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Airborne…in a rant…

The song Brazilian Praise is the best song ever. It reminds one of motor boats, the metropolis, in it’s crowed latin rhythms, but in it’s horns and it’s vocals, it’s more like a tropical beach, always presenting a warm face, with blue waters and golden sunshine. Sails, cocktails on the deck, tans, the colors of the alcohol. Which meant that this boat moved fast, but it didn’t move that fast.

It’s the worlds most infectious elevator music, and you might like it too. And I’m greatly overjoyed to have encountered it. There’s a strange place where tropical music meets video games. I can definitely associate the relationship with reptiles and monkeys. Mario and the turtles, the underwater levels, as well as some of the above ground ones, some even in Egyptian like settings, and there’s no doubt that the beachside races in Mario kart didn’t end up in some afterparty where Toad was slamming rum on the beach. The tropical jams, have been around us for a while. Even sonic the hedgehog seemed to have a tropical ambiance, with the palm trees in the background. Yes, there is such a thing as the palm tree conspiracy, where life is a beach with music and some kind of adventure.

Notice how there was never a tropical theme to the music in Contra? Ever wonder why? There was no beach. They fought through jungles infested with aliens, and the enemy had no knowledge of tropical beach shenanigans on a summer night. This is why they were the alien, they couldn’t relate to the alcohol and the sex. They couldn’t hang with the bright sunshine and other shit. Castlevania too. No tropical theme there. Probably plenty of sex. Although, I can’t remember whether the protagonist was after a chick. The point of Contra? There’s no chick. It’s not like they beat up every one of those aliens and get a chick at the end, they get some power-ups in a silver box. Would they go all the way out there to beat up aliens for the earth, where the tropical beaches promised sex and alcohol? I hope so. Maybe there was money involved, who knows? BUT, moving on, aliens don’t like beaches. I’ve never seen an alien planet with cool aliens that had a beach pm it. Maybe those aliens that look goofy with big eyes and kind of like a tall, skinny, booger. Maybe they had beaches and just sat down and looked at the stars, but I doubt they had palm trees.

That’s the end of the story.

What did the five fingers say to the face?

Palm tree!



Fuck you, James Wood. (Any any spelling errors in this post)


The literary complaints section – (File under, speaking freely, for whatever reason)




1.) In Austerlitz, the “10th Anniversary Edition” have starts out with one of those quaint introductions that’s crossing literary post-modern-ism with the holocaust.  “Yuppie”-kai-yay mother fuckers.  I’m so tired of that bullshit it makes me want to puke.  Yes, I love post-modern thought, yes, the drama and history of the holocaust is immense, but really, did you have to give up the fucking ghost and a central point of Austerlitz before the book even starts?  What a fucking buzzkill.  This asshole, James Wood, just wrote this fucking introduction just to put his greedy grubby hands on the alliterated adumbrations of Austerlitz and Auschwitz. You know, it’s not so far a logical leap, mother fucker, that we need your shitty introduction to literally spell it out.  So next time please take a seat at the back of the work and just write an afterword, please.  I was seriously pissed at James’ aping of Sebald in order to explain him. I was hoping in fact that the introduction might be a piece of faux-narration setting the stage for the mise-en-abyme fictionalizing of non-fiction, so-called “Borgesian” stylization that he’s so famous for.  Nope, I get a fucking mechanical, academic posturing jizz-fest instead.  Fuck you, James Wood.  But thank you for giving me the joy of saying, Fuck You, James Wood.  Wood, as in penis, like “woody” or “stuffy.”  And James, as in Jim, like Slim Jims.  Or, Lou Reed’s Jim-Jims.  Yeah.  Fuck you, James Wood.

P.S.  I’m really seriously jealous was able channel Sebald so well. ;P

Jacques Rivette’s Celine and Julie Go Boating

A wild ride down the river you say? “…Go boating?” not until the end. But what does happen along the way, is that mirror personalities, parallel haunted dimensions, time travel, and French voodoo are all par for the course, leaving the viewer at the end of the film….


