END OF THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

Part 6: https://werticalhorizon.wordpress.com/2021/05/25/chis-side-of-the-meta-thetical-story-excerpt/