IDW – INDOCTRINATOR

 

Q.: So this is the end, my only friend, the end? The Grosse Idealistische Naturschutz Arbeit has reached its

      allusive completion. It closes with its opening like an Ouroboric colophon. Encompassing insolvent

      memoirs of a clandestine espionage in quest of intelligence. Now back to basics. Back to school. Start with

      the indoctrination praxis.

A.: That’s exactly it. This ready-made picture book is designed to imprint the chronometric superstructure of the

      Citymap laid down four decades ago. Didn’t get any farther from the source. We’re not traveling in time.

Q.: I think we’ve made the orbit quite assiduously. Driven by the demon from station to station. We’ve been

      derailed but never delayed. None can’t say that we haven’t done our best. Invisibility is not a lost dimension.

      It’s safer in shadowland than on the barricades. As the world has recently devolved there’s nothing left we

      could yet do anyway. All our icons have become enemies. The marriage turned into divorce.

A.: The ‘Indoctrinator’ is targeting the toy industry. An obligatory tool of Kindergartens. With this gratuitous

      gesture I rekindle the dying flame one more time. Let us begin distributing the sweetest poison to the presumed

      innocent. First step last.

Q.: There’s no bloody thing you couldn’t find an explication for. It must be hard to admit having gotten nowhere.

      You are captivated in a collapsed time’s Nirvana. New Jerusalem doesn’t seem descending. Inferno is rising

      up in stead with the speed of darkness. The Purgatory has succumbed to Hell. But you keep on fluting the

      same plain song of the Panic operetta. Making yourself more obsolete than a resurrected mummy.

A.: The ‘Indoctrinator’ is a timeless catechism of the Atheist Church inviolable by the political climate. A moral

      compass for all ages. The missing singularity. It should be the initial initiator of all unbaptized infants into the

      socialist mystery. Probably taught alongside the Chronograms.

Q.: I adore when you visualize, my futurist lover. With no idea how to implement it. You aren’t interested in

      education. Just want to catch the soul before anyone else. Your pedophilia will brazenly transpire.

A.: I don’t know what I want or not. I never ever did. I’m inacting in a state of blissful oblivion like a primitive

      android. The lie has set me free of doubts. Be this folio the period after my sentence. I’ve got nothing

      more to say. Let all the children boogie.

Q.: Welcome home to Epigonia, predator of the good. What a well-adjusted misappropriation! Perfect product for

       the illusory market of the cosmic bargain, no doubt. So what you’re gonna do next? Print, file, seal and cram

       it in your old-fashioned cabinet. Can’t you see the mordancy of the trepidation? What kind of Sadist should

       enjoy this comedy?

A.: That’s exactly why am I calling it a day. Let this jewel be my ultimate offering. Last step first. The last Idunno

      What. I’m going on a general strike against the labor force.

Q.: Stop the hogwash, you know you can’t retire. You’ve never been formally employed. All you ever obeyed were

      the songs of Sirens. All you ever loved was vassalage. You deserve your bad lot worse than Sisyphus.

A.: Nobody deserves to be unheard. Iggy Pop would never talk to me. I’ve learned my lessons the hard way.

      Crossing the everyman’s Bardo backwards in time, I could never profit from my strife. That’s been my

      Odyssey, not a heroic exploration. There’s nothing to learn from the book of a loser. I’d like to leave it alone.

 

 

Q.: You’d better get over yourself before it’s too late, agnus diaboli. That you cannot adapt to the murderous

       vegetation is a fatal defect of your faulty program. Feigning foreign virtues to bloodthirsty carnivores

       certainly won’t rectify your disadvantageous status. You are the Word disabled to communicate any more.

       A self-indulgent oxymoron in the mute. A supermodel of the situation.

A.: It’s a lot worse than that, to be frank. I sincerely don’t want to testify before the Judges. I like the title but do

      not literally believe in the Third Covenant. The pats of Osh mean nothing to me. I would never bring a

      willful sacrifice. I am the sleeping prophet of an impossible civilization. Where the body feels no pain. And the

      children do not grow. I remember everything that wasn’t. My legacy is my epitaph.