It’s an adventure that provokes more questions than it answers, but leaves us with the friendship between the two main characters, Celine and Julie, connected. The two of them their own mirror world in itself, from which they go and take on zombie ghosts of the past.  Their physical games, slapstick humor, name calling, and care for one another form the bedrock of what can be observed between them.

Maybe that’s all our lives, all our friendships, in some way a challenge to defeat the zombies holding our inner child hostage. And it seems Celine and Julie successful, in the end, watching those zombies frozen somehow in their own come back for revenge once more, and journeying on to combat them again…

The constant interplay of their lives, mingling as friends with one another, and finally, mingling with inter-dimensional space leave the viewer exiting the theater looking for the odd man behind the corner.

The movie itself can be said to accelerate the senses, to bring up that which was unnoticed just a moment ago…having had space, time, and personality twisted in and throughout the protagonist, to have been watched by them, in the end, that normal linear experience is an easy task for the brain.

The funny thing established in this film, is the visceral sense of their relationship. I’ve seen those mannerisms before, removed, in places far away from the theater. Those of Celine and Julie, giddy, happy, extroverted and slightly maniacal French young ladies. The laughter, the exuberance, the good-natured sabotage only French women would so gleefully tolerate and retort on. Life for these two does seem to be a game. And maybe this is why they are the most apt to rescue the young girl held hostage by the zombies. Her playful young heart is their truth, and they hers.

…After exiting the theater, colors felt brighter, moments slower, and every entry and exit of the people nearby somehow slowed down, poignant, and filled with meaning, something mysterious, something odd, maybe beautiful.  Each motion something special and patiently waited for.

Jim Jarmouch, perhaps found this formula something to take from.  This movie indeed, reminds me of The Limits of Control.  The overall patience with which the camera waits though, here, is much more natural, much more spacious, and much more joyous.  Joie de vivre, in cinema.

The everything and anything, and again…the new is here.

The new is here.

It’s here in many places, and first of all, I’d like to say, it’s in my damn daily life.  Stopping by the Pine Box in Seattle I was able to enjoy some of the good sounds of LCD Soundsystem underneath the loud, clamorous din of discussion.

Maybe, that’s about what I’ll be able to establish here in a while.  But, it will take a moment.  Time, repetition, all the things that many rhetoricians talk about – moving in logical succession in order to create a feeling of natural sensation.  One that resonates within the reader, within the experience itself.

Being at the Pine Box I was there, because I had been pointed there by a small roadside sign, but also, because a friend had told me that Bruce Lee’s wake had been held there.  The two suggestions coming at once led for me to enjoy the experience more than I normally would have allowed myself to.  To think of all the things that the master of the law of action, and the explicit expression that “nothing that you can do that can’t be done” – just like the Beetles say, but only actually done better. They say he was a true original in that sense, he knew he had to work outside the established market system in order to make it in movies. And he did, moving, quickly, aptly, and with grace and skill along the way.

Bruce Lee, I was happy to see that your picture was on the wall. The experience in the Pine Box reminded me that life is both what we are, water, energy, and the shape that is formed by the container of that water.  Change the container, change the water.  Add enough water, and it fills an even greater container.

Just what container we are, well, hopefully, it is a changing one, that evolves.  That moves, that continually holds this energy in a shape that resonates with the rest of the environment, and in some small way, the Truth as well…

Can I be an asshole and say that Tao Lin is the new Bruce Lee?  Of literature, of publishing, of media?  Him and his crazy vagina adumbrating shellfish on his face, reminiscent of Magritte, the  readiness of the digital age, and  more so, a new, hopefully more than just drug using and shocking vision of life.

The greatest hope I would have is that his work is not merely a mocking, but something well thought out and calculated, and if not, then freeform and wild, but not mocking, somehow, there are those that need to be mocked, and maybe that game is being played on a meta level through the action of his publication.

