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.