Q.: So you wanted to talk about compromise on this landmark pretext. Your first assay to break out 
      of forty years of encagement. Shouldn't we rather commemorate the event? It wasn't spectacular 
      but what do you expect? It was accomplished and that's what really matters. And better 
      documented than all your secret lifespan. Resurrection on camera. You should consider it a 
      quantum leap, not a moral quandary. Are you mentally wrecked?
A.: I have wasted my whole life waiting for the miracle in chronic neurosis. Was all that psychotic
      torment in utter vain? I could as well have started here if I hadn't been bewitched by dignity.
Q.: The beginning is always at the end. But you made it very elegantly. No sign of the vacuum you
       came from. You behaved like a liberated socialite. A goldfish back in the fountain. It didn't 
       seem hard play at all. How did it feel to be yourself for a change?
A.: Your impression is an actor's delight. My performance, if anything, was a triumph of the lie. I 
       couldn't have felt more awkward. Especially when crossing real cross-dressers partying
       above the Bunker where we were featuring. 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 hysterically evaded before. Surrender is sacrifice and that's what I brought.
Q.: I'm sorry to hear that. Your supporting act displayed no hint of the mortifying depression I'm 
       darned to be witnessing. Why had it to be fake? Don't you wanna be a happier fellow, Spiel?
A.: I do more than I can but cannot do more. Not without the slightest recollection of libido. You 
      know, bab', I'm alienated. My wishbone's removed by the abductors. See what can he do without 
      it, I presume. 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 Him. 
      Forgot the passwords? It shouldn't be so difficult to love oneself. Every jerk can do it.
A.: One thing you must grasp, Gina, if you wanna see me well. I've spent all my energy on   
      simulating faculties. Mostly under the cover of a counterfeit conceptualist. Believing in a 
      transcendent potential that needs no education. Pulling my empty carriage like hoodwinked 
      oxen. A naughty fallacy lacerates my soul. Whereas one fine ay I'll be rewarded for all the 
      troubles I took by some abstract justice. But here we go now, deteriorating. Nothing's proven
      true but the aging process. The primal curse of expulsion. The empty years of craving for 
      the improbable consumed up or strength and beauty. Life, she has deceived me. To be innocent 
      is none of my bloody faults.
Q.: Ain't it too comfy to comply with cosmic victimhood? What a typical son of the silent age! 
A.: Only the lonely will know how I feel. Love comes from without. From the eyes of your beholder.  
      Our mandate is to manipulate the mirror. My Orgon is the people. And I never met them. Only 
      hateful neighbors I encounter in my post-existentialist isolation. I'm exiled to Nirvania endless.
      Nothing to come home about.


Q.: Your bargain excuses are unacceptable. Thank Goodness you could wake up once from the 
       mortal slumber. Muslim drag on high heels out of the deadbed. Wasn't it like a dream?
A.: A dream in a nightmare. Triple ripple. It was hard to believe it even from within. The fact that I 
      had gotten there at length. Seven demons armed and charged were deployed to stave me off from
      this little experience ever since I reluctantly signed up for it. They haven't left me alone for a 
      moment, as you best know it. Besides the direct threats and tortures, their biggest gun's always 
      been You according to the sordid script of our disgusting fable. They know too well that I can do 
      nothing without assistance. That's why they're trying to remove you from the play by all means.
      We are an endangered specie. But we could beat them for a day, didn't we? Though forcibly 
      ousted of the moving picture, you were all around despite the spiritual cramps. If I ever could
      make up for the price you pay!
Q.: Shut up, will you, you vastly overtalk it. Nothing can be more dangerous. Don't you ever think 
      that I don't know what's going on. Why don't we get back to our actual topic? Your big feat of 
      submission. The alliance of enemies at the gate.
A.: That's right. I have suddenly reached the grand momentum of Reconciliation. The last one to 
       ever catch up with yet. At any cost indeed. That's the conclusion I happened to draw in the 
      Torschluss-panic. File it under 'Montreal Spring'. The tardy onset of counterrevolution.
Q.: One subdivine gift you definitely got amidst the missing ones. The capacity to inseparably 
       overtwine objectivity with your subjective observance. You based your mentality on coincidentia 
       oppositorum under the malicious influence of Doctor Jung, your misprogrammed foreman. You
       are at a permanent warfare with the hazard and call it time-consciousness. Albeit it is nothing 
       but superstitious paranoia. 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 was attempting by the adaptation. To become the secret master of my own
       clandestine ceremony. I played the Neoist like another Montycantsin but among ourselves I was 
       celebrating my own jubilee. The 40th Anniversary of the Year of Rebirth. A great coincidence 
       by Amen. And just for myself the 30th one of the Berlin Wall nobody else seemed to notice. My 
       enviable brother provided me a forum to workship in public. Osh, who is None, bless him.


