Archive for September, 2013

MY HEART IS A BOMB! (Some thoughts about Romanticism)

by on Sep.30, 2013

I’m thinking about this today in a cloudy Stockholm attic room: The way that academic discussions of literature (and poetry in particular) often veer into morality, some kind of justification for poetry, for style, or – its opposite – a rejection of it (usually as kitsch, immoral, schlocky).
I’m also thinking about how this relates to Lars Norén. As I wrote in my last post about Norén’s corpse, there’s this violence that permeates his work, from his early lyrics to his – almost up-to-date – diaries. There’s this sense of struggle: the desire to eradicate the poetic, the kitsch, but also the sense that poetic pulls you back in, damages you right back. I suppose this has something to do with Romanticism. In his diaries, I just read him reminiscing about reading Hölderlin, Novalis, Celan.


Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world — sunk in a deep grave — waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. — The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?

[It’s worth noting that Aase Berg’s Dark Matter begins with a Novalis quote.]

Noren’s constantly caught in a battle with his art, and his art is caught in a battle with Auschwitz (“Auschwitz is the capitol of the 20th century,” he notes.), with American imperialism, with the Israeli attacks on Palestine. Is he aestheticizing politics? Is he playing “ruin porn,” “empire porn”? Is he immoral? Is he a vampire? Is Romanticism Norén’s downfall?

Romanticism still seems to play such a large part in how we view poetry: there’s something inherently Romantic about poetry, something we have to discipline because it is also of questionable morality. There was that movie the other year about Keats: how his pale body was covered in butterflies drawn by the smell of rotten fruit (butterflies which I then lured to my room for The Sugar Book).

But obviously also everything from “Berlin”:

I’m thinking back to when I was in college, when I was in a supposedly “quietist” grad workshop: the teacher brought in Language poetry and essays about language poetry and everybody thought that was all good. They were perfectly acceptable. But in discussions of poetry the “Romantic” was always what had to be rejected. This also went by the phrase “too much.” There are too many metaphors in this poem, this speaker is megalomaniacal, seems fake etc.
At the same time I read a lot of postmodern criticism: it was all about the rejection of the “Romantic I.” Supposedly this was what the Quietists practiced: but they too were rejecting the “Romantic.” I smelled a rat. But I couldn’t tell where. I still can’t.

Just that it’s stinking worse than ever.

(Or has the rat already been found? Did my generation of poets devour it without knowing it? Am I puking up something I’ve already eaten a million times? When I come across so many of the 20-something poets they seem unencumbered by all of this, free to write awesome poetry.)

I think of Saul Friedlander’s description of kitsch as “debased Romanticism,” and his whole link of Romanticism, Nazism, stunted-ness and death. It all starts to sound vaguely Frankenstein-ey.

I don’t know all that much about Romanticism even though it was largely the stuff that got me into poetry as a teenager. There’s something teenagery about Romanticism. “I love Shelley” written in a bathroom stall (oh, that Shelley). Or, this morning on the official sign that read “This Area Is Under Surveillance” somebody had slapped a sticker that said “MY HEART IS A BOMB!”

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“It’s like rooting around in a grave”: Necrophilia and Modernism in Lars Norén

by on Sep.28, 2013

[Here is another excerpt from the memoir/criticism book I’ve been working on lately. Like the other things I’ve posted on the blog, it has to do with Lars Norén’s work, especially his massive diaries that have been published in two volumes over the past few years. In many ways I feel very close to Norén’s work – both his writing and his diaries – and I’m trying to work through that here. So if it seems at times as if I’m writing about myself or my own work (as Lara noted on Facebook), maybe that’s true.]

On the train I read Lars Norén’s diaries. The more I actually read these diaries, the more interesting Greider’s claim that Norén (or his work) is a kind of corpse gets; and I sense my own thinking about not just Norén’s writing but my own writing start to shift. To begin with, around December 2001, at the same time as he’s going through a divorce and starting a new relationship, Norén goes through incredible physical ailments. He starts having diarrhea and vomiting constantly. He can’t keep anything down, as he repeatedly notes. It seems that everything just runs through him; his physical body cannot maintain its integrity, its completeness. So when Greider imagines Norén bleeding on a dissection table, he is in some sense describing this leaky, grotesque body that Norén himself describes.
This leakiness impedes a lot of his social interactions. For example, he has to hurry from dinners (with his family, colleagues); he wakes up vomiting in the middle the night. And importantly, it prevents him from fucking his new girlfriend: He says he’s too sick to “tränga in” himself in her. It’s a peculiar word for sex, “tränga” meaning to penetrate but also to push or force, and also to crowd (a “trängsel” means a crowd). The sick body prevents sociality and sexuality. It destabilizes his body and life, but it also stabilizes it as he is forced to stay indoors, kept from going out to shop, and kept inside to read and write, and he seems to get creatively going, working on four plays at the same time. The writing seems to take the place of the fucking.

