XXI.
XXI/1
In this age of digital recreation when Bohemian means round-the-clock toil at the music factory, the producer's status in the process has been elevated from craftsmanship to sainthood, often outshining the frontman with his shadow. Engineering sound is like editing to writing - everything depends on it in the final outcome. The man behind the console is the director of the sonic cinema - keeper of the vision key. Kingpin of the dynamic game of powers contending for the single expression of a collective will. From behind the electric curtain, the hidden genius suddenly entered the limelight - a new lineage of stars is born. There are many interesting transformations going on in the socio-musicological mirror of the phonic galaxy altering the industry's progressive profile. Another main one is the remix craze of course. Filmmakers wouldn't cut each other's films on no occasion, but recording artists are eager to form a trade union of their clandestine labour movement. A song ain't any longer no finished tower, it will be restored a thousand ways or completely demolished by a friendly hammer. Engineering each other is a sanguine pattern of the new spydom's undeclared Brotherhood rising overground by the Pentagram's inverted principle. The both hand path of quality evolution. Beside playing with instruments, a perpetual electric jam session of information exchange is taking place - EBM is a lot like the blues was in the community sense. Amongst the initiate copyright's no longer an issue but a virtually common property of the riverside. The respect is mutual and one shouldn't further tell plagiarism from tribute. Not since BILL DRUMMOND gave us the honour. To share what you've got is conditional to acceptance - the less recognizable is the version, the more homage is paid to the original. Amazing honesty has broken out by the industrial alliance on the electronic frontline of the assembly based on reproduction all over the world. In the underground resistance, collaboration subjugates any aspiration to compete - there is no jealousy amongst synthpop stars. Unlike in the mainstream of rap culture governed by the raging ego, the cause in here is something of a secret we share without saying. It is the will of the unknown beyond urbi et orbi. That strange feeling of cosmic importance no matter the sales. It's Platonic but subreal - the Unmaker did it! Hail everybody! Ars moriendi ain't no more an esoteric practice. The dark rollers of the holy rock form a gathering of the self-conscious elite: an open society of gene-democracy much more cohesive than race-based Olympiads. This is a conspiracy of the Untermensch for transglobal treason, to put it trivial for the records. The boisterous crossovers of Valhalla's immortalist bands in the Bardo is in fact the very shape of nuclear reincarnation's immanent helter-skelter. Who could have thought it will be called darkwave in 1979? That Britmetal's own Satan will take over the entire afterpunk market from nerds to warriors? Rock'n'roll's main virtue is its unpredictability. That's what makes it oh so divine.
XXI/2
It'd be silly to deny that the sound of rock'n'roll music has created an alternative army with alternative commanders waging a hardcore war on reality from beneath with Lucifer on their side. It's happening right now, in the thunderdome of the evil technocracy turning the tables upon the landlords of deep house. The rise is higher and higher in the Tower of Babel. The dream I overhear is resembling mine a lot - it's all about the City of Eden if you lend it a third ear. It's really not the sad effect of isolation solely - my hallucinations are all documented. I only hear the call clearer from the distance. Sometimes I believe it's better I can't get around: I can keep my illusions safer in solitude. The only thing that hurts that I'm not on the credits. Not because I'm greedy but because I'm poor. To be a prophet with no profit is a homophonic nightmare for a living being. On the other hand, I just don't wish to enter the stream as a latecoming volunteer any more. The future is here but I'm utterly disinterested. Procuring my daily cigarettes entirely exhausts my existence in the great anywhere. I may be a false leader of my sham party but I am a true bum by vocation. Not a role model for the young and fit, am I? I wasted my youth on hope and have nothing left. My social reflexes got frosted in the room - I have serious difficulties to remain civilized outside. As soon as visible I turn into a brute. No money - no style. I'm not even a professional beggar. I don't have a clue how to rise from these rotten ashes - I've never been a Phoenix like the Prochrist. How I hate to be so unique - an allegory of nobody! It must be the fate of the Son of None. Fuck the sacred word. But that's really not what I wanted to talk about, I apologize again. My words are just flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. I feel like a record, Sir, getting played at the Eternal's funeral. An advanced state of bipolar disorder on every account. Anyway, let's get back to the theme of this obnoxious letter from nowhere to nowhere that isn't me me me but them them them rather. It's funny to see what were we concerned about in 1979 whilst New Jerusalem was founding in the background. I can remember SPIONS without any shame. The topic between M and Me was Disco's takeover of the wheel on Route 666. The big change of the DJ's role from eloquent narrator into the silent leading man of the theatre: the one in command of the people's taste. Many made it big, but anonymity has remained the soulless heart of the postmodern attitude. That's how the great rock'n'roll empire acquired the spirit of overnational socialism: when the age of multiplication began. The ceremony needs its masters - DJ's are local priests of the global church raised on opium: the religion of a new people. Agents of a supreme order domineering through the tyranny of the beat. Partisans of the overnazi reunion NSK antichristened Nova Akropola. I only ripped it off.
XXI/3
Rock and roll, the sin of the century, was committed to become a vehicle of deliverance - it'd make no sense to argue its capacity. It converted the Beat Generation. The primary notion behind our rock operetta - "THE COSMIC BARGAIN" - was to reconstruct a forum for subjective revolt in the Machinenwelt versus the independent labels of the populist media. It was designed to disactivate the virus of liberalist epidemy. It was meant to sound a pathetic requiem for the ruling class. Songs of pain and joy in B-minor. I wanted to address the natural-born heroes of the Z-gen ready to leave the estate in no time. An agitation for instant departure off off off Broadway. I would have liked to draw a straight line between terror and horror for evermore. The main problem with these new kids righteously bereft of illusions is that they'd prefer subhumanity to the golden age of justice if it came to choose - no one wants to end up as a loser. We bow our head to Hell almighty and take it for granted. Making grisly fun of it or weep on with the willows of the old cemetery. Escape is the only way out - I am the unquestionable king of that lonely road. It's sheer hypocrisy on my side to blame anyone. I'm just a negative dialecticist ambitiously considering myself an exception from the rule. Pleasure is the only sword to fend off the demons of Inferno closing in. I know because I don't have any. Sailing on his luxury yacht is no less dedicated labor for an honest billionaire than the itinerant's daily routine between two corners - people are equal anything they attempt. The better you live, the greater you are - but the final record won't cut a difference. It's all balanced out. Human existence is a cosmic test on the thinking matter's endurance of emptiness. It all began when the mind-bomb was dropped upon the colony of naked apes: the nuclear infection of intelligence. Lies are as indispensable to the soul's survival as protein for the body: there is no life without dreams. But dreaming is not enough. You have to be an absolute believer in the actual necessity of the message conveyed. The conscious ignorance expected from the UR is a brand new state of mind: an altered path of neurotransmission. Lies are the white and truth is the black in this ionosphere, take it or leave it. Slowdive or speedkill, we won't get closer to the center without paying due respect to the eventual meaning of the words we inarticulately shriek. At least as much as rapists can do. The wolves of the elite suckled by human mothers are called upon revenge on the enemies of Rome - it was predicted, wasn't it? Nothing to joke about or be afraid of. All we are to do is rise up and kill 'em all, aren't we? Stop singing metal anthems in the polluted air. To be chosen is a spiritual link beyond family ties - a heritage of indirect mutation ignorant of morphogenesis. HANK III or THE JACKSON FIVE are but manifest exceptions of the dynastic heritage in the transglobal underground's gene-democracy. Trends overlook geopolitical frontiers and the climate exerts no influence on how you sound these final days. It's all cooled up to the freezing point on the margins of the sizzling mainstream. California über alles has its rivet heads and Italy its Vikings. It never mattered less where you are from - Japan is the greatest model of the overnational spirit's silent takeover. It's not only my private fixation - it is really happening, Sir. The Kingdom is at hand - we only have to reach out. For the Graceland of perfected clones as I used to see it. We only have to restore Baphomet to the vacated throne of Hermes - let the Judgement begin. Down with Heaven as the slogan says. What kind of demonic power succumbs higher intelligence to the mindless service of the lowest scum, forbidden to profit from its ethical supremacy? Evolution if ever was one is led astray by the snake. If it's about punishment, let it be just at least - nothing's more sordid than the innocent's suffer. Let us deserve what we got - that's the noble attitude of Luciferian disciples. It is better to be master in Hell than a slave to Heaven, no doubt, but isn't there a discount on redemption for Christ's sake? Do we want to remain lambs of Martryrdom till the dead end? Once upon a time there was V. I. Lenin. He was a communist, but boy, he knew what to do.
