I’m for improvisation. Consider this a confession. I’m for and I’m pro improvisation. I confess. Oh yes, I know how tacky confessions are and how utterly embarrassing late 90s European “Hello I’m a little bit special”-theatre it sounds. But I don’t care, I don’t even care if Forced Entertainment is mentioned in the Wikipedia post that I don’t have, I confess anyway, or perhaps, this is a confession so to say backward. Like you confess to your boy or girlfriend to have had super amazing extra and you know that kind of half indecent sex that makes you feel just a bit more human with someone (preferably a somebody almost in the circle of friends), but in fact it never happened… Far more fun than the husband that confesses killing the plumber out of jealousy when it actually was the bloodthirsty wife that did it did it, sucking his blood as if she was some female version of Alexander Skarsgård. Your problem however, after the sex that didn’t happen as for the husband is obviously that you have to produce a trustworthy water tight story and as your boyfriend – who is a typical and predictable one – starts to ask questions, demand information in detail you get more and more enmeshed in the once almost innocent set up. So entangled that you soon convince yourself it really did happened and end up having phantasies about that hot hot moment that suddenly feels very very real, picturing yourself spiced up and half naked with her – a sort of Penélope Cruz that just dropped her Santa red snakeskin velvet dress on the floor [OMG, but how good was she together with Salma Hayek in “Bandidas” – totally underrated.], or James Franco with an out of bed hairdo and not so impressive at all pecs, but gosh… and that slight independent bad boy flare of an indigo version of Steve McQueen. Bingo.
Soon you are obsessing, totally insane, your are going mad of desire, she is in your every thought, he looms around in your head like a lost soul, she haunts you during nightly hours of tossing and turning erotically guilty, his hands around your neck, her breath high in her chest as your lips meet… go away go away go away. And the boy-girlfriend has already forgiven you long ago – it wasn’t a big deal [and you just wanted to get out of your boring sad ass relation], but look, after all we are contemporary creatures and know better than not take advantage of all and every networking opportunity, but you you you are snared, this is a death sentence, this is hell, this is… suddenly you find yourself deadly desiring a somebody you more or less made up and have to have him or her to exorcise your obsession. Have to experience that vibrating moment that you have exercised in your mind over and over, that sweaty boogie-woogie you didn’t even… OMG, that afterwards departure slightly guilt ridden but still proud of yourself. This is not good, this is really quite bad.
Consider this or not that kind of confession, but mind you is it even more strategic. I see, this confession, the confession to adore and be for improvisation is something like, I am confessing to something that I didn’t do not in order to get rid of the girlfriend but to become obsessively eroticized by somebody I don’t fancy – I mean who’d ever seriously confess to have a crush on Penèlope [poor Javier Bardem], James sure except… My confession is deep self-deception, this is not self-camoflage, this is hyper-camo – I’m so in disguise I mistake myself for The Pink Panther, or look at this perhaps this is just straight from the heart, a thug and liar unbuttoning his bullet proof west going naked, stepping out of his self-obsessed delusions. I’m going real, this is my AA moment. I’m for improvisation. I’m for improvisation, and it’s spoken not in emotional distress, not with sentimentality in the voice, not even like my new lover is deep in impro so I better dig it, BS. No this is a super man confessing, I am pro and improvisation.
No I’m not, yes I am, I’m for any kind of improvisation, totally and unconditionally. I’m for it but I don’t like it, I mean yes I like that I’m for it but just because I’m for improvisation without specification I don’t necessarily need to dig it all, do I now? Unconditional yet specific, that’s the groove, the soundtrack to the movement, kind of Claus Oldenburg style 1961. “I am for an improvisation that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a dance studio. I am for an improvisation that grows up not knowing it is improvisation at all, an improvisation given the chance of having a starting point of zero. I am for an improvisation that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top. I am for an improvisation that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary”, and so on until the last super duper 10-4 taxonomy dislocating all pretentions in any respect: “I am for U.S. Government Inspected improvisation, Grade A improvisation, Regular Price improvisation, Yellow Ripe improvisation, Extra Fancy improvisation, Ready-to-eat improvisation, Best-for-less improvisation, Ready-to-cook improvisation, Fully cleaned improvisation, Spend Less improvisation, Eat Better improvisation, Ham improvisation, pork improvisation, chicken improvisation, tomato improvisation, banana improvisation, apple improvisation, turkey improvisation, cake improvisation, cookie improvisation.” I love it, but however it seems Mr Oldenburg is for everything, what matters is not what he is pro but how.
Fuck it, yes yes, my aversion for anything how is phenomenal but we make an exception. Shoot, if what questions are stupidly [said who?] demanding some form of essence, what homogenizes, is categorical, and finite to a one. What stops shit in the lobby, no play, no self-deception, nothing with James or Penélope – pah boring. But then flip it flip it, what about how, how is the the the shape-shifter response of neoliberalism always open for an other round of negotiation, how is the passing out of ideology in favor of some general ethics of under these circumstances. How never leaves the lobby, never makes a move, never ends up in that hotel room, dies dried up void of any sweaty phantasy and self-fulfilled through strategic decision making.
How is the slippery side of consciousness, in the sense of always being on the safe side, how is the ministry of never being nailed down, of never being fucked properly, never having that whoopee of indecency that makes you a little bit more human [You monster…], how is never having to stand up for your sins, mistakes, fuck ups. How is the rotten stench of criticality, how is the opposite of confession, the very continuity of “it wasn’t me”. I confess, I’m pro improvisation all kinds unconditionally, but I sure don’t like em.