Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms

With "Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms", after four books, two volumes of poetry and two collections of essays, Justin Chin delivers more of the same: incendiary art. This new collection chronologically compiles a decades worth of performance art. The primary question is: can the text of performance communicate as readily on the page as on the stage? Of course it can. Those familiar with Chin's writings know he's visceral and probing; some readers might worry that a performance without the necessary physical presence (or in Chin's case visual assault) might necessarily be diluted or sterile. Nope. The prose and poetry here possess a stream-of-conscious quality that makes the political digestible while the personal is revealing, cathartic, and occasionally both funny and frightening. I'm not sure if prospective readers will embrace or cringe over a book of performance art -I've always thought of Justin Chin as a performance artist who wrote, and was surprised to discover here that he's a writer who performs. The distinction is telling. As a writer delving into a different medium, whatever might succeed or fail on a stage, Chin's already past proving he's capable of bringing ideas to a reading audience. Now lets face it, performance art has a bad reputation, so it's worth noting the author's lament over the "media representation of the stereotypical performance artist, either wailing like a banshee and throwing food at the audience or being pretentious and meaning-challenged, scoffing at idiots who did not get The Meaning when there was none." And this isn't Chin being touchy -rather he's simply disarming any preconceived notions readers might bring to the book. The introduction begins as a humorous family discussion about his performance art and the 90's in general, some twenty five years in the future. Just as I was getting ready to enjoy some fun, cynically faux-hindsight he much too abruptly switches gears, awkwardly jumping into a quick, useful dissertation on the nature of the work to follow. This would have been a great opportunity to channel his wit into an Orwellian vein, but I'm guessing the author was simply in a rush to get on with it and let the performances speak for themselves. The pieces host a variety of themes, personal and political, the gay community and AIDS, race and nationality, sexuality and being. The hypnotic rhythm of most performances carry the reader along; some portions come across as telling, sing-songy surreal bedtime stories for a community all too ready to nod off when certain issues challenge it's all-inclusive self-image. The poems here serve both as his Songs of Innocence (heard through a walkman) and his Songs of Experience (learned in clubs, clinics and public toilets). Some performances are punctuated by slides; those that possess text are an addition to the piece on the page, as in one performance where slides coolly dissect the performer-as-go-go boy, a voice-over serving as his subc