I discovered the writing of David Ohle on the very same day that I discovered Calamari Press; it was a sunny, temperate Friday; the Trump Tower was shimmered in near-translucence; a waft of Thai spices ghosted the length of Illinois street, near the grungy elevation of Wabash Avenue. Illinois Street passes under Wabash Avenue in allowance for basement deliveries or some such necessity. I ambled through that milieu of scents, shadows, and reflections, itching for a new experience: something written, something conveyed through ink, paper, and the scent of slow, slow oxidation. I’d discovered After Words a while back: before my occupational transition. I was still moving heavy things, at the time. I hadn’t yet discovered my current job in the paradoxical oddity that is— —and in leaving my place of work, on a sunny and temperate Friday (last Friday) I followed my camera lens and my photographer’s impulses. I stepped into the newly-refurbished book store, and browsed. The threat of a cluster headache interrupted my browsing, but not before the discovery of a slim and mysterious book. I knew nothing of the book. It contained no blurb, no sales-generating quotes from authors granted advance-reading copies. It contained nothing more than a title: The Blast and the author’s name. Weighing in at a mere 97 pages, it calls itself—rather ambitiously—a novel. It is dedicated to a black poodle named Curly, but it is the cover of the book that drew my attention. It is a complex image, a collage: a rakish amalgam of star charts, anatomical drawings, random teeth, and countless other artistic oddities. The Blast is a novella with delusions of grandeur, though upon skimming it, I learned that in the first few pages, it achieves more than many ponderous, literary novels. It is, from what I’ve gathered, a science fiction novel. It is, from what I’ve gathered likely set within a larger imagined world, already established by its author. I have yet to read more than the first few pages, as I’m currently making my way through Iain Sinclair’s Slow Chocolate Autopsy, prodigiously illustrated by Dave McKean. Like Ohle’s The Blast…it’s an oddball book. I’ve since purchased Boons and The Camp, also by David Ohle: two novellas bound into a single volume and cover-illustrated by the same artist responsible for the face of The Blast. It is because of David Ohle that I've become interested in more authors published by Calamari Press. (Small press publishing has always been exciting) I’ve spent time, simply stroking the books, smelling them, savoring the shapes of each text. I’ve spent an equal amount of time reading the stories contained in Slow Chocolate Autopsy, and savoring the graphic-novel/collage artwork of David McKean: for those interested, Slow Chocolate Autopsy is published by Phoenix, not Calamari... As I’ve been fiddling around with 6-layer images, I decided to attempt something. I wanted to see if I could create something that feels like the artwork (from other artists) that I’ve been living with for the past few days. The result? er_c I think there is a text embedded in the six images comprising this particular amalgam. I think there are moods and implied stories that may be written within the next few months. We shall see. Until then, there is this: a crystallization of things felt and imagined, while looking at three books, while reading one of them. In keeping with a particular set of guidelines, I composed this out of 6 different images, 5 of which were recently loaded off of my camera. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.