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GAG_MAG is a bi-monthly journal published by the Radboud University
English Language & Culture Studies Assocation Great Anglo-Saxon Gobblers
This Issue
Editors:
Thomas Lansink
Elke Rietveld
Contributors:
Lia Albers
Ruud van den Beuken
Christopher Cusack
Odin Dekkers
Frank van Drunen
Marnix de Gier
Robin Heesters
Maeyke Kok
Nina de Lange
Jorrit Maes
Mary A. McCay
David Nummerdor
Cover:
Anneke Oosterink
CONTENTS
4 A Word From GAG
6 Who’s Pomo When He’s At Home?
A teacher’s contribution by visiting professor Mary A. McCay
9
MANifesto / Your blood, or mine?
A poetics and short story by Frank van Drunen and Marnix de Gier
11
Stop and Think where to Drink: Absolute Zero
13
A bar review by Nina de Lange
Exagmination round my (his) inebriation at the occasion of his
(my) rematration, or: a moocow coming down along the road
A clair-obscuration in one act of infamy by A.V. Nuke and A.C. Crusher
16
Stormrider V (part 1 of 2)
20
By Thies N.R. Reebosch
Popcorner: Inglourious Basterds, 9, Men Who Hate Women,
The Wild Bunch
By Lia Albers and Jorrit Maes
25 Sounds from the Islands: God is an Astronaut, Anathema &
Leafblade
Concert reviews by David Nummerdor
28
Against -isms
A teacher’s contribution by Odin Dekkers
31
Blink
A short story by Maeyke Kok
EDITORIAL
A WORD FROM GAG
Dear all,
Another academic year has started, which
means that the format for GAG_MAG
has once again been up for healthy reconsideration through the past summer
months. Have we come up with anything
good? That is of course up to you to decide. We feel quite contented with our
current combination of the traditional
features we stuck to and the new additions supplied mostly by new regular
contributors. In how far our current concept is going to remain stable for the coming year, or will be adapted and improved
and mould into something completely
different once more remains to be seen.
Time will tell.
Right now, though, you have before you
a kind of dually strucured “MAG”. On
the one hand, we have decided this year to
publish themed issues, centring on one or
another academic framework or concept,
this issue’s being (post)modernism. On
the other hand, we wanted our little journal to reflect more on life and culture in
Nijmegen, which means that now it does
not not only feature a film review, but
also a bar review and concert reviews. In
addition, we are glad to publish several
pieces of all new creative writing.
On the whole, then, as we stated before,
we are pretty pleased. Are you critical
still, or again? Or have you got any great
ideas as to how to improve GAG_MAG?
Have you perhaps got whole stacks of artistic expressions lying around, waiting
to be published? Please do contact us and
submit your contributions of whatever
kind at [email protected]!
The dark days and cold winds are
creeping in, which means the first
quarter of the new study year is almost over and the exams are looming
overhead. The end of a beginning is always something special, because you
have just set off on your way but cannot quite say how you feel about all
the new things you have encountered.
It is similar to all the freshmen that
are starting to find their way around
campus and hopefully enjoy studying
English language and culture here in
Nijmegen.
Our two best known activities are
already behind us and have been
visited in great numbers, especially
the ever so famous drink-a-lottery.
But these are not the only activities
we have planned before this year is
through, a gala is in the making and
there are rumours about a Halloween
party and a party concerning moustaches. So be on the lookout for posters or check the hyves or website for
upcoming activities.
Speaking for the new board we are
enjoying our new functions and are
always hard at work trying to find the
best deals and most fruitful alliances
for our beloved association. However,
we cannot do this alone; we are always
looking for new active members with
fresh ideas. So if you are interested in
joining our active members group just
send an email and you will receive the
necessary information.
To conclude this short word from
GAG I wish you all the best with your
studies and I hope to see you at one of
our activities!
Have a good read!
Thomas Lansink and Elke Rietveld
Editors GAG_MAG
Kind greetings,
Leo de Voogd
Chairman GAG
http://gag.ruhosting.nl
http://gagnijmegen.hyves.nl
4
WHO’S POMO WHEN HE’S AT HOME?
A teacher’s contribution by visiting professor Mary A. McCay
On June 16, 1904, Leopold Bloom brought his wife Molly a cup of tea.
Trying to figure out the meaning of metempsychosis, she asked Poldy: “Who’s
he when he’s at home?” Therein lies the difference between Modernism and
Postmodernism. The modernists, for all their experimentation and readers be
damned, had a home, a center that they believed in. Thus, when Yeats writes:
“Things fall apart, the center cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the
world,” the modernists trembled, but the postmodernists of today would certainly applaud. And applaud they do with every piece of shot that hits the
canon of the GREATS. They only wish to deconstruct, destabilize, and sell the
canon to the Japanese who cling to Henry James and Herman Melville as if
therein lay salvation.
Postmodernism, indeed, is a challenge to a stable worldview. In fact,
one could argue that the more confused, fragmented, unstable, and downright chaotic the world seems, the happier the pomos are. They never march in
rank, they quote indiscriminately from Lacan, Sartre, Foucault, Derrida, not so
much for sense, but for nonsense. They swing from the branches of every previous movement and scratch their armpits in derision and parody. They would
scratch their balls as well if they weren’t so tenaciously clinging to the branches
with the hand not scratching their armpits.
Let us look at the world through the fragmented lens of pomo. What do
we see? Thousands of twinkling particles, much like a child’s kaleidoscope—
beauty (if that is possible in postmodernism) is in the arrangement of the particles, not in the meaning of the particles themselves. Gertrude Stein loved color,
so she would appreciate the idea of all the pretty colors, but she would not like
readers telling her what her Tender Buttons really meant.
Now it is time to ask if there really is a Postmodernist movement. If
so, how can we find it? Since it has no home, we might have to look in the bars
and brothels of the world. We will, however, need to get the Seven Dwarfs to
lead the way into the intricacies of the movement, if Donald Barthelme will give
them leave from their window cleaning and Chinese baby food manufacturing.
Having spent most of their working lives in the mines, the Dwarfs, no doubt,
will look in the dark reaches of the musty offices of academe.
The modernists spent their time in bars drinking absinthe and seeing
little green men who inspired their rebellion against those who would define art
and tell them how to live and what they really meant to say; the pomos spend
their time in college classrooms decrying class and saying: “If one examines
textual narrative, one is faced with a choice: either reject Sartreist existentialism
or conclude that expression must come from the masses, given that language is
equal to art” (www.elsewhere.org/pomo/). I am happy you understood that!
If language is equal to art, we are all poets, and we might as well all be heirs to
6
the kings of France. Why not? If we can deconstruct the past, can we not also reconstruct it in an image that makes us feel good? I particularly am happy to be
the seventh great grand daughter of the dispossessed Duke D’Aubin. I would
of course be much happier if I were not so far removed from the title and the
Duke were not dispossessed.
However, since I am not in line for the duchy or the guillotine, I suggest that we peek into the office of Gerald Francois Kelly-DuBois. He teaches
postmodernist philosophy at a very small college in Minnetonka, Minnesota,
where it is so cold in the winter that his lectures freeze in front of his students’
eyes, allowing them to put the fragments into their lunch boxes and take them
to the cafeteria to heat up in the microwave. When the lectures melt, the words
get jumbled up, but they make as much or as little sense either before or after
cooking.
Let us follow Professor Dr. Kelly-DuBois home from his office. His little
house is as cluttered and random as his office, but he does have a wood stove,
so his living room is marginally warmer than his office where the heat is regulated by the University Physical Plant, which insists that faculty offices may not
be warmer than 62 degrees Fahrenheit in the winter. That would be about 11
degrees Celsius, so, when at work, Professor K-D wears fingerless gloves while
he critiques the sexuality of the masses and concludes that (because Derrida
already did, but he doesn’t think his colleagues will notice—all being as chilly
in their offices as he is) “Sexual identity is part of the defining characteristic of
truth.”
Eureka, it is just possible that the little Derridian epiphany will get him
travel money to Miami in January where he can extol the virtues of Crystal De
Jingo’s new novel about sex and the octogenarian baseball player, entitled fittingly, I Was Not a Teenage Werewolf, but I Think I Might Be One Now. If he can get
the $787,95 airplane ticket covered, he might be able to shack up with his high
school sweetheart who moved to Florida when her frostbitten toes threatened
to become gangrenous.
