Science Fiction Movies About Exile

by on Jan.05, 2012

[For some reason I wanted to write the script for a sci-fi movie for Tarkovsky to make from behind/beneath the grave, but instead I ended up writing a blog post. It’s obviously inspired by the Kim Hyesoon interview from the other day.]


The movie takes place in a hospital which seems to be snowing on the inside. The movie tries to tell me that Art will make me whole again but I don’t believe it. It’s snowing inside as if we live inside a television with no reception. Art will shatter me. Art will shatter me. I will have bleeder’s disease in the snow. In the movie the hares are piled up in the birth room. The pink ice-cream is melting on my body in the cyanide room, where I go to keep track of my postmodern condition. On the television there’s a train accident. The kind that burns. I decorate the tubes with crayons. I’m a child afterall. Art’s child.

No, the movie has to be much more violent than that.

When I first came to the US I was met by brutality, tackled into lockers and pushed into tables.

When I first made a science fiction movie the soundtrack was the sound of rabbits being used for decorative purposes in the snow.

I’m always afraid in the snow.

But I don’t want to screen out the violence that is always here.

I don’t want to pretend that Abu Ghraib isn’t part of our culture – as art, as crime, as hickup, as dance routine, as love letters, as explosions in the personality market.

In the personality market I am a zombie: ugly because I am covered with melting wax while impersonating a radio (anachronism is the sling-king).

In Abu Ghraib, I am one of the most ornate torturers: the one with the cracked vase and the black lipstick.

The one holding an ornamental knife from the plundered museum.

The one holding the knife to a rabbit in the fashion shoot for the latest dictator.

The one who runs and runs through the hallway but always end up in the showers with the man wrapped in tarpaulin.

In tarpaulin I am projecting “Battleship Potemkin.”

In Strindberg’s “Fadren” (anachronism is horror movies), art distorts the son and the mother has to envelop the father in an elaborate play, which undoes him, turns him into a son of sorts: sucking the tits of a nurse while tied up on her lap.

Her milky fluid is the milky fluid of art.

It tastes like semen.(As if Art makes the father’s lineage go back into his own baby-mouth.)

Once I found a postcard from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show in an antique store but when I touched it I realized it had semen on it.

Just as Buffalo Bill’s show toured Europe and the East Coast with real indians captured in the wild west, so my Genius Child Orchestra features real bodies from bombings and real anecdotes from torture sessions.

I’m working on a horror show because I am afraid in the snow.

Because I am a zombie.

Because I am a camera of sorts (busted against the ribs of a model, dusty from the Somali street, glamorous with snow from Bosnia, leaking fluids through the cracks of the boy soldier), I don’t have to struggle to make horror movies appear real.

(When my wife went to China she bought the same camera as the guards at Abu Ghraib had used – she knew it would work.)

The problem is poetry readers want to be good and violence is bad.

Or they want the art to reveal the bad violence.

But art is violence.

Just ask that model I keep dragging into this balloon room.

Just as Jean-Michel and his rotten penis.

He’s dancing like a rabid robot to the music of rat eradications.

I’m dancing like a strawman but I’m trying to dance like a zombie.

I’m trying to be myself.

Afterall I’m a poet and in poetry we should all be ourselves: autonomous, strong, experimental, indie, not corrupt or “boys and girls,” not tampered in the shower scene.

Afterall Scandinavian immigrants are zombies that opress with their “Scandinavian stoicism.”

But I want to be the president of the United States of America!

I want to be covered with snails for the inauguration photo shoot.

I want to be photo-shopped with Beyonce’s tits!

How can I become president when I’m a zombie and a poet and can’t find the way out of the orphanage?

Can you tell me where to burn these snails off with cigarettes?

Can you tell me what I’m doing in a room full of noise-makers (ie “skrällingar”)?

Am I safe?

All I want is peace and quiet so that the babies will sleep.

So that they won’t mess around with the towels and get semen in their mouths and maybe become zombie-pregnant!

How can I be a dad when Edward Munch misspelled my name in his portrait of “August Stindberg”?

In his portrait of my inauguration he used pills to cover up my eyes!

Was he posssesed by Art? Is that why would he park an American car in his backyard?

Born in the 19th century he survived into the 20th century by re-painting the paintings of his youth.

He didn’t know how to drive!

I know how to drive one of those death-carriages in which the passengers wear slippery tulle!

We’re coming up on the cornice and the pillars: intertextuality is death!

In Korean everyone dances like Michael Jackson because of the pollution.

In every picture I take of Korea there are black garbage bags that look like they are full of animals.

But they are full of toys: toy soldiers, broken koalas, race cars with flames painted on the sides, censorship pens with flames carved in the cap, censorship pens with special books about women’s bodies, women’s bodies with flames carved in the thighs, syphilis dioramas, mutoscopes with punched-up teenagers, shark attacks with the blood missing etc. You can’t make these things up.

You have to make these things up. Nobody is going to do it for you.

I will do it for you.

“For an amount.”

As the witness told the prosecutor in the gang case (Mpls, summer of 1994).

That’s illegal information (I’m using it the way Buffalo Bill used the Indians).

The testimony was made up after eight hourse of brainstorming.

It took that long because the suspect was a teenager and didn’t speak English and the officers didn’t speak Laotian and the victim was dead and didn’t speak English either.

I got an email for “new styles for winter.” The email was marked with the “emergency” tag so I had to look at the clothes. They looked like an emergency.

I need better clothes if I’m going to continue babbling about art and America and my shoddy body and the toys that I want to invent to further pollute the planet’s water sources. For example, it seems I need a scarf.

The emailers are right. I’ve always wanted a scarf.

A scarf on a man looks very sophisticated while at the same time covering up the man’s throat which may be cold in the winter.

Or slit in the winter.

I think I want scarves for my wrists too.

And for my daughters who keep proliferating out of art to say things like “I am fuck.”

I think she meant “I am frog.”

But I am frog, at least in the video game of my life which is a shitty 80s video game and probably doesn’t work because I slammed it in the wall.

I slammed it into the model in the corner.

Umpf, she said.

Umpf, said I virtuousic with misogyny and pedantic with pearl necklaces.

i used those pearl neclaces and firewater to buy America.

I came up with a drink in the middle of the midwestern winter: Firewater and plastic pearls.

I drink that drink until I choke.

America is Art. It leaks gold out of its eyes.

I will use that gold for my own make up as I explain pictures.

American loves me and I love America.

[Note the “Scandinavian stoicism” is from the book “Our Band Could Be Your Life” which I read at my brother’s house this Christmas break. The author claims that these 80s indie bands were rebelling against Reagan, major labels and “Scandinavian stoicism,” as if the behavior of an immigrant group somehow could oppress like capitalism, and it reveals that the ethos of the book – indie rock as “alive” and rebellious, as successful and important, as political and pure – is very much that of the market place, while the Scandinavian zombies are of course not “dynamic” like the guys in all those car ads.]

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