The wise king said, “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in vessels of silver” (Prov. xxv. 11). Hear the explanation of what he said:–The word maskiyoth, the Hebrew equivalent for “vessels,” denotes “filigree network”–i.e., things in which there are very small apertures, such as are frequently wrought by silversmiths. They are called in Hebrew maskiyyoth (lit. “transpicuous,” from the verb sakah, “he saw,” a root which occurs also in the Targum of Onkelos, Gen. xxvi. 8), because the eye penetrates through them. Thus Solomon meant to say, “just as apples of gold in silver filigree with small apertures, so is a word fitly spoken.”
Maimonides, A Guide for the Perplexed.
Chapter 1.
Epilogue.
As the Low Hanging Fruit rots, the true believers and credulous continued to grasp at the unseen upper branches of the tree of myth and ideology: clutching further, and stretching longer, extending their reach by any means, even means unimaginable to anyone but the desperate and deluded. They knew that the Golden Apple, no one had ever seen, or, produced evidence of its existence, was there, just beyond their furthest reach, Just out of sight of their keenest glance. So as the Low-Hung Fruit still rotted, having ripened and yet not nourished those for whom only the Perfection of the Golden Fruit of pure ideological reified hubris would ever be enough. The obvious went ignored its goodness rejected in the pursuit of the impossible promises of soothsayers, priests, mountebanks, politicians and Fifth Avenue suits and City Bankers, so many lies clothed in so many promises taking hope and optimism and producing a pathetic belief in the bounties of the Noble Lie.
And here we see the Autumn of a civil war where men women and children have perished, their death caused by what some in years to come will say was due to the Mythical invasion of the sea peoples. Which Historical Turning of a 21st-century Ideologue would find its analogue in Aleppo Syria, to the Firestorms and Privations of the Bronze Age collapse in 1150 BC. And what do these two disparate events and the Low Hanging Fruit and the Apple of Gold wrapped in Filigree of silver have to do with our business here in our thoughts and investigations in these coming pages?
Search on and we will surely find out and discover together as we look at the scenes that play out before us. Together we will in our mind’s eye trace the steps of Ahmed Abdul Hittite, the Bakers son of Aleppo. He who was sent abroad again to seek refuge for the secret of his Guild to be perpetuated in a Bond millennia Old and passed down from Father to Son. His story, along with the Secrets of the precious alchemy from which his family had sustained Egyptian Pharaohs through to the Palace in Damascus of President Assad. A lineage that had served; Sultans, Pashas and great Kings and Queens of yore in the Cradle of civilisation.
We travel through Damascus even before Abraham had Spoken of Gods word, Already ancient when Jesus Christ Was a Boy and Older Still when the prophet Mohammed Received the Holy Quran. For Abdul’s mission and secret recipe was the secret of Dough , the Sacred Dough of Aleppo from which all Leavened Bread had been exported as an Idea and a Method , yet only the Hittite Sour Dough of the Hittite Bakery of Aleppo was the true source and substance of the Greatest most sacred and honored Starter, the eminence and fountainhead of The Bakers Craft, tied to antiquity and bound to the most Trusted and to a Brotherhood of world Wide civilisation.
Where there was Trade, there was Counting to be done and accounts to be settled. Where farmers toiled and there were offers to treat, where merchants would Seal their Bargains with the breaking of Bread and the Dipping of Bread in Salt and where the secrets of the alchemies of Commerce were held deepest and closest the Hittite bread would serve to mark, The Conquest of Dough.Where all could bake and break bread hewn from the earth of Mother nature’s bounty, the true source of the wealth of man in nature.
Chapter 2.
The Last Bakery in Aleppo.
Abdul looks at the space where his father’s head once sat upon his broad shoulders, the words his father had just spoke rung in his ears and he held in his hands a Jar Covered in Silver Filigree through which glistened the golden sheath. Concealed and protected within, be an ancient Glass vessel held, beneath a Lid of fine ornamented be-jewelled blue lapis lazuli blue glass that shimmered as the Mediterranean sea off the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea. Within this sacred Vessel was the most sacred of ceremonial Doughs, the most secretly and jealously guarded of all Aleppo’s secrets. More jealously protected down generations of his family more so than the Codex of Aleppo’s Central Synagogue the Site of the Cave of Elijah. This was history and the key to the sustenance of generations a direct line back to before history began, a starter dough born of the first undomesticated grains and the Yeast from the air breathed by the first civilisations of sedentary populations. These were the grains which formed the metrics for measurements from which the noble science of metrology sprang. The grains which defined the weights and measures of rations for the slaves of Pharaohs and the origins of all measurements from which all science and mathematics became codified. The Grains that made this dough produced the sugars and the carbohydrates that nourished the bodies and fueled the thoughts of the mothers of all invention. In his hands, Abdul’s held a link back to the beginning of all that we know, and all that we take for granted. And now it fell for him to take the Holy Sour Dough to a safe place, far away, over many seas and lands to make good and redeem promises made long ago between contracting parties whose promises were sealed in blood and sacrifice and whose code had spread to the four corners of the world. Secrets now bleeding from the severed head of his Father yet locked still in the mind of His son who stood momentarily shocked.