Of course, he will have to deal with her two large wolf hounds who
howl at the moon even when there isn’t one and who insist on sleeping with
him whenever he visits. They once actually almost suffocated him. If the larger
hadn’t farted and woken him up with the sound and the smell, he might have
no worries about tenure, promotion, publication, accusations of sexual harassment, ad infinitum. But what does he expect when he thinks what he does about
sexual identity?
As we leave Professor Doctor K-D, dreaming of Miami sunsets and
warm beaches (his dream does not include loud Latino music or the garbage
that has not been picked up since October 30, when the sanitation workers went
on strike), he is suddenly reminded of a line from Hamlet: “O most pernicious
woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain.” Of course he would think
that because he suddenly remembers that his girlfriend of yore told him not to
7
visit any more as his sock smelled terrible, and he left the toilet seat up. He
also remembers with nostalgia the sign above the latrine in the British Railway
car:“Gentlemen lift the seat.” He is not sure whether that is the British definition of a gentleman or a command. Lacking the comma, the phrase has an
almost postmodern lure that calls him back to his grad school days when Postmodernism did not exist, and he was actually free to read things he understood
and enjoyed.
Remember, in case the logic of this narrative deconstructs textual socialism (K-D despises the Provost and thinks all administrators make too much
money), we have left Professor K-D wondering how he is going to get to Miami.
Let us then travel to Miami in our imagination rather than on the wings
of a real airplane to speak to the author whose book K-D wishes to extol at the
Conference for Postcapitalist Libertarianism. De Jingo herself arrives to meet
the plane. As we walk out of the airport, we are throttled by a wave of miasmic
heat and smells of pulled pork sandwiches and rotting garbage. We persevere
and make it to the air-conditioned comfort of the author’s Hummer where the
two wolfhounds that used to belong to K-D’s ex-girlfriend have mysteriously
appeared in the back of the vehicle. Of course, since they are male and female,
we are immediately reminded of Salman Rushie and wish him well with the
jihad lapping at his talented toes. We sincerely hope it will be safe enough for
him to come to the conference as the keynote speaker. He plans to speak of the
distinction between masculine and feminine in the postmodern world of Lahore.
De Jingo, who does not often give interviews, says, “I just write; I am
not sure if I am postmodern, but I am over 21 and am ready for consensual sex.”
We, that is the writer and the readers who are participating in making meaning
in the story, are thrilled. We think that means that there will be mojitos with lots
of rum.
It is time to close with a pavane to Moby Dick: “Oh, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast thy incommunicable riddle”—and it is for the reader to
give it meaning.
Mary A. McCay
Mary A. McCay is currently teaching as a visiting professsor at Radboud University.
Her home university is Loyola University in New Orleans, where she is Landrieu Distinguished Teaching Professor and Professor of English.
8
MANifesto
A ((post?-)post)modern poetics by Frank van Drunen and Marnix de Gier
(1.) Be free in grammar and spelling, if
it please you. Don’t sacrifice meaning for
it if you want readers to get it.
(2.) Please. Smoke out your typo’s and
kill them. If you miss one, don’t say “It’s
creativity”. Apologize, and re-read what
you write before showing it.
(3.) Always try to surprise your reader,
be it a turn of phrase, plot twist or sudden fragmentation.
(4.) Write the way you feel: if you feel
like writing a sad poem, do so, but add
something to it. (Real men cry hard,
loud, and endlessly). Feel like mapping
out a general storyline in your head? Do
it. Make tables, and pie-charts.
(5.) Write the way you don’t feel: Mix
it all up. Make something new that
contradicts your mood. Feel lyrical?
Write objectively. Feel cynical? Write a
children’s tale. Challenge yourself.
(6.) If an idea pops up, drop everything
and write it down, or at least try to make
some note that can take you back to that
idea. If you wait you’ll forget.
(7.) Write at night. Caffeine is allowed.
(8.) Write for your own fun, not to
satisfy your own self-pity.
(9.) Don’t shy from cinematic influences.
We’re all subject to them.
(10.) Never shy from boundaries, chances
are, you’re not the pioneer anyway.
(11.) Take things too far; then see if you
took it far enough.
(12.) While writing a poem, keep it to
yourself until you reach a certain level of
‘finishedness’, only then ask other people
from their opinion.
(13.) If people hate your work, don’t care.
If you don’t agree with other people’s wellmeant advice, ignore it.
(14.) Nothing is immoral, Nothing can’t
be made fun of. Furthermore, it’s never immoral to make fun of something. Nobody’s
safe. Not even your mum…
(15.) Be prepared to be mocked yourself
(for instance, by mocking yourself); take it
like a man.
(16.) While writing, think of what will be
mocked, and decide if it’s worth still putting it in, or if it might ruin the feel of your
writing
(17.) Expect people to not get everything,
or get it wrong.
(18.) Don’t tell anyone how to write, and
don’t let anyone tell you how to write.
Editors’ note: more MANifesto on page 35
YOUR BLOOD, OR MINE?
A short story by Marnix de Gier
She approached the lair, and paused for a moment on the threshold. Another night, another victim. This time it seemed almost too easy. The entryway
was looming up ahead, so inviting and unguarded she feared there might be
a trap. Her prey had begun shielding themselves against her kind, but not all
of them. She knew she had to be careful, but the thought that she would be
drinking blood in a moment excited her beyond words. She could almost feel
the heart pulsing, sending out the waves of delicious, nutritious, warm blood.
9
She knew she had to remain calm though, because easy as it sometimes
seemed, there was always danger present when hunting. The problem was
that her quarry was larger than herself, and stronger. She had to be quick and
decisive. Countless times before had she done it, but she had seen others fall
because they were not cautious enough. She wouldn’t let that happen to her.
Being on her own brought its problems, but it was the way she preferred it,
even with her dangerous prey. Unlike lions, wolves or other lesser hunters,
she was not afraid to take on something so massive on her own.
She went in, and observed her prey. Its massive bulk was on its side,
breathing slowly and deeply. Ha, she thought, sleeping so soundly, if only you
knew what was coming. She had to restrain herself from playing with her food,
and decided to move quickly. The massive beast, however, suddenly turned,
and grumbled in its sleep. She waited for a minute, to make sure it was still
sleeping, finding it hard to resist the lure of warm, unguarded blood so close
by.
In the blink of an eye, she was on top of her unsuspecting prey, and struck
him. Immediately, she tasted the seemingly never ending flow of its life force,
and she was stealing as much of it as she could, careful not to spill anything.
I hope it stays this easy, she thought, while taking in copious amounts of blood
with malicious content.
Since the creature was bigger than herself, there was no way she could have
drained it on her own, so she left without finishing the job, something that
never felt quite right, but she was powerless to change. Time to leave.
She set out for the exit that loomed just up ahead, but something was
wrong. The beast stirred, grumbled, and a great ball of radiant light and heat
appeared out of nowhere. It was drawing her in. It was irresistible. The beauty
of the light, the feeling of the warmth on her body… it was glorious. She could
sense her prey moving beside her, finding out the extent of his wound, but her
consciousness was being numbed. Everything seemed to revolve around this
magical orb of light. Then, with a great blow, she was struck to the ground.
Her legs were crushed under the weight of the blow with the massive weapon, and she knew she had gone from being the huntress to being the hunted.
She had made a terrible mistake; she should have been more careful not to
rouse her prey, even after having drunk its blood.
While she considered this, the magical orb high above her was still
beckoning her, and it filled her with unrelenting grief that she would never
make it up there, for even as her mind strayed upwards, she could see another
blow of the mighty weapon coming, and she was powerless to stop it. And
just before she would never again see the light, and everything went black
in an instant, she could hear the great beast saying, “Fucking mosquitoes!”
Wham!
10
STOP AND THINK WHERE TO DRINK:
ABSOLUTE ZERO
A cultural insight into what Nijmegen has to offer. By Nina de Lange
In this Stop and Think where to Drink bar review: “Nijmegen’s newest bar”
Absolute Zero. A modern Irish bar serving beer, whiskey, and an impressive
list of cocktails. So why come here for a drink and a good time?
