NADA

the dada magazine about noth

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-KIM IL SUNG

“Dad

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-tristan tzara

=---=---

Between glass and the illusorycarpets- thumbs pulling back cur-tains of skin- our hearts are beatingpulsating rib cage bone (meatless)under streetlights hailing taxis atmercy too the wind ( of bologna andprocessed cheese blowing up a galeon 3rd Ave) Between gestures andwordless songs sung with sand, ourtongue rattles the cage or under ce-ment loathes the unbearable stretch-ing of nostrils by the pampered androse wood larks, plain and simple,it is art by numbers. We are uncov-ering ourselves, screws loose andall, opening the canopy, we arebreathing true form in union of zip-per lips and purple eyes that gushat criminality ignorance and blind-ness; within ourselves armies raisedfrom Napoleonic times waits toplunge us ( ourselves!) into thedark threshold of knowing and bor-ders. We grasp too the light of thisabsurdly cruel concrete world, hold-ing onto each other, we declare our-selves neither living nor dead,reborn as swallows, we create truthone lie at a time.

1914, Bosnia, in a swirl of unforseen events, amember of the serbian terrorist group, the blackhand, assasinated the Austro-Hungarian Duke, FranzFerdinand. Gavrilo Princip, the assasin, whosename fades to the point of denial. In a matter of1 month 5 countries were commited to war (withtheir own alterior motives) other prospective na-tions wait on the sidelines to join the bash. Thisis the back-ass-ward-ness of the most advancepiece of european diplomacy. One man dies and he'staking everyone down with him. The struggle wouldlast 4 years, and consume nearly 40,000,000 lives(KIA,WIA, and MIA).

In the wake of the September 11th demolition ofthe twin towers, by Islamo-madman Osama Bin Laden,George W. Bush lauches the War on Terror, and sotroops made their way to the asshole of the earth,no vietnam was closed, nice and tight, and the USwasn’t going to blindly poke and prode until theyknew what they were going to fuck, This wasAfghanistan and they’d been here once before. 3months in, American Airpower blows the face offthe mountain Tora Bora, bin Laden escapes in thedust, and Bush remarks "I don't know where binLaden is. I have no idea and really don't care.It's not that important. It's not our priority."

Troops would stay in AfghanistanA war in Iraq would eruptA change in the US presidencyA new commander for US troops in Afghanistan

10 years have passed, and after an extensivesearch, bin Laden is reported to have retired tohis villa in Pakistan. President Osama.... (ex-cuse me Archie Bunker’s ghost became me for a sec-ond), President Barrack OBAma made good on thisdecree "We will kill bin Laden. We will crush al-Qaeda. That has to be our biggest national secu-rity priority."

I can only imagine the debriefing to SEAL team 6,"execute with extreme prejudice" the civilian mansays to Captain Willard before he embarked intothe jungles of Vietnam, to travel into the face ofterror. "Apocalypse Now!" screams a crusader dyinga pool of dismembered bodies, the distinctivesmell of shit lingers in the air. And so SEAL team6 would ride in, helimobile style, Wagner a roar-ing, hopped up on PCP (Pre-Combat Prejudice). Thebattle of their dreams is just moments away. eachone replaying the dream in their heads, of how itwould all happen, as the helicopter whirls for-ward. As the helicopter hovers the Pakistanivilla, the SEALs (and one combat dog) fast ropedown, a team on the roof and a team on the ground.one over zealous copter pilot, circles around be-fore crashing the $60,000,000 piece of hardwareinto the villa wall. It wasn’t napalm, but it stillsmelled like victory. The SEALs inside shot,killed, exploded everything in sight, bullets pe-natrating skin, crumbling bones, and shittingblood upon the walls (still humming Ride of theValkyries), even the dog got in a couple bites (hetoo humms, rufrufruf ruff ruff, rufrufruf ruffruff). Obama and his cabinet watch the events fromthe safety of homeland (it’s not Downton Abbey,but it will do), it’s televised by an unmanneddrone. With the majority of the occupates out ofcommission the Seals move up to the boss level.But of course, you must first fight the mini-bosses, the wives I mean, A shot in the leg is re-ally all it took, that and a shoving. There nowwas nothing between a smoking barrel and Osama’sopen body.

And here it is an afternoon in Sarajevo. A manstares down the sight of his gun and dischargesit.

How many more would die in the future?

There was only one CIA agent that Osama Bin Laden couldlook back too with any fondness. His name was Blakely, a catholicand a Montana boy, a film buff who spoke fluent Arabic and Pash-tun. In a way that struck Bin Laden as both terrifying and ab-surd , indicative of God’s unbreakable power, at any rate,Blakely would prove instrumental too Bin Laden’s Destiny.