That being said, the mention he had in a recent interview, talking about how he speaks of Schopenhauer suggesting that one should live their life-like a book already written, is interesting.

The book, the one we may boldly postulate to be already written, is the container, and life is the moment through which one may aspire to move into one as such.

Maybe that’s the point, more people should think of this before they’re busily involved with the book that others have written for them, and should start, with their own inventions, their own book, written by them, for them.  I certainly agree.

‘The Radiant Child’ & Fascist Fonts (See ‘Fallout’ for the visual meme)

–”The Radiant Child”

Thoughts after seeing the “movie the radiant child”.

Usually, when I write, I wish to write something good.  Something that looks deeper.  Maybe it’s some American trait, but writing simply for the art of complaining does nothing.  It simply perpetuates what is already bad and vulgar about society.  The thing about writing something bold, is that is should be loud and proud, and as audacious as the statement needs to be.

So, where does complaining change into something more potent?  Where does having a clear and well guided statement bring everything into a much more important message, and smashing the underlying repulsive context?

When it makes a point, when it’s found that one thread of villainous that rides through theme after theme, after work after work.  When it crushes the seedy taint of worthlessness that robs a work of its vitality.

For the most part, ‘The Radiant Child’ was a beautiful movie.  Sound, sights, everything that makes one feel alive and like living art.  For this reason, I tip my hat to it.

All the thoughts that it gives, all the questions about the meaning and value of solitude in a world where everything and everybody is connected.

It seems that there was something very odd about the way that life works in the mind.

All the ambition that a society goes through to have an artist at the top.  Or a top, for artists.

I remember reading something like, “What would we do if the value of a da Vinci was suddenly zero?”

What would we do indeed?

Well, we would certainly do something more…and we would come back there again.

The thoughts, the feelings, the shapes, the words.  The idea that “influence is not influence” it is simply the same idea entering a new mind.  This was a valuable point in the film.

For this alone, it is worth much.

After the film I felt extremely emboldened.  Another Basquiat quote that comes from this film is “Boom for real”.

Boom for real meaning, explode everywhere, take those elements you have and plaster them on the wall, as you like, as you see it, as it needs to be done.  As your breath takes you away.

Is the world so different from the 80s?  Maybe, maybe not.

A drunk man called me a racist the other day.  But, it had the sound of Burroughs.  It went like this:

Racist, patriot.

Is that where we are?
I think not, I think everybody everywhere these days is facing something quite more real.

An annihilation of convenience.  Languages everywhere, disappearing.  Life everywhere becoming the same boring thing, with trains and cars and telephone poles.

The internet, the sounds, the same music videos, all of it somehow all the same bland thing, with the same cultural values everywhere.

You can see the difference between then and now in one video that somehow manages to be everything horribly campy about the “new wave” movement of the 80s and yet cross cultures.
Love Glove, by Visage.
‘What the fuck is he doing in Egypt shaking a glove and shaking it in front of the natives’?

Yes, it’s ridiculous.  And it’s piggish and flaunting and nasty.  But at least there’s no nasty fonts inside of it.

If this is the truth, well, it’s a depraved truth.  Maybe, it’s just an arrogance disguised as truth.  That seems like the more difficult question to answer.

Maybe that’s the point of the war in the Middle East.  That’s the point that many don’t understand, it has to do with money and values.  Not just money, and not just values.

Pretending that it’s one or the other would just be too convenient, for everybody.  So that’s what everybody pretends…

***Money, values, art, life, sex, drugs, rock and roll, hair-styles, fashion, wigs, Warhol-Basquiat vs. Fascist Fonts.***

Seeing Warhol and Basquiat together, their works together, meant that something had been achieved-something at a level of meaning, at a level of aesthetics.  The destruction of the medium of the 1950s trash-heap of Bowling Alley-Ice-Cream-Parlor, Cupcake Betty Crocker-lies fed to every man woman and child until they were old enough for Margaritas.  All the parts of the font collection that Europe and South America and Asia and Africa had chosen to throw away.
The most sterile and Stay-puff marshmallow man fonts you could imagine.  Nothing Noir and nothing Duffy.  Because when I think of the energy that was robbed from America, I just think of the simplistic fonts that represent nothing but fascist-home-cooking.  It’s funny, because fast food, in a way, rebels against it.  Fast food fonts work for you.  They’ve evolved beyond enslaving you to your home.  They are somehow clobbering the beast of the mundane life in a different way.  They are the beast, but they’re not a beast of the spirit.  They’re merely the devil.

