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“it's not a pretty piece” said a reviewer, mentioning a diatribe about immigration. This statement reveals itself representative of much of the works that I've dared to expose in English. I can live in total comfort with raw material and rare reviews; the written medium provides me with enough cover to wallow in quasi anonymity and peek at the patterns which emerge from the mire. A long list of printings, clippings, sounds and reviews among other worthwhile doings could be gleaned from my remaining files, yet the only accomplishment I care to list is the very fact that I have not abandoned writing or voicing; there lies the backpack full of hand written notes, scribbled on napkins at European train stations, on newsprint in American desert grottoes, bits and bytes of energy more or less well spent, to mimic reality and shift the load. No need to play pretty, when the view from here is knee high to the Mormon cricket. So many words have described what this writer is, words I would like to believe. But, in the end I am my reader; you are here now, in front of regurgitated thoughts, paper matter, cyber matter, fluid as the waves which keep the writer awake despite an early work day at the end of night.  |
Contents: Blood
and Bleach |
