It’s time for the ugly questions.
Who is Baruch Caan?
Obviously, I’m a fictional persona, created for this here column. Do you know where I live? Have you any clue as to what friends I’m hanging out with? Whether I brush my teeth before going to sleep? Whether I’m wearing underwear? What I do with my nights when I’m not writing? Am I even writing this here now? For all you know, someone could have prepared a good hundred pages years ago and all you are reading are the warmed-up microwave tidbits of rambling that have no connection to this present anymore at all.
To be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea either. Certainly, “someone” has conceived this text. But most likely, you yourself have never seen me. You have no proof that I exist, or what I look like. No proof that there even is a person out there with this name. But let’s pretend that a guy called Baruch Caan is existing, walking the streets of the ‘Burrough, the backyards of The Den, maybe. He has an ugly shorthaired head, is wearing pretentious-looking shades during the day, is trying hard to make something out of his days in the Boheme he likes seeing himself in. A person like that, or close to that, at least. I’ll give you that: I believe it myself; that he exists. However, about this “I” that’s fighting his way through mashed-up sentences here: I’m not so sure. Do you think Baruch Caan talks like I am writing here? Do you think he can hold “my” snotty attitude amongst kindred spirits? Obviously, “I” am the mode that kicks in if there is need for a narration, for reflection, for a distance. I am not someone, but rather the place where something happens, I am the projection screen.
Only, sometimes, there is a kind of foreboding that it might just be the other way round. That I am the construction, gritting my teeth into the borderline of wordstorms, before Baruch Caan drags me back down into a fictional universe. You are living there, too, my brothers and sisters and creatures of this shiny world.
There’s so little left that has any relevance. There are those 5 percent of us, of Baruch, of me, whoever, that we dare to share with others. And all the 95 leftovers of our soul are waiting in the fridge. I am a fucking lost planet at some outer rim of the social universe. The plane of immanence has long disappeared below the wardrobe corners of your rooms. Never look directly under a wardrobe or a bookshelf located in a corner of your room: The shaitan might look back. Only, if you are stuck there yourself, in this place never to be cleaned, have a good time with the devil – he likes rough stuff, they say.
You might be tempted to infer that you learned something now, about a real person living somewhere, who should clean his room more often. But of course, the red herrings are the first weapons readied when it comes to character-building.
Now, I want to give you something of the leftovers. I don’t care if it’s a fictional character with fake shades, some writers-voice in a notebook, or even a real guy with fake shades. Somewhere, this meant something. It has to be something so trivial that it can reach the sublime. Something that can be lifted from under layers of frustration and cynicism and self-reflectations. But listen to me: You won’t understand it (not in my way), you won’t be able to channel and filter it, you won’t be able to make any claim on me out of it. But it’s the best that I got, and I think Baruch Caan would agree on that.
So here’s the word:
“Mummelfoot.”
Make of that what you will.
Baruch Caan must not be fiction
I find myself on a secure connection with a few minutes to kill, and what do I instead of enjoying myself? I come to this place again. Why? Maybe it’s my own leftover, or maybe it’s just character building. Or, more likely, maybe I’m doing both at the same time – after all, listening to Unhuman Rogue Wrestlers run as a cover to what I’m really doing here is enjoyable, is it not?
This is not my style. No. I would prefer to sit and enjoy myself, go over this word by word, line by line, commenting on the choicest tidbits. Instead, circumstance forces me to hurry through what should have been a leisurely stroll.
Baruch distances himself from both the persona his silent readers have created for him and from the person he himself believes himself to be outside of this blog. Not an unusual train of thought for you – you do like your meanderings on identity – but not sharp, painful, raw or snappy. Trying for helplessness, Baruch? But why, after having moved so much?
Hiding like this will not put the hounds back on their leashes. And you know this. You’re hiding from yourself again. For shame! Do you want to put something down so that you can feel that it isn’t your fault when they beat you, and beat you, and beat you again? When there is nothing left but the faint sounds of movement from somewhere beyond your little dark universe, and the only response you can remember is fear?
