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the dada magazine about nothing

N A D A


NADA is Seattle's premiere Dada magazine. From the lower gutters, moss-filled basements, and under the rocks held together by concrete, the words and images trickle up. They poke their heads to see the light. They senselessly scan the horizon to hear the blip. And from nothingness, a shadow from the fog appears. The walking footsteps stop in front of them. Has the being anything to say? Has the being anything to show? Sure, but they were not paying attention. So back into the void the footsteps head. And like lying on the moist ground of a park, cuddling with grass for comfort: We find that the warmth was ours to begin with. We are slowly eating ourselves into useless beings. We can do that, or we can to nothing. With that knowledge, we dig with our hands, our graves. And every morning we make our beds. So that when we finally realize we are too tired to sleep, we may drop our bags, lie on our back and face the fading glimmer of our future. You can read this, or you can do nothing. It's all the same.


= = -


We are spread like a canvas under the western sky, hung like curtains flailing under the wind ( the great gusts of the pacific like a quail! ). Human hiccups wipe the slates clean while gathering guns for the next holy war. We, the smiling sewer gladly invites the crumbling buildings to shake and torment their owners, like burning themselves in the middle of the night ( a big cow tipped and booooooom! We are in the middle of big fires, fires for miles reaching chaos, nightmares, magic- or the abyss? are we going home yet?) ))) second sound: who, or what are the children of the sewer. simple answer friends: Children of the sewer are the dead corpses of huck finn and rimbaud. soo watch your fucking back. This century is young and already seems old, so what the fuck? are we apes? Carnivores? The dumb gaping mouth of Apollo? I like the stupidity of the modern world. I don't like the political expression of art, in fact i think it's the first sign of facism ( a sign of the times friend). Note-* quick diagnosis of our generation ( stutters, Roger Daltrey gets you don't know and I don't know so what's the point in arguing? huh.)) is bullshit, i don't know and I don't understand myself so why would I understand my peers, and that is all I really need to say. I do whatever the fuck ( I want, i believe in art and the great Dada critique ( destroy the existing reality and build a new one then destroy it, always destroy and create- there isn't anything else, is there?) Wrong, there’s love, but if you don't like what you do, who you are - ---- In heart I am a muslim in heart I am an American artist- I ain't selling ---- my self to god----then how can you love?--- i love being the rock and roll nigger ( let’s just run over the streets, as if they were carpets and we’re greeting its electric shocks like volcanoes ) the ash settling around us, a whirlpool, a garden, the lost book of kings.


Sewer children subvert the everyday apocalypse with tantrums in the street- child versus parents? what the fuck could marx say? ( answer with the audience lingering - edge of your seats boys and gals! - marx is throwing up in a bathroom in Munich, the beer and the proletariat crazy loneliness got him sick, round one ) In truth the aspect that marx loses me at is the beginning, i grew up in the working class, and those guys do drugs and drink till death- that's magic, to drink to drug to fuck to destroy, that's the simple beauty of life, that's all we have, to destroy and to love- I owe the ones I love everything- confession. i owe my self moreWhat do we have? nothing. what do we control, applause, hushed awes, hearts? too much too much, can't control the sentimentality ( Hitler’s gift ) nothing, we own and control only our hearts, hearts of steel, hearts that are pliable. When I go to dinner parties with financial executives shooting their mouth off all I think about is fucking, When somebody talks to me about the world economy all i think about is fucking: politics: drugs life: drugs and / or fucking every day every waking hour every goddamn, minute: fucking and drugs and art and all the stupid blindness and all the wild weird beauty grown men who build dreams of war heroism with G.I. joes Marx doesn't get that bullshit, that simple bullshit Fuck your revolution I got drugs and fucking and art.


