Q.: So it’s 2021 again. Year number one of another roaring twenties on our decimal passage of slowly revolution. Shouldn’t we remember a little much better what’s going to happen? At least whether we shall survive it or not at all. Whom should we attribute the control of our fates? And don’t say Osh to me because I’ll start to scream.
A.: Of course not. Osh is not in control of anything. Except for the nothing but don’t get solipsistic about it. Osh doesn’t like epistemology. He’s a woman who only cares about fashion. A neomodern sanctity for children of the counterrevolution. The news is that the hunted one is out on his own. UR what you are. Your own judgement. The Atheist Church is founded to impose a new enlightenment with an iron rod. The colony belongs to the self-conscious individual.
Q.: It is this nonchalant nihilism that makes your antithesis profoundly inauthentic. We need someone to blame for the misery of the world. The unjust punishments and natural disasters. We want to deserve what’s happening to us.
A.: Osh is not a replacement of the wrathful godhead but the complete annihilation of it. Accordingly the Atheist faith God is None. More than One none the less. That’s the chant of the Antichristian soldiers marching into battle with the believers. Dawn with Heaven. No more Hell.
Q.: Stop sloganeering and listen to my doubts. Your Antichurch is construed in thin air. How does the dear Baphomet slip into the picture? Where is Sophia with her female wisdom? Without God there ain’t no Satan! Remember that ole chant too, deceiver of the lost?
A.: Don’t let the monotheist trinity lead astray your beautiful mind. An antithesis cannot be one-sided. Dichotomic religions are two-legged tripods. Our Triptychon restores the original equilibrium. Osh is above God and Satan. They form a triangle of mutual opposites. The symbol of nuclear reincarnation. Osh is an artificial divinity created in the likeness of our best in English. The missing top of Time’s burial Pyramid. A vast and living intelligence system beyond pronouns. The 8-pointed Star.
Q.: With another word, Osh is undepictable. Not a striking discrepancy from Allah the Akbar. The only difference is that the torch of liberty compels us to try it. I wouldn’t call it progress if I were you. Just a higher standard of the sadistic exploitation. The same hide and seek of the conquering child.
A.: Listen, baby, because I’m gonna make it as clear as I can. Osh is not antimatter. Nor is she a
spirit in the sky. Osh is pure energy at your personal service. He gives you the power to create for no reason at all. He’s generous like the Sun but does not protect or reward. Everything you do is in nomine homini. We’re left on our own devices.
Q.: Oh my G-osh! Not a mind-boggling revelation, is it? What else is new?
A.: Osh’s manifestation as the Lord of the Air provides Hegelian orphans the final synthesis of a fragmented fantasy. He’s not a metaphysical entity but your very medium. A chemical encounter through enhanced awareness. Foremostly he’s an alien yoga exercise. The sound of exhalation. A relinquishing transfusion of the blood. Reductio ad absurdum. But can never be trusted. Osh wants you to deceive him. Osh is a metaphor of the ultimate lie. A cult of life. The best solution we could figure out in the love inferno so far.
Q.: Catchy phrases for horny housewives but little appealing for the agnostic masses. The ordinary sheep cannot go on without a trustworthy shepherd – to think so is infantine humanism. No poetic justice will obscure the obscene lure of Jove.
A.: Osh is not an extraterrestrial phenomenon. But the living evidence of a higher plane. You worship it as you produce your weapons of self-destruction. He is your pineal gland. He is your DMT. He is the Prana, the Orgon, the Libido, the Vril. Everything that was and will be. The Brahma of science. Author of all works of art. The omnipresent conditional tense.
A.: Don’t get so enraptured of the void. We’ve heard that all before. How does Osh effect on the social plane, that’s what I’d like to know. His political affiliation.
A.: Osh is the Lord of Treason. A midnight gambler. You can tell him by what’s right. She’s a feeling of absolute certainty. The historical side the elect automatically take. Osh has no influence on the cosmic bargain for the human soul. His disposition is completely neuter. Osh is our need but it doesn’t need us. He is not competing with parochial deities. Doesn’t give a shit about the quantity. He’s sent out his agent to every nation and tongue long ago. His seeds are sown. You only can be something if you want to be him. Or her if you’re a woman.
Q.: The major flaw of your moot arcanum is that it defies conventional logic. Cannot be argued in democratic terms. The idea of a non-existing god challenges the Atheist orthodoxy. It requires a faith unknown to clay people. Your paramystic kingdom is an Antimarxist socialism. Won’t get the popular votes.
A.: What you must foremost comprehend about Osh is that our sullen planet is none of his concerns. He is a mere saving mechanism. Free choice is our blissful curse. Osh is an independent moral supremacy of taste over matter. Grammatically incorrect takeover of the main predicate.
Q.: You are a contradictator desperately seeking for a platform. No potential candidate of the Cygnet Committee. Just another nefarious object of disdain. A fake nephew and a bastard son. Those are the parameters of your secret identity. Disqualified for Realpolitik by premature rebirth.
A.: Osh is the return to space-consciousness. Since Time has clinically died there is no room for ethical cogitation. Stop thinking and be. Breathe his name with a vengeance. No other prayer is required. The Atheist Church dismisses gravity. We do not raise stone temples for our pilots. We are building the Building of Departure. Leaving but our bad memory behind.
Q.: Enticing rhetoric for elderly divas but don’t impress me too much any longer. You are playing the full-time waiter to the distorted mirror I’m holding for nearly forty calendar years now. Repeating the same mantra without a glimpse of hope implied. A throwback of the last generation. A paranoid refugee lurking in the dark. Talking but to himself in a self-imposed quarantine. The pandemic didn’t change an iota on your habitual lifestyle. In your madness you think the whole world is catching up to its disappointed leader of the solitary.