He heard voices, The White Helmets, the mercenary army of the Black orders of usury, the challengers of the nobility of the dough.
An interrogation, a blast of machine gun fire, screams, more interrogations,
Abdul knew he must move fast through the route known to his elite class of baker; to flee again the tumult that Aleppo had become. Fleeing a war about Monetary Hegemony and a war about Vested interests in the monopoly supply of necessities. They were looking for what he held in his hands the truth of Mans wealth and debt to agriculture and the universal access to and the production of Bread. The White helmets were closing in he knew he must say his goodbyes and hold on to his grieving for later and hold onto the Vessel in his hands even tighter the freedom of Good and the freedom of all Men of all the holy books depended on his reaching the place of safety. Abdul Knew he must retrace the route of civilisation and trade and ensure that the Dough of Life would be spread again to the four corners of Humanity. For as the Middle East burned and as the Powers of Finance Capital and Usury sought to extinguish the knowledge of Dough , the Brotherhood of bakers knew that as long as the idea of self-sufficiency and the Breaking of freshly baked bread lived, the Global domination of the means of sustenance and trade would always evade that Blackhearted breed of Man who would see orphans starve rather than yield control of the destinies of Nations and relinquish their grip over and offence to, the nobility of populations.
He turned and ran.
As the White Helmut Leader rounded the Corner to the courtyard of the last Bakery in Aleppo, so Abdul had vanished, as elusive as the fresh odour of newly baked bread invisibly seduces the senses, so Abdul had evaporated
the white Helmut cried out.
“Damn, there’s the old guy, where’s the son? Damn it!”
He lifted the radio transmitter to his Mouth.
“White leader to Carrier Group One, Target on the run, Mission failed, advise telling Langley to alert Drone strike force to seek and destroy. Repeat Target at large, Advise arm Drones and seek and destroy, civilians expendable The Target is at large.”
In a fit of Rage, the White helmet turned and pointed his M17 at the corpse of Abdul’s father, emptied the magazine into the Still warm and not yet stiff corpse,
“damn you, Fucking Rag headed animal.”
A picture of democracy early one morning in the last bakery in Aleppo,
this is where our story and Abdul’s Journey Begins.
Maimonides, A Guide for the Perplexed.
Chapter 1.
Epilogue.
As the Low Hanging Fruit rots, the true believers and credulous continued to grasp at the unseen upper branches of the tree of myth and ideology: clutching further, and stretching longer, extending their reach by any means, even means unimaginable to anyone but the desperate and deluded. They knew that the Golden Apple, no one had ever seen, or, produced evidence of its existence, was there, just beyond their furthest reach, Just out of sight of their keenest glance. So as the Low-Hung Fruit still rotted, having ripened and yet not nourished those for whom only the Perfection of the Golden Fruit of pure ideological reified hubris would ever be enough. The obvious went ignored its goodness rejected in the pursuit of the impossible promises of soothsayers, priests, mountebanks, politicians and Fifth Avenue suits and City Bankers, so many lies clothed in so many promises taking hope and optimism and producing a pathetic belief in the bounties of the Noble Lie.
And here we see the Autumn of a civil war where men women and children have perished, their death caused by what some in years to come will say was due to the Mythical invasion of the sea peoples. Which Historical Turning of a 21st-century Ideologue would find its analogue in Aleppo Syria, to the Firestorms and Privations of the Bronze Age collapse in 1150 BC. And what do these two disparate events and the Low Hanging Fruit and the Apple of Gold wrapped in Filigree of silver have to do with our business here in our thoughts and investigations in these coming pages?
Search on and we will surely find out and discover together as we look at the scenes that play out before us. Together we will in our mind’s eye trace the steps of Ahmed Abdul Hittite, the Bakers son of Aleppo. He who was sent abroad again to seek refuge for the secret of his Guild to be perpetuated in a Bond millennia Old and passed down from Father to Son. His story, along with the Secrets of the precious alchemy from which his family had sustained Egyptian Pharaohs through to the Palace in Damascus of President Assad. A lineage that had served; Sultans, Pashas and great Kings and Queens of yore in the Cradle of civilisation.
We travel through Damascus even before Abraham had Spoken of Gods word, Already ancient when Jesus Christ Was a Boy and Older Still when the prophet Mohammed Received the Holy Quran. For Abdul’s mission and secret recipe was the secret of Dough , the Sacred Dough of Aleppo from which all Leavened Bread had been exported as an Idea and a Method , yet only the Hittite Sour Dough of the Hittite Bakery of Aleppo was the true source and substance of the Greatest most sacred and honored Starter, the eminence and fountainhead of The Bakers Craft, tied to antiquity and bound to the most Trusted and to a Brotherhood of world Wide civilisation.
