This will become an appendix to my next regular postings, and it will simply provide links to whatever I have come across while surfing which I consider worthwhile sharing with you.

Today I googled “Social Credit” for the umpteenth time and as usual something new came on top of the page:

1) Social Credit Card: an old idea of mine: a serious percentage of population is financially paralized by lack of credit and a credit card, unable to take part in the economy and shortchanged at every step; unable to rent a car, buy anything on line and stiffed by much higher prices for cellphone calls on the pay as you go system,  and in a lot of other situations.  There is no reason why social services, for one should not help those unable to properly account for their financial performance to do so by providing them with the means to track their transactions and ensure that the minimal needs, food, shelter, utilities, transportation and communication are available to them and their dependents, by issuing them with an appropriate piece of plastic through whose electronic trail access to necessities is made preferential. There are so many people who are eager and suitable for just as many if not more available and unfilled positions or tasks that it is simply mindboggling to go on at such a suicidal pace by filling the guttters with intellectuals who don’t belong to the political persuasion in power and are too hionest to lie about that, ditto for religious establishments who condone mammon worship at the expense of that of the One True G-d.

One of the benefits of the above search has been to stumble upon http://www.whynot.net which to an inventor like me, forever helped by serendipity but able to see that (not an oxymoron) it is just another higher order which seems like chaos to those who don’t notice the icon to its folder… whynot adds to the item more items which that item’s reader might find interestin and is usually right on target; the

http://www.whynot.net/view_idea?id=4620 bit on the Social Credit Card was not relevant to my research on Social Network Architecture, but led me to http://www.whynot.net/ideas/43 about the placing of charity collection boxes at airport security gates, on which over a hundred readers agreed and took the time to say so. The latter item led me to a further one, http://www.whynot.net/ideas/3665 whose author Brian Lash <www.brianlash.com> is a Pittsburgh entrepreneur to whose very interesting blog I just subscribed and whom I will try to meet if he is in town,when I go GW to Philadelphia on June 29th for a party given for my daghter Hana Rachel, now Stein,  by her in-laws  to celebrate  her recent marriage to  their son Daniel.

Past this thread I went now to a dear friend of mine in Macedonia, Irena Gapkovska

…Art is not meant to be enjoyed, it is meant to illuminate….

www.ngoartstudio.org.mk

who is a social art activist in Skopje, and who visited me in Israel around Pesach on her round the world trip to create cultural and artistic cooperation projects; without getting involved in the specific political issues of a country which after all is not my own, and therefore I am not qualified to judge, at least without sufficient information whose pursuit would preempt the info I really need to achieve my own goals, I just want to say that, in the spirit of our Rabbis who celebrated the integrity of Alexander the Macedonian emperor by allowing the naming of Jewish children after him, I firmly support and welcome the Macedonian nation’s into the European Union and its fine artists, of which Irena is a very talented one who however sacrifices much time to pursuing the welfare of her fellow artists and compatriot at the expense of time and resources she would be making an excellent living with by painting more of her so very alive canvasses.

She sent me an article on Macedonian Jewry which I share here in toto, sparing you the trouble of clicking it:

Early Jewish History

Although 200 Jews currently live in Macedonia, the Jewish presence in Macedonia dates back to the first century, B.C.E., where the ruins of an ancient synaogue can be seen in the city of Stobi. Jews began to migrate to Macedonia during the Roman (Second Temple) Period. Persecution forced many Jews to flee from the lands controlled by the Romans, and a small number of Jews chose to make their home in Macedonia. The Jews of Macedonia were, and are, of Sephadic descent, and spoke the medieval language of the Sephardim, Ladino.

The largest migration of Jews to Macedonia took place during Ottoman rule, and under the sultans, the Jews prospered. The Ottoman period was also the time of the Spanish Inquisition. Jews came mainly from Spain and Portugal after having been expelled from their native countries. In cities such as Bitola, Skip, and Skopje, Jews were able to prosper in trade, medicine, and law. Jews depended more on agricultural products and less on trade.

Macedonia

Shabbetai Zevi, a self-proclaimed Messiah, had a major influence on the Jewish population in Salonika during the 17th century. Zevi was an inspirational speaker and he had the ability to unite the Jewish community. Head rabbis forced Zevi to leave the city when he began to claim that he was the Messiah. For a few centuries, the Jews of Macedonia thrived and enjoyed peaceful relations with the rest of the population.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, religiosity declined among the Jewish population. Only the mystical study of Kabbalah remained a central part of Jewish practice in Macedonia.

Toward the end of the 19th century, the Muslim Turkish government required all non-Muslims to join the Turkish army. Many Jews emigrated from Salonika to the United States to avoid army service. Still, the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century became a time of great prosperity for the Jews in the main city of Salonika. Jews took part in many aspects of the society including agriculture, trade, and professional fields such as law and medicine.


Mountains of Macedonia

More than 90,000 Jews lived in Macedonia in 1910 with Salonika (now Thessoloniki of Greece) being the most heavily populated Jewish city. In fact, there were so many Jews in Salonika that all of the citizens (including the non-Jews) were fluent in Ladino (a mixture of Hebrew and Spanish). Also, Shabbat was observed throughout the city. The Greeks took over the city of Salonika in 1912 and Jews were prohibited from residing in certain parts of the city. This led to another mass migration to the United States and other European countries.