-what can i get you/ -whiskey/rocks who knew the scope of reality. we shrunk the world. we shrunk it good. in all directions the horizon is joined with right angles. a phalanx. members of the multiple. moving in two-dimensional space it was here in dismal loneliness. same grey pants, same pair of socks, same set of clothes. living in non-space hours and hours of dead cinema. i figure i would never have to move again, as long as the figures on screen did. the other night my flatmate put on a movie and turned it up real loud. we could be loud that night. our third flatmate was out of town. in fact it was one of his flicks we put on. i watched the film. one scene was of a guy fucking his friend's girl.

in the studio, the artist sits. alone, above the streets. watching with a careful eye. watching the world spin under him. picking moments and rendering them permanent. isolated still in time. the art dead. a waste of space. treated like pharaohs. what privileges do sacred objects indulge? what attention to lighting, to space, to its environment the old arts were made to be eternal. the lasting testament to our achievements and the mastery of our world. Art preserves old habits. what an intrinsic flaw. built into itself, by its maker. no more a conscious form than the invisible image. they shout and howl. rattle the cages, and rumble the floors. and only at the glance can they be heard. look away.


the potency of the moving image has proven successful in the past. its ephemeral qualities. its fleeting moments. shot and captured edited with utmost intent. some liken the screen to a puppeteer, or the medusa. it is the control of experience that are the strings and the stones. in natural experience, our passage through time is unknown. our greatest planning can go awry. the passage through the unknown is a path that every creature experiences. a state of evolution, or at least learning. the controlled experience then must be something else. no, i admit, it is the same. a state of evolution, or at least learning. conditioning if you will. regarding the mastery of our body. we build our appendages into space. our society rests on the re-

assurance, that our external appendages are working fine. he goes to work every day. the same time, the same space. work goes off without a hitch. he has no dellusions of reality. his reality is a dellusion. we only build mirrors. art is created when boredom is destroyed. we busy our lives with our fears and wants. in the same way we busy our arts with such values. i too am a product of this. we were both walking down the street. of course, we were walking in opposite directions. and of course i didn't know you then. we stared at each others’ eyes. didn't look away. of course it was obvious. our necks turn, and return as we pass.


Kim jong ill is dead ( I spelled his name wrong, I apologize, just wind in the gutter now, anyways) on a train heading deep in to the spine of The Urals, collapsing in on themselves and feeling winded. That was a lie, Kim is heading (now he is a ghost,and he rides a phantom train) toward the stockyards of Chicago- with Pol pot tickling hir earlobe and Stalin fondling his balls. But he's a ghost ( kim that is ) and he doesn't care, or he doesn't mind - They might know each other from photos, filtered leaves, and dripping serenades, god help the ever living god as he kisses the door and yelps. a ghost cannot clap hands. Who is Kim, where does he come from? actually I read somewhere, or maybe somebody told me, he was born on a high mountain cliff, born with a pompadour and platform shoes. Born with the gold buck teeth? No man, or maybe but it doesn't matter he was born with something we aren't all so lucky (7,13,8,9) to have, an identity, he was born breathing and squirming with his cartoon hair and his cartoon shoes as if he was born from or for american consumption, like Kim was born for me, and this, I find, as I write ( I tremble easy, so hold tight friends ) scares the shit out of me. I know Kim and his crazy shenanigans ( torture- certainly- assassination of rivals- probably- extreme repression of probably just about everything- yeah as if it was expected), That's what I love about my country men and their obsession with evil, they can't get enough of how the world shivers and comes back to each and every moment-like a joke see?) because i grew up in fear of him, an absent dumb fear, kim may go nuts but we got some guys, real allAmerican heroes working on the case, they come together and take out ( as the operating word goes ) any evil so little timmy and carlos and Loretta ( sweet Loretta maiden of the plains, or daughter of the plains, unmarried and sweetly smiling to us in the future on the other side of the