Where there was Trade, there was Counting to be done and accounts to be settled. Where farmers toiled and there were offers to treat, where merchants would Seal their Bargains with the breaking of Bread and the Dipping of Bread in Salt and where the secrets of the alchemies of Commerce were held deepest and closest the Hittite bread would serve to mark, The Conquest of Dough.Where all could bake and break bread hewn from the earth of Mother nature’s bounty, the true source of the wealth of man in nature.
Chapter 2.
The Last Bakery in Aleppo.
Abdul looks at the space where his father’s head once sat upon his broad shoulders, the words his father had just spoke rung in his ears and he held in his hands a Jar Covered in Silver Filigree through which glistened the golden sheath. Concealed and protected within, be an ancient Glass vessel held, beneath a Lid of fine ornamented be-jewelled blue lapis lazuli blue glass that shimmered as the Mediterranean sea off the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea. Within this sacred Vessel was the most sacred of ceremonial Doughs, the most secretly and jealously guarded of all Aleppo’s secrets. More jealously protected down generations of his family more so than the Codex of Aleppo’s Central Synagogue the Site of the Cave of Elijah. This was history and the key to the sustenance of generations a direct line back to before history began, a starter dough born of the first undomesticated grains and the Yeast from the air breathed by the first civilisations of sedentary populations. These were the grains which formed the metrics for measurements from which the noble science of metrology sprang. The grains which defined the weights and measures of rations for the slaves of Pharaohs and the origins of all measurements from which all science and mathematics became codified. The Grains that made this dough produced the sugars and the carbohydrates that nourished the bodies and fueled the thoughts of the mothers of all invention. In his hands, Abdul’s held a link back to the beginning of all that we know, and all that we take for granted. And now it fell for him to take the Holy Sour Dough to a safe place, far away, over many seas and lands to make good and redeem promises made long ago between contracting parties whose promises were sealed in blood and sacrifice and whose code had spread to the four corners of the world. Secrets now bleeding from the severed head of his Father yet locked still in the mind of His son who stood momentarily shocked.
He heard voices, The White Helmets, the mercenary army of the Black orders of usury, the challengers of the nobility of the dough.
An interrogation, a blast of machine gun fire, screams, more interrogations,
Abdul knew he must move fast through the route known to his elite class of baker; to flee again the tumult that Aleppo had become. Fleeing a war about Monetary Hegemony and a war about Vested interests in the monopoly supply of necessities. They were looking for what he held in his hands the truth of Mans wealth and debt to agriculture and the universal access to and the production of Bread. The White helmets were closing in he knew he must say his goodbyes and hold on to his grieving for later and hold onto the Vessel in his hands even tighter the freedom of Good and the freedom of all Men of all the holy books depended on his reaching the place of safety. Abdul Knew he must retrace the route of civilisation and trade and ensure that the Dough of Life would be spread again to the four corners of Humanity. For as the Middle East burned and as the Powers of Finance Capital and Usury sought to extinguish the knowledge of Dough , the Brotherhood of bakers knew that as long as the idea of self-sufficiency and the Breaking of freshly baked bread lived, the Global domination of the means of sustenance and trade would always evade that Blackhearted breed of Man who would see orphans starve rather than yield control of the destinies of Nations and relinquish their grip over and offence to, the nobility of populations.
He turned and ran.
As the White Helmut Leader rounded the Corner to the courtyard of the last Bakery in Aleppo, so Abdul had vanished, as elusive as the fresh odour of newly baked bread invisibly seduces the senses, so Abdul had evaporated
the white Helmut cried out.
“Damn, there’s the old guy, where’s the son? Damn it!”
He lifted the radio transmitter to his Mouth.
“White leader to Carrier Group One, Target on the run, Mission failed, advise telling Langley to alert Drone strike force to seek and destroy. Repeat Target at large, Advise arm Drones and seek and destroy, civilians expendable The Target is at large.”
In a fit of Rage, the White helmet turned and pointed his M17 at the corpse of Abdul’s father, emptied the magazine into the Still warm and not yet stiff corpse,
“damn you, Fucking Rag headed animal.”
A picture of democracy early one morning in the last bakery in Aleppo,
this is where our story and Abdul’s Journey Begins.
note
This Web Site is integral to the Creative Process.From that Start, it is not immediately apparent that this Novel is a Comedic Novel. We will in later chapters encounter humour, mythology, Folk Law, Philosophy, Politics and Economics in all of their Glories and Pomposities. This Ancient Joke Book the Philogelos will figure in the book and there will, of course, be that all-important Fart joke!
“And people still laugh about as much as they ever did, despite their shrunken brains. If a bunch of them are lying around on a beach, and one of them farts, everybody else laughs and laughs, just as people would have done a million years ago.”
― Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Galápagos
http://theconquestofdough.weebly.com/blog-progress-on-the-book-and-selected-blogs-of-yore/draft-of-chapter-3-the-road-to-damascus
http://theconquestofdough.weebly.com/blog-progress-on-the-book-and-selected-blogs-of-yore/draft-of-chapter-4grains-of-truth
https://publishing.yudu.com/Library/Au7bv/PhilogelosTheLaughAd/resources/index.htm