World War II

Even with the heavy migration, more than 100,000 Jews were still living in Macedonia when the relatively calm atmosphere changed. The Bulgarians (under the Nazi regime) invaded Macedonia in 1941 and brought with them a hatred for the Jews and a mission of genocide. The large Jewish community of Salonika appointed Rabbi Dr. Zvi Koretz as president of the city. Rabbi Koretz spoke fluent German and the community believed him to have the ability to negotiate with the Nazi regime. Koretz was misguided in his negotiation tactics. He consistently appeased the Germans, believing that if he followed Nazi commands, Salonika would be spared. In March 1943, Koretz actually gathered a number of Jews in Salonika and sent them to camps in Poland.

Jews in Macedonia faced “racial laws” of segregation and were forced to wear identifying yellow stars. The Messagero (the Jewish newspaper in Salonika) was quickly shut down by the Nazi regime. By 1943, a majority of the Jews in Macedonia had been either arrested or killed by the Nazis. On March 10, 1943, the entire Jewish population of the city of Bitola in southern Macedonia was deported. Those who were arrested were brought to the concentration camps of Auschwitz and Treblinka. Many Jews who were not arrested in their towns were killed over the course of the war.

Fifty thousand Jews were killed from the city of Salonika alone. The jewels, gold, and earnings of the prosperous Jews of Macedonia were also confiscated by the Nazis, leaving any surviving Jews to return in poverty. Altogether, about 98% of Macedonia’s Jewish population at the time perished in the Holocaust.

After World War II, many of the surviving Jews in Salonika and Macedonia immigrated to Israel. Very few Jews returned to Macedonia. The Jews that did survive did so by either fleeing the country, blending in with the Christian population, or joining the partisan resistence led by Josip Broz Tito, who would later become the Communist President of Yugoslavia.


City streets

In the Aftermath of World War II

At the end of the war, Macedonia was carved up between Greece, Bulgaria, Albania, and Serbia. It became a republic of the communist federation of Yugoslavia in 1945, under President Tito. The Jews that returned to Macedonia settled in the city of Skopje, and fared well under the new secularist regime, which discourages religious expression, Jewish or otherwise. However, after 1945, the presence of Jews in Macedonia was almost nonexistent.

Macedonia gained its independence in 1991, after Yugoslavia broke apart. The majority of Jews who live there today still reside in the city of Skopje. There are only 190 known Jews living in the country at present. The other members of the Jewish community of Macedonia were either killed during the war or they chose not to return. Because of its tiny population, the Jewish community in Macedonia has lost many of its traditions. There is no synagogue in Macedonia and there is very little religious practice among the Jewish residents. There are approximately 200 unaffiliated Jews in Macedonia today. Assimilation and inter-marriage became more popular within the community after the end of World War II, and today it continues to be the main cause of the diminishing population.

Efforts are being made to build a Jewish community center and a new synagogue, but as of now, the community is financially unable to do so. They heavily rely on financial assistance from Israel and the United States, and from such organizations as the American Jewish Joint Relief Committee. Rather than trying to rebuild the community, many young Macedonian Jews are choosing to move to other countries. This migration, of course, is contributing to the further decline of the Jewish population in Macedonia.

But many young Jews, either born to one Jewish parent or one Jewish grandparent are starting to reclaim their Jewish heritage but participating in discussions at the local Jewish community center in central Skopje, which hosts both a synagogue and a kosher kitchen, and also hosts a Jewish women’s club. The community also boasts an arts club, featuring arts courses that teach traditional glass painting and other crafts, and whose creations include candles, traditional terracotta plates, and kippahs (head coverings).

Macedonia, also, has been at the forefront in passing restitution legislation to Holocaust survivors. About 1,700 properties across the nation have been identified as once belonging to Jewish citizens, and in 2000, the Macedonian government passed an heirless property restitution law. A new Holocaust Memorial Center is slated to open in Skopje in 2008, complete with a community center, museum, and exhibition space.

From Macedonia to Florida to note the passing of Alvin Marks

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/nationworld/sfl-flomarks0602sbjun05,0,1183478.story

a fellow inventor whom I missed the privilege of meeting but whose achievements I admired almost all my life; I was blessed in meeting John Ott, another Floridian whose findings about full spectrum lighting has steered my research into ergonomic and therapeutic light and caused me, among other things, to Hebraicize upon Aliya my family, art, and business name into Gal-Or which means Lightwave.

Then to Facebook, about which I will talk much more in another computer session, now dawn is breaking ant it is time for a hot mikva, prayers and learning Torah until noon, then back to the keyboard after lunch, on and off until the next wee hours…

Facebook is one of the best things that happened to the Internet, it fulfills the visions of it that I have had for many years before FB came, and even before DARPAnet dropped the D and Project PLATO, my first fix of many years of onlineness addiction, entered through my fingertips in ’73 at FSU in Tallahassee, Florida; it inspired me, in association with Star Trek, Neuromancer, etc… to exhibit in ’76 a Functioning Social Environment called ” Coffee, Tea, Spice, Smoke, Cake and…” at Tom Marioni’s Museum of Conceptual Art in S.Francisco (My name was still Luciano Piscino at the time) and to start on the path to Social Art (started by Germano Celant in Genova in my times with his “L’Arte Povera”, and we all know how far behind, Thank G-d,  he left poverty, although I am sure that he is still a great guy, just much harder to meet these days, and until I can match him sartorially,  that long I want to live and see the day…

