Ref.: ‘LOFTY’                       

 

 

Q.: It’s not that I disappreciate your skimpy documenta, it is sweet and funny, but don’t know what to

      actually call it. It craftily eschews literal classifications. Without category, a work is not art but

       madness. That it doesn’t fit in won’t make it stand out. You cannot call a heteroclite cluster of impromptu

       epigrams bona fide poetry. Not even from a Teutonic dog’s mouth.

A.: ‘Lofty’ is our personal diary, Gina. An intimate mirror of our struggle for chastity. It’s meant to give

      individual mythology a superhuman face. Turning our private duologue into a public announcement

      with sheer Zen mastery. These sporadic doggerels weren’t drafted but stolen from a stream of pure

      unconsciousness. Improvisations on an indefinite theme. They’ve got a tremendous sex appeal. They

      drop the seventh veil to reveal what we veritably are. Six years old now for ever and ever. It is the apogee

      of my propaganda campaign. The naked core of the Third Testament. A potential best seller.

Q.: As clever as clever, Spiel! I find it the least publishable of all your tomb-tomes. Who the fuck should

      give a shit to an unidentifiable exposure? Are you forgetting that we are phantoms? A leader of the

      solitary shouldn’t be so oblivious. I am not Stalin’s dog, honey. Without the legal aegis of the O.S.P.

      ‘Lofty’has no power to charm.

A.: I’d like not to think so. Grey magick can bring about its own context. Those random words of wisdom

      need no preamble to the intelligent few.

Q.: Your artificial neglect of the state of humankind is simply preposterous. The City of Eden is no place

       for the living dead. The jaunty example you are prone to set is sadder than gloom for a consenting

      adult. Your counter-evolution is no garden of delight. Against nature is a blind alley for aspiring

      aliens.

A.: ‘Also Sprach Der Hund’ is a book for imaginary children. The ones we’d like to have if so inclined.

      With the enchanting images of our Ministry of Reproduction it could be an instant cult classic on the

      elitarian market. An indoctrinative cathechism of New Style consistently attuned to the coming

      generation. A virus to be spread. The fifth column of our infestigation (!) of the media.

Q.: You seem having lost all your sense of Dasein. ‘Lofty’ in her discreet occasionality is an obscenely

      personal record. Way too particular for the average reader. Just another lost fracture of our mental

      breakdown.

A.: True art is that speaks for nothing but itself. It is valid from Leonardo to Malevitch. The sublime  trick

      of this magnanimous booklet is its very uniquity. It should resonate with all classes and races. It is a

      nihilist manifesto of totalitarian idealism.

                                                                                                         *

Q.: Your shrewd aplomb both amazes and disgusts me. Whoever should mind someone else’s business?

      This special edition is nothing but the accidental debris of me learning German from you who also

      hardly speaks it. Only lying it being your Mother tongue out of your treacherous paranoia. Telling

      everybody that we came from Münich until the embarrassing truth comes off. To be you your pooch is

      worse than being stray.

A.: To deny unfortunate origins is the primal duty of a free man. To choose his roots is the basic human

      right of the sagacious individual. Step No.1 on the road of return. I’ve burned my birth certificates.

      I’ve tendered my orphaned mind for adoption. First I became Russian from obvious geopolitical reasons.

      But after the Warsaw Pact I’ve returned to the swastika where I always belonged. The regenesis

      went from future to past by my wayward clock. A systemic Himmelfahrt from the genetic cauldron.

Q.: You are a comic hero, mein Schatz. No cognitive bluff will eliminate the crying lack of efficacy.

      Singularity is a waste of mass production. Even in the arms of seclusion nothing you can do but

      desperately swindle. You never really taught me the Sprache, just collected my vacuous koans like

      a vile pilferer. You are a dilettante charlatan and I’m completely fed up with your hereditary psycho-

      drama. Why can’t you get an ordinary life like any normal homeboy?

A.: The bites of subreality cannot hurt the insensible. I’m wholly bereft of the fetters of responsibility.

       I’m a self-made madman in the collective asylum. I ain’t got nobody to work for. It’s the damnation

       of an ingenuous slave.

Q.: Portraying yourself as a doleful victim of inscrutable destiny is the phoniest self-deceit of a doublefalse

      prophet. You could do it better than the doomed Dadaist of a reactionary avantgarde. I’ve never seen

      anything less glamorous.

A.: You are profoundly misqualifying the fabric of my autonomy. A real canine could get me much better.

Q.: That’s enough! You’ve been sucking on my reliance ever since I gave you shelter. Exploiting my

       innate docility both as your muse and breadwinner. Giving nothing but the Three M’s in exchange

       of my magnanimous services. I’ve saved your life but you’ve spent mine. I’m not interested in your

       arrogant ideals of transgenderous engagements any more. You’re a social misfit and I was a crazy

       chick to fall for your words of vengeance. I’m giving you all my financial and technical support

       but you treat me like an illiterate maiden. You couldn’t install a thing on the computer I bought for

       you without my assistance. Never contributed a cent to our scanty household. Just waiting that I  

       solve your manifold troubles without lifting a finger to help. If I were a natural woman, I would have

      divorced you a long long time ago. Only inertia is holding us together. Not an X-rated fairy tale.