The kitch of bad fonts-worse than the devil.  So difficult to name, without experience in typeface it becomes a boor.  But still you can see it’s disgusting spirit hiding in the sugar and the refined flour.
Call her cupcake, then make her one. And then make her eat one.  You eat one too.

The problem with ‘the radiant child’ was just that: the animation in the beginning was fascist.  It was so anti-themical.  The film itself was an homage to Basqiat, but whoever made that animation fell into the same trap of the aesthetics of the “re-vitalized 1950s” that suddenly are so en vogue in places where…….souls are not pushed to the edge.

What was really disgusting, was to see that the radiant child was put on the small screen at the “Northwest Film Forum.”

It should have been in their big theater.  They had this shit “film made for nothing” homage to Godart in the main place.  That film was a waste.  I don’t care how bad it looks, just make it big, and we’ll deal with it.

When you see the Warhol stuff you can see the aesthetics as they moved away from , that whole thing with Roy Lichtenstien, and Ed Ruscha.  They took the status quo and moved it forward by exploding it. Everything from that pop-art world was something that had been zesty once, had lost its flavor, until MSG, speed, coffee, and inspiration could make it live again.

So zesty, salty, even sweet.  And then, with Basquiat and his t-a-p-e d-e-c-k 1980s electro hip-hop literati aesthetic, and everything changes, again.  Everything pushed onto the envelope, everything made more plastick and alive, everything made absolutely loud and free.  Tons and tons of energy.

“immediate content” was another phrase that came to the forefront from the film.  That came from Annina Nosei.  That was a beautiful line.  “His paintings had immediate content.”

That line did indeed make everything beautiful.  It explained the purpose of even the simplest potent work of art versus something that is, for lack of a better term, boring.

Especially when you think about how he let himself go…

But all that comes to the side in the end.When you see what’s been done these days everything they did does look like Da Vinci, Leonardo.

The things these days that mass consumer culture implies: the sterile, the harmless, the false friendliness, the shit-without-the-anal, the simple, the reusable.  (just think of what Fallout 3 mocks in it’s intro)
The most disgusting part of everything that’s ever been designed, put forth anew.
It’s amazing how they can ever do it so badly, but they do.

I saw an ad for hotmail in Seatac the other day.  It promoted hotmail as “the new busy.”
Slaves.  Hotmail is for slaves.  That’s what they’re saying.  When you’re the new busy, get in line, slave.
And when I see their marketing working this way, I see them hunting for nothing but slaves.
Slaves to the god-damn TV, cupcakes, vegan-bacon, the Espn macho aesthetic for nerds.
Why not put the new busy signs as decoration for Les Schwab tire stores?
The aesthetic is complete – black rubber and yellow and red.  Eat popcorn, drink shitty coffee, and drive fast, new-busy.
Sometimes you need a little pressure to keep moving.

The rest of the time every other piece of design is so clean, you wonder how they can manage this tightrope for long.  They design something cleanly, and then they make it as opaque and useless as possible.

“The new busy.”
FUCK the new busy.

The old busy was always busy because they knew they were going to die.

“That’s the best thing about life, keeping busy.”

A quote from Warhol’s “Angels, angels, angels.”  The most disturbing and yet wonderful book of quotes you could imagine.  The whole book might be imagined.  Apparently, the book about him was.

But it was real enough to make people think.  Basquiat did the same.

