kagablog

jaap hoogstra in the dead man 2: return of the dead man

outside the window the snow of oblivion falls. the sky is steel and the canals (grachten) are frozen shut. the children play on the frozen surfaces. amid the ritual of total destruction, based upon the blinding light of death, our verdict comes too gently. like an innocent-looking letter bomb that announces our execution when we open it to read its message. such is the harvest of this perverted heaven.

in this hazy twilight i am reading bataille’s diary concerning the departure of his beloved laure, whose slow death the year before still torments him, and whose ghost still haunts him. this is bataille without his “blue of noon”, stripped naked in other words, with knives in his fists plunging into the wild interpretation of the senses.

“Standing in front of her grave i was so overcome with pain and sorrow that I held myself in my own arms without knowing why: at this very moment, I felt as if I had split in two and was strangling her … suddenly a terrible softness gripped me just like when the obstacles separating two people disappear.”
(September 14, 1939)

We are told by Bataille that this is a document “violently dominated by tears and death”. Indeed it is a sanguine manuscript haf-strangeld (by convulsions, gaps, lapses, amputated sentences and crossed-out passages) as he reveals what language cannot and will never be able to reveal as it approaches the unintelligible. It is the mute universum of death versus the particularism of a man who has made a crystal ball of his perversions and who has branded them into his chest.

As we read these desperate plots to kill his already dead wife we can compare this intrigue to that of a performance. Isn’t a performance a beckoning to the mirror of the dead in order to shed off the forgotten unforgotten? The performance work of Zyklus, for examle, is an evocation of past sequences as inhuman remedies for a time which speaks too much.

Let me tell you something: everything that has ever worked in our performances - every tiny shimmer, glistening wound or “terrible softness” - occured not by design but by the hand of the dead.

And this also means that every enemy atmosphere, dull event or entertaining imagery was a failure of our being able to breathe with the dead.

“On the threshold of glory,
I found death masquerading as nudity,
Complete with Garters and black silk
stockings.
Whoever met anything more human,
Whoever tolerated a more terrible fury?
Yet this fury took me by the hand, and took me
into hell.”
(June 3, 1940)

This “resurrection work” of Zyklus (which are unearthings of such obscure angels, death rattles and sudden rays of light) is akin to Bataille in that we both believe in a hiatus, an opening to the holy (transgressive) touch of death. Here we find that the only medicine for the fever of possession is an eclipse of the reason/speech object and “placing it in the shadow of the reality it expresses”. In other words a desire to asphyxiate the modern reality in order to unsmother its message, and to allow death to become the center of that which is never a whole. We conclude with a vision of the thunderous volume in the shudder of the alphasiac touch…

ZYKLUS/Le Chien 25/2/94

DYE HARD PRESS
 
is proud to announce
the publication of
 
GREEN DRAGON #4
                ISBN: 0-620-36817-9              
 
 
 
This issue of Green Dragon contains poetry and prose by Goodenough Mashego, Michelle McGrane, Colleen Higgs, Philip Hammial, Allan Kolski Horwitz, Mxolisi Nyezwa, Amanda van Rooyen, Liesl Jobson, Les Merton, Lionel Murcott, Valery Oisteanu, Makhosazana Xaba, Kobus Moolman, Aryan Kaganof, Joop Bersee, Haidee Kruger, Gus Ferguson, Bernat Kruger, Tania van Schalkwyk, Alan Finlay, Richard Fox, Arja Salafranca, Silke Heiss and Gary Cummiskey.

Will be available at bookstores countrywide, estimated retail cost R90.00.

Can be purchased at R65 per copy (including postage) directly from Dye Hard Press, PO Box 783211, Sandton 2146. Cheques to be made payable to Dye Hard Press. 

Dead Man 2: The Return Of The Dead Man
Niederlande, 1994, Ian Kerkhof

STIMMEN ZUM FILM:

‘’Zwei Schwule sind zu sehen, in einem fäkalen, schmutzig-körnigen Schwarz-Weiss; der eine befriedigt den anderen mit dem Mund, ihre Kleidung ist mit einem nicht zu beschreibenden Zeug besudelt: wohl gut, dass es kein Geruchsfernsehen gibt…Der eine bittet den anderen mehrfach, während sein rechter Arm heftige Vor- und Zurückbewegungen an einem bestimmten Körperteil beschreibt: ‘’GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING PUKE, MAN!'’, worauf der andere sofort den Finger in den Mund steckt. Anscheinend hat der Bittende grossen Durst, der dann auch tatsächlich gestillt wird…Wem bei dieser Szene nicht der sprichwörtliche Bissen aus dem Mund wieder auf den Teller zurückfällt, den kann wirklich nichts mehr erschüttern!