And then things go from bad to worse. He has to have a jaw surgery – a part of the jaw is apparently cut off – that involves shutting his mouth with some kind of plastic prosthesis, that not only forces him to go on an all-fluid diet but which makes all the soups he’s forced to drink (he tries all kinds of fancy flavors, such as lobster bisque etc) taste like plastic. This seems the ultimate insult to a sensualist who spend much of his diary discussing the food he eats, often fancy meals (lobsters, sushi etc), someone for whom food – as much as art and clothes – takes up a large part of the diary.

Perhaps even worse, his face swells us horrifically, so that he can’t recognize himself in the mirror. He compares himself to “Francis Bacon,” a comparison that doesn’t just invoke what his face looks like, but also conveys the horror of not recognizing one’s own visage. I had an experience like that when I was about 10 or 11. I had a sinus infection that somehow got out of hand, and the sinuses around one eye swelled up so that I couldn’t even look out of that eye. That horror came back to me when I read about Norén’s experience of losing his own face in his own diary.

(It’s strange for me to write that because I’m sitting in this little hotel room in Göteborg and right in front of my little desk is a mirror so that whenever I pause I look up at my own face: my balding head, the wrinkles in my skin, the graying beard, the weird little random straws that stick out of my eye brows.)
When Norén compares his face to Bacon’s painting, it’s worthwhile thinking about the vehicle as well as the tenor of that metaphor (that’s generally true) – the sick body is like a work of art. And it seems sickness, love and art are all things that destroy Norén. At one very vulnerable moment he says: “I can’t defend myself. I don’t have any tools for defending myself.” [Jag kan inte värja mig. jag har inga redskap för att värja mig.”]. There is a naked vulnerability with which he approaches his life that makes him incapable maintaining control.
(continue reading…)

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“We Do Not Take Literature Seriously”: Marília Librandi Rocha on Hallucinatory Reading

by on Sep.27, 2013

From poetry-mourners/killers to Argentine novelists, it seems like everyone is panicking over the ontology of literature these days.  I think one of the freshest takes on how and why we read comes from Marília Librandi Rocha’s essay “Maranhão-Manhattan“:

There is a sense of urgency to this proposal. My thesis is that, unlike the Indian tribes and the fear and respect that the shamans require, we ignore what poets tell us because we think that what they write is only literature; in spite of all that has been written, we do not take them seriously, for real; we do not take literature seriously as an existential, social, psychological, ecological production. From my point of view, we need to re-think the magical value of fiction without characterizing it as exoteric or exotic. We need to re-think the usefulness of poetry without limiting it to business. The problem is: how do we do this?

For example, experience seeing our world through the eyes of literature – as if we were a character inside a book watching the world that exists outside our own fiction, placing ourselves in its body/under its point of view. It is a type of borgean experiment. Maybe we need to invent a policy of imagination. That means considering what fiction tells us at the same level of what nature sciences tell us; at the same level of what philosophy tells us, granting it the same rights. Maybe we need to re-think the famous expression ‘suspension of disbelief’: suspend the disbelief of the moderns and sustain the literality (not only the literariety) of what the fiction writers themselves say.

The times we live in today are times of vertiginous changes. Like Bruno Latour says (this incredible philosopher of modern sciences):” We can’t yet measure this change, but there is big change” (interview to V. Castro). This new philosophy, which questions the idea that we “have never been modern”, is in fact questioning Disenchantment (Entzauberung). We need to hallucinate, as Sloterdijk says.  This Amerindian thought opens amazing possibilities of finding alternatives for what Gotthard Gunther synthesized as our 25 centuries of European metaphysics and technology, which are based on a monovalent ontology and a bivalent logic.

Regarding the former, it affirms that the being is and the non-being isn’t; bivalent logic states that what is true isn’t false, and what is false isn’t true, tertium non datur.  According to Sloterdijk, this classic metaphysics is not capable of describing cultural phenomena such as tools, signs, works of art, machines, books, and all kinds of artifacts that are, he says, “by its own constitution, hybrid, with a spiritual component and a material component”. He explains that our way of separating body and soul, spirit and matter, subject and object is not capable of really perceiving these things; it cannot really explain what they are.

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“Scenes like overexposed photographs”: from Lars Norén’s Diary

by on Sep.25, 2013

In my last post about Göran Greider’s review of Lars Norén’s second diary, I talked a bit bout Greider comparing Norén to a dictator (or even Hitler). I thought that was strange and interesting, but there is some basis for it perhaps in the aesthetic views Norén expresses in these diaries.

