Language a Go-go
Kofi Fosu Forson
Since dancing has been banned in New York City bars, I’ve perfected my pick-up line.
The cause and effect of wanting to communicate is acceptance. Society’s technological warfare has undertaken a new means for wanting to say something and garner a response.
What is the philosophy of thugs? Isn’t there a caption here which has allowed young men in urban areas to think and act a certain way? Has hip-hop become the new qualifier in how future boys interact? Meanwhile advertising is ready to counteract on what is saleable, from hip-speak to black slang.
Philosophy as it stands in the virtual world isn’t literary. By all means speak…in every chat room in every e-mail account. There’s a combination in “what is philosophy” and what is merely intended as a call to action. This can be found in blogging. Chatting is café-speak. It bears no value. Such is the level of communication.
Virtually, the interaction between two physical points concerns itself with thought. It’s never obvious what merits intelligence. Language is much the go-go dance. What is our greatest concern and why can’t we spend time in dialogue? It often becomes generational. That and gender politics.
The very thing that makes this a dance is not the usual slow kind found at a country bar during closing time. As a dance, language has the capability to be a crowd at Giants stadium during a Green Day concert.
With every performance, there are songs which require the audience to waive their hands in accordance. Then there’s time spent mashing. This isn’t choreographed, rather a celebration.
Language has afforded us every reason to celebrate, from Russian writers to French surrealists and American cynicism.
Seduction as it was labeled by the likes of Barthes and Beaudrillard, language and semiotics need not be given a brand. Openly we can affect the stratosphere with the vibrancy of culture as it spins.
Music once gave us that potential.
Whatever happened to the Cocteau Twins?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Walt's Monologue from Black Thong
Reading Presentation: Riant Theater 2001
Kofi Fosu Forson
Walt: (Letting go) Suicide, yes, but some one is ta blame. He didn’t just kill himself. I can run down the list of things that made him do it. Liquor put an end ta him but there was so much more before that. He was given too much freedom.
No country boy is supposed ta run off ta England. High fashion? We got ‘em here. What killed Richard? The notion that you can run around playing God ta everyone ya meet, everything ya see. Experimenting with everything ya touch. Creating a world fer yerself, no compromise. Living the life ya want, no restrictions.
(Pause) Ambition! Ambition is the key. That’s what killed him. Free-wheeling, turning things upside down, inside-out. Getting hooked on the metaphor. Ain’t that what it’s all about? Racking the brain for a phrase ta keep the cheerleaders and jocks off the field. I’m still stuck on the (hakoo). That’s where I gave up.
Richard was what they call a philosopher. He earned the right ta pontificate. I later addressed him as the “itch”. Always twitching, keeping his hair standing on up! He never liked it parted. He was as much a punk as Edgar Allen Poe. Like so many before him, he torched that liver. He chose his women, like he chose his wine. Imported.
(Pause) I believe it now. There’s no such thing as white country. People are migratin’. We got ‘em all up in our ears. And they’re banging louder than before.
(Pause) Ambition will put ya on stage, spread-eagled. Ambition will make money out of a skinny blond woman with big tits. Ambition will take you to an early grave. I have no ambition. Kill me.
R.I.P. Benazir Bhutto 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
(For Pretty Z.)
Kofi Fosu Forson
Iron…backbone of experienced lover! Truth is in masculine pelvis as she receives or he proceeds to thrust. Body is by form an object, whether with will to admire or falsify any understanding of it as embraceable.
Body is physical shape of energy. Its origin is in union of love. Somehow message sent is promoting furtherability pertaining to universal love.
Relevance of lust and sexual desire is more about type. What brings two people together? Constant in romance is partnership and compatibility. Sex and desire is matching of allure. This has to do with innate quality of person. It can best be described as alarming.
This very feeling can be found among strangers. At times, it’s manifested by two people who are unsuspectingly aroused by each other. Perhaps it’s driven by intellect or strange and unusual desire made unaware by both people. In cyberspace for example, intellectual desire two people share may not translate to physical desire.
Do politics, class and race play part in how well a person performs as lover? It can be said that making love at times requires length in male musculature, endurance and stamina, ability to express love in the lovemaking and not just insert and pull.
Does it ever cross the mind as to say what experience of Hindu lover would be as compared with Islamic? Ethnicity is cause to wonder. That nation of people who know death, make love not just to partner but to land. Mere thought of two lovers amidst insufferable societal conditions brings to bear the true meaning of love.
What is angst and love, intellect and sex, sex and death? It’s made probable that these elements are all required of lover. For woman to bare open her anal and vaginal cavity is she inviting pleasure or an understanding of femininity?
Does fcuking breathe eternal whisperances that travel close to the speed of light? That in fact to fcuk merits a moment in time transcending life itself?
This is only relevant in the mind. An erection formed from a discussion of philosophy knows no direction. An orgasm reached by manual stimulation is useless. Lovemaking as an act is etched in time and place, marking accordance with relative history.
Otherwise listen to Serge Gainsbourg. Or get a tattoo of Ute Lemper.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Incest and Pornography
Kofi Fosu Forson
An offering, in the form of baby, made to the world would be justifiably free of trauma. But would that carry through to life in its experience. Is it not living that brings about experience? And can we not say that September 11, 2001, inherently began a new day for life as we were to know it?
White female is most marketable image in the world. If not, much like seed, she permeates the mind of every one and every thing. How is this counselable among those removed by race, gender or class?
In a seemingly perfect family life, there are erosions found in the interrelating of family members. Subjectivity of beauty and masculinity are made present. Perhaps the mother equates herself with strong notion of repressed sexuality and beauty. The father having won victory in securing marriage with the wife exerts form of masculinity.
A son is born. He vies for his mother’s attention. As he proceeds to grow, his relationship with his mother takes on personal ramifications. They share quotient of joy and sorrow. This turns out to be grounds for father’s jealousy. The relationship between mother and son can be interpreted at best as emotional incest.
Furthermore could background of incest have anything to do with propensity for pornography as a means of order within the family? Is relationship between mother and son foreplay for husband and wife? How does universal appeal of white female affect the husband, knowing that the son in his distant world has an abnormal and peculiar interpretation of white female which in a sense is cause for diagnosis?
Incest and pornography therefore equates a notion of disease. This can play itself out in nocturnal dreams, philosophy and art.
Given spiritual nature of mother and her influence on her son, sexuality is reformed in art and not pronounced in actual intercourse. Sex then is philosophy. Much like Umberto Eco said…
“Lovemaking for all its pleasures alone is stupid. Nothing comes of it.”
The father then is reminiscent of failed philosopher who fcuks. The son’s role is to complete unaccomplished feat of father, which is to be philosopher and maintain an understanding of philosophy, art and sex.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Little Drummer Boy
La Dee Da Drum Drum
Kofi Fosu Forson
The rhythm that is love pours out of hearts of every one at this time of reckoning and repentance.
I for one have made a concerted effort to love not to break hearts of one with whiskey and cigarettes. If love is a disease as in spread-eagle, I have found a cure in philosophy of art and sex. Sex en sex not to plug to fit but that longing to bring to conclusion who we are; The “I” and “She”, persons born out of adoration.
What I send through to hearts of everyone I come in contact whether physical, spiritual or virtual is a love song. A love song meant to be in tune with hearts of all. There’s a place and time for body to dance electric, fold at kink, gyrate beyond perversion.
At this time of love, let us all listen to rhythms of Little Drummer Boy as he beats on snare “La Dee Da Drum Drum… La Dee Da Drum Drum… La Dee Da Drum Drum.”
