Category: non-fiction

The Unauthorised Biography of Ezra Maas (Daniel James, Dead Ink 2018) – review.

D. James' genre-mashing/-defying debut is described (rightly so) as a postmodern noir-detective story, but it reads as much more than this. It is a pseudo-biographic study of the elusive, mysterious, multimedia, avant-garde artist, Ezra Maas: one of the strangest artistic geniuses to almost emerge during the late 20th/early 21st century. For such a prolific figure … Continue reading The Unauthorised Biography of Ezra Maas (Daniel James, Dead Ink 2018) – review. →

Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.

Kreuzberg. 08:00 Monday October 28th 2019. Soft electric light illuminates the calm room. Thirty-five tables. Each table set simply: some for lone diners, some for couples, a few for family; cutlery, white crockery, triangle of napkin, heavy, cool folds of cotton. Some settings will remain empty and some will be filled. I cross the wooden floor … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear. →

Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.

Tegel Airport, Berlin. October 27th 2019. Tegel must have left a strong impression on me last year because I pass through the arrival gate, through the crowds, through the airport gleam with barely a thought or care for direction and, with the sliding doors shushing behind me, I am, once again, giddy with the almost … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear. →

Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.

Penn Beacon. October 26th 2019 23:00 Home late last night from London. The train was slow, but I don't know or remember the reason given. I was exhausted from the journey, from the solid shape of work. I unpacked a bag and repacked it with different stuff. I downloaded my boarding pass, prompting the usual … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear. →

rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut.

    Dylan Thomas, in First Class, dispatching Rainbow Trout (tatties, peas and half a stout). There's scurf on the shoulders of his tweed ('Howell's of St. Mary St., Cardiff').   Mistook him for a Beatle. "Ringo's in the dining car!"   "A cwtsh for a poxy autograph?" (Who's he think he is! Richard Burton?) … Continue reading rumbling over the severn, my belly thinking my throat’s been cut. →