When you ask Andrew Hickson (30), owner of the modern Irish bar Absolute Zero, how he came up with the name for his new café, he’ll explain: “When
I was studying, I had a group of friends from around the world and one of the
guys, Marco, a Swiss lad was pretty interested in Maths and Physics, and he
couldn’t stop talking about ‘absolute zero’: theoretically speaking the coldest
temperature possible. Now, Nijmegen is a pretty special place to be around the
end of April, early May. There is a day - everybody can feel and see it - where
the weather gets really nice. It is the first day when girls come out of nowhere
wearing little skirts and tops; a beautiful day we called Absolute Zero. We were
always counting down to the coolest day of the year: Absolute Zero.
Hickson calls Absolute Zero
a ‘modern Irish bar’, and,
indeed, Andrew is an actual Irishman. Years ago, he
traded his native country for
Utrecht with the ambitious
plan to study International
Theatre and Education there.
Unfortunately, at his audition did he find out that he
was auditioning for a dancebased theatre programme.
And Andrew doesn’t dance.
But, like a true Irishman, Andrew didn’t worry. Rather, he went and got a
Bachelor’s and a Master’s degree in International Management at the School of
Management at Utrecht University. After that, he decided it was time to own
and run his own business, and he ended up in Nijmegen. This, then, is where
he has now started Absolute Zero.
Absolute Zero is a popular place for a lot of students. Not only because the
café plays some good music and has plenty of beer on tap, but also because the
bar is divided into three parts. As such, it has accommodations for all sorts of
people looking for a good night out. The front of the café features a number of
large, cosy chairs and couches with tables, ideal for those who just want to sit
back and enjoy their fancy drinks. Halfway into the cafe, alongside the bar are
high bar-tables with chairs. These come in handy especially if you want to order
11
a drink, but you daren´t cross the distance anymore to make it to the bar. The
back of the café are again couches and tables tucked against the walls, but if you
move them around creatively you will reveal an dance-floor.
The impressive cocktail menus
found throughout the café aren’t
entirely copied from other bars.
“We do invent our own cocktails.
Of the 50-ish shots and cocktails in
our menu I think seventeen were invented here. In fact, our most popular cocktail, the Jolly Roger - a mix of
Malibu, Crème de Cassis and pineapple juice - was invented here,”
Andrew explains. Are you one of
those suckers for cocktails? Then
it’s likely you will have a good time
at Absolute Zero. Why else come to
Absolute Zero? Because the bar’s
got a great atmosphere, it serves
perfect drinks of many sorts, plays
fun music. Also, you should definitely talk with the people behind
the bar, although, no, you can’t talk
with them when they have to run
their legs off to keep up. Still, Andrew is always up for a good story about the
weird things Andrew has seen in his bar, such as The Lost Spiked Dildo:
“I suppose the weirdest thing that happened, was a couple of months ago,
when a guy, who looked slightly the worse for wear, came into the bar on a quiet
Thursday evening for a pint of Guinness. He was pretty well on and was more
than happy to mumble things animatedly. After working in O’Shea’s I knew
to just smile and wave. Eventually he went outside to sit on our terrace. After
a while I went outside to make sure he was okay, and see if he was barking at
the neighbours but he had disappeared. So I took his pint inside. After a while
he reappeared with a little black plastic bag. Over the next hour he finished his
pint and staggered out the door bouncing off most walls as he went, leaving his
package on a table…once we had closed I let curiosity get the better of me and
I had a look at his abandoned package. It was a massive vibrating dildo in the
shape of a thumb with spikes in all directions! God only knows what you’re
supposed to do with an implement like that. Needless to say we had great
craic over the weekend telling the story and showing the evidence and then
watching it dance on tables (when it was turned on it spun in circles!!) between
groups of screaming girls. On the Tuesday afterwards the guy returned to the
bar to ask if he had left anything when he was in the week before. Now that
took balls! I hope he’s been happy since.”
12
EXAGMINATION ROUND MY (HIS) INEBRIATION
AT THE OCCASION OF HIS (MY) REMATRIATION, OR: A
MOOCOW COMING DOWN ALONG THE ROAD
A clair-obscuration in one act of infamy by Auburn-Vended Nuke and A Chopstick Crusher
“first it is warm then it gets cold” – Mighty Jim
“Satire”, quoth Confucius, “is the degré zéro of successful lampooning”. Unfortunately, we answer, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita1, or so we should
have it, we must venture forth to create not some essay on the salubrious effects of the thrice-daily ingestion of cod oil as an objective correlative to this
our existence, despite the ostensible allure of such a magnificent topic and the
unquestionable worthiness of such a post-allegorical subject(ive). Rather, we
shall embark upon a psychological quest that must perforce lead us, and our
dear reader (m/f), into a down-and-out no-man’s-land of inquiry; that is to
say, in what follows, we shall concentrate exclusively upon the benefelicities
of coinagenbite-of-inwit, ars neologicatatonia, as it is indisputably the budding
brook of Man’s innate inventive invectivity.
Clearly, therefore, we must not compromise, but instead vouchsafe the virtue
of re/verential veracity, and with Veritas our Virgilian guide – an illuminescent
presence, lifted aloft by chanting choirs of Cherubim – we remain undaunted
in spite of the multifoliate challenge that lours o’er us. What rotten luck, however, that this effort has been somewhat circumpreceded by Petrus Abelardus,
that old beast, who observed reflexively, with great aplomb, “I’ve seen every
blue-eyed floozie on the way”. Unremittingly, however, we shall disregard his
angry dis/Missal of Heloïse’s purisanctity, for this sisyphean labour brooks no
compromise; thus our previous statement has, in turn, pre-emptively circumpreceded us.
Indeed, the problem is a common one, for Agamemnon’s unspousal indictment of his soon-to-be-late wife (“Hey big woman, you made a fat boy out of
me!”, as Aeschylus records), whose culinary efforts were sadly lacking in nutrients, did not really forestall the impairment of his royal mobility, rendering his
escape from a damnation that loomed only to confirm – through shatterment
and by algebra – his status as a belated (con)vertebrate – rendering his escape,
we say, ineffective, being circumscribed by a faulty bathtub (pace Archimedes),
which, we might add, had previously perpetrated a patellaluxation during one
of Aegisthus’ aquatic revels. But alack! Cassandra’s admonition that “sow bitter
fruits, and ye shall reap squishy cabbage” was not heeded, and Klytaimnestra’s
cooking remained in a dire state – as a chef, after all, she lacked scyll(a).
Yet let us not stray from mincing the issue at hand. The concept of satire, as
Petronius has universally acknowledged, and well he may, for no mortal being
1. Pedèstrian crossi:ngè, mi:ddlè-of-the-rooadè.
2. And yet we ponder whether diving into Heraclitus’ river constitutes an escape.
13
has phrased the answer to life, the universe and everything in quite as eloquent
a fashion, is always in want of more satire; it is a perpetually postponed ‘notquite’, a substantiated reiteration of the ‘jocular’ (jugular?) ‘I’-dentity, to resort
to grandiloquent glossolalia. Upon completion of his Satyricon, he put up his
feet and – complacently pipe-puffing away – said to his editor, “Sink your teeth
into this, old sport”! When that chap returned the manuscript riddled with red
herrings, Mr Arbiter desperately cried, “
” before becoming
babyishly lachrymose. By masticating his author’s literary pretence, the editor
reinscribed his own ‘I’-dentistry at the cost of Petro’s shelf-esteam, casting him
into satirical subalternity.
From this example, we gleaned that satire is no child’s play, even if it can
be termed a Sprachspiel in the Wittgensteinian sense, as it simultaneously subverts the Cartesian notion of ‘discourse’ (“mojito ergo sum”3 , as Foucault was
fond to say) and the Kantian categorical imperative (“Do as thou shouldst have
do be do be doe a deer a female dear Sir I write”). In fact, the con/struction
of per/sonality, the O/othering of selbstverständliche Selbtsentfremdung4, constitutes an im/pression of the op/pression of re/pression; that is to say, the re/
gression of the re/ificiation of any cultural re/crimination is sub flamma here.
The distinctions are vital, as are the prefixes, which lend the air of cridebility (cf.
différance) to an otherwise uninspired conjurer’s cauldron of hullaballoons.