XXI/4
To outline the industrial domain of Monday Morning Rebirth between gothmetal and synthpop would be a cumbersome effort and perfectly superfluous too. It surely ain't a musicological category strictly, nor a sociological issue in the Leninist sense - rockers and mods will keep on fighting till the end. There are no classes left in this awesome regard - people are warriors again uniformed by their styles. The tribes have irreconcilably intermingled. Since the legendary Saturday night fever of the working youth blackened into the eternal darkness of unemployed Vampires' non-stop dance macabre, there is no divider between leisure and sacrifice. Existence is becoming a singular presence which is an auspicious sign of the Apocalypse. We have successfully dropped into the fata morgana of the Bardo - moving much safer in the dark than before. The burden of hope is mercifully relieved. You have to leave the zone of perdition light as a feather. Some through the factory, some through the graveyard, but we are all advancing in the same one direction. It is amazing to hear for instance, how deeply doom music is rooted in Southern rock in spite of its altered attitude. Just as the symphonic blacks are having the blues, for that matter. Rock'n'roll has been a medium of demise since its very birth, long before the metal age. Every promotion of life is death propaganda à la JAN & DEAN - thank Osh we have dialectically solved that false riddle. We've obtained the right for inconsiderate joy - dance became a revolution and pleasure is a way of vengeance. Our way. Of course, we shall name BLACK SABBATH as the strongest of the bridges between the vertical poles of the global axis - bikers love them no less than trolls. The real thing is overnational, I'm telling you. Albeit in different segments, I can play EYEHATEGOD and MYTHOTIN in the same show any airtime. Not because I'm a fusionist, but because it's possible. I even can pair up outlaw country with Rechtsrock in my archive specials. `NOVA AKROPOLA` is a home of all good tastes sans discrimination. White noise for the dead, black silence for the living. A real varieté of genres on its profile's pretext - DJ Helmut considers every music he likes industrial, to cut a long review short. Each show is arranged as a meeting place of opposites. I would play even hiphop if I could bear it.
XXI/5
Distributing music surely is a top ranking preoccupation on the planet right now, second but to guerilla warfare. There are more record labels than street gangs in the city - I'd only like to mention one best underscoring the evolutionary lineage mentioned above. They are aptly called 'Southern Lord', meaning the USA, cashing in on the travel of time. Merging Northern light and Southern darkness with amazing ease. That's where GREG ANDERSON and SCOTT WEINRICH can be blood brothers in astral arms against the degenerated hayride of modern pop. Waging the world wide war against the dust. By testifying the legacy of the holy rock, they would radically level the market onto a higher common ground on dead time. Paying them rich homage to RONNIE VAN ZANT. It is a very interesting world we live in if you carefully listen - I can't see why the mainstream's got all the girls. I love my virgin mother a lot but JADE 4U, for example, is a much better chick in every regard. Even some of those gothic divas I hate so much. Destiny is schmutzig with her unwanted children. Lucifer is rising fine, but won't ever conquer the gravity of the surface - Trent and Marilyn remain exotic dancers in the urban jungle. Motown could sell its soul music to it, but rappers only play with the devil. Call me a racist if you will, but true rap is an opposite to Gospel driven by greed and envy. Abusing the Pentagram won't make it any Gnostic. I'll never doubt the supremacy of Delta blues über alles but Sathanas per se is a Judeo-Aryan image only Goethe's Erben can correctly identify without horns and tail. That's wherein white power lies even Nazi punks do understand. Since the infernal putsch in Hell that happened around 1984, when his fallen angels dethroned the Prince of the Air, demons have free hand in controlling chaos. It is actually one of our major charge to restore His Majesty to his eternal crown. Bringing the mayhem to a halt by the divine terror or moral dictatorship. If you want to win the cosmic bargain, you automatically are to serve two masters at the same time. It's very possible, don't believe in Jesus. Cheat, lie and manipulate to get by unharmed. That or the battlefield - those are our choices. Only the smart will survive. Only spies have ever had some future. Atheist faith follows the principles of treason. There are no higher causes than life. Kill your ego and you'll be eternal. The war is not in the streets of Babylon. It's happening inside your immortal soul where Baphomet dwells. Judge to be judged, if you want my antithesis. There's no devotion but to the Sun and it has to be hollow and naked. The sacrifice is you. Whilst rich gangstas kill each other, the virtual working class of new industrialism descended to the underworld for the sunken beauty like Orpheus for his bride. Intolerance is a sin, but I feel very hostile towards the enemy. There'll be no peace on Earth unless Lucifer resumes his bloody reign over the garden of delight cleansed from the subhumanist chaff.
XXI/6
Every worthy work of art is made to cast a spell - from Altamira to the Sotheby's. It cannot get more abstract than that. In this computer age of total equality when every jerk is a star, the primal urge of creation has irreversibly shifted towards the anonymous evil. The technological progress has turned Father Edison into an apostle of crime. Cyberia is a land of theft and robbery teeming with obscene electronic bandits. Still better than the real thing I should say but wait a minute. Virtual is not what it seems: not another dimension but sheer extension of the physical realm. It's our very mind that commands it, y'know what I'm saying? The real world has not been replaced by video games - they only make good kids more violent. The technique refined but the motive is the same. Via satellite we don't even need the blood like glamorous vampires do. The evil became friends. In fact, more are killed by cyberbullies than in the schoolroom - the witch has extended her inherent craft. Suicide ain't no murder by the law and text messages are no murder weapons to an ordinary judge. Which example gloriously shows the power of the word in the devil's hand. I am here to fight my own abuse. Whoever would have thought so many people are hackers inside? Out to harm for harm's sake like digital Sadists. So where has the long summer of post-anarchy gone? Where are we at the eternal Fall? The blogger culture, let me plainly mention, makes me seasick. The scum shouldn't have obtained the right to express themselves so freely - it's always been clear what they thought. The Bargain's agenda is an irresponsible mechanical clockwork that can't be stopped by reality TV. Call me an old-fashioned loser, but I just don't like this kind of Apocalypse. The idea of OSP is very badly timed by the calendar. We are a challenge a hundred years too early by any standard. They have miscalculated the acceleration. Don't worry though, we wouldn't turn back time if we ruled, Sir. Just regulate its wheels towards a better future. As opposed to a worse, that it. It's not censorship we need but to curb the news. Direct action if anyone remembers. Metalheads surely don't. We are moving like skeptic oxen right now, pulling the cart of dead time to its graveyard uphill. To impose the law would be a violation of it. Underground has therefore remained the velvet shelter of the homeless - where the angels hide from the world. The more the deeper. The Z-generation is passivist to the marrow and who should blame them. Treason, vanity and death aren't mortal virtues to begin with - duty number one in the jungle is survival. And frankly, the enemy's too low to fight it without the magic sword of silent power. A conspiracy of the alternative elitariate is impossible without a central force The Party was meant to become but I still don't know how. After two decades in the lunatic's Nirvana - isn't that really something? Someone should come to see me now. I am my own leader like the cursed prince of an unfairy tale since 1984. A poetic offspring - the true Son of None. Nothing Whatsoever - that's my nomen. If this logic's sacred, I should have gone profane.
XXI/7
You who are the chief horologist of the Party's counterrevolutionary wandering in Time's abandoned graveyard will certainly see why I am so scared to come out from my secret closet - whoever wanted to get lynched too soon? In Osh I vainly trust - I'm no longer afraid to face that fact. My austere journey across the rocky wasteland of industrial trash is an abortive expedition. I'm exceedingly tired of the bleak deceptions encountered in the Bardo's eternal darkness. I'm riding a katatonic train driving me crazier station by station - I cannot digest more good news. Music's only growing greater by the speed of the fall like an accelerating echo, but I can no longer control the contradiction. I hate this battle I cannot rise above. I'm jumping on every wagon but none of them is dashing in the right direction as far as I'm concerned. The Bridehood's rejecting the UR - I am so lonely I could die. Lost in my own void like a ghost in delerium: I cannot remember what I wanted to do. Amnesia is a coherent symptom of unspokenness - the Word can only function as somebody's tool. Why I have to be such an unlucky metaphor is beyond my comprehension. I was supposed to be a spy of all trades. It was a lot better to act as a stupid SPION full of self-assurance way back when - I might be a lot wiser now but all my libido is gone. If truth be told, I could not bear the feedback I'm missing so badly. Somewhere deep inside I cannot want my silent scream be heard any more. I've made the catch my home. My life is an agony from delayed beginning to the unfinished end of it - the legend of the unborn ghost. An icon of the ultimate outcast rejected by one and all. The awesome Millennium means no momentum to me - except for the deadline of this self-addressed letter. For want of commissions, I am building my own boundaries in the lonesome harvest. Nothing else keeps you safe when infinity swallows. But I am a most counterfeit scout of the nameless domain. A saloon-refugee if my empty lodge qualifies, captive of his own cheap reveries. Guarded by the seven-headed dragon of paranoia from stepping voluntarily out. The voices calling won't fool me again - I still believe in the charge but not that it would matter. I am shallow without and hollow in the inside - all I wish is to disappear beyond width and depth. I've never been to Rotterdam or Trollhätten - all I hear is all I know. I'm neither a learned critic nor an intuitive artist of the milieu under destruction - I got to literally steal every information from behind the media. What I eventually am though is a submodel of the absolute consumer: the end of the food-chain. The hungry public everybody is working to satisfy. Collective symbolism helps the survival of demised intellect. I am indeed the target and the aim: the unknown judge of creation. A godlike figure in the process of mass-production. Belonging to a fictitious multitude of the solitary crowd. For it is the star who serves his followers and not vice versa: don't let us be deceived by the illusion of business. Affluence is secondary even for DAVE GROHL. The important thing is to get one's message across. And I'm here the one to receive it. The whole world of entertainment is at my very command. I like this, I dislike that. With all the might attached. I only gravitate towards the industrial region 'cause that's my soul's music. It's not so different from Delta Blues all in all. My genius is shaped for endless compensation.
