Q.: So that’s how pop will eat itself. When the subject becomes the object. Feedbacking the feedbacks. A shortcut of the deficient circuit. I knew it was coming but why exactly now? What sudden impulse prompted you to get down to the arcane thing itself?
A.: I am not obeying impulses. I create my owns. I’m just a child in time. Thriving on the sensation discovery. And break what I find. The more I learn, the less I know what. Inspection is addictive for an infant. I’m living in a preoperational stage. But will never grow up.
Q.: Good for you. But have evaded my question. If not impulse than what made you think this unparticula moment the right time for a Scholum? To explain what ‘The Idunno What’ is.
A.: I just wanted to get over it. It was bugging me ever since I invented the lark. I hate duties and prefer to execute them. I am terrified of working even for myself. Maybe if I made it for money…
Q.: Usually we do our showdown after you have finished a job. We are talking in past tense for the future. Never present. This adagio should be dated post mortem. Not 1988 of all years.
A.: The whole conundrum is post mortem, isn’t it? Our informal colloquies won’t be published any time soon if ever. We are filling the void. But you’re wrong. We don’t always do it afterwards. Sometimes we palaver before the undertaking. Sometimes in the midst of the process. We are very flexible in that nonsense. Parts full of optimism counterbalance the negative conclusions. This one is right in the middle of it all. Yet it’s meant to be the last chapter of the uncanny collection. I’ll keep it separated whatever might come before. I’m so glad I got rid of it.
Q.: Our chatroom has always been a preposterous idea to begin with. Documenting the documents for authenticity’s sake is outright waste creation. A product means nothing if it doesn’t speak for itself.
A.: ‘The Idunno Wot’ is a wholly independent brummagem. Its concrete motives are sheer pretext of indulgence. Even if ignorant of the subject, the analytica stands alone for the uninitiated reader. Beside being attached to their singular files, this wanton debate is prone to be compiled in autonomous tome under its common title. Recommended treatment for the members.
Q.: ‘The Idunno Wot’ was devised to record our strife of breaking into the mainstream. The fight to save the slogan. But soon it has become a receptacle of fiascos and you don’t seem to mind it. Just going on like nothing has dishappened. Without a victory the exertion is futile. If it don’t end happily, the story shouldn’t have been written. Another book of lies won’t compensate for the missing revelation.
A.: The eventual outcome doesn’t denigrate the value of the effort. Our powwow is a triumph of overcoming. A Nietzschean adventure. We are moving mountains of madness in the dark.
Q.: Sometimes I wonder how aware you are of the extreme tediousness of your endless repetativos. The ceaseless regurgitating of your overused paraphrases whatever’s the issue at hand. If you read one reference you’ve read them all. Requires no further scrutiny like a good book should.
A.: It is exactly therein where the magic lies. ‘The Idunno Wot’ is a nuclear exercise in economizing the space of activity. Catching Infinitum by the tail. Each and every item of it is a polished crystal reflecting the whole. Our conversation has no semantic frontiers. We associate freely as a bird. No analysis, no synthesis. Simply antithetical. Bereft of any academic litigation. After all said and done it is pure drama. That of the last couple at work and love. A bitter comedy of mores.
Q.: You don’t want to hear what I’m saying. When you put it in a bulk there’s hardly any difference between those psychotic episodes. The same Leitmotiv for all Movements. It is monotonous, arrogant and trite. I wouldn’t read it if it was obligatory.
A.: ‘The Idunno Wot’ is a reconstructivist plot. Each topic is restricted to four paragraphs. Every theme is considered equal regardless of their pragmatical import. Be it a single page or the Third Covenant they’ll subvert to the same typographic review by the supreme law of the mini-maximum. I might occasionally glue an extra line or two to the print-out but no further cheat. Except for the editing per se.
Q.: It’s very nice of the Author that he curtailed your flummery to three pages. Otherwise you’d go on forever like Joyce on Dublin. You do not have any literary discipline. Your reckless rap has neither rhyme nor reason. You only want to prove how aware you are about your awesome blunders. And how heroically you can cope with humiliation and defeat. Don’t care much about the eventual reportage.
A.: ‘The Idunno Wot’ is about the Word’s hopeless struggle for expression. Above all the grudge and yammer it has a convertible redemptional quality. It is composed of unconnected jams into a coherent session of counterrevolutionary propaganda. Every segment is an autologous part of their megastructure. It is both a ladder and a coil. Goes from bottom to top back and forth. No beginning, no end. Improvised and uncensored bursts of agitation. And the intimate diary of a madman. Who could ask for more? A potential bestseller in all genres and beyond.
Q.: I don’t believe in the future as baldly as you do. These unfairy tales of our 1001 nights are usually pretty actual. Their main charm is that they’re happening today. Weren’t meant for an Archivia. Who should care what we thought in an unfinished past tense about something undone anyway?
A.: A good introspective never grows obsolete. Once actual – always actual. That’s a principium of historical relativity. This book of plans will never date out. The ideas might get forgotten but their memory will be immortalized in this format. It won’t matter whether they transpired or not at all. Facts are secondary and changeable with ease. Only their memorandum remains. Concept rules the wave. ‘The Idunno Wot’ is a preservatory of my evaporating aspirations. My homemade saving machine. The stuff legends are made of.
Q.: Your escapist bromides do not sedate me any more. No reverie can substitute for the real thing. Disability is no excuse for shunning confrontation. You have to introduce yourself to be known. Have you never thought of that?
A.: Plato wasn’t widely read in his era. Nor Socrates, he didn’t even write. Yet they are our collective heritage. I’m not a new age blogger, Gina. I’m walking in ancient footsteps.
