1 On Air: Take One
:Welcome back to 1000 FM. You are listening to WELD/Program.
Awm. This is your DJ NNY speaking. It is
Friday. 9:40 AM and you are tuned just phunkie right. This is the Program. Keep
sipping at your iced tea, while the gentle rhythm floats through the waves from
this turntable straight to your homes, suckaz! And whilst rocking to the
swaying beat, feel free to move your lazy ass and pick up the cell phone lying
next to the bed on which you are decomposing, immersed in the slumber of the
heart. Take that phunkie device, press all the right buttons, and you will soon
hear a husky, yet melliferous voice that will enrich your dull day with even a
lamer conversation. But all is not in what is said…unowadamsayin, hu? So,
yeah…put some phunkie muscular effort and grab the phone. Talk to ME…Hello?
Yeah…
/
Whassup!
: Sure…I call to proclaim
strong and irrevocable disbelief in science, thereby shattering the myth of
religion and altogether dismissing the notion of faith. Bless!
:Fierce,
dude! Care to say something about your anxious self? Hello? Um…Looks like the
conversation was just what you’ve heard…But…hullo! Who’s there?
V:
More Air
:
Awrajt… I am here. HowboutYOU?
Long time, bro…Just callin to address the issue previously
raised by one of the acquantices…Not that tis a reply…more like a comment or
something…Go ahead…
Sure… Having recovered from the shock of shattered faith, I now live in the world in which myth is not possible, dreams are nothing but elegant devices for passing from one psychedelic to another tranCelike state, vectors do not connect two points, tangentiality does not imply the spot of contact, the body is what you write about it, mother is that who has no womb, and father is the fable one creates dashing through caleidoscpoic corridors…Are you with me?
Head to toes…
Having said that, I am now free to behead you on a basis of the premise claiming that I am the hand on your turntable, happily leaving you with an illusion that you host the Program. Furthermore, I am free to actually be that hand and immerse myself in the beauty of the fact that I am telling you a true story. Needless to say, I am also free to believe that it can leave you somewhat puzzled, but that will—and cannot!—affect the way I live in the postmythical world. Under no bloody circumstances (and/or conditions for that matter!) shall I abandon the safety of the new world with no boundaries and no hosts!
I sure will not interfere with your idea of safety, truth be told…
You shouldn’t! Because not only does it provide ME, but also YOU with an opportunity to indulge in the escalation of good, boundless friendship…What is more, my sense is that (if properly appropriated) the newly arisen situation can (and MUST!) lead towards unprecedented imaginary possibilities. This is where my atavistic mind gets halted and I continue to be free…free to be lonely…Nobody can deprive me of that liberty…Liberty to love a thought of who you are…To talk to you, all the while keeping to myself. If I so desire. And I do. So, see…I’m talking to you as if you were a non-host, deluded into an idea of trust that to live a life is to shuffle records all day. And night.
Say what you will…but my job is DJing and whether you are of the opinion that I should shut up or whatever, I can only say that once uopn a time I’dl recognize the sign that’dl determine my existence by the parameters of the permanent vacation called DJing. This constitutes the acquired habit (some weird folks also call it commitment) to respond to my audience. Thus…wassup story listeners!
foYr:
Autobiographical Injunction
Aye..yeah…Here…Likewise…What kind of joy will your words bring to my and our acqantancies’ ears…?
Inspired by the previously heard ranting, I thought I’d share this anecdote with you guys…
Nothing can be more welcome than that...So…?