abyss ) can sleep and never know that harm, that foul noise, moving outside the window- rising like vapor. Kim is that evil; that haunting ghost, that breath, but is he really? he can golf under 30 par ( I swear to god I have not the slightest clue what that means, but it is true- cross my heart ) 11 holes in one at that, all on the first try. Incredible ( applause ). That's the face of true evil? A good golfer haunts my dreams, I fantasize about being carried off to war and treated to what my grandfather referred to ( rather bitterly ) as the stupidest war of all time, we didn't move he would shout in the air, because he was hard of seeing ( as if his eyes where blasted off right next to the explosion of bombs ) He didn't say much more about the war and then when I was 10? 12? 14? he died and I didn't really care, but I remember thinking about Kim jong Ill ( so i was 14 ) and thinking about my grandfather and imagining Kim jong Ill with the huge heels throwing a bomb inches from my grandfather's face, and then him and my grandfather wrestling in the mud, for what seems like hours, and i stand there, watching, and that's all I know about kim Jong Ill, a menace. Have you heard deserters (sorry, defectors) from North Korea? They are so mechanical, every word, the pauses, the sincere and strained words ( or grasping of them, as if they were quails on fire ) always the same- line up ten defectors and ask them to say their stories (9) of woe, from the countries and cities , always the exact same- it could be a symphony. And this is what makes me believe in the ultimate beauty of mankind and also its ultimate failure- why we will eventually plummet into the ground, never to move, never to toss our heads back, or laugh, or love- but so much to the roses ( as a beautiful soul once told me ). * word to the not so wise* Kim jong ill is like a living breathing statue, he's always breathing and always changing, his pulse is our fear, you know, maybe you do and maybe you don't, but it's all the same, That statue may change faces but it's a mask- bite the man in front. Get it.. We need Kim Jong Ill, his madness is what keeps our power and his, we don't need to think about war he is our war. evil is stupid, or rather the face of evil is stupid, actual evil is scary as shit.


Kim jong Il and I are flying south from Siberia. It's a slow flight in the perpetual grey. The distance sees Lake Baikal, The Gobi Desert, and the tip-top of The Himalayas. We talk tactics upon noticing the Great Wall. Crossing the Yalu River on our descent into Pyongyang, I remember the snowfall on the foothills. When you live up north, the snow seems to embody you. Slowly slowly you notice the difference. The foothills break up the cities. We can see the light -white- that frosts the ground. They reflect the densest of orange from the buildings. The 38th is behind us now and has been for a while. We fly further and further south. Taipei City Hong Kong Singapore Beautiful gate to the Indian ocean We exit the plane in Antarctica. You tell me: They will follow me to the complete bottom of the earth. They will believe this cold is love. They will reassure themselves what they know. You send me home in the plane. Tell me to spread the word. You remained in the heart of the Antarctica. Those fuzzy hats sure are warm.


There are no “human rights issues” for us. There can be no such things in the light of the intrinsic nature of the socialist system which serves the people, placing them in the centre of everything. It is none other than the U.S. that deserves accusation and condemnation over human rights. The demonstrations which started in Wall Street are a manifestation of Americans’ resentment at the U.S., the worst human rights abuser, and a judgment of it. A countless number of people are groaning in pain and despair, left homeless as their houses have become objects of speculation. 403 000 people were newly registered as jobless throughout the U.S. for a week till October 15. This is indicative of the serious jobless problem. The number of the poor reached 46.2 million last year, 2.6 million more than the previous year and the standard of Americans’ living is the worst in decades. Occurring in an unbroken chain are various crimes including gun-related crimes, theft and rape, etc. as the American society is governed by the jungle law based on individual selfishness. Nowhere in the world is such country as the U.S. where people’s right to live and right to existence are wantonly violated. The U.S. is a tundra of human rights and a backward country in human rights record. It is the world’s worst human rights abuser. DPRK


The bodies are washing onto the shore, lapping up on the coast of Washington and Oregon- all the way from Japan, as if the ocean- the great burial march, hands cradling the bodies- upon our rocks and our sand. I haven't kept dates too well for the last couple of days, everything a blur, i wake up and I don't remeber what happened the night beforeIt's called alcoholism my friend- says the voice through the shutters, the voice of the ghosts haunting the puyallup fairgrounds. i don't understand this country, this place, like a torture chamber inside a mansion. I wasn't born here, but it was here i was taught to touch my cap; made to carry the water( so i was told, so I was watched over, leaned on, what have you )

Boroughs said this land was born ugly, deep down, a long time ago, under its own tongue...every day the land heaves and soils its own people, spits in their faces and curses them- the gradual procession to the edge- There’s going to be a great earthquake (the destruction of us, of the state, of our world ) good, let it happen The bodies of Japan are our mirrors, let us and dead be reunited as it was before.... So in the future again, What if the dead of chile ( buried with a wooden axe by Pinochet) came rushing in on the tide ( but who's to say, anyways, that the dead of Hiroshima ( and all those killed by our bombs, by our hands) haven't washed into our dreams, night after night -the dead of hiroshima who still dream, know, better than most, it can kill you.)