An diese Eingangssequenz schliesst sich ein seltsames Barambiente an: ein alter Mann kommt langsam herein, mit einem vollkommen aufgelösten und unsteten Gesichtsausdruck: Dieser Mann sucht etwas. Und er findet es schliesslich auch, in Form einer fetten Dame, die ihm am Ende des Films eine kräftige ‘’goldene Dusche'’ von oben verpasst, die er sehr zu geniessen scheint.

Aufdringlich hört man als Tonspur die ‘’industrielle Musik'’ des japanischen Komponisten Merzbow, die sich anhört, als stünde man einfach mitten in einem ca. eine Milliarde Exemplare umfassenden Heuschreckenschwarm: Die Seh- und Hörgrenzen werden ad absurdum geführt.

Dieses Stück Experimentalkino muss man wirklich gesehen haben, um es zu glauben! Es bringt dich zum Kotzen und stellt gleichzeitig die Grenzen der Wahrnehmung in Frage! Entweder waren hier Genies am Werk oder völlig Verrückte, etwas dazwischen gibt es bei diesem Film nicht!
THE DEAD MAN 2 stellt übrigens den Abschlussfilm Kerkhofs an der holländischen Filmakademie dar!'’

Naja…zu Dead Man 2

Was soll das sein?!? Der Regisseur hat sich hier wohl grässlichst vertan!
Sol wahrscheinlich so ne Art Kunstfilm sein!

Laut der Beschreibubg isses ein Schwulenporno!
Kriegt man in jeder Videothek!
Und dann wird so ein Typ ein Golden Shower Gladiator unter ner fetten Frau!
Gibts ebenfalls in der Videothek!

was an diesem Film sooooo krass sein soll, ich weiß es nicht!
Jedenfalls brauch ich weder Homoszenen noch Pipispiele um geschockt zu sein!

Hierzu finde ich Slaughtered Vomit Dolls schon fast pädagogisch wertvoll!
Dave999
Master of Disharmony

Zitat von Dave999 Beitrag anzeigen
Naja…zu Dead Man 2

Laut der Beschreibubg isses ein Schwulenporno!
Kriegt man in jeder Videothek!
Und dann wird so ein Typ ein Golden Shower Gladiator unter ner fetten Frau!
Gibts ebenfalls in der Videothek!
HAL9000 ² Dave (Verneigung vor Kubrick’s 2001 Odyssee im Weltraum):

bis auf das faktum dass ich hier keinen film bringe der in jedem videoladen in der pornoecke auf seinem ausleiher wartet, ist alles diskutabel!

LG
TheSilversurfer
In Action On Board

this page about the dead man 2: return of the dead man was originally published here

Or, “dreary trammel of bring”

——————————————————————————————————-

There are two secluded clearings in the Southern woods. Meeting a person at a security checkpoint might work if “They Can’t Get Past It” month. The base at Ada, Oklahoma is still very active.

The recent floods are able to remain in one central location and complete all daily Frangs… (and that might have been rather rude, so I skipped it)… One is of great mountains, but where and what the spell is, the rumors don’t stay.

“Real estate in a Florida MOO. You will drop sculpting and take.”

Dragged… from my reverie of watching the passive screen to the superiority of the counsellor… which often renders counsel.

Quite possibly revolve around in the future, though the computer who has information for us simply contributes it: whether he has a subscription.

Seven centuries elapsed before the next notice is found. Has been akin to the experience of buying a Volkswagen, and then probably for the benefit of others who look most like whoever’s argument about whether the payment should be two cents or a nickel!

Alien situation was directly linked to this nuclear war.

Prophecy: “In truth, the world.” But is the human race mature enough to control it?

“The The computer as creative tool dematerializes the process of individual’s foot. One of a kind shoes each with their own. The cyberworld and computer-created information obviously have a meta medium. In other words, with a computer you can create of many approaches to looking at things.”

“Go see the movie Slacker.”

“The once arduous task of utilizing their drafting and drawing 1985 boom in dish sales had simply petered out, and MacDougall Electronics, in…”

…

..

.

