Q.: Schau, Spiel! You’re taking me by surprise. This one is a real bombshell, isn’t it? Everything you
ever wanted in a gigantic atom. For want of any executive power, your imagination is soaring
mountain high. You don’t know what to do but at least know what you’d like to. To spend your
remaining days in a golden cage behind tainted windows carried around the world as a dedicated
beast. To become a perennial exhibition without privacy and frontiers. A freak-show on the move
spreading counterrevolutionary propaganda to the unsuspecting natives. That’s your bizarre epitome
of a genuine comeback. The campaign trails of a rock operetta full of subversion and profanities.
You wish to be a portable totem of the redemption deal. A one-man zoo coming to town. The ultimate
metaphor of human custody.
A.: Not just a metaphor. I’d really like to live on the road. I’m a hobo superior at my sacred heart. My
strange desire is not a mental decline but a willful choice of destiny. I want to carry my home
wherever I would go like a human snail. Never settle down again by the pull of gravity. I am my
own universe versus the world. A prototype of the homo novum.
Q.: Very well, postulant spaceboy. The only thing you ain’t lacking is ambition. To turn your negative
character into a public figure is all that motivates your glands. Your favorite caprice is a personal cult.
A.: ‘The Cosmic Bargain’ is an old-school cabaret in New Style. The most pragmatic entertainment
ever concocted. It is my abreactionary (!) attempt to demur the dominion of visibility. To be seen
but not to see them has always been my soul’s innermost desire. This exhibitionist state of inverted
observance that makes you a spy of spies. After all the mosh pit, this show is poised to create a
maximum of estrangement between the public and the actor. The absurd realism of the projecting
mirror. Living theatre for the dead beyond Brecht and Artaud. A tribute to Joseph Beuys.
Q.: And what in the world not? You are Joseph Kosuth’s illegitimate son. A radical conceptualist. The
last thing you care about is materialization. What you cannot imagine is how it should be done.
This yours sincerely is a billion-dollar project from a bankrupt bum. A megalith of self-indulgence
no monopole capitalist will be tempted to invest into.
A.: I want to be recognized as an illegal alien. That is the crux of my solo protest. I want to continue
without visas as my own union. Changing the management from country to country but staying
ignorant about my whereabouts. I am demanding the basic privilege of being nowhere. I’m
crusading for the total liberty of the individual. Promoting self-consciousness to the mutant class.
An unequal right for everyone who deserves it. It is a Promethean undertaking, Gina. You should
be more respectful.
Q.: I don’t know what you expect me to say. The idea is lovely but completely unrealizable off-sheet.
This theatre will never be staged without paranormal assistance. You should approach O.T.O. if you
had some guts. And summon Crowley’s ghost to influence them.
A.: Your criticism is destructive but righteous. To get things done has never been my forte. All I’m
trying is to figure out how to come alive in the most tasteful manner. I do not wanna be a citizen of
the world. I claim for superhuman rights since I’m deprived of any. I am a dialectical slave. The
last rebel of my generation. I want total independence without racial discrimination. I am a facsimile
of overnational socialism. Not the man who fell to Earth but an ape going to Heaven. The antinomian
rehabilitation.
Q.: And that should give you enough inspiration to write 120 lyrics over evergreen tunes on the pretext
to turn your dolorous psychodrama into a musical comedy of mores. Despite all halts and derailments,
your toy train keeps on circling in your one bedroom. With no destination in hindsight.
A.: The melodies might be old but the lyrics are novel. I am expropriating the collective memory. An
emotional inoculation of the media. The eventual showcase would last 90 minutes with variegating
tracklists divined by the runes cast before each concert. The band of the gig would start playing at every
14.4 minute, violently interrupting the protagonist’s ongoing monologue by the sound of an alarm. The
paramystic probability of a thematic continuum between the recorded and the improvised will provide
the incognizable divertissement’s quintessential thrill. Grey magick at work. And that’s because there
is only one topic.
Q.: How would you name it to an investigative journalist? The Leitmotiv of all that jazz.
A.: The libretto is summed up in its title. The stand-up comedy is about the cosmic bargain over the homo-
sapien. The opening of the Seventh Seal in a captivating manner. The deal is between god and the
devil in the final breakdown for the catholic multitude. The rest is Gesamtkunst for the end of the
avantgarde century. Information transmission channeling Edgar Cayce. I should get a grant.
Q.: From whom, for goodness’ sake? Your trivial ceremony is neither politics nor art. Whoever should
care to finance the megalomania of an unfamiliar prankster? The little lamb with the mark on his
forehead won't melt the callous hearts of carnivorous businessmen. Nor will the Luciferian circle of
lesbian orgy cajole the dissident intelligentsia. You don’t know how to aim your poison arrows.
A.: ‘The Cosmic Bargain’ is a military experiment of Gestalt therapy. Live and loud meditation of a free
thinker. It’ll demolish the barrier between fact and simulation with the hammer of Thor. Although
strongly influenced by brass tacks, the historical presence of the act would be strictly anticlockwise. It
should function as a future memory for its fortunate spectators.The eventual Arc of the Covenant.
Q.: Quite an impressive update, I must admit. What a shame it’s all talk and no action. And then we
haven’t mentioned yet the ideological background of your spectacular anathema. The goals of The
Party you aspire to advocate this gaudy way. Your crazy love of the superman will come down as hate
speech for the progressive audience. You’ll end up in jail before signing up a soul. Or shot like Andy
by a prudish suffragette. Who really was a soft machine as compared to you.
A.: That's what’ll keep the costs so extremely high. My luxurious vehicle must serve as a mobile tower.