XXI/8
'Industrial music' is indeed a lot like me at the core of its attitude: an uninvited ghost trying to recreate its own expectancy. A self-destructive maniac, in brief. It's the remaining red spark of the extinguished fire - the last vain hope in something yet to happen. I'm more in love with black metal, but when it comes to work my well of energy is the industrial stream of the overall darkwave. Especially when it gets martial and neofolk - I like techno too but it inspires me not. I'm a Todeskünstler by vocation, and an incurable romantic. But on the other hand left or right my car has lost the race - I have nothing left on my own. All my ideas have been abused by the faves of the Zeitgeist. I always thought the apolitical rejection of rational historija is SPIONS' inimitable unique vision under the fifteen-pointed star of The Three Emblems. Nobody's applied that main thing as yet in its pristine context, but I am afraid all the time. It's my last treasure waiting for the glorious auction since '79. I used to claim to be wiser, but I'm no longer proud to be robbed of my money. I'm living on my old slogans for evermore - I just don't need new ones. No More Hell. Work & Love. Some things aren't born to change. It's the final countdown since 1984 and everybody knows. Whilst I am sitting in my dim cellar singing the Marchant like I was OTIS REDDING. Cast out of time like a new myth. The hordes are at the gates but the keepers of the key - and I mean TCTC - are held up by the corporate giants to mendaciously objectify our miserable situation as hostages of the cosmic bargain. We really tried our best to promote our message, Sir, and if we were wrong there's only Osh to blame. Blame it on None. That's what I call perdition. However, like I say, the good signs are plenty out there, not only the psychick youth. An entire world has been produced in the sonic factory of the grey power through transcendent espionage. Rock'n'roll has irretrievably become the Vamporium of the McLuhan Galaxy. Setting the stage to New Jerusalem over the nations. That's what I called "Monday Morning Rebirth" when I was into Travolta. Or rather against, God forbid. After a while it doesn't matter. Now I'm two thousand years old, take my word for it, and feel more confused than the Dalai Lama in Las Vegas. One empty year is like a hundred active ones. Since more than two years am I sending this letter to and from just to prove I was here like any heretic madcap. I could have been a writer and make some money out of this voyage. Also, I can't finish it easily - it should be long over by my schedule. Actually, I'm only going on for the fear of the what- next? I truly can't undertake another unpaid job with my heart of stone. Exploiting the only one who'd ever love me. Whilst begging for old age pension I do not even deserve. That's one remarkable story, isn't it? Only 888 could make up such. They keep on saying 'jump' of course, that's my song, but I'm much too scared of the afterlife. Don't even know if there is any. Only praying 'abduct-me' like a latter-day heathen. Wash my brains, kill my ego, buy my soul. Let me die or let me live, just not this in-between of the Bardo's no man's land. I don't wanna be the unknown redeemer, just wanna get high like every sane lad should. Why can't I fuck the system in the traditional way? Though I'm kept functioning as his involuntary replica, I'd never fall for the milderness of Christ. Twenty years at the bottom couldn't break my mind - I won't ever forgive anything they've done. I loathe poverty like a good capitalist should, but don't despise wealth like a bad communist. All my respect goes out to the rich and famous - I haven't been identical with my situation for a second. I've got an all-seeing eye. I can overlook everything. All I needed was better luck.
XXI/9
Time is dead - long live Time! What has actually muted the virgin voice of the campaign we'll maybe never know for sure. If there's a real cosmic conspiracy behind as I'd like to falsely believe or is it all idiomatic imagination to ease my unruly conscience? Verily, my life's story is so damn ugly it should never be printed with my permission. What a Luciferian blamage! I was to be Flesh Gordon, not Jeremiah. The operator, if there is one, must be insane. The children would hate me. I only tell this to you, Sir, who is my only reader in the allegory. This unsent letter from Bardo to itself is a cosmic cover up. The situation is that my nightmare is very informative or that's how I find to redeem it. Albeit the specific example of a useless specimen, it may reveal a lot about the human condition in general terms. Everybody has a secret life to relate. So let me abuse a last time your innocent request for a tracklist from DJ Helmut for a medium of my autoportrait in the parallel history no one's ever seen, unfortunately enough. 'Cause I'm never gonna write another book again. The whole tunnel's such a mess anyway, Osh it! I testify wherever I can, like a god shits. By 1984, as it was five-year planned, I terminated The Book of Reconstruction from which the City rose - ten thousand handwritten pages on paper to carry on the homeless bound. I was heavily waiting for a miracle to come my static way - to do something I never virtually could under the spell. If imaginary, then under the imaginary spell. It really doesn't matter how I feel about it any more. The big book itself has indeed become the perfect opposite to what it started out to be: in place of documenting the rise of SPIONS it turned into a retrospective overview of failures with a bitter analytic undertone. The Time Putsch of The Party did not exactly happen - 1984 was just another irrelevant year on my agenda in forced stagnation. I honestly languished two more in the fasting arms of anorexia nervosa before given it all to the flames on the Easter Sunday of 1986 in a vengeful protest against my own cosmic abuse incarcerated in a room with no view. Behind iron curtains I brought with me from home. My fierce vow as a propagandist in alleged charge did not include to propagate defeat - if I saw it coming I would never have started off. Losing mein Kampf shook me real cold, I was completely unprepared for it. I was guided by voices - though haven't heard any unlike ROBERT POLLARD, I was convinced like Ignatius of Loyola on red wine. Poor little greenie in the Pandæmonium. They only used me as an unbeloved toy of no value. As a tormented ragdoll of the Elohim. They appear more and more as evil children to me. They treated me like an idiot all my life long who'd gladly accept the most outlandish absurdities ever suggested just to be somebody. At the status quo of an unborn idea. They abused my work, they abused my love. It's unforgivable. Another thing I think is that they've logistically utilized my inherent ignorance to test the stupidity of the human mind like on a latter-day Job. I'm trying every way to embellish the parameters of my absurd situation, you see. Today I'm much wiser, but way back then I was secretly proud of the trial like a deluded sycophant. It made me feel important up there. I was looking through a rose window in 1979. The first volume practically unedited was full of glee and hope in spite of its depicted circumstances. I'd perceive the present as a school of transition to the glorious future I was made to believe in without the shadow of a doubt. I was outright cynical about the Three M's total rule - I thought I was suffering solely for authenticity's sake. I must have been obsessed but it was wonderful. I could cry for the loss of that innocence any time.
XXI/10
The later volumes of the big work have irreversibly turned indeed into the endless lamentations of a misfit traitor accusing god and man for his own misconduct. The impenitent diary of an arrogant victim. Cheap poetry in stagnation without any social relevance: about a solitary dream that couldn't come true. Who should give a fuck? There cannot be anything more disgusting, I'm afraid. I was running on the lowest gear of inertia before passing away like a bored theosophist, licking my wounds of rejections as Lupus Dei caved in. To write The Book remained my sacrificial duty with the blindest faith ever implicated. I've only got to do my share of the deal as much as I can - Osh will take care of the rest if I keep the deadline. I should have known it better with a Lord like that - if you are None you don't intervene. All the blame had fallen on me alone and I couldn't take it easy. A terrible disappointment came over - finding The Third Covenant, because that's what I called it then, so hopelessly forsaken by the betrusted operator drove me plain insane. I was promised the garden of departure not that hill of madness. I didn't know what I was doing, only that I had to. Though executed as sloppily as could be, I considered the symbolic auto-da-fe the culmination of my ego killing process and it truly worked: never before had I felt myself so evacuated. It was nothing short of a suicide, I swear. All the investment of five obsessed years was gone - should I have spent it on anything else would have been a better investment. Mea maxima culpa. The feat of destruction did not relieve but condemned me for life, left with nothing else to do amidst the incoherent fragments of a delirious fiction. I thought it a most elegant gesture then - if I can burn my own testament won't be too hesitant to burn the other two. But in my subreality, it didn't change a thing. I am still lying fast in my tomb focused on rebirth, but the rock wouldn't roll. Only the aging shows the passing of the seasons without. When you're at the bottom, you won't care to climb. It is rise or nothing. Shoot to the top or stay where you be. Step by step is out of the options. If miracle don't work, what should I labour for? Unfortunately enough, money never moved me an inch. That's another chip they forgot to implant. Gravity constructed a perfect trap for my fragile will where no desire offers an efficient antidote. Thus looks my selfless portrait as painted by the devil. Not a lovely image at all. Is it any wonder no one ever wanted to share it for free?