If I had found the capital to build the Holographic Display/Camera I invented in ’76 I would not still be hitchhiking in ’08 at age 63, but that part is also hopefully coming to an end soon, and once I am mobile again things will please G-d accelerate into productivity. My latest foray into Social Work Architecture puts me right (potentially, virtually, etc… and digitally when the cash is on the table) in the league with Mark Zuckerberg and the rest of his colleagues, except that I am not paranoid about sharing (the part which I am willing to share as appetizer, of) my knowledge of how to build a social network which can be more socially and businesswise profitable than Facebook will ever be; I just know too many people who refuse to be in Facebook because they do not want to be treated ass private chattels by keeping the data they generate hidden from google searches, and miss out on the potential transactions such data would generate were they available to google searches; why should I or you have to duplicate those data elsewhere so that they can be found? After all myspace is not clumsy nor klutzy and as an artist I find it much more useful, specifically because google is welcome there. Facebook has another crowd I cannot afford to do without, and I am happy to be there, despite the unavailability of live help, the all too frequent software crashes, the unwanted and dangerously invasive applications, and most of all for me the fact that when i offered them a chance to explore together the SNA improvements I was willing to offer them, they have not even answered my mail for over two months. The future of social networks is in financial transaction, and the semantic web of course appeals to an old Korzibskian like me, because it will help the web regain its agility and shed the bloatware, making serverspace four or five times more capacious than it is now at the same quantity of available hardware; since hardware capacity will also increase there is no more doubt about the immint singularity.

I found one more blogger: http://the-sacred-path.com/

whose quote: Mohandas K. Gandhi often changed his mind publicly. An aide once asked him how he could so freely contradict this week what he had said just last week. The great man replied that it was because this week he knew better. I am sharing here.

Back to social networks: I found on the Herald tribune an article about them which warrants further exploration, and I will appreciate your feedback on the links it contains, which I will explore myself as soon as I can this evening: the article is at:

Networking sites boom but ads slow to follow

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/06/01/business/networks.php

and contains the following links:

I registered on all of them:

http://www.hi5.com

http://www.bebo.com

http://www.couchsurfing.com

I will comment on them after I have experienced them long enough, but in the meantime I am so impressed by the user interface of this one that I am immediately suggesting that you register in its network; even if you can, and do, afford seven star hotels, it will never be worth at least in my own opinion, as much as meeting in his/her home a new fellow member of the human race and putting a little more love in the world betweeen individuals, nations, and all the subsets available, which make inclusion and exclusion so much less fun than Stanley Kubrik’s ” Old In and Out”.

http://www.dontstayin.com

(ravelry.com

wayn.com

Badoo

and the search for it brought two more:

IDG finds answer to surviving on the Net

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/05/04/technology/IDG.php

and:

Social networking gives lift to game publishers

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/03/04/business/nokia.php

Both of which are well worth reading, especially if you are interested in the ultimate career building niche of the computer world, one which will reach in twenty years (will you remember then that I said it today, just like I kept on being treated as crazy in the seventies, eighties and even half or the nineties when I talked about the Internet…) a much higher business volume than computer hardware itself, with software much closer behind it on the transaction trail. A full transition to the New Intellectual Economy will take maybe a hundred years, and the transitional phase could have some very destructive aspects, due to the innate Luddistic and ludistic (both words, meaning that the luddites are fortunately so addicted to playing that they cannot stop progress, otherwise they would have a chance to do so and they would seize it eagerly!) resistance to innovation when it threathens their ability to exclude others from the Tree of Life.

Before I leave the IHT site, two more article caught my attention:

Graffiti finds its place in contemporary art

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/05/31/arts/rcartstreet.php?WT.mc_id=glob_mrktg_lnk1&WT.mc_ev=click?WT.mc_id=glob_mrktg_lnk1&WT.mc_ev=click

and

Seeking marathon edge, can rice lead to gold?

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/06/11/sports/11shoes.php

and as soon as I find a pair of these shoes I’ll buy it and run in them.

These links in the IHT keep on coming, but I promise this is the last one:

For Muslim women in Europe, a medical road back to virginity

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/06/10/europe/virgin.php

and now a story I wrote a few years ago, as a Purim Mishloach Manot addendum, and which I want to turn in a movie when I have the means:

Le Jeu de Robin et Marion
Copystraight by Eliahu Gal-Or

Copyright = I own this intellectual property and sell/rent it through a
contract 

Copyleft = I hereby place this intellectual property in the public domain 

Copystraight = Only complete reproduction allowed, no out-of-context
quotation, and only with with full credit to the original author 

I would like to know from the list if anybody else has applied this concept since, and I am leaving the story with the posting so that you may have the option of posting it too, if you wish - I have also translated it in Hebrew, French and Spanish.

I use my writings as an intellectual food offering, notably, I add them to the food baskets I send friends to celebrate the Jewish Holiday of Purim.

This is the story, I will also welcome material from other forum members, as I plan to either organize a live event in Israel to discuss this aspect of Intellectual Property Law, or to hitch a ride on a similar panel if I find one soon enough.

All the best to CCers,

                                        Eliahu Gal-Or

Please note: In this context, I do not give a hoot about Middle East or any other politics, and any reference to some of their aspects in the story is only meant to entertain. 