“Our homie Blabla”, as Edward said accordingly, “participates in the Word
of warcraft by means of his avatar ‘Pig I Sky’, thereby deliberately recodifying
the decorous symbiosis of animal and nature [cf. Delouche and Mata Hari’s devenir-animal]”. Obviously oblivious of satire himself, Eddie nevertheless occasionally conspired with certain oblational applications that were to redefine the
semiotic and hegemonic power matrix of satirical enunciations.5 This unqualified inversion of collateral as/pirations of groups to which he himself could
only relate as a unifying monolith thereby but testifies to the Derridean “‘I’ in
the Sky(e)” (a pithy reformulation of Scottish liminal self-erection). However,
we must take care not to separate text from con/text, as Foucault introduced
his old friend’s (any friend’s) view with the declaration “Je me mouche dans les
étoiles”, which was not without a mouton anglo-français, and it is here that he has
daedaliciously built a shack of clouds with his own b/air stance. This qualification re/choires no further exejesus, but what does persist in this frantic translingual youkneeverse is a palimpcestuous perversion of (circum)pre/cadensity.
The sight is dismal, the ramifications abysmal, the events cataclysmal, the
effects visceral, and an oboe a whistle. We must sail a steady course now, lest
emaskululation6 manifest itself through orcastration, a strand of critical selfflagellation that runs unhindered through many a literary nation.7 Our circum3. Faustian fiesta.
4. alterising auto-alienation.
5. e.g. the well-known game, first observed at Yale University ´82, “‘I’ Signify with my Little ‘I’”.
6. the loud deploration of deceptive feminisation.
7. Beware! There be no evasion nor protective incantation – this train only stops at its terminal station!
14
perspicuity, our second nurture, prevents this climactic e/rupture from academic sincerity, but pusillanimosineity certainly besets us from all sides.
After this interludicrous metatextual diversion, a road (not?) taken, we will
p/resume our negation of pastemporal pastiche, the sine qua non of the postmodern condition. “Once more unto the breach of existential experientiality”,
as Albert Camus, newt supreme of la Littérature Française8, exhorted posthaste
when the ivory poststructure of French subliminality, that Bastille of philology,
collapsed under the pounding paws of conformist regurgitationists, including
Sartre and Sainte-Beuve, those lions who did not devour the delectable Thisbe,
instead opting for negation, fornication and McDonald’s. A priori this nauseé,
mutatis mutandis, inflicted serious harm upon arte gratia artis, a mari usque ad
mari sanguinically the most indispensable aqua gloriae vitae, and while this non
timebo mala, an ontological non serviam, is assuredly a reductio ad absurdum, we
can safely say that such rigor mortis is unavoidable in this case; sapere aude also
has its risks, even if it remains semper fidelis et iuventis to its terra nova incognita.
Our own walls are collapsing, our edifice is breaking down, and we must
take recourse to the simplicity of the heart for our final stand. We have spoken,
and with our gentle words we only hope to ensure that thou, dear reader, followest in our beaten tracks; that thou, too, wearest these words like a wreath of
purest green; that the ungrammaticality of “Barbares eunt domus” in some way
bolstereth the ideal that it fails to attain; that this adage will some day be read
as a bequest; and that thou, dearest reader, livest in age that celebrates life rather
gratuitously. No hands! Look, Daddy. Daddy, look. Please, Daddy.
Look.
Suggested Reading
Pasha Lane. “‘But is it true love, in the rectum?’: The Quandary of Sexuality in
Samuel Beckett’s Trilogy.” The Beckett Octogenarian 3.1 (1986): 42-66.
Ceça Herds-Kilns. “‘Oh Stephen, I want to seize your means of production, but
what are mine?’: A Queer Marxist Approach to Dickensian Comradeship
and Class Coitus in Hard Times.”Amyl-Nitrite for the Masses: A Queer-Marxist
Reader. Ed. John Russell-Popper. Oxford, MS: Sphincter Press, 2002. 69-125.
Ed Pious. “‘[H]is errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery’: James
Joyce and the Pre-Emptive Castration of Epigons; or, Look, Sigmund! Daddy’s won!” Overcoming and Coming Over Your Progeny: The Jovian Success.
Eds. C.G. Jung (under protest) and Jacques Lacan. London: The Archetypal
Mirror, 1950. i-xxxiv.
8. “I got better”, he was heard to say late in life.
15
STORMRIDER V (part 1 of 2)
By Thies N.R. Reebosch
Previously on Stormrider:
A long time ago in Medieval Northland, a man of great strength and courage saved a backwater village from the wrath of a horrible monstrosity. Due
to his heroic emergence in the middle of an unnaturally terrible storm conjured up by dark magic, the villagers named their hero STORMRIDER.
After this heroic deed Stormrider went on to rescue a fair maiden from
an evil wizard, but instead rescued a fool, Magnus the Mad. Together they
went to the Land of the Shieldings to defeat the Evil Thing that kept attacking
the Mead-Hall. However, the Evil Thing turned out to be OK, so they ended
up playing a game of checkers together. Still, the Shielding king wanted the
Thing dead so he took it out on our hero and his fool by sending his army
after them. The duo escaped to modern day North America with a time traveling spell where they took part in a re-enactment of a Viking battle. Our hero
assumed he was in a real fight, eviscerated one of the re-enactors, and was
sent to a Canadian prison together with his companion.
There, some CIA CTU noticed Stormrider’s supernatural physical strength,
mistook him for a genetically engineered super soldier, and recruited him to
take on a Columbian drug lord. Eventually the drug lord was defeated, but
before CIA operatives could take over the drug operation, a powerful, one
eyed, godlike figure intervened and sent Stormrider back to his own time,
where he would finally take on the hero in whose shadow he had always been
forced to live: Beowulf.
*zap*
“And now for something completely different…” - Christopher Trace
*zap*
The Sails of the Stormryder:
A John Jonson Mystery
The trigger, the thing that started all this, was the moment that nutcase came
to my condo last night. It was a cold November night in the Windy City, but
it wasn’t nearly as cold as the case I was working on. People always come to
me when Chicago’s finest has finally dropped their case or put it away in their
16
archives with a very slim chance of seeing the reading light of a detective’s desk
ever again. Usually I aim to do a better job than those lazy morons, but I had
to admit this one’s trail actually had grown cold. After one more sip from my
half emptied bottle of Jack I was on my way to bed, when suddenly the doorbell
rang.
A visitor? A client? It was 11.47 PM, and I haven’t had a visitor since I finally agreed on the terms of the divorce my third ex-wife’s lawyer – and lover
– had drawn up. I grew suspicious. I’ve made a lot of enemies during my four
years as a private investigator. Not to mention the years when I was still on
the force. Sleep forced itself from my mind, as a shot of adrenaline quickly
seized its place. I fumbled my drawers for my Berretta, took it in my left hand,
and walked over to the door. I left it ajar, looked for a possible threat. There
was no one there, at first. However, when I was about to shut the door again,
a man jumped into view and scared the living shit out of me by shouting:
“Hello!”
“Hey watch it, buddy! I could’ve killed you!”
The thing that struck me most wasn’t the guy’s emergence out of nowhere,
nor his soaking wet prison outfit; there was something strange about his character. He was so weird it was almost as if… he didn’t belong in this world. I
think my fascination for his peculiarity initially prevented me from realizing
this might actually BE a convict.
“You’re Jonson, right? John Jonson? The PI?” said the weirdo.
“That’s what it says on my mailbox.”
“Great, I need some help.”
“Now, wait a minute there, partner,” I interrupted. “How about you tell
me who you are and what the heck you’re doing here at this hour. And why
are you wearing those wet prison clothes? Are you a convict or did you forget
Halloween was three weeks ago?”
Then he told me a story, which any sane person would have figured for
cock and bull, if it weren’t for what happened next. The nutcase said they
called him Magnus the Crazy or something like that. He had escaped from
a Canadian prison, swum all the way across Lake Michigan to escape, and
knocked on my door to ask me if could help him find the Stormrider.
I didn’t know what to make of his story at first, but then I quickly gathered
my thoughts.
“So, you are a convict!” I said. “Hands behind your head, perp!”
The weirdo complied, and at this moment I opened the door whilst aiming
my gun at his forehead.
“Get in!” I commanded. Again he complied, and walked after me as I
17
reversed back into my apartment. I motioned to my couch. He sat down and
started yapping again.
“Nice condo you have here. I see you’re into that forties Humphrey Bogart
style.”
“Shut up!” I replied, while trying to find my handcuffs and at the same
time keeping a watchful eye at my prisoner. I found them and tossed them to
him.
