Q.: So the Spring is over, just like nothing had happened. You cried, prayed and bled a little and that
was it. Now you want to talk with me about the necessity of compromise. Aren’t you intellectually
challenged? Shouldn’t we rather commemorate the non-event as we used to? In your shameful
curriculum it was a landmark entry. Your first assay to break out of forty years of encagement.
It wasn't spectacular but well executed. The concession was worth it. And better documented than
your entire lifespan so far. The Birthday of Charlotte amongst others on camera. You should consider
it a quantum leap, not a moral quandary.
A.: I have wasted a lifetime waiting for the miracle in chronic neurosis. Was all that psychotic torment in
utter vain? I could have done this much when I was young if hadn't been possessed by dignity. It’s
too little too late to hold up the angel of death. Charlotte is an old lady born out of wedlock. My own
brainchild. I want to be her but she cannot stand me. I’m acting in a crisis.
Q.: As compared to that, you’ve made the grade very elegantly. You are a hero of relativity. No sign of the
chthonic vacuum you came from. You floated like a liberated socialite. A goldfish back in the fountain.
It didn't look like hard play at all. How did it feel to be someone for a change?
A.: Magnificent, I must admit. My supporting presence was a triumph of the lie. But in my subreality it
couldn’t have felt more awkward. Especially when crossing real cross-dressers partying above the
Bunker where we were rioting. As they would descend to the toilets located on the same subterranean
level. It's grueling to be a sham. But at least I was an artist by identity. Something I successfully
evaded beforehand. Surrender is sacrifice and that's what I brought.
Q.: I'm sorry to hear that. Your actual behavior displayed no sign of the mortifying depression I’m
witnessing 24\7. Why had it to be fake? Don't you wanna be happy for a while?
A.: I do what I can but cannot do more. Not without the gift of libido. You know, bab', I'm artificially
alienated. My wishbone has been removed by the abductors. See what one can do without it. The
experiment is largely inhumane.
Q.: Why don't you just tune in to the source? You only can be something if you want to be Her. Charlotte
is Osh in you. The humor and the charm. Have you forgotten the password? It’s not so difficult to
love oneself. Just have to deserve it.
A.: One thing you must grasp, Gina, if you wanna see me through. I'm a cheat who’s spent all his energy
on simulating faculties. Mostly under the cover of a bogus conceptualist. Believing in a transcendent
potential that needs no education. Pulling my empty carriage like hoodwinked oxen. A naughty
fallacy is eating up my soul. Whereas there is a higher justice that’ll reward me one fine doomsday.
Life has deceived me. Nothing's proven true but the aging process.
Q.: Ain't it too comfy to comply with cosmic victimhood? What a typical son of the silent age!
A.: Only the lonely know the way I feel tonight. You can’t generate peace within. It comes from the
outside. The eyes of your beholder. Our mandate is to manipulate the mirror. The Orgon is the people
and I never met them. Encountering but hateful neighbours in my post-existential isolation. I am
exiled in Nirvania endless. The ‘Montreal Spring’ was a rise from the ashes. Back to Prague with the
plastic people of the universe. But no beginning in sight.
Q.: Your bargain excuses are unacceptable. You should be grateful for having woken up from the
mortal slumber for a belated Passover. Muslim drag on high heels out of his deadbed. Wasn't it like
coming alive?
A.: It was hard to believe not having a nightmare. The pure fact I could get there was supernatural.
Seven demons armed and charged were deployed to stave me off from the tiny adventure ever since I
reluctantly signed up for it. Blackmailing with the whole gamut of their evil arsenal. Serial threats
of health and wealth issues with a systemic cruelty. But we could beat them, couldn’t we? You
were with me all the way despite the spiritual cramps. They know too well I couldn’t make a step
without your assistance. You are their winning card. If I ever could make up for the price you pay!
Q.: Shut up, will you, don’t overtalk it. Nothing can be more dangerous. Our privacy is no credential
in this miserable case. Talk rather about the great overcoming. The alliance of enemies at the gate.
A.: Very well. I have reached the momentum of reconciliation out of the dark blue. The last wagon
to jump on by all means and costs. I joined the Montreal Spring in a Torschluss-panic. The
counter-revolution has finally begun.
Q.: Your capacity to entwine objectivity with your subjective experiences is a subdivine gift you’re
shiftlessly abusing. You’ve based your mentality on coincidentia oppositorum under the malicious
influence of Doctor Jung, your misguided foreman. You are at a permanent warfare with the
hazard and call it time-consciousness. Albeit it is nothing but paranoid superstition. What you need
is radical oblivion in a lethal dose. Without an all-out tabula rasa you'll never get a'cross the Bardo.
A.: That's exactly what I’ve attempted by the adaptation. To become the secret master of my own
clandestine ceremony. An alternative to the alternative. I played the neofit like another Blattella but
on the Q.T. I was celebrating my own mythology. The 40th Anniversary of the Year of Rebirth. A
great coincidence provided by Amen, Osh bless him. And just for the records, also the 30th jubilee of
the Fall of the Wall so close to my yellow heart but omitted from the apoliteic programming. It was a
truly Molotov cocktail.
Q.: It is no point to further despair about the implausible deal. A frame was all we ever needed. One
cannot create his own galaxy out of nothing, that's what you finally succeeded to grasp. You had
to cut the ties with your infantine past of esoteric fatalism. Calling David Bowie to come and
save his savior. Now you are alone. But could barely stand a real confrontation with your
supreme knees trembling like a rabbit’s. Even amidst the confident weirdos you stood out like a
lonely wolf. Accepted but for your mentor's subversive notoriety. Only the strong survives. And
only together we are.
