Fractals

“Nostalgia is a fleeting moment of incidental well being remembered as an exaggerated epoch.” This was Yashwall Bal Hammad, a young priest of the badlands of the Minor Divide, West of Greater India.
The year: 2277 AD. Weather: Cold and smoggy and yet awfully dusty.
Yashwall wont have any of that nostalgia about an imagined past. A past that was supposed to be better, simpler. So he spoke again: “Nostalgia is a fleeting moment of incidental well being remembered as an exaggerated epoch.”
Babul Shah Zafran agreed. But not with Yashwall. He agreed to what he thought. And he spoke what he thought: “Progress and knowledge are safety valves sorted and created by intelligent men to escape the limitations and psychosis of social and religious dogma. I pity them.”

Yashwall agreed: “Ommmm, bulghtrtyui,agadwsetyu!”
Babul nodded: “Allaaaaaaauarsetusihgsffdddfgghhhhgjkyut.”

B abul was a priest as well. This time, space and place had many priests. But there was just one religion. But many factions and sects and heresies and so on and so forth. The democratic state liked it that way. It let chaos bring its own order. It saw it as a consequence: Soft fascism. It worked.

Entered J Jamal Bamstien. The love interest of both Yashwall and Babul.

“It is impossible to know that certain laws of cause and effect always apply - no matter how many times one observes them occurring.” He announced. “Just because the sun has risen every day since the beginning of the Earth does not mean that it will rise again tomorrow. However, it is impossible to go about one’s life without assuming such connections and the best that we can do is to maintain an open mind and never presume that we know any laws of causality for certain. I pity that.”

This excited both Babul and Yashwall: “Wah, bhai, wah, wah …!”

So spoke Bamstien again: “Substance, Quantity, Quality, Relation, Place, Time, Posture, State, Action, and Passion!”

“Frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtt!” This was Yashwall. He farted.

“And who is going to do the dishes?” Asked Babul.
“Yes, yes,” said Bamstien. “Small talk should matter too.”
Entered Andre Salimkovister. A young man. Sometimes rather angry. And he heard this. So he swang his arms like a wheel burrough and shouted: “Concrete! Be concrete, motherfuckers! Be concrete. Be deterministic. Be material. Be! Just be!”

“You’re nothing but a stub,” said Bamstien, a lil’ agitated.
“A stub from a past that ended two hundered years ago,” said Yashwall.
“Frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!” This was Babul. He farted.

“Cat on mat,” said he. “Abstraction uses a strategy of simplification of detail, wherein formerly concrete details are left ambiguous, vague, or undefined; thus speaking of things in the abstract demands that the listener have an intuitive or common experience with the speaker, if the speaker expects to be understood. Do you … motherfucker?” He asked.

“Soft facism works. God works. He works in this time, space and place. And he works in no mysterious ways. He works clean and plain,” said Bamstien.
“He is the state!” announced Yashwall. “And the state is concrete.”

This left Andre swinging his arms again: “Matyytttriiooxxxxxxxxxghsghatyteuuii!!”

R 20;Sounds like our boy’s fallen into a gravity well.” Smiled Babul.

“That’s a compliment,” said Bamstaien. “Because a gravity well involves higher-dimensional bending. So bend and kneel, boy. And let yourself be whipped by the thin, plastic whips of soft fascism. God permits this.”

“I’m no gravitational slingshot!” Shouted Andre. “I have the will to travel back in time and undo what did you.”

Bamstaien smiled: “You undo that and you undo yourself as well. So bend!”

All this talk about bending, kneeling, doing and undoing got Yashwall, Babul and Bamstaien all sexually excited. So screamed they, one after the other: "French, feel, finger, fuck!”

“Spending some time with the purple-headed custard chucker?” Asked Andre, sarcastically. “You, your God, your state … quantum entanglement!”

“It works,” said Bamstaien, as he rode Babul and as Babul rode Yashwall: “Pump, pump, pump, pump …” they went. “All asses are equal. But some are more equal than others,” said he.

“A veridical paradox, said Andre. “And a falsidical paradox too. A hidden division by zero.”
“And that is God!” Added Bamstaien (Pump, pump, pump, pump…).

“Look at our state,” said Babul. “One upon the other in friendly commotion. The state is God. The state works. Bend!”

“Inconsistent premises always make an argument valid,” said Andre.

“You …,” said Bamstaien. “You, dear boy … are you suggesting that the set of all those sets that do not contain themselves contain itself?” (Pump, pump, pump, pump …).

“No!” Said Andre. “All I am asking is that who’ll do the dishes?”

“You would,” said Babul. “You will, like always.You will because you’re no preist,” (pump, pump, pump, pump).

“If this sentence is true, then God exists!” Said Andre, chuckling sarcastically.

“Frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtt!” This was Yashwall. He farted. This pushed Babul back with a jerk and thus Bamstaien too.
“What? What did you say?” Asked Yashwall, all agitated.

“Frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtt!” That was Andre. He farted too.

Said Yashwall.: “God exists! The state exists. It delivered us from anarchy and chaos of the past. It’s a pleasurable, orderly consequence of controlled democratic chaos!”

“A consequnce that has almost made the female sex extinct?” Said Andre.

“They are hidden.” Said Babul. “Hidden from becoming what you want them to become. They are hidden in homes, factories, solar ovens, washing waves … hidden in the heart of God and the state. Hidden and ridden from the vuluptuous chaos and shame of the past.”

“Hidden or told to hide?” Asked Andre.

“Told!” Said Bamstaien, firmly. “God and the state tell. They don’t ask or plead. How dare you? You, as always, are this close to being bannished to democratic marginality, non-essential economic satistics and spiritual wasteland. A disgusting cigarrate smuggler. A drug pusher. Bannised from all shopping malls and places of worship.”

“But I am for the state.” Said Andre. “ A state with no pretentions to democracy or religion or free economics.”

“Ancient regime!” Chuckled Yashwall. “Come to God, son, and understand. Come to papa!”

“Yes,” Said Bamstaien. “Come to papa and understand this soft, cuddly facism in which the individual is free to choose. Free to worship. Free to vote. He’s free that’s why he is willing to be told.”
“Utter bullshit!” Said Andre. “ A hundered years after the last poverty riots and still there is poverty!”

“Material poverty, you mean?” Asked Yashwall. “That’s nothing. We are all spritually rich now. That’s all that counts.”

“Utter bullshit!” Said Andre again.

Babul shut his eyes and shook his head: “Like we said, lad. Frrrrrrrrrrrrttt!.” He farted. “Some asses are more equal than others.”