Cogent Literature and cigarettes acted as Vicos Rubicon against suicide or the taking of a mistress, he was so restless!

It was more generous to use the term restless, rather than the overly cerebral psychologism coined, in modern parlance, 'free-floating anxiety'. The pre-fig free-floating best captured the theological implications of his 'condition'. Vico wasn't just wandering, he was a desert! At ten am on a Tuesday in a small English b-minus city! The gray Albion clouds and Vico, stood poise like the Knight of La Mancha outside the second-hand bookshop. Charging through the front door he found himself standing before babbles of books. His gaze injected each with the potential promise of containing the esoteric dove that had the power to cleanse him of past regrets and secret shames; dam scorpions, slugs and beetles he cursed. His quick eye cast the spotlight of his gaze across the babbles searching for the synchronic gift that would confirm that the raging of his interiority was wise in its cursing rejection of a real 'Other'. God here me he thought. One tattered book drew his attention "The Cosmological Jew" by Moshe Yalom. He opened the green book. Chapters: 1 Jewish Symbols of selves 2 Speak, speak, see! 3 Sarah as Sophia 4 The hieroglyphics of restlessness as theological masturbation. 5 The anality of ontic self-preservation. 6 Man as fictive Telos This was a massage! He open chapter six "Man as fictive Telos". ha-ha he cried to unconsciously loud, Moshe Yalom wrote. He started to read Moshes prose: "Moshe Yalom 3rd December. I'm not a maternal Jew! Although as I have descended into the exploration of my own archetypal instinct, and there met the pan Christian furies, I became a Jew, a Jew without a tribe, a cosmological Jew, wandering from the cry from Yahweh to Moses "I am that which I am" to the uncreation of "I am not". Yes! Yes, yes! He carried "The Cosmological Jew" to the checkout, holding it's front cover skyward to prevent any of its manna from sliding from the pages. As he approach the checkout, bursting to share the splendour, and secret, that had just been gifted into his hands, the longed nailed woman at the checkout refused any sentiment of human connection. Her eyes dropped to the left. "I'll take this please, he said. "Six pound sixty six" she hissed. He handed her a ten-pound note of which she received with the dexterous talons of her left forefinger and thumb, taking the money as if his brown skin contaminated it. This

monetary interchange awoke in him a nexus of which were stranded from the feelings, memories, and demons of his ancestors; a history being the 'Other' in a racist gaze. She noticed! The contempt was mutual. In the handing over of his change, compressed into the micro-movement of the talons of her forefinger and thumb, she gave vent to an act of rejection and viciousness, making an half-inch incision where the fleshy part of his palm, below the thumb, and wrist meet. He made no show of feeling pain, however as he slowly drew back his hand back, placing his three pound forty four into his right trouser pocket, his eyes locked her a in a look of pure rage. A primeval rage, secrets as psychic structures, resulting from being the object of the dominate societies rejection of all their unacceptably desires. As Vico left the bookshop, he started computing in his mind the distance to the nearest cafe. He made a decision, turned 380 degrees and lets his anticipatory emotion quicken his steps, the first date with his new tautly anima, the promise of revelation. From the blue? No from the green. He was suddenly shot with a vision of Bennis Sculpture of St Traresia of Avila in ecstasy. He thought to himself, "What would I look like in the throes of divine ecstasy? "Would I be female? The womb of my soul finally receiving pleromic spermatozoa. "Would I become pregnant" an inverse Mary. "What strange being would be born from my illuminated womb? He entered Neils cafe. The coffee was only halve decent, however its Neils redemptive facilities consisted of having minimum wage staff who were thoroughly in revolt from the American irobot mantras they were expected to utter as they mindlessly acted out the fordic rituals; cleaning, filling and polishing, the molok of a coffee machine. The guy who grew the twirly moustache, as a reach back to 1930s Parisian symbolism, and which was playfully stuck on his upper lip thereby firmly endorsing his hipster credentials, brought the coffee. They had a little conversational flirt; there was history here. Their past topics had included; Is gender a construct?, Are clowns born or made?, Could time ever be made edible?. After 3 minutes Vico had managed to unconsciously communicate his boredom to the mustachio hipster. As the mustachio hipster retreated Vico took a gluttonous slurp his coffee, burning his tongue. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose as a veil to cover his quick massage of his bunt tongue. Thereafter he moved to open the Cosmological Jew, closing his eyes and let his finger land blindly on the chapter list. Poised on choosing he was stabbed by an insight that it may be not polite to follow through on his intention to pre-figure the blind choosing of the relevant chapter by a neo-Zen pray. The book itself somehow communicated to him that a Hasidic benediction was the only thing appropriate. He took out his phone and tapped Hasidic benedictions into the search engine. He had a choice of three. No choice really! He recited, Where are I, poor clod of earth". He closed his eyes and let his finger fall on the table of contents. The chapter given was chapter 4 The hieroglyphics of restlessness as theological masturbation. Perfect! He said,

He started reading; "Music does not appear in the dissemble of accordances. The mundus imagionalas even adds a truth to the fictive perceptions that we, creatures of vain wind, water and spirit to that interiority, we who mistakenly take as self-proclaimed agent the mean hieroglyphs of perceptions and imagination as a localised temporal entity!" Yes! Right he shrilled. He knew that then that after the briefest reading of Moshe Yalom's book, He knew he had found a kindred spirit. Was this the desire to fuel his trip? He recanted on his normal state of desire, quickly mustering an egoic defence against the combination of caffine and Moshe Yalom's theology. How strange he thought! His normal imaginative facilities were disambiguated. He attempted to conjure on the screen of his mind the image of the busty - and slightly sluttish - Venus who captured the 1822 train to Waterloo, The Venus who gave him that smile that said Its not about race but class, smile. Try as he might it was not appearing. He tried harder, swallowing a small amount of saliva to aid the watery faculties of the imagination. It was no use, all he managed to achieve was a few nebulous fragments of colours and dull feelings. He was faced with Yalom's terrifying insights. Panicked and elated he carried on reading from chapter 4 "The hieroglyphs of restlessness as masturbation". He read on, "Restlessness shows to us the nexus of fictive feelings, imputations and self-referential statements that haunt that grand fiction of a Cartesian interiority. I state that restlessness is the Rubicon that must be passed if one is bring about the metamorphic call, to become the cosmological Jew!" Now Vico saw why he was unable to conjure the image of the 'sluttyVenus, his restlessness incarnate! In this brief reading of Moshes Cosmological Jew, the internal images of what Vico took as the historic construction of his self were exposed for what they really were, the self-referral fictions of a wailing abortive life.