Let us celebrate kinship with which we acknowledge our very own but indeed find it in our hearts to embrace the alien/stranger. If you close your eyes, you’ll realize love is not far-reaching. Bring to fore that very essence with open eyes in each and every person.
If vodka is love, so is look in the eye. Look to touch not to dominate. Make love. Refuse to conquer. Celebrate. Keep in mind we are at war with ourselves. Such is the cause for demons we keep.
If not Stolichnaya, then Little Drummer Boy!
La Dee Da Drum Drum…La Dee Da Drum Drum…La Dee Da Drum Drum
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Romancing the Muse
Art or Sacrifice
Kofi Fosu Forson
How pleasurable is time spent with the muse versus painstaking hours enduring the plan? Most will agree that artist and muse aren’t for betterment of time spent together meant to enlighten each other.
Why then does their relationship revolve around gender politics and unexpectancy of arousal, stimulation, conquest and indeed, enlightenment?
The mission or plan guided by mutual understanding of what is to take place between artist and muse is only relevant if both parties will themselves to sign a contract. Otherwise, it’s fair game.
Through my existence in the virtual world, I’ve come to realize the “word” as an edit contains many signifiers and depending upon how it’s interpreted, it allows for both positive and negative negotiations on subjects of love, art, music and politics, among many other things.
It is a fact however that a muse can be virtual. This circumstance is based solely on intellect, philosophy and ingratiating of the heart. Body lends itself to fantasy, otherwise it doesn’t exist. Much of relevance to life occurs in exchange of ideas through virtual space.
In summation of what is intended, it becomes quite clear what roles artist and muse play. Perhaps, it’s a cultural initiative and one must succeed at writing philosophical text or making a piece of art work. Somehow, consistently, two people find meaning in a correspondence which at times meets demand for male/female fantasy.
How then do artist and muse manage a relationship? If bound by the body, text and drama, artist and muse in their spatial relevance must die. In death bodies live on but spirit with which they created suffers an end. One is left with a body of work or a crush of images that define turmoil behind relationship.
Of a virtual muse, death is imbibed into philosophy. It’s an example of death becoming life, that in a vacuous space of nothingness, anything is possible.
It is definitive as art. Greatest sacrifice is to approach not knowing what manner its life would take.
Question therefore is to speak and hope to be spoken to? Or fail to endure for not having said anything.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Sometimes the sky suffocates me, all white and blue staring down at me. I couldn’t escape it if I tried. The only thing that brought me closer, lifted me off my feet to kiss the sky was Lilly.
I met her at the City College. All of us were imprisoned by the smoke. It was cool back then, “Smoking!” Now I run when I see a girl put her hand inside of her purse to pick out a pack, open it, pull out a cigarette, stick it to the edge of her lip, light it, take a drag and blow out the smoke. I got off on that when Lilly and I were going out. I never smoked but I loved watching her. I sat there comfortable and loose.
Sometimes after dinner, sometimes after sex, I watched her do just that…light up and smoke. She was a beginner. Had been smoking for a couple of months. I watched her struggle with the lighter. It wasn’t always a lighter. Sometimes it was a match. It was worse in the winter when the wind kept blowing this way and that. I took pleasure watching her with her fingers clutching the cigarette. The arm that held the cigarette was bent. It looked like the letter “V” with the elbow pointing towards the ground. Guess that’s how women hold their cigarette. Lilly would turn her profile to me, blow smoke out of the side of her mouth. It became like a “thing” with us. When we got bored, I would tell her, “Lilly, smoke me a cigarette!” And she did it! I watched her. All that filthy smoke! Like the sky I could never touch. When I watched Lilly smoke, I felt like dancing on a cloud.
She got more and more experienced at smoking. Her breath tasted bitter. I stopped kissing her. Sex became cold and calculating. On her knees, with her back to me, never face to face. I started to disown her. I thought I could get the same pleasure I got when I watched her smoke by looking at French films. Women smoke in French films. It started to dawn on me that I could have an affair with a woman who smoked and I didn’t even have to kiss her on the mouth. We would do what comes naturally. Kinda like something you do when you need to stretch, sneeze…blow smoke.
Friday, December 14, 2007
The female then took on this notion. It wasn’t as if I had concertedly developed a feeling against black women. They were never in existence among my circle of friends. These friends were brought about due to mutual interests. It bordered mostly rock and roll. Commonly, it served as background music during most of our times spent together.
Early hip-hop was very much a part of life, separate from the rock and roll. I lived it through the eyes of my younger brothers. I felt committed to it, mainly because it was music for black youth, something I couldn’t find in soul music. And so on a mission to find the black cause within me, I started listening to rap music. It was also at a time when I discovered different forms of music, blues and jazz among them.
Despite this newfound love for rap music, I didn’t attract African American women. Once again, there was a disassociation between both cultures. Somehow black women were distant. I understood that to be something founded in philosophy more than race.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Thinking about my role as lover, I had always fallen prey to the fantasy woman. To have accepted her as a dream and let my mind seek further pleasures, I would have salvaged any pain from feeling inferior, when I could have offered myself to a girl I truly loved. Even at that, I was in love with a classmate I saw only once. She was fair skinned. Watching the sun reflect on her face as she walked up the staircase was unusually a cinematic experience. More so a silent film because in the very moment, I couldn’t hear a thing, except to watch her in motion.
Female within the realm of fantasy is an element a man with an imaginative mind can maneuver. As an exercise in art, this leads to works of creativity, rendering the female as singularly the most important source of inspiration on my art and philosophy, place of habitude, light and dark, notwithstanding.
The two women from the Royal Preparatory who encouraged that spirit of light were not sources of young love. Instead they spearheaded a feeling of eternity. Eternal love is never always embraced physically. The notion of love shared with the eyes alone for a moment, lives on forever. To actualize love in a relationship is a blessing. But not all is lost if little is gained. That very much lives forever.
Friday, December 07, 2007
German Mistress: A Self Portrait
Kofi Fosu Forson
When I met my Nigerian lover, my marriage was suffocating me. I couldn’t have strawberries with my champagne anymore. My husband hated the smell of strawberries.
My husband and I were gorgeous together. We were newlyweds in the early eighties here in New York. Life was beautiful then. I got away with fashion. Purple this! Green that! Pink this!
It wasn’t love that brought us to the bedroom. It was the other thing. When we woke up in the morning, there was something missing. Something wet…like kissing.
I was employed among the world’s most powerful men. I had always been the bombshell, long legs and all that hair. I made a living but the united press kept calling me porn star.
It was one of the coldest days in New York when I came to celebrate the birthday of a colleague. I wore a long black skirt, lace and pearls. Most of the men wanted to dance with me. I sat there not amused.
In the distance was the face of another black man. He was different from the other black men. He smiled with his eyes. I would have followed him anywhere.
He was much younger. His muscles bulged from his undershirt. I knew I wanted him. Talking to him, I had it all planned out. I wasn’t going to have him all at once. He wasn’t sushi. I wanted to take my time, like sirloin with potatoes and a glass of red wine. I salivated.
I gave him love in a hotel. That night, he was gorilla. I was creature of the moon. It lasted into the early morning. He was stronger than I thought. He knew how to make love. I was more than satisfied.
Time passed. He wouldn’t return my phone calls. I loved him. He was my prince, my black Nigerian prince. He even spoke to me in Yoruba during lovemaking.
I went back to Munich. Found myself looking at photographs of old lovers. My husband in his black fur…His white heart… My prince of light, prince of darkness!
Where are they now?
I have exorcised my lovers. I now concentrate on air.