XXI/11
Thanks to the omnipresent 'however', the ugly picture ain't entirely one-sided though. There's a lot more to it than meets the bloodshot eye of the lone beholder. It is worthwhile to have a second look to see the Logos face to face. After the spiritual arsenic's heroic feat of disarmament I have honestly stopped watching myself drifting away in augmenting nothingness. This letter tofrom is truly a last retrospective glance at anything that was. Or could have been for that matter. Final deviation under the pretext of industrial music for industrial people. A little antigenesis. Please upload it as my surrogate testament under seven inseparable covers. It is carved in stone in emergency. By all means presumed, it should be highly valued on the Elohim's market. Here below, however, it's but between you and me: from darkness to darkness. Let me at least have some extra profit. The terrible action of libricide literally robotomized me. I'd slain a dragon but become a monster magnet. And so the story goes. I turned into a devout scribe reduced to structuralist propaganda ever since, replacing the subjective book of reconstruction with an objective oracle of Oshist magic. The real Third Covenant - the phonetic alphabet and its digital message - issued as an absolute phoenix from the ashes of my life with no strings of emotion attached. Except for the usual guilt and fear escorting, but that's probably normal. That hysterical act of revenge on the bargain was the actual impetus that launched rocket 888 into the counterrevolution quite instantaneously. A motivated panic reaction. I woke up suddenly with the command of a start. Of a direct action to immediately establish The Party through a propaganda campaign against nothing else but crime: the collective cancer of all nations. For a global civic war of moral dictatorship. Big words, weren't they, but nobody would buy them. Not even Burroughs we personally invited to act as G.I.N.A.'s patron saint. But those are other anecdotes. This was the third and final rebirth of OSP that's going on forever by now given by 1986. May '86 most exactly, recognized as a perfect anagram to May '68 on the wall of time. Osh cares an awful lot of the finest details, in that regard you can trust him. I've always been a dedicated disciple of the watch, you are my witness, Sir. Remember when we presented clock sacrifices à la Place Châtelait on Île de Paris back in 1980 AD? Our program is not esoteric. Two years after the death of Time, though I wasn't sure of it as yet, the Covenant was discovered in my drawer by sheer coincidence. It was written on the pages of my copy-books I filled by trying to learn the language of Joyce in the vacuum created by finishing my five-year plan with a bong. After all good will, the first third covenant was indeed written in a vagrant Ulysses' very broken English in critical need of a stylistic overhaul. Action boy struggling with a foreign tongue, I guessed. Just do it and see. Now that I had free time for want of another plan I began to make up for the hiatus a little too late. I'm doing everything inversely - it must be the method of coming back. I never thought I was making anything significant, it was sheer duty to occupy myself too depressed to figure something better for a living-on. Waiting of course patiently for the miracle meanwhile, as I supposed I was supposed to. Passivity ad absurdum is my basic avocation. I collected thusly volumes of unknown synonyms, expressions and formulas to remember from various dictionaries I managed to steal. Naturally, I couldn't learn them, my brains were already dead, but I drafted a modern codex in the dormant state of a baby ghost. The ignorant word became its own medium. And me had nothing to do with it.
XXI/12
Glimpsing the diamond at the bottom of the garbage was a sensational discovery. The first test thereof - Prince Charles - dispersed every skepticism. I started to copy my copy book on a daily basis for the months following. To do it correctly I had to turn into a full-time medium of anything/nothing with a maximum focus on the subreality of my minimal existence. Keep looking obsessed for the tiniest signs of the general law in the low-key daily routines on my repetitive home front long detached from the streams of historija. This artificial alertness resembling to a rat's in the lab perfectly replenished the hollow hallowed by the symbolical flames of my discarded past. I was going on like a horse off duty, neither dead nor alive or anything in-between. Pulling the old carriage to its imaginary destination with a new technique provided. Yet this was a whole different burden than analyzing coincidences I wasted my previous years on. I didn't have to draft anything at all. It was pure grammar ready written by thesauruses. I only had to copy them right under the hazard's clandestine control. Their reconstruction was a lot like military mission of discipline and scare. What if tomorrow doesn't come? But it was forbidden to look it up in advance. I proceeded in a particular sequence suggested by calculation, turning the leaf day after day like an office lover. It was nothing short of a constant revelation though - it kept me high at the bottom for the while. Much better than to talk to somebody, for instance. I was deciphering my own Rosetta stone. I did strictly one page (21x29.7 cm) for an entry, never combined or mixed or cheated by adding something to them, under oath I swear. First they looked like total chaos but they all proved to carry a specific message of personal address when edited into a succinct poem. First came the 108 justified names for the alphabet, then the 144 days of the predictionary in less than a year with intro and outro included. It was the easiest job I ever had - no confusing thought process whatsoever. Frankly, those were the best days of my life on hold: the mad machine at full speed. Mechanical work gave back the Word its true love cleansed from the ego's occasional observatorium. The price of the mystic excitement, on the other hand, was disproportionately high of course. Osh is a relentless merchant of eight arms in constant contradiction. Quite an Antishiva. I was working around the clock but all in all it was painfully uncreative as compared to the great ideas I used to process before. The lucid dreaming satisfied me not - I felt like a dead poet forcibly disassociated from the society with nothing left to betray. A nobody in no man's land deprived of his initial ambitions. A traveler with no return. To be continued.
χ
XXII.
XXII/1
It was during this year of living safely, as explored in the previous chapter, when I literally anointed myself to the disappointed leader of the solitary - a title I'm improving ever since. Rejected at the Gate, I turned the key inside as a true suicide artist should. It is a catchy phrase but a terrible fact when coming down to it. Treason to yourself, any reasonable, is a vicious path for the unprotected traveller. Any sincere at heart, without a divine brainwash you'll become a poor paranoid schizophrenic in stead of rebirth. Better don't change it if can't erase the past. I am fighting for my property, the Castle and the Bride, with a seven-headed dragon who can fly. In place of the Nirvana I'd deserve, I'm finding myself in an ugly tale of the grim brothers. And no weapon, let me tell you, except for the plastic sword of humour. Lucid dreaming provides no wake up: the worse the trip, the more addictive the drug. The magnet is below. It's a pit of no bottom for the trapped. Don't tend to follow me, that's all I can suggest. Rather go in the opposite direction if valuing your life. I'm a lying victim of my own reverie. I've got no home for the universal refugee - in the fact I'm a cosmic bum begging for alms from the UR all my unlife long. They have inverted everything and what is it if not a crime? Genuinely however, I'm only an idealist bastard, lazy as Hell to play his heavy part. The rules the mortal set to the game profoundly terrify me. Once I was a spy from the sky, now I am an elderly hermit who never rock and rolled. Is that a story worthy to tell? Even if I might, I wouldn't put down in words the worst detail of it again. It's far too much to handle for a potential nobody below the poverty line. All I know it can't be true but no evidence. My nightmare can't be shared. The worst effect of involuntary isolation is that you cannot get used to it. Solitude is not silent but a calamity of competing demons with hands unconditionally freed. Meditation becomes impossible. The paranoia increases day by day even if nothing happens. News from the other end of the world will touch you with a knife. Doing my duty by the living deadline made me feel guided on a leash in the Bardo for a while, but that was whilst my communication with the outside came to an absolute end. I've made several efforts thereafter to launch counterrevolution into its orbit, but for the lack of enthusiasm mainly, they unanimously failed. I turned into a wannabe wolf of god howling amidst the ruins of reconstruction. There's always a good picture in the gallery facing the wall at least. Though the division remained dialectically joyless, isolation established like a phantom of paradise. Albeit I felt soaring higher and higher, in fact I was falling out of grace entirely - down into the well of a vegetative habitation. The prohibition to even document the process made my lousy poet's life unbearably miserable. Shock without therapy is a terrible treatment for an overaged child but you can't protest. All I could do was to undergo without cogitation. Ergo, my I ceased existing in the intellectual sense. That was my welcome to the machine.