For example:

“Soon I will start writing harder, more nakedly, briefer. Beyond the fog. Scenes like overexposed photographs. Dialogues that could be caught on a surveillance camera. Movement, anatomy, behaviorism. I long for the light that could be called merciless. That people say is merciless. I am on my way there. When all is over…”

A few pages he returns to this mercilessness when he’s (of all things) cleaning out his apartment:

“It’s a miracle that the earth can have space for all of us in our smallness tearing each other apart, as well as the quiet saints, the quietly working guest workers, the polish children whose eyes created darkness. I have started the great final sorting, the one that comes before the end and that will last until then. I will be merciless. This will be true of objects and thoughts and plans. I will choose mercilessly. I will talk about sheep go there, and the goats stay there. I can’t stand it. I will have a hard time selecting the sheep from that goats. And it’s the same with the wheat… I will not save that which I think of as lies and unnecessary…”

I love it when the diary becomes strange like this, and it does seem like some old testament god or dictator in this case (complete with photographs and surveillance).

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“intransigence is my calling card”: Interview with Uche Nduka

by on Sep.24, 2013


Johannes: OK, great. First a basic question: Can you tell me about your background? Ie how/why did you end up in the US? From what I can tell, you’re from Nigeria but lived for some time in Germany.

Uche: I was born in Nigeria in a family of christian priests. I was four years old when the Nigerian civil war began.I am Igbo and belonged to the Biafran side of that debacle.Many children of my age perished in that war through starvation.Till date some Igbo men and women and children are still being massacred in that country,particularly in the Northern parts.Sometimes for religious reasons and at other times for political reasons.Recently some members of the Igbo nation were deported to the East(Igboland) by the government of Lagos State.There are those who believe that after the civil war which ended in 1970 Nigeria resumed being one united nation.What crap! My generation nationally accepted the country but the nefarious actions of both military and civilian regimes that had piloted the country since the end of the civil war have given us cause to doubt a real Nigerian nationhood.Those civil and political injustices that led to the civil war in 1967 are still there.Now the problems of Nigeria are compounded even more by a sham democracy.For me the scars of living through Nigeria’s darkest decades are still here,and can never be forgotten. The Biafran War left a vicious gaping wound in life and art in Nigeria. I lived in Germany for about nine years and taught and wrote and explored that country.I lived in Holland for three years.I have been in transit in all the countries i have lived in since 1994 when i left Nigeria through the award of an Arts Fellowship by the Goethe Institute.I remain grateful to the Germans. I left Nigeria to free myself from organized idiocy and repression. I arrived in the United States Of America in 2007 to reunite with my parents and siblings who are naturalized Americans and who I did not manage to see throughout the twelve years i lived in Europe. At the moment I am a naturalized American: Nigerian-American.
(continue reading…)

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I’m reading in Malmö tonight! With Hart Crane’s Tea!

by on Sep.23, 2013

I forgot to mention, I’m participating in a reading in Malmö tonight at 7:30 (19:30). The special tea of the evening is named after Hart Crane!

#2 Litterärt örtte: Crane
Författarmedverkan: Azita Ghahreman, Johannes Göransson, Hikaru Sugi

Tid: 23 september 2013, kl. 19.30-21
Plats: Poeten på hörnet, Södra Förstadsgatan 65B, Malmö

Litteratursalong Smockadoll: Tycken, texter, te.

#2 utgörs av boksläpp för Azita Ghahremans diktsamling ”Serendips loggbok”. Och USA-besök med poeten och aasebergöversättaren Johannes Göransson. SAMT…

Smockadolls artisan-te för kvällen den 23 september: CRANE.
(continue reading…)

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The Sugar Book: Göran Greider on the Pornographic Corpse of Lars Norén

by on Sep.23, 2013

I thought I would talk a little more about Lars Norén, following up on my discussions of his work and Saul Friedlander’s observations about kitsch, or “debased romanticism.”


I am intrigued by the way the reviewers who dislike Norén’s diary (and there seems to be many) tend to resort to very gothic imagery: Norén is a vampire (“The Vampire Diaries” one headline announced), or a baby sucking milk from society, a parasite, even – several times – a corpse. I am particularly interested in this case because I love Norén’s early – maximalist, grotesque, beautiful, kitschy – poetry (“visionary kitsch”), and I am fascinated by the way the diary’s reception seems to re-stage those early works, as well as the way it touches on a lot of issues I’m interested in pertaining to kitsch, nazism and, what Saul Friedlander calls, “the new discourse” about nazism and kitsch.

In other words, I’m interested in the way a lot of the condemnation both tries to condemn Norén’s by invoking such common tropes against such art – kitsch, gothic, grotesque, politically fascist – and at the same time plays into this aesthetic, as if contaminated by Norén’s sensibility.