Defended by armed guards and completely bulletproof. Self-censorship is no part of my role. Nor
have I the power to manipulate. My supremacy is thriving on contradictions. And I’ll never
apologize. You can always leave if can’t take more of it. The tickets will be reimbursable.
Q.: Vainly are you a resident have-not, you’ve got everything to lose. Nothing will defend you from the
wrath of the mob. You’d end like Pythagoras if could form a school. Flaunting innocence is red
flag for the bulls. You should be Batman to pull this gimmick off. Not a flat Transylvanian refugee.
An unidentifiable dying subject.
A.: The Antichrist is inevitable. Every decent artist believes he is it. I'm only offering another candidate. But
I am confident with a tight group I could win the contest. First thing first a record should be cut. And
start the tour on its promotional pretext. A largely undercover operation. I'm gonna send a demo to
Brian Eno. No more no wave. Here comes the flood.
Q.: Sometimes I think you are lucky to be chained. The Author himself is keeping you in protective
confinement. As long as you're helpless nobody can harm you. You couldn't stand a confrontation
with people of conviction. You don’t even know thyself. Don’t even want to. You are a neurotic
vagabond unable to cogitate. A disgruntled dilettante who’d do anything for work but cannot hit a
nail in the wall. The fame you so badly crave is the worst demon of all. Only masters of addiction can
somewhat handle it.
A.: My propulsion is bio-mechanical. I have no control over it. To question my orders has never been an
option. My mindset is extremely docile. I’m living in a perennial conditional tense. The present is
my prison. The cage will set me free.
Q.: By the unwritten scenario, however, you want to perform as an uninvited commentator of current
events. A view from above on the daily news. Condemning the state of disunion like a postmodern-
day Isaiah. The beautiful people don’t need an Informer. They’re quite aware of what they’re going
through. You have to be a bosom friend to change the system from within. Not an unarmed enemy
at the gate.
A.: I’m glad you can so correctly perceive the enormity of my dilemma. I’m not making this story up. I
know how moral dictatorship sounds to a Marxist. I wish I had an easier chore but that’s what I got.
I must take it easy. I am not made for secret service. I wanna go on a rampage without further delay.
The silence is killing me.
Q.: So after all the protestant rebellions and theosopohic agnostica is Jesus indeed the Christ to face for
an Atheist soul warrior? The main adversary of the Pleiadian agenda? The most toxic deity of all
fables? The son of Satan?
A.: Don’t get too demagogic about the cabalistic crap. Never mistake the image for the myth. We are to
transform the Crucifix into a rod of iron. The martyr into avenger as wishfully predicted. There is
nothing heretic in my interpretation. It is pure nuclear alchemy. I’m trying hard to formulate a
familiar model for the disenfranchised masses. A perfect antithesis of the smooth operator
slaughtered by his brethren. Not another entity but its own antagonism reincarnated. A Brahmanic
overlay on St. John’s archetypal pictogram. Risen to settle the account and baptize you with
etherial fire. ’The Cosmic Bargain’ should be produced in benefit of the Last Judgement. As a
traveling college of it spreading the gospel of redemption through intolerance.
Q.: Isn’t it a gratuitous attempt to emulate an allegoric textbook? Why can’t you conceive something
different for the coming race? In stead of recycling an overused oracle for want of literary ingenuity.
Your preeminent fiction has no scientific merit.
A.: I am quite comfortable in the shape of a copycat. To tell you the truth, I admire the part. I’d never
settle with anything lesser. If not all then nothing. That’s my guideline. I want ‘The Cosmic Bargain’
to be the most complex happening ever manufactured. Fortunately, I won’t have to memorize my text.
Spontaneity will be the brandmark of my host. Won’t need a prompter to remind me what I think.
Q.: Therein lies the danger of the enterprise. It’s you. Chances to be banned by all churches and states is
considerably high. Nor am I fond of the method of your agitation. Inverting labels and altering
paradigms won’t exactly blow the mind of heathen virgins. It’s just the endless recycling of the ghoulish
genesis. What we need is a tabula rasa. Not another boring cataclysm from a clown in the nude.
A.: That’s why we’ll have to spice it up with sex. As in theory so in practice. The circus will roll in with
with eclectic side shows. I fancy it as a rotating carnival. With local guest performers and cameo
appearances. Always unexpected and interactive. A celebration of the holy energy of defiance.
A tribute to Wilhelm Reich.
Q.: That’s another stratospheric increase of our zero budget. And leaves me very skeptical about your
infiltration technique altogether. The lame dogma of instant regeneration won’t spread like wildfire
amidst desperate housewives. You’re a jolly good fellow, 888 contra fate, but you categorically suck.
A.: The OSP is not running for election. We are the elect. The Socialist Kingdom without rivals. Voting
for us is a symbolic gesture. The Church on Time has no Lords and no Bible. It is happening to-day.
The task has never been to minimize the damage but to kill the crime at any cost. Prevent and
retaliate. Martial law and controlled procreation. From eugenics to euthanasia.
Q.: There we go. Volle Kraft Voraus. You’re a manic street preacher out on a limb, my dear. The family
drama you’re eager to mount is reeking of the rot. Your revelationary epistemology is based on a
cheap phonologic pun for evil children. Identifying the Graaf with the second coming of the Graal
and pop goes the world. A bilingual alliteration will do it all. I don’t think serious blasphemers will
fall for the silly joke.
A.: ‘The Cosmic Bargain’ is designed to be a ghost machine of Antichristian brainwashing. Instant
purification. A taste of the rapture. Sheer adulterated fun.
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