Q.: How does it feel to be the spectre of an absolute nobody? People can tell vintage wines by the years. 

Y ou couldn’t differ Coke from Pepsi cola. What do you effectively imagine to become without a driver’s license?  

       You have no seat around the table of values. They are reserved for Cocteau and Lovecraft. You’re only a

       beggar at the banquet. Sophia loves Baphomet.

A.: Are you viciously insulting me, Gina? I’ve never pretended to be competitive. Subordination is my greatest

       virtue. 888 is a trope of independent supremacy. An archetype of overnational socialism. Victory of the

       Untermensch. An illegitimate offspring of Uncle’s mindline.

Q.: I did not mean to insult you but you are an irredeemable asshole, Spiel! The dupe you created is a lusus

       naturae. You’re dancing as the devil whistles in your ear. Looking for reasons why not to be. Nothing terrifies

       you more than the active mode. Get literally sick of talking to someone. Hysterically resisting the lure of social

       media like a hermetic sociopath. Before there were the black mails. Now that you could contact anyone you

       refuse to correspond. That’s what Nico called a janitor of lunacy.

A.: I’ve never been a cyberpunk. Virtuality never fascinated my neurons. I prefer my thoughts archived on

       paperware. I belong to the Gutenberg Galaxy and no wonders of technology can beckon me away. Uploads

       are sheer photocopies. The important thing is here in my drawers. The invaluable relics for Sotheby’s. The

       manuscript of a self-made nonentity. The exactitude of the imagination.

Q.: I cannot gladly share your morbid anarchivism (!). Afterlife isn’t on my agenda. All we got to do is now and

      dead on time. Have you forgotten your own refrain? You must enter the stream or drown in the whirlpool.

      One’s worth is defined by his sales. Only the rich and famous have free visa to Paradise. You’ll be balefully

       recycled with your false résumé into an evil werewolf.

A.: One good death can repair a whole misplaced life. Maybe I’ll get a gun and become a school-shooter. That

      would give some weight to the Third Covenant.

Q.: Don’t bother me with your macabre fantasies. Why to wish for something you could never do. You are

       chronically coward and totally unskilled. Let alone the luck factor. You could only break through in a

       positive manner. If you could heal someone in stead of forswearing Hippocrates. Or make a miracle like any

       mindfreak. Alas! You’re a trainwreck. Cannot distinguish arrival from departure.

A.: I am an exhausted virus easily rejected by the antibody. Fuck the immune system. I cannot try another way in.

      All I’d like to take is my revenge. Conspire to blow up the Temple Mount. I’m not a film critic. I’m craving for

      direct action worse than Marlon Brando.

 

Q.: No sectarian elitcult can favorably interfere with the populist technocracy of the digital age. Nobody would

      subscribe to a war against humanity. They prefer the reign of crime. Kissing the boot on their face.

A.: You don’t have to remind me how pointless my Subjective is. Inanity is its preeminent merit. Ignorance is my

      one and only strength. My kingdom is not of this world. I’m the enchanted prince of an X-rated fairy tale.

      A forgotten nephew without family and friends, thriving on unfulfilled predictions. Let me play a little on the

      death row.

Q.: You are an unhired artworker with no collar at all. You won’t gather the ruling class under your grey

      umbrella. You’ve always fancied to be the Antitrotsky. But never touched a weapon in your whole life of

      paranoia. Couldn’t knock out a preadolescent. Couldn’t command the fewest of the few. All you are good

      for is wanton nightwish in the nightmare lodge.

A.: The ‘Indoctrinator’ is an infiltration attempt into the nuclear family through the baby’s soul. It is a visual

      introduction to the City of Eden by the fundamental terminology of New Style. The 10 and the 12 whereupon

      the Kite of the Cross is spread. The Commandos and the Gates respectively. It is my most important wedding

      present. Only for the Birds.

Q.: You don’t think we could find a publisher for it? Upload the booklet on the Internet? Send a complimentary

      copy to the creators of the free program we expropriated. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just an appliance.