Reagan may had beat off several times to the wild majesticspectacle of the Mujahedeen, their tangled dirty hair wrapped inturbans and their archaic, medieval faith getting him hard with-out the visual aide of dead bodies, but mostly, outside the fan-tasy, they were a boring bunch. As a group they consumed westernfilms as if they were cocaine, sticking, for the most part (oc-casional foray into the outskirts of the genre non-withstanding)to the classics. This was mostly due to Blakely’s influence,who loved action films, and saw genre as an encumbrance to God’sgreatest gift bestowed upon us, violence, and the cool decisivehand that grants it (image). The hap-hazard brigade viewing ofDirty Harry proved disastrous, the Mujahedeen thought dirty Harrywas reprehensible, a God damn shame shouted Omar, a young medicalstudent from Qatar( they really were an interesting bunch, thosebrought together to face communism’s last bowel movement flungfrom deep within the toilet of the earth.) , How?, asked astunned Blakely, who glibly tried to explain to the confused butkind and attentive Islamic warriors before giving up.

One could say that Bin Laden was Blakely’s true pupil, theone who understand that only skin, privilege and religion/eco-nomic worldview (whichever created the arch bent of personality)was all that separated the ‘American’ warrior, from the Islamic,or the communist or the capitalist, all of them could be equallyferocious if they held onto that spark of true carnage, life parexcellence is war, Blakely twisted and shuttled out with globsof spit over cigars one night. (Blakely was a man who loved hisjob.) One day Bin Laden happened upon a sleeping Russian solderand captured him. The Russian ( who was actually Georgian, thoughthat is neither here nor there) did not understand English, andneedless to say Arabic and Pashtun were out of the question,screamed and tucked his head into his heart, scrapping his chestso many times and with such force with his chin that blood wasdrawn, when Bin Laden repeatedly asked whether he felt lucky ornot. (he did not, and was left buried in an unmarked grave nearTora Bora). After hard battles or the loss of friends Osama,being an excellent field commander ( loved and respected butabove all, feared by his men) would put Rocky IV on the VCR, ‘that retarded infidel shows a tenacity we could all use’ he wouldsigh calmly and definitively. ‘ What a nation’, Omar, cleaver ashe was, would muse, ‘ they force their feeble minded to fightlike gladiators, and against an inhumane Russian machine, noless’. ‘That is our victory, too all of this, God’s victory liesin Satan’s clues, pointing to his own demise’ Osama would dis-course enthusiastically, rushing to his desk, writing all night.

Sometimes he thought of giving up Jihad, retiring to Kan-dahar and writing THE book on Islamic- Western film studies. With-out a doubt his favorite film was John Carpenter’s Escape fromNew York.

The Idea came too him while watching the film ( of course),though not in the way one would think. Little Mahmoud, hisyoungest son, would watch as his father watched Kurt Russell ab-sorb his pain, which was oddly great after the embassy bombing (a sort of terrorist mid-life crisis) and left listless. ‘Dad, whywould you fly a plane into a building, isn’t that obvious?’ ‘Idon’t know Mahmoud, because they would never see it…. Coming…they would never see it coming? They would never see it coming!’.Osama ran to tell his wife, who was a shrewd and intelligent womanand, used to her husbands’ flights of fancy, and direct and sweetenough to steer them toward effective Jihad. She was skeptical ofthe entire plan, but the learning how to fly struck her as espe-cially suspect. ‘It’s America, even women drive planes, watch themovie.’ Omar had recently developed a heavy hashish habit, whenOsama told him the plan he released a fifteen minute cascade oflaughter . ‘ Omar, Jihad against the great satan is no time toget a case of the giggles; in fact, it’s the worst time’.

The Duke of New York was felled by a hail of gunshots whenthe second plane hit the second tower. Osama was busy and had topause the film, dealing as he was with well wishers, Snake wastalking to the president, begging him too acknowledge the dead,in the a dull first grade class-room Bush’s chief of staff whis-pered in his ear, informing him that the homeland has beenbreached. The president is captured, for the world too see, dumbstruck and powerless. Snake Pliskin walks with a casually tri-umphal gape to his step, Osama smiles and claps, a wonderful film,time and time again.

No, I can’t forget this eveningOr your face as you were leaving

But I guess that’s just the way this story goes,You always smile....

But in you eyes your sorrow showsYes it [snows]

No I can’t forget tomorrowWhen I think of all my sorrows

When I had you there but then I let you goAnd now it’s only fair that I should let you know

What you should know

I can’t liveIf living is without you

I can’t liveI can’t give anymore

Can’t liveIf living is without you

can’t give,I can’t give anymore

Well, I can’t forget this eveningOr your face as you were leaving

But I guess that’s just the way this story goes,You always smile

But in you eyes your sorrow [snows]Yes it shows

can’t liveIf living is without you

I can’t liveI can’t give anymore

Can’t liveIf living is without you

I can’t live,I can’t give anymore

Ohhhhhh(No can’t live)No no no (No I can’t live)I can’t live (No can’t live)

If living is without (No I can’t live)I can’t live (No can’t live)

I can’t give anymore (No I can’t live)

feel free to tear this page out and hang it above your mantle. it’s best with Maraih Carey.

