Q.: After all said and left vastly undone, here we go for the final countdown. The reluctant ripple penetrates
the mainstream. The queasy recluse shuts open his back door. Letting the invisible world peer into
his safe space. Neglecting all rules and regulations of the Cosmic Bargain. 888 is putting up home
videos on the Internet. Mothballing his frustrations in the nasty naked nude to the visibility glare. He
wants to be a Tubestar now in my broken lingerie. The Elohim must be rolling round in laughter. A
mind-stripper is born.
A.: Don’t distrust me, I’m wholly aware of the asinine paradox. And the risk I’m taking with the wild
exposure. I would never have resorted to it without your instigation. You bought me the camera, set up a
website against my dissent. You’re my pusherwoman and I’m sincerely grateful for the prod. Any
disgruntled you be, what you can do you finally must. It’s a primitive law of positive inertia. The
impetus of drifters.
Q.: I’m glad I could pull the lame but moderately impressed with the eventual spin-off. I expected something
more poignant from a distraught lamb after three decades of prevailing silence. Not a wannabe tranny
trying to crack lame jokes before his bathroom curtain to an imaginary audience. It won’t break
down the sound barrier.
A.: There’s more to the imago than its face value. I am documenting intimate excerpts of an embodiment
attempt. A forced labor of rebirth in the internment camp. Too little too late. Stolen moments of a virtual
reproduction. Triumph of the lie. The way I was to be. A drag bum indeed. The role of a lifetime. Lucretia,
my reflection. The best portrait of 888 ever painteth. Weird, diverting and forgivable. Begging for air.
Q.: Your amateur videos are an embarrassment to view. Even for me who knows what they are. Imagine
someone who doesn’t, can you? Your shady manifestation is egregious rubbish by all aesthetic norms.
Not collector’s items for the self-conscious elite as you meant them to be. You’re as unintelligible audio-
visually as you were in the mute. Only the FBI would care to decipher what you’re trying to say. And that
would be a debacle for the queer buffoon.
A.: As the one and only critique of my remote strife, you should be a bit more subjective, Gina. I opened my
sown mouth and began to speak. Shook off the chains and began to move. I’ve just killed the shadow of
my ego. It is a zombie resurrection from a sedentary waiter. A heroic feat of my feeble arms. That 888
workships should be an auspicious message to the golden dawn. The rise of the suffering clown.
Q.: That’s only your personal evaluation of the grotesque mystery. Looking at it through the unknown
viewer’s eyes is a perfectly different animal. Overedited and incoherent montages of cheap effects with
no rhyme or reason from another cross-dresser. No bait for teenage daughters. And to improvise a
karaoke symphony around them is a crime on taste. You’ll never be a cult movie, Spiel! Just the sad
parody of a false Antichrist. Whom do you expect to buy your trash anyway? The clumsy dancercise of
an unhinged intellligence. Murmuring forbidden information to casual background musics. Which is
copyright infringement by the way. Another issue of impropriety beside the exorbitant tenacity of your
opinions. If that’s funny for you, I vote for Seinfeld.
A.: ‘888 Workships’ is a camouflaged revelation. An encounter with the ultimate nobody in its singular first
person. It ought to be watched as if through a keyhole. From a genuinely sinful disposition.
Q.: Behold, butthole surfers, the diffident exhibitionist! An invaluable addition to the global freak show.
The nameless number reveals his origins. Really something to check out. Have you any guess what
angel makes you do it?
A.: Ariel, I guess. The final need. After ages of constrained autolalia, the Word has abided to express itself.
It is an awkward concession but not incomprehensible. Despite all appearances I am a human being.
I’ve never received no divine inspiration. For every little caprice I had to bite my heart out. I cannot
distinguish dictum from temptation. Obedience is my favorite commando. These short flicks of fortune are
psychosynthetic reports of an artificial transmutation. Confession and petition in an imperfect symbiosis.
Q.: Whatever’s motivating your sudden submission to the beloathed media, it should be a lot more
efficacious than these Dadaist sorrows of an electronic Werther. It rather looks a sad finale than the
happy beginning of a new epoch to me.
A.: The ‘888 Workships’ are elements of an internal transition. X-Rays of my soul at present. Irrelevant and
desultory, they are the faint echoes of an irredeemable fiasco. We have irreversibly reached the year of
2014 AD. The Date of the precipitated Departure. We should be on by now. The 24-years Plan is over
without anything materialized. These arbitrary snapshots are swan songs from a room. A dying spectre’s
last effort to appear before the open Gates. Instead of putting a condign bullet in my deadhead. You ought
to read them in conditional tense.
Q.: Your individual mythology is no one else’s concern. Keep it to yourself. You’d better take into
consideration a potential public. What useful information could a browsing stranger get out of the
antic? A talking mask doing strange gestures in defected English. Denouncing the political landscape
from his secret location. A cranky lunatic asking for asylum. Aren’t you ashamed of your evil karma?
Fate is what you make it! You have neither resumé nor friends. All you’ve got is a loyal dog to perform
you the Bride in this stodgy comedy of errors. Please accept my absolute disillusionment.
A.: It all began in 1990 with the botched Arrival. Screwed it all up at the start. Going down the drain ever
since till the journey’s bitter end. I no longer am. ‘888 Workships’ is the paranormal abreaction of an
unstoppable loser. An integral extension of the dark Saga of SPIONS. Another strange fruit of my
lonesome harvest.
Q.: Any apocryphal value you might attribute to them won’t change the sorry fact that your videodrome
is a philistine monument of unjustifiable grievance. Unworthy of decent attention paid.