The leftist poet Göran Greider wrote one of the most interesting reviews – a “poem-review” – of Norén’s diary the other day that touches on a whole bunch of my interests in this case.

Greider starts out by comparing Noren to an Internet troll, “but one published by Bonniers,” as if there’s something tasteless about the whole venture, something that should not be made public or endorsed by the taste-marker of a big press. Norén is too emotional in the work, it seems, for it to be proper art.

More importantly, Greider reads Norén himself as a politics. He calls Norén bourgeois, but implies that he’s in fact fascistic, or even a Nazi. Greider asks: “What would the world look like if Norén had absolute power? Summary executions, persecutions, impulsive destruction of cities…” Who is Greider describing at this point? He is basically calling Norén a Nazi, or more specifically Hitler.
(continue reading…)

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Postmortem on the Colorado Deluge

by on Sep.22, 2013

roadFor the past year I’ve lived in a valley at 6,500 feet, in a small community of homes tucked in the mountains of northern Colorado, surrounded by national forest. It’s just a fifteen-minute drive down the mountain to Lyons, a surprisingly vibrant town of twenty-five hundred or so that’s now drowning in water and sewage and pieces of people’s homes, and has been since the early hours of Friday, September 13.

I was with some friends at the Distillery in Lyons the night of the floods, but made it back up the mountain before the water tore through town in the middle of the night. It’s now several days later and entire neighborhoods are gone, the water is contaminated with E. coli, the infrastructure is destroyed, the St. Vrain river is now somehow a few hundred yards south of where it was, and most everybody in town is displaced for several months, or permanently.

Meanwhile, back at the homestead on that fateful night, we quickly lost power, water, phones, etc. By morning the bridges connecting various parts of the community were destroyed, and the highway connecting us to the global supply chain had succumbed to falling boulders & mudslides, the more precarious parts of the winding mountain road collapsing into the valley below. Unlike in Lyons, the houses, for the most part, were spared, but the community was completely cut off.

chinookThis was our situation for a few days, until somebody somewhere ordered an evacuation. My girlfriend Maggie and our friend Bernie visiting from NYC took the first helicopter out with our dogs – the only helicopter that day as it turned out, since the storms kept rolling in. I stayed behind for a couple of days until the storms finally passed, locking down the house and acclimating to a new reality, one in which I’m abandoning my home in the deafening roar of a Chinook helicopter, clutching my cats in a duffle bag.

This was literally a thousand year event. Only 1% of Colorado homes are even covered by flood insurance. People are displaced up and down the front range. I’m writing this from a hotel room in Boulder. I have shelter and kind people looking out for me, and a computer to share my lessons learned, en medias res, from this very wet, dry run for the apocalypse.

(continue reading…)

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The Sugar Book: On Nazism, Kitsch, Saul Friedlander and Lars Norén

by on Sep.20, 2013

So I’m in Sweden reworking The Sugar Book, my next book of poetry (to be published next year). I’ve come to Malmö in fact to work on the book, to complete it by working through my fascination with certain aspects of aspects of art: its violence, its pointlessness, its manipulativeness, its necroglamour, the way it blurs the boundaries between life and death, art and life, private and public. It’s an unwieldy book: several hundred pages and growing. I can’t contain it. It’s also about being homeless, so that’s why I’ve returned to my home, to Sweden: if I can’t contain it here, I can’t contain it anywhere.


While writing this new draft, a few things have influenced me: Sweden’s obsession with Lars Norén’s diaries, Saul Friedlander’s book on Nazism and kitsch (“Reflection on Nazism”), a book of Francesca Woodman’s photograph (I found in Martin Glaz Serup’s apartment in Copenhagen), Raul Zurita’s poems and performances (cutting himself, writing in the sky, being rewritten as a fascist pilot by Bolano etc), and the use of the word “pornography” as applied to art that may or may not contain naked bodies (for example “ruin porn”) but which almost always betrays an iconophobic attitude about the intensive visuality of some art. This hot-spot of ideas is really fueling my re-drafting of The Sugar Book because that’s what it’s about. But I thought I would also do a little Malmö-blogging for the folks back home…


For those of you not from Sweden: (continue reading…)

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ARS POETICA or, I wanted to unlock my phone

by on Sep.13, 2013

[It’s been suggested that I preface this. Well, I think the world is drenched with grief and I think poetry is the map of the grief, continually mapping and remapping itself and saturating and resaturating itself with ink and image and sound and damage and contaminants until something else breaks through. Another viscousness or viciousness. Not necessarily better, but next, or again. I don’t know whether there’s really a way out of the anthropocene with its lethal logics but I do think that Poetry is anthropocenic (though inhuman?) and has a lethal (ill-?)logic and is therefore up to the challenge of going up against the anthropocene, just as a bacterium with a porcine vector can go up against a person with a gun.  I guess I do want the world to end and reboot without us. This ars poetica is made from the contaminants that influence my writing: technology, hacking, corpse jewlery, corporate hegemony, environmental degradation, dread, ecstasy, haruscopy and augury, fashion, art, etymology, sacrificial rites and the classical world, those doomed and doomy bastards.]

