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Chapter Thirty Seven
"You should not have done this without my consent." the Caliph re-posits. "I have an interest in these hot- dogs.(footnote) They are not pork."
"I thought the Berber was dead," whispers Kali. But little Berbers were springing up all over.
"Still, Carlo," Kali continues, "there is no reason, despite the hot-dogs, why this Hashishmas should not be the best times ever. We should have a lot of fun, yes, even without smoke. You know, Hon, the death of grass really is a great mixed blessing."
The Boss Mob and their Truth Gang have thrown the Shibboleth, marked us down as "Jew" and the word went out on the jungle wire "tonight we hunt WhoDo.'"
They're peeking down the pavement through the basement windows the Bully Boys, playing their pranks. "You do it, don't you?" their eyes accuse. "We've got your number!" You dirty Jew! You dirty Jew.! We'll put the synch on you.
"Got any dope?" Pervert! Trudging through the endless sand... "Got any smoke?" Balm.
"And yet," wished Kali whistfully, "it would be nice if we could score some smoke to stoke the El Stone pipe. Just one last time. Next year there may not be any grass left anywhere, so this could be the last opportunity in all history for such a blow."
"Well," said Carlo through his clipped nasal speakers, "there's still a few grand left in the kitty from the television rights, you know."
Kali's eyes glowed. "We can get a whole banana boat. Phone ‘Jamaica deal’."
"It is all very well, all these bands," allowed Carlo, "but what about the Riffians? Imported music and foreign dope is not going to assuage them, you know."
"How we gonna get the Riffians to celebrate the passing of the kif age?" Kali wondered. "They're all sitting round waiting for Pasha to return and to fulfil the prophesy. They won't give us a minute or sing no humdullas. We could collect together all the bands, all the happies in the world and jump and shout and they're just gonna sit there glum waiting Pasha to produce a miracle. What we gonna do?"
"I don't know," said Carlo. "What a, a what you want we should do?"
"I don't know. What we gonna do? So far we’ve got hot-dogs, coca cola, and a lot of music, and of course the imported grass. Hold on. I’d better check this out in the ball." The gypsy turned to her crystals. "I can see Chris Pasha wandering with a lot of freaky animals spaced out under butterflies lost in the desert. No way he can get here by Hashishmas."
"Unless he is the Messiah," said Carlo.
"Even so, this massltobe, if he returns for Hashishmas he will want to be taking over."
"But a... without him getting back how are we going to get the Riffers positively involved. If the rif raff refuse to have a good time, Hashishmas is going to be a bit of a bummer. We've got to convince the Riffians that the death of grass isn't the end of the world, and kif was their world. Chris Pasha must return to fulfil their prophecy."
"So we get ourselves a "Chris Pasha"… Carlo, you dress up as the Pasha person, yes? and do the master of ceremonies bit. Is M.C. Pasha. Is good."
"Aum, a.. no."
"So what we gonna do?"
"Aa... maybe there are some reflections of Chris Pasha trapped in the Sy.ed Booth mirrors?" There were, but they were insubstantial.
does it speak to us through body rhythms, postures, tensions, and through these
movements to the emotions? There are certain musical phrases associated with simple
"idems" of meaning that children chant, like:-
Travelling on the train down
from London, staring at the standing waves in my coffee cup, I sat opposite and
talked with Massaud, a Persian person. Massaud said he had composed a painting
which explained everything, all things in the world. He drew me a copy of this
all embracing composition on a napkin. Taking rough measurements to get his proportions
right, he spent half an hour working on his drawing (a distant smile on his face)
his drawing which contained in it the explanation of everything, and which had
kept him alive - "I stayed alive to prove this," he explained - while I spoke
to him of yin and yang (and thought briefly of baby chick calls). The finished
drawing looked like this:-
As he finished the drawing, a porter passed clearing the table. Massaud passed the scribbled napkin. And rested content.
El Stone doodle by Sue Gibson
Chapter Thirty Eight