Biscello & Badalamenti at the Rose City Book Pub

rose city III

June 6 @ 7:00 pm – 9:00 pm

Rose City Book Pub, 1329 NE Fremont, Portland, OR 97212

 

Portland’s new chill-n-chat literary hotspot, the Rose City Book Pub, will host Unsolicited Press authors, John Biscello and Frances Badalamenti, who will be reading from their respective novels: Nocturne Variations and I Don’t Blame You. Books will be available for purchase, and the evening will also include a special musical performance by Elite Beat.

NOCTURNE VARIATIONS: Dystopic Peter Pan meets surrealist noir in this cinemythical tale about love, loss and the illusions of shadow-play.

Los Angeles, December, 1989, is when we first meet seventeen-year-old Piers, runaway, savant puppeteer, spiritual love-child of Holden Caulfield and Edie Sedgwick. Addicted to Sike, an experimental drug which promises a surrogate return to Childhood, Piers, in an act of revenge, robs a briefcase full of Sike from her dealer and flees L.A., pursued by two hit men. Hiding out in a stark Southwestern town called Redline, where she meets and is taken in by a man named Henry Hook, Piers is soon confronted by the buried trauma of her past and the ghosts risen from old haunts.

Comprising a jigsaw synthesis of narrative, journal entries, letters, monologues, screenplay, poems, photographs, and press clippings, Nocturne renders an interior world of fragments and parallels, and casts a tinted light on that neverland between dreaming and waking.

JOHN BISCELLO: Originally from Brooklyn, NY, author, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has called Taos, New Mexico home since 2001. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag; and a poetry collection, Arclight.

I DON’T BLAME YOU: I Don’t Blame You is a young woman’s journey of losing her mother a mere two months before becoming a mother. It follows Ana through a year of going between her home in Portland and her mother’s home base in New Jersey as she battled cancer and as Ana grew a baby. The narrative begins with backstory around her mother’s early life being raised by a single mother in poverty in a Bronx tenement apartment and also her father’s early years in depression-era Brooklyn, both raised in challenging circumstances by Italian immigrants. It takes the reader through their bitter divorce after raising three children and after twenty-five years of marriage, which left Ana’s mother to raise her alone, the youngest of four kids by ten years, as a not very capable and mentally unwell single mother. The story continues through her hardscrabble childhood and adolescence and then pushes forward towards the year of her mother’s illness and Ana’s pregnancy. The narrative takes the reader through her mother’s death and quite soon after, a last minute decision to give birth at home, after which her mother and son became the two ships that passed in the night.

FRANCES BADALAMENTI: Frances was born and raised in Queens, New York and Suburban Jersey, but now lives in Portland, Ore. with her husband and son. Her memoir, I Don’t Blame You, about losing her mother and becoming a mother, is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. You can find her personal essays and stories at Mutha Magazine, Hip Mama, Longreads and Vol1Brooklyn. She is currently working on her second novel.

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Obsession

lost highway
To be claimed
by that which
you can never possess–
the cyclical deficit
of longing
in bated arrears.
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The Walk

lost alley
The vagaries of a portent,
perhaps a reckoning–
no, he wasn’t brave,
but he was with angel,
or some kind of numinous equivalent.
A quest started way back when
was about to take a turn
one way or another.
His footfalls resounded
as if following him
without reserve.
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It’s a Secret: Tell Everyone

Little Prince I
The heart’s
sheerest capacity
to marvel
and see rightly
is a gilded trespass
into the world
of true visionaries.
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Wonderwell

little prince 7
It is the supple mind,
ripe with longing
and a sense of wonder,
that needs space
to dream
and marvel
unfettered.
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Laurel and Hardy in Paris

Laurel & Hardy in Paris
We’ll always have Paris,
                                  Stanny,
to tag with kerosene
and meringue–
(cue the “Dance of the Cuckoos”
as the pie-in-the-face
revolution
begins with a forget-me-not
splat.)
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Every Breath You Take

kwan_yin_guanyin_by_phaedris-d3fljzu
Undammed,
I came to you
as currency
that cannot be jettisoned
or grasped.
When a petal falls
at exactly the ripest moment
to steal a kiss from the wind,
you will know me
by way of soft soundless
merger
and glint.
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Kuan Yin’s Promise

kwan yin II

I can only
offer you this.
Do not worry.
Always
the river of ight
runs inward
narrowing
to an unspecified nexus,
a glimmering placeless speck
that holds silence tenable
and golden,
its spate of volumes
your means to equity
in a world of constant change
and fated sorrows.
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Golden Means

klimt fulfilled
Love,
in its mating pitch
to molecules,
amounts to a sort of
glyphic jazz
or totemic bebop,
upon which cherish
patterns
its founting signature.