Copyright Horatio Monologues
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Conclusion on White Female #2
Kofi Fosu Forson
Art defined for me the white female as expressive, caught within margins on canvases by the likes of Matisse and Renoir. Picasso’s Demoiselles D’Avignon prepared for me the dimensions at which one can go in developing a style and language. Cindy Sherman did that for me with the stark management of light and dark in her film stills which challenged the notions of beauty and sex.
Nan Goldin’s Ballad of Sexual Dependency was singularly the most influential book of photography on my life as an artist. Both Sherman and Goldin’s work of art were the first to prove to me that the white female can be an abstraction and not classified as movie star, a la Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor or Lauren Bacall.
Vixens like Rachel Welch or other actresses featured in movies labeled 70’s, Pam Grier, Faye Dunaway, Jane Fonda and the Bond Girls presented the female as dominant.
Much can be said about Blaxploitation films. It portrayed its women as having extreme confidence. This was my first impression of the black woman exhibiting total freedom. Almost always, Tina Turner was representative of this.
Soul music was my understanding of the black woman’s sexuality. I got the truest sense of this in black music. Unlike rock and roll, it wasn’t marketed to the young. And so I fulfilled this need for black culture by listening to my father’s records.
Singers like Millie Jackson, Nina Simone and Roberta Flack were much the same as the aunts who took care of me growing up in Ghana. It was almost incestuous listening to Aretha Franklin sing about love, at times voyeuristic.
As a boy, a rendition of "A Rose in Spanish Harlem" brought tears to my eyes.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Conclusion on White Female #1
(Rock and Roll)
Kofi Fosu Forson
How does a young African man cavort with white Americans and is soon to remove his identity from African Americans while maintaining his roots as an African?
The immigrant is first in line to absorb the new language. It is only true in the minds of those who familiarize themselves with the philosophy of language as in art, literature and music. Such was my plight when I reinvented myself in rock and roll.
Rock and roll as language was delivered within the spirit of the black male. It was however marketed to a commercial and white generation. Understanding rock and roll in this format has influenced me as an African living in the United States. Whereby Willie Dixon helped inspire rock and roll, I listened to Bruce Springsteen as a young man.
White female in rock and roll isn’t as visible as it is conscionable. Performers like Joan Jett, Blondie and Pat Benatar were marketed to disillusioned young men and women. I was drawn to their particular brand of sexuality which wasn’t common in the black girls I knew. With the advent of MTV, I was able to see them in performance.
What white females in rock and roll were to me that black girls I grew up with weren’t was insatiable. As a child living in Ghana, I wasn’t alerted to sexuality. What was childish and prankish took on a whole new meaning as a young man living in New York.
Cable television furthered the cause with its brand of programming after midnight. I was aware of pornography in adult magazines but the subject was handled in a whole other visual context complete with heterosexual and homo-erotic images.
This element of fornicating brought not desire, rather the understanding that the body was disposable and without intellect sex meant nothing.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Horatio is a street. There’s a park not too far away. I swear to God, some nights I look close enough, I can see needles. You know the kind. I sit there and watch the hot guys…Those with the thick veins popping out of their arms. If I were to die, I’d be the girl with fake eye-lashes. How can I ever be bone-thin? I’m a fat cat stretched out on a bed reminiscing about a guy I fucked over.
So this guy used to wait for me in the rain. I used to pretend I was Madonna. I’d call him up around midnight. I’d make my voice sound sexy and shit. I taunted and teased him. “Oh you know. Come on, like you don’t know. I will. Anything you say.” I’d meet him down on Washington Square Park. We were wet. Kinda like a horny divorced mother during happy hour. Yeah.
We walked in the rain. I had my head on his shoulder. He mumbled a lot. We would go into some bar or whatever. This one night, we were so fuckin’ drunk. I noticed my lipstick on his teeth. Coming down the stairs, I begged him to stick his finger up my skirt. I wanted him to talk to me like a pimp.
On the grey couch as you walk into the apartment is where I lost my virginity to a guy I don’t even give a fuck about anymore but on those Monday nights after I had spent Sunday evening on ecstasy it’s easy to think about him so I just crouch in the fetal position and picture him in boxer shorts.
My lovers would walk in. One after the other, they banged me. After they got through hammering me, I would go to sleep. There was blood between my legs. The telephone would keep ringing all day. When I picked it up, the guy I had fucked over would start bitchin’ about wanting to kill himself. I ignored him. Why? I was thinking of chocolate. I was a fat cat bent over the kitchen sink.
I had this guy come over once a week. He was into bondage. I made him beat me up. I had all these bruises on my face.
Every morning, I’d sit there all alone. I had a knife in my hand. I scratched my arm with the dull part of the knife. I’d keep scratching myself with the knife. When I started to bleed a little bit, I would stop. It got pretty intense one morning. I got pissed off about one thing or another. I sat there with the knife. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I looked down; there was blood all over the place.
I woke up in a hospital. A week later, the fuckin’ looser guy comes over to see me. I dragged him into the bathroom. Didn’t wanna do him or nothing. I just wanted a smoke. We came over to the waiting area. I was lying on my back. I told him to get on top of me. I wanted to do it. He kept staring at me, looking right into my eyes.
(My Scent is in Sekondi)
Kofi Fosu Forson
Nkrumah, we’re calling on you
Surrender the earth to mother Ghana
Fifty years since our independence
That day at midnight, your words spoke…
“Our independence is meaningless if not linked
…With the total liberation of Africa.”
Western Sons have fetched Apollo 1:
Space to afford many more moons
Together in creating peace
Streets catapulted to kpanlogo
People danced on La beach
To the spirit of High-Life
Year I was born, you had been overthrown
Ghana made it to Mexico
Could it have been the living among us
Answering our prayers?
My mother was Owunta, gave birth to twins
I lived in Osu. My scent was in Sekondi
Carried with me flavor of house wives
Smell of fried plantains wafting in the air
Far from the city of Accra, its fishermen
Contemplated the pull, mastered the wait
Dreams of villages came to us like water
Touching the shore
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
What if every potential human being on earth meditated at exactly the same time, to the second…What would happen?
Do we exist in stereo or are we damned? The Police delivered an album called Zenyatta Mondatta in the ever-loving 80’s. That was primarily an existence in stereo complete with reference to Humbert Humbert, from Nabakov’s Lolita.
The mind is radio. We are always in transmission. Ipods are of no ultimate use. One can, if admonished summon a tune from the list of files without mechanical help. A song is playing in the back of your mind. There’s no sign of radio or Ipod.
How else then can the mind exist in stereo? Humans are forever connected psychically. The more we value relationships, the more we imbibe the solitary definitions that inclusively form as bond and universality.
Unfortunately our minds are isolated in this, our current form of intuitiveness. What is immediate is perceived as fear. Why then is love a form of fear and sex adopted in acceptance?
Is the revolution coital or an exorcising of sex? Where then is the moral application? To commit to an act yet refrain from the overall value of our roles as human. The sexual animal is at first intellectual. It knows no such relevance in the current sense of modernity.
In stereo, I live the beauty of the performance artist, Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney. Her multiplicity of natural colors is released as a form of Technicolor and hyperrealism. Her physical self is a fantasy, indeed disposable. As an entity, she is founded in sex as lover. To me, she is an experiment, whether as a muse or fraction of my reality in cyberspace.
If we’re not to exorcise our attempts at beauty and sex, we’ll be committed to the understanding of gender politics as male and female bonded by one element; that of the penial entrance and vaginal reception.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Where would I bury these lonesome boys? These romantic American jocks looking for love, the dysfunctional kind. I wasn’t like the others. They made steak with French fried potatoes, held hands while walking through Central Park and even cared to spend the night. I am a motherless daughter.