Yeah…This autobiographical extract from the memory of my grandfather on my mother’s side is about a shamanistic dream that my great grandma on my father’s side once had during an afternoon nap. To be more precise, in her dream she was sitting in the middle of the ruins of the ancient temple when the telephone rang. An unknown voice called to announce the end of the empire of the wrestlers who ruled for the sake of rugbism. It seriously disturbed my great grandma and forced her to stand up from the previously assumed sitting position and look around to try to find--in retrospect--the heralds of the event.This made the actual great grandma toss and turn in her comfortable bed, fighting the news coming from beyond the conscious. Some call it denial, but I’m not sure I’d subscribe to such a definition, for denial implies conscious awareness…Or something like that…Some kind of reality…Some say that even being consciously aware is the epitome of the unreal. Perhaps. As I agree with the previously shunned religious myths and all the nonsense related to faith, my vision of reality is shrinking…And so was my great grandma’s—both in the dream and outside of it. You may claim that she would have avoided all the trouble by NOT having answered the call, but rebЯta…davayte…ona sama kogda ta davnooo bill wrestlёrom I znaet chto takoE “rugbism.” Esli bi kto TO skazal ёÕ chto ne vse forms of that sportism odinakie, on bЫ smog spatЬ I ne volnovexevatcЯ ob mirovom kataklizmiчeskom prospecte. No, ona takжe bill шamansküm priestessoi. Voila! Ona RegledA at the apparatus thininkng that it was simultaneously announcing the collapse of everything she had been up to up to that point. How so very outdated…After she woke up and told me about the dream, she also said that part of her unconsious in the dream suspected that the voice was mine. Her Id, however, decisively refuted that idea. This left me with an identity of an unworthy suspect. It also savagely disabled a possibility of my entering this memory excerpt as a protagonist. So, I decided I’d just tell it how it was…
If any, my anxiety is that there’s no wonder. Or so you tell me, me phone-in contributor…I might have got it all wrong, being a nonexpert specializing in what serious participants in life and culture consider to be paid for being a self-centered turntablist…You tell me…If not, I’ll just treat myself with another tune and you’ll feel tremendous benefits from that V…Do we have somebody on the line to confirm or deny my words…?
: Hellyeah!
: iQue Pasa!
Can’t
remember…I don’t believe in memory…I believe in identity created from the image
of what I imagine it was like before…yesterday, for instance…But my imagination
can stretch further in the past…then I imagine what it was like long before
yesterday came…and my identity is being built…and my conviction that I am based
on what I imagine to have been in the forgotten past is growing stronger…And I
feel like I am more alive and all…The more convinced I am, the better for
you…Because your atavistic shadows of the postmyth shock are thus fading and,
consequently, you think of yourself as an increasingly lively person…or
something like that…At times you wonder how reliable that basis for imagining
is, but you’ll recover from suspicion…My image of nonexisting memory is
embedded in something beyond you…So much for memory…As for the rest, unlike the
previous contributors, I do not shun the faith myth because I do not have such
word in the vocabulary of my mind. Long story short, nothing to shun…As far as
science is concerned, my image of identity is disinterested…That leaves me with
a vacation of an enactment. More precisely, I act as if I were an artistic
philosopher preaching world politics…So, I act as if it were October 26th,
2=9. And I open my act asking a questION:
What’s your favorite color?-- New blue--Is the new red--Is the new green--Is the new white--Is the new black.
But
it’s not what you wear… / No, I know—it ‘s how you turn…Right / Is the new left.
What color!!! I am an enactment, wandering along shady allyes, strolling past estuary brooks, drinking smoke, inhaling bread, hearing flavors, touching nothingness…If smell could kill, I am dead every year in June when a linden-lined street embraces me with the supersaturated atomosphere of the poststarburst dispersal of sticky droplets…That imbudes in my mind a sense of floatful playfulness and I let the drops infuse in the float more of the congealed substance…This for my consciousness is what to some people is memory. They ususally say that my acts don’t pass for philosophizing art from the perspective of world-policy-preaching…But that’s because they don’t know how to breathe gelatinized plasma…Undercurrent…Underscoring…Underlying…something that no memory can make more alive than it is.
Sometimes,
like this morning, when I wake up from the embrace of the presence in the
dream, welcoming me into a new dawn, I see iron clouds in the sky. And I know
it was going to be a wonderful day (contributing to the previously heard
acquaintance’s vacation of an enactment, I act as if it were 25th
November, 20=). Cheerio!
