Q.: Good morning, great vampire. Here we fall again with the rising Sun. Another dream is over. The
Industrial Counterrevolution failed to break out. A drop lower on the downward spiral. Nothing
unusual, but this one is a quantum leap. Your most grandiose blunder to date. How can you take it so
phlegmatically? Weep a little in the dark and the amends are made. Tried it, couldn’t be done. Add it
to your curriculum mortem. Is that all there is to reproduction? I don’t know what you really are.
Wolf or lamb…
A.: Such dichotomies make no sense in the single eye. 888 is a fusion of the poles. A nuclear reincarnation.
My take on the Revelations is plainly antithetic. Positively reversing the source material.
Q.: You are an escapist scapegoat, Spiel! Proudly collecting black marks on your hidden record. Sedulously
pursuing a detrimental agenda. Your outlandish attempts to rise is a list of suicides.
A.: Don’t have to remind me of what I have lost. The major battle for my false allegory. I should put a bullet
in my head. At least I could express some simulated anger. Smashed the face of the clock. Cut my vein
with broken glass. Dashed a whole bottle of red wine on the floor. And yelled in anger about the absentia
of a movement. By my substandards it was a breakout performance. A smash spit in the mirror.
Q.: You were screaming at the ten friends you succeeded to gather for the five hundred missing spectators
delusionally expected. Like lambasting those who came for the disappointing turnout. What a Schmuck!
And the sweet DJ crew you smartly engaged for the opening night. “Stop playing, the show is over,”
remember you? It was no performance. You were genuinely raging like a miserable loser. The
infuriated amateur going epileptic. More comic than daunting. Thank God it wasn’t documented.
Curiously, not a photo has been taken about the whole enterprise. How could that happen? It must be
some kind of protection.
A.: Because the wasted bitch that promised it forgot the camera. The other one with the video did not
show up at all. And the film guys scheduled to play archive movies to the crowd had only projectors
but no filming device. However, I bled my white shirt all over. I tore the festoon apart. I cursed the
city, the province, the world. I didn’t walk away in silence like a sheep. I resisted the humiliation. I
fought for my dignity and I won.
Q.: Well, you were mad as Hell, lambchop. The star of Charenton. Sending home your few loyal
supporters in place of the party promised. “No Palm Sunday tonight.” “The Passover is cancelled
sine die!” “The Vernissage is closed!” Those people would have stayed around gladly if you accepted
to compromise. Everything was properly set for the rite of passage. Music, film, buffet. You could have
saved the day in stead of going into overkill and destroy it all. That would have been a dignified
response, not kicking everyone out. Just because you couldn’t have your First Breakfast in style.
There is no excuse for such a behavior. It’s typically Jesus.
A.: I’m not apologizing. I was not there to throw a party but to blow some minds. I was seriously pissed
by the situation. I invested a half year into the preparation of this little gig. A real campaign out of
proportions. I had the warranty burned into my head. I was to sing the Overnationale with the
the multitude that night so that the walls should tremble. I took my last blot of Acid spared for the
occasion. I was riding high into New Jerusalem next door. I couldn’t go for it but the mountain came
to me. I was ready for the rapture.
Q.: What a gigantic drag it was to find a venue for the equivocal concept! We discovered this crumbling
gallery pub by accident after all else aborted. Five minutes barefoot from your hiding place. All you can
do is miracles. But then you fuck it all up.
A.: I did everything a divine asshole could. Firstly I contacted the churches with the with the big idea. I
thought I can easily fool them but they saw it forthwith through. The visuals were appreciated but the
promo text did them in. The Deacon said it stood against everything the Église holds sacred. Then I went
to sex bars with the whim of an art exhibition for the Easter week. I told it would boost their repute to be
involved with popular culture. Something real exotic. They treated me like a perverted intello and showed
the door. It was a calvary but I walked the whole line. Got rejected by both sides of the societal aisle.
Q.: And you wouldn’t restrain from considering it a subtle victory. You are a maniacal delinquent out for
nothing but trouble. All we could finally get was this guest room on the second floor of a feminist
collective with all the elevators broken. Hanging out our antiflags over the rusty windowpane to
provoke the press on the other side of the street. Making ourselves quite ridiculous retrospectively. They
only let us stay for the week from kind of solidarity after your anticlimax. We could have profited from it
though, but you forbade anything to happen after the initial fiasco. Just playing on the Masochistic
Messiah under the ground where you belong.
A.: The unholy project was to proclaim the birth of the Antichrist in the form of an industrial invocation. It
was meant to be an eight days long celebration of the inverted resurrection. The longest mystery play ever
dedicated to the Gregorian calendar. Recruiting meanwhile a potential membership to the Party via an
Atheist festival of dazzling darkness. All on the noble pretext of introducing its eminent painter to the art
world through a living emanation of Emmanuel. How could I have settled with less?
Q.: He was to paint a big black wolf on the wall of the room, developing it day by day during the jamboree
into a lasting fresco of 2D shadow to be revealed next Sunday as a symbol of your gradual embodiment.
Emitte spirituum tuum. Very endearing intervention of an unregistered nullity. Nobody’s been moved in
by the posters we put up. Actually it was removed from the locale’s own tacepao. We were denied our
very existence. Even those stopping for a beer wouldn’t climb upstairs to see some exhibit. We shouldn’t
have succumbed to the temptation. Your inane fatalism is a catastrophe ballet.
A.: The plot was impeccable. It would have been the perfect closure of an era. Even if vastly unrealized,
the date has been nailed to the cross. 1997 will mark the official rebirth of New Style on the map of
our Timeship. I am dead on arrival but my clock does work.