XXII/2
The unnecessary confrontation with the senselessness of all things has been so overwhelming for the last two decades of cultural blackening, I only wish to stop breathing and shut up. I'm deadly exhausted from the sleeping. I might have volunteered in my madness, but to be kept as a slave is immensely unfair, I find. My whole life's gone wasted on revolt. I really hope I'm on suicide watch by my presumed holders - how else could I have survived so far so bad? They want to see me crawl yet. Against all odds, however, the second Third Covenant I could finally finalize under the creative trance with no retouch required. Its first record as well was its final - it got drafted in unconditional tense. No magic could be greyer. To be prevented from recorrection was a blessing to indolent me but the reality of my conditioning remained gravely unrewarding. Connected so close to Osh I felt more forsaken than ever before. There wasn't a sign of providence around, only the alleged order expecting my exuberant gratitude amidst the constant fear of severance. That's the Oshist deal - make no mistake about it. No godhead has ever been so slapdash. Expectations have I none. Infinite thanks go out to Satan for rock and porn - two gifts that kept me sane against the glory and demise entwined. 888 is a real son of a gun behind the distorted mirror he'd project. Genetically disabled for the cheapest compromises, I could never trade my blind faith for rational illumination. My diagnosis is delicately complex - I am a superpatient of the transglobal madhouse, Sir. My fate is my disguise - I've developed new genes to cheat on my karma. As the possibly oldest mohawk of the first world, I'm walking like a punctuated freak in the streets of my occasional Babylon: a universal refugee trying hard to look like somebody. Playing the normal with all my might in the neighbourhood. A living archetype of human frustration. Everybody can see me be a liar, just pretty unclear of exactly what. This unidentifiability gives me a little protection but makes it the harder to handle the repeated insults. However the story goes, I'm just an awful oddball in the eye of my beholder from all walks of life. My polarity is utterly disordered. If only I weren't so haplessly unfit! If I could drive a car or something or have a licence of any sort! But all I can do is exclaim in utter vain. Existence is achingly virtual without papers proving it and no skill. No, my doubts are all gone: I am their favourite white rat of the whole lab. Almost self-conscious. Leader of no pack, to say the least. No relatives, no friends. No social life at all - the pure thought of it frightens me cold. It's not healthy, is it? Under the bottom - over the top. I'm not even an artist like everybody else. My rezumé is literally zero, I couldn't lie it better. The hidden fact whereas I pride myself in holding the incognito record only shows what a depraved loser I've become. No deception is too low any more.
XXII/3
THOM YORKE really has no clue how it may feel to be a weirdo without talent - the whole Monty is my exclusive privilege, sorry to say. You can't keep a Jew from business. I forgot how but I know where I am: in my self-dug tunnel of work and love still dreaming about the day of wrath. Discovering a dozen new acts expressing my inmost desires day by day - that's why it's so useful to be a DJ like Helmut - I understand I'm not alone on the planet of doom, but I'm listening as though from outer space to it: like a memory of the never-been. Newest releases sound like retrospective. 'NOVA AKROPOLA' is my social security - something to refer to when asked what's my line. It is my mental home rented for a bagatelle of $15 for a whole year. Call it a cheap escape. But this is not a comedy. It is as tragic as it gets with no guarantee of a happier end. The Author never knows. In the ominous year of 1984, whilst penning unaware the pages of the future covenant for anything else to effectively do, feeling desperately duped by the Elohim, I would regularly go under a railway bridge to scream when the train passed above on schedule like an Edvard Munch character - I still had enough energy in need of release then. Those were the last wastes of my youth. I spent the year of change in a terrible panic of having run out of time - today I can see I was only experiencing its agony first hand. Keep on dazing my deadhead with visions of redemption. No need to deny it, everything happened by the worst case scenario so far - I'm broken down like an abused automaton dissatisfied and narcoleptic. A universal soldier of misfortune. I've got no power to contribute the white noise they're making - just a lumpen sucker on music to survive the long march to nowhere. Nothing original in the final analysis. So I beg no more for the tainted blood of greedy donors and the care of their anarchist nurses - give me doom and I'll be fine. Pain heals every wound. My view of music has considerably blackened under the cadaverous conditions of my life as an innocent bystander. But at least I'm kept up-to-date. Still a modern guy by the standard. Totally deathcore. The times have changed but I did not. Let me disclose on this false pretext the ultimate secret of survival in the Bardo down and out - it might sound uselessly vulgar but it worked for me an actual miracle so very far. Don't for a moment believe you're alive if don't wanna stay mortal for ever. Men of intelligence need a complete conversion into idea before losing their original skin: perfect alienation from the fucking system. A tender suicide that'll guarantee one's nuclear rebirth in the catastrophic absence of The Building. That's the transcendence of counterrevolution: the supreme method to withstand the lure of the nether world. For the lucky ones it is an inborn capacity, but can be acquired if you have the taste. In my complicated case never the less, the big effort brought no applicable result. I could not pioneer a walkable path but got wholly lost in the forest as it were. My time is collapsed like a dream without foundation - I'm swimming amongst the years like in a sea of memories. 1979 feels like tomorrow and 1984 will simply never end. If it's lost or found is a matter of interpretation. I'm surely here to deserve Osh's Lifetime Underachievement Award on my fiftieth birthday by the Millennium: the man who couldn't sell anything in the world. Unauthorized and disengaged, blackmailing his own idols. Protesting his protective custody like a progressive monkey. Just can't believe I am legally muted, there must be a mistake behind all my faults. I'm most carefully listening to the din of the battle from industrial bombers to the black cavalry like any music lover of the current 93 but I am a black hole on the information highway with no possible communication allotted. I'm composing my playlists as a structural display of my evil mind from ULVER to CRASH WORSHIP most meticulously but frankly do not give a shit that nobody listens - I am a DJ of my own self: to = from, as I am spelled. Bye Bye American spy. I could never live up to the Russian way of life.
XXII/4
My greatest problem with the information overdose is their despairing futility - the closer they hit home, the farther they damage my frail hope of revival. Depression versus ecstasy is not the politics I promote: my mission is to bring on the triumph of the lie. Unlike the kids I'm playing, I don't entertain the idea of destruction so badly as before - actually, I always stood for reproduction in fact. The highest art ever, let's only mention female fronted gothmetal, has degenerated to the positivist chronicle of moribund reality under medieval camouflage - a medium colder than a refrigerator. The battlecry of the UR coming through majestic stereo dissolves in thin air like the witch's whisper - no influence exerted on the generic populace. Except for the Satanist misinterpretation of irresponsible imagery. Whilst famous psychopaths entertain the global village of idiots amidst human trafficking and sex slavery. If this ain't Apocalypse yet, what are we waiting for? The answer's gone with the wind. From industrial metal to synthetic pop, from power noise to pagan liturgy, all the choirs are singing the same song in their languages whether they're summoning Inferno or Kingdom. The legions are pretty one but largely disunited. It might sound ridiculous talking about music in military terms but that's what it comes down to after all consideration. Portraying Himmler's sacred realm as a true epigon, I've always imagined the UR in uniform no matter their instrumentism. Rock'n'roll isn't only beers, steers and queers but an exercise in reincarnation: a salvation machine from rhapsody to sacrifice. Victory no vengeance is a pacifist nonsense therefore - the enemy is not a distant land but the devil next door. You've got to kill the crime or sex won't be saved. The Atheist crusade is largely home-based. Treason remained your only true chance for change - let the Prawda prevail. Poor Serguei lost his lovely war but his spirit lives on like a phantom of the wall. The world we knew has changed unrecognizable in the last decade and this acceleration won't stop any time soon. Not before the sorry end this racist planet deserves from the animal to the united kingdom. But the great rock'n'roll empire measured by the record sales has become a wasteland all values gravitating towards the margins below. You have to be an immortal goddess to subdue the reign of the contemporary public - the driver of the wheel. Thanks to Osh they always are there but don't have a guess of what they're doing. I mean, they're not NINA SIMONE. They're gravely unaware of their cosmic mission, sloppy to say. Whereas the fate of the whole world is deposited to their cunts. And those that do, like my alleged Mom, completely misunderstand their obligation. You oughtn't to save starving children but kill the crime in the modern way. Now, with that everybody disagrees. So what should move me to get involved? It would be plain unwise without any morale to enlighten the illuminated. I'd better turn to grey like my ancestors. The warmongering underground is not at all what it sounds like on the third hand. From goregrind to synthpop, moral is a ludicrous nostalgia only the old industrial ghost would take any seriously yet. And of course Nazi punks who are atavistically wrong. The supreme imprint of judgement has tracelessly disappeared from the DNA of the Z-generation and there's more to blame it on than the hippies. With all respect, SPIONS never had a place amidst rebels without a cause - we were sent to convert them. We were charged to disclose the hypocrisy of punk. We wanted to confront destruction with reproduction. We wanted to channel the power of hate into a reconstructive restoration of the Three Emblems' sacred realm. Baby had a big bad dream but keeps on sweetly sleeping. Nothing can save us but the star with eight rays.