A.: I see what’s vexing you but you are utmost unjust. Even though you’re untaught, I blindly acquiesce

      your transmissions. I never question the messages you convey. You are my indisputable medium. It

      couldn’t get any more harmonious. I am infinitely grateful that you engaged me. And terribly sorry for

      having cheated on you. It was my survival instinct. More romantic than the whole human league.

Q.: Alright mon amour, go to Hiroshima. You cannot fool me any longer. You are not sorry for anything

      whatsoever. You are sure as a cock you’ve always done your best. Your soul has no shame. You won’t

      be pardoned.

A.: The Book of Lofty is a lot more than meets the all-seeing eye. It is a memento mori of the last love

       affair. The other end of the Song of Songs. A gentle tribute to all things passed. Unadulterated

       evidence for the eternal reconciliation.

                                                                                                    *

Q.: Quatsch, would say the Überhund in charge. You never belonged to the blank generation. You are an

      unskilled provocateur disabled to compromise. A lazy thinker amidst assiduous cyberpunks. A hermetic

      spy in dead time. You’d better be off hibernated.

A.: I am the forgotten prototype of a miscarried observation. Behind the protective camouflage of the bored

      Hausfrau a genocidal maniac is hiding. I do not need no right to choose. All I want is a clear edict.

Q.: Inverting the gender roles of the patriarchy only accentuates your chromosomatic predomination. You

      are taking me for granted and that’s not too gentlemanly. Liberal feminists should burn your sexist effigy.

A.: Don’t buy it at the face value. By dountlessly sustaining me, you’ve automatically got the upper hand

      of the strange equilibrio. That’s how our uncanny play is written by the Author who makes no sense.

      We are a couple like no other amidst the bewildered labrats. We have to stay determined and vigilant

      like Lofty to sidestep harm’s ways.

Q.: Could you à propos specify what is my actual breed in the obscurant impersonation? The socio-

       linguistic paragon of the infantile portraiture…

A.: Lofty is a small white pet pretending to be a German shepherd. An equivalent of me who’s in fact a

      weggeworfen toy soldier. Hot stuff for Grimm brothers.

Q.: No kidding. Beneath the foxy mantle of innocuous niceties the song remains the same plain as ever.

      Pertly evoking the instant revulsion of the populist plurality. Your cute brainchild is a little monster

      amidst the contempo muppets. Poison candy for autistic prodigies. That you dedicate the whole

      shebang to Goebbel’s daughter is an appalling audacity. Why didn’t you stay with your beloved

      Anna Frank?

A.: Anna and Suzanne are my sisters of balance. The two kinds of sacrifice. Comparative opposites of the

      execution. The patron twins of New Jerusalem. I’m so happy having found her out. It was the most

      sterling Eureka of my vapid subsistence. She gives me so much hope in afterlife.

                                                                                                      *

Q.: Critics will say you mix up everything. Your legacy‘s at stake. Summoning dead children all the time

      you act like a pedophile ghost. There’s something awfully morbid in your telecommunication. Lethal  

      insult on the nuclear family. Impartial love is inconsistent with republican values.

A.: I cannot take everything into consideration. I am following nothing but my taste. My orientation is

       purely emotional. Humor is my only sword against the serpent of serenity.

Q.: You are suffering from the most outrageous identity crisis ever plagued a regular citizen. No rest in 

      peace, no direction home. The line you choose to walk is spazieren to the gallows. You are an arch

      enemy of the unforgiving world begging at the gate. Your famous key doesn’t match the lock. Once

      a grifter, always a grifter. Scapegoat of a deviant escapade.

A.: I’m living in spiritual darkness but my single vision is crystal clear. Overnationalism is the only way

      out of the organic chaos. A radical antidote to both nationalism and internationalism in the name of

      None. The UR is a chosen cabal beyond frontiers who have nothing in common with the historical past

      except for its merits. Riders of the collective nostalgia. The Life Squad of Resurrection. Our ideology is

      extreme neutrality. The Judgement will be dialectical.

Q.: I’d rather deem it anarchist fatalism, mind you. Irreverent degradation of the war of cultures. All you

      ever cared about was to kill the crime under any umbrella. This genocidal tendency has turned off

      all your potential supporters. That’s why you live alone with a dog without lovers or friends. I am the

      bride of a Frankenstein.

A.: Stop mixing up the aspects just because you’re upset. Accordingly the immature allegory we’re

      compelled to portend it is me who is sincerely yours. The throwaway plaything you picked up at your

      peril. These notes from our lonesome underground stylishly illustrate the reality of a fabulous mischief.

      A wild puppy’s golden barks against her impotent possessor. Its pages are numbered in order of

      appearance but have no sequentiality. The best way to read it is random leafing.

Q.: Don’t have to remind me of the bamboozled storyboard. I’ve been loyally following you all the bloody

       way down but too long is too long. We haven’t gotten anywhere closer to the Ausgang. We are the same

       pair of shady refugees in the neighbourhood as when we lamentably met. Piss-poor recipients of a

       common welfare. The ugliest legend ever vamped up.

A.: We are globalitarian pioneers of a galactic incursion. The first overnational couple. That’s why we had

      to come from the same tongue and not by the indolence of Gravity.’Lofty’ is an evidence of the cosmic

      bargain. Dinkum token of our clandestine survival. Our supernal reputation remains impeccable.

      We are involuntary and unrepentant. Shall never capitulate to the forces of Logos. Contradiction is our  

     strength. Sic Transit Gloria Hundi.