In essence, outside of some films, and some journalism, nothing makes people think these days.  The aesthetics all do the same thing, they mildly entertain but lack inspiration.

IN-SPIRATION.  Inspiration.  INSPIRATION.  Whispered over, and over, and over in the tiniest and grandest of spaces near and far, echoing in your ear.

Take it where you can.  Smoking cigarettes.  Drinking.  Booze.  Marijuana.  Sex.  Whatever.  It all seems so bland when the background is nothing but this ever-present drone of bad design, bad aesthetics, bad un-original Helvetican monstrosities.  Mind numbing ALL CAPS writing that just screams idiocy.

It is a sad thing that Kubric and Orson Wells are dead.

Everything aping a past which is worse than any of what the “mad men” episodes can imagine.

Most art out there disgustingly nostalgic for worthless pieces of shit.

At least for Warhol and Basquiat they had something radical.  Even Kieth Harring with his odd weird stick figures had something to push for.

Now, everything just seems like sad aping in bad taste.

I feel that is what Basquiat and Warhol were fighting for — the right to be free of bad taste.  The right to be surrounded by energy in it’s truest forms, to be surrounded by creation, by life.  The right to push themselves into new horizons of imagination and bliss.  Not only the right, but the freedom, the liberty, the creation of a life where they could find meaning not because it was fed to them, but because they made it.  Always careful to see what they were really seeing, and always careful to say what they were always saying.

It’s a terrible thing to have good taste around so much bad.  No wonder they both felt used.  Warhol by the commercial establishment and their bad taste, and Basquiat by the ignorant and the politicians.  Bad taste and bad manners.  Always so silly, and so terribly, frighteningly real.

I remember confronting bad taste and bad humor as well.  It’s always such a frightening thing.  Taking the most energy every.  But then in the end, you become used to it, at looking for the cracks where they exist, at ignoring the completely ignorant.  AND, at leaving people room to think for themselves.  It’s a habit, but one that’s hard to cultivate.

Now I think it’s all a balancing act.  Julian Schnabel talked about having the “tools” to deal with success and paranoia and money.  I think he’s right.  It does require tools.  Very real ones, but tools of the mind and heart.

Those of generosity, of faith in the awe of the universe.  Faith, in the awe of life.  Those things will always bring you to good taste.

In this era there is nothing more awe-inspiring than success.  Nothing more awe-inspiring than joy and happiness.   Nothing more awe-inspiring than nature.  And we all still wonder where we came from.

To ponder to think to dream to love.
“Boom for real.” was another quote that came from Basquiat, from the film…

Tear away the clutter.  Tear away the hatred.  The insidious ignorance of the past, present, and future.  Tear away the greed and the stinky, stinky loathing that just turns a party…
into a frown.

There is beauty everywhere.

When I think of this city and the things that make it exciting, the only thing is really the stars.  Here I feel closer to them than I do in many other places, even though, in the city, I only see one or two in the evening.

Those stars, this planet, and the future to be make me very excited.  There is going to be something far beyond all the bad ridiculousness of this age.

Dave Chapelle uses the word ridiculous far to often.  But again, those are the times we live in.


The one place where the Basquiat movie fell to the floor was in the beginning.  With the “Cool Jazz” fonts that were dropped onto the screen in the introduction.  The beginning starts out with everything so slovenly nostalgic–using Jazz as the introduction.
But when you look at any of Basquiat’s paintings, not one letter, not one piece of font is wasted on being nostalgic.  It’s all his own.  He started with words, he used them, he had his own font.


The introduction of his film was nothing but “SAMO”  That’s what SAMO was…

Give me something real, something sensitive, something alive.  Drops of ink with words that are meant to do something to INTENSIFY.

That ink, that paint, that spirit.
The ink, the paint, the spirit.
It all goes so quietly into the night.

It was all beautiful.
And old man and his cigarettes.
A young man and his complaints.

I was happy when I realized I could see the same verve and swish in  Basquiat’s paitnings….as I had seen in those of Raul Duffy.