Le Jeu de Robin et Marion 

a Purim story, Copystraight by Eliahu Gal-Or 

With remarkably sensual, feline steps, the tall redhead on whose shoulder
hung a capacious Bulgari tote-all, her grey mesh stockings barely concealed
by 
Ferragamo's very latest model of sterling silver and cork sandals, stepped
on the number Four bus at its last stop of the Ramat Eshkol neighborhood;
she carefully chose a free seat, next to a curmudgeonly Rabbi who was
poring on the usual leather-bound octavo volume, pondering over the Divine
Law's subleties and the foolish conclusions those less erudite than him
would risk reaching had they dared to do so without his valuable
assistance. 

She asked him politely for permission to sit beside him; he distractly
nodded, only for his distraction to be vehemently pierced by the sudden
gaze of her eyes which, announced by her cultured, one could say manicured,
Parisian accent, had jolted him back in a flash to his adolescence in the
Marais, where between a page of Gemara and the next, he used to sandwich a
joint and a pleasant billiard game at the Rue Des Rosiers pool hall, with
his ex-maid whose professions now were painter's model, movie stand-in and
discreetly, for a chosen few police commissioners and politicians who spent
most of their leftover time preaching F.amily Values, exceptionally
desirable and rewarded whore. 

Marion, the Fire-haired Gentile who had never taken him seriously about her
possible Jewish origins, but whose expressive face was lickety-spit
identical to that victim of the Inquisition immortalized by Velasquez, and
at a distance of centuries instantly recognized by Reb Reuven at the Prado,
on his honeymoon with Sarah in 1970 when he had finally pleased his mother
by accepting the match which came with a tenured research position at Bar
Ilan University and a new little house in the Orthodox Kibbutz of Yesodot. 

So the new couple had set off for the Holy Land in a second-hand Citroen
bread truck, loaded with both their grandmothers' furniture heirlooms and
the Sefer Torah Reuven had written in honor of a cousin perished at
Auschwitz and destined to the Kibbutz Synagogue. The overland adventure
took them throughout most of Europe to meet all the relatives except those
in America, through Turkey, Syria and Jordan towards thirty years of
excellent academic career, hers in sociology, delicious organic food grown
in their own backyard and fabulous Shabbatot and Holidays, to the Hassidic
beat of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach pouring forth from the clear voices of their
eighteen boys, counterpointed by the wailing of the last born, finally a
girl. 

Then Sarah, who had miraculously escaped a horrible bus explosion set off
by palestinian terrorists and which had rushed into the Next World
twenty-eight innocent civilians, mostly women and children, started to
hallucinate and wake up screaming, and the stroke which took away her
speech for the last five years could almost be considered an act of mercy
by that Creat-r in whom, despite it all, Reuven could not bring himself to
give up the belief. 

And now Marion was once more sitting next to him, with the precise
expression she had so many years before in the Parisian Metro; Marion which
no turned-up rabbinical noses nor the threats by his Rosh Yeshiva could
force him to forget, was there, and he was looking at her now, a fierce
eighty-year old redhead whose body had stayed in teenage shape, just like
Josephine Baker's whose live performance they had seen 
together, amazing voice, feeling and wearing very few ostrich feathers. 

Marion who still moved her hips with exquisite competence, what could she
possibly be looking for in the Holy City? 

In the hot springtime of the Parisian Sixty-Eight student Anarchist
demostrations Marion had made every possible effort to enter, through foul
language and daredevil exploits, her name in the Guinness Book of Records
as the world's most Atheistic Atheist by attending those of Daniel
Cohn-Bendit where she played the part of Robin Hood by stealing the stuff,
the shit, in other words the hashish supplies of the rich comrades to
donate to the poor ones the little bit that she managed to not consume
herself or maybe, just for fun, re-sell to their original owners. Yes,
Marion, the one whose only Messiah was Wilhelm Reich and Orgasm the blessed
message of salvation for a society castrated by the Fascist Emotional
Plague. 

Reb Reuven had carried on a triple life in Paris: The first life was that
of a talmudic genius cum Real Estate wheleer-dealer at the Yeshiva du
Marais run by his uncle Reb Elchanan, where the young Reuven always
succeeded with his incredibly sharp pilpul to have all his artistic
diversions forgiven by family and Rabbis except the one who had fathered
him and who could not stand his constant turning down of the prestigious 
matches that matchmaking agencies insisted on offering him, and which ended
as just sources of aggravation and tears for his mother, herself the
daughter of a very reputed rabbinical dinasty. 

His second persona was named Robin, and covered the black velvet yarmulke
with a classic basque beret tilted at Che Guevara's angle, besides sweaters
and jeans liberally stained with multi-colored oil paint spots, veritable
Jackson Pollocks in movement, one of them even authentic and signed by the
artist, won at a London auction. His main interest at the demonstrations
was to cling the closest possible to Marion, and look for outlandish
location wherein to have sex with her. 

The third identity, Rubens, was known only to a very restricted cadre of
Mossad operatives, to whom he relayed on a non-profit basis all the
information he could glean from the unaware Marion about an assiduous and
generous customer of her, the young Osama bin Laden, at the time a gofer on
behalf of the Imam Khoumeini, who was exiled in Paris but already recording
his subversive audio cassettes and having them smuggled into Iran. 

The furtive gaze had left him no doubt at all; he knew that Marion had
recognized him too and a chill crept down his spine till the very end of
it, his coccyx stiff like an icicle, gently bobbing with the rhythm of the
potholes on Samuel the Prophet Street, suggesting to him that she had
actually stalked him, watching from a bus stop's distance with her
minuscule telescope until he had boarded first. 

