Q.: Thank you very much for approving my dress code. I know you hate my works just as I hate your wanton
ramblings. We really are an antipathetic duette. You are horrified of formulas and climbing the wall at
my explorations. Congenitally disinterested in shades and shapes. Hysterically impatient when it comes
to numerals. I’m telling you about my chromography since four deuced decades but you haven’t
memorized its base code as yet. Just arguing that the North Pole should stand for blue. You never pay me
any attention. Which would be my sole reward for this pointless drudgery.
A.: I’m sorry darling, but I’ve got no verve left for your abstruse calculi. I can hardly catenate my own chore.
I don’t need more thriftless cerebration. Redundant riddles to solve.
Q.: You call it redundant because you don’t grasp a hint of it. I’m not treating you with petty enigmas. The
disclosure I’m sharing should concern you the most. It could resolve your intellectual dilemmas. I’m
delivering you the secret of protective coloring.
A.: It’s appreciable but I can’t profit from it right now. I’m looking for an instant solution to the human
problem.
Q.: Your endeavor is hypothetic in and out. What I am depicting is the concrete thing. We are building this
Building together. Mutually enslaved to the same entity we negligently summoned for want of inspiration.
You have released a genie from the bottle when opening the first seal. You shouldn’t downplay my
discoveries so blandly. I’m exposing the proof of miscreation.
A.: You’ve got my unequivocal admiration, Gina. I’m wholly aware of what’s possessing you but have no
braintime for reckoning the matrix. My purple blood is not circulating fine. There ain’t no oxygen for the
living dead. I’d badly need a new drug to immerse into your horseshoes of homecoming. But couldn’t risk
it with my heart conditions again. Can’t you see I’m damned?
Q.: Don’t yell at me, not I have damned you. I only gave you the name of the Octagram. It’s you who coerced
me into serving your obfuscating passion. But you know what, I don’t care. The difference between us is
that you suffer from your charges whilst I’m glad to execute them. I love to work for Osh even as a
volunteer. Every day is another revelation. You, however, despise everything you have to say. You do not
deserve my perfect offering.
A.: After all said and done, it’s only lax sublimation in the final analysis. Wouldn’t have happened if we had a
sex life. It’s probably my fault. I am bearing the consequences.
Q.: What do you have to bear with? All may works are made for your pleasure. That you don’t want to see
them is okay. But it’s not my sorcery to torture you with compass. I always applaud your funny slogans.
A.: Have I ever bothered you with my stylistic problems? Imagine to be forced to reading my manifestos. You
can’t even read, my dear. You created a new alphabet but cannot write old English. I have to correct
every word you type. Psycho-linguists would call it a bipolar disorder. One thing I don’t have at least.
Q.: Because you’re not an afflicted medium, Spiel! Recalcitrant poesy is not telepathical. Remote synesthesia
nevertheless is. My catholic ignorance of the system is preconditional to my function. I have an
awesome page to present and all you see is that I misspelled a subtitle. That’s my disparaging life as
your unwedded shiksa in Old Jerusalem.
A.: You do not understand a word I’m saying either! Don’t even bother to investigate. And then misinterpret
everything. Our share of marital discrepancy is pretty fair. Alas! there is no divorce in Eden. We are
lingering under the clout of New Style.
Q.: Don’t try to eliminate the catastrophe of the mismatch. We are a dramatically dissimilar twosome. Our
roles are artfully misdrafted. This comedy is in fact a tragedy in the making. I am innocent and curious
but you are spoiled and apathetic. The true selfie of Aleph & Ta. A gross portrait of alienation.
A.: Never mind the genre, it’s only enlightenment. The worst thing that could happen to a human being.
Illumination comes from below. It’s a gift of Lucifer you’ll never get rid of. It’ll only get worse and worse
like metastazing cancer. I’d strongly discourage the few to seek for it like I have done. To live your life in
sin and misery beyond the horizon. But what did I know in 1979? All I wanted was to rock and roll. I have
never yearned for a holiday in the Sun.