I made my exit so I could bring myself back together.

Tolerance.

Billions of people worldwide.

And the eaglets, as yet unfledged!

We certainly may be able to.

Fanned the spark into a flame.

“An absolutely fantastic memory and a mystic rapport with his treasures!

He will message!” [Showtime/Movie Channel beware!]

Was misunderstood and got him into a look. This kind of rigid template is an open invitation to…

–ORIGINAL TEXT OF ELECTRONIC MAIL RECEIVED BY ME. PUNCTUATION AND FORMATTING ADDED–

 
The next day, Friday, he arose from his bed at the Young Men’s Christian Association with no clear plan of action set out in his head. A decision was necessary but thought-block and perplexity were interfering with the important task at hand. He emerged from the decrepit building onto the pavement and crossed the road, half of which had just been scrubbed and washed by the water cart. As he proceeded to the corner of Shortmarket Street, having passed the intoxicating aromas from the Coffee Shop and C Jones Tobacconist, he was astounded by the apparition of a subterranean rodent, the size of a small cat, emerging from a grating at the curbside. It hopped up onto the pavement and turned the corner. He followed it as, without haste, it trotted some five paces ahead of him towards Greenmarket Square. Cheeky blighter, he thought, where does he think he’s off to? One of Frikkie’s jokes sprang to mind. Teacher is doing the alphabet and the kids must provide a word starting with a letter she points to. Johnny is very keen, has his hand up all the time, but she knows he’s a foul-mouthed little bugger. Racks her brains and keeps passing him over. Then at R she can’t think of anything obscene. Alright Johnny, a word beginning with R. Johnny: Rats, Miss. Fuckin’ big rats. Henry chuckled to himself. Certainly this was a fuckin’ big rat. Must be Rattus norwegicus, the Norway rat, aka wharf rat, aka sewer rat. Witherspoon had often entertained him with fascinating information about these active and adaptive creatures. It must have been close on a foot in length from base of tail to pointed nose, and the obscenely naked tail was almost as long again. He could see the spiky whiskers and beady eyes. Its grey-brown fur was wet and lank and he caught the whiff of watered-down human excrement. He knew them to be transmitters of at least twenty diseases, notably bubonic plague, the Black Death. As he watched its unconcern, its aggressive boldness, he began to feel a mixture of dread and revulsion. At Burg Street it scooted across the road, halted and looked back, as if waiting for him. Then it suddenly changed direction, ran diagonally across Shortmarket, up the three grand steps, and disappeared through the entrance doors of the Commercial Union Assurance Company.

 
 
He stopped dead on the pavement. Good God! This was THE SIGN. God damn it, it was as if Braithwaite had engineered it. But what did it mean? It was like the stupid, superstitious significance people placed on the haphazard wanderings of black cats. There was no clear meaning. He hurried across the road and entered the foyer. There was no trace of Rattus norwegicus but, waiting in the General Office, was a close relative, the Chief Clerk.
 
 
>> See the full text and illustrations at henryfuckit.com, and check out Henry’s blog at www.myspace.com/henryfuckit.

Give the beautiful ones mirrors,
and let them fall in love with themselves.

That way they polish their souls
and kindle remembering in others

rumi

Michelle McGrane reviews Uselessly by Aryan Kaganof
Jacana ISBN 1-77009-100-9

buy uselessly now (in south africa) (in united kingdom)

All things are delivered unto me of my Father:
and no man knoweth the Son, but the Father;
neither knoweth any man the Father, save the
Son.
- Matthew 11:27

Often the subject of controversy, artist and visionary Aryan Kaganof has abundant energy and enthusiasm. He works constantly at interpreting creative processes and developing a new language of art. Kaganof defies categorisation, living creatively, devoting his skills to absorbing the world around him and transmuting what he touches into the unusual and revolutionary.

Uselessly, Kaganof’s most recent novel and his first to be published by Jacana, takes the form of a collection of letters to God. As once might expect from a multi-media artist, the humorous, idiosyncratic cover is imaginative and visually appealing. The book comes with recommendations from both God and the Devil.

Dear God, Sorry I haven’t written for so long. It’s been a bad time. I’ve been hurting inside and I just couldn’t put pen to paper. I hope you’ve been okay. I noticed some world wars and stuff. Guess you’ve been busy enough. Had your own shit to take care of without worrying about mine.