“Here, put these on,” I said. “And start telling me your story in detail.”
The perp was about to speak when suddenly from outside a gunshot sounded,
and sniper fire shattered my window and pierced a hole through my blinds.
I quickly ducked for cover behind my desk, and was forced to watch the
weirdo criminal flee from my condo into the hallway. The sniper kept firing,
but I wasn’t about to let my perp run away so I ran over to my door while
firing without careful aim at where the muzzle flashes were coming from. In
the hallway I was safe from being shot, but the convict, Magnus the Moron
or whatever he called himself, was gone. Vanished as suddenly as he had
emerged.
I carefully peeked around the corner of my door. In the night’s darkness
the windows were all gaping holes I could not see from which window in the
building across the street the sniper was firing. I waved my arm. No reaction. Then I saw a rope being thrown from the window followed by an armed
guy in black military clothing, who quickly and skillfully rappelled down
the height of the building. Once he was on the ground a car sped by, slowed
down briefly enough for the sniper to jump in, and dashed off again.
From ten stories high I couldn’t make out the license plates. Therefore the
only lead I had to find out what the hell was going on, was Magnus the Idiot’s
request. What did he say, again? Stormrider? Who or what could that be? I
tapped my usual sources for answers: Google, Altavista, Askjeeves, MySpace,
Facebook, http://www.xxx-hotsluts-xxx.com. I found out at least five Heavy
Metal bands used the name “Stormrider”. Not very imaginative, but what
do you expect from a bunch of longhaired, beer drinking adolescents, whose
vocabulary is probably made up of words from Iron Maiden song lyrics. I
also found a scholarly essay on an epic hero from English literature named
“Stormrider”. Supposedly this guy lived in Northland somewhere during the
early Middle Ages and was one of the greatest heroes of his day and age: he
was second only to Beowulf. I though the article was rather interesting, but
it could never have been what that crazy weirdo was talking about. I had to
keep searching, but I had already scavenged the Internet thrice for every
18
possible lead. Before I could ponder on what on earth I was going to do now,
the phone rang.
“Hello?
“Jonson! I…”
“It’s Jonson! Gwen, is that you? I thought you vowed never to speak to me
again?”
“Shut up, John! I’m still missing my Bridget Jones DVD, do you have it lying
around there somewhere?”
“I dunno, let me check the cabinet.”
“Ah, you know what? Never mind.”
“Wha…? Hey!”
She’d hung up.
Hmpf, women! I thought, but before my mind was able to go on a mental
rant against the entire opposite sex, my eye fell on a heading in today’s newspaper: Stormryder in Chicago Docks for Nautical Exhibition. So, that must have
been what Magnus the Maniac was talking about! The article said the Stormryder was a replica of a Dutch East India Company ship from the 17th century
built in Bruce Mines, Canada by VDI. “VDI” stood for Van Dycke International, founded, owned, and run by self-made millionaire and Dutch culture
bough Winston van Dycke.
I knew the man. We went to high school together. Back then he was a
douche bag. We used to call him Winnie, stick him in a locker, steal his
clumps, put wasabi bits or dead flies on his Gouda cheese sandwich, pull his
pants down and humiliate him in front of all the girls. Yeah, those were good
times. Sadly enough times change. Now I’m in this shithole and he’s making
the big bucks.
Because of Van Dycke’s position as the most powerful man of Chicago’s
jet set and our childhood history I figured he wouldn’t be easy to approach or
cooperate with, but he was my only lead; I had to go after him.
TO BE CONTINUED...
19
POPCORNER
By Lia Albers and Jorrit Maes
It was many and many a year ago that the Popcorner was introduced to your
beloved GAG-MAG, and for a while we feared that the past edition was to be
our last. However, then we discovered the joy of procrastination and decided
we’d gladly put our lives on hold to keep informing you of Hollywood’s latest
works. Now, without further ado, let us round up the usual suspects for this
October edition of the Popcorner. We bring you reviews of new releases such
as Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds; 9; Men Who Hate Women (Girl with the Dragon
Tattoo), and present you with another one of our classic recommendations. Are
you ready for our close-up?
Inglourious Basterds
Fifteen years ago, Quentin Tarantino went medieval on our asses in Pulp
Fiction. Now, he’s saying ‘auf Wiedersehen’ to Nazi balls in his new movie Inglourious Basterds. After having worked on the script for almost a decade, with
Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzeneger initially on board to star, Tarantino finally shot three hours worth of film, which he then cut down to about 150
minutes. We surely would not have minded to see the full product, as Inglourious Basterds is truly one of Tarantino’s finest works.
The Basterds in question are a group of Jewish American soldiers assigned to
hunt down and kill as many Nazis as possible. As the various posters and trailers for the film featured mostly said basterds, one might be surprised to find
that the film actually focuses more on the ordeals of Jewish character Shosanna
Dreyfus. Do not feel cheated by this though, for her storyline and scenes are
equally thrilling. In fact, her ‘glass of milk scene’ is easily one of the most powerful scenes in the film. And even if you were disappointed, there is no need to
worry, as there are already rumours going around that Tarantino is planning to
release a second film on the basterds. Apparently, he had already written a lot
of back story on them which he could not insert into this film.
The opening sequence shows that Tarantino has clearly taken notes from
Sergio Leone. Tension is built up masterfully, as the scene introduces colonel
Hans Landa, portrayed by Christoph Waltz. Landa has got to be the best villain
since Darth Vader, combining brutal violence with utter hysteria and superhuman intelligence. Immediately, the relentless, hysterical tone is set.
20
What stands out in this film, apart from the strong script, are the acting performances. French actress Mélanie Laurent, who plays Shosanna Dreyfus, gives
a truly haunting performance. Diane Kruger has never managed to
impress us with her acting
skills, and even though she is
decent as Bridget von Hammersmark, she is completely
overshadowed by Laurent.
Brad Pitt is as hilarious as he
was in Burn After Reading,
and even Tarantino himself
gets a chance to shine as the
first Nazi body to be scalped.
Yet it is Christoph Waltz who
steals every scene he is in. His Hans Lada will unquestionably haunt you in
many nightmares to come.
Just when we thought he might be losing his touch, Tarantino once again delivers a daring, provocative, and ingenious film. Not everyone may appreciate
his rewriting of the events of WWII, but, all historical accuracy aside, the movie
is a sheer thrilling experience. We left the theatre utterly confused, bewildered
and extremely entertained. It’s probably not a coincidence that Tarantino ended
the film with the line: You know somethin’, Utivich? I think this might just be my
masterpiece. We might just have to agree.
9.
To avoid confusion, let us make clear that we did not get a chance to see
the new Daniel Day-Lewis film before its official release. Hollywood simply
decided to confuse audiences all over the world by releasing Nine and 9 –the
word versus the number- right around the same time. The latter, 9, is a film by
Oscar nominated director Shane Acker. Acker, who previously worked as an
animator on The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, received the nomination for his short film 9 in 2005.In collaboration with heavyweights such as Tim
Burton and Timur Bekmambetov, Ackner has now turned the animation into a
feature film.
The 2005 version is a highly entertaining short film about a rag doll named 9,
who is fighting a dog-like creature that harvests the souls of 9’s people in a postapocalyptic setting. What is interesting about this short film is that very little
background is explained, and 9 does not speak a word. The character remains
cute and likeable because he is still able to convey emotions to the audience.
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However, during the translation into a feature film something clearly went
awry. The story has remained virtually the same: 9 awakens, finds himself in
a post-apocalyptic world and spends his days fighting off robots with other
rag dolls. Yet what worked perfectly fine for the short version, fails badly in
this 90 minute adaptation. The story has been told so many times in countless
other films that it becomes almost embarrassing. Without giving away the plot
(holes), let us provide you with the background story: man creates machine,
machine turns evil, man and machine fight each other. Sounds familiar? Perhaps that is because you have seen this before in The Matrix. Even the machine
in question, the Brain, bears an uncanny resemblance to the insect-robots from
The Matrix. Coincidence? We think not. Ackers attempts to insert some variation by showing fighting tripods- too bad these are taken straight from The War
of the Worlds. Finally, it is really not done, not funny, and certainly not original
to have your ‘Brain’ look like one-eyed super computer HAL. We hope film
directors everywhere are taking notes. Eagle Eye’s D.J. Caruso and WALL-E’s
Andrew Stanton surely did not.