I guess they were both, “Booming for real.”

Intergalactic FM, and, Orient Express

Now – that was a moment to be heard.  One that restored to full power, my faith in the radio station that once was the CBS – the cybernetic broadcasting system, and is now, Intergalactic FM.

The track Orient Express, a song written for a presumably Italian 70s rock opera, by the remixer-re-recorder’s father.  The track won the contest.  About a 1:100 chance.  But he won.  Based on the votes by the members of the intergalactic collective.  But it was a amazing moment.  For two things, first, the uncanny fact that it won, and the even more uncanny fact that the DJs could not believe the back story on the track, at least, it sounded as if they were checking their own pulse, to make sure that the excitement that they shared in was true.

After 16 hours of on air contest time, and countless more hours spent collecting the first 100 tracks, getting everybody together, the tension was high as to see which one would win.  More refined, smoother, housier, more disco-esque tracks were played, more industrial, more darkened drum-n’-bassy tracks, but none would conquer the elegiac “Orient Express.”  Obviously, the registered listeners and I shared a similar happiness as one posted after the contest was over, *This Reminds me of the old CBS days*

This was indeed, the first, or second, I’m not sure, time the Demo Contest had been held.  Usually it was the new-years count down, which I was not informed of this last year, in fact, I skipped it, because of the sheer pain of missing the old Cybernetic Broadcasting System.  They were gaudy, loud, 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, campy, x-rated, horror-ific, steeped in coffee and fog, druggy, sober, slap-happy and seemingly could shrug off any criticism by simply yelling the word *ROBOT* out loud. They even had a sexy *Robot Player* that danced as you streamed the station.

But they were always, and have always been, reggae-soul-disco-house-techno-italo-fan-tastic.  Too cool for the likes of everybody who wishes for the smooth-over-produced sounds of the clubs, they sampled Star Trek, Taxi Driver, and Scarface, and ride the Netherland-ish line, keeping a sense of chaotic order that can only be described as Cybernetic.

To hear about them and their death/cred, check out

And so, when the Cybernetic Broadcasting System died, a part of me died.  Nothing sustained me but their strange spaced-out ethic, their un-ending tribute to music which can only be classified as that which pushes forward *The drive of life* and their respect for artists on the basis of the context of the times in which their tracks were released, put them close to my heart.  Pure energy.  Plain and simple.  They’d drive you high, space you out, and then keep you going with some deep techno or house, none of it cheezy, unless it was meant to be.  Their rainbow colored “CBS” logo and Dancing Robot gave them the flair of finally taking to the nerds out there the pride of a clandestine liberal politics which was only mysteriously re-enforced by their eclectic and esoteric taste in music.

But more than anything else, it was that driving, perhaps violent sense of humor that made them precious.  To hear a CBS Top 100 year end countdown was to be blessed with a real DJ, playing tracks that, when good, were truly gems that you would never be exposed to without the link of a human, or the CBS.  For all their robot rhetoric, they were commenting more on the medium of sound production — their medium of transmission.  Nonetheless, their sound and live broadcasts were infinitely personal.

Their main DJ, was titled RobotDJX.  What MORE can you ask for!? The pseudo interaction of normal Dj listerer relationships was subverted.  Now, listeners not only had a DJ, they had a super-robot that sounded just like a real DJ.  Their system truly was *systematic*.  This was fun.  Anytime you wanted an escape from the earth bound reality, to the freescapes of Pan-European and Global Listening – centered around something where you found people who wanted more life, out of their beats.  Sometimes they got it wrong and ended up sounding like can openers, for sure, but, for the most part, they were making the party.

Literally, nothing else can give you disco like they do and keep you in the year 20xx.  Rooted firmly in tradition, and in outer space at the same time.

