Q.: So the Spring is over, just like nothing happened. You cried, prayed and bled a little and that was
      it. Now you want to chatter with me about the necessity of compromise. Aren’t you intellectually
      challenged? Shouldn’t we rather commemorate the non-event as we used to? In your shameful 
      curriculum it was a landmark entry. Your first assay to break out of forty years of encagement. 
      It wasn't spectacular but well executed. The concession was worth it. And better documented than
      your entire lifespan so far. The Birthday of Charlotte amongst others on camera. You should consider 
      it a quantum leap, not a moral quandary. 
A.: I have wasted a lifetime waiting for the miracle in chronic neurosis. Was all that psychotic torment in 
      utter vain? I could have done this much when I was young if hadn't been possessed by false dignity.
      It’s too little too late to hold up the angel of death. Charlotte is an old lady born out of wedlock. My
      own brain’s aborted child. I want to be her but she cannot stand me. My identity’s in a crisis. 
Q.: As compared to that, you’ve managed it very elegantly. You are a dark hero of relativity. No sign of
      the catacomb you were coming from. You floated like a liberated socialite. A goldfish back in the
       fountain. It didn't look like hard play at all. How did it feel to be someone for a change?
A.: Magnificent, I must admit. My supporting presence was a triumph of the lie. But under my problem 
      skin it felt awkward like Sartre’s nausea. Especially when crossing real cross-dressers partying above
      the Bunker where we were rioting. As they would descend to the toilets located on the same subterranean 
      level. It's grueling to be counterfeit. But at least I was an artist by definition. Something I successfully 
      evaded beforehand. Surrender is sacrifice and that's what I brought.
Q.: I'm sorry to hear that. Your actual behavior displayed no hint of the mortifying depression I’m 
      witnessing 24\7. Why had it to be fake? Don't you wanna be happy for a while?
A.: I do what I can but cannot do more. Not without the gift of libido. You know, bab', I'm artificially 
      alienated. My wishbone has been removed by the abductors. See what one can do without it. 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 Her. Charlotte 
      is Osh in you. The humor and the charm. Have you forgotten the password? It’s not so difficult to 
      love oneself. Just have to deserve it.  
A.: One thing you must grasp, Gina, if you wanna see me through. I'm born to cheat and spending all my 
      time on simulating faculties. An antitalent impostor. Mostly under the cover of a bogus conceptualist. 
      Believing in a transcendent potential that needs no education. Pulling my empty carriage like 
      hoodwinked oxen. A naughty fallacy is eating up my soul. Whereas there is a higher justice that’ll 
      reward me one fine doomsday. Life has deceived me. And Osh is None.
Q.: Ain't it too comfy to comply with cosmic victimhood? What a typical son of the silent age! 
A.: Only the lonely know the way I feel tonight. You can’t generate peace within. It comes from the 
      outside. The eyes of your beholder. Our mandate is to manipulate the mirror. The Orgon is the people 
      and I never met them. Encountering but hateful neighbors in my post-existential isolation. I am 
      exiled in Nirvania endless. The ‘Montreal Spring’ was a rise from the ashes. Back to Prague with the
      plastic people of the universe. But no beginning in sight.


Q.: Your bargain excuses are unacceptable. You should be grateful for having woken up from the
       mortal slumber for a belated Passover. Muslim drag on high heels out of his deadbed. Wasn't it like 
       coming alive? 
A.: Not at all. It was a zombie walk. The pure fact I could get there was supernatural. Seven demons 
      armed and charged were deployed to stave me off from the tiny adventure ever since I reluctantly 
      signed up for it. Blackmailing with the whole gamut of their evil arsenal. Serial threats of health
    and wealth issues with systemic turpitude. But we could beat them, couldn’t we? You were with
       me all the way despite the spiritual cramps. They know too well I can’t be without you. You are 
       their winning card. Our couplehood is an inverted Pandrogyny. A marriage made In Inferno.
Q.: Shut up, will you, don’t elaborate on it. Nothing can be more precarious. Our privacy is no credential
       in this crestfallen case. Talk rather about the great overcoming. The alliance of enemies at the gate.
A.: Very well. I have reached the momentum of reconciliation out of the deep blue. The last wagon
       to jump on by all means and costs. I joined the Montreal Spring in a Torschluss-panic. The 
       counterrevolution has finally begun.
Q.: Your capacity to entwine objectivity with your subjective experiences is a subdivine gift you’re 
       shiftlessly abusing. You’ve based your mentality on coincidentia oppositorum under the malicious 
       influence of Doctor Jung, your misguided foreman. You are at a permanent warfare with the
       hazard and call it time-consciousness. Albeit it is nothing but paranoid superstition. 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’ve attempted by the adaptation. To become the secret master of my own
       clandestine ceremony. An alternative to the alternative. I played the neofit like another Blattella but 
       on the Q.T. I was celebrating my own mythology. The 40th Anniversary of the Year of Rebirth. A 
       great coincidence provided by Amen, Osh bless him. And just for the records, also the 30th jubilee of 
       the Fall of the Wall so close to my yellow heart but omitted from the apoliteic programming. It was a 
       truly Molotov cocktail.