Q.: It is no point to further despair about the deal with Diabolus. A frame was all we ever needed.
      One cannot create his own out of nothing, that's what you finally succeeded to grasp. You had to 
      cut the ties with your infantine past of mythomaniac dependency. Dreaming about David Bowie 
      to come and save his savior. You are alone. Couldn't bravely stand a real confrontation with 
       your shaking knees. Even amidst the weirdos you stood out like a lonely wolf. Accepted but for 
       your partner's subversive notoriety. Only the strong survives. And only together we are.
Q.:  It were the costumes that saved my reputation. I'm immensely grateful for finding and ordering 
       them. I couldn't have done that much, you see? Couldn't even sign up to the fucking Amazon. I
       am virtually disabled, let's face it. A hoax of the century.
Q.: You are watching yourself but you're too unfair. Your job was to wear them and you honestly 
       did. I'm so glad I could afford it from my camwork. Getting all the discount coupons et al. Even 
       like that it passed our credit limits. Der Hund hat sein Spielzeug angezogen, as Lofty would say.   
       Ain't OSP is the sweetest fascism in the history of the world?
A.: My 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 surprised I was that they approved the Trump prank despite their 
       antinomy. Then when I got the hundred dollars from Israel it was all appreciated and forgiven. 
       Any underway, money talks. That miracle at the corner definitely was the highlight of the whole 
       showcase. I stole it. Justification of a metapolitical getaway. I've sent out the message on the 
       global podcast. There is a beggar and it can be pro.
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. And the Armband too.  
A.: Forty years after their initial design. I am happy too but also very sad. I never could have made
       this demonstration. It had to be inserted in the total disaster. But it was worthwhile to descend 
       in the anarchic cauldron. The opening of The Flag was the ultimate apogee of my vainglorious 
       presence on Planet Terra so very far. It surely spoiled the clean fun of the Neoist riot but I 
       boldly ignored it. By the clumsy action I inaugurated the Situationist Overnational. It was a 
        piece of future legend injected into the imperfect present of total madness. My carrier was a
        time traveler lost in space. A 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 clandestine any more. We have the evidence.
A.: The dismaying question of course remains where do we go from here. I left the weeklong boot-
       camp 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 you took. Proof of a sham. Now back to the cage, old boy. Kiss 
       Charlotte good night.


Q.: Don't be so bathetic. At least you can be sure that she is. Not just a video ghost. Even in the 
       closet, she'll remain the target and the aim of all your transmutations. How would you define 
       her actual character if someone asked you to?  What's her metasexual orientation?
A.: At long last she doesn't have any. Charlotte is The Party's spurious puppet invented for 
       propaganda purposes solely. She's a mannequin to sell the 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 mythology, man. Now could you render it into more prosaic words for the papers? 
A.: Charlotte is my Big Sister composed from the polar opposites of my socio-political subsistence in 
       the dark. Her extensive spectrum stretches from baglady to the queen of queens. Basically she's
       a French women converted to Islam, hired to entertain the wedding guests. How I wish she'd 
       never leave me again!
Q.: Would you mind to sum up her bio in a nutshell on the happy occasion of her 0th birthday?
A.: The Saga of Charlotte began in 1994 with a practical joke. My formal application for a change 
       of identity sent to the Government of Canada as a rightful citizen. She's 25 indeed that's also an  
       anniversary. She began to wear a veil in 2014, at the end of the 8+8+8 year plan, from sheer 
       necessity. Soon it has become her alterego. Guest hosting the Neoist gathering was her first 
       appearance in public five more years after. A symbolical graduation as it were.
Q.: She didn't look shy or perplexed though, be assured. Sometimes she looked like enjoying the 
       role. Are you reluctant to admit it?
A.: The protective disguise prevented every discord. The veil relieved me from responsibilities. It  
       served as an armor of defense. 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 body. The political 
       climate worked in my very favor this turbulent time. I found the door that let me in.
Q.: Beware of too much passion, however. Any correctly executed, your smart imago would 
       never match up to an ordinary impersonator's. It's only estimable by the effort invested. Which 
       only I know. For those unfamiliar with your real story it was but a funny gag. Your ancient 
       calling cards recycled won't stir up a new wave of membership requests.
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 hijab. 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 Molotov cocktail party. Switching the red
       MAGA-hat to a black niqab. A flawless concept for 2019. And the alarm clock rang.
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.