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WRECK: Paris is Turning

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  • ninplant@xs4all.nl
    wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 97.2 ~ Amsterdam Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies: no. 260: Paris is Turning The rooftops of Paris should opened to
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 15, 2004
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      wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 97.2 ~ Amsterdam

      Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies: no. 260: Paris is Turning

      "The rooftops of Paris should opened to pedestrian traffic by means
      of modifications to fire escape
      ladders and constructions of catwalks where necessary."
      o The Situationists, "Plan for Rational Improvements in the City of Paris"

      Lundi 5 Juli 2004 (17.00 to 19.00)

      "At first there was no sound as the water roseŠ It rose further inch
      by inch. The power stations on the edge of the city exploded and
      floated skyward. The people in their desperation for their culture to
      survive, hauled gramophone records, shelves of books, books of
      reproductions and whole pianos to the rooftops. The death of the
      city!Š And as the city finally went under, all except the proud tip
      of the Eiffel Tower, suddenly, from nowhere, seeping out of the eerie
      waterscape of the drowned metropolis as if orchestrated by gleeful
      angels, there came a sound of musicŠ"
      o Lawrence Osborne, "Pairs Dreambook"

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      La Seine > Paul Mauriat & le Grand Orchestre [En France Avec Mauriat]
      Crazy Carilloneur St. Germain Lauxenois Eglise > b/art [Tape 3: France]
      Sous les Ponts de Paris > Paul Mauriat & le Grand Orchestre [En
      France Avec Mauriat]
      Summer in Paris > DJ Cam vs Anggun [In Bloom II]
      Half a Summer Has Been Delivered > Pascals [Half Moon of Pascals]

      "With regard to churches, 4 proposals were put forward: 1. complete
      demolitionŠ or 2. Churches should be left standing but stripped of
      all religious content. Children should be allowed to play in themŠ.
      3. Raze churches to the ground and build ruins in their place or 4.
      Transforming houses into fearful houses (maintaining their current
      ambience and accentuating their unsettling effects.)""
      o The Situationists, "Plan for Rational Improvements in the City of Paris"

      Crazy Carilloneur St. Germain Lauxenois Eglise > b/art [Tape 3: France]
      Ring the Bells > Marc Farre [Man on the Sun]
      Les 400 Coups 1-4 [Franciois Truffaut] > Jean Constantin [Original
      Music from the Films]
      Monologue d'Antoin > Jean-Pierre Leaud [Original Music from the Films]

      "The area around the rue André Antoine happens to be his kingdom, a
      domain for which he feels a calm nostalgia and affectionŠ"
      o Lawrence Osborne, "Pairs Dreambook" [This is in fact where I lived
      and I do have exactly this same nostalgia/affection]

      April in Paris > Thelonious Monk [Thelonious Himself]
      In the Summertime / Calvados > Klaus Wunderlich [Hammond Pops 6]
      Summer in the City > Andrew Peckler [Station to Station" on ~scape]
      Paris > Justin Bennett [Cityscape]
      Paris Ambulance > b/art [Tape 3: France]
      Nous Resterons Sous la Pluie > Marc Sens [Faux Ami]
      Tristan des Faoubourg > Yvette Horner [Les Plus Grandes Valses Musettes]
      Il Est Cinq Heures, Paris S'éveille > Jacques Dutronc [Vive la France]
      Summer in Paris > DJ Cam vs Anggun [In Bloom II]

      "Museums should be abolished and their masterworks distributed to bars"
      o The Situationists, "Plan for Rational Improvements in the City of Paris"

      Saxophone Jardin du Plantes > b/art [Tape 1: French Sounds 1986]
      Moi Mon Paris [Boris Vian] > Renee Labas [Boris Vian et ses Interpretes]
      Belleville > Django Reinhardt [Les Meilleur]
      Postman in Paree > Irving Taylor
      Ah! Si J'Avais un Franc Cinquante > Boris Vian [Boris Vian et ses Interpretes]
      Sur les Jolie Ponts de Paris [Paul Fort] > Les Poemiens [Les Poemiens]
      Rainy Night in Paris > Norrie Paramour's Night Flight [3.3.92 WFMU Tape]
      I Love Paris > Jacky Terrasson [Blue Note Now!]
      In France They Kiss on Mainstreet > Joni Mitchell [The Hissing of Summer Lawns]
      Rue de Menilmontant > Julie Bonnie [Julie B. Bonnie]
      Le Poinçonneur de Lilas > Serege Gainsbourg [De Gainsbourg a Gainsbarre]
      Paris 1919 > John Cale [Paris 1919]