A.: I’m so damn disgusted of fooling around. From the florid beginning to the humble end I was fusing a bomb to

      drop. The Gospel of Nuclear Reincarnation. No part of it makes any sense alone. Graduality has never been

an option. Timeputsch is a package deal in a single blast. All at once or nothing ever. Amen.

Q.: Why you have to be antithetic to everything? There’s no one you wouldn’t aggress at a point or two. Even

       if they agreed on the rest. Your apolar magnet is invariably repulsive. And what’s more, you despise

       diplomacy. Only through business could you have any chance. If someone understood the money you hold.

A.: Capitalism wasn’t friendlier to me than communism beforehand. Any alias I took on, I was recognized as a

       protofascist and treated accordingly. I lived my exile as a victimized enemy wherever I went. Vainly was I

       happy to equally serve all the three masters beyond left and right. There’s only one true color and it always

       shines through. The Transylvanian hunger for divine terror.

Q.: You aren’t attractive enough, that’s all. No appeal, no conviction. What shines through your second-hand

       disguise is the dangerous dilettante’s familiar fixture. The grievance of a homicidal maniac. You could

       make the real Count running for a shelter.

A.: You vastly exaggerate the problem big enough. The trouble with me is genealogical. My spirit has no ancestry

       in the Bestiarium. I haven’t been here before. All I’m looking for is an identity. Someone a whiplash girlchild

       could earnestly admire.

 

Q.: I find your cognitive dilemmas quite a bit luxurious amidst the circumstances. When you cannot provide for

     your own nourishment and clothing. Without me you’d be a homeless bum – what about that for a true

     identity? You are the one who cannot belong. A humanophobic asylum seeker. Allergic to society. Closed into a

     dungeon from the inside. Performing the leader of the solitary before a blind mirror. A bogus clown of the

     collective tragedy.

A.: I am a most envious guy but can verily tell unto you I wouldn’t like to be anybody else. Wouldn’t change status

      with the richest oligarch. It’s kinda harmony, isn’t it? I’ve chosen solitude against freedom. It was

      inconsiderate but I don’t regret nothing. Everything I do, I do it for None.

Q.: You are an unwieldy complexity case no antipsychiatrist could successfully nail down. You cast yourself out

       when you were born again. It is the dictum of your fabricated destiny. So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

       Blame it all on the genetic template.

A.: I fear from visibility a lot more than the darkness. Would never dare to go on television and say something 

      outrageous. I am the real chameleon preoccupied with self-protection. Grey trash who’d never give his life to

      save the slogan. The long abuse of abstinence has sucked my vitality dry. I no longer want to be seen. The

      triste cessation of a disesteemed Narcissus.

Q.: I’m sorry for you but cannot empathize with your terminal depression. If this is the closure, we should rather

       exalt the occasion. Clink our glasses and beat that gong. Say goodbye to the senseless imposition. You’ve

       just made the ends meet. It’s like starting over, isn’t it?

A.: It has always been my obnoxious impression. All my works have been the last endeavor. I never knew no

      tomorrow. But this time it’s for real. No more projects for the brazen altar. Let this dazzling haiku be the grand

      finale. No cause for celebration.

Q.: You must be kidding, toothless vampire. You never had the patience to wait for the clock. That’s why you have

      to die with every new day. Loitering forever in the debtor’s limbo. The last thing you want is to be liberated.

      You don’t want to be a part of anything. Osh really got ya.

A.: Osh is not an anthropomorphic manifestation like Odin or Mithras. Osh is everybody’s personal pneuma. You

      only can be something if you want to be him. Osh is the Lord of the Individual. His star will make the

      membership uniform.

Q.: Do you actually enjoy shaming yourself with chimaeras of aftertime salvation? You are not a prisoner of

      conscience but a cloistered recluse of your own grotesque escapade. An ascetic infidel with no hint of Sybarite

       irony left behind. Only the revolting Eusebeia.

A.: The ‘Indoctrinator’ is planned for Oshist daycare centers from Toledo to Shanghai. For an era of the golden

       globe when the name of the Air is exhaled by all the native tongues. Let us praise the Author of all works of

       art. Let the Kite fly high into blue heaven. The message gonna be clear. Adveniat Regnum Tuum.

Over and out.

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