Like dead Etruscans on their couch...

“like dead Etruscans…”



ARS POETICA, or, I wanted to unlock my phone

I wanted to unlock my phone.

I wanted to unlock the geode. I wanted to press it to my skull. I wanted to go right through the temple. Bedazzle my occipital. Be dazzled like a jeweled vagina or an improved corpse.

Incipio. And you can come in now. Bedazzled like a victim or an improved phone.

Nuncio, you’re fired now go home.

Get back on that fucking U-boat you rowed in on and float.

After I gave birth, an immediate labial tuck.

Cataract surgery, a backing track, and a ticket for checked luggage sutured to my gut.

I took exception.

I woke up a walking garment.

My innards for a pennant, a permanent crest or crown

crimped and crenellated, filleting my brow and my baby for a pigskin clutch. Accouchement.

On a couch, we rowed like dead Etruscans for the afterlife, clutching

thick slick magazines and

the handgrenade named for the pomegranate.

Bon chance, bon chance, shit out of luck, up shit creek on a

leaky horseshoe hung up the wrong way

twin emblems of closeness: horseshoes, handgrenades.

More weight.

In that pink slick (Grenadine)

rode the drowners

pulled from the Seine with a seine net. With a purse seine.

And set up in the Paris morgue as in a marble parlor

A bejeweled purse, a lime sluice, a pearled vagina, a pullulating designer

dog, in puttees, the puttied vault of the sky, the ovulating

cranial crate which was about to be wider  as it

split at its eyeteeth

It was a civic duty to visit them on Sundays

amid the gropeurs and pick pockets

To copiously paw and snuff the nose-wrinckling tissues

To bring them back into the human family.

To try to identify them by face, clothes, or posture

That piece of shit is not my father.


The bodies hit the ground in a fusillade like fuselage

You cannot hear this sound except on a snuff site

You have to go out as shame to hear this report

more like handgrenades than like pomegranates

with their little list of Hadean jewels inside

twisted inventories for the Christies auction

nextbodies texting their nobiles

fifty and two hundred bodies hitting the ground like exploding

I wanted to go live there

I wanted to go live in shame

as blood floods the vaulted chasm

I block the run-off-channels and snuff up the charnel-chum

I wanted to stop the clock

I wanted to give my brain a tuck

I wanted my brain to fold over.

I wanted to close the incision with cat gut and tungsten.

I wanted to hack my own phone.

Edison wanted to make a light bulb.

Franklin wanted to make a kight light up at night.

They both needed a conductor.

Franklin used his son’s arm.

Edison used the groin hair of a sacred goat, later slaughtered.

gh gh gh

you can’t even say it it’s voiceless

you can’t even hear this sound unless you hit the snuff site

so rank it rankles

too rank for superfund

I wanted to defund it

I wanted to give my head a kick.

I wanted my brain to double over, holding its gut.

In the train compartment. Its tank top riding up

to expose its kidneys to a kick

up the luggage compartment.

to stuff it up a suitcase

like a prettier girl I could waste on a snuff site.

The thread of life narrow as a jeweled thong for the bride

disappearing up the crack

reaching through the crack to hug the waist

to find the egress

up the ass of the egret

into the afterlife

the birds we are wasting in Iraq and Iran

know the only route to the afterlife

Bereft of sense

I don’t want to make sense

But I want to make something


as it leaves the body

the cloth of Veronica which wiped the face of Christ

producing the fake  known as the Shroud of Turin

Fake like a purse is fake and flashy

and sold on folding tables or a sheet

grab it and run

when the heat comes

it cuts the air above the android  in his android suit.

The bull is wearing his bull suit.

To cook what’s inside like a sacrifice.

Oxygen cocktail. Interior force.

I wanted to wear the fake mask of Christ.

I wanted to wipe the face of the crisis with my heat.

I wanted to make a mask of sweat, urine, sucrose, and  dopamine.



I wanted to grow chesthair in the mirror.

It’s breezey today and the leaves flash their asses.

Something hangs down under the line of the short shorts.

Something like hell-fruit: lemurian pomegranate.

