Monthly Archives: January 2018

Feelism

Posted on January 15, 2018 by John Biscello

Feelism: emotional subjectivity filtered through the prism of Memory; story-seeds rooted in sensual Nostalgia. In my book, this is what happened has always taken a backseat to this is how it felt.

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Slant

Posted on January 15, 2018 by John Biscello

Emily Dickinson advised that we “tell it slant.” This makes sense. Telling it slant is a natural outgrowth of living it slant. Oblique paths and slanted paths dominate my sense of inner geography. Dylan Thomas wrote: “The memories of childhood … Continue reading →

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Silent Night

Posted on January 10, 2018 by John Biscello

The ongoing rabble and cinematic narrative in my mind is finding how nourishing and full and tender the heart can grow steeped in silence alone.  

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Wellspring

Posted on January 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.

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Peerless

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Fasting on remedial prayers, hunger flinting the strike of peerless light at tunnel’s end.

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Burn

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Slow burn of words on a page, how to listen raptly between intervals of felt silence and tapped nerves.

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Backroads

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Traveling mapless backroads, I found heaven looking for me.

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Flea Bitten

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Greyhound: A sleek, streamlined, swift-as-the-wind breed of dog. A coughing, sputtering, wheezing, smoke-blowing mutt, prone to flea infestation.    I spent a great deal of my twenties canned inside the dank sweaty armpit of travel Americana: Greyhound.  It was an … Continue reading →

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Fullness

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

When the clean quiet fullness of your heart rises and begins to drown the rabble in your head in white light, within and without become clear matching mirrors.  

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Saturday Night Russian

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

   It was Jake who first called Anya the Saturday Night Russian. It started when Anya was twelve. Up until that point her wardrobe had been pretty subdued, pretty ordinary. Jeans or capris, T-shirts, sandals or sneakers. Then, seemingly overnight, … Continue reading →

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