I am working on a new book of lyrical essays, inspired by my creative non-fiction workshop, run by the terrific Amy (McDaniel) Robinson. Highly recommended.
“My hair should have nothing to do with it, and yet it does, this thick coarse hair, often unruly, I prefer to tame it. My hippy phases were Jesus phases, full of Venus. During my Venus days, I was glazed and the wave of my locks was pleasing, but upon return it blew into my eyeballs in the windy Docklands of East London, it became a nuisance, and too much of a spectacle, since I prefer to remain invisible, watching rather than being watched.”
I am working on some essays, creative non-fiction, and I am starting to realize maybe I’ve been leaning towards creative non-fiction for a while now. A hybrid form. Poetry and essay. Narrative and essay. The lyrical essay. So yes. A book of essays. In the future. Here is an essay. It’s about chimps and bonobos.
” I take the train to Barcelona. The train enters a tunnel. A baby coughs very lightly, an older man clears his throat. The tunnel, that’s where we all go, light or no light no one is to know. My amphibian throat gurgles, will the language spill out of me, it is a great accomplishment. The people to the right of me are joyously trilling their tongues, dancing their hands. I intertwine my fingers, rub the knuckles of my right hand into the palm of the left, elevate feet, try not to slouch into the seat. My right hand, usually a refrigerator, is warming up nicely, middle age but not only, you have to keep the blood circulating correctly. Out the window, a blur of trees and small mountains, good foliage.”
My story, “cosy,” just published at The Art of Everyone. Part of my novel in progress The Dreamlife of Honey.
Back in the day, when the days were longer, and then shorter, much like today but faster, I began to write poetry under cover of full moon during my Mormon mission. Bloating/unbloating. This was the beginning of my behind-the-scenes spirituality. Now part of my behind-the-scenes novel-in-progress, The Dreamlife of Honey. The second in my nomadic surrealist trilogy.
After Turkey, and a stint of dog walking in Italy, he moves to London, falls in love, lands a gig as an adjunct professor at an American style university in London. He feels a sense of community with the avant garde poetry community and starts to write a novel from his experiences living in various countries. Feels the joy of NY school poetry. His brother, in Utah, dies suddenly from an overdose and he visits his family for the first time in over seven years.
An excerpt from the first of my nomadic surrealist novels, Never Mind the Beasts, available now from Dostoyevsky Wannabe.
Humans and animals. Hittites, wolves, Charles Manson, bipedalism. What are we really? There is no great plan. Some terrific poems by Grzegorz Wroblewski over at Partisan Hotel. Translated from the Polish by Piotr Gwiazda.
The novelist I pretend to be is a character invented, for the sole purpose of being obliterated, by the writer I am. The writer I am wants nothing to do with novelist. He suspects the novelist of wanting to restore to fiction the particular order of reality that suffocated him and drove him to write in the first place. The impossibility of swimming in a bathtub greatly increases the risk of drowning. Death is an archaic holdover from barbarian times. He eats nothing, and so his stomach will ascend to heaven after his death. Extraterrestrials exist, far superior to us technically and scientifically- and they will overrun the world. Everyone conceived tonight and tomorrow will be one of them.
I’ve sunk myself deep into Norwegian and French, modern and postmodern, and my writing has grown a new tendril. The best is yet to come. I’ve moved away from words in music, the best is yet to come. I’ve grown naive and not-naive, the best is yet to come. I’ve sucked the marrow and plucked the daisies, the best is yet to come. I’ve baked the memories, stirred the sugar bombs, opened the hatch, de-wormed the cat, the best is yet to come. I’ve materialized my life with my language, the best is yet to come. Welcome to my hermit kingdom, the best is yet to come. What is the dreamlife of language, the best is yet to come.
Boiling two eggs, a simple procedure. The perfect boiled eggs, somewhere in the heavens.