Thursday, September 24, 2009

RNU.2

Where have you been Wade Davis? His wiki is minimal. His book, The Serpent And The Rainbow, is a majestic tour de force of immersion journalism, one could argue a prototypical work of the genre, to say nothing of a roaring good tale with, in my opinion, an excellent grounding in ethics, intimate in its sensitive and sensible voice, one that retains a poetic fascination of his subject without resorting to condescending attitudes about the "other" (and often interrogating these attitudes when present).

So why does he remind me of David Simon?

I don't want to allude to potential similarities between the mystical Haitian terrain and the slums of Baltimore...I'm not sure I can do so without appearing rampantly racist and a simple comparison of locales would be limiting. It's not so much the subject pool of writers Davis and Simon, it's the freshly informative way they approach their targeted ideas, the politically responsible muscle in their work, their willingness to think expansively about the microcosms they study.

They're also excellent fucking writers, which certainly doesn't hurt.

Let me first state that reading Davis' masterpiece after seeing the movie will probably make you hate Bill Pullman's misadventures in the Spooky World o'Black Folk. It's not that the movie doesn't hold up badly to this day, it's at best decent, and the endgame is Wes Craven's usual nigh-goofy (maybe it's our newfangled modern lenses) denouement stylee that may impart some small joy. But fuck it, the thing is racist and ill-serving to the book. Pullman runs to Haiti after hallucinating with the forest-folk, acts big and bad, shows these black-peasants a thing'er'two about brutish American resolve, is summarily punished for it (which I guess is kind of enjoyable to watch in this context), but then comes back to go toe to toe with the major houngan (being Zakes Mokae, playing one of the only roles he plays - black bogeyman - to a level of almost postmodernist winking-at-the-camera bliss), and then he wins, credits follow a where-are-they-now blurb to remind you that what you saw was based on a true story.

You don't need me to tell you that this is all fucking hogwash, I'm betting the last person who thought that movies-based-on-true-stories have some kind of responsibility to print the truth instead of the typewritten mutterings of a pack of sex-starved, speedfreak hollywood scribes is also still of the belief that wrestling is unsimulated gladiatorial combat. I was rather content in leaving things as they were re: the film until I read this book. Reading this book will make you angry.

First of all, forget Pullman. The guy's good but he's no substitute for the real thing. Wade Davis brings his-ahem-CANADIAN self to Haiti to go stomping around for the secret about Zombies. He's packed with a hypothesis and a zest for freethinking as hinted at in earlier paragraphs about his hallucinogenic escapades of yore. The thing is, Davis realizes very early that he needs to peel off his preconceived notions to understand and reckon with the nation and its people. Throughout the text he is consistently revealed to be more than a stranger in a strange land - he is a lost seeker in a new-found adopted home. His journey to Haiti begins as a goal-driven sojourn, but morphs into an intense exercise in self-education. Like the very best wanderlust narratives, what he originally seeks out in the exterior becomes secondary to an interior transformation. I envision him as a tack-sharp acid-guru college boy, thinking he already learned the secrets of the universe in squares of absorbent paper and amazonian vines, and now finds that he's been scampering blindly on the surface the entire time.

The Haitian people lie, cheat, deceive, and mystify him. They don't trust the "blanc" - as they somewhat insultingly refer to him - any farther than they can throw him. But the story and challenge isn't just about winning their trust, it's about internalizing the language, physics, day-to-day minutiae of their world. It's realizing that his original attempts to treat them as confederates is actually a racist act, he is in their home and the onus is on him to learn. Bargaining with them for knowledge by bluffing his role as an equal is a lost cause: how can he orient himself in their hierarchy if he doesn't even understand it, yet tries to identify with it? The man vs nature conflict that flutters at the work's surface organically transforms into the man vs himself one. You read it and hear the gears turning.

A key component of David Simon's work is its constant repositioning to the sociological sphere; lovingly constructed albeit often bleak narrative gives way to lessons in history, statistical demographics, big-pictureness. A lesser writer renders these departures weakly - they become knee-jerk responses to pointing critical fingers, and only punctuate the greater story to defend the hand that writes them. In Simon's and Davis' hands, these departures become richly rewarding...sometimes the fascination when digesting them overwhelms the reader - fuck it, overwhelms me - and I blink my eyes as the next chapter suddenly interrupts the anecdotes. They add texture that is intrinsically necessary to understanding the narrative, educating the uninformed reader.

If you were poised to read one text this year make it this one. At a glance, it will seem that The Serpent and the Rainbow is another goin-native anthropological misadventure, but you will find something much more profound in its pages. It's a history lesson, travelogue, religious education, racism analysis, ethnobotany primer, two-fisted science epic. It also doesn't hurt that the guy can put words together beautifully.

Bought it for a buck on the street.

End of rant 2, less glowing praise next time, listening to Gogol Bordello.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Rant número UNO.1

Jonathan Lethem is a fucking cunt. Wade Davis could be David Simon
with dilated pupils and wanderlust. Billy Woods needs to drop another
damn solo joint already. Scribblenauts will win over your
girlfriend. Everybody needs to read more Jamie Delano shit.