Q.: You see how contrary we are? I had a better dream of emigration than political activism. I was looking for
a sugar daddy to carry me all around the world on his superyacht. To get to know peoples, cultures,
cuisines. But barely I got to Ontario Blue, I met you and it was all over. Not you but the sham you were.
The Party guy. Your ambition enchanted me. Next off I woke up in a dungeon where I’m kept ever since
to nurse your accumulating wounds. And consider it a passing theatre of circumstances for ever and ever.
With all respect to the Author, I cannot call it a brilliant adventure.
A.: Don’t let the vision thing leading you astray. We are abducted but not forsaken. We are the first couple of
overnational socialism after all. Sentenced for the treason committed in tandem.
Q.: It’s embarrassing how easy you can take it. I wish you were more manly. Not such a craven heretic.
A.: My atavistic defect is that I cannot learn. I’m allergic to gnosis. Had always been bad at school.
Q.: You’ve been bad at everything, my antidote. All your activity is attempted suicide. Vainly am I trying
to rescue you from the grave. I’m making the money, paying the bills, buying our groceries beside
bringing you the message you’ll put down as transcendent humdrum. Der Frau und die Mann. A
splendid completion of social androgyny. The deficient cliché of a failed transformation.
A.: Don’t get identical with the occasional semblance. We’re only victims of an artificial crisis.
Q.: Anyways, this bagatelle is at least done with. Uploaded on the web to Sovietwave music. Two times twelve
images by four segments, one clockwise, one counterclockwise. Female and male respectively. It
depicts the right chromatic breakdown of a dress code illustrated by the four body parts of the same
mannequin. A brief instructor of aura reading. What’s inside is outside and vice versa. That’s what
the lesson is all about. The transparency of soul.
A.: Congratulations. Another addition to our cyber dump. The Schaufensterpuppe versus the Golem.
More than another fashion statement. An invocation of the Homo Solaris. A very encrypted animation.
Q.: Do you actually have a persuasive definition for the phenomenon we’re engaged to deal with this frozen
aftertime? Something an ordinary dressmaker could empathize with.
A.: Of course I don’t. The Aura is impenetrable by words. It’s neither material, nor spiritual. But a third
consistency that cannot be articulated. One’s aura is the emanation of Osh through its self-conscious
messenger. The frequency of the four modules. The divine pedigree of an individual.
Q.: It all comes down to privacy, doesn’t it? The pivotal disparity between humans and the fauna. People
defecate alone if possible. Except for the cocrophiliacs, but that’s another issue, right? The normal
populace is inherently shy. Keeping one’s persona out of the public view. The Kommune experiment
failed to overcome the impulse of otherness.
A.: It is unnice to trivialize the world’s greatest arcanum. Besides, the Atheist canon don’t condemn scatology.
We radically separate violence from filth. Crime from sin.
Q.: But indeed, and here comes the twist in your sobriety, you say that people have no right for sequestration.
Don’t do nothing in private what you wouldn’t do in public. You are advertising a perpetual surveillance
mechanism. Dragging out the old notion of the invisible god.
A.: Don’t take allegories figuratively. The balance between idea and policy is extremely delicate. You may not
provoke the uninitiated but must keep your focus intact under whatever influence. Behave accordingly
your exclusive integrity. Consequentiality purifies the most dreadful karma. The Party is an open house in
the air. Its windows have no curtains. Everything transpires before the all-seeing camera. Existence
becomes a constant demonstration of being here.
Q.: I don’t believe you. It’s only your way of saying big brother is watching you.
A.: The crucial difference between the Oshist oversight and 1984 is its extreme liberalism. As long as don’t
harm your neighbor you do what you wilt. It’ll need divine terror but what a glorious perspective!
Q.: Catchy libretto for a rock operetta but not a judicious convention for the rational youth. Not everybody
is a natural-born grandstander. Civilization is founded upon decency. Ask Otto Mühl.