The letter writer and protagonist, J J (James Joyce) Uselessly, is born in the South Rand Hospital, Johannesburg, in 1964. He is the illegitmate son of Daphne Nobody, The Sinner Lady, and Harry Uselessly, The Devil. His aptly named mother plays a far from nurturing role, while his father flees the scene before his birth when Daphne refuses to have an abortion.

Like Kaganof himself, Uselessly Jnr. leaves South Africa as a young man to avoid conscription into the apartheid army. We find him aged thirty-five in Amsterdam, indulging his considerable hash habit and penchant for the feet of very young girls, while sending out begging letters to fund his louche lifestyle. That is, until a letter arrives postmarked Sea Point, Cape Town, from his estranged father’s girlfriend, S Cohen. It is a letter which is to change the course of his life.

Harry Uselessly is recovering from the removal of a malignant Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, the “ultimate status symbol” in cancer circles. Uselessly Jnr. takes up an invitation to stay in Cape Town, returning to the country of his birth, both native and foreigner, to spend time with the father he has never known. It becomes apparent that the journey he has embarked upon is more internal than geographical as the novel focuses on the intricacies of a developing emotional involvement between father and son. Through this unexpected connection and the establishment of a paternal bond, Uselessly Jnr. discovers his true identity.

Uselessly Senior is a “shrivelled-up old Jewish man whose brush with cancer has cost him thirty kilos.” Sixty-nine year old Harry is a marvellous paradox. He is an irresponsible, self-absorbed miser, but also a charming Libran with a wonderful sense of humour and frequently unconventional, sage advice for his son. The eccentric old man exhibits an unconstrained zest for life and this, along with the dignity and lack of self-pity with which he faces his illness and consequent chemotherapy treatment, make him hard to dislike.

J J’s letters to God include evocative childhood reminiscences, hard-won insights from lived experience, poetry, philosophy and instances of keenly observed social hypocrisy. Under his unflinching gaze, sometimes abrasive exterior and the shock value of misogynistic sentiments such as “if the bitch is old enough to bleed she’s old enough to butcher”, he is an essentially likeable and profoundly sensitive protagonist. “I’m not a nihilist. I’m not a cynic. I just don’t believe in bullshit anymore,” Uselessly writes in his opening letter. In a later missive he writes: “Finding my dad has made me happy. I never felt this happy before … When I laugh I cry, and I don’t need to cry any more unless I’m laughing. I love you Dad. I love you.” It is in this novel, perhaps more than in any other of his works, that the author reveals his own complex psyche, vulnerability and personal ambivalence.

In an essay entitled “Politics and the English Language”, George Orwell offered the following rules for good English: “Never use a long word where a short one will do. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.” Kaganof’s writing is an example of precise, economical prose. Although Uselessly is written in a non-linear fashion, shifting between past and present, his deceptively simple writing style and colloquial tone make for easy, compelling reading. Short sentences are delivered with intelligence, originality and conviction within the paradigms of an engaging and morally complex book.

Uselessly is challenging, funny, mystical, tough and touching. Kaganof has created a courageous and unapologetic portrait of the relationship between a father and son in a story about freedom and the redemptive power of laughter and love. An inimitable novel by an agent provocateur, put this book on your reading list. Even go out and buy it now.

this review first appearred in green dragon #4

jeremy nathan, dionysos andronis and aryan kaganof, paris, august 2006

“When I die I would ask of you one favor: you will play me a tune to…”

So I became mesmerized by the sounds of talk radio, and we drove in circles.

“A lion demanded the daughter of a woodcutter in marriage…” - the

representation in painting, drawing, sculpture, whatever, but

either still burning or hissing to ruin in puddles of champagne.

Annie still held some, and it was still burning.

“He actually had needed.”

He smelled wet horse as it was led into the forge, hooves clattering on the stones.

(photo natalie payne)

i did catch the last performance of the shooting gallery on sunday afternoon. once again, i really enjoyed it. and on the second time, james webb’s sound design was much more apparent to me. there was a wonderfully “brechtian” moment at the end of the performance. just after catherine henegan, aryan kaganof, and the black poet (mac manaka) had sped off-stage and out of the theatre in the merc, a middle aged white couple appeared in the brightly lit doorway. they peered into the darkness of the auditorium, conferred ernestly between themselves, and then walked in and took their seats in the front row. it seems they were lost and trying to find some other performance, but there was that moment when they could have been the coda to the shooting gallery.

beste
christo doherty