Which, is why 2009 was a fundamentally important demo contest year.  The Sci-fi sybollic importance of the 20-09 years. 2099, 2999.  Hell, even 1999, made it into sci-fi movie titles for a while.  Back before the internet reminded everybody that historically 20 years is a short time span.  Some great apocalypse was bound to happen.  One that would shake the bones of the dead CBS from the Intergalactic FM radio station.  And it did.

In the year 2009, a man from Malta won the contest, on his father’s track, made for a Rock Opera, in the 70s.  Yes, a ghost from the original past to which the CBS, and intergalactic FM, and bring down the house.  Operatic, is indeed a very good way to describe his track, *Oriental Express* which sounds as if it came off of the Vangelis soundtrack, with a little bit more swing inside.

Arriving, back home

this could be the last night on the Orient Express

arriving, back home.

The sound of the locomotive was clearly evinced in the beat and the pacing of the percussion, which, in turn, is where the track so much resembles the soundtrack to Vangelis, on top of this, a trance crescendo from some synth that I cannot as of yet describe, and in the end, it was pure cheese.  But the good kind, that means to be cheese, and bring tears to your eyes.

This track literally rose from the dead – as did the CBS.  Recently, the Cybernetic Broadcasting System was re-instituted as Channel 4 on the Intergalactic FM.  Which, perhaps, was another cosmic sign marking the arrival of more slow, synth, juiciness.  The tension when the moment came, when they felt a winner had been found was wonderful.  Nobody could identify the author of the track.  In fact, he was mis-identified, and then, the tension rose, as during the playback of the winner, the announcement was made that it was not their accountant Hans who had made the track, but soembody else.  Hans was nothing but an impostor, incorrectly given the title of winner by the DJ rude 66.  Neither was it Taro.  And finally, after asking for calls, the winner, called in.  It was Rudi.  And they finally had cheers around the room, when it was found out, that he was from Malta and could be properly identified as the winner.

He had entered another track, “Miami Girl” that had also placed within the top 15.  But the track that used the work of his father, won.  To have this tension, the tension of the false victor claim a prize, even if this was not due to his own circumstances, the drama of the pretender was there.  The lie waiting to be stripped away to reveal the truth!  Ah-ha! Yes!  It is Rudi! From Malta! With this legendary track from the past, to come, and save us, in the future of 2009, to restore what has been taken away, to bring back life, to what had already passed away.  Tears, my fellow listeners, tears, for his triumph, after the demo contest marathon.

And what else is a 16 hour demo contest than a marathon! A great trial, to let us know of the battle waiting to be won.  It is only the beginning.

To the IFM and Rudi! A million thanks!  I can gladly say that the maddening bliss of those post 9-11 days is back in this, 2009, the first post-9-11 year.  Disco will keep terrorists in check.  Have no fear.  The decade of anthems that decry anthems that become anthems to dreams that once were anthems, that still are, is already here.

The Limits of Control – A look.

Well, here we are again, Jim Jarmusch, and me, thinking about the realm of silence.  The only time that you get the absolute stillness of his films, is in a dead body.  And that is what he is looking for. 


Perhaps the only valid criticism of his film “The Limits of Control”, is that despite is reaching for the essence of life through it’s an assertion of it’s negation, is that he only managed to get some of the vibrancy of existence.  If you ever see a corpse, cold from the freezer, painted in gay colors of somebody you have known, then you will know what he is getting at.

What Jarmusch came to tell us is the line, “The one who thinks that he is better than the others, he should go to the cemetery, to see what life is: It is a pile of dirt”.  The easiest connection to this scene, when every time it is mentioned I remember the opposite, the singer in Television’s “Marquee Moon” who says, after visiting the graveyard:

Well, a Cadillac, it pulled out of the graveyard…
Pulled up to me, oh they said, “get in, get in.”
Then this Cadillac, it puttered back into that graveyard,
Me, I got out again.
I’m in the high point of my life,
I feel so impressive,
All this time with the Marquee Moon,
but I ain’t waitin’,

I remember
how the darkness doubled,
I recall
lightning struck itself,
I was listenin, listenin’
to the rain,
I was hearin’, hearin’,
something else……

—Hearing something else.