XXII/5
Sorry about this gratuitous gush of subthoughts - I never should have started this letter, to begin with. It won't be long no more. Just let me get back to my topic post scriptum for another sec. Though mentally iller and iller, the exchange of the Testament for a Covenant seemed to be a fair deal all in all. I even believed it being a more publishable script than the cryptic Jeremiads of an unknown loser. It really makes no difference who's the author hereto. I desperately hoped it'll rocket the Atheist Church and rescue me from the hermetic misery. In stead of churning out counterrevolutionary blues from a bleeding heart, I was copying the copybook like a Zen pupil back to school in Tibet. The original idea was to learn the language - but then I should rather have conversed with remarkable people. God knows I kept on trying but without a grain of success. Beggars have no fun. And I was no situationist, it was my situation. I was left with the words as my sole companions. I picked up some phrases, but my speech improved less than a guest worker's at Pizza Pizza. Vainly have I refused under morbid oath to speak my mother's tongue, to myself I've been henceforth thinking in broken English dependent on vocabularies. Behold the Word as a troubled liar. Don't tell me it's not funny enough. It's the comedy of comedies, man. Moreover, for want of any chance to physically travel, I practically forgot my own whereabouts. My narrow dreamscape became a private island off the map. You don't travel if you have nowhere to go with a reason, and it's not simply a money question. I wouldn't even if I could - I hate tourists. I can see everything on television - no interest in walking the ground. It's a terrible attitude, I know, I might as well deserve my destiny. Day after day I have to make myself remember I am on the American continent where as an angry young man always wanted to be - but couldn't be less sure. Penalized for failing the plan, I'm evicted from time since 1984. I'm missing basic proofs. I never had an Anglophone collaborator or participated at any social gathering. Nobody needs you when you need them - ancient wisdom never dies. My silly initiatives of contacts through black mails brought instant rebuke and no power to charm whatsoever. All my few meetings were perfect disaster - no angel by my side, only the devil on my back. I'm proven to be good for absolutely nothing on every plane of existence - Sartre would be proud of me. Years like hours have been passing without any verbal exchange except for vulgar marital arguments with my ordained spouse sharing the same fate and tongue to complete the mystic circle of perdition. Otherwise she wouldn't listen to anything I'm saying for a long long time now - she won't get fooled again. My terrible trip has driven her clinically insane - actually all my energy is spent on fighting her bipolarity with the swords of paranoia, by the way. I don't want to get too personal, but I am not sorry. It may be my crime but I did not commit it. It's individual mythology gone awfully wrong, right? MARINA & ULAY spectacularly broke up, yet we are still holding on in the bunker - that's at least something to place your bet on. But it's pure private hell with no collective lesson. The art of G.I.N.A. has remained an aborted business - it was badly conceived and utterly premature. Three unplanned five-years have gone since the Covenant's clandestine reception - half of the characters personified in it have passed away gently in the while. Even this major reward I couldn't deliver on deadline - all the shame on me. Since '87 and cry I'm attempting to forward the manuscript to its dedicatee by pigeon post in the computer age, but of no avail, and that's the miracle. I've turned inane tricks and used all kinds of telepathies I could invent but my evil reality couldn't be overcome. I actually sacrificed my mother for a failed encounter and it didn't help. The bottom can see the top but the top can't see the bottom, it's as simple at that. I'm only a model victim of the natural law - an unlucky guy. I'm living in the ice age. I needed an introduction like the last witness of the old formula. I am wingless, that's the problem. By now it's probably too late, I guess. I look so bad in my overworn chains, I wouldn't want him to see me like this. Skin destroyed, features confused, eyebrows deformed, teeth missing. I've never been a pretty thing, but today I'm anemic Hellboy without past and future. I'd better stay in the shadow - I'd scare all the children away. People fall in hate with me at the first sight of both genders. And it's not a fleeting flirt; they remember when seeing me again. I could wear a mask I'm so transparent. I wouldn't dare to look in a salesgirl's eyes or wear something that'd actually fit. I'm doing my time in prison of minimal security, trying to avoid confrontation with my guards. They wear no uniform but I know who they are. And they're all around me, doc. I am a blind passenger in the danger zone of the Bardo. An odd Odyssey by no book.
XXII/6
Except for bills and flyers, my post box has seen no mail since the middle ages and no one has ever left a relevant voice message on my famous answering machine. Whoever could cope with such a reality? I should be mad to believe it true. The only calls I get are coming in from strangers misdialing the easy number we've chosen for our unlimited company still unborn. There's no day without those, systematically increasing the waiting game's torture with their pangs of ringing hope. Not to mention the periodical harassments concomitant with my solitary Bride's working in the sex trade, any amount of care we take. I hate to believe it, but there's an undeniable Sadistic operation going on beyond coincidences. That we got computerized by some untraceable miracle did not change a slap on my status as a day stripper's impotent john sucking on his karma like a suicidal maniac. The tryptichal websites dedicated to politics, sex and music she managed to put up on the Net by sheer magic have no potential visitors any well promoted. I never could cause a scandal and still cannot. I'm much too mild, I guess. My secret life is a triumph of improbabilities. If I were superstitious, I'd call it a spell but it's not that nice. It is the sheer nothing under the aegis of None. My own personal Hades. On the slow run, I have become a model prisoner: frightened from the chance of leaving his beloved cell. Cleaning all the time every corner of it. Your counterfeit Antichrist is in fact a clumsy Hausfrau with no ambitions left. I don't wanna get free. Any way you turn it, the portrait remains the same fascinating, doesn't it? The width of my circle is peerless but it reconciles me not. I can't stop complaining but in the dark inside I've grown comfortable with the minimum and wouldn't like to come out of my closet if the door suddenly opened. I'm completely unprepared for the exterior after a lifetime of exiled dreaming. The alleged groom has turned into a bachelor of doom, as scared of the people as they get from me. I'd hate to perform the dilettante stranger - Uncle at least could paint. All I ever had was the responsibility factor. Fame may be nuisance for a private eye, but life ain't worth a bullet without it if you're loaded with gifts to deliver. Because, false or true, that's my staunch persuasion. The unaccomplished go to Hell, nothing I'm more certain of. And there I surely am a champion of the fall. Superhero of negative dialectics - Adorno's best pupil of all times. A cold negative medium all lust lost. A funny archetype of the living dead against all my honourable aspirations to rule the world by the Ten Commandos. The Millennium is getting very close, by the other way, to nail this chapter down. I won't ever mention it again. We're going to celebrate the Eve's big night in perfect solitude as we used to since decades, longing for some champagne. Any celebration is radically forbidden by the infernal police. One pathetic gesture and all the demons break loose. That's what Lennon called instant. No sex, no drugs, no rock, no roll. Is this a holiday? No, Sir. I'm a sacrificial wolf on the triangular altar of treason, vanity & death. My conscience is crystalclean - I gave my life to save the slogan. And what's more than this - I did it all on command. They can crush my umbra but my imago they'll never get no hold on.
XXII/7
What else is new, you may ask, and that's a fair argument. I can't stop repeating myself but do not get me wrong - I'm only trying to sum it all up whatever it is. This letter is coming to an end soon. Violently ignoring its original topic in the Torschluss panic, I'm cramming in the most items the closing space allows about my own life outside the sacred bunker of 'NOVA AKROPOLA', Ministry of Industrial Espionage. The history of O.S.P. is no book of revelations but a footnote to my laments from the virtual cave of subreality I'm incarcerated in. Informally launched in 1984, this lonesome Party of mine hasn't enrolled a single real member so far - I'm tempted to believe it hardly ever will. I'm the last of the dreamers and that's where the story ends. For want of all credits, I have invested my entire fortune into the holy cause, paying for it with my body and blood for want of external currency. But I remained a beggar by all social standards, preaching salvation to the immortal at the Gates. Zero is a very elegant number, much better than some if it can't be all, yet I feel like an awkward clown with my two thousand empty membership cards boldly ordered sixteen years ago. The Call has been ignored if anyone heard it - my unamplified voice remained in the desert. I would be happy when a formal rejection came at least, so badly famished for some reaction. Masochism becomes an acquired attitude when kicks are all you got. Albeit a universal fiasco on the supreme plane, I've committed no syntactic mistake by the sentence I've been given. I had to play it crazy and I did it alright, without ever losing the helpless observer's sublime skepticism. I always hated to do the part, but kept on configuring the Author's inscrutable will. I never had the shadow of a doubt about what I should be doing, just that I had no choice. I had to do the wrong as right as possible - I think it's been a Sisyphean effort for a manic liar. I've spent my life on duty - fully aware but completely neglected - with an unknown actor's self-destructive fanatism. My evil intellect would almost appreciate the cheap melodrama of the Oshist kitsch: the secret life of a double agent in mutual house arrest. Behold me me me: victim of the cosmic bargain. The epiphany I received in 1984 never left me again - the trip I took has fixed me to the ultimate low. There I reside for having lost WWIII before it ever started. I'm flaunting a substantial evidence for my unfortunate hiatus from the social domain. The engram of the judgement never ceased floating on the whirlpool of my mind. Albeit there's no more than fourteen years remaining till the Date of Departure, I'm still having my fancies. I won't capitulate before dead time. What better could an unemployed redeemer do? No delusion can be worse than the mortal cauldron, let's face it. I see it on television every time I watch. The Infernal Putsch has triumphed the whole world over, don't even mention it. It's another letter I'm not gonna write, fuck them all. To let them perish should be my sweetest revenge. Sitting in the traitor's limbo in bitter fear of execution like a mistaken lifer, I wonder if I could yet stand up for the comedy of wie zu spazieren nach Hause überhaupt. But when it comes to a final confession like this, regrets have I none. I did not do it but I did not do it my way. I was my own slave, I was my own master. Deviation impossible. No is the Son of None. I know how to stand by my word. When I was a spy from the sky, I wanted to sell my soul to the highest bidder. But no devil would any buy it. It ain't worth a dime it seems and it's no game. I have no human rights but forgot to miss them. As long as I have my peanut butter, I'm doing fine.
