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  • mono 5:46 am on April 17, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: america, , joy, , , , , walmart   

    America 

    I am back in America. Trees stretch like paint gobs. The sky is as large as the Walmart that we end up at everyday (to feel stimuli, to be stimulated). You and me. We push the cart past tubs of DVDs, dog food, Milk Bones, baby clothes (bright pink, electric neon), Asian Food (Teriyaki Noodle), Jacked chips, Speedy Checkouts.

    We might park by the lake and take a photo to show others how far a lake can be or what clouds look like when we sit in a car and talk. We are in Michigan. I’ll stop at the Doggie Wash where we can wash the dogs ourselves, but when I enter, no one is there: two tubs, insert bills, spray hose, oatmeal bath. Call Joanne for details.

    The television shows Boston. The television says no one knows why or who or how many and we mourn. Some are dead. Some are limbless. I hear weeping.

    It rained last night, but when I stand in the dusk and walk Butoh steps across the lawn, I feel less wet than the grass tells me I should be.

    Our dog limps. She has stepped on too sharp snow. We have two dogs. One of our dogs was dropped off in Detroit, her kennel left abandoned there by Immigration, by a garage door like that whole place is one large warehouse. Our other dog was driven from Chicago, driven to a Days Inn (thirty hours away from us). I spent two days in the Days Inn and had continental breakfast (biscuits and gravy, cereal, a bagel) while the television spoke of Cuba, of tornadoes, of caution.

    Yes, I’m back in America and this is the wide sky I jump into as I push a cart from the electronic doors of Walmart, past the feed, past the gigantic automobiles and to the corral. I will listen to Scott Walker on the way home. The way home. I like the way that sounds. The way home. I could say that forever. 

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  • mono 10:22 pm on March 19, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: america, , assemblage, , , , haute surveillance, , johannes gorannson, , montedivayo, necropastoral, , novel, , tarpaulin sky   

    Meat Screams: An Attempt at Johannes Gorannson’s Haute Surveillance 

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    prettypuke.com

    “The sound the body makes is akin to the sound toys make when they burn.” I sent a letter to Rudolf Eb.er, infested as I was by his Hate Operation and cut-up, assemblage, shrieks, psycho-acoustic shamanism. He wore meat on his face, a white shirt and black necktie: screaming meat. There were sealed vomit tubs in the closet, an unfinished painting by the bedroom. We listened to a live recording from Taipei, smoked Japanese to death. Pictures of unknown bodies. Pictures of the insides of bodies. My autopsies went unanswered–that defenestration from Austria, somewhere in Osaka (not the Overlook or the Shining Mansion on the Hill).

    “This novel is written like a fashion show dedicated to the rioted body.” For a noise act in Tokyo, I took a cheap white shirt, a shirt and smeared it–dirtied it red, made it better. The photographs that were taken on the were tinted in the screams and shrieks, moans and anti-language of the foreigner. It yellowed and hardened until it turned fashion. Lesson: sometimes the body can be tearing apart a fish with contact mics, a folk loop.  

    “The erotics of writing reminds me of the needle on a record player.” A needle scrapes vinyl, a radio broadcast in a foreign language. There are blurred faces, the way a woman undresses in a hotel room, you are always woman. David Lynch practices Transcendental Meditation. I have heard that in Iowa or Indiana there are people who float, people who meditate until they float as if the body, numbed by transcendence, becomes lighter, becomes Nothing. The final scene of Takashi Miike’s Audition is the slow torture of a producer who is needled numb and sawed to a state of anti-levitation. I remember being fascinated by this scene. Years later I would buy Inland Empire at Walmart.

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    “Language is like candy. It rots my teeth. It makes me spazzy.” E.M. Cioran quipped something like: “Writing in a foreign language is like writing a love letter with a dictionary.” I was a mute foreigner, unpredictable as outsider. One who knows how to screw a fork. There are areas in Tokyo, in Seoul, in Beijing where foreigners are allowed to be foreign, allowed to tongue foreign, act foreign: needles, erotics, vomit. These are the areas where we grind chains in underground cabarets, McDonalds drunk with military officers, a man who said, “as an American, it is my duty to protect you.”

    “I want us all to wear kimonos. And sharp words.” The kimono as corset, how it flattened the breasts, restricted the gait in a way that made women walk slow, walk in hare-steps, small steps like floating worlds. This was a point of sexual interest for men. I received the male version of a kimono, the yukata, from a friend in Kyoto whose Japanese was too much the birth of who I would become.

    “In B-movies the human body becomes more beautiful and less a subject.” Even a gaze, a transformation. Sherilyn Fenn losing her limbs in front of the Warlock’s mansion. I will keep you here to look how things look from where I see them. You can see them, too.

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    “You were in the house, on your knees, in a state of wild terror.” It is a rocking chair and the way the face comes stubbled. Maybe it’s Isabella, my meat grinder, white stripped to the neck, covering neck, but this is not Japan–it’s Berlin. She shrieks in a tunnel, murders detectives in the apartment and all for the monster, all for the lack of her being able to feel.

    “Go to Los Angeles, go to Los Angeles.” A friend of mine speaks of the feeling of Los Angeles as everything. I watched Mulholland Drive in Kichijoji. They brought concert-sized speakers to the theater. As the sedan crashed over a Los Angeles skyline, I heard American noise. I caught a slice as if I were other and America from where I was sitting was a fiery wreck of charred bodies, sexual blood, and a beautiful starlet wandering dazed down the hill back into the filthy light.

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  • mono 12:24 pm on March 18, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: america, , blogging, , , , , return, thank you, update,   

    Thank you, Readers: We’re Back 

    I want to thank everyone for the comments throughout the last three years, for reading, and, hopefully, for growing in meaningful ways. The Eyeslit-Crypt fell by the wayside as my life in Beijing unfolded–Wordpress is blocked here, but I’m on my way back to America soon, so things will pick back up. In what new ways, I’m not sure. I hope the results will be satisfying to both old and new readers.

    I feel like this blog became a neglected child and now going back and reviewing the content I produced in 2009-2010, I have to take a breath and carefully think through the future of this site, for the past has bee fantastic: educational, engaging, helpful to others.

    The essays and analyses have seemed useful to many readers and for your readership, I am grateful–thank you, again.

    I hope to pick up where I left off, to gain new readers and to engage through comments and purposeful discussions. Thank you again for all your support.

     
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