Pigtailed, wearing platform shoes, I walked among the punks. They came dressed in rock and roll black. They had names like Einsturzende Neubauten and Fugazi on their tee-shirts. We were misfits. We smoked Camel cigarettes. When I felt like it, I shaved my head or got a tattoo. It never bothered me. The girls I cruised with were “it.” They looked the part and played the part. They were “it.”
Who didn’t go clubbing? We all went clubbing. Who woulda thought? He was a dee-jay.
Every night I went over, I wished I was the turn-table. I wanted his hands doing that thing they do, all over my back. He was a flunk from the local college. He loved slam-dancing. His hair was made up into spikes. I got all soft inside when I saw him dancing. There’d be people all around him. His boys! He turned, pumped his fist, jumped up and down, bumped and grinded. All I was thinking was, “I could have you faster than you could run home to see the Giants win the Super Bowl.”
It wasn’t long before I had him inside his dorm room. It’s all fine and good when they can’t make up their mind. When it’s all said and done, I get ‘em either way, with my legs in the air or my face against the pillow. I didn’t know whether I wanted him to be my father, brother or lover. I had him. That’s what it was. I liked him. But that’s what it was.
Back in high school, he was the king of the locker room. He gave up football for strippers. I laughed when he wanted me to laugh. We had our days drinking at the bars, thinking with our devices, his dick, my pussy.
Long live the American jock! Men don’t get it. Some girls do with their minds what men do with knives. I get the urge on lonesome nights to fuck. Home is where I cry, “Mother?”
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
“What is the punk conduct?”
In every individual is the bearer of sorrow. Musically, it’s qualified as blues. Metaphorically, this represents our alien identity.
The common ground shared between two strangers isn’t race or gender. The alien in each individual allows for significance as a universe of people.
The punk conduct is featured amongst those who are disciplined and by conduct step into an ordinary world hoping to affect, redeem, question and help mould a distinct order through language.
In doing so, they acquire a following. The evolving of the alien identity into punk isn’t that of the musical format. Punk is indeed music and showcased as a movement. In modern society punk is that of the uniform, from tattoos to hair and makeup.
Whereas Sid Vicious is eternally punk, he was so because of his legendary status within the movement. His could be interpreted through his music, mostly speculated in his defiant status, paving the way for the conglomeration of music and fashion.
Arthur Rimbaud is an example of punk outside of the musical perception. This therefore expresses use of language to mark the voice of a generation.
Exene Cervenka, primarily known as female vocalist for the punk band X, lives graciously the life of the punk conduct as a performer, writer and painter.
Lydia Lunch is also part of a generation of musicians who veered into writing and film.
If there ever was a person who defined the alien identity merging with the punk conduct it is David Bowie.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Black is Beautiful
Kofi Fosu Forson
“Beauty is white.”
The white conscience… It seeps into the subconscious like a snake in the grass. Who are its guinea pigs? How do they reform? Do they ever reform?
Beauty isn’t white. Beauty as a concept knows no color. As a part of the immigrant experience, children are inundated by images of Euro-American women. They grow to forget the notion of beauty in the eyes of the women they have known. As children, it’s impossible for them to understand the subtext of beauty.
There are those who are infinitely ethnic. They are one with family and have strong beliefs as ethnic people. But through the walk of life they attract a white culture. This could be due to place of education or employment. They too become alerted by a white conscience.
Ethnic culture is perceptibly defined alongside a white culture. Generations are influenced to maintain its history. This can be found in academia, education, scholarliness and articulation of history through art, music and dance.
There’s a form of segregation here. Meaning stay with the ones you feel comfortable. When it becomes an integrated society whereby ethnic people and those of an Anglo-Saxon background are not only socializing but inspiring ones cultural identity or even persona, it’s a reflection on how we are quick to turn into aliens.
Alien identity is defined by people not race.
“Black is beautiful” is meant as an inclusion to maintain the identity of blacks as a people. It’s a fair statement keeping with a sense of empowerment.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Friday, November 16, 2007
Death in Androgyny
Kofi Fosu Forson
Becoming beauteous, orange coiffeur
Walking similarly, masculine yet feminine
Her face, knowing the streets of Dominica
Model age, women strike poses for love
Coming from Brooklyn to sit at tea
Camphor skirt, silk blouse, cleavage
Love and death, artist and muse
Religion in her body’s scent---
Compressed flesh, powdered bottom
How does a protégé proceed to colonize?
This land of skin probed by religion again
What then but crucify the body politic!
Art, love hereafter…Love, must we trust
Beauty within a muse, forever conquerable
By solemnity, as in a song or poem
Is she the face to replace mine?
Can I give of myself then wonder...
Was she my strength or body in passing?
Could we have loved to keep or forgotten
To be man and woman
Death in androgyny
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Emotional distance between place of heritage and immediacy in one’s current status results in a longing. This is known however as displacement. What we fail to examine is the personae behind each individual who supposes a new identity in a new land.
The suicide of Paul Kakra Forson caused me to rethink my schedule of white females. They began with a classmate at The Royal Preparatory in Accra, Ghana. I had never laid eyes on a white female, save for an elderly anthropologist who found her way one evening onto grandmother’s compound.
The skin of the white person I thought was yeast. The black person’s was the bark of a tree. Having transplanted to New York, I lost my prejudice.
At this stage, conscience as a black person was uplifted and replaced with an awareness brought about by rock and roll, pornography (white flesh), advertising, literature and Catholicism. There was separation from black culture. Found it in early hip hop, endured it as voyeur.
The white female then took on the prospects of lust, love and sex. Having experienced language of art history and French cinema, it was natural to love internationally. Distinction between what is black or white wasn’t an issue. It was more so personal philosophy and intellectualism as black person.
Familial suicide then brought me an emotional awareness as to place of birth. In a somewhat polite luminescence, I envisioned myself as a young boy running around the Nyaniba Estates, perhaps playing mango football, barefooted.
Displacement overall grants an advantage to maintain one’s ethnicity yet exist in a newfound language, spoken and written as in philosophy, felt through music, experienced in virtual reality, knowingly, accepting the mystery of life, no matter where we are.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Aria For Diva
By Kofi Fosu Forson
Love was a summer stage
And by its definition, fasting
Could have become idolatry.
The pajama possibility and my
Cracker thin body crumbling.
Hers beckoned towards opera:
An accented femur, fleshed.
Our faces flushed the trust.
What seemingly could become?
A floundering or just suppose
Gathering mouths to speak.
Evenings hint at toasts of passion.
There holds the reasons for
All Diegos' and Fridas' redress.
Liberated by choice as masculine-
Her overachieving tie,
blazer's politeness never causing a stir.
It was to be a night of words
Fallen onto the lap of a magnum
Opus surviving a reader's punk,
Celebrating a strapless gown.
As evening dwellers left wondering,
We exchanged tongues as "Shalom"
To all the "Englishes" I had known.
My poetry was her unleavened bread.
To think the wind hollers Jerusalem.
Walking without effort of wings
Helping us, towards Chinese delicacies.
She never had a Tsing Tao, certainly
Heineken is preferable for a visitor
Having hung her eyes on strangers.
I defied the intolerable maladroit
Campaign between us, assuming
A world leader's role, only to break
Some bread as a symbol of peace.
Boston, had swallowed her whole,
Where other strangers had borne
Witness to temples and matzo.
I pressed time by releasing steam
Caught inside ironbars within me.
Never thought divinity was blessed
By touch-tone, until Raymond Carver.
Our mornings were kissable but
We left them dry among napkins.
The forks friendlier than any
Absurd vulgarity from windows.
