Papivore: a voracious reader or writer, whichever comes first.

I have been writing since the age of 7, poetry, notes to self, extensive study of history, nature, science, anything which crossed the ethers of my volatile mind. That was my French lyrical phase.

And then the world turned Latin, Greek, Italian etc.-- Somewhewere between Homer and Camus, some German, some Spanish sneaked in. The rest of the story is English with a twist, an imprint or would you call it an accent?. Just as the nomad leaves little trace, words disappear behind the writer, ashes in the Ocean, to return to netherspace and feed other minds eager to share. Serious, sensuous or savvy.

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    As a freelance writer, i mock commercial imperialism, as a timeless artist i savor inviolate freedom across all disciplines. I have traveled through norms and fashions to emerge stronger, surer of my role, to dislodge, to unsettle. To awaken the pleasant, the unpleasant; the whole being within.

    Words untamed paint visions across natural landscapes of minds without frontiers. Poignant phrases cut through the obvious to reveal the personal yet universal toll of immigration. Pungent verse uncover the human animal in a sensuous visceral voyage.

    The introduction piece to raw desert reality takes on savage turns between dream and tenuity. Voice and text adapt to original sound and surround senses with penetrating dimension. Whether speaking in my native French or in English, i taste every inflection as i wrap myself in existential transport through psychogenic rhythms.

    "it's not a pretty piece." said a reviewer, mentioning a diatribe about immigration. This statement reveals itself representative of much of the works that I've dared to expose in English. I can live in total comfort with raw material and rare reviews; the written medium provides me with enough cover to wallow in quasi anonymity and peek at the patterns which emerge from the mire.

    A long list of printings, clippings, sounds and reviews among other worthwhile doings could be gleaned from my remaining files, yet the only accomplishment I care to list is the very fact that I have not abandoned writing or voicing; there lies the backpack full of hand written notes, scribbled on napkins at European train stations, on newsprint in American desert grottoes, bits and bytes of energy more or less well spent, to mimic reality and shift the load.

    No need to play pretty, when the view from here is knee high to the Mormon cricket. So many words have described what this writer is, words I would like to believe. But, in the end I am my reader; you are here now, in front of regurgitated thoughts, paper matter, cyber matter, fluid as the waves which keep the writer awake despite an early work day at the end of night.