the dead man 2: return of the dead man has finally been released commercially as part of the l’etrange festival’s first anthology. 13 extraordinary short films curated by gilles boulanger and frederic temps the co-directors of the l’etrange festival.
click here to order your dvd.
djeff babcock, gerard riksen and grace de la luna (zyklus) 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
jaap hoogstra and caroline sabin in the dead man 2: return of the dead man
jaap hoogstra * the dead man
caroline sabin * marie
monique bouwer * madame edwarda
jack wouterse * taxi driver
david calderhead * dead barman
martin van der logt * scat bottom
ralph marsault * scat top
djeff babcock * dead flute player
gerard riksen * dead accordeon player
grace de la luna * dead violin player
toos wierks * dead tango dancer
jan brouwer * dead tango dancer
nick leslie * dead devil 1
dennis menard * dead devil 2
allard dubbeldam * dead devil 3
bob dood * dead devil 4
jan willem winter * dead devil 5
ton huybregtse * dead devil 6
joe hennes * zombie 1
peter howe * zombie 2
alan principal * zombie 3
tom galloway * zombie 4
perry nardone * zombie 5
maria van de blom * bar regular
not used in the final cut
adrian brine * psychiatrist
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.
(photo eran tahor)
The Hanged Man is every hero committed enough to the adventure to die for it.
Basic Card Symbols
A man hanging by one foot from a Tau cross - sometimes from a bar or tree. His free leg is always bent to form a “4,” his face is always peaceful, never suffering. Sometimes his hands are bound, sometimes they dangle. Sometimes coins fall out of his pockets or hands.
Basic Tarot Story
The Fool settles beneath a tree, intent on finding his spiritual self. There he stays for nine days, without eating, barely moving. People pass by him, animals, clouds, the wind, the rain, the stars, sun and moon. On the ninth day, with no conscious thought of why, he climbs a branch and dangles upside down like a child, giving up for a moment, all that he is, wants, knows or cares about. Coins fall from his pockets and as he gazes down on them - seeing them not as money but only as round bits of metal - everything suddenly changes perspective. It is as if he’s hanging between the mundane world and the spiritual world, able to see both. It is a dazzling moment, dreamlike yet crystal clear. Connections he never understood before are made, mysteries are revealed.
But timeless as this moment of clarity seems, he realizes that it will not last. Very soon, he must right himself, and when he does, things will be different. He will have to act on what he’s learned. For now, however, he just hangs, weightless as if underwater, observing, absorbing, seeing.
Basic Tarot Meaning
With Neptune (or Water) as its planet, the Hanged Man is perhaps the most fascinating card in the deck. It reflects the story of Odin who offered himself as a sacrifice in order to gain knowledge. Hanging from the world tree, wounded by a spear, given no bread or mead, he hung for nine days. On the last day, he saw on the ground runes that had fallen from the tree, understood their meaning, and, coming down, scooped them up for his own. All knowledge is to be found in these runes.
The Hanged Man, in similar fashion, is a card about suspension, not life or death. This is a time of trial or meditation, selflessness, sacrifice, prophecy. The Querent stops resisting; instead he makes himself vulnerable, sacrifices his position or opposition, and in doing so, gains illumination. Answers that eluded him come clear, solutions to problems are found. He sees the world differently, has almost mystical insights. This card can also imply a time when everything just stands still, a time of rest and reflection before moving on. Things will continue on in a moment, but for now, they float, timeless.
Thirteen’s Observations
Neptune is spirituality, dreams, psychic abilities, and the Hanged Man is afloat in these. He is also 12, the opposite of the World card, 21. With the World card you go infinitely out. With the Hanged Man, you go infinitely in.
This card signifies a time of insight so deep that, for a moment, nothing but that insight exists. All Tarot readers have such moments when we see, with absolute clarity, the whole picture, the entire message offered by a spread. The Hanged Man symbolizes such moments of suspension between physical and mystical worlds. Such moments don’t last, and they usually require some kind of sacrifice. Sacrifice of a belief or perspective, a wish, dream, hope, money, time or even selfhood. In order to gain, you must give. Sometimes you need to sacrifice cherished positions, open yourself to other truths, other perspectives in order to find solutions, in order to bring about change. One thing is certain, whether the insight is great or small, spiritual or mundane, once you have been the Hanged Man you never see things quite the same.
ian kerkhof * script and director (based on le mort and madame edwarda by georges bataille)
ben van os * art director
merzbow * original music score
hans kemna * casting
rolf laimbock * producer (for the nfvf)
martijn van beenen * director of photography
mark du plesis * lighting design
iris sikking * editor
jeroen philips * sound mix
elsbeth dijkstra * assistant director
goffe struiksma * stills photographer
dien verstraalen * costumes
yvette van boven * wardrobe
nancy d’ancona * makeup (devils and dead)
siu ming * makeup (madame edwarda)
suzanne welters * makeup (zyklus)
rinie jansen * sound recordist
martin broeckhoven * grip
constance de vos * art department
joost van herwijnen * camera assistent
onno perdijk * crane grip
ruud * scat scene camera
rene bruinoog * colour timer
bert hup * set dresser
bataille: all his writings are cut-up by oblivion, discontinuity and incompletion.
what the film must not be is an attempt to film bataille. not an adaptation. nor “based on” bataille. images must not be literal translations of scenes in his fiction. this film in shards and splinters. this film must rage incoherently.
the fertility of a film (this film) is its inachievement, its premature termination, its inconclusiveness. such a film is always too brief, and instead of a draining aesthetic attachment there is the sting.
a bricolage. this film plunders bataille.
“It is not the taste or smell of death that i seek, but its sight.”
Gilles de Rais
the whiteness
of the sea
and the paleness of the light
concealed the bones
stories celebrate life, poetry exults in death. wherever a story disintegrates into pain and confusion poetry begins, and whatever stinks of imperfection crawling crippled out of a howl is a poem.
only when human relationships collapse in darkness and pain is there worth. between her and me there was never anything possible.
nick land
the thirst for annihilation
georges bataille and virulent nihilism
1992
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.