It should have been July. October
Shook a leaf, hiding behind masks
Offering a feeling for late cinemas
Still, imagining ourselves as birds
Headed south as a latitudinal means
Never boarded the "V" in the sky
Or any Paleolithic ritual where
Rubbing our bodies to keep warm
Would suggest camping under mattresses
While a bang-box belted a Costello.
Supposing a song could ever be written
About two labyrinths on Christopher St.
What roles would we play in a bel canto?
Our secrets turned into an arousal for
Neighbors bagging groceries to heaven,
Trampling staircases, longing for air
As keyholes were imaginative tolerances.
The days' matinee had an original heart
Circling from avant garde art, then cheese
At an Italian cafe, where conversations
Cured the afternoon corduroy thoughts.
Roads left us that aggregate load
Separating regulars from stubborn
Travelers jigging. We were neither.
On her birthday, we left some of our
Clothes attached, but we contributed
A romantic play written as one act
Which featured breathing without words.
And the eloquence of our bed--
Today, it sits as a heralded thing
Collecting newspaper headlines.
Friends found festive cups cozy
In the apartment where we simulated
Mating chimpanzees surrounded by
Texts that should've made pedagogues
Proud at the sound of the word
"Mesozoic" or a generation captured
As photographs governing quirks.
Good-byes were something unexpected
As the Venus in Furs she gave me.
To one day laugh at the moment
Spent opposite each other over
A table at her favorite Japanese,
Where she breathed pass my shoulder
Words meant for a commoner in lust.
She failed me and flowers would never
Ressurect the attituide I had grown to face.
What had collapsed neared a wounding.
The stranger must've been magician
Or a jester in the autumnal chill
Atop winsome roofs observing in
Pauses, her incriminating body language.
I challenged him with expurgations
Knowing he had been a fiddle to other
Violins, since he jolted for a Soho triumph
That very night when all I saw were
Taxis awaiting my ride onward.
Each moment wore an expression
Made of plaster, I broke with hammer.
Sleep was an owl's eye as the moon
Created a riddle while I succumbed.
Next morning, a fellow teetotaler
Did everything to keep me from drowning.
Her words when we met again, were that
Of a precocious school girl fibbing.
Speaking not sympathizing in shame.
We walked a short walk towards a pizzeria.
Later I watched her pack compact discs
And tantalizing clothing into luggage
Which were sending her cross-country
As a diva demanding roses after each
Curtain when men block egos
With handkerchiefs and live to suffer.
Postal service sent me a photograph
And it was she who had her nipples
Exposed to the sun: The girth.
Never knew her as a performance, rather
An artist who willed her way willingly.
It was winter and she labeled herself
One with the gender that brings me chaos.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
“Do You Want Me To Seduce You?”
Kofi Fosu Forson
The best example of seduction is not to plug but be determined full of ambition. Chryssie Hynde in the video for the song “Brass in Pocket” is a sight of cool perfection. She’s got much of the kitten’s purr, poised pussy, emerging.
Neither James Honeyman Scott, Martin Chambers nor Pete Farndon take to her in the video. As a matter of fact, they are with their own, driving away at the end. Chrissie coos and sighs not having won. But indeed with seduction, the victory is in the dance. Not what Chrissie would call the “soft cell” but the selling of the soft cell. What is the soft cell you may ask? The very thing that makes the world go round.
The 1980’s were full of panache. There was a sense of frivolity which now is as tense as a wire-wrapped-testicle. Seduction was sold with a sense of culture, first, then skin. The truth about what is infinitely seductive is that it’s a text of plurality. It can be found within a postmodernist conscience.
Commercially, it is limited to the mastering of the plug and pull. However grand, it creates an illusion between both genders as to what is the serenade.
Cindy Lauper sang about Girls Wanting To Have Fun. That sentiment is eternal. The nuclear family has lent itself to a rebellion. Rock and roll has liberated many and is indeed our downfall. But as with every drug, we should be careful whose hands possesses and manipulates. Music is universal. Rock and roll is a dangerous drug.
Death in rock and roll as celebrated from Jim Morrison to Layne Staley found a heart in the 80’s with songs by singers such as Alison Moyet, Phyllis Hyman and Rosie Vela. Alison Moyet was a British singer from the famed band, Yazoo. Phyllis Hyman was a soul singer. Rosie Vela, a model, gained an acclaim with her album Zazu.
Postmodernist thinking separates one from the masses. It enables an individual to celebrate that governed ideology which keeps them within the balance of the past and embraceable future.
Seduction is an art. So is death. Embrace the two, the equation is life.
“Do you want me to seduce you?”
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Amy Tan gave us The Kitchen God. I was humbly noted as Goddrums. Is one of the founding fathers of Cream truly God? Would you agree that David Bowie is Godroginy?
What then became of “Angie?” …A true wife of the gods! In marital bliss or not, as in the rock and roll clearing, a wife is as a wife as a woman beside is a partner. Among them are Marianne Faithful, Nancy Spungeon, Courtney Love, Jeri Hall (that of Brian Ferry fame not what followed Bianca).
Tom Yorke sang with P.J. Harvey. They never married. Nick Cave sang with Kylie Minogue. They never married. What’s a true wife of a god? Is she some one who puts up with the after-hours? In a world designed for sex and drugs, there’s very little room for morning tea.
Albert Einstein is a God. He was married twice. Marilyn Monroe would have made a perfect wife, an intellectual and a pin-up model. Authors like Jay McClnerny had their share of models to go along with their martinis.
The idea of a model accompanying a man of stature is cliché. Finding it appropriate in a relationship with an intellectual is quite the dream. Bookish gentlemen are known to date bookish women. The Henry Miller/Anais Nin connection is a matter of golden prospectus. Much of the same can be said for Sam Sheperd and Patty Smith.
Somehow, within the course of sex and drugs an abysmal connection is made which translates as a seemingly hot trend of literary text. It plays itself out as seduction, rendering literature and its giants as important and hip as those who make music.
Sam Sheperd’s plays showcase an element of musicality. Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds’ Murder Ballads is a theatrical masterpiece. There’s symmetry between musicians and writers of a particular inclination.
How then do they choose the significance of women in their lives? B. B. King had Lucille. This then to every artist is his wife. His actual wife then is his mistress. Steve Earle has attempted marriage multiple times. He still makes records.
Motley Crue as with most rock bands are known for their groupies. Who then are the wives of these gods?
A published novel is greater than a night spent with the First Lady.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
With words do we map a territory in cyberspace? Is it more than an exchange? Can intellectual dialogue virtually lead to sexual arousal?
Eroticism is part of the virtual exchange I have with a particular woman on line. Upon her request, I design a text based on us making love. There’s no mention of the body in its physical state. It veers from pornography. The sentiment within and eroticizing of love points at a celebration of the feeling created by this unique element pouring out of mania, intellect and wit from both my envisioned partner and me.
What if there was intellectual dialogue between two parties, given a familiar space, whether virtually or within the same physical space…Would it lead to sexual arousal and if so, how?
The dialogue as text must first be recognized as pleasurable. Given the dynamics of male/female, either one must subject themselves to the notion of desire. Once this is resurrected, he or she falls into a pattern of abnormality as in spontaneous arousal.
Temptation is marked in the words we use and choose not to use. As in a dialogue about buildings, are these works of architecture masculine or feminine? This is a cause for identity. Much the reason each person entering the virtual world has an agenda.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have confronted my philosophical fate in an exchange with the performance artist and art activist Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney. This has been a session of legendary quality. Each thought envisioned as a packaged work of philosophy continues to meet the demands of structure and elegance.
The vacuous space between two partners in a virtual world can lead to a damning disguise. It plays itself out thought after thought, word by word. If not careful, it cancels out the original intension.