      "As the crowds begin complaining / How the beajolais is raining /
      Down on darkened meetings on the Champs Elysee"
      o John Cale

      Paris Tu N'as Pas Changé > Jean Sablon [17.10.95 WFMU Tape]
      Afternoon in Paris > Charles Gayle [Jazz Solo Piano]
      Belleville > Rogue State [Rogue State]
      Paris 4 AM > Legendary Pink Dots [17.11.94 WFMU Tape]
      Wet Paris High Heels & Dog Shit > The Agriculture [Once11 vs the Pyramid]
      Tempete a la Tour Eiffel > Helene Sage [Comme une Image]
      France > Tassilli Players [Illustrated Atlas of World Dub]
      Rue St. Denis > Carmel [The Drum is Everything]
      Paris Black Nite > A.L.A.R.M.E.
      Le Gars de Rochechouart > Rogier van Otterloo [The French Connection]

      "No city has been more feminized than Pairs, more effectively moulded
      to the contours of the female myth."
      o Lawrence Osborne, "Pairs Dreambook"

      Sketch for Summer > Durutti Column [Valuable Passages]
      The Fragrant Frenchman in Paris > Pepé le Peeuw & Daffy Duck
      [22.12.94 WFMU Tape]
      Paris Canaille > Catherine Sauvage vs Michel Legrand [Une Nuit de
      Cabaret a Paris]
      Nuit Sure les Champs-Elysees > Miles Davis [Ascenseur pour l'Echafaud Extended]
      Duelling Brandos > Saturday Night Life [11.5.87 WFMU Tape]
      Summer in Paris > DJ Cam vs Anggun [In Bloom II]

      "The outbreak of spring is an annual reminder that Paris is
      everybody's favorite city, the world's most beautiful, the one you
      have to know in order to be a man or a woman of the world."
      o Richard Bernstein, "Fragile Glory"

      o Going to Paris, place where I wandered, struggled, hung out, drank,
      engaged in some questionable activities, got involved in some
      disturbing events in the early 90s. I am going there as "surprise"
      for my - yikes - 50th b'day. Going with Paloma who is going to see
      the Paris of images built up from seeing the Aristocats and other
      Disney animations as well as the Madeline stories. So we will be
      doing a Madeline dérive and hanging out with friendsŠ Kirk [Dada DJ &
      Man Ray in a shot glass, check out his vocal work with Black Dog and
      his solo efforts as well] & Roma [visual artist & 1/2 of 10/Dix art
      conspiracy, whose paint cuts like a razor], both artists non pareil,
      and Brad [funniest man in the world, in part, because he doesn't
      believe it, and part because he is] and Michelle [who maintains
      dignity despite working for Disney - no easy chore]. I will going
      with Nina, partner for 12 years [sainthood remains elusive] and
      daughter paloma [has already MC'd numerous Wreck shows, has DJ'd,
      knows what jazz is and knows what a yodel sounds like]. Attached
      drawing is her version of the eiffel tower. Will hopefully visit
      comrade L. of WTM Paris / Radio Libertaire as well...

      o I have written 2/3 of PARIS SEX TETE, a novel of adventure set in -
      coincidentally enough - early 90s Paris. So many details have gotten
      in the way of finishing it including Paloma, Yodel-Ay-Ee-Oooo, and a
      thing called trying to earn a living. But I hope to get it done in
      the next 6 months - or 5 years. I also have a book of urbanist haiku
      called PARIS SCRATCH, comprised of 365 snapshots of Paris [in words].