At least 9 looks very impressive and takes a different direction than
the average Disney animation, as Acker and his team have created a gloomier
atmosphere. Acker’s choice of rag dolls as main characters works fine as well,
for they are all adorable, especially the twins with their clicking eyes. The rag
dolls now have voices, which is not necessarily a bad change, but it does keep
you wondering what it would have been like had Acker used no voices for 90
minutes.
9 is an enticing film when it comes to style. Acker clearly follows other
directors who have an interesting premise, but fail to deliver story-wise. Other
notable contenders are, for example, the Strause Brothers and their horrid AvP:
Requiem and Kerry Conran, who had a fascinating idea, was able to sell it to a
production company, and ended up creating the monster that is Sky Captain
and the World of Tomorrow. The films looked great, but, like 9, lacked in the story
department.
Men Who Hate Women (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)
Whenever a novel is introduced as ‘the summer’s big hit’ or anything along
those lines, we are always inclined to pick up a virtually unknown novel instead. We blame Dan Brown for this. Needless to say, we were initially highly
skeptical of the insanely poplar Millennium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson. That is, until the lovely Dutch weather forced us to pick up a copy. Actually, three copies,
22
for once you’ve finished the first one you find yourself abandoning all sleep
until you’ve reached the final chapter. Luckily, we did not have to detox for too
long, as the film has just been released to Dutch cinemas.
Män som hatar kvinnor, as is the original Swedish title, introduces journalist
Michael Blomqvist and his unlikely partner Lisbeth Salander. Salander is an
angry, raven haired gothic girl who works for a private detective agency. She
is capable of finding delicate information on anyone. She is asked by one of her
clients to join Michael Blomqvist in his investigation of the murder of Harriet
Vagner in 1966. The novel slowly unravels a murder mystery that has haunted
the Vagner family for years.
The character of Lisbet Salander is what makes Stieg Larsson’s novels so
captivating. She is troubled, complex, highly intelligent and sceptical of everything and anyone. She sees her photographic memory as a burden and would
prefer to be left alone however, she feels herself being drawn to Blomqvist and
the mysterious case. Luckily, the film, by Swedish director Niels Arden Oplev,
has done her character and the
story justice. Noomi Raspace
plays a quirky, emotionally
unstable Salander, and makes
it clear that she is a woman
not to be messed with.
The novel has multiple storylines and character developments, and although some
of these stories have been cut
out or abbreviated, the film remains true to the novel and is
equally captivating. We were
a bit surprised to see that it also kept some of the more cruel scenes from the
novel, which were needed to explain Salander’s background. It reminded us
once again that we were not watching a polished or censored screen adaptation,
but rather a blunt and sincere film that remains loyal to the characters.
After being spoilt by the magnificent Let the Right One In last spring, this
is another Swedish film that is definitely worth the watch, even if you are not
familiar with the novels. There are two more films left in the trilogy though,
which are currently being filmed and will be released in theatres in 2010. That
will give you plenty of time to read the Millennium Trilogy beforehand and share
our enthusiasm for the powerful characters Larsson created.
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OUR CLASSIC PICK: The Wild Bunch
For this edition’s recommendation, we decided to focus on a film from the
genre of all genres: the Western. We purposely chose to avoid classics such as
The Good, The Bad, The Ugly or Once Upon A Time in The West, in order to shine
a light on a western that is often overlooked, but should be seen and adored by
all: Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch.
Sam Peckinpah was one of the major directors of the seventies, and made
his name with films such as The Getaway, Straw Dogs and The Wild Bunch. He
is known as a Western director, and although The Getaway and Straw Dogs are
situated in modern times, they still have the atmosphere, themes and stories
attributed to the Western. His films are famous for their slow motion action
sequences, but there is a lot more to them than bloody violence.
Set in the early twentieth century, The Wild Bunch refers to a group of hardened, professional robbers. They are forced to flee to Mexico after a bankrobbery has gone wrong, and are followed by an old member of their gang. As they
are getting older, they all want to quit their lives as bankrobbers, and decide
to pull one final heist for a corrupt Mexican General. The Wild Bunch may feel
and look like a Western, but is actually a bit of an anti-Western. Where there
normally is a clear line between good and bad, the line here is blurred. The
gang are as tough as nails and show no mercy to anyone, as the opening scene
immediately makes clear they will even sacrifice their own members. However,
the mercenaries that follow them are far from noble citizens either. Both groups
don’t have any high morals or values, they are only interested in money.
Even if you are not a fan of the genre, The Wild Bunch offers a great story of
a group of old outlaws beginning to realise that they are becoming obsolete in
an ever changing world, and that the things that they hold high, such as loyalty,
are not longer esteemed by the younger generation. This is wonderfully expressed by leader Pike, who states: “When you side with a man, you stay with
him! And if you can’t do that, you’re like some animal, you’re finished! We’re
finished! All of us!” These themes of loyalty and obsoleteness come together
in a magnificent, cynical, violent film, with probably one of the best endings in
cinema history. Frankly, dear readers, you should see this classic.
24
SOUNDS FROM THE ISLES:
CONCERT REVIEWS - God Is An Astronaut - Anathema & Leafblade
By David Nummerdor
GOD IS AN ASTRONAUT @ Doornroosje / 14/09/2009
If God was an astronaut, what kind of music would he make? What kind of
music would regular astronauts make anyway? Would it sound good, considering the connection problems one would have to face when listening to music
brought to you from space? Irish post-rock band God Is An Astronaut provide
answers to those questions.
God Is An Astronaut, or GOIA for short, are a band consisting of the brothers Kinsella (vocals, guitars, visuals, synthesizers) and Lloyd Hanney (drums
and synthesizers). They recorded their first album The End is the Beginning
(2002) in their home studio and released it on their own label Revive Records.
The first album was an instant breakthrough in the somewhat stagnated postrock scene. Where other post-rock bands like Mogwai, Sleepmakeswaves and
Explosions In The Sky are revolutionary in arranging songs, they still adhere
to “normal” rock conventions. GOIA however take post-rock one step further.
They were probably one of the first bands to make use of massive cosmic
soundscapes, exploring every possibility of digital recording.
Most songs consist of sampled drumbeats, subtle keyboards and/or
guitars, dreamy sound effects, and this all comes in multiple layers. Slowly
but surely the keyboard and guitar riffs take off, becoming ever more louder,
distorted and heavy before slowly going back to peaceful sounds, much like
waves lulling you back to sleep. This puts the listener in a dreamlike state
until all of a sudden all hell breaks loose again and he or she is confronted
with music that seems to be the soundtrack to colliding supernovas or the
apocalypse.
“But, hang on, you said
there were only three guys
in that band!”, you might
say. “How can they make
their concerts live up to
the albums?”. First of all,
GOIA consists of very
talented and able musicians. The drummer is as
accurate as a machine, hitting every note hard. The
Kinsella brothers on bass
and guitar are perfectly
25
synchronized in their playing, but this does not distinguish them from any
other decent touring band. The fact that almost all the sound effects come
from the DAT-tape that’s playing along isn’t a big plus either. They solve this
by having all sorts of images projected on a screen (you might’ve guessed:
images of stars, wars, nuclear bombs, fires and monkeys on bicycles). This
really gives more cachet to the music, and rather than distracting the audience
it actually provides them with a better experience because the band members
themselves concern themselves more with playing than entertaining. On top
of the images and incredible musicianship comes the sheer volume of sound. I
actually felt my eyelids being pushed against my eyes and there seemed to be
an earthquake going on below my feet.
It is rather hard to distinguish between songs, because they all follow more
or less the same pattern, but GOIA does it so well that it doesn’t matter. It’s all
about the experience of the concert: an experience in audio, video and impulses to the somatosensory system. It was like a trance that lasted 2 hours.
• www.myspace.com/godisanastronaut
ANATHEMA & LEAFBLADE (SUPPORT) @ Doornroosje / 22-09-2009
The Liverpuddlian band Anathema have been around for almost 20 years.
Having released 8 rather successful albums it is no surprise that Doornroosje
is absolutely jam-packed. Before Anathema’s on however Leafblade, the support act, is scheduled to play for 45 minutes.
