Knight of Faith is excited to announce the release of Jeremiah's Ghost, my debut novel. The book is now available for Kindle at Amazon. Follow the link below to download a copy today. A print version should follow in the coming months. Buy the electronic version now to help ensure the book's success. You can say you read it first.
Cover art: "Voids" by Fernando Marti
The Sheep Meadow was closed that time of year, but he scaled the fence easily and made it to the center of the giant field in the little park on the small island on the tiny planet called Earth adrift somewhere in a galaxy of frightening dimensions, with interstellar distances too vast and empty for the mind’s comforts, too big to map (the diagrams he saw in science textbooks, the models at planetariums were like the maps explorers drew in the fifteenth century), beyond the scope of our very finest cameras and telescopes fumbling around in space, groping in the dark like Prufrock’s ragged claws on the floors of silent seas.
(A Journey to the Centre of the
Psyche with the Syntactic Pyromaniac)
By Sandra Lester
extremely tetchy, trauma geyser is fizzing – as an obfusc, voodoo brew –
beneath a serene, graceful surface: yet more of my unruly lifetime’s, stymied
debris to excavate – from the Abbadonian, soul-stirring slime pit – and
perspicaciously express. My psyche’s Patagonian mosquito has landed: drilling
for blood, it pierces my soul as a psychotic maniac with a rubiginous syringe!
Deep within my subconscious, Mnemosynian archives, there resides a jagged, gyte
shard: I must extract this parlous, psychological artefact – succinctly as a
piece of intricately miniated hydria – and circumspectly inspect it. My glyptic
wisdom will scroll poetically into cryptic diction; ornate as exquisite mezzo-relievo.
These curious, iconic epics will evolve into abstruse, chronological,
psychological dossiers; then filed in an historic, confessional-elegy library.
I am The Warring Harridan: a psychagogue, moulting my pneuma’s tedious onus by
boundlessly fly-tipping versified ire – as eclaircissemental offerings – to
volumes of personally quirky poetry books. My Bragian, internal brouhaha will
be the theme of lengthy deliberation and criticism. My radical, Callopian cries
will spansulise, and liberalize diatribes.
It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a
biological sense. It is images of the past. These are often as highly
structured and selective as myths. Images and symbolic constructs of the
past are imprinted, almost in the manner of genetic information, on our
sensibility. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and
active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures.
It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement, against
Jasmin Lim creates the kind of art that is easy to gloss over if you've lost the use of your eyes, your mind and your heart. Discovering it is like meeting a lover. It animates your curiosity. It changes the way you see and act in the world. The first encounters stimulate all your receptors so keenly it's hard to say what excites you most in the precious details you polish for friends.
In times of revolutionary global discord, when the interests of nations, generations and social castes collide, art should accomplish nothing less.