      o In the planning stage for this trip Marlon Brando died. This piece
      is an incredible take on "Duelling Banjos" as John Belushi & Dan
      Ackroyd try to outdo one another with their best Brando imitations...
      Brando is one of the only actors i ever liked/respected. Last Tango
      in Paris was on. Saw it broadcast on German TV. Brando & Maria
      Schneider & Leaud speaking German wasn't quite what I had in mind.
      But I was still very moved by the atmosphere and the film as a whole.
      And the music of course by Gato Barbieri, which is strangely
      simultaneously subtle and over the top. Drenched in pathos and yet
      oddly it captures a certain kind of modern urban post-nihilist angst.
      I remember driving all the way from Horseheads, NY to Binghamton,
      shortly after hi school graduation [in the 1900s] with a bunch of
      guys in a VW Beetle to see it. I have since seen it 10 or so times.
      One amazing shocker was seeing a Blockbuster version of the film
      where all the shits and fucks became darns and shoots and all the sex
      scenes got clipped. Blockbuster is an evil privatised arm and branch
      of the American surveillance apparatus.

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      From Paris Sex Tete

      3 O'Clock in the morning of the day that took a year: Winnie

      I was the king of Paris back then. King of a place that no longer
      needed a king. King of a people that had threatened to "make lace out
      of Marie Antoinette's entrails." For a people that did not know I was
      their king. To paraphrase King Louis XVI as he was about to be
      guillotined, "I die innocent." And we all know that death and sex are
      intimately intertwined and we all know that the French phrase for
      orgasm, "le petit mort" means the little death. Every time you
      ejaculate, you have a small heart attack, you die a small death - to
      live a larger life. That was about the extent of my philosophy back
      then. To paraphrase Rousseau, "I am born free, and everywhere I am in
      relationships."

      But no, I mean, that doesn't sound right either. I'm not in my right
      mind now and I wasn't back then. In keeping with the psychological
      domain of kings, I was edging toward paranoia. Lack of sleep, lost
      bearings, lunging at ghosts, or something like that. Yea, OK, but
      there were verifiable odd moments that were rich in imprecision and
      ambiguity. Hallucinations of emotion melting into concrete. And I
      know all about the phenomenon of synchronicity mystification. I also
      know all about the gang mentality - one needy hoodlum poet feeding
      another under-esteemed artist's sense of self by the weaving of
      phenomena with fable and paranoia. Awkward moments of awareness,
      taken aback by a statement or an object, a photograph that revealed
      an underlying intrigue, something that I neither comprehend nor
      approve of Š and then you perceive [or think you think you perceive]
      the giggly whisper of something going on behind my [or your?] back.
      In any case, keep in mind the old adage that paranoia is the first
      respite of the under-esteemed. What better way to think more of
      yourself than to imagine or KNOW you are the target of what may
      involve international players with a budget. What that plot might
      involve had something - we and the cheap vin du table figured - to do
      with international cultural perceptions of alternative lifestyles and
      how the U.S. Government may have been trying to regulate the
      international image of recreational drug use. This is mere surmise.
      But I wasn't alone in my assessments. But this is getting ahead of
      myself.

      So when I declared, "We are embarking on uh historical journey from
      which we'll never return." no one took it too seriously because to
      take anything seriously meant being exposed to the mockery that the
      fortuitous makes of all this sobriety and earnestness.

      Some of us would die aesthetically or morally, going the way of most
      wanks and suits, giving up the high ideals and crazy dreams to sink
      into the very work routines you'd fought so hard to convince us you
      were against, unsuited for. Others would die of sex or its absence,
      one or two would die of obscurity. And at least one other would die
      the way we usually think of dying - corporeally. Shrivel up and die.
      Well she did. That this all happened in the circles that I passed
      through and passed out in was probably coincidence but nonethelessŠ