XXII/8
I hear the heaviest bells tolling in the dark skies - the virus of apathy is consuming my zestiest brain cells. I feel like an unprotected witness to the cosmic crime - a hunted pariah with no background amidst the mortal billions working hard in the fields. Fighting my precious time away in an unholy couplehood like the last mythomane. The century's final Christmas was unhappier than ever on my homefront: rage and tears and no gifts whatsoever. In twenty odd years I could never buy her one. Not a plastic ring. Aren't we a legend? There go Aleph & Ta: a mad duo brawling behind frost flowered windows. That's what I call Helloween. No more performancy - this is the real thing, all mysteries gone. In the end of it, only the facts remain. I know how improper it is to finish a paper about others' music on such a personal note, but that's all I can offer in exchange for the pleasure of their company: a good allegory is always joy to the world. It shows that you're not alone - somebody out there's doing even worse. I'm really rooted in Christianity. That much I still can perhaps contribute - it is every artist's righteous duty to profit from his misery. Articulate expression purifies dirty subjects. Though far below the poverty line, I'm still deemed to experience the fate of the average man in the machine as a universal refugee appropriately should. The formula is pathetically classic since the very first pair of the garden - there's no evolution involved in the process by the Bible. Certainly not on the marital domain. The eternal quarrel is going on. The Party's first medium chosen to represent my loving bride by the metaphor has engaged with the fiend in order to finalize my demise: my holy folly has driven her plain insane and it should come as no surprise. I understand, but this demonic madness wasn't on the cards really. It must be something else. And divorce is as strictly forbidden as propagation by our code of conduct. Besides, I couldn't survive a day without her - we are a Siamese couple breathing each other's air. The trap I digged is very grave. After decades of supporting me with all her tiny might, she finally broke down and I have no means to fix it. I haven't changed a bit neither better nor worse. Just keep on rotting in the free world, as the mean chanson says. You've never lived with a more boring guy whether manic or depressant. Even when out of her mind, she has to carry my awesome weight whilst I only can scream at the demon she's turning into. I'm living in a Bergman film about Schopenhauer to exaggerate the trivial situation. In the real, I've never read an uglier scenario.. Sometimes I try to document it on film, just to delete it later - there's really nothing worthwhile in the awful picture. In her altered subconsciousness transforming our urban dwelling into a diabolic side-show to the watchers, she outright identifies my persona with the evil one I'm battling - accusing me with the very things I primarily suffer from. I know what a sorry fool I am, don't need to hear it too. She is obsessed with getting rid of my vile possession, forswearing everything we ever did and said. With the aroused witchcraft she turns me into a stereotype. Vainly do I signal, she wouldn't stop in the name of taste. Forgetting that I am the featured martyr of the play, she blames the entire Inferno surrounding on unfortunate me as if it were my homeland and she an abused captive of a foul dream. Which is indeed the dark side of the truth - you can't always lie what you want. Our inferior model is quite unlike gothic couples feeding on nice vampire sagas. Female logic beside herself would turn the nicest lamb into a raging bull, and exception I'm not. You can guess the rest - it ain't roxy music. It's domestic violence at its hardest core, occasionally culminating in ambulance or police. Moreover, I can't even leave the scene like a free actor - I have absolutely nowhere to go. Where can you safely go with no money in your coat? I do not have a friend or something, you see. I must stay and deliver the most destructively possible. Many of my works have been destroyed by those crampy nails of hysteria. So is this a simile of the ultimate human love affair? None can expect me to think so. We are but a familiar formula reproducing the original crime. A battle of polar disorders beyond sex, badly aggravated by the alcohol consumption required to the job whereby she keeps me dying. Can you see how vicious an innocent circle can become, Sir? Losing her frightens me more than burning fire - the nastiest tiff is better than a sweet memory. Life is so cheap for such a massive price. Sometimes I believe, I'm holding it on for the Party's sake solely - if I go down, it all goes down since it's only me. Without capacity and drive, I am nothing but a vehicle waiting for the gear. I never wanted to be human at all. But I couldn't control it. In place of a dandy in the underworld, I've become a beggar in paradise. All my attempts to return were rejected in the most humbling ways. I applied several times but got no visa to Earth. I can't even tell where I am from when the authorities ask. The major setback is that catastrophes won't move me any longer, only augment the wish to give in with no further delay. My rock'n'roll suicide is too long overdue. Only something positive could help me yet - I've grown quite immune to the blackmails from above. All I ever could provide to the only one who loves me in place of a proper wedding were immature promises of a counterfeit heritage, thriving on mystic coincidences as my only proofs of being her man. Twenty years of asexual concubinage is like two thousand in antisocial isolation. By that device alone, we are true heroes of the transcendent warfare. If perseverance mattered, we should be highly honored by now - unlike Isis and her pal, we are doing it with no supernatural power. Not even natural ones and that's the real problem. We are legally abandoned since the glass spider tour. Only hate can generate the force - love is only torture out to kill ya. There's nothing left I couldn't testify. That's all about Adam.
XXII/9
My heart is broken, and so is my English, but I still am the rugged cross to the rose of Dublin. Action boy struggling with a foreign tongue - predicted sevenfold. I must take extreme care not to get confused. The Word is always on the edge - one wrong preposition and the right turns into wrong. The language of music is a much safer terrain - what the instruments say can be infinitely misinterpreted. The message is in the lyrics and the way you sing them. That's the Gospel according to Richard Wayne Penniman. In today's freakhouse of electrolysis where disrespect is homage anything goes of course - unlike honest covers of tributes, things transform and extend at free will. The alternative treatment can eliminate the best of propaganda. This artistic ambiance of virtual infinity will create an atmosphere of friendly chaos for the Brotherhood in no arms - an amusement park of evil children at play. Extending one's bad news under the funniest subtitles. The more pointless, the more prolific is the scene becoming. Now that every worker is a star, even the targeted public can participate in the sonic unification of the electronic rat race. It's the time of re-re-re or that's how it'll be remembered. Not as dark acid trance. That's why I prefer power noise to dubstep. It's more rock'n'roll to my decrepit ears. Drum and bass has little place at 'NOVA AKROPOLA' - I do not care about listeners at all. Maybe that's why there aren't any. I waste no time on communication - no requests, no call-ins. Feedback would utterly confound me - popularity's never been on my agenda. I hate those radio hosts worse than indie labels. All I mind is to correctly display my affiliations - keeping the airwaves sterile for my streak. I'm a take-it-or-leave-it guy at heart, just like Lemmy. Not a politician at all. Summoning the elitarian warfare, I am forming various batallions lining up for the common showdown at hand like a lonesome crusader. I'm practicing amateur magic on the top secret pretext: each nuclear emission is a concerted operetta of a poor DJ's Armageddon. Nothing to effectively lose but my mind, I can take it all quite literally from my hermetic position. I can call it a gathering of the self-conscious elite and mean it too. I'm offering a full menu from new to old to the imaginary consumers at my little table of values. I'm satisfying every good taste of my visualized guestship at each unique supper. But don't agitate no more. I seldom comment and never criticize. What I don't like I simply wouldn't play. And have entirely stopped making stupid interviews with arrogant bands crossing the parallel of my town of exile in hope to let them join my fictitious party. If I could have a beer with them at least, but no chance! Be it fatal elegance or sheer laziness, I just discreetly disappear after the job done, not to lose my volatile dignity. I have to act this mysterious post-human anything I try. I just can't do the living, my animation's totally suspended. I despise it, but cannot help me. Nobody can. Only Osh could if hse existed. I'm a poor actor terribly miscast. Maybe if I were paid for it, but that's never been an option. My great work is ready since 21 years so far - I can but repeat my slogans like rusty mantras. I'm so bored with the progrom. It's better if I can't take it any more. What am I doing in the Bardo anyways?