Understandably, the dynamics that make up text between two partners in virtual reality demands both to be at a balance. Any deviation would ruin the chemistry with which these texts are formularized.
It’s the difference between pleasurable text and deleted text.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
“I made love to you last night. You were sitting in a hotel lounge in Hong Kong. I was reading “Flaubert’s Parrot” a continent away.”
Do men desire women for their vulva or do they aspire to read them as text? Introduce me to a man who lived his lover as novel or cinema and I’d be the first to tell you that the vulva should be removed from the commercial sense.
We’ve managed everything from cave paintings to stick-figure pornography. There isn’t a more true explanation for coitus than the need for sexual pleasure. What happens to the body when it’s prevented from enjoying such desirability due to illness or impotency?
Could there ever be a replacement for the body as it floats through time and space? Modern lovers will be quick to prove that much is desired in the stroking of the hair, continuous eye-contact, acquired smell of the lover’s body to embrace, foreplay and finally fit into each other with a romp.
If the body is deformed, as in an illness and it takes on different exaggerated and horrific physical forms; much attributed to a diagnosis, what then is beauty? How do we make that decision to name some one beautiful? Isn’t beauty a part of that conscientious element to recognize a quality in someone? Perhaps, it’s physical, spiritual or universal as in a smile?
Can we redeem beauty within the intellect? I personally believe beauty and intellect are traits of a rather exceptional people. With intellect comes imagination, color, Technicolor, hypersexuality and hyperrealism.
The figment of beauty which many can’t ever rationalize is in the dirt, the ugly. Indeterminably, the visceral is particularly filled with pangs, fear and lust. To commit to take a bite out of an apple is justified. The look in your eye and the thought on your mind as you bite into that apple is personal.
Beauty is madness. Beauty is the intellect. The ugly is beauty.
If and when the vulva is removed from the commercial sense, each and every one of us will be able to love as people, pets and animals.
At the moment love is the color of cholera.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Sexuality and Identity
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Art as Philosophy
Kofi Fosu Forson
New York City as an urban landscape makes provisions for a proper schedule within the realms of art and philosophy.
Given the differing prospects for philosophy, Jewish as well as Black intellectualism refine what is secured as a city of many influences. They can be at times radical or driven by academia. With respect to the many colleges and universities that define New York City, the common man and his willingness to have an opinion on a variety of topics, whether at a bar or a cocktail party is an example of the modern day thinker and peruser.
The evolution of the artist in a city like New York, giving much deserved honor to the flamboyant Warhol-inspired 1980’s, stemmed from an art community. Perhaps one studied at The Metropolitan Museum of Art or S.V.A. and the public high schools that devoted attention to literature, music and art.
The East Village defined the bohemian culture. Art was significantly a means of existence and financially it was affordable. Despite the disillusionment that framed the minds of many, it was acceptable to be an artist.
Art and philosophy stems from a psychology that defines the individual. It is best addressed as a societal and emotional disease. Much of this can be attributed to advertisement, pressure among peers, personal evolution and sexual management.
Disease can also be devalued in persona, hybridism, biochemistry and lineage. Those that are body conscious are forced to maintain habits they can’t keep. Overall health is a factor in every sense of maneuverability.
Psychosexually, heterosexuals and homosexuals encourage a lifestyle dependent upon decisions made driven by the libido. This stretches from vernacular to the eventual partners they form a relationship.
In the given modern day, sexuality has undertaken a guaranteed attempt at satisfying the ego, more so than replenishing the need for love.
The artist as a philosopher is then free to manufacture a quantitative and qualified understanding of universality.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Transvoyeur/Media Noche Intervention
Kofi Fosu Forson
The video intervention Gender, Art, Space & Architecture based on the co-effort by Transvoyeur and Media Noche in Spanish Harlem’s White Park was an exercise in technology interacting with the urban landscape.
Much is attributed to the gentrification of Harlem. Spanish Harlem has envisioned a sensibility bordering modernity within the landscape. As an urban environment it justifies the presence given by Media Noche. With respect to its dedication towards media/technology and video art, Media Noche is the link between an abandoned people and the progress needed in the articulation and intellectualizing of urban planning.
Transvoyeur as a cultural initiative prepares the dialogue and conference of art between a variety of artists in countries around Europe and State side. Its founder Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney has placed herself at the core of varying policies that affect the maneuverability of the discourse between artists in Liverpool and elsewhere.
The intent of curators like Gaynor and Jo Derbyshire, also present in Liverpool, her When The City Speaks… is a cultural trail through every major city and its influence given its history and locale, eventually defines with fine art, music and text, the originality of each and every individual.
Kofi Fosu and Daiva Gauryte were the artists featured in this exchange program. Kofi is a displaced artist from Ghana living in New York and Daiva, currently residing in Liverpool, originally from Lithuania. The international relevance of this project echoed through the stark streets of this neighborhood. White Park is a stream of solid white including the wall on which the video was shown.
Technologically, it affected the solidity of the environment giving it an intended jolt of spontaneity. The video itself is a necessary mark, intercepting on the logic found in the evening. Such is the celebration of modern language. The quality with which the video was edited points at originality, by standard allowing for features such as multiplicity of color, capturing phrases in text with familiar font and a unique use of sound.
It’s a brilliant exercise in the use of modern technology and how given its use can lay claim on societal semiotics and urban environment. This intervention at White Park promotes an international dialogue and the celebration of culture and language.
White Park Intervention
(Liverpool/New York Exchange Programme)
Kofi Fosu Forson
We debuted at White Park last night (Oct 13, 2007) on 106th street. It was the culmination of the Liverpool/New York exchange programme curated by Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney featuring Daiva Gauryte and myself, Kofi Fosu.
The exchange programme appropriately titled Gender, Space, Art and Architecture began this summer of 2007. Daiva and I established this project all in cyber space. Week after week for ten weeks, she and I responded to captions set aside by the curator, Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney. They featured topics on everything from Identity to Societal Semiotics and Urban Environment.
My impression was that it helped me evaluate the difference between the person and the artist. Something I’ve worked with all of my practice. Only this time in doing so, I had a partner to achieve the very goals we were both assigned to do.
I walked into Media Noche with Judith and her two friends gathered, Antonia, a painter and video artist from Mexico and Ursula, a performance artist I believe from Austria. I sat among them and enjoyed a nice conversation about time and how it prevents us from fulfilling all of our dreams.
Judith's friend, Freddy and I helped pack up for the very brief drive to White Park. At the park, Judith, Freddy and I set up. We were then ready. A white wall stood in the middle of the rather spacious park.
It was a Saturday evening and there were several people gathered in what was a spectacular setting. Our spirits were livened when the video lit up the wall as we stood in the dark with the street lights offering ample lighting. Judith's impression of the whole evening was that it was an intervention. The whole purpose was to stand by the fence watching the video, inspiring people to do the same. We attracted the casual onlookers and were ready with flyers with information about the project.
One gentleman was apparently very curious. He had been to England and made a stop in Liverpool. His curiosity led him to ask me questions concerning my personal philosophy within the concept of Gender, Space, Art & Architecture. He was smart. We had a nice chat. He further questioned me on my opinion on race. He felt I was smarting quite a bit. I let him know about the prospects of lineage and hybridism...And how that qualifies me individualistically, much the same for him. We said our good-byes, not before I gave him my business card.
It was a brisk evening. We labored around and watched as people stopped to look. All the while, the chemistry between Judith and me was sound. We were thrilled by the project as it was evolving before our eyes. The night was somewhat enchanting. Given the location and its mystery there was a feeling of a high percentage in my heart. It was crucial to have seen the video in a public space bringing to mind Gaynor’s theory of Architecture and identity.