Dearest Kim Jong Il,

I know you're dead, and so this a letter to your ghost. I recently watchedyour film Pulgasari, the north korean Godzilla-esque nationalist Gongfufilm, and i had a couple questions:

800:02:57,978 --> 00:02:59,279Let me have some water.

900:02:59,847 --> 00:03:00,848Father.

1000:03:09,890 --> 00:03:12,025Come here, quickly.

1100:03:13,894 --> 00:03:15,562Inde is first, all right?

1200:03:26,907 --> 00:03:27,908Hey.

1300:03:28,675 --> 00:03:30,811Clean that up.

1400:03:32,813 --> 00:03:33,947That. That!

Right here the cameraman zooms in on face of Ami, like the pale snow atopthe mountain Baekdu. She gazes right at you, right at the camera, beforevanishing behind Inde. The father was point to a pile of leaves hidingweapons, there is a goat in the foreground.

At that moment when the camera hits her eyes, does she invoke the audi-ence? That look I must say is devastating. You say in your book “A fineactor adds considerably to the quality of a production with his ideasand emotions, his experience of life, his creative imagination and tal-ent.” If so, then do the emotions she portrays in her camera reality mir-ror that of her state of life? SPOILER ALERT she dies in the end. It’smartyrdom, Her blood (which brought Pulgasari to life) is Pulgasari’sonly death. It seems now that this close up is the beginning to an aside,a dialogue of her inner torment and possible evidence of her ultimatefate. She says this at a glance.

get back to me on that dearest Kim Jong il.

SincerelyFernando R. Rockwell

Time is circular radiance, a circumferenceof grins, smiles, hallways. Time corresponds withthe continual breaking and finding of oneself,time is a goblin tearing at your insides, whisper-ing abundance. (Time is terror).

Once, great warriors sailed the Yangtze witha courtly courage and stern eyes, Kim Jong il sailstoo, with the generous spirit of a knight errant,the river Styx, hell. One foot pressed gently onthe bowl as he seesaw’s his weight and stares wideeyed at the endless lush desert of hell.

The Stalinist Chinese choose their next leader,their Mao without Mao ( now is a time without theneed for heroes), their Mao who is force-feedinghis dogs and holding hands with the Clintons (slipping the occasional back-rub on Bill ( becausein truth, nobody can resist Bill). Mao is a mask,as Stalin and Putin and bush are masks, time ishurdling toward us and disaster wears the mad mangangster or the mad-man clown mask running up anddown the street threatening neighbors with thefull force of automatic stars locked in under-ground vaults. ( Time is constant sterilizationand evasion).

Stolen cars rammed into the long hair of un-tamed prairie weeds strangling empty car lots,rural new jersey is the true hell, sighs Kim Jongil. Sometimes Kim thinks he sees Richard Burtonswigging Johnny Walker’s whiskey that won’t gethim drunk with a tearful Gorbachev clutching anempty bottle of his own name brand vodka, snortingflurry of prayers and curses. ‘Everything wouldbe better if we could all get drunk- throw offthese shackles ( as he trills and fawns in circusfashion around Burton, stoically seated) ) anddance in the ninth ring, laying in the ice untilour bodies freeze/drown ( whichever comes first)for we have all, in some, perhaps, subterraneanand innate way, betrayed ourselves.

An unleashing, thinks Kim, ( time is memo-rized pain and horizons drenched in orange and seasalt air) everything would be better if ElizabethTaylor could be here, drinking without ever gettingdrunk, teasing whiny melancholic Gorbachev for nothaving the grace to face ( with serenity, if atall possible, like darling Richard) his infinitefate. That is our one true collective hell- thatElizabeth Taylor will never die. Kim mused, gazinginto the curvaceous Styx. Che Guevara farts, ‘Youbourgeois swine bastard’, shouts Pol Pot. Idiots,animals, filth, thinks Kim Jong Il as he daydreamsof fusing with Mao. As they form into a symbioticwhole elevating the respective genius of both men( culture and war, the perfect, unstoppable combi-nation) into a singular unit of perfection. A windruffles Kim’s pompadour. He stares into the murkywater of ruined blood and sees bones, steadying hisgaze he believes he is able to make out the vaguehusk of Stalin’s mustache gleaming in a red dusk.Next to him, without a doubt, is Trotsky’s eyes,which shine like serpents or search lights ( askingwhy me? Why Russia? Why children and women, thepoor and wretched?). Finally Kim collapsed into hisseat, though you could hardly tell he was exhaustedthrough his steel like poise. This happens everyonce and a while (Time is wrong numbers) ( the samesense of loss sucked through a vacuous void, atreason that lay its fault in stars as much within)( time is constantly eating at our scars, in orderto cultivate new ones) Time is a parasite.

=---=---

No one can escape fateNo one can escape DADAOnly DADA can make you escape fateNo one can resist Bill

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2012

Kim Jong, still we’il miss you