Friday, March 27, 2009

Offering in the name of the dead (mataka-dana)

«Now the dreams start coming. The dreams of Miles Davis’ impressive outfit collection in a little bootsale-like museum in a street-level appartment somewhere in the UK. The same dream, still, with Carl Craig entering the scene, and all of a sudden everybody has weapons, massive weapons, and literally everybody is shooting at each other. Musicians, DJs, hipsters and stylers all shooting at each other. In dreams, it hurts just a little when a bullet penetrates your body, but it hurts more than you would expect it to hurt from a dream.

The dreams start coming. The dreams of four people laying comfortably in the grass and firing senselessly at each other with automatic weaponry. When you think it is all over, you see a gleaming light source that looks more like what Vietnam movies have taught you to take for phosphor explosions, and the earth begins to shake, and you run, you run, you simply run. Just before you reach the deceitful safety of a concrete hut you are hit by a falling tree and you see yourself dead. The dreams start coming.»

Dieser Beitrag ist auf Englisch, doch einiges an der Zeitmauer gibt es auch in der hervorragenden Kultur- und Verwaltungssprache Deutsch zu lesen.


  1. Nur so am Rande der Klippe: Wir wissen ja, dass 'Der Hipster' ein Schwarzer war und Ulf P. gerne auf diesen Text verweist.

  2. “The white negro” by Norman Mailer, I assume? True. I hope Ulf P. will not appear in my dreams.

  3. Textolatrous Multi-linerApril 15, 2009

    Two nights ago I dreamed that I was having a conversation with John McLaughlin, the subject and title of a song on Bitches Brew and the only white musician Davis found substantial. "I am John McLaughlin," the voice said, and, slightly later in our fleeting conversation, "John McLaughlin is my real name." A visual field did not exist or was not important -- maybe we were in a starless forest -- but when I heard the latter sentence I made some effort to glimpse my interlocutor. Maybe this was the other John McLaughlin, I thought, the late Southern California minimalist painter whose voice I had never heard before. It was too dark to see anything. I was pretty sure that the powwow was with the great fusion guitarist.

    The following day, completely unrelated, researching Warhol in the 1980s, I happened upon the Wikipedia entry for performance artist John Sex, whose voice I had also never heard before. "He was born in Long Island as John McLaughlin."


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