The puddled cloth, the placket of blood

like a garment for the flagstones

below the smashed skull

sewn on the bias

the seam lies flat

as a cellphone in the street

after it snapped the precious picture

the picture more precious than a skull

that smashed up screen makes a star in the sky like



panties in a vending machine

coolant pools which smirk and leak

an attempt to build a thermonuclear barrier at the beach

going to the beach


catching the fish

under the flagstones

sandals made of a tank tread rubbed with fish guts

ceaseless report

a gun firing

a tracer whistling

the house folding

a satellite crashing into the Indian Ocean

croupier’s flourish

as air douses his hand of guilt

like money

stacked flat and veronica-ing

like a hiccupping GIF

a mortgage or flat tummy

a smart fabric tensing infinitely

into the air like the gut of a gull

that’s hauling a plastic reel

so thin it’s not a live anymore

so thin it can slip through the net of the sky

through the purse-seine up the Seine

and become the parenthesis for the next event

so thin it talcs the air with boanmeal

as in a nursery

ashmeal moanmeal  veronica powder

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Long Gone Blues: On Violence, Sex, Balloons, Repetition, Hello Kitty, Guy Hocquenghem, Airports, Billie Holiday, Miley Cyrus, Gender Autism and Shameless Promotions

by on Sep.10, 2013

Lately I’ve been thinking about the sexual part of violence and power. Lately I’ve been making something like blues music for an album (Black Water, estimated: side A in late September, side B in October). Lately I’ve been thinking about this one quote by Guy Hocquenghem found in the back register of the lovely little book “Sisyphus Outdone” by Nathanaël:

[Homosexual desire] is the slope towards trans-sexuality through the disappearance of objects and subjects, the slide towards the discovery that in matters of sex everything communicates.

One day I went to a child’s birthday party and ate cake from a hello kitty plate instead of a turtles plate. One thing that surprised me about America when I first got here was definitely the sweetness of its birthday cakes. One day I saw a daddy who was ready to let his son fall off a tall wall because a boy that gets really hurt turns into a man. Fourth of July fireworks were firing in the background. Lately I’ve been thinking about a photograph of Russian manly boys picking up and torturing young gay boys, posing shirtless with guns. I don’t even know where I saw the photograph, if it even exists, I think it was one of those facebook link shots. Maybe I had a dream. If you dream current events does that make you a whore for fashion? Lately I’ve been thinking about how being a man means being something singular and contained, the taming of the boy into an agent of rationality. A man is either irreparably violent or controlled, contained, a man whose subject-hood is locked and loaded.

in matters of sex everything communicates

On Friday nights the whole family gathers and watches Americas Next Top Model Girls & Boys. During the commercials we practice our best face-poses. The idea is to keep face despite the embarrassment of the body.

At the pool party it is modesty for girls only because boys can’t control what skin does, the belly-skin of girls. This is the skin of a certain age. This is the skin that is the most dangerous of all the skin and threatens to throw the not-yet rationalized boy into a raging rape scene.

I was thinking about the repetitive line and how it’s like an image in a way. We look at it sort of like an image. There is nothing to figure out. Instantaneous, useless. It becomes surface, sound.

in matters of sex everything communicates

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about rape-or-not-rape. On this new album of songs that are some kind of blues I made a song sort of about rape using a Mississippi Fred McDowell sample that runs over and over for eight minutes. It’s a remake of his “Find My Suitcase”. Toward the end it gets wobbly with weird dub-step-like bass lines.

Once I came on a plane and the man at the desk asked angry questions and made up lies because if you have nothing to hide you can’t be shaken because the world is ultimately fair. But I got shook up because the lies seemed very dangerous and I forgot some vital piece of information, became infantile, like a child. I stuttered. I couldn’t remember the name of my professor. I could see his bearded face, his gentle ways, his supreme knowledge of old testament lineage, but his name was gone. Because his name was gone I became someone hiding something. I wondered if this was how terrorists feel.

Sometimes I forget the silliest things. Like my own phone number. Like my own address. This is the stuff of identity, humanness: birth and death records. My band name is My Hot Air Balloon. It was inspired by Swedish balloon explorer Andrée and his demise on the north pole. Travel by hot air and spectacular failure.

Nothing has been heard of Professor Andrée, who started in a balloon for the North Pole, accompanied by two companions, about three weeks ago. Two carrier pigeons were afterward picked up, with certain marks on the wings intended to give the impression that they were from the explorer, but it was soon made manifest that they had not come from him.