As a New Yorker, I belonged to this setting which defied nature and as a park it was much like a physical space of whiteness. The sight of the video as it improved from the introductions to the hyper-panic images of Liverpool and New York, all the way through to the captions of me, Kofi Fosu and Daiva Gauryte talking about the project, with the end product being the art work featured in the programme, was a spectacle to the eye. To stand and watch it as it evolved was magnificent.
Certainly our (Media Noche/Transvoyeur) intervention at White Park was captured on video. Considering the feeling it evoked, judging by the mood and temperature, color of night, that feeling of Saturday night, it made it worthwhile.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
(Translation by Elena Federici)
Verbrenne diese Kerzen
An einem Tag, Gesichtsmaske tragend.
Es ist das Zusammenstroemen
Welches eine Auffuehrung ausmacht,
Wie in der Ehe, gestuetzt
Auf ihrem Ruecken,
Alter, wie Kaese,
Fuehlt die Bisse der Ratten
Verbrenne diese Kerzen
an einem Tag, Gesichtsmasken tragend,
ansonsten warte auf den Tag
an dem das Einzige was du hoerst:
Sex ist besser
wenn Kinder Pferde reiten
viele meilen entfernt.
Liebe in einem Hotel,
Warm mit Liebe, warm mit Liebe.
In einer viel zu anstaendigen Welt
Kerzen (aus) blasen wird trivial
Sowie Eichhoernchen mit Eicheln fuettern
Wenn alles was du jemals braeuchtest
Ist dass jemand sagt:
Ich liebe dich.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
The origin of an idea manifests itself into something larger than life. Such was the modus operandi in the Clinton nineties. Seattle originated a form of rock’n roll called “grunge.” There had to have been a resolution for that other form of music, pop. It came in the rendering of a young and quite sexy girl named Britney Spears.
Legend has it that magazines like Barely Legal were popularized around the success of Miss Spears. Fair to say Britney is the God Mother to every sixteen year old during this time who wore make-up and had a certain urge for promiscuity.
What was the original idea? Inevitably society turned the tide towards the marketing of much younger professionals. The president of Black Book was in his early twenties. Beauty Bar located on the edge of the East Village in New York previously had a more mature crowd. As if by some intervention, the younger set from New York University and other local colleges made their way into this establishment filling the space with exuberance not recognized before.
Heaven, a café across the street from Baruch College, allowed teenagers from Unice high school to smoke alongside older men. Symptomatically, this was a continuation of gender politics from decades before. Britney Spears was then a poster child for the burgeoning demographic of young women curious about sexuality.
Miss Spears has since seen her share of sensationalism from kissing Madonna on the lips, termed as softly erotic, to her music videos which always push the envelope. After giving birth and raising two children, she has fallen into a dimension best described as disillusioned.
What this certifies is the plurality of money and sex. The Bush era has allowed a proliferation of a cannoned disaster.
The white female in her reasons of turmoil has revamped a psychology where sex is a means of necessity not a matter of contentment. It has brought about a mélange of sexual proclivities, which in turn reflects upon urban violence and underscores reasons for war.
To reinvent Britney Spears as a pop star, she needs a yogi to reposition her thoughts and aura much the same way each one of us must examine our hearts and minds and invest in the common link:
Deconstruction of the ego!
Friday, October 12, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Some would identify with Daniel Day Lewis’ character in Stars and Bars as a true romantic figure. That the Cohen Brothers painted a picture of a dry cinematic hue all adds to the tremor in the heart of the 1980’s as a romantic time.
Choose Me, directed by Alan Rudolph, with its passion for music, dialogue and cinematography is a clever example of modern love. David Bowie is quoted in a song with the very title that “Don’t wanna fall for Modern Love.” I personally feel that Bowie’s music is equivalent of sexual defiance. As a discography, it’s actually the most essential recognition of love and angst in the modern age.
In the current age of celebrity, where actors such as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are in the public eye, the modern lover is concerned more with the body as an entity and with money as a source of fulfillment.
An increase in cyber porn and dating sites nullifies any notion of modern love. It’s a hard reality where the purpose is to match personalities based on official reasons not chemistry. This then draws the lowest common denominator where partners are forced to meet sexual demands, eliminating the realm of individual intellect and philosophy.
However said, cyberspace creates a world where people exist in that very intellect and a foundation for love. This is done not as a means where cyberspace represents a web-oriented universe. It’s more so a matter of communication which is encouraged by modern technology.
Modern love in the postmodernist ideology is conscientious. As always, money hastens the connection between two different parties whether they exist in the same country or internationally. Self-love and individual evolvement are of the essence.
Centeredness has all the bearings in courage, confidence and stature. It allows an ability to live a life of love; as in I am sex. I make love. I am love. This then becomes a matter of metaphors. To exist in a literal habit makes little room for what else could be found in the universe or cyberspace.
The difference then is to be original or to commit the gravest sin of imitation. Love doesn’t exist in copy. It does in clay, the origin of man.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
A History of Flesh
Kofi Fosu Forson
Love, the damage in every soul! Blessed thing of beauty, we succumb. If goddess, a mountain to climb, from her calves, through to her sexual cavity to touch at teat, embracing the fortune of her face.
Overcoming, bearer of thorns, pricked at skin; buried a death, beginning again. Woman, seduce me! Take this misery, make love of it. Swelter in this cold heat. Divine bosom, I rest my head, listening.
Luna Rose, singing, blues and bloods. House-mother, her body scent, fresh from sand, water and peppermint leaves. Blood sister, tame the female other, and bring her closer to cup. Buffalo girl, lift your arms, wrap it around. Give love in decadent desire. Teach us a dance, sacred dance. Our bodies become one with love by making love.
Devour! Seduce me, sister! Seduce me with your body alone. Take me into trouble. Let us walk through men. I am man. You are the reason for every man. Ravish! Fall onto bed, make these walls remember. Lover! What man doesn’t aspire? Keep them hidden. Save this love for eternity.
Lilith, female, illustrious she, we make love. Tug at hair, your crowning glory, motherly pubis. Celebrated lust, bring to bear potential sin. Fathom a room of lovers brought about by ecstasy, reaching unmentionable moments of pleasure. Imagine at its center, your body sprawled. Male, female reaching to touch! Sense the arousal, causing immediate joy. Intensity, constant stimulation rendered in absolute rapture.
Lovemaking, birth of light, ascending into a holier light! Let the dry wind blow. City streets fill with petals. People gather around, cherishing a new profound love, a woman of sun and moon, fasting, beckoning… becoming Cherie Amour!
Friday, October 05, 2007
Mad Men/Strong Pulls
Kofi Fosu Forson
The strongest of men are those who tug at and pull!
In essence they are driven by gravity in its most grave circumstances. This can be found somehow in the lives of artists and politicians. History reminds us of names like Mussolini and Van Gogh.
Madness is an art within itself. There is however a stigma. An acquaintance was quoted as saying, “Artists aren’t always mad.” But they are. Some attract the attention of beautiful women. Jessica Lange, the Hollywood actress, is known for attracting brilliant mad men.
Is there a correlation between madness and brilliance? As with everything, talent need be cultivated. A research on Charles Bukowski caused me to describe him as a gorilla walking the streets of Los Angeles. It inspired my poem “Gorilla Head.” In which I said...
“Women form like butterflies around gorilla heads lingering hot panties.”
The head of a gorilla therefore signifies the image of an artist as a mad man. As with madness, mania and despondency are the two polar points which define the persona. Given the evolution of a person, the artist is bound to border magnificence as in music, fine art and literature.
How then do women appreciate or not the presence of the artist as a mad man? It is best qualified as an understanding of love, from which we derive lust, sex and existence. The artist knows love. The artist as a mad man exists in love. He benefits as he finds love in his art, self-image and the female.