Q.: Rather club-footedly I should say. Your self-conceit is plain anomaly, Spiel! Where is your ego killed? Bring me to its grave! You cannot stop thinking about yourself. Nothing you search for but your own salvation. You are a bastard dastard terrified of losing. To win the lottery you have to buy the ticket. No risk – no chance. What is that law called?
A.: Thanks for your concern, I appreciate it. But my luck can’t be pushed. Despite its protracted stagnation I am in love with my fate. Epictetus’ last disciple.
Q.: Those classicist references are obnoxiously snooty. What about Andy Warhol? Every worker is a star today. Gene-democracy has become an amazing playground by the virtual permutation. If you’re not famous it’s because you don’t want it. Your dissident illusion of grandeur prevents you to consort with cyberpunks. Dignity will be the end of the spy who could not hack.
A.: I am waiting for my orders. Without defiance or prejudice. I cannot just figure out what to do. Choices are my main enemy. I could always be wrong.
Q.: Wrong is to do nothing. What you’re waiting for might never ever come. Only time is flying fast away. You have squandered your precious life in the arms of neurosis. It’s a wonder you’re still breathing under the augmenting ruins.
A.: I keep on building The Building my dear. Brick by brick beyond the Ozone layer. In my secret life I am a free mason. I’m projecting a monument raised for demolition. The famous last word where Omega meets Alpha. My kidnapped spirit is devoted to the terminal symbol.
Q.: You’d better get out of the torture garden of your subreality before they close the gate. You are an unfortunate prototype of the UR set in a premature function. Fixated on a collective departure’s idyllic fantasy. For you easy does it, since you’ve got nothing to give up. Neither prestige, nor opulence. The stars you’re so eager to seduce in broken English have quite a lot to leave behind. Including family and friends you also dispossess. You are a Groom without wealth and power. Neither money nor gun in your empty pocket. Nothing to buy, nothing to sell. Don’t even know what you want. You couldn’t convince a runaway bride to elope with you.
A.: ‘The Idunno Wot’ is the chronicle of a rehearsal. Even if the play fails to happen, it could be a blockbuster off Broadway.
Q.: You’ll never blaze those trails if refusing to adapt to the social norms. Just perish without a trace like an unfit monster. The problem with your lies is that they’re unconcealed. Any voraciously you’re admitting it, the suspicion remains. Maybe it is a lie too. Such vile confusion is discomforting for a receptive public. One transmission too many, don’t you think?
A.: I am sorting out the things that ought to change. All it takes is like-mindedness to accept my proposal.
Q.: That’s where you are ultimately duped. Nobody has a mind like yours amidst the mortal. You are looking at society through the eyes of the dead. Can’t communicate with the village people of the living.
A.: I am in quest of the self-conscious elite. The raceless few of a classless hierarchy. The traitors of the KZ. Their number is 144 000 and they definitely exist. Osh told me so.
Q.: All your terms and numbers are directly stolen from prophecies. You haven’t invented a single thing. Just reproduction. There are hundreds of sects playing your game lucratively. Your penury is well-deserved. You ain’t worthy of a loan.
A.: Prophecy is something that has to come true. I’m not a stray copycat but a vigilant avatar. A program run amok. I cannot have a better idea than what was. I have to be false.
Q.: Brazen lie, confounded actor. You’d furiously like to do the Svengali. Your frenetic shibboleths are par excellence mindfuck. I often don’t know what to contradict. And your whimsical associations are most unfollowable. You are living in a Disneyland, my toyfriend. In the real world the stones have been turned. Crime is protected and chivalry despised. Respect for women is called misogyny. Rape is a fashion statement. The murderous urban tribes of hiphop eradicated the great rock’n’roll empire. You’ll be tagged a fascist if shedding a bloody tear for the death of the West. The individual is cast out of the immunized horde. Beauty’s degraded to a veiled sacrifice.
A.: Congratulations, Miss Blanca. You have succeeded in acquiring my own persuasion. My washmachine works. You have tested me. If I can do it with you, I can do it to anyone. The truth is so irrelevant. The rhetoric of vengeance can effect a miracle.
Q.: My interrogatives don’t interfere with your desultory rambling. I am your confidente and that’s how I’m opposing. Giving you the clues that you can bravely shine. You couldn’t manage a real knockdown. Would dash out of any room in no time. You have an authority complex. Democracy is not your medium. With me you don’t have to brawl. I am the devil’s advocate. Enlisted to perform your bad conscience.
A.: You are holding my interim mirror. Expected to show me better than I look. We are forging our legacy herewith. The way we should have been if permitted to act.
Q.: If you wanna know what then it’s this: I had enough of the whiny Narcissism of your kitchen myth. I am not your supporting act to probe your influence on. I am the control panel of your epic humdrum. My part is a lot more complex than your freewheeling monologue. You only got to be yourself all the way. Your terrible self.
A.: Just on the contrary. It is me who’s reduced to an answering machine. I always say what you wanna hear. Something to disagree with. You are my judge and inspiration. Secret agent of a cosmic conspiracy.
Q.: But how long yet, that’s what I wanna know. How many more gibberish you tend to churn out before doing something productive? When we started the talkfest you said there’ll be just a couple of them. But now we’re doing it on a regular basis. Your Amor Fati vanquished your propriety.
A.: Our dismal theatre has no estimable deadline. We’ll play till we drop. It spares us from the bridge. It is our confession and our apology. Don’t you know, we are the children of the unknown? Whatever’s what we do, if we don’t do it it won’t be done. May that be our rewarding warranty. We could die laughing now if we were brave and evil. ‘The Idunno Wot’ is my magnum opus. All you never wanted to know.