How badly you treat Baruch! When he is reduced to just flesh and instinct, when there is nothing left of him, what will his thoughts be of you, oh “narrator”? You say you’re trying to give something that is of you and him and of all those unswept nooks of the soul, but he will not thank you for it! If this is what hides below your wardrobe, then yes, the devil is in you.
And what now? These are the last words we’ll hear, for now. The flames looked banked, but they were just waiting for that infusion of oxygen to flare up again. The swords are sheathed, but that also means they weren’t out to guard you, Baruch.
All information I’m willing to trust points to a raid that took place almost directly after this post, and a curiously anti-human slant to it. But most unhumans in Catherinesborough are no enemies of humans, beyond a certain radical fringe, of course. The Unhuman Dominance Group and the ADUF factions may have gained enough influence to pull something like this, but they would have to have been moving VERY quietly. It doesn’t smell like DUF, at least not yet. A random strike? Pirates? Or another faction, looking to stir the pot? With the number of influential individuals who seem to have disappeared, any secret conspiracy could have done worse to forment chaos.
Now those of you who read my comments may be wondering – since when is the Observer so up front and open? I’ll tell you nothing, or almost that. Suffice to say I’m outside my comfort zone, and also on the move – although I’m not saying whether those go hand in hand! I am, however, very interested in gathering more information on the raid. If it was a random strike, Baruch will soon turn up – either dead or in DUF custody, when whoever it was realises the value of their prisoners. If it was premeditated… ah, then the whole game changes, as a new player enters and shows their hand.
Anyone interested in following me down this rabbit hole is welcome, but ONLY if they can pull their weight. Bring whatever info you have for me here – this is where I look most regularly. If it’s sensitive and you can’t post it openly, get creative. I will find you and we’ll take it from there.
The Bison is moving, slowly at first, but he will gain momentum. If I stop posting – well, you’re not stupid, are you, dear friends? You’ll know what that means. Meanwhile, I’m still an insignificant virtual presence, one of many. And coming events will be so easy for me to hide in…
For those of you who were born yesterday, THIS IS A WARNING. Get the hell out of this whole thing if you’re not willing to play for keeps.
Tandis qu’ils dorment, nous gagnerons. You cannot fight ideas with bullets, nor with magique, nor with turn-masks.
A little tidbit of my own, to try my own hand at stirring the pot. Not that it needs any more stirring. In fact, this might be suicidal – wasn’t I just berating Baruch for showing his cards?
Fragments of intercepted communication and several unreliable eyewitness accounts taken together point towards a DUF-style avivessel moving in the vicinity of Catherineborough. Are these the kidnappers? Not sure. It seems like they’re some kind of response team, but that might easily be a smokescreen. In any event, I would not be surprised to see a change of custody on our captured humans there. That includes you, Baruch. Will they make a shell of you so soon?
I also wonder whether the humans currently missing from Catherineborough will be happy to see their new owners. After all, these are some of the movers and shakers behind both the Bloody New Year’s Eve and what some people are already starting to call Magefall. Personally, I prefer the moniker of Bloody Reminiscence. After all, what happened to those High Mages had its roots a lot earlier in Catherineborough’s history…
Anyway, the plot thickens. Whether this new vessel is moving to meet, intercept or has already got the missing ones, it has to come from somebody with substantial resources invested in looking like DUF. The simplest answer? The DUF themselves, of course. Why? They might be able to take revenge on their agents’ killers and come out looking like defenders of humanity in the deal. But it might not be that easy.
It’s reasonable to assume that the DUF knew about the strike on Catherineborough’s humans at least as fast as anyone else. The High Mages so recently dethroned were almost certainly not their only eyes and ears. But it’s also reasonable to assume that they had no detailed intel on who was behind the whole thing and where to start looking, so a risky quick response like this might not be the best move – especially with the dramatic recent successes of certain rebel groups. Smoking ruins of bridges look oh-so-much better with an avivessel or two draped on them…
So – either the DUF moved in straight away and is behind the abductions, or I would point to some other faction with links within the DUF’s organisation. I’ve suspected a split in DUF resources for some time.
Now to start verifying all this…