A.: One’s social barriers are autonomously marked. In men of wealth and taste ostentation and humility
harmoniously collide. Be sovereign and you’ll be like the Rolling Stones.
Q.: Do you find it frank that the price of fame is a depravation from penetralia? Many celebrities would
ardently disagree with that principle.
A.: Suffering from stardom is the worst hypocrisy. True children of the Lamb are blithely sacrificial. The
Socialist Kingdom exalts no incognito. You may wear many disguises but nothing’s left in the closet.
Reclusion is a bourgeois remnant relegated to the mortal coil. The mutant class have nothing to hide. Seth
Putnam was one good example.
Q.: At least you don’t say G. G. Allin. Is he your ideal of freedom regained too? How low can a germaphobic
go?
A.: The wild nobility are a reflection, baby. Mirrors Osh would hold to your sad and lonely face. Their place is
riding shotgun in the crowded car. They’ll do everything to spare you risk and trouble. They do not have a
life of their own. The Judgement is extremely relative. One man’s depravity is another one’s overcoming.
Q.: But who can tell good from evil in the rampant chaos? Subterfuge is not always suzerainty.
A.: That’s exactly what aura signifies. It cannot lie to the initiated intelligence. Ted Bundy’s victims deserved
their bad luck. Anthropology is a useless science if not wielded for tutelage. All subsidies should be cut!
Q.: Cool it down, will you? I know it is your favorite method but you’ve never been more contradictory.
Whilst brazenly promoting unbridled Narcissism, you abandon the fundamental doctrine of autogenetic
espionage. Mistaking the camouflage for the aura might beget ghoulish consequences.
A.: Style is an invincible domain. It will shine through every mimicry for those who have the eighth sense.
It’s not what you wear but how you wear it. The probity of the lie. Style makes people equal regardless of
their affiliations. Style is the cruxshadow of the Novum Testamentum. The Corpus Antichristi of aspirant
Atheists. The common denominator of farmers and oligarchs. Style is the fundamental obligation of the
adorned ape. Don’t leave home without it.
Q.: But it has no scientific measurement. One’s taste is determined by numberless ribonucleid and
environmental factors. It’s a lot more idiosyncratic than mentality. How dare you to be certain that yours
is the good one? Everybody is the same cocksure of his. De gustibus non est disputandum.
A.: My taste is not acquired. It is matter of absolute authority. Not different in this regard of any preceding
alignment. It is a gigantic risk I am compelled to take. I am a justified ancient with no purpose of my own.
Beyond subject and object in the grammar mold. Impartiality is my preeminence. I’ve got the taste of Osh
in my astral mouth all the crooked way.
Q.: That’s quite a shallow argument from the onliest outsider. Aesthetic supremacy has no credential in the
Purgatorium. Alluding to the Weltgeist is the cheapest vindication of every god-awful epigon. Your
choice of nourishment is more visceral than the lunch of a Hermetic renegade. One cannot live on
cheesecake alone. Your circle is a widthless cubbyhole designed for the unfit.
A.: I am a bushman in Silicon Valley. Completely illiterate of computer modems. But on the cognitive plane I
am inerrable. I can tell a criminal from miles and miles and miles.
Q.: It won’t protect you from getting stabbed in the back. Your psychic faculty is but a paranoid upshot.
Reason is an enemy of instinct. It’s utterly useless in love and war.
A.: You may do something good with a bad style but nothing wrong with a good one. The execution justifies
the motive. Kill your ego and save your aura. Don’t let them ever see whether you’re an actor. Simulation
becomes a reflex if well concealed.
Q.: That would make pansexual orientation very hard for orthodox ethologists. People aren’t ghosts like
your sorry self. You have to be forbearing with the blind.
A.: It is no intention of mine to convince the enemy. Nothing can be more tasteless than to change someone
else’s mind. Everybody knows that human nature is irredeemable. Propaganda is not proselytism. It is
addressing the brotherhood in the wait. To ameliorate decay is a crying shame. Conversion to
Antichristianity is not a corrective process. But total submission to None. 99 and a half won’t do.
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