Is it wrong to think it more than a little bit ironic that Japan’s second natural disaster was the same as its first ?( nuclear power just doesn't work for that island, i guess, though three mile island seems to suggest it doesn’t work anywhere.) Think bombing people is ok? You can, and I can though I may just dislike you and stuff your body in a trash can (outside newark) but that's democracy, whispers about what this is all about, resounding amid the chatter and noise, the yay yay swaying among these dumb streets all heading north, all heading to the impossible south

No matter how civil it gets, how much on the even keel it gets: lie like a dog, we are stuck in the impossible land, knives rising from the cellar and slicing open the raw and open jaw : we are dead meat here, whether you like it or not, the ground is going to swallow us, consume us and then dry us out, civility doesn't help, but you can't fight and not fuck and you probably can't fuck and not fight something the dead told me, in a book i found during a bad time (left from the waves).


It’s not funny, the crying down the hallway, it’s not funny, you hear boy- the girl with the eyes as fire, as the roofs of old chapels- it’s not the echo below the dungeon. You see, we are the long lost kings of dumb and dead people. God’s people are swine driven like manic ape & given to remorse: scraping mouth against the wall. Given, anyways. We arent given much says the mute- with eyes like coal. Ha I thought that shit was on the T.V. ( blaring, as it were) but it was right in front of me. What do you say huh? Me and you take a ride out of the city. ( I'm going to skin you alive you stupid mute). The road that goes in and out the city- around the bay with a dying barge-like bones we cross the bridge- pirates thieves liars-my mother, my father, my soul (damnit!). The mute is silent, of course. So you got a girlfriend? The mute streches out his limbs and tries to choke meor hug me ( I'm not really sure which). I chuckle, because everything is funny and anyways who are we. Ants beholden to the gods. (!)(It’s times for the carnival)(!) When we get to the palisades I dont know what happens ( or I do, but like a lion it evades me, only a fable that I cant understand, like a dream that dances above my ribs).It’s not like we were born to be this way, animals; gardens to dark flowers among valleys and tumbleweeds, it just happens. The lights across the palisades are like lanterns or chains- a sea of chains on the Atlantic,given to the wind. I woke up and there was screaming in the hall. As if all the world was swallowed in the word. As if all the world holy.


It started with hot wings and jager bombs. At least that was what was for breakfast. Beforehand the plans were made in the big house with a lot of alcohol. It too had a lot of rooms and a hot tub. hail bacchus It was two years ago that I was here last. It was also a blue moon that night. The halo stretched from east to west and into the mountains. hail bacchus We would spend the day chasing food and beer and eggs benedict and beer And more beer and gin and more beer And leftovers and movies and beer And Woody Allen and then the trannies ate the leftovers hail bacchus Here is where we left our past behind, as we left our clothes. Bathed in the christening waters with floaties, beer, champagne, and a few dead insects. Let's forget the urine that helped to replace the displaced water from too many people in the hot tub. A real drunken man could fill upwards of two 12fl.oz. bottles. hail bacchus That morning we couldn't stop to look at each other. After two rounds of billiards we finally exchanged names. I can't say she knew mine to begin with or if she cared at all. I can't say I remember hers now. Maybe it was cutie brunette, or cutie nice legs, or cutie pool cue. hail bacchus There was plenty of alcohol to go around. Open bottles of tequilas, rums, vodkas, beers, mixing drinks. Unopen bottles of tequilas, rums, vodkas, beers, mixing drinks. hail bacchus


= =


Bring war material with you from home, but forage on the enemy.


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uoy ssim lliw ew ,lI gnoj miK

Š 2012 draoB lairotidE adaN 1# 1SN devreseR sthgiR llA

Nada1 01 Kim Jong il, we will miss you  

don't cry for me north korea

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