Marion had married Ohsama and converted to Islam, moving into his harem in
Kabul for the last thirty years, disappearing in its aromatic fog and
inhaling it as deeply as she was capable of. She must obviously have
escaped, and at her heels, probably on this same bus and moment, the fat
palestinian olive peddler from Shuafat was likely to be following her on
her furious husband's behalf. 

Fear was steaming from each of her pores, but was also accompanied by
fragrant pheromones of unheard-of violence. She had addressed him in the
frayed Yiddish that had been forwarded her by living among the Latin
Quarter's Jews, and had quickly accepted his offer of an espresso at
Sergio's, which naturally developed into a ritual of antipasti, green
lasagna, guitar strumming and her speedy absorption of a bottle of Grappa
dell'Artista, privately distilled by Luciano of Me'Or Modiim for his
friends. 

Reuven had remained totally sober, because he was drinking from his private
bottle of Tequila Sauza which he kept at the bar for just such kind of
occasions, and whose contents were 90% mineral water and Wissotzky tea,
trusting in his salt, lemon and satisfied mumblings act to dispel
suspicion. 

After twenty-five years of quiet conjugal life at the kibbutz,
disintegrated by the bus explosion, Reuven had moved with his family into
the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem, a few steps from the
Wailing Wall and from his son Prof. Tarfon, famous neurosurgeon whose name
opened every door at Hadassah Hospital, where for three times a week he
pushed his mother's wheelchair through the Rehabilitation dept. to try
giving her back her speech. 

The father had gotten back to his Parisian routine, minus Paris,
alternating intense sessions of studying the Holy Kabbalah to equally
intense meetings with all the famous artists which he managed to entice
into his social circle and convened every Thursday afternoon at an
intellectual luncheon for the forty who came first, due to Fire Dept.
restrictions, at his best friend's restaurant's upstairs room. There the 
exchange of news and ideas on the rebirth of Zionism was fed, and what
counts most, copiously moistened at his expense, and after watching
together the evening news on satellite TV half of the group would leave for
the discos and the other half stepped onto a rented bus for a ride to the
cave in Beit Meir to study the Sacred Texts all night by candlelight under
his guidance, and then recite, after a steaming ritual bath, the morning
Prayers and the complete Book of Psalms. 

In her house, the pious Sarah was immersed in the stupor of anesthesia, and
he, today when it was Purim, was asking himself why all his sobriety was
unable to obliterate in the deepest depths of his mind, the olfactive and
gustative memories of Marion's delicious vaginal fluids, leisurely enjoyed
for breakfast in the chemistry labs of the Sorbonne during the student
occupation of Sixty-eight. The blonde media darling who staged them then
was now himself a member of the European Parliament, whose daily whores
were all rigorously sixteen year olds of either gender, and laid drugged
and handcuffed during the futile attempt at penetration, wherein he
remained flaccid at the taxpayers' expense. His ghost-written memories,
instead, kept on parading throughout the world in sixty-nine idioms fully
erect for many years in the bestsellers' lists, providing him with a steady
supply of crisp bills to lose at roulette. 

Finally, the bombshell: Loudly raucous after two packs of Gitanes
chain-smoked from a single match, while the stereo accompanied for the
third time with a charming execution of "Le Jeu de Robin et
Marion" on
Alfred Cortot's magical keyboard, which they had once shared live at the
Salle Pleyel and Ruth, Sergio's sweet witch of a daughter, had obligingly
fished out for them from the Napster website. Marion started to explain
what had indeed brought her to the Holy City. 

She successfully squeezed into less than five minutes, as if it was a
basketball game, the whole saga of escaping from Kabul with the help of
another of bin Laden's wives, a roman Jewess named Cecilia who had soon
been tracked in London by Ohsama's goon and strangled by him in a taxicab
whilst sitting beside Marion, who had then mortally surprised the Afghan
with a classic Hat-pin-dipped-in-curare trick, and escaped to New York
where she had stayed put in a private clinic in the Catskill Mountains for
three long months, until she could muster the courage to fly to Tel Aviv
via Zurich. 

Now Marion offered him, imagine, Bin Laden's agenda which she had stolen
away, and guarded intimately, rolled up inside a condom; she had just
shattered his last illusion by revealing that unbeknownst to him, she had
been throughout the whole game a Mossad operative, his senior instead of
his patsy, and was already meant to become a mole in Osama's gang. She had
remained inactive for thirty years, until Cecilia had come in with the
signal she had been waiting for. 

In the meantime Marion had traced, in Kabul of all places, the remnants of
her family who had sought refuge there in Torquemada's times, and dredged
up the fact that her grand-grandmother had married a Persian carpet
merchant and moved to Paris, where she was buried in the Great Cemetery.
This revelation had induced Marion to study and secretly practice her
ancestral faith, and she had come to give Reuven the task of helping her
prove her Jewish identity to all and sundry so that, come the moment, she
would be guaranteed a Jewish burial. 

Marion was also carrying in her huge bag Cecilia's diary and her own
humongous one, thickly compiled in microscopic script. But Marion had also
another need, perhaps a bit harder to fulfill, for pure logistical reasons
if nothing else, seeing that his seventy-two year old organ urgently
demanded to come back from the five years of retirement Sarah's stroke had
prematurely forced him into. 

