Tag Archives: writing

Marguerite Duras

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Marguerite Duras crowed about nothing. And nothingness. Lyrics like so much silky water threaded in the raptures of an eddy. Whirling, heady, intoxicating, a dizzying effect that spoke sheerest volumes about the secret history of love. Love for M.D. was … Continue reading →

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Beckett

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Samuel Beckett plunged his head so far up his ass, daylight became a dream and conundrum. He saw the world through shit-filtered glasses, the bluest of roses manure-caked, anal cavity functioning as the base of inspiration, as the grimy pulpit … Continue reading →

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No Dominion

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Dark. Lights up. Piles of sand on stage. Reddish sand. In some areas, the sand is piled high, forming mini-dunes. In other areas, thin flat layers. Sticking out of the sand are shards of glass. A woman lying on stage … Continue reading →

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Alchemical Cahoots

Posted on January 24, 2024 by John Biscello

The year of alchemy. Alchemical means. The invisible world. Crosses and cruxes and crossroads. There are, the wizard explained, contracts with the invisible world. There are binding contracts. And ones that can be dissolved. How can I tell the difference … Continue reading →

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Knocking on Silence

Posted on January 24, 2024 by John Biscello

   Writing often feels like knocking on silence.  Like, I’m at some mysterious stranger’s door and it is raining outside and I am wet and rumpled (inside and out), hoping the door will open and I will be let in. … Continue reading →

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To a Young Writer Whom I Have Yet to Meet or May Never Know

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

Finding and following your own voice is vitally important.  Yet that idea can be extended to: finding and following your own voices.  They are inside you.  Many of them.  Who knows why they are there, and from where they came.  … Continue reading →

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In Search of Lost Time

Posted on November 28, 2021 by John Biscello

One thing we cannot recover is time. Perhaps that’s what I have been trying to do.    Perhaps that’s what every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a heartsick orphan, as the fool-hero in their own movie is trying to … Continue reading →

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Walkabout

Posted on November 13, 2020 by John Biscello

“My whole life has been little else than a long reverie divided into chapters by my daily walks”–Jean-Jacques Rousseau To ground, daily, these dreams of novel origins, bracing bold contact with rounded edges, off which falling is favored and soundly … Continue reading →

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Recording Live

Posted on June 11, 2018 by John Biscello

To abide, faithfully, the recording angel on my shoulder, to dream, trebled, with eyes and ears open, glass pressed against the thin, plasmic veil separating one world from the next, a straddler and eavesdropper, since Childhood, on behalf of a … Continue reading →

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Lisp

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Writing, some kind of lisp, and stutter, to chance God’s breath, as your own, to cherish.

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