Interview in taoStyle, revolving around Taos, New York, the writing life, and my new novel, Nocturne Variations.
“Brooklyn, New York born and raised author, poet, playwright and spoken word performance artist, John Biscello, has called Taos home since 2001.
The author of novels Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, and Raking the Dust, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, (Broken Land was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year), John has a new book coming out and we met recently to talk about it.
When I arrived at the World Cup that afternoon, John was already there, seated at the window, in the corner. I said hello before going to the counter to order a coffee from Jack Lorang, who just happened to be working that day. Lucky us! Jack makes some of the best espresso for miles around. He’s a damn fine writer as well, so it seemed doubly apropos that he should be there.
Americano in hand, I joined John at the window. Autumn was closing in on us, but it was still t-shirt weather, and the tourists walking by hadn’t given a thought to the changing seasons, judging by their breezy attire.
John (in a t-shirt and black jeans), looked every inch the quintessential Brooklyn (next generation), Beat Poet – a throwback to the era he continues to be inspired by.
We jumped right in as writers do; spanning the Western Canon in minutes – leaping from Miller (Henry) to Jack Kerouac, Bill Burroughs and Paul Bowles to Shakespeare, Bukowski and back again faster than the speed of light. Almost.
Both of us fast, NYC fast, stream of consciousness fast, as the pages of beloved books, dog-eared and marked, turned over in our memory banks. Pages as familiar as a love once lost and then found again.”
Review of the new bio-memoir, Room to Dream, written by David Lynch and Krisitine McKenna.
“For the past forty somewhat years, David Lynch has dreamscaped a long day’s journey into night, taking audiences on a hallucinated tour through the underworld of their own splintered psyche. In a world, or perhaps I should say industry, often bereft of visionary spellcasting, Lynch has been the equivalent of a cinematic shaman, a goofball deviant in bi-polar shades, trafficking in symbols, archetypes, glyphs, images and impressions, fished out from a fathomless substratum. His oeuvre, a steam-punk Frankenstein of interchangeable parts, speaks to the savvy and glee of a mad scientist at play, while his blending of the eternal with American pop has given us a surrealistic soap-opera with an eye toward the numinous. Carl Jung eating apple pie in a diner while riffing on anima with a gum-clacking waitress named Flo; the red-jacketed ghost of James Dean partying on top of a toxic mushroom cloud while Marilyn Monroe lip-syncs “Happy Birthday” in Yiddish; a blue jukebox isolated in the desert where it serves as an altar for a congregation of devout rabbits . . . these could be dispatches from a world of Lynch’s making.”