Q.: Change the “m” to the other nasal and you got the pun of the century. Very ingenious, my Word of
nothing. Going from theory to practice with the speed of a snail. Besides, the term already exists.
Not you invented the paragram but a real manicurist in LA. You’re only intellectualizing it for your
foul pleasure. Add a “brand new” to the filch and you have saved the day from the copyright issue.
Easy does it, don’t you?
A.: There are several correlatives between the two concepts I’m unveiling hereto. It is a neat philological
coinage earnestly speculated. Not just a promotional joke.
Q.: No smart hypothesis will eclipse the scam. You are a plagiarist by rebirth and that’s all there is to it.
Even what you think your own is someone else’s thought. And then you flip out when overhearing it
in a song. Or talk about the whims of the Zeitgeist. You are a clock running without hands. Looking
for the perfect cover of an unwritten book.
A.: First of all both of them belong to the extramagnetic field of communication. Transmitting messages
is their common domain. Nail painting is a primary ruse of the adorned ape. The feminine
equivalent of artistic flamboyance.
Q.: That is some zany generalization coming from a destructuralist illogician. I wouldn’t buy it if I were you.
A.: Everything you wear is a direct indicator of the personality behind the skin. We are disclosing our
secrets to perfect strangers on a permanent basis in the visibility glare. We walk like letters waiting
to be sent. Addressing everyone about everything in stead of a topical discourse with a single person.
That’s all the difference between the two artforms. Mail and nail are both weapons against solitude
at the core of the system.
Q.: You are completely wrong with that awkward regard. We are not soul-exhibitionists out to prey on
attraction. Clothing is quintessentially discretion. We dress to feel better.
A.: We dress to stand out. There is no doubt about that. We aren’t programmed to conceal but to display.
Which goes from eccentrics to spies. The human being is born to betray himself in the
rehabilitation facility of incarnating mammals. Fashion guides us magnificently on that path to
amends through the endless labyrinth of styles. Don’t fail to follow it.
Q.: You are putting fashion above all else unceasingly. Has vanity been the motor of evolution? That’s a
pretty Antimarxist principle I presume. You’ll make Charlie Darwin rolling in his grave.
A.: Fashion was the first spark of self-consciousness. When the wise monkey began to put flowers in her
hair. Since fashion has created its own Emporium against the battling nations, it has become our
illusoric safety belt in the whirlpool. It is man’s eighth sense. His proof of supremacy.
Q.: I know what you’re going through. You cannot detach from your underground roots in the age of
unlimited access to the Internet. And that’s because you are an incompetitive thinker. Your rigid
obsession with value is wholly obsolete. Your blackmails of Polaroid postcards ain’t worth a glimpse
in the Web of today. Back in the days you thought yourself a visionary with your manifestos. Now
you are lost in the supermarket of ideas. Unprepared for the big equalizer of electronic socialism.
Don’t know how to keep your little room intact in the belly of the beast.
A.: My taste defines the frontiers. It works like instinct for a wolf. I just can’t do what I can’t. I couldn’t
set up a Twitter account. Social media is my main enemy. The premature death of the individual.
Q.: It has lifted civilization ten miles higher in a cosmic second. You can carry the entire universe on
the palm of your hand. It’s not amazing enough for a dissident rebel? Just because you’re a
fossilized punk, shouldn’t act like a dignified alien.
A.: I am completely overwhelmed by the progress of technology. I honor, respect and adore it with all my
mind. But I’m not created equal to enter the stream. I am the exception that justifies the rule. My secrets
are not to be shared too soon. They are too treacherous. I prefer it in the cage. Don’t try to set me free.
Q.: Too soon, you say? That’s what you keep repeating since 1984. Whilst growing clinically old in the
mirror and behind. We don’t have much time left for fashion follies.
A.: I see what you mean. ‘Nail Art’ is the best notion we ever had. It sums up everything of your livelong
quest and satisfies my influencing tendencies. We’ll have to turn it into our source of energy. The
engine of the reignited movement. A prelude of renovation. The new wave of color power will overrule
the wrong rainbow of the apathetic Sun.
Q.: You’d better spare me more of your adolescent tirades. Probability has never been your forte. Right
now we have to get a spot at the Chinese hair-saloon downstairs to begin our telepathetic (!) activity.
I’m foolproof in aura reading but my dexterity leaves much to be required. We’d need to hire someone
to do the manual job. And have to buy our own polishes which is hazardous and costs a fortune we
cannot afford. And your “PRO-MO”s are not so chanceux to get an ardent sponsor by. They are written
for your sham portfolio. Airily ignoring a potential consumership.
A.: I ain’t got the faculty of control. I cannot censor myself. I do as I’m told as fast as possible. Blame it
on the Author that I can’t socialize. The narrative is fraudulent. Personally, I have nothing against
the community craze. I accept it like a change in the weather not unlike everybody else. I badly wish I
could profit from it. But I’m not allowed and I’m not sorry.
Q.: Forbidden is just another word for impotent. There is no excuse for your reluctance to update. You
are chronically disinterested in confrontation. Licking your self-inflicted wounds in custodial
lethargy. Your brutal ideology is tainted windowglass poised to break. You are panicked of losing
your invisible status. Quo vadis domine!? Just lingering on in vain desire of the frosted throne like
the ghost of Himinbj?rg, of all familiar places…
A.: That’s right, the time has come for a final rise from the ashes. Eine grosse idealistische Naturschutz
Arbeit. The Phoenix of Achilles is fluttering in the white of my eyes. We must start the campaign by all
the means we have. I will scout for potential clientele in the mall. Distribute our Panglossian business
cards in the nearby boutiques. And you’ll have to sport a veil. And wear something uniform and
cogent. Maybe should install a crystal ball for the sake of form. Make an esoteric theatre out of the
labor. I could be present as your dark consultant. We could video film every session if they allowed us.