Marion wanted to make love at least one more time, and this one without
hang-ups and the subtle, not sufficiently hidden prejudice she had hitherto
silently swallowed. His indecision lasted but a moment, and they
immediately ran into Rehov Agrippas, into the shining Purim morning towards
their appointed rite of Spring, towards another friend's closed second-hand
bookshop, on whose walls the eyes feasted on splendid frescoes by Itzhak
ben Yehuda, another living legend in the Hevra, and whose key he had been
entrusted
with so that he could occasionally check up on the e-mail hunting for rare
editions of Judaica on the auctions he had never lost the taste for,
towards the shop's elegant Biedermeyer couch in 
whose armrest's hidden compartment a fine pure Talisker malt bottle
awaited, towards, most of all, the couch where Life, finally, awaited its
dues. 

Good Purim, Good Purim. 

=====================================================

Il Gioco di Robin e Marion

Camminando con accentuata sensualita', la rossa leonina con la capace borsa
di Bulgari e l'ultimissimo modello di sandali di Ferragamo
sali'sull'autobus numero quattro all'ultima fermata di Ramat Eshkol. 
Scelse con cura il sedile libero, a fianco di un attempato Rabbino che
ponderava il solito librone in ottavo sulle sottigliezze della Legge e le
pinzillacchere che i meno eruditi di lui avessero potuto erroneamente
attribuirLe. Lei gli chiese il permesso di sederglisi accanto, lui
distrattamente assenti' con la testa, ma la sua distrazione sfumo' di
colpo, allorche' la furtiva scrutata agli occhi della turista, che erano
stati annunciati da un forbito accento parigino, si erano rivelati
argotamente arguti e lo avevano riportato al Marais della sua    
adolescenza, dove tra una lezione di Gemara e l'altra soleva infilare di
soppiatto uno spinello ed una piacevole partita di biliardo al salone di
Rue des Rosiers con la cameriera, di ulteriori professioni modella,
comparsa del cinema ed occasionalmente discreta' mignotta per commissari di
partito ed insospettabili onorevoli. Marion, la gentile dalla chioma fulva
che non aveva mai preso sul serio le sue putate origini ebraiche, ma il cui
viso era identico sputato a quello di una vittima dell'inquisizione
immortalata da Velasquez e poi, a distanza di secoli, riconosciuta da Reb
Reuven al Prado durante la sua luna di miele con Sara nel settanta, quando
aveva messo la testa a posto, ed accettata una posizione di ricerca
all'Universita' Bar Ilan si stava dirigendo verso la Terra Promessa con i
pregiati mobili di sua nonna ed il Sefer Torah appena completato in onore
del cugino perito ad Auschwitz, stipati nel furgone Citroen comprato
d'occasione dal panettiere all'angolo, verso la loro nuova casetta nel
Kibbutz Ortodosso di Yesodot, verso trent'anni di carriera accademica ed il
serio matrimonio con la mite Sara, che gli aveva dato una dieta squisita,
Sabbati fiabeschi scanditi dal ritmo Hassidico di Shlomo Carlebach che
sgorgava dal coro di ben diciotto figli, e il vagito del'ultima nata,
finalmente una femmina.

Poi Sara, che era scampata miracolosamente ad un orribile attentato
palestinese sull'autobus che aveva portato ventotto civili innocenti
nell'Aldila', aveva cominciato a vaneggiare e svegliarsi urlando, e
l'ictus che l'aveva ammutolita per i successivi cinque anni poteva quasi
essere considerato un'atto di misericordia da parte di quel D-o in cui
ciononostante Reuven non riusciva a smettere di credere. Ed ora Marion era
di nuovo al suo fianco, seduta con la stessa espressione di tanti anni
prima nel Metro', Marion che ne il naso arricciati ne le minacce di
espulsione abitualmente propinategli dal Capo Rabbino della sua Yeshiva
erano riusciti a fargli dimenticare, era li e lui la rivedeva ottantenne a
Gerusalemme, col corpo identico a quello di allora, come Josephine Baker il
cui numero avevano visto insieme ai bei tempi coperto da pochissime piume
di struzzo. Marion che ancora ancheggiava con squisita competenza, che
poteva mai essere venuta a fare nella Citta' Santa?

Lei che nella calda primavera del Sessantotto parigino aveva fatto ogni
possibile sforzo di turpiloquio e sregolatezza per cercare di entrare
nell'annuario Guinness come l'atea piu' atea del mondo, la piu'
sfegatata alle dimostrazioni anarchiche di Daniel Cohn-Bendit in cui faceva
la parte di Robin Hood rubando la roba, la merda, insomma l'hashish ai
compagni ricchi per regalare a quelli poveri il poco che riusciva a non
consumare o magari rivendere alle sue stesse vittime, tanto per spasso.

Si, Marion, quella il cui solo Messia era Wilhelm Reich e l'Orgasmo il
benedetto messaggio di salvezza per la societa' castrata dal Fascismo.