 

(Artwork by Gustav Klimt)
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Working Class Super Hero

peterparker
(Excerpt from Raking the Dust)
Monday morning.  I sat in my yard, drank coffee and flipped through the newspaper, eventually making my way to the section I had been avoiding: the classifieds.
With perfunctory listlessness I circled the jobs that seemed okay.  The more listings I circled, the more I felt I was accomplishing in actively pursuing work. Then I saw it:
“Male needed to play Spider-Man at a new toy store.  Weekends only. $8/hr.  Apply in person betw. 10am and 3pm at Sammy’s Joyland, directly across the street from Wal-Mart.”
I circled the listing and moved on, then a delayed realization gave me pause: Spider-Man?
My mind flashed back to seven-year-old me, collecting spiders in a jar, then releasing them onto my arms in hopes that not only would one bite me but that it would also happen to be radioactive and infused me with spider-powers.  When that didn’t work out, the disappointed seven-year-old gave deferred birth to the twelve-year-old with modified philosophies.  If I couldn’t procure super-powers, then I’d become Spider-Man minus the super-powers.
That’s twelve-year-old me in my homemade Spider-Man costume, replete with spring-loaded suction darts that shot from gadgets attached to my wrists.
I am patrolling my neighborhood, determined to keep it safe from crime and evil-doers.  I make my rounds in the park, as I always do, and near the monkey bars I spot a boy backed against the fence by two other boys: one fat, one skinny.
What’s going on here, I wonder, my spider-sense tingling, and I creep in quietly, remaining in the shadows.
The boy-against-the-fence keeps flinching as Fat threatens to slap him in the face.  I don’t know the back story, but the fact that it is two-against-one strikes me as an injustice.
I step out of the shadows and deliver what I believe is an instant classic of a quip—Hey, boys, now that Webs is here, you two ready to tangle?
The villains, Fat and Skinny, look at me, then at each other and burst out laughing.  The boy-against-the-fence seems thoroughly confused.
I stand poised, slightly bent at the knees, fingers resting on the triggers that will launch my darts.
Fat walks up to me and backs me up with a chest-bump—You better get outta here freak, before you wind up like this punk.
As if punk were the cue, Skinny hits the boy-against-the-fence in the stomach, hard.  The boy grunts and drops to one knee, spitting several times.
You want some, Fat threatens, and places his pudgy face inches from my mask. He smells of pork rinds.
I glance at Skinny, who is standing over the still-crumpled boy.
I quietly walk away, not looking back.
When I get home I throw my costume in the trash.  I am done with the super-hero business.
And now, twenty-one years later.
I snapped my fingers against the listing—This is it.  This is the job I’m gonna get.
Energized by this prospect I put in a call to Ella, who didn’t share my enthusiasm.
$8 an hour?  And only on weekends?  That’s not a lot of money Alex.
I know Ella, I know . . . but I get to play Spider-Man.  You know how much I loved Spider-Man when I was a kid.
Yeah Alex, I know how much you loved Spider-Man—
There Ella paused, and her tone became pointed.
—when you were a kid.
I said nothing and Ella went on.
The way you’re talking about this . . . you do realize that if you get hired the toy store doesn’t give you super-powers to go with the job?
I let Ella’s uncontestable logic settle in, then—Well it’s something, isn’t it?
Yeah, Ella agreed, it’s something. Anyway, good luck.  We’ll see you tomorrow around ten.  Your house?
Yeah.
Alright, g’bye.
I listened to the sound of the dial tone for ten seconds then hung up.
That was fucking stupid, I berated myself. Why the hell had I called Ella? Did I expect her to stamp me with the ex-wife’s seal of approval because I might become a toy store Spider-Man?
I considered revisiting the stolen panties and manually relieving myself of my tension. Instead I went to the windowsill to see if the spider, the great artist, was hanging out on her web. She wasn’t there.
The morning light filtering in through the window gave the web a silvery translucence. I sat down and admired both the effect of the light on the web and the web itself. I waited for the spider to show up and when she didn’t I made my announcement anyway.
I’m going to become Spider-Man, May, what do you think of that?
I had decided, just then, to name the spider May, after Peter Parker’s beloved Aunt May.  Peter Parker was Spider Man’s alter ego, or vice versa.
Have a good day May, wherever you are.  And keep up the fine artistry.
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