“Drugs?”  A diva once told me when I told her of this song.  Drugs. Yes, while the song is reminiscent of drugs, maybe there is something else, some silence, some stillness some consistency.  Silence, as spoken of by Batlthus.  Consistency, as spoken of as the basis of the Dao.  Hearing one thing, and it’s shadow too.  Seeing one thing, and dancing blue.

—The main point of this discussion being that indeed, Jarmusch is bringing something to life.  But, his main problem lies in his choice of music.  Dramatic and large, and overbearing at times, it’s meant to inspire the indie-drama of recent years, in it’s most blatant and syrupy form.  A form that was brought about by Radiohead and countless electronic pioneers who work distortion into lounge guitars, horns, with a quasi-bossa feel to them. The music was not bad, but it did not necessarily bring the film to life as it should have, as the flamenco dancer in the film does.

–Yet, what the movie does prove is that death and the underlying sensation of the meaningless and ridiculousness of society does exist, and yet, most journalists are afraid to touch it.  The reviewer from the NY Time’s didn’t mention it, viewers did, but the reviewers didn’t.  Showing that Jarmusch still has the ability to throw a black hood over them, and scare them into their defensive critical mode.

–It was during a search for a review that may was supposed to reconcile my consideration of this film, and how to interpret it’s direct assault on the absolutely typical conclusions made towards daily life, when I found that this ultimately satisfying, yet frustrating aspect of the film was completely ignored.  It is Jarmusch’s most brutal attack on the social ego, and the ego’s only defense was to ignore, or to pretend that the attack never existed.

–Which, is why the beauty of the internet is seen, to show at a moments notice, what I understood internally watching that film.  An exercise in self justification?  No – If time is spend in consideration of the direction of life there really is no more self justification, because what is being justifies transcends mere egotistical existence.  Frustration becomes fuel, bliss, a moments reward for the reaffirmation of a cosmic unity that penetrates all.

–Despite an addiction to information, there is still an intuition, a constancy, upon which it is built, and the longer one practices thinking, this mode becomes accessible.  With so many singular items of information available the forest is easier to see, as is the promise of the internet – shared intelligence.  My joy is, that despite the ways in which information is used badly, the ability of seers and listeners, and feelers to discuss their insight, to conclude that those feelings, intuitions, sensations, are, in the first place, more valuable than the information. 

This is where I feel joy, that people will only re-affirm their intuition.  That it will arise despite any technological uses, and that, now, that technology and information are more prevalent, it should encourage people to feel more.

“réalité est arbitraire! “La vida no vale nada!” says Jarmusch.

Memento mori, say the wise.

Remember your life, we all say, or wish to say, but sometimes, we don’t say it, as we should.  All those moments of alienation, of being separate from body and soul, or feeling nihilistic at the prospect of things which make humans happy.  Love, sex, life.  This is a feeling that exists, but it is a poison.  Jarmusch, in the end, makes one only hope that he is commenting on the poison, not attempting to be the poison of nihilism that is affecting everything right now.  Nihilism
towards capitalism, nihilism towards life, nihilism towards nature and faith, and science, too.

The problem, and the greatest risk of Jarmusch’s film is it’s association to this alienating nihilism.  Of an arbitrary reality, that is arbitrary to the point of madness.  Reality is not arbitrary, and their is consistence in the universe.  If you do not think so, merely watch….anything related to self-organization….as a
principle that hints to the fact that the sum, may be indeed greater than the whole of it’s parts.  Of course it is, that is life.  And the only way to approach it in it’s totality, is through an admission of a lack of control, or an admission, of history.  To divide the world not into arbitrary sections, but to treat is as one, undivided whole.  To see beyond the myth of incremental, developmental increase, to see the entire symphony of life, without separating it in terms that are merely self serving, or convenient.  This is challenge, where interpretation and acceptance, are arbitrary, and those are the terms of life.