Q.: Aren’t you ashamed just a little bit? In stead of accusing the whole universe for your gaffe.
A.: The Atheist faith allows no remorse. I will never plead guilty. I am a heretic of None. I’ve executed a
great work of unrepentant idealism. Lupus Dei In Extremis. Who’ll care a century later whether it did
or did not happen? The document is sealed and filed. Ready made for a better future.
Q.: Your histrionic speculation is outright repellent. Counting on exhumation in place of a proper return.
The morbid fantasy of an ineligible replica. You should care a lot less about your improbable legacy.
A.: I am only trying to saving my presence, Gina. I’ve reached out far beyond my extent. Only my radio
activity makes up for eight hours of tapes. I gave bilingual interviews to all the alternative stations.
Contacted both major and free papers for support. I deposed my leaflets in boutiques and record stores.
Even at my frequented Café. What more should I have done?
Q.: I did twice as much to put that record straight. I organized everything from mannequins to bands.
And the discount on the prints. Could even arrange to get fresh bread delivered every morning from
the nearby bakery in exchange of advertising them by the big shot. That’s how we got something to eat
in the meantime. The same for the red wine you spilled with your fake blood.
A.: We were planning a really groovy thing going on. Events for every good night from experimental music
to fashion extravaganza. Rituals and workshops scheduled for the afternoons. I intensely trumpeted the
oncoming bombshell on my own radio show as well, flagging NOVA AKROPOLA as one of its lofty
sponsors. Three entire emissions have I consecrated exclusively to the musics our publicised artist has
sent me throughout the gruesome years of mutual exile. Introducing the Man through his taste solely,
which was a psychosonic trouvaille by itself. I am a genius of the plug. Why can’t I profit from it?
Q.: Because you are a slothful alien allergic to materialization. To come true is the last thing you want.
Deep under your snakeskin you’re terrified of living. You’d rather shed it every season than become
identical with the phantom of yourself.
A.: I’ve also sent out dozens of private invitations to local celebrities, including Pierre Elliot Trudeau. I
proposed everyone to bring their dog to the Vernissage. Even tried to recruit LAIBACH to play on the
grand finale when interviewed them for my homonymous program as a dabbling epigon. They weren’t
interested but whoever could have paid them anyway. Finally I invited Leonard Cohen to come down
from the mountain and open me the Gate of New Jerusalem in his telluric hometown. Nobody can doubt
in the magnitude of my ambition. No wonder he restrained.
Q.: I still don’t think you brought the right decision when calling the whole thing off. Your bookings could
have provided their own tiny public. We could have churned out some fun at least for the sake of the
poor painter you lured into the blamage. In stead of sitting the day away in silence waiting for a visitor.
A.: To declare bankruptcy was the only way to avoid further embarrassment. I really didn’t want to receive
my honorary guests in the empty room after all that braggadocio. About the false seduction I do am
desperately sorry. It was a lifetime debt I wanted to return to my only collaborator with this presentation.
His due reward for the Fishers of Men. After the whole misery was heroically over, on the cold morning of
Easter Monday I generously paid a cabride to accompany him to the Greyhound. He left to return to
Toronto, someone will re-transport the unseen oeuvre kept in storage later. He thanked me and I thanked
him. He said he had a good time. I knew I’ll never see him again. Not in this damnation.
Q.: He is terminally ill, isn’t he? Could hardly hold through the terrible ordeal.
A.: He has multiple sclerosis since 1984. Relentlessly advancing towards the end for want of stem cells.
Chances are he won’t live up to his presaged death date. 2014 is the final year of G.I.N.A.’s last plan
when everything shall come to a sudden halt. Thirty years after our magnificent Pepperidge Farm
Calendar announcing the Oshist Reckoning of Time. This functionalist happening should have kick-
started the final countdown to the Station of Departure. But it turned out to be a requiem for nothing.
The ugliest vision of the Bardo I’ve ever seen.
Q.: You feel personally responsible for his unlucky fate, don’t you? As if he were your own exquisite martyr.
That’s an egotistic self-assertion. No one is accountable for someone else’s mayhem. Not even for his
own. Destiny alone rules the lions of Judah. Superstition’s superfluous. Get down a peg or two.
A.: He had followed me like a self-conscious dog into emigration with great expectancy. He trusted me all
the way down with full loyalty to the uncertain cause. We had a telepathic communication directly guided
by the silent voice of Osh. ‘Lupus Dei’ must have been the lost crown of it all. His symptoms started whilst
working on the doomed assignment. To represent the twelve Apostles as a pack of various canines in a
Greco-grotesque series under the lordship of their Wolfchrist. I thought the paint poisoned him but then
he was diagnosed. And it’s going by the textbook. My most secret aim with the dubious bluff was to
practice and learn miracle healing so quintessential to my legendary office. I wanted to use him as a
guinea pig. A witness of Osh. But Alas! I couldn’t stand the test. Now what? Mea maxima culpa.
Q.: Is there really no cure for MS? The worst of the genetic curses? Why science has to be an intelligence
work? What are they keeping their secrets for?
A.: There we go. The Oshist Breathing is told to subdue every sickness. We were to practice it every 3:33
o’clock during the passion play. Thus I hoped to force and get him used to it. Because as a crazed idea
from a weird friend it can’t impress him too much. I am not authentic. I wanted to become authentic.
Now I can recline in my cellar licking my new wounds. Victim of the insane back in the isolation. Say
good-bye to the last endeavor. I have to start from scratch again.
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