Q.: I don’t think it a good idea to push it any further. It should rather be done in perfect incognito. I ought
to look and act as casual as can be. And you must keep away from me as far as possible in this lower
case. Your presence would destroy everything I’d try. I don’t need your sham assistance. This
is my show in the nail bar. You may but sit and watch Janine.
A.: Alright, Ta, it is you who’s pushing my boundaries. I’m happy not to do it. I’m a retired phobiac.
Q.: I won’t agitate about frequencies, don’t worry. I’m not as stupid as you think me, Aleph. Let the work
speak for itself. I am self-confident, as opposed to you. My combinations truly have all those qualities
you attributed to them as advertised. It’s not just another of your lies as you‘re treating it. My
messages are real. They come directly from Osh. I’m bringing them to you but you wouldn’t give a
shit. All you care is about the correct titles. I am left to carry all the responsibilities as usual.
A.: I don’t have the time to go into details. I’m good at poetry but very bad at algebra. You enjoy my
unconditional trust, Gina. I believe anything you say and will always figure out what they mean. I
only can tell right from wrong. But don’t want learn how.
Q.: That’s a quite dismal state of atrophy you’ve just confessed. Headset of a self-conceited nonentity.
Introducing positive skepticism in the mental arsenal. You’d never listen to my explanations any
revelative. Just suffer to find the right terminology like a beast of burden. Besides, you’re virtually
color blind. Cannot differ a GreenOne from a BlueTwo. Since ages I am teaching you your cipher
but you still don’t remember it by heart. You sleep away over my calculus PDQ. I have the blood of
my life flowing through their ink, darn you.
A.: Do not expect the impossible from me. I cannot take in data-based information. I shudder at shapes
and numbers. The last thing I need is more unseemly abstraction.
Q.: That’s where you’re mistaken. My detection is not any abstract. I am decoding facts. You’d be much
better off mastering the alphabet of my colorography. It would protect you from predators.
A.: I have no extra attention to pay. I don’t want to know what I don’t need to know. Thinking in colors
won’t help me to get along better in the dark. I can tell you where we’re at without useless evidence.
New Jerusalem is always on my mind.
Q.: You are BlueTwo-RedOne. You can’t achieve anything without being wholly aware of it.
A.: What do you mean by aware of it? You never come up with a technical advice. Or a method to practice.
Your color system is a theory ad absurdum. You are enchanted by the light, my love. There’s no day
without another discovery. You don’t have a clue how tiring it is for a frustrated misanthrope. I have
outrageous dilemmas to solve for man’s sake.
Q.: I want to show everybody what I see. I want to impose it on the stratosphere. I’m laying down the base
code of the UR. ‘Nail Art’ is a magick medium to exit the obscurity we are condemned for. The phase of
projection has begun. I am so happy we got the input. And you should be too.
A.: I’m most honestly trying to follow your advises. But all I encounter is invincibility. Show me the color
that heals the pain and I’ll be a synaesthesiac.
Q.: You don’t have to be anything. Just learn how to keep composed in a given situation. How to act
different whilst remaining the same. The Oshist color system is an external help to orientate. A gift of
supreme flexibility. Color Power is the fork that kills the ego. It defines how you hold your neck
when you speak. Let alone what you have to say. It’ll keep you in focus wheresoever you are. Color-
consciousness is the thrust of human intelligence. The crux of survival for the unfit..
A.: Don’t have to agitate me, I understand the appeal. But what do I have to do? Feel it, seek it, see it,
emanate it or what? I don’t know what is the trick of the track. All your alleged reconstruction offers
is an alternative psychedelia. A new drug for the old guard. Everybody wants to be perfect. But who’s
got the force to change his constellation? It’s freaking me out. Experience doesn’t need a school. I
prefer the acid house.
Q.: That’s your odious escapism, Spiel! Drugs are junk for the indolent. You can’t write a word without
them but I am completely independent. That’s the guarantee that I’m genuine. If you find the true
color of your blood you’ll be at home in the world. Resistant to deception. Nothing will touch your
integrity. You could step into a safe and fruitful interaction with the people if you knew who they are.
A.: I know that much better than you ever will without chromatic analysis. A slight glimpse is enough to
make me run and hide. I’m looking hard for chimeras but do not find any. Your zealous promotion
leaves me cold as ice. Show me how to make money of it and I’ll be your most devoted disciple.
Q.: That’s exactly what we’re trying to do at last. To economize on our priceless treasury. Things are just
falling in place. You only have to correct your dim outlook. And let the structure plant your attitude.
Do what you have promised to do. I am coming to you with the key of the gate since 1982. But
you are the one who’s supposed to turn it. I am just an innocent medium at your selfless service. How
long do you want to sing the Marchant without echo yet, Antichrist contra fate?
A.: My favorite problem is not parapsychological. I’m a biophysically decapacitated phenomenon. Total
refusal of the Cosmic Bargain has turned me into a disheartened pariah. I don’t need color power. I
need the real thing. Give me the will and I’ll fuck the world. I am a dead man’s shadow in the night.
Living only on paper with no identity left. One man’s aura can fill an arena. Mine couldn’t cram a
closet. You aren’t doing this for me. I don’t want to get to know myself better than a reptile. Am I
supposed to wear blue tie with a red cap accordingly your depiction? I’d rather fade to grey.
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