Six: A Question
Calling
neither to rant about science, prophesize, nor shun a phunkie thing. The reason
for calling is actually to ask if you ever go home i.e., spend time not
working. If so, (a) What do you do? (b) Who do you talk to? (c) How does it
feel?
: Not an
easy questION, ol’ fella. And I don’t
think I can give you a straightforward answer, given certain specificities that
complicate the references of your words, expressions, phrases, syntagmas, and
sentences. Firstly, if by home you
mean a physical place, then my answer’ld be:
Yes, I
do sometimes leave my booth. But then, quite frequently I relax on the sofa,
or, even sleep for a couple of hours dividing my sessions. Secondly, the notion
of doing is extremely problematic for those who (like me good self) have two
spinning records for kidneys, an impressive groove along the surface of the liver,
and a pump of a sort where other humans have what they boast of calling a heart.
So, I guess my answer’ld be: No, I hardly ever not DJ. The third parameter complicating our dialogue is the questION of talk. Specifically, if your idea of human communication is limited to phone-in talks, then I have to proudly confess that I’ve spent many an hour listening to inner voices of the partners in the conversation. This by no means diminishes the significance of the listeners of the Program. Quite the opposite. Finally, how does it feel? You are asking me. Figure it out, fella.
Pleasure
participating. / Same here.
I’m
calling to testify my weariness too…It’s been quite a while since I was
marked…labeled…if unofficially…you might say…accused, some would call it…dubbed
a notorious exoticizer, appreciator of other cultural heritage, merely a self-indulgent
exile. Simultaneously, my taste and interest in, for example, the music of
Etrurian peasants have constantly been misinterpreted as arrogant neglect of
the contemporary Tuscan scene. By analogy, my scorn for my own traditional
Hasidic tradition has been argued to have been inspired by the Madness cover of
“Israelites.” To this I can only answer by refuting the analogy based on one
simple and logically worthy thought---that my main love for the modern Italian
cuisine is founded in the fact that it (modern Italian food, i.e.) did emerge
from the old Tuscan legacy, whereas the lineage between Madness and Israel
holds no such a connection. Secondly, I
also find it wearisome that my true passion for broken beat narrative,
hijacking metafiction, IS, despite
all the seeming counterarguments, entwined with the tradition that emerged at
the turn of the twentieth century. However, I resolutely, decisively, and
irrevocably deny the relationship between that kind of literary descent with
what will have been created in eighty-first century. So much for excavating my
reading posthistorical dystopian present some time from now on. The
remaining part of my testimony, as I previously requested in the conversation
with me-ms-ess-ta--DJ, will be read by that very person for the reason known to
me and the ones that you will shortly familiarize your good selves with, as
well. Specifically, the details of the life of the person who lies here and
whose name was writ in smoke are too delicate and soulshaking for the holder of
these memories to be conveyed in his or her own voice. With NO further ado,
me-ms-ess-ta--DJ, the floor is yours…
Dear me-ms-ess-ta--DJ, it is my pleasure to share this, to me and hopefully
other participants in the Program, invaluable experience and provide a kind of
testimony of the years spent in search for something that some call purpose,
others meaning, some say it’s the absence of whatever the former would propose
as a candidate for signification…and I just…choose…well…to write…The specific
situation of a person diagnosed with a viral disease (that some mistakenly--and
confusedly for that matter—think is contegious and infectious and, therefore,
curable by the magical power of chemical speech) prevents me from physically
participating in many a social event. Needless to say, that severely limits my
inner world by simply restricting the number and kind of the persons that I’ve
been in touch with. It, on the one hand, makes my world somewhat deserted; on
the other, it broadens and deepens my
breath and makes my thought clearer. Not to mention the benefits my imagination
draws from it. Thus, it could be said that it affects my creative potential to
the extent and in the form ungraspable to those complicit in shaping the scope
of my world. It is also worth noting that scale should by no means be equated
with content and unpredictability of the ways it is being generated. But to
elucidate the present moment, let’s excavate what it
will-have-may-could-potentially-whatever-MUSTBE.
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