      Ah, anyway, I was king for a night somewhere along the gleaming
      paving stones with little Winnie from Big Can-Ada. She, as a
      photographer, or a student of photography "who once in a while got
      lucky to snap something interesting" saw all things in terms of
      "communicating with the real - composition, light and shade, the
      visual held in place, fixed there by the magic of chemistry. When you
      walked around with her you learned the art of straying. To lose your
      way, was to find some other way. To not look where you were going was
      to see where you had been. When you went around with her you learned
      that the fastest way to something was no way at all. She could stop
      dead in her tracks too, fixed on a pigeon on a ledge, not even snap a
      photo but just stand there lyrical and dewy-eyed and then grab you
      and kiss you right there on Boulevard Voltaire, her whole body poised
      on her toes between the potential and the actual, between the Paris
      of abandon (night) and the Paris of discipline (day). My nose
      greasing up the lenses of her trendy heavy-framed Godard-style
      glasses, which made her round little face look like the mug of a fly.
      My hands roving like famished rodents over her compact torso,
      watching her brown doe eyes fill up with black. You reach into her
      shirt always white, button-down, buttons unbuttoned or missing, tails
      flapping in her great hurries - there they are, floating on heavy
      sighs, and when you finally cup her breasts her mouth always offers a
      gasp which is an inside out sigh. A bit of her breath taken away. Her
      breasts perched there like those scruffy and perky little Parisian
      sparrows, les moineaux de Paris. Her back arching, her chest
      barreling outward with pride and urgency, her breath falling an
      octave or two and rising a degree or ten. And when she removed her
      glasses her pupils would disappear into her squint like black
      cherries into a swirl of cream. Passing cars swept through her eyes,
      but to her they were nothing more than balls of fuzz with some
      glimmer bouncing around inside them.

      This is Paris, I think, where heroes are lovers or singers of love or
      photographers of love - not fighters. For every word "we" have for
      kill they have two for kiss. The dream had been a recurring one; I
      was floating down to earth, attached to a colorful parachute. Below I
      could see emerald green rolling hills dotted with glowing faces. As I
      wafted down to earth I realized that this was another land - there
      were the outstretched arms of beautiful women, smiling, smirking,
      sighing, collapsing in toward me like an orifice swallowing an
      appendage, like a happy pudding swallowing an even happier spoon. Our
      first meal would be me drinking of their faces, the parachute serving
      as tablecloth.

      I had nothing to accomplish with or without her; no goals, no career,
      no need to prove that I could handle a career, no vision that needed
      to be overlaid on an overhead projector and then projected onto the
      heavens or across her pink-hued shards of eyeglass. I wasn't busy
      winning a hand that wasn't about to offer itself. I had no real
      responsibilities (sure, get some persilique at the market but
      otherwise nothing). Oh, and be home on time for Sophie. It's called
      consideration. Yeah, ok, but somehow I'd lost all notions of what "on
      time" meant. ["Convenient," Sophie and her allies would mumble from a
      snit at a party.] No use explaining how time had just gone ragged,
      spread out every which way, abstract, spatial, non-linear, without
      beginning, middle, and end... And it is in this realm that you can
      emerge as a king without need for a kingdom. No walls, no assassins
      ... no shit because there was no asshole to shit with and no mouth
      that was eating...

      One or another late night - we had no agenda, no tight schedules and
      this is how it enabled the time and everyone floating along in it to
      become charmed - I removed her glasses, hid them in my pocket. In
      this way, we wandered the rues of "her" Bastille, rue Keller, my arm
      around her shoulder, my free hand inside her tight jeans (so tight
      that the seam split her labia like Moses parted the seas, like Karen
      Carpenter parted her hair), inside the elastic of her tights, and I
      described to her exactly what I saw and wanted her to see as we stood
      in front of art gallery windows, in front of bars and monuments. My
      finger urging its way between her moist little loaves, burrowing ever
      deeper into her pouting and puckering little furrow. Plunging ever
      deeper, centimeter for sigh, sigh for centimeter She bending over
      just enough on rue de la Roquette, so that her anal sphincter could
      accommodate my forefinger with the same grip that an infant holds
      your finger, her pussy gripping my thumb, wanting more of it until
      there was no more to want. I could feel that if physiology's laws
      were to suddenly change I could find my entire arm up there, followed
      by head, neck, torso. [I remember a veterinarian at a petting farm
      once; his arm wrapped in plastic, thrusting his entire arm up the
      asshole of a cow to check the calf's progress.] Winnie's orifices
      seemed to utilize similar principles as the lens aperture on her
      Nikon.

