Snatchell Ernest Wylden "Colina Norte" Book


248 page perfect bound book. As for a description, I'll let Snatchell do it himself:

"I have to write a description for my book, Colina Norte, and to be totally honest that’s a lot easier said than done. I can’t precisely say what the book is, aside from the clinical - 4 parts that make up an anthology. Each part its own entity, but tied, at least spiritually or perhaps via blood relation, to each preceding and succeeding collection. I say, quite boldly, the entire spectrum of work is through the eye, ear, nose, throat, stomach, bladder, asshole, mouth, heart, and finally fingers of the unreliable narrator. The narrator, oh so unreliable, is myself ultimately. Obviously. Speaking out on the subject of not life, but lives; lives I have lived, wanted to and dreamed of living, never wanted to live, nightmared about, sweated and schemed over. All somewhat real, in one way or another. Reality bends so far that I had to document the surreal. So what’s the book about? I don’t know. Love, really. Big love, bloody love. Raw love: savage and wonderful and sometimes pitiful, yet witty. It’s about love, yeah. And passion and compassion, and sex and the beautiful world and the sewer of humanity. Everything a gift. And I do mean everything, even absent fathers who turn all things to shit and everyone into victims. Even the heartbreaks and the defeats and the rotten stink of failure and insecurity. It’s about the toxicity of life and virtue, but also the warmth in those very things. The heat of blood and sweat. It’s about cosmic things that sit at the foot of your bed. Realistically, it’s four parts of an anthology:

1. I Need My Wife, which should explain itself entirely.
2. Be Sweet, a bleakish sprouting of turmoil spitting in the eye of the wanton nest of love. The fiendish trickster brethren of I Need My Wife.
3. I Will Die Before You Wake, a collection of pieces written 2015-2016 that seemed to stretch their fingers down my throat like it were a drain. And finally,
4. Fawn, a surreal romance-cum-existential horror novella I wrote while in a manic upswing before a crushing depression that stowed me into my bed for two weeks straight before I finally started seeing a shrink. Good times.

Really, if I had to say just one thing about this book, I’d say it’s my version of watching the sun explode with the love of your life. Oh yeah, and the title is a reference to the O.G. address for the mansion the Heavens Gate lived in. And if you want me to drop some names to whet your whistle, well, I’ll say Larry Brown, Jim Harrison, Charles Bowden, Frank Stanford, Henry Miller, Georges Bataille, Harry Crews, Cormac McCarthy, Jean Baudrillard, EE Cummings, Barry Hannah, Emil Cioran, so on and so forth... whatever that does for you. It’s an entertaining read and, hell, I wrote it. Please buy it so maybe I can write some more.

Special thanks to Greh Holger and Christopher Norris. This book is dedicated to the spirit of an amazing human, Brendan Sheppard-Missett."