Mad men as artists are possessed. They are possessed by themselves, spiritually and sexually. For some they need to find an understanding of this possession. The only resolve is to continuously feed their angst for sex. Others, through chastity, prolong the intensity and craving for sex.
In order for most humans to reach the celebrated pinnacle of ecstasy, they need to define for themselves the meaning of love and the acceptance of a higher power. Meaning we are governed by one spirit.
The artist is possessed by a thousand more.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
(Philosophy of Bones)
Kofi Fosu Forson
Straight-boned or amputee, philosophy as a skeletal structure serves as a foundation for art. Science therefore is much the contrast. Evenly, both forms refer to a replication of order/disorder.
What are the means for science and art to engage in an ongoing dialogue? Given the wherewithal, how does an artist maintain a sense of originality without conforming to the availability of technology?
Science spearheads a cause to perhaps evolve in a totally different way from art. Is there an agreeable advantage? A recent conversation with a surgeon quoted him as saying… “Art is more complex.”
I then draw the conclusion that an artist exists eternally. Surgeons emerge out of an official vantage point. This example proves the element which defines the artist at work and the surgeon in his practice.
Inspiration is dominant. In the artist, there’s a constant source of definition, as in the muse. It generates wisdom. This then leads to an idea which begets a procedure. The actual interpretation of the idea brings us back to order and disorder.
Fair to say, the surgeon manipulates time and space much the same way an artist does. Only he exists in that very moment not giving much care to outside influences.
Whereas time and space for the artist during performance is eternal, the surgeon concentrates on time.
Art as science fails to imply accordance.
Science as art is more so applicable with reason.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Confessions of an Off-Broadway Waitress
Kofi Fosu Forson
I once knew me a European black boy. His accent built a bubble in my ear. He came struttin’ beside a blond woman-chile. We were Off-Broadway. The men came in colors…colors. They talked foreign movies. Beside them were the cappuccino girls. I stood ever so straight, hands behind my back, waiting on these men and their Carson McCullers wannabe’s. Just like them, I loved the word “mellifluous.”
I filled up my diaries with stories about love. I couldn’t find it in the after-hours.
“Burn my back some,” I would say to a fella. He’d strike a match to a cigarette. Then he’d burn my back some.
Come morning, I’d fix him mud in a China cup. He’d come back with his marching boots on to peel me like an onion, stockings and all.
I’d been hunting down forgotten poets. Made them learn the haiku. Prayed the day he came struttin’ beside a woman-chile. He had funk in his hair, down to his waist. What he wanted was water. I gave him more…A bit of Flannery, a little Baldwin.
That evening gave me something to work with. Cool breeze and the dizzy lights drug me plenty. He never did mind the play I had brought him to see. Surely, I had other plans boilin’ inside of me. It wudn’t long before he was sitting on my sofa, drinking malt liquor.
“Burn my back some,” I said to him. He lit a match to a cigarette. Then he burnt my back some. In the morning he robbed me of the money I owned.
Standing ever so straight, apron around my waist, I remember the way he said…
“Don’t ever say a word. That’s all you heard. I’m the song you can never sing. A drug you can never take. Yet I filled you up…I filled you up…Pushed that lovin’ all the way down.”
He lit a light in me that had been pale for too long.
He lit a light in me that had been pale for too long.
He lit a light in me that had been pale for too long.
Copyright Horatio Monologues
Monday, September 24, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Circumstantially, the individual dwells within a cyber, internal and overall dominant physical space.
What are the advantages of cyberspace? How does it overwhelm the physical world?
As an entity the physical world defines our existence as a species. This is however managed separately and conclusively through technology and evolution. The balance of which is the ability of the human to adapt.
Cyberspace allows for such a transition. It’s a means by which the world is intellectually encapsulated. Moreover, this circumstance prepares for the individual a transformation from the physical world into a web related form of perception.
What has become of the individual is a will to constantly search for information. This then encourages him to circumvent through the trappings of the internet.
Is it the intellect that binds the conscience of a divided world? If so, is it fair to say that to dialogue in cyberspace is far-reaching, more so than the conversation between two people in a governed physical space?
How then do we protect the internal space? Are we free to dictate what happens in the world within or do we conform to the world outside?
To exist in cyberspace certainly becomes a world where we are in control of our actions whether to promote a lack of morality, intellect and self-will.
By happenstance, cyberspace influences the internal causing the physical body to remain disposable.
Is imagination then a resolve to sit under an apple tree and dream of butterflies?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Transvoyeur: Gender, Space, Art and Architecture
Liverpool and New York Exchange Programme 2007
Artists: Daiva Gauryte (Liverpool, UK) and Kofi Fosu (New York, US).
Curator/Editor: Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney.
The programme explores the issues of gender in the concept of art and architecture. To analyse the theoretical and multi-disciplinary approaches of gender in relation to particular architectural sites, ideas and projects of how space is defined by gender practices, power and vision, masculinity and femininity and different parameters of spatiality, including cyberspace, as well the physical world of various architecture and the human body. The outcome in collaborative research and mutual exchange evolved to preset a digital video short by Gaynor Evelyn Sweeney on Daiva Gauryte and Kofi Fosu.
Transvoyeur in association with MediaNoche, part of PRdream.com.
Screening at MediaNoche, 1355 Park Avenue, First Floor, at 102nd Street, New York, US.
September 26 – October 12, 2007.
Gallery hours: Tuesday – Saturday, 3.00 pm – 7.00 pm.
Saturday, October 13 at 7.00 pm, on the handball court wall of White Park, East 106th Street, between Lexington and Third Avenues.
Further information contact:
MediaNoche, 1355 Park Avenue, First Floor, New York, NY 10029, USA.
t: (001) 212 828 0401
Contact: Judith Escalona (Director – PRdream/MediaNoche)
MediaNoche is a project of PRdream.com
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Kofi Fosu Forson
Art, dance, bebopaloola
Long, silk, powder, woman
Atlas, shook, carborated, nerves
Thumb, tacking, middle, age, dispiritia
Black, boards, City, University
Cafeteria, cockatoos, counting, sheep
Bell, bop, brown, skin, pixie
Les Russes, assemblage, la fume
Mulatto, toto, cosmopolitan
Genius, age, language, aromatheque
Leaving, Las Vegas, romance, Chivas
Intellectual, goons, class, rooms
Chalk, mark, education, Ritas
Cinema, Cinderellas, playing, muses
Greenwich, boys, day, dreaming
Academia, semiotic, pachanga
Balanchine, musical, chairs, Mississippi
Expressionism, Cuba, Opera, Africana
Silhouette, leaves, Vincent, trees
Campus, culture, bibliotheque
Les livres, philosophie, Americain
Outsider, Euro, femmes, sexuelite
Black, Market, Kokoschka
Italian, nudes, Brooklyn, elegance
L’hombre, connoisseur, Monsieur…Quip
Drawings, Sharon, Hazera---
Sado, masochistic, Cocteau, Baldwin
Literati, East, Village, nouveau
Chinese, cuisine, black, girl, coiffeur
New, Wave, Avant, garde, Chelsea
La morte, sa mere, ma conviccion
Performance, invitation, resignation
Mentor, editor, confidant
Photographs, exotique, l’adultere, rouge
Irish, café, Bettie, Serveert
L’idee, originale, petite, amies, vieux
Joyce, Paris, pre-eminence, depeche, mode
Gift, friendship, misunderstanding
Love, mask, never-ending
Telephone, ma voix, sa ridicule
Je suis, debout, Africain, Americain
Other-worldly, strangely, interesting