      Then we found ourselves wandering inquisitively down little-known
      streets - Passage Louis-Philippe, Cour Quellard - arteries that led
      to no organ, to no where, way more alive in their anonymity. Our
      disappearance down those streets, streets that shy away from light,
      hide their beauty from tourists afforded us access to a privacy where
      our heavy breathing may very well enter the deep sleep of someone
      right above us. This is how I manufactured my own map of Paris, the
      boundaries showing arrondisements on the free tourist map redrawn to
      accommodate desires, mark trysts and lipstick tumbles, Metro Stop of
      Heavy Sighs, Chemin de Cuite (Drinking Spree Way) Café du Memoire
      Perdu ...

      Or as mad Russian poet pal, Ivan Chtcheglov, (Chiclet to us) once
      declared naked (save a Smilie sticker stuck to the head of his penis)
      on the Pont Neuf in an impromptu poetry reading he did: "Districts of
      the city could correspond to the whole spectrum of diverse feelings
      that one encounters by chance in everyday life. Bizarre Quartier!
      Happy Quartier! Useful Quartier! Wet Quartier! Soft Furniture
      Quartier! ..." And with that he climbed up on the railing and leaped
      into the Seine screaming "DIVE AND WONDER!" [This act a full 10 years
      prior to the purported "first" bridge reading claimed by a group of
      NY poets I was associated with, called the Unbearables who spanned
      the Brooklyn Bridge with babbling poets, harassing the harassed,
      serenading the deaf.]

      Chiclet, by the way, had that ability to hide his resources, appear
      to exist on nothing, be destitute and yet secretly eat organic food
      products, emphasizing his Russian-ness which everyone wanted to
      believe and downplaying the fact that he grew up in Orange County,
      despite the fact that he'd taken a course on how to win back his
      Russian accent. He had the mad look, that Rhyming Rasputin look, wild
      hair, his coal black eyes with a bit of them on fire became the
      buttons on the bohemian suit that he wore everyday of that year we
      knew him to be still alive.

      And when Winnie and me finally entered Fifi's, the bar with polished
      vintage motorcycles always parked at an angle in front of it on rue
      de la Roquette, my face is so covered with her make-up that I look
      like a drunken clown who has just climbed out of the Seine. Her mouth
      looks like it could be located almost anywhere on her face. But
      nobody pays us any mind. I am sitting there facing her. I am watching
      the red of her cheeks turn from the red of spring to the red of a
      glowing interior. I sit with my forefinger under my nose, elbow on
      table. I can smell the blossom of her entrails. We can climb right
      inside whatever we make of one another. She is reciting - picture it
      - the chalkboard menu, making the entrées sound like phone sex:
      "Bavette d'Aloyau à la Lyonnaise ... lait chaud" (pronounced lay
      show). I could be jacking off to her purring [visual equivalent:
      Brando jacking off in the dancehall in front of Maria Schneider in
      Last Tango In Paris] and no one would notice or let us know they
      notice. By the time I have told her of my adventures (see above) and
      she has told me how she stares at Brassaï's photos until she is
      living inside them, my pant legs are soaked with spilled beer. You
      cannot know how to explain this need to stave off the private by
      remaining in the public to intensify the private later. This is why
      cafés and bars exist as a kind of holding pattern, a kind of coitus
      prolongus. And as we flung ourselves out the door we thought we could
      just leave our breaths behind as placeholders to pick up the tab ...

      "People who complain about Paris just don't get it. And never will."
      Winnie declared from her knees as she poured salt on the carpet of
      her sublet place in the 11th. Poured salt on my shirt.

      "It sucks out the stain."

      But I said it didn't matter.

      "It doesn't matter." She poured salt on the dinner that was already
      cold and would only get colder.

      "Drunkenness is always its own excuse." We finished the bottle. It
      may have been the second. It may have been to celebrate the fact that
      she'd just finished school. That meant spring. That meant all sorts
      of aromatic effluvia sending hormones ascatter. It could also have
      been the fact that she had sold one of her photos (of me - someone I
      overheard during the opening had said "Nostradamus dressed as Billy
      Idol") that she had hung in a student group show at Parsons to a
      lady, a lonely diplomat's wife who, as chance would have me, I worked
      for in the capacity of handyman for 4 full days.




      ~*~*~*~
      Send all sound material for airplay and review to:
      Wreck This MeSS
      Radio 100 / Radio Patapoe
      bart plantenga
      Zeilstraat 23 / II
      1075 SB Amsterdam
      the Netherlands

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      __________________

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