Q.: It is no point to further despair about the flimsy deal. A frame was all we ever needed. One cannot
      create his own galaxy out of thin air, that's what you finally succeeded to grasp. You had to cut the 
      ties with your infantine past of esoteric fatalism. Calling David Bowie to come and save his savior. 
      Now you are alone. But could barely stand a real confrontation with your feeble knees trembling like 
      a rabbit’s. Even amidst the confident weirdos you stood out like a misplaced madcap. Accepted but for 
      your mentor's subversive notoriety. Only the strong survives. And only together we are.
A.:  It were the costumes that saved my reputation. I’m immensely grateful you provided them to me from
       your camworkship. I couldn’t have gone that far on my own. Couldn’t sign up to Amazon and things 
       like that. I am disabled like a ghost. The hoax of hoaxes.
Q.: You are watching yourself but you're too unfair. Your job was to wear them and you honestly did so.
       Der Hund hat sein Spielzeug angezogen, as Lofty would say. Ain't OSP is the sweetest fascism ever?
A.: The 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 surprising was that they approved the Trump prank despite their atavistic antinomy.
       Then when I got the hundred dollars from Israel it was all appreciated and forgiven. Any underway, 
       money talks. The Party stole the show. They got sure I was joking.
Q.: The most of all of them I loved your Flagbearer persona. It was such a luck we could produce our own
       ensign just in time. It fit you atavistically well.
A.: Forty years after their initial design. I am happy too but also very sad. I never could have made this
      demonstration alone. It had to be insinuated in someone else’s context. But it was elevating to descend 
       into the anarchic cauldron. The public opening of the colors was the ultimate highlight of my 
       vainglorious journey. By that clumsy action I inaugurated the Situationist Overnational. It was a
       touch of future legend inserted into the imperfect present of total madness. The 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 a fiction any more. We have the evidence.
A.: The dismaying question remains where do we go from here. I left the bootcamp 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 
      and the films. The proofs of a sham. Now back to the calaboose, old boy. Kiss Charlotte good night.


Q.: Don't be so bathetic. At least you can be sure that she is. Not just a home video. But a public domain.
       Out in the media. How would you define her actual character if someone asked you to? What 
        is her metasexual orientation?
A.: At long last she doesn't have any. Charlotte is The Party's puppet governor invented for propaganda
       purpose solely. She's a mannequin to sell an otherwise unpopulist 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 the groundless subterfuge of a dismantled mind. You should objectivate her a lot more 
       for the papers.
A.: Charlotte is my Big Sister. A French woman converted to Islam. Her role is to convey messages too
       inconvenient for brutal speech. She is the impartial host of the party. She speaks her mind
       nonchalantly but has no intent to convert the guests. You can’t argue with her like with Spiel! if he
      would. She talks to the accordant solely, unrehearsed and uncensored. How I wish she killed me!
Q.: I believe you. Would you mind to brief up her bio on this great occasion? In stead of yammering all 
       night long about the lost horizon.
A.: No problem. The Saga formally began with my official Application for a change of identity to the 
      Government of Canada whose citizenry I enjoy. So she is 25 at her biophysical apogee. Which is 
      another anniversary by the way. I asked to be permitted to live as a female with Gallic ancestry for the
      rest of my organism. It was rejected but she stayed with me in my pipe-dreams. She began to wear a
      veil in 2014 as a conclusion of the 8-8-8-Year Plan’s terminal fiasco. Though enacted from sheer
      necessity, the look has become her signature avatar. Ghost hosting the Neoist gathering was her first
       apparition five more years after. Time’s passing me by. Only my body’s aging.
Q.: She didn't look shy or perplexed though, be assured. Sometimes she looked like having a little ball.
       Unlike you whatsoever.
A.: The protective disguise prevented every discord. The attire relieved me from responsibilities. It served  
       as a defensive armor. No one tore it off. 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 horrid face. Her metaphoric outfit isn't
       modesty chique but clearly reflects the historical clash over time's dead corpse. She’s first of all a
       démodé Disco star restored to the political climate. A turbulent figure for turbulent times. 
Q.: Just what we needed, isn’t she? Don’t let yourself be deceived, Milady of the Mud. Any hard you try to
       transit, you’ll never match up with the skills of an ordinary drag queen. You are a bull amidst stallions. 
       For those that don’t know you, and nobody does, you were just a funny gag of the fiesta. Distributing
       your recycled calling cards won’t generate a new wave of membership for The Party.
A.: Of all the outfits, the silver trousers were the most appreciated. Three women congratulated them. They 
       even pointed at their fine contrast with the headgear. Nor has my metamorphosis remained unobserved. 
       In the swift space of three hours I changed from bearded street beggar for Trump into a Muslim woman 
       for the clambake. Switching the red MAGA-hat to a black niqab. A flawless concept for 2019. And the 
       alarm clock rang out.
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 pleading for since 1982? Everything's falling apart and I am falling. The exodus 
       never ends. Freedom is impossible. Fuck the world.