Leafblade, consisting of Celtic shaman and
dream weaver Sean Jude Rooney and Anthema
mastermind Danny Cavanagh, play an interesting brand of acoustic Celtic folk. Their sound
could be best described as what Simon and
Garfunkel would have sounded like if they had
been born 500 AD. Lyrically they are inspired by
Yeats, de la Mare, nature and fruit tea. Normally
Leafblade is just Sean and Danny, but for this
leg of concerts they are joined on stage by James
Cavanagh (of Anathema) on bass, John Douglas
(also of Anathema) on drums and Mick Reed on
djembé. Though the music is completely centered around deceptively technical guitar playing, the extra instruments add a lot of depth to the performance
and also enable them to recreate the songs of the debut album Beyond, Beyond,
which has been out since early September.
The crowd surprisingly stayed quit throughout the more silent bits of the
set such as the poetic “Rune Song” or the mystic “The Roots and the Stones”.
As the end of the set came closer the applause grew louder and with the last
26
song, Led Zeppelin´s “Going to California” Leafblade closed on a high note. I
suspect they made a lot of fans tonight.
After a short soundcheck it was time for Anathema. Whole books could
be written about the musical change they´ve gone through since their debut
EP The Crestfallen (1992). At that time they played a style of very slow, melancholy death metal. This style was perfected on their first album with which
they, together with fellow Yorkshire bands Paradise Lost and My Dying
Bride, founded the whole doom metal movement. Anathema however kept
developing and with each album influences like Pink Floyd, Roy Harper and
Sigur Rós (although they were in turn by Anathema) became more apparent.
Though they have a style that is completely unique, their sound may perhaps
be best described as Pink Floyd meets Radiohead, but with a metal approach.
The live set opened with
“Balance” and continued
directly with “Closer”, relying
on vocoder vocals to build up
an immense crescendo at the
end. It is in songs like “Closer”,
as well as classic songs like
“Judgement” and “Panic” with
their frantic drum fills, that
the talent of drummer John
Douglas really shows. The first
surprise of the evening was
when Anneke van Giersbergen (ex- The Gathering, Agua de Annique) joined
the band for the beautiful duet “A Natural Disaster”, and the crowd went
absolutely wild. This reaction clearly spurred the band on, and they gave inspired renditions of “Deep”, “Hope” and “Flying” (with a brilliant meandering solo by Danny). The latter was jokingly announced by Vincent Cavanagh
(rhythm guitar and vocals) as their new Christmas single.
At this point, everyone but Danny left the stage, leaving him to play “Are
You There” on his own, displaying some superior acoustic finger picking.
Then, Anneke came back on to do some more songs with Danny (among
which Damien Rice’s “The Blowers Daughter”). When she left the stage for
the final time she met with a massive applause. The band returned once more
and played their metal classics “Sleepless” and “Fragile Dreams” and said
their goodbyes to the crowd who in turn went so crazy that one last song was
added to the list: Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”. There aren’t many bands
who can get away with playing a song like that, but Anathema certainly is one
of them. They played for two and a halve hours without losing the crowd’s
attention, and they left everyone in high spirits.
• www.myspace.com/weareanathema / • www.myspace.com/leafblade
27
AGAINST ‘-ISMS’
A teahcer’s contribution by Odin Dekkers
When I was approached by the editors of GAG_Mag with the request
to contribute to the present issue, they were very clear and concise in their instructions: 1400 words on (post)modernism. Of course I could not say ‘no’ to
them, and here I am, several weeks later – they even extended the deadline for
me – , trying to write something sensible and at least half-interesting. Which is
not, it turns out, the easiest task in the world. So much has been written about
modernism, post or non-post, that it would be foolish to try and add anything
‘new’. So let me follow a proven recipe that many a hack in a similar pinch has
found useful: resorting to personal experience. First, then: modernism.
Many, many years ago, when I was young and green, I was asked to deliver a paper on the general topic of modernism to an audience of school teachers eager to add to their knowledge of the various ‘isms’ that then constituted
literary history. For some reason, the organizer had got it into his head that I
was some kind of expert on this particular topic, someone dividing his time
between perusing Finnegans Wake and The Waste Land. In reality, I was practically a modernism novice, who all but thought of Thomas Becket and Samuel
Beckett as close relatives. So some time before the fated day of my public appearance, I staggered home with a stack of books from the library, and tried to
transform myself into a modernism scholar overnight. I failed, of course. When
the day came, knowing that my fate was sealed, I made a desperate attempt to
both save face and gain time by indulging in the slowest possible reading of Eliot’s Prufrock, hoping that my audience would be so taken by my dramatic gifts
that they wouldn’t notice how little of interest I had to say. But the problem
wasn’t just that I hadn’t done enough reading; it was also that that reading that
I had done, had only managed to confuse me further. Even a seemingly simple
question like when to locate modernism in time had apparently given rise to
violent academic disputes and resulted in recklessly divergent opinions. Did
modernism’s rise start as early as the 1890s, or was it strictly a post-WWI phenomenon? Was it WWII that managed to relegate modernism to the garbage
bin of literary history, or are we somehow all still modernists, even when the
heyday of postmodernism appears to be already behind us? There were no final
answers, and I even recall compiling long lists of ‘objective’ characteristics of
modernism, only to find that in my attempt to find a solid footing, the essence
of modernism kept slipping out of reach. However frustrating the experience
was – and let me also apologize here to those poor teachers who had to endure
my ‘evocative’ poetry reading – it taught me the valuable lesson that ‘isms’ are
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rarely to be trusted, and are mostly and merely the convenient shorthand used
by lazy literary historians.
Then: postmodernism. Surely this must be the most overused term in
the history of criticism and theory. Until not too long ago, just stating publicly
that something was ‘typically representative of the present-day postmodern
condition’ would be enough to have any audience nodding sagely along in
agreement. Ah yes, postmodernism, destroyer of all things absolute, purveyor
of a relativism both liberating and depressing, scourge of the culturally high
and staunch defender of the culturally not so high, creator of art about art, of
literature about literature, of text about text, of writing about writing: it is almost
enough to make one feel nostalgic. For in spite (or because of?) of its vociferous advocacy of experiment, postmodernism in its literary guise now seems
curiously outdated, a remnant of a past we no longer share. Our concerns are
very different now; other ‘isms’ – notably postcolonialism and multiculturalism
– have taken over in terms of relevance to the here and now, and even they are
entering a phase in which one ‘post’ is not enough: I have already supervised
two theses on post-postcolonialism. The lack of immediate relevance of postmodernism to the current British literary scene was brought home to me when
I was preparing for the British Novel Now MA-course. It was very tempting to
classify a novel like Fingersmith by Sarah Waters as a postmodern pastiche of
Victorian sensation fiction. I was, fortunately, reminded just how misguided
that would be when I re-read the novel that started the whole neo-Victorian
genre just when postmodernism was getting properly under way, John Fowles’
The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969). On nearly every page, passages like the
following kept being forced on the hapless reader:
This story I am telling is all imagination. These characters I create never
existed outside my own mind. If I have pretended until now to know my
characters’ minds and innermost thoughts, it is because I am writing in
(just as I have assumed some of the vocabulary and “voice” of) a convention
universally accepted at the time of my story: that the novelist stands next
to God. He may not know all, yet he tries to pretend that he does. But I live
in the age of Alain Robbe-Grillet and Roland Barthes; if this is a novel, it
cannot be a novel in the modern sense of the word.
And so on and so forth. The novel’s heavy-handed self-consciousness, its constant gestures of self-reflexivity, rapidly got on my nerves this time round,
and I couldn’t help but admire the lightness of touch with which Sarah Waters created her own neo-Victorian universe. Although her narrative may
29
be a little too artfully contrived, at least she seems to be genuinely interested in
it, and doesn’t feel the need to regularly interrupt its flow just to point out the
author’s awareness of the latest French theorists.