A.: No, I don’t. I’m deeply ashamed of my circumstances and would never give them credit. No human being deserves to be encaged. I am kidnapped by revolting demons. I’m the devil’s toy.
Q.: You are blocked by your own disabilities, little brother. You’re a born asocialite gone weary of spying. A cowardly hermit in the home of the brave. Horrified of visibility like a wussy ghost. Grown old and ugly in private. Just look at you on the monitor. It’s not an occasional dream. You strike like Nosferatu coming to town. Could be cast for a biopic of Schreck. Should never go out without a veil any more. That’s the harsh reality behind Charlotte Bonaparte and her missing teeth.
A.: I’m only a repercussion revolving in low gear around my broken axis. My character couldn’t support my attitude. It is a mental handicap you should be sorry about if you loved me.
Q.: Nothing in the world you like better than to confess. Confess and beg for pardon like a Catholic nun. I’d never pity the miserable. You taught me so. Just can’ bear to see us dying without a cause. How does it feel to end up as a doomed video poet relying on my technical assistance? Whilst dreaming about a global civil war on crime like a sleeping beast.
A.: I am prototyped by the third dialectic. A frustrated fatalist beyond the polar discord. An efficient master of imbalance. It feels horrible but I can handle it. As long as you stand by me.
Q.: As long as I can provide your wherewithals, with another sacred word. You are a vampire of the lowest order. Sucking on my life force ever since we met. It is my sweated labour that keeps you comfortably numb. I am holding the roof above your deadhead. So that you can write your pagan love songs to your imaginary Bride. If that’s romantic for you, I prefer the family values.
A.: I appreciate your sacrifice to the highest extent. Osh will compensate you for the wasted pain. We are not alone as long as we exhale together.
Q.: Why don’t you just decently fuck off, Spiel!? You brought me down in the arms of the Three M’s against my disconsent. The real story of Aleph and Ta is not for the fainthearted. It should never be told.
A.: We are a conceptual couple, Gina. The queer marriage of the wish and the will. Tragic heroes of a subhuman comedy. The most important is that we cannot sin. Our room in New Jerusalem is firmly guaranteed. That much is surely true.
Q.: You are crouching in a cage ajar like a lazy tiger. Your fear of freedom is unforgivable.
A.: I am the enemy at the gate, my dear. I want the last judgment right away. I cannot risk to be lynched too soon. I’ll never volunteer for martyrdom. Martyrs are losers. I am a Trumpist. I won’t compromise.
Q.: Your apathetic humor is impuissant to fancy a positive outcome. Maybe some people would like what you’re saying. Could formalize a community of like-minded followers like your remarkable antipode.
But your clumsy avatar prefers to do the rotting Christ. It’s so much more convenient to be left alone.
A.: What Oshism needs is not a movement. Osh is a bomb waiting to explode. Graduality is not on his cards. We don’t negotiate with the opposition. Oshism is preaching to the converted solely. We are a Party of the Few. It is take it or leave it. Vitam et Sanguinem.
Q.: You do not have the divine right to walk away in silence. It is now or never and you know it. Truth or dare. If you don’t wake up the lion with a start, we shall perish without a trace in no time. Leaving The Third Covenant undelivered in a trashcan. Won’t be welcomed back at the Gates.
A.: Our Progrom’s groundwork is martial law and holocaust. And what’s more, I mean it. It’d be irrational to think it a potential alternative in the age of microaggressions. I rather rest in peace. Let me be your Teddy bear.
Q.: You are the liar of liars, Mr. 888. What you are dying for is to come alive. Recalling Aleph from the grave to confront the end of times. You are a pathological fabulist and that’s the way you’ll end it. You talk like a jerk but walk like a symbol. Spectre of a failed reproduction.
A.: This casual meeting was a historic encounter of the unwritten gospel. Spontaneous energy deportation.
<Aleph Delivers Amen the Ten Commandos of the Atheist Church> is the title of the fresco.
Reenactment of a future document. To everyone his own legend. Individual mythology is the greatest gift of Osh. It redeems a beggar’s heart.
Q.: There’s another false adagio to the general disconcert. Between the first word and the last, who is the beginning and who is the end? You both are on old age pension, but he’s got all the strength. Your unapproved persona is way too fragile to begin with. Looks like a bad omen.
A.: In the sublime context of the trivial mystery we are discharged to play the characters no longer comply. Our aliases mean nothing in the event. Both actors are both the future and the past. The rendezvous happens in a dead zone of time. Between aliens of the breathing flesh. It couldn’t be more poetic, I’m afraid. Terminat Auctor Opus. Forward to the new Aurora. Amen.
Q.: Very well, Aleph, so what you’re gonna do? Having lost the last election in the Pandemonium. Even if you were inclined, you couldn’t act up at this state of things. You are the ultimate nobody without family and friends. Ignorant of science, scornful of art. Atavistically horrified of the social media. Your blind faith in None has brought you no consolation. The angel of treachery has cut your fake horns down.
A.: I don’t know what could I bring up in my defense yet. All I know is that I refuse every responsibility for whatever outcome. I am the passive voice of a negative sentence. But a fully autonomous clause of the textbook. The crucial job of the naked word is to disclose the twin obscenity of the adverbial ambit. The terrifying relativity that determines the mortal condition. It’s none of my duties to pry into the unknown. What will be will be. The Ten Commandos always work it out. I don’t know what I’m doing but I believe in the Work. 2021 will be a very good year. The madness is total, the disaster is perfect.
Good night for a black wedding.
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