Clear

So I’ve been having this weird intersection of curiosities blinking in and out on the horizon, inextricably linked together by the book I picked up at a yard sale by Nicola Barker entitled “Clear.” I’ve been drowned in that book rather intently on the street, to the point of getting run over. I had little or no recollection of her name or what it was that she wrote about. All I had was the synopsis which centered loosely around the 44 day stunt put on by David Blaine in London in which he was suspended in a transparent box and basically starved himself in typical grandiose Blaine fashion.

Now my only other introduction to Blaine beyond the string of jokes that surrounded him was a small documentary by one Harmony Korine entitled “Above the Below” which ended up on the art trackers awhile back. The doc was a strange mix of Korine’s deadpan fascination with what to some I’d imagine is anything remotely strange and authentic. There’s super 8 shots of a Michael Jackson impersonator later to be the subject of his film “Mister Lonely” mixed in with random gurners who are the spectacle that is the spectactor of this seemingly big con. Its actually a pretty compentent and telling look at what David Blaine may or may not be trying to do.

But I think my preparatory homework with “Above the Below” really paid off while reading “Clear” because it reads as a companion piece to an almost inexplicable event. Who the fuck pays an American sheister 5 million to hang himself in the middle of Potters Fields Park? And how does a whole country deal with being subjected to what may just be more than a con and a valid piece of performance art?

And here’s where it starts to get weird. Because while reading Ms. Barker’s book, it starts to set off the sort of Matthew Fuller-esque lists of data. We’ve got Blaine, Korine, Werner Herzhog, Dizzee Rascal (or as they say… the Rasket,) the Streets, Kafka’s Hunger Artist, Fitzcarraldo, Julien Donkey Boy, all in the first seventy or so pages. And while most of those circle around the triumvirate of players most notably Blaine, Korine, and possibly Herzhog as an invisible enabler, its amazing when you start talking about the these lists with other people. Inevitably it spurns more lists and dialog trees, most notably a long discussion with a faculty member about Kinski and Aguirre, the Wrath of God, another pinnacle Herzhog film in which sets the stage between the legendary destructive relationship between Herzhog and Kinski. Which is also expertly portrayed in the documentary “My Best Fiend.”

The point therein is that the text is a junction of sorts. Its something I’ve actually really strived to be as well. There’s this fucking tendency and its a fucking adolescent one at that for people to name drop out of context. Shit I did it when I was younger and seemingly less cool than I thought I was. Its like this pissing contest. And its actually come down to friend deletion quite recently when someone accused my incessant hunger for new material and inspiration as egotistical scenester whoredom.

In case anyone ever forgets and I’ll continue to remind you; I’m thirty fucking five. I’m supposed to be well read and pretentious. Not because it makes me cool or hip. Its quite the opposite. I’m fucking bored. I pinned that down the other day. Super fucking bored. And this is what it comes down to at the crux. To satiate that boredom, I’ve gone out and explored what it is that actually gets my panties in a fucking bunch. And without any social graces or inhibition that comes with long term relationships, corporate payouts, or religious commandments, I’ve been able to navigate my own nodes and cartographies.

And this is where this book sort of comes into play. Its a collection of nodal points strung together in a certain time frame to create a map of point a to point b; point a being the past and point b being the future. Its the jump off point that can mend the divide between dying trends and the excitement of new beginnings and growth. This is not to say that its ever about the new and brightest shit. I’ll leave that to the fucking hipster blogs (oh wait.)

But there is something to be said for never actually watching anything by Herzog prior to maybe Grizzly Man and then getting connected by Korine. By the time all of this makes any sense to you, you are seeking it out. I mean, I’d never seen a fucking Cassavetes film until maybe two days ago when I finally got “The Killing of A Chinese Bookie.” Our earlier conversation about Werner took a dark turn when this faculty member gawked at the concept that anyone interested in film or writing about film had openly admitted to never seeing a Fellini movie.

What is the point of seeing these things when you have no reference point? Its like the difference between getting into Stalker versus Solaris by Tarkovsky. Solaris is way more accessible because everyone has pratically seen 2001. Maybe not everyone understands 2001. But the only reason we’ve got a mainstream generational consciousness tied to 2001 is probably due to some extent after the fact to Star Wars and prior to the fact, weed. Once you’ve connected the dots on the map, Stalker still may be way too divorced from the necessary ammo to appreciate. Shit, I still don’t get Stalker as much as I should.

But beyond all this is this sort of major excitement of being opened to being exposed. When you turn your attention from bullshit conversations on the internet about how well you know people you probably don’t even fucking want to know. Or when you stop filling out survey’s about what construct you may or may not be similar to… and you go out there and start embracing the legendary within yourself. However fucked up or polarizing that may be.

Recently someone had asked me if I had dropped out of the Dubstep scene altogether based on my playlists, tastes in music, and lack of support for the ‘local scene.’ And to that I don’t think I really responded truthfully. I don’t think I said a word. Because it was a boring fucking question much like 90% of the music that I’ve listened to in passing. I mean dubblestep? Come the fuck on.

While I appreciate fusion and heterogeneity as much as the next fucking hipster, genrelizing is like the draconian crack withdrawl in action. Did we learn anything from the breakbeat wars? You know, not to get all geriatric on you, but back in 1992 when people like me were busy dressing like absolute fucktards, raving out with stupid furry backpacks (I totally didn’t go that far, I assure you.) The first thing I learned in art school was that dance music as a enveloping genre was destined to fail all litmus tests eventually of high art.

I mean intelligent fucking dance music. Are you fucking kidding me? You have to introduce the preface or caveat that all other forms of dance music are not intelligent by nature. You set yourself apart under this wider carnival tent and say “those freaks over there… those are fucking retards… we are way more refined… pardon our spiny backs and bearded women.” This is not to say I couldn’t harp on the same about noise. We all know bad noise when we hear it (Black Dice show @ the bottle anyone and I’m not talking about Wolf Eyes.)

Its almost when people take these lists for face value and define their temporal boundaries based on the moment. Stick their feet in the sand and draw the line. Follow the tempo and song structure and churn out shelf life. Regardless of what fucking genre it is.

Now hate if you want, but it was pretty nice to see Mahjongg the other night rock a fucking apache break at full 170 bpm. Because we all fucking know drum and bass is dead. And in the next full stop bust into some mutant soca beat, particpating in some bizarre experiment and fuckery to the crowd that watched on. Causing both anger, spite, elation, and confusion. Much like that hanging box with Blaine in it.

Had me skanking like some freshcut to some fucking true rudeboy shit. And you know what, I could feel even a couple of eyes on the back of my neck making my hairs stand on end. Secretly bugging out, trying to place things into shiny little boxes to rectify in their simple minds how much of a threat people like me really were to the purity of their social set. Shit happens everywhere regardless of where I go. And you know what, feeling alien is pretty much like hanging up in that box.

You subject yourself freely to it all for the sake of the divine nature of an experiment, for connections sake.

So that you can seperate the wheat from the chafe… the signal from the noise… so that you can hear it loud…

and fucking clear.