A.: It were the costumes that saved my reputation. I'm immensely grateful for finding and ordering
them from your camwork credits. I couldn't have done that much, you see? Couldn't even sign
up to Amazon. I am disabled like a fucking ghost. The hoax of the century.
Q.: You are watching yourself but you're too unfair. Your job was to wear them and you honestly did so.
Der Hund hat sein Spielzeug angezogen, as Lofty would say. Ain't OSP is the sweetest fascism ever?
A.: The idea was to create an allegoric tryptich of my subreality. Three avatars for the different occasions
offered by the propitious organizer. The Beggar, the Leader and the Spy. The width of my imaginary
circle. The most surprising was that they approved the Trump prank despite their atavistic antinomy.
Then when I got the hundred dollars from Israel it was all appreciated and forgiven. Any underway,
money talks. The Party stole the show. They got sure I was joking.
Q.: The most of all of them I loved your Flagbearer persona. It was such a luck we could have it produced
just in time. A triumph of the pretext.
A.: Forty years after their initial design. I am happy too but also very sad. I never could have made this
demonstration alone. It had to be insinuated in someone else’s context. But it was elevating to descend
into the anarchic cauldron. The public opening of the colors was the ultimate highlight of my
vainglorious journey. By that clumsy action I inaugurated the Situationist Overnational. It was
a touch of future legend inserted into the imperfect present of total madness. The spectre of 1984.
Q.: Wasn't it sensational to do once what you always wished to? I've never seen you so gratified
before. Hundreds of people had a glimpse of the secluded banner. In all the shopwindows and
cafés. We are not a fiction any more. We have the evidence.
A.: The dismaying question remains where do we go from here. I left the bootcamp with a shrug
before the Gare Central. Walked back home with The Flag in the dazzling rain and covered it
with a plastic bag from the dust. I wonder if it'll ever be opened again. At least we have the photos
and the films. The proofs of a sham. Now back to the calaboose, old boy. Kiss Charlotte good night.
Q.: Don't be so bathetic. At least you can be sure that she is. Not just a home video. But a public domain.
A message to the media. How would you define her actual character if someone asked you to? What
is her metasexual orientation?
A.: At long last she doesn't have any. Charlotte is The Party's puppet governor invented for propaganda
purpose solely. She's a mannequin to sell an otherwise unpopulist ideology. She is my PR. My
whipping post. The blame I could not take. Her impudence gives me the right to freely speak.
Q.: That's the groundless subterfuge of a dismantled mind. You should objectivate her a lot more
for the papers.
A.: Charlotte is my Big Sister. A French woman in a Burqa. A traitorous old bitch, quoi? Hired
by the OSP to express what he thinks. Give it a more convenient style than brutal speech. She is
the host of a wedding feast. It is not her function to convert the guests. She’s chatting to the
converted unrehearsed and uncensored. Something fascinating. I wish so much to wear her skin!
Q.: Just do it. Is that not possible? Stop yammering day and night about lost horizons. Would you mind to
brief up instead her bio for an occasional résumé?
A.: No problem. The Saga formally began with my official Application for a change of identity to the
Government of Canada whose citizenry I enjoy. So she is 25 at her biophysical apogee. Which is
another anniversary by the way. I asked to be permitted to live as a woman with French ancestry for the
rest of my biological time. It was rejected but she stayed with me in my daydreams at night. She began
to wear a veil in 2014 as a conclusion of the 8-8-8-Years Plan’s terminal fiasco. Though enacted from
sheer necessity, the look has become her ultimate alterego. Ghost hosting the Neoist gathering was her
first public appearance five more years after. Time’s passing me by. Only my body’s aging.
Q.: She didn't look shy or perplexed though, be assured. Sometimes she looked like enjoying her image.
Unlike you at all.
A.: The protective disguise prevented every discord. The attire relieved me from responsibilities. It served
as a defensive armor. No one tore it off. It kept me invisible and it was very empowering. It made me a
real clown of revelation with no need of make-up on my ugly nose. Her metaphoric outfit isn't
modesty chique but clearly reflects the historical clash over time's dead corps. She’s first of all an old-
fashioned Disco star restored to the political climate. A turbulent figure for turbulent times.
Q.: Just what we needed, isn’t it? Don’t let yourself be deceived, Milady of the Mud. Any hard you try to
transit, you’ll never match up with the skills of an ordinary drag queen. You are a bull amidst stallions.
Those that don’t know you, and nobody does, you’re just a funny gag of the fiesta. Distributing your
recycled calling cards won’t generate a new wave of membership for The Party.
A.: Of all the outfits worn and torn, the silver trousers were the most appreciated. Three women
congratulated them. They even pointed at their contrast with the headgear. Nor has my meta-
morphosis remained unobserved. In the swift space of three hours I changed from bearded
street beggar for Trump into a Muslim woman for the cocktail party. Switching the red
MAGA-hat to a black niqab. A flawless concept for 2019. And the alarm clock rang out.
Q.: The live 'Workship' didn't work out so well never the less. It wasn't any better than the poetry
clips your Brother Neo so vehemently despised beforehand. Don't assume further invitations.
A.: After all said and done, I could introduce Osh to a dozen of potential devotees. His name was
repeatedly uttered all over the place. If that's enough for him, why should I care? Where is the
power I'm begging for since 1982? Everything's falling apart and I am falling. The exodus
never ends. Freedom is impossible. Fuck the world.
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