First and foremost I think I'm just fucking done with Lethem. Rewind,
FF, shuffle, delete: started off with Motherless Brooklyn on a friend's
recommend, more or less blown away by the verve with which he smacked
around the deteck-noir genre. Note to self at the time: watch the
kid. Later I 5fing his Gun, With Occasional Music. Again i'm floored
and impressed. By now he's in the zone; but I forget about him. Peep
Men and Cartoons, for good money this time, lovely, but some shorts
fare better than others. All gravy.

Then I pick up The Fortress of Solitude.

Rewind again: sitting in a snazzy lil auditorium at SUNY Albany, a
lanky gentlemen with costello frames and a humble attitude reads
selections from the book in question. He pronounces the voices of the
brooklyn brats playing chess on the stoop, getting some laughs from
the students forced to listen by yawning English profs who lounge in
seats somewhat nearby; lionesses fed and aware of their cubs. I think
to myself, this'll be a good'un. And yeah I get my copy of MB signed,
to boot.

I crack the book years and a life later. What starts strong
degenerates into a fucking mess. Violence, death, cruelty and pop
culture reconfigured with a fulla shit protag you want to repeatedly
smack in the eye. It's Grandmaster Forrest Gump somewhat. Lethem's well-touted ability for memory itches, or the often beautiful sentence structure helps the medicine go down - I have to make this admission for the worst of his books. The fond recall of old Brooklyn is nice but fuck
it, that's child's play and well trodden; besides, been there, done
that in a sense. The second half doesn't crumble as much as it
collapses upon itself, like the dying t-1000 - sub nerd shame for the
liquid nitro. There's also the presence of an arguable mystical negro figure, which I'm sure we all agree is what his books were lacking.

Staying away from the man's work at this point. We cop an autograph
at the Brooklyn book fest, after his talk with Eggers who I'm
embarassed to say I haven't read yet. The staged convo was nice, as
we approach for our ink I barely recognize the guy from 3 years ago.
I see a chubby satisfied unkempt slightly douchy public defense
lawyer. I attempt to start some conversation about Omega The Unknown,
a rumor at the time. He flutters his hand and dismisses the talking
point: "i'm not really involved, it's more a writing credit thing.".
He impatiently stares at the next man behind me waiting with a copy of MB,
I savor the possibility that this vision dismays him, like Burgess
working his whole life on the follow up hit that never came. Then,
realizing I am now wishing ill on the man, I take a hint from myself and move on.
Fucker. So glad you can take little bullshit profit projects, riding
on the inelegent syllables of your surname to move units on a title you don't even care enough about to discuss. Bravo.

Oh, then I buy an advance proof of Chronic City for a buck on a sidewalk table of used books. What a load of utter shit. Pothead
politicking and labored prose. Some pretty moments, but overall like a
bollywood version of DeLillo's untouchable opus Underworld (I mean that in the bad way but the truth is this actually sounds like a fun idea). Also, the unveiling of Protagonist You Want To Smack In The Eye Part Deux...except this time I think he's doing it on purpose?

He is officially now writing beyond his means. Gone from having fun with experimental genre work, he now attempts epics to make people giggle at how clever he is. Like so, I'm done with him.

(P.S. Girl in Landscape was also pretty good)

End first mobile transmission, to the sounds of the new Raekwon joint.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

the golem

It was a lonely morning, close to midnight, when facets of the house I
had been living in began to reveal themselves. contracts signed and
promises handed lock stock and barrel, the lease was a snake, teeth
were time-bombed and the particulars glossed over. i may have been
thinking about going to sleep, when the sounds of settling began to
curl like a somber echo, from front window to living room.
it was a moment of loss. my name fell into a thick hole like the plot
of a murakami novel, and to recall it i had to stumble through the
objects not yet removed from boxes, searching for tax forms or old
childhood drawings or schoolbooks from youth. when i found a name i
stared it at for a long while, accepting its textured syllables. in
my own self-ruin i considered those pre-used texts purchased from
dusty caves of bookstores, with other names, with notations from old
classrooms, pages transformed by previous readers, the death of hope.
it has been several hours this morning, sitting in the stillness of a
new apartment. a coma in an eyeblink, stranger in my own skin.
stranger to think of what defines us as the material we think we
command. someone else has owned all these objects. the very feel of
them is a distinct violation. to remember and not to remember.
as a child I remember my house on fire, smoke inhalation, a small
lifetime of objects destroyed in ten mad minutes. every now and then
the recall of something lost for years to follow, the return of that
loss, a splintering misunderstanding, lessons of permanence. not sure
if I only owned something in dreams, no relics or fossils of its hold.
realizing the clothes on my back were the only pieces of fabric that
still held my smell, mixed in with the cancer of burning new york.
i could rent the space where all those ashes went, put my little world
back together. we stand in front of the house on fire, what's taken
for granted winks at us as it consumes itself. it's cold in front of
the fire and our coats are lost. the next morning as we sift through
the damage we exchange hope for quick comfort, salvaging humble bits
of lifetimes. some mornings i try to find it all.