A.: My workships are trivial ceremonies offered to introduce Charlotte Bonaparte to the covert gallery of my
unwanted avatars. She is my subordinate alterego craving to come alive. Channeling her is the actual
rite about. What you are witnessing is a prank invocation behind closed doors. Summoning the blue-
bird to see how it flies. Charlotte ought to be the Doppelgänger of The Party. Its resident president.
A counterpart of Osh. She is a leader priestess, if you can see what I mean. A thrice-false prophetess.
Q.: Yes I can. The autotheism of the autistic child. You can’t even turn around in style. Couldn’t learn
to repeat two steps in a row. Nor to vogue longer than five secs. Tumbling in high heels like a drunken
nurse. Your dance moves are situated convulsions. You are simulating a simulator. Cross dressing won’t
make you an equal world citizen.
A.: Charlotte is a symbol of New Jerusalem. Looking for the unique identity of a kosher nephew. She must
come in drags. A sign of better times.
Q.: Your infantine devotion to Bambi is an immature firework of tainted self-love. Who the Hell would click
to see a Narcissus crippled. And empathize with such a morbid character. Your self-therapy would drive
the insane mad. It’s repulsion at the first sight.
A.: I don’t know what’s the sense of this conversation. I do what I can and that’s all I can do. There’s
nothing more to it. I am that I’m not.
Q.: There’s another vexing addendum to the murky presentation. The eventual category factor. That it is
neither art nor entertainment is self-evident. If you want it exist in any shape or form you must furnish
your brainbrat with a proper name. Manna or Mantra. An applicable tag.
A.: The Workships of 888 are a new brand of the Overnazi infiltration. I have invented video poetry and
rightly claim for its immanent copyright. Each independent unit comprises the whole in a crazy diamond.
No sequence, no storyboard. They are fragments of a dismantled epos. Songs of discontent by Maldoror’s
unwelcome spectre. Incompetence is an idiosyncratic ingredient of the urgent cocktail. Unprofessional
sacrifice of an unskilled guessworker. The transgender allusion will put it all in context. The blunt
showcase is as cutting edge as dead time can be.
Q.: That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Your aural doggerel has two major issues standing in its way of easy
acceptance. One is of course the ideological content of your mercurial ramblings. Apart from cryptic
autodafé most of it is bona fide hate speech by the current standards. The other is the nudity thing you
cannot do without. Why do you feel so much obliged to show up your asshole on every pretext? What
orientation you intend to signal? And coming from an asexual porn afficionado it is an outright insult
to the entire LBGTQ community. I see a bad moon rising. Lots of trouble on the way.
A.: By their subrealist symbolism my visual poems are full of subliminal messages. The rendez-vous happens
with Anus Dei. It is The Ballad of Nudis Verbis. All in one opposite. I’m doing the gesture for affinity’s
sake. To highlight the dark doctrines of our counterrevolutionary propaganda. With a news like mine
one has to be extremely cautious. It’s way too good to be true. Frivolity is a highly strategic
assessment of my extramarital diplomacy.
Q.: It’ll surely be abductive for downhearted virgins. Unless it gets censored and banned as soon as
uploaded. Another failed compromise on your black list.
A.: That’s why I disallow comments. ‘888 Workships’ is not an interactive initiative. It stands for itself
solely, defying feedback. Resistant to structuralist analyses. The acts are exorcist exercises of alien yoga
antithetic to passive meditation. Clandestine captures of an uncensored captive. Negating the Negator of
infinite dualities.
Q.: The more picayune implications you yield to the schlocky output, the less authentic its avidity becomes.
That you are wasting your free time for want of a solid occupation is strikingly obvious. It’s the actual
Leitmotiv of your comic strip. You are a model of nothing, 888 my ass. Don’t anticipate big hordes of
followers.
A.: This peculiar project is ordained to illustrate a sociolinguistic experiment. Blurring the lines between
object and subject, as dramatically reflected by the grammar of its title. Thanks to the syntactic magick
of modern English, you can interpret the last morpheme both ways. As a plural nominal describing the
product and as an active verb defining its process. Eliminating the astral dichotomy between the maker
and the made once and for all.
Q.: Your solitary jamborees are the poorest theatre of the ages. And rated half-X. A shameful
underachievement on all accounts. I couldn’t fathom a colder medium. It’ll never be a hot commodity.
A.: I’m going to propose my clips to the New Cinema Festival. Out of competition of course. As an
interventionalist gag. They could project an episode ad hoc before each feature presentation. Their
coincidentia is warranted by Osh. That would properly introduce me to a world-wide public. I’ll ask
Monty Cantsin to recommend. And you’ll have to renew your affair with Claude Chamberlain.
Q.: Good graces, Charlotte, why don’t you look at you? You’re lesser known than any crew member of
the four hundred films presented each year only at this one of thousands likewise events. Can your
espying little third eye divine the bottom where you’re at? Far beyond the margins of perceivability.
An eternal beginner without past and future. And the quality of your obscene anime is way below
the lowest fidelity. You are a sloppy editor who only cares about the idea. And that is a dangerous one.
There is little chance for a conducive conspiracy.
A.: Stoicism is the cancer of the will. In my Nirvania the facts do not matter. These sneak previews were
shot at a possible rehearsal of the grand spectacle of Total Madness. Their description tells it all. They
are random cuts of one ongoing monologue. A cabaret of intolerance. Ready made for scandal.
Q.: Broken horns, rusted halo. And you call yourself a Bonaparte at that. Charlotte, you are a universal
fool. Confined to your private torture chamber. Unfit to join the misotheistic chant of the charmed.
A.: I’m not afraid of the impossible. It is the only thing I’m not afraid of. I know my enemy. I am at war
with the 24. The fucking Jew who occupies me. Charlotte is my undercover agent. She’ll ouvre le chien.
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