I am curious about the guy on the podium, he doesn’t look quite right. Cracking through my skin and bone to what’s inside. Dialogue randomly unmatching his dictatorial posing, a power poetic. It’s not long before his irreal plot forms. Slots in. Begins to turn and take shape in shadows and inner projections. More statements, yelled out like a comedien who’s ‘got a million of them’. All that’s missing is the cigar, the microphone and the fish. This is paranoid, frontal lobe processing. Things go on around him but all he sees is the primal chaos, what he is truly made of, reptilian complex of flesh and neurons, of pain and memory. You wouldn’t expect to smile at such things but you can’t help it. Each page becomes clearer. You become more absorbed and you breathe easy, you begin to laugh. Every part of him is unconnected, an outsider to himself. It is like a carnival of freaks inside a flapping tent, glimpsing scenes as the wind whips the red and white stripes from its pegs. His accompanying pictures more mutations than collage are brilliant. Words writhe inside his thrash scifi, clear messages about our lives, the creative process, where words come from, where images form. There is madness and then there is complete clarity. This is when the fun starts and the mirror people turn up and you start to understand that “smashing glass is the most beautiful sound in the world”.
The flies, the mannequins, the doorways. Like a fireworks display, a constant barrage of oohes and aahes. There is Eve but no Adam. He has wonderful dreams. Though some would find them nightmarish, this is never mentioned. Spiders crawl out of mouths. Unexpected mind nasties he keeps hidden in jars. It is not really a story more echoes that pass uncomfortably. We form an unreal world to cope with what’s what, alter boy egos, and bad dreams. Scenarios that entertain him, that he can escape into. Mono is a coping mechanism. Mono is alone. Just when you think you are over a theme, James drags you back in for seconds. He cannot be killed, though he dies a lot. He never knows when to finish. This is perfect because the Bird King’s hell is just that. Forever trapped inside his dark mirror. James Knight is all his characters, the puppet master punched and duly showed. He is the oneirograph king. This is well documented. He steals your dreams. But don’t be scared it empowers. He stole mine, I adore his work. James isn’t into taking your soul, he knows our souls too well and has enough problems. So he hits hard. Words and visions smack the same way, straight into the kaleidoscope. This is not a story, more a book happening. His mind forever naked and we’ve all had those dreams, haven’t we.