-Baltimore News, Baltimore, MD. July 31, 1897

So anyway, I wrote this one song about interacting with authority called “Honey You Got the Bible, I Got the Gun”. It’s an American fairy tale. Its like Thelma and Louise. It’s religion and guns. It’s a love story with authority. It starts:

Hey Mr. Officer won’t you take down my name
You can keep it in your file no hard feelings

This was a while ago, maybe like two years, a kind of protest song. I played it on my daughter’s ukulele but it didn’t quite work. But one day recently I was making this really bouncy sexup beat using an old atari beep and I got to singing this old song. And I was singing over and over “Mr. Officer” until the old-fashioned  protest song seemed to turn into something else, more intimate perhaps, or at least more deranged. Sort of like Miley Cyrus grinding with that ridiculous foam hand. A kind of impotence. A kind of yearning.

(I know I know. Dead tissue, be gone. But I think the most upsetting thing about the Miley Cyrus thing was the flatness, the over-the-top-ness and the redundancy of the performance, like it failed to tap into shocking-but-acceptable sex-up Disney coming out behavior (say Christina Aguilera back when) as well as arty androgynous lady gaga awareness. When you’re trying to dance sexily but its not sexy it becomes something else, deranged, less than human, porn. Like the commercial. Shocking. Simply Oranges.)

Bible Song Intro Beat (ca 15 seconds):

Usually when there’s protest songs there’s not much sex going on, its more a manly comradely thing (like those boys in Le Mis!), dustbowls and union meetings, like sports, numbers in the proper squares. But I was thinking about this officer, this border control man, politician (the three characters of the song) and how there is a sexual element in that kind of official control-controlee relationship, this sort of dance and courting. And how we don’t want it to be. How we want the violence to be rational, because if its rational it can be identified and labeled and codified and renamed and verified and classified until it becomes digestible and necessary.

Like what if the power to be couldn’t just symbolically fuck their subjects. Couldn’t reasonably go to war.

Then I added a Billie Holiday sample over it. Not sure why, but once I had it sounded good. I love Billie Holiday. When I grow up, that’s who I want to be. Billie singing: Long Gone Blues. It fitted strangely well. So it goes something like, (where there’s suppose to be something like a chorus):

Mr. Officer

Mr. Officer

Talk to me baby

Tell me what’s the matter now

Mr. Officer

Mr. Officer

You tryin’ to quit me baby

But you don’t know how

Mr. Officer

Mr. Officer

( Billie Holiday’s Long Gone Blues)

I didn’t know then that Kanye West had sampled Nina Simone’s Strange Fruit for his Blood on the Leaves, a song that is sort of nauseating to listen to, Nina’s sped-up and deranged sounding vocal, Kanyes autotune, lynching meets club romance. But anyway, I like the idea, because the violence of the original, written by some Jewish guy who was inspired by a photograph of a lynching, isn’t allowed to be contained in the No Trespassing Zone of American History Relics.

It always befuddles me when the expected reaction calls for reflection and respect because the topic is of a certain bloodiness and severity, like you’re suppose to stay in this remembrance stillness pose. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we were playing charades and I did the act of Thinking or maybe even The Thinker by that sculpture guy and nobody could figure it out.

My wife says this is because I’m autistic. This is probably right. I’m planning to write a blues about this.

One thing America likes are those Time Capsules which is funny because there’s no history allowed in this small town. There should be jazz and blues statues and museums. Instead there’s waste and dead towns.

Like there’s something disturbed about the past, like a disease of nostalgia.

I decided to try to make a blues album because I love old blues music. Instantly it felt kind of fraudulent, treating blues as a genre rather than tradition, to make a kind of “concept” album. Tradition suggests initiation, cultural and geographical (if not genetic) inclusion, blah blah. I don’t feel part of that “tradition”, I don’t feel particularly rootsy. But I was interested in exploring different themes that blues music deals with: violence, sex, death, mainly, and folklore ghosty stuff, gospel religious stuff.  Interested in certain very bluesy sounds and bluesy phrases. To write songs on these subjects, exploring these sounds, these phrases. The idea of tradition is so full of shit anyway, just time passing allowing motive to overgrow so you have something supposedly “genuine” and “deeply rooted” or whatever. For the purpose of division. You can only really sing the blues if your an old black guy who has suffered. Also that the blues is more like a condition, something inside you, your devil-deprived soul, expressed as a summary of one person’s life lived in some unending misery, it has to be earned.

One way of questioning this earning seems to be questioning the containment of certain people and art by labeling them/it exotic, wholesome, “natural”, as opposed to capable of a more rational, severed-from-the-creator, constructed, layered, complex Entity, suggesting that they are not capable of such elaborate thought processes. But hidden in such questioning there seems to be an underlying moral stand favoring written and planned transactions of feelings and information over oral and improvised expression, an economic approach to art.