Reb Reuven aveva condotto una tripla vita a Parigi a quei tempi: La prima
era quella di genio talmudico, oltre che intermediario immobiliare durante
gli intervalli, alla Yeshiva du Marais di Reb Elchanan, dove il giovane
Reuven riusciva con il suo filatissimo pilpul a farsi perdonare tutte le
diversioni artistiche da famiglia e rabbini tranne uno, suo padre per la
precisione, che non riusciva a sopportare il suo continuo rifiuto dei
prestigiosi Shidduchim che le agenzie matrimoniali insistevano ad
offrirgli,
e che finivano con l'essere solo fonte di lite e pianti per sua madre,
anch'essa discendente di una prestigiosa dinastia rabbinica. La seconda
personalita' si chiamava Robin, e copriva la kippah di velluto nero con un
classico basco allo stesso angolo di Che Guevara, oltre a pullovers e jeans
generosamente macchiati di pittura ad olio multicolore, dei veri Jackson
Pollock in movimento, ed in un caso, anche autentici e firmati, vinti da
lui ad un asta londinese. Alle dimostrazioni, lui era sempre il piu'
possibile
vicino a Marion perche gliela dava gratis. La terza identita' dal nome di
Rubens, era conosciuta soltanto da un piccolo nucleo del Mossad, cui
riferiva senza scopo di lucro quanto riusciva a carpire dalla ignara Marion
sui movimenti di uno dei suoi amanti, il giovane Osama bin Laden che era
allora il factotum dell'Imam Khoumeini durante il suo esilio parigino, e di
lei assiduo, generoso cliente.

Lo sguardo fugace non gli aveva lasciato alcun dubbio; Marion lo aveva
anch'essa gia riconosciuto ed un brivido freddo al fondoschiena gli
suggeriva che lo avesse addirittura atteso di proposito, osservando la
fermata precedente del'autobus con un minuscolo cannocchiale fino a che lui
vi fosse salito. Marion aveva sposato Ohsama e si era convertita all'Islam,
andando a vivere nel suo harem a Kabul per gli ultimi
trent'anni,sparendo nella nebbia profumata ed inalandola il piu'
profondamente possibile.

Evidentemente doveva essere evasa, e sulla sua pista, probabilmente sullo
stesso autobus, la grassa palestinese venditrice ambulante di olive poteva
in questo stesso momento essere incaricata di pedinarla. La paura le
sprizzava da ogni poro, ma era anche accompagnata da fragranti feromoni di
inaudita violenza. Gli aveva rivolto la parola nello sbrindellato Yiddish
che le era stato inoltrato da sua madre, ed aveva accettato veloce
l'offerta di prendere un caffe' da Sergio, che si era naturalmente
sviluppata in un rituale di antipasti e lasagna, con la chitarra per la
rimpatriata, ed il veloce svuotamento da parte di lei di una intera
bottiglia di Grappa del'Artista, distillazione privata di Luciano da
Me'Or Modiim. Reuven era rimasto totalmente sobrio, poiche' beveva dalla
sua bottiglia privata di Tequila Sauza che custodiva al bar di Sergio
proprio per occasioni del genere, ed in cui novanta per cento del
contenuto erano acqua e te Wissotzky, confidando nella sceneggiata al sale,
limone e mugolii di soddisfazione per dissipare ogni sospetto.

Dopo trent'anni di tranquilla vita coniugale al kibbutz, sconvolta
dall'esplosione sul'autobus, Reuven si era trasferito con la famiglia al
Quartiere Ebraico di Gerusalemme, a pochi passi dal Muro del Pianto e da
suo figlio il Prof. Tarfon, brillante neurochirurgo il cui nome apriva
tutte le porte dell'Ospedale Hadassah, dove per tre volte alla settimana
egli spingeva la sedia a rotelle della madre nel reparto di Riabilitazione
cercando di farle riprendere la parola.. Il padre era rientrato nella
routine di tipo parigino, alternando intense sessioni di studio della
Cabala' ad altrettanto intensi incontri con tutti gli artisti famosi che
riusciva ad includere nel suo cerchio sociale, e teneva testa ogni Giovedi'
pomeriggio ad una tavolata intellettuale al secondo piano del ristorante
del suo migliore amico, dove lo scambio di  notizie ed idee sulla rinascita
dello Zionismo erano generosamente alimentate e lubrificate a
spese sue, prima che la meta' del gruppo se ne andasse e l'altra meta' si
dirigesse nell' autobus appositamente noleggiato alla caverna di Beit Meir
per studiare tutta la notte I Sacri Testi a lume di candela
sotto la sua guida e ritornare al Muro del Pianto per recitare, dopo un
bagno rituale bollente, le Preghiere dell'Alba ed il completo Libro dei
Salmi.

A casa sua, la pia Sara era immersa nello stupore dell'anestesia, e lui
oggi che era Purim, si domandava perche' tutta la sua sobrieta' non
riusciva ad obliterare nelle piu' intime profondita' della sua
mente la memoria olfattiva e gustativa del delizioso umore vaginale di
Marion, che aveva a lungo centellinato nelle sue prime colazioni ai
laboratori chimici della Sorbona, durante l'occupazione del Sessantotto, Il
capo brontolone che le dirigeva  era ormai anche lui un rispettabile
deputato al Consiglio d'Europa, le sue mignotte di ambo i sessi tutte
rigorosamente sedicenni, ed ammanettate durante il futile tentativo di
copula, in cui restava flaccido a spese dei contribuenti. Le sue memorie
invece, continuavano a restare erette nelle liste di bestsellers e gli
utili di questi ultimi andavano agli allibratori.