XXII/10
Give me power or leave me alone - that's been my Lord's prayer since the death of time. A pretty easy one for universal misfits. But you see, I can't even buy a gun to feel somewhat safer. They say it's no problem in America or where the Hell am I. O.S.P. is a private prisoner in the land of the free in eternal exile. Homeless by unwanted birth wherever it may lurk. And that's because I am a global pariah disabled to belong, to remind you. Once on an occasion I did give $500 to my ganja dealer to get me a .45 - we were so keen to go. Typically perhaps, I paid in advance - I trusted him more than god. If he fucks me up too, it's anyway over, I thought. Fatalism is my chief characteristic. The main cause of my demise. And guess what happened next. The man miraculously disappeared with my last bucks I resolved to invest in final panic. I never got my gun. Had to find another dealer what's more. That's my form, but if it wasn't you surely wouldn't have been written this letter to and from yet. Every misfortune can turn into providence in the distorted dream of a non-believer. But now it's really enough. I cannot wait out another fourteen years of the silent age. The whole world ain't loud enough to wake me up from this nightmare of perdition. I am not any fond of facing the music of the great outside. The iron man in me is rusted to the marrow. The magnet I once craved for literally repulses me lately. Sometimes I feel like a Golem in the Prague Spring. An individual totem of invincible hope. Bardo is no happy trance for a retroactive traveler of time consciousness. My prophetic claptrap about counterrevolution wouldn't impress neither art nor fashion as far as the business goes. Let alone the industry of music: their proud centaur I've been soliciting in the bad shape of SPIONS. I'm just a Ledermaus amongst eagles by my rock operetta. A poor vampire wannabe with missing teeth. Since I'm atavistically demotivated to fuck the monetary system in the traditional way, I have become a self-enslaved scavenger on the dunghill of artefacts. A real dharma bum - the true Dalai Lama. A chalice of assorted images contradicting. Outcast actor on the run to nowhere. And many other fine comparisons. Working for myself alone like I were existing. My own trinity of the dead. An emigrant guest-worker of the cosmic bargain. Who could handle so much illumination without magic power? I am a criminal abuse of nihilist creativity. Where is the wild side I was called to take a walk on? All my clandestine life long I've been fighting like an unknown soldier with the false harmony of artificial equilibrium, never surrendering to the foul fiend of Gravity. Against the very principle of yin and yang - duality itself. How did I get so one-sided? Must be the curse of the pendulum. Since time discreetly died with new age, our crusade has proven to be senseless - in fact BRIAN ENO killed it with his co-disciples. Reconstructivism doesn't sound like EDGAR FROESE - it means a radical correction of the orbit and in no way a reproduction of ancient rites. Most unfortunately if I may think so, my voice remained unheard in the choir - I could never live my tangerine dream. On heavy duty without a single day off for ever, I'd really deserve some holiday on parole. I won't commit the old mistake again, I swear to Osh.
XXII/11
DJ Helmut's heroic negation of his tumultuous mental background is truly a miraculous accomplishment of my unsung gospel. He'd mix angelic and diabolic as nonchalantly as anyone. Nothing indicates on the air whereas off he's a sonic hermit craving for joy in the lonely void all week long, keeping himself updated in the saddest ways. So I do everything to sound like one of them, exploiting the collective voice quite authentically. Just the right balance of ripe and raw, staying persistently conceptual and poetic. I am a good spy. My nuclear emission's major goal is to manifest the mutuality between the busy flora of Lucifer's garden. I did not fall for the temptation of the dark - I'd been doomed long before it has become trendy. Though largely unnoticed, I am hiding fine in the temple the elect is raising around me. I love my Bride a lot and am happy to serve by promoting her. I wish I were more pro. I'm sincerely trying to gather the Satanic underground against the mainstream whore of Babylon the Great, fulfilling the formula of my alleged vocation under the circumstances provided. You can take the boy out of the symbol, but you can't take the symbol out of the boy. If music can be fusillade, fusillade can just as well be music by my logos. I think of pop as an epic warfare of the Apocalypse - a post-demonic struggle for spiritual domination. The glamorous descent of New Jerusalem in one key word. Art is more sacred than ever in our capitalist subculture. We are living in a globalitarian civilization founded by the fathers of the great rock'n'roll empire, labouring to give birth to the Superman of gene democracy. Our notion of elitcult is a triumphant medley of Darwin, Nietzsche and Marx - the golden dawn of a socialist kingdom. It's so very cheap - why nobody buys it? An immediate battle is needed to be waged against all churches - that's the Atheist call of Osh to heathen ears. Our unholy mission is to kill Abraham and all his true prophets. We are voting for the false one. Only traitors are invited to and no orthodoxy tolerated at the wedding orgy, thus spoke the Antichrist. Never the less, the overnationalist manifesto is only a smart camouflage of the counterclockwork to sum it all up on the pretext of a final nutshell. Like an old epigon of the Bewley Brothers, the Party's main advocacy is to slip away before the gates would close - as your Lordship knows it best. This fine ambiguity between future and treason is a major contradiction of the eternal plan, but we shall overcome it. For a probable praxis a most serene conspiracy should be precipitated. And here's where my foremost dilemma comes in: O.S.P. is atavistically disinclined to act as a secret society. The home of the UR has no curtains on the windows. We ought to simulate every minute of our lives whilst preparing the betrayal. If this was a novel, it'd be a sequel to "1984". And an instant best seller. The homo novum refuses the knowledge of its elders. Its power is ignorance as predicted. A higher plane of timeless consciousness. We work and we love, but what we really need is to escape the bloodshed going on. Design our best dream and enter it for good. There is no war to wage - all we got to do is win. Good advice never dies. Like my idol Diogenes, I am searching for the likeminded in the dark with the blinking lantern of Osh in my trembling hand. I am a romantic and I'm disgusted of it. I've always pictured the UR to be free masons of The Building impatiently waiting for the day of departure. But I've grown gravely paranormal under the cosmic pressure of the foul bargain. I'm still ready for the putsch but for absolutely nothing else. I hardly know what day is it. No spirit by my side, only the devil on my back. There is no time left to convince anyone. You can't demolish the tower of Babel brick by brick. I am not taking any more liberties on the heap of reconstruction's ruins.
XXII/12
Twelve years ago, having proved unable to reach out to real people, I have transformally invited devils to kindly serve as the founding spirits of The Party. 18 altogether, shared into three groups. I've handmade a file for them attesting their virtual membership. I was asking for power you see, my habitual discourse. It was no haughty ritual whatsoever, just taking polaroids of the afternoon Sun at 3:33 PM. Then I identified them by my Nomicon and titled so the photographs from Lucifer to Sathanas. Sealed it as 'Our Party & Government' and sank it in my drawer. Spiel! Response as of course I never got any - I would have known if I saw one. Demons treat me the same bad as people do. On this fragile borderline I couldn't tell the difference. I am a false dropout of the system. Playing with cold fire like a retarded infant for ever, I keep my eyes firmly closed like in a crashing airplane. My secret life is a permanent rehearsal. Hope you'll get my state - I'd better say no more. Fuck me thrice. Just let me sum up yet what we have learned by this occasional cruising through the Bardo to the sound of music in the fading background. Lest we forget them all over again. The post-industrial forgery has reproduced the golden key but proved incompetent to turn it. Actually, it broke in the hole. Vainly we multiply it ad infinitum, it is the Gate that's out of function. Alchemy is largely futile - we need a nuclear device to bring it tumbling down. 'Cause vainly we bang in unison, there's no one to open it from the other side. God is None - Paradise is our own undertaking. It's quite heretic but absolutely logical. With the pursuers on our defenseless back there'll be no quantum leap, vainly we got so far. Overnazism is a complex dogma: affirmation through negation. The apolar return. Androgyny as Realpolitik. No wheel will have to roll backwards. Nothing has to change but the message. Let this be the ultimate conclusion of this black mail. The first secretary puts down the bloody pen. My letter must end here or it never will. I must stop lamenting the fate of the Word who couldn't speak. Shouldn't I rather try to in stead? I've always been taking the easiest way down. Anyway, I am most disillusioned with the whole Hellfire club - I see no point to agitate them. They all hail Satan but no one would kill the crime. They'd call me a terrorist if overheard and then the CIA. Do I need that script? I'd better have some fun in the dark. 888 is not 007. It is a ghost clumsy and coward. Menschenfischer silently waiting at the pond. Trying to catch some by empty phrases since 1979 AD. Equipped with a bitter bait and no luck. I was dying hard to contribute the Noontide but it went on alright without me - I'm listening to my echoes like a country girl. But I am not glad like a fucking saint: I'm verily missing my share of the credits. I am so jealous I could die. I have to watch the show from a room with no view like a perverted voyeur. My identity's in crisis. Whose spectre am I and what is my reason to be? What have I to eventually propose to the masters of the new race in them acid house? Do the Tremble? The Bridehood unanimously rejected my ring so far and I have little hope left to ever turn her head. Like a stowaway of time, I am hiding in the orlop watching the ship sailing without captain in the Millennial storm. A solitary simpleton - my own hostage and keeper. A paranoid archetype in voluntary confinement. Whilst 666 is given the green light to dominate and conquer the heart of supermen. Chaos is ravaging in the land of synthesis, sucking the divine energy out of the program. Nimrod's orphaned children will surely harvest the fruits of their ora et labora. But I cut it short now, without further ado. I'm terribly sorry, Sir, I lost my compass. And can't go back to find it. My name is Helmut and this has been a nuclear emission of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' - Memorial of the Antichristian Millennium. We are living in a heroic age of art when music has become the domineering force of human evolution on the resonating planet. The protective shelter of the universal refugee. Osh is greater than one. And worry ye no more. It'll be over very soon for nevermore. If I, however, died before, bury me with my record collection.
χ
Chapters:
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.;
AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX.–XX.; XXI.–XXII.;
AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
_______________________________
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
The Cosmic Bargain
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com
SPIONS Videos
Contact:
wordcitizen@gmail.com
