I’m coining my work nomadic surrealist punk. Punk aesthetics determine the type of art punks enjoy, which typically has underground, minimalist, and satirical sensibilities. Nomadic travels. Nomadic cuttings. Naive art. Surrealist/irrealist/absurdist / conceptual. We could keep tacking on the labels. There’s freedom there, in the hybrids. That’s why I travel, really.
20,000 words into my book of hybrids (lyric essays, flash stories, prose poems, micro plays). It’s called The Planets. Some Mormonism. Some missions. Some craggy Northern Ireland. Some Martian Utah desert. Some pony tails. Some chums. Medieval London and Barcelona. The history of sound compression from Germany. Black hole miracles. The history of pockets. An experiment in fermentation. There is so much in there really.
Before moving to Spain, I visited my birth country. Portadown, N. Ireland and then Belfast, to see my biological father. He was a gardener. His wife died. I got an old worker´s hat from her father. World War I. We walked the Shankill.
In 2016, when I lived in London, I went on many journeys. I was trying to align my mind with my body. Lunch room tongue assessments. Spine alignment. A doom drone concert. A magic rabbit hat. In the basement where I worked, I got the phone call. I was going to become a father. Then we lost it. The little bean wasn’t sticking. It was very painful. We left London for Madrid. We started over.
Here is an excerpt from those journeys. From my novel Never Mind the Beasts. Available now fromDostoyevsky Wannabe.
“It was The Great Purge of the 90s. “Religion faced the greatest threat from three groups: feminists, homosexuals and intellectuals,” said Boyd K. Packer, a General Authority, in a speech in 1993. In the fall of 1993, six Mormon writers were rebuked for their feminist intellectual leanings. They became the “September Six.” We felt the ripple. We were reading and thinking people. We read Sunstone, a Mormon intellectual magazine, and thought about our heavenly mother. You are not supposed to think about heavenly mother, only heavenly father. Heavenly mother is sacred. You cannot talk about her.”
“I don’t wear the sacred garments, shake the secret handshakes, whisper my secret name. I carry a slew of identities. I do not believe any of it. The still small voice. The tingles and bosom burning, but I still search for it, through the altered states of art and language. A spirituality. I leave one country for another and another and another and another and another and another. Where do you come from is a question I receive in every new country.”
Mormonism, small town Utah, baptism for the dead, Prague, Katowice, hippy days in the Northwest of America.
My lyric essay, “Chums,” just published at The Art of Everyone.