In blues lyrics one thing that becomes apparent is that its pretty impossible to determine ownership, multiple versions of songs coexist, lines are swapped, stolen and reused. There is (as in most pop music!) the use of heavy repetition, a musical employment of words for their secondary quality, their sounds, an oral transference, to convey a mood, incite dancing, movement, the promise of ecstasy, possession, tongue talking. I’m muchly interested in all this, and most of these songs are written to fit a certain sound, often a beat, an atmosphere, than the other way around, creating a mood in which exorcism becomes possible. Hopefully.

It’s interesting how in early America the drum was banned for its dangerous ability to cause riots. It’s also interesting that the early banjo, brought over from Africa, is a kind of secret, hidden drum, later made a decidedly white instrument through minstrelsy. That it was instead the formerly royal artsy-ass then industrialized guitar that became the blues man’s primary instrument, awesomely tortured with knives and bottlenecks, made to scream and weep. Etc. etc.

The album will pop up on soundcloud, here. Or like on facebook. Or some such. 

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The Strangeness of the Image, The Strangeness of the Corpse: Blanchot/ASCO

by on Sep.09, 2013


“The cadaver is its own image. It no longer entertains any relation with this world, where it still appears, except that of an image, an obscure possibility, a shadow ever present behind the living form which now, far from separating itself from this form, transforms it entirely into shadow. The corpse is a reflection becoming master of the life it reflects—absorbing it, identifying substantively with it by moving it from its use value and from its truth value to something incredible—something neutral which there is no getting used to. And if the cadaver is so similar, it is because it is, at a certain moment, similarity par excellence: altogether similarity, and also nothing more. It is the likeness, like to an absolute degree, overwhelming and marvellous. But what is it like? Nothing.” (Blanchot)

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The Mutilated Subject: The Performances of Raul Zurita, Diamela Eltit and Carlos Leppe

by on Sep.06, 2013


I am reading a book, Corpus Delecti, about performance art in Latin America, and I found Nelly Richards’ essay, “Performances of the Chilean avanzda” particularly useful. It is a study of Raul Zurita, Diamela Eltit (to whom Zurita dedicated Purgatorio), CADA the performance group they belonged to) and Carlos Leppe. Zurita’s poetry (and the accompanying stunts, various acts of auto-mutilation for example) has influenced my own thinking about art’s relationship to the body and to violence. And I thought this essay insightful so I’ll quote a bit from it:

“The body is the stage on which this division primarily leaves its mark. It is the meeting place of the individual (or one’s biography and unconscious) and the collective (or programming of hte roles of identity according to the norms of social discipline). That is why its utilizationas a support for art practice entails the dismantling of the ideological use of hte body as a vehicle for images or representation of the ritual of day-to-day living, as material bearer of the means of social reproduction and the models of sexual domination.”

“Whereas Leppe postulated the body as a game of appearances and reinvented its image by maneuvering its external signifiers, Zurita and Eltit promoted the body’s “concrete substance of pain” in acts of resignation and self-denial. Their various mortifications of the body signaled a type of subjectivity modeled on sacrifice or martyrdom. Raul Zurita burned hsi face (1975) or attmepted to blind himself (1980). Diamela Eltit cut and burned herself and then turned up at a brotherl where she read part of her novel (1980). By inflicting these emblems of the wounded body upon themselves, Zurita and Eltit appealed to pain as a way of approachign that borderline between individual and collective experience: their self-punishment merges with an “us” that is both redeemer and redeemed. The threshold of pain enabled the mutilated subject to enter areas of collective identification, sharing in one’s own flesh the same signs of social disadvantage as the the other unfortunates. Voluntary pain simply legitimates one’s incorporation into the community of those who have been harmed in some way – as if the self-inflicted marks of chastisement in the artist’s body and the marks of suffering in the national body, as if pain and its subject, could unite in the same scar.

There were two models of body art which influenced the Chilean art scene: the boy of Leppe, who stimulated the sexual categorization of identity in order to denounce it or interchange its signs, and the stigmatized body of Zurita and Eltit, who used pain in order to recapture the communal body of suffering. These bodies organized or even opposed two kinds of discourse regarding the ideological maneuvers that each favored or rejected: Leppe’s materialistic body, or the theater in which the fiction of hte body is dismantled, and the utopian body of Zurita and Eltit, whose sacrificial scars evoke the humanism… on which the metaphysics of identity depends…”
Obviously this is a small excerpt from an entire book, but I find it interesting to think about in terms of Mark Seltzer’s wound culture (which is according to him a sign of the pathological state of our capitalist country, in Zurita the wounded body is perhaps even more dire); Jacqueline Rose’s argument that the criticism of Plath for her holocaust imagery is really about an opposition to metaphor (you have to have been in the holocaust to write that corpse-body) (and in fact Zurita has – like Plath – been accused of megalomania etc); and in terms of all my other preoccupation with violence, the body and art.

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