This is my seventh post-real-time review after recently announcing my retirement from real-time reviewing following four years doing it.
Publisher: TTA Press
“These are all forms of mental slippage, visions he has conjured up to fill the void into which his real memories have fallen.”
This is a story of a musician who has tenuous dreams (almost like short-lived night blossoms, my expression, not the novella’s), dreams with which to infect the reader (real, head-on infections you will find hard to escape, take my warning seriously, please), infections between comic-strip, otherwise discrete, drawn-boxes of sheer dreamy beautiful prose, (deceptively easy, lazy prose as if this is the only way to conquer writer’s block as well as a musician’s) — a near-death experience sired by hyperkalemia: the words themselves suffering a form of petechia. A moving, unlinear panoply of this musician’s life and his ‘fear’ or ‘dread’ of infecting others he loved or was related to, as perhaps finally conquered by grabbing some inevitable nettle…
“Crisp winter light falls weightlessly through the window…”
This is major work of felt literature – that deserves the highest praise but only after the most careful approach as to how it is read and by whom. Either you need the thinnest petechia-prone reading-skin to absorb it fully or the thickest rind to protect you so that you can report back as I have done here. Being between these two extremes serves no purpose. But perhaps you will never know till it is eventually too late.
“A dog barks outside in the street, but a moment later it seems closer, inside the room. It sounds familiar, almost human.”