A similar narrative playfulness (which, mind you, is not at all the same
as a lack of seriousness) characterizes David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas (2004), one
of the few novels of recent years that may well be destined for canonicity. It
consists of six loosely connected tales in different genres which, with the exception of the central story, are broken off in the middle, only to be picked up
again in the second half of the novel. This innovative structure and its conscious
withholding of resolution constitute a severe attack on the reader’s patience,
but most critics agree that Mitchell more than gets away with it by making his
method relevant to his message. Yes, this is a novel with a message, a very bleak
and basic one at that: the world will go to the dogs if we carry on like this. Of
course it is a little more subtle than that, but the point is that in Mitchell’s universe, there is no place for postmodern nihilism (another ‘ism’), even though he
is obviously steeped in literary postmodernism. Like Waters, he is a consummate storyteller who does not feel the need to rise above his own narrative and
eye it quizzically from above at regular intervals. No doubt this partly explains
the enormous commercial success both authors have enjoyed. The average
reader can enjoy their work for its careful and playful craftsmanship without
the nagging feeling that one is being taken for a ride by a joker who is constantly gesturing ironically towards the academic avant-garde. So to classify them as
postmodernists would be as convenient as it would be beside the point.
So what are Waters and Mitchell and other British writers of their generation? Should we just prefix another ‘post’ to an already overused label and
leave it at that, or should we try and capture them in yet another all-embracing
‘ism’? It should be obvious by now that neither option seems to me very viable
or helpful. Rather, I would like to caution against the temptation to group together a very wide range of authors under one heading and against creating the
impression that they somehow share similar goals and ideas. We will simply
have to live with – and continue to problematise – terms like modernism and
postmodernism, but there is no reason why we should give in to our natural
urge to neatly pigeonhole everything we happen to stumble across.
Contemporary British fiction deserves better than that!
Odin Dekkers
30
BLINK
A short story by Maeyke Kok
All was black.
He knew it was midday, but all was black as he listened to the crowd gathered around him, not making sense of the words they were saying.
He was on the pavement. He tried to raise his head, but failed. The cold
stone was pressing against his right cheek, but he couldn’t get up, it was as if
he was paralyzed.
He knew he wasn’t. He could feel the pain. The pain in his hands from trying to catch the blow, in his head from smashing into the curb and in his cheek
from chafing against the stones of the pavement.
He heard voices.
The warm voice of a woman: “What happened, is he alright?”
The voice of a child, scared: “Is he dead?”
A man’s voice: “Call an ambulance, this man needs help!”
Murmuring all around him; voices, voices, like bees swarming around his
head. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted to get up and walk home as
if nothing had happened, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t because of the pain in
his head. He couldn’t because of the steady flow of blood causing him to feel
faint…
… The voices were gone.
He tried to open his eyes, but all stayed black. He tried to raise his hand to
feel where he was, but he felt nothing. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t feel
whether he was lying down, or sitting, or standing. He felt nothing. He saw
nothing. He heard nothing, except for a steady buzz in his ear.
The sound of a door opening broke through the buzzing sound... Footsteps
getting closer... It sounded like more than one person.
The footsteps stopped. The voice of a woman, unfamiliar, coming from out
of the darkness, reached his ear.
“He’s been like this for two days now. The doctors haven’t got much hope.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?” This voice was familiar. It sounded like
his wife, but strangely distorted, like she had a cold or something. Why did
31
she sound like that?
“The doctors say there is nothing we can do but wait. But even that seems
pointless.”
“Why?”
“Patients like this hardly ever wake up again. Even if they do, they won’t
be themselves anymore, they’d be like plants.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Wait for a while I guess, see if there’s improvement, but if there isn’t, you
might think about other options.”
Still black.
How much time had passed since he heard his wife? He tried to listen.
Maybe she was still here…
…Nothing but the buzzing. No wait! Someone was coming! He heard
the footsteps approach. They stopped, the door opened, and they continued
again. It was only one person this time. He heard some rustling, and some
metallic sounds. This went on for a while. Then there was a melody. It was a
man’s voice, humming. This was probably a doctor, examining him; he had
already figured out he was in a hospital.
The doctor was humming “Yesterday” by the Beatles. How ironic the lyrics
seemed to him now as he was singing along in his head. He remembered the
first time he had heard the song. It was in 1965, when it had just been released.
He already knew his wife back then. They used to sing along with all the
Beatles songs together.
How frustrating to not be able to do anything. He couldn’t even feel the
bed he was on! No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t do anything. He
couldn’t do anything to give a sign he was still awake, alive!
The doctor came in a couple more times. He was always humming a song.
This was quite nice, because it broke the monotony.
Since the last time the doctor came in a bleep was added to the constant
buzz in his ear. He didn’t know what this was, but it was quite annoying. It
made him nervous.
His wife and the nurse came back.
“Still no improvement whatsoever. The doctor has been in a couple of times
over the last few weeks, but there really isn’t a single sign of recovery.”
-The sound of a nose being blown in a handkerchief.32
“Then what should I do?”
“That is really for you to decide. We can’t keep him here, because we need
the room. He can be placed somewhere else if you like, but of course that
would be quite expensive.”
“I really don’t have a lot of money. I have two kids to raise, and now, with
only my income left, it’s really hard to cope as it is. I really don’t know what
to do.”
“Well, you just take some time to think about it, and by next week you can
tell us what you want to do. Is that alright?”
This conversation really worried him. The thought of his poor wife, struggling to pay the bills, and his poor kids who probably had no idea what had
happened to him occupied his mind.
Even though the doctor and the nurse came in a few more times, he barely
took notice of them.
What was going to happen to him? Was he going to be like this for the rest
of his life? He didn’t want to think about that. He was still there. He knew
everything that happened to him. He was sure that he would snap out of this
eventually and live his life just like before.
He was sure.
Still the buzzing in his ears, still the annoying bleep.
Everything was still black. How many days had gone by unnoticed? He
listened for footsteps; he wanted someone to come in. He wanted to be able to
say something. He wanted to scream, but even his vocal cords had abandoned
him.
He fell into a daze again. A daze filled with buzzing and bleeps. He didn’t
know how long he stayed like this, but he snapped out of it when he heard the
door opening.
It seemed like a crowd was coming in. But all were silent. Then the voice of
a little boy, his little boy, rose above the buzzing and the bleeping.
“Is that really daddy, mommy? Is that really him?”
“Yes Patrick, that’s daddy.” His wife’s voice trembled as she spoke.
“Why is he sleeping?”
“Daddy’s very tired, and he’s not going to wake up Patrick.”
“Why mommy, why won’t he wake up?” This was his daughter. Even
younger than Patrick was, it was quite cruel to bring her to see him like this.
33
“Daddy’s ill.”
“Why is he ill, mommy?” Patrick again, always wanting to know the reason
behind everything.
The voice of the nurse cut in: “Now, now, let’s give your mother a moment.
Just be silent.”
“That’s okay, let’s just get this over with. Patrick, Annie, go and say goodbye to your father.”
He heard footsteps coming towards him.
His daughter’s voice, close to his ear: “Goodbye daddy, please wake up
soon!” He knew she wouldn’t understand what was going on. She wouldn’t
understand what a coma is. She was too young for this.
Patrick’s voice sounded very strange from trying to hold back his tears. He
quickly said goodbye and ran back to his mother.
Still the bleeping and the buzzing. Still everything was black.
He had to wake up. He had to do something. If he could just open his eyes!
Just a blink would make it clear to them that he was still in there.
With all his might he concentrated on blinking.
BLINK!
BLINK FOR GOD’S SAKE!
It worked! He could see. He could see the ceiling of the room staring back
at him. He could see the doctor’s back standing towards him. His wife was
weeping into her handkerchief. His children weren’t there anymore. If only
someone would look at him!
He had to keep his eyes open. He had to!
“Have you taken care of everything ma’m?” the doctor asked. “Are you
ready?”
“Yes.”
At that moment his wife looked at him.
“WAIT!” she cried out.
.
A click.
The bleeping and the buzzing stopped.
34
MANifesto
Mephisto’s Manifesto
A poem by Frank van Drunen
in a gloomy mood, he wrote some grievous lines
with tears that extuingished the red hot fires of hell
a collective laugh came from hell’s black coal mines
insulted much, enraged the devil was, as you can tell
he quickly got out of his depressive mood
ordered the mines be without a week’s supply of food
“I’ll write my own manifesto, right this day
so that nevermore someone will tell me ‘the poet’s only
way’”.
MANifesto
A poem by Marnix de Gier
Endless blue and silver stars
All alone and no one mars
Creative writing in the night
I do not fear the futile fight
Fuck, I got nothing
Nor do I care
Magical portals, blood rites
And death. I’ve got the plans
All in my head, but they should be
Like piano notes.
Did you get all that?
No, you didn’t.
35
Say, you’re not writing anything
ambitious, are you?
Aaargghh ye?!