Finalmente, la bomba: Con la voce roca dopo due pacchetti di Gitanes fumate
a catena da un solo cerino, mentre lo stereo la accompagnava per la
terza volta con l'incantevole esecuzione di "Le Jeu de Robin et
Marion"
sulla magica tastiera di Alfred Cortot che avevano ascoltato insieme una
volta dal vivo alla Salle Pleyel e che Ruti, la figlia di Sergio aveva
scovato per loro sul sito Internet di Napster, Marion comincio' a spiegare
il suo arrivo nella Citta' Santa. Marion era riuscita a comprimere in meno
di cinque minuti, come se si fosse trattato di una partita di
pallacanestro, tutta la saga dell'evasione da Kabul con l'aiuto di una
successiva moglie di Bin Laden, un'Ebrea romana che era stata poi trovata a
Londra dallo scagnozzo di Osama e strangolata da questi nel taxi mentre era
seduta a fianco di Marion, che aveva a sua volta ucciso di sorpresa
l'Afgano col classico spillone da cappello intinto nel curaro, ed era poi
scappata a New York dove era riuscita a nascondersi per tre lunghi mesi in
una clinica privata delle Catskills, prima di sentirsi sufficientemente al
sicuro per affrontare il volo per Tel Aviv via Zurigo. Adesso Marion gli
offriva nientepopodimeno che l'agenda di Bin Laden, che aveva trafugato e
custodito intimamente per tutto questo tempo, arrotolata in un
preservativo, dopo avergli distrutto l'ultima illusione con la rivelazione
che anziche' essere un'utile idiota, era stata un'agente del Mossad anche
lei tutto il tempo, ed in un grado superiore al suo, per poi essere
destinata a fungere da talpa nel gruppo di Ohsama. Per trent'anni era
restata inattiva, fino a quando Cecilia la romana le aveva dato l'atteso
segnale.

Nel frattempo Marion aveva rintracciato proprio a Kabul il resto della sua
famiglia che vi si era rifugiata ai tempi di Torquemada ed il fatto che
la sua bisnonna  aveva sposato un mercante parigino di tappeti ed era
ancora sepolta a Parigi al Cimitero Grande. Questa rivelazione aveva
indotto Marion a studiare e praticare di nascosto la religione ancestrale,
ed era venuta per affidare a Reuven il compito di aiutarla a provare la sua
identita' di Ebrea in modo che, arrivato il momento, potesse avere
assicurata la sepoltura in un cimitero ebraico. Marion aveva anche con se
nel borsone il diario di Cecilia ed il suo, enorme, compilato fittamente in
calligrafia microscopica. Ma Marion aveva un altro desiderio, forse un po'
piu' difficile da esaudire, piu' che altro per ragione di logistica, visto
che il suo organo settantaduenne gia prepotentemente insisteva a voler
uscire dallo status di pensionato cui lo aveva relegato l'ictus di Sara.

L'indecisione era durata solo un attimo, e si erano subito avviati, dita
intrecciate e cuore in gola, incuranti di ogni incontro imprevisto,
sull'affollato Rehov Agrippas di una mattinata di Purim, verso il negozio
di libri di un amico che gliene aveva dato la chiave perche potesse
occasionalmente riposarsi sul divano, o controllare l'e-mail alla ricerca
di rare edizioni di Judaica nelle aste di cui non aveva mai perso la
passione.

Verso l'elegante divano Biedermayer nel cui bracciolo li aspettava
un'eccellente bottiglia di puro malto Talisker; soprattutto verso il divano
dove la Vita, finalmente, li aspettava per riprendere il suo corso.

======================================================
End of this episode, the whole book is available as a proper business proposition, along songs and much more material, because I must make a living too.

 Eliahu Gal-Or

This story, when placed on the Creative Commons site elicited the following comment:

eliahu at kotl.tv Scrive 

> Copystraight = Only complete reproduction allowed, no out-of-context
> quotation, and only with full credit to the original author 

Bene, adesso sappiamo che sia chiama copystraight. :) 

Non è un caso che, su questa lista, tre persone negli ultimi giorni abbiano 
posto due problemi (a mio giudizio non trascurabili):
1) è permessa solo la riproduzione completa dell'opera
2) la riproduzione è soggetta al permesso dell'autore originario 

Qui c'è una "soluzione" a questi problemi: 
http://www.costozero.org/

L'idea (è solo una teoria, non è un progetto) è quella di una licenza 
"esamodulare" con 3 opzioni di base e 3 elementi fissi [per usare il 
linguaggio di CC: 1) Attribuzione (cosa scontata, visto che, da noi, non è 
possibile il contrario); 2) Condividi allo stesso modo (è una garanzia di 
libertà); 3) commerciale / non commerciale (la licenza non lo specifica: 
altra garanzia di libertà; si rimanda ad un eventuale successivo accordo tra 
licenziante e licenziatario la non commerciabilità o la commerciabilità a 
certe condizioni, la licenza non le contempla e dunque resta libera). 

Il rimando all'accordo successivo serve anche a rendere aperta la stessa 
licenza. 

Saluti (cc)opernicani, Nicola. 

Which I never knew was there, since I had a mailbox malfunction, therefore I only found out about Costozero.org this morning.

I am sharing all this because the surfing pattern itself is the implicate message, the subtext of the divagate surfing unified in its results which are of course much bigger than their present volume, think Butterfly Effect...

Goodbye for today, a bientot,

Eliahu Gal-Or The Pizza Rebbe
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