Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Jimmi Campkin

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?

Jimmi Campkin

In what part of the world do you live?

I am currently living in a small seaside village called Whitby, in the North East of England.  Whitby is a charming and beautiful little place – little changed in 850 years – with narrow winding streets, ancient buildings, a ruined Abbey on the cliffs and wee cobbled roads – as well as long beaches and the power and majesty of the sea, which crashes over the town during storms or is as still as glass when calm. Whitby also has connections to literature – Lewis Carroll stayed here a few times, but more famously Bram Stoker was also a visitor and set much of the beginning of Dracula in the town, inspired by the view from his hotel window.

Tell us about yourself. 

Born in 1983, lived in the same dying post-industrial town called Dunstable until I was nineteen – a town which, in the spirit of hiraeth, I still have affection for but I know I can never revisit.  Spent most of my childhood playing alone or with a few close friends, writing stories and inventing hundreds more in my own head.  Dunstable still haunts many of my stories – characters, locations and experiences make up a big chunk of my work, and it is a town that I find difficult to fully extricate myself from, and yet I know I will never live there again.

Between the ages of 16 and 18 I had a knife pulled on me three times, and a few other incidents in which people wished to cause myself (and sometimes my friends) considerable harm.  It’s that kind of area.

I moved to York attending the University of York St John in 2003 studying English Literature; where I largely ignored the dull course texts and bummed around reading Catcher In The Rye, wearing eyeliner and reading poetry in coffee shops.

Yeah, I know…

However during this time I decided to become A Proper Writer after getting a very high mark for a Creative Writing module.  Since then I have bounced from job to job, town to town, taking up art and photography, playing the guitar, trying to find the point of it all but it always comes back to words and images and the love of them.

Where do you publish your work?

Writing: Jimmi Campkin

Photography: jimmicampkin

When did you begin your blog and what motivated you start it?

I began my blog in it’s current incarnation around 2012/13.  I had been going through a writing drought, and I felt a new platform with a clean slate might inspire me, although it took a long time for me to feel comfortable writing again.  I’ve had an online blog/website since the late-90’s though, when I had two long-running Livejournal accounts which mixed my real life with fiction…. something I still do now.

What inspires/motivates you to keep blogging on your site?

As grandiose as this sounds, I feel as though I have been put here to create.  There is nothing else that I am (relatively) good at, and also enjoy doing.  I can’t rewire a plug, I can’t swim and I cannot climb the greasy company pole in a job I detest for fifty years and retire miserable.  Whether it is photography or words, I need to do this or there is no point.

When did you join the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective?

I am a newcomer to the collective, and no less humbled by it.

How did you find your way to Sudden Denouement?

I had already heard of SD, but felt slightly intimidated by the quality and quantity of words already on there.  However SK Nicholas – one of my closest friends, if not my absolute closest, and someone I have known since we were both in single digits age-wise – recommended that I try and join, and put in some very encouraging words on my behalf.

What does “Divergent Literature” mean to you?

Divergent to me is something challenging, and far from the safe and cosy world that seems to perpetuate the shelves of modern bookstores these days.  When something awful like 50 Shades can immediately generate a thousand copycats flooding the market, and the gaps are filled with dry crime, romantic slush and ghost-written autobiographies by people still in their thirties, it is important to still have a gateway to fiction that makes you think and feel and that sometimes grabs you by the shirt, forces you against a wall and demands to be seen.  Fiction that sometimes doesn’t work, but that still merits a thoughtful response.  Words and stories and poems that are brave enough to fly close to the sun, knowing that their wings may melt.  Divergent is to not be afraid of a heroic failure in the pursuit of reaching out and touching the fingertips of someone looking for a fellow lost soul to be their guardian in the Big Bad Real World of white picket fences and Donald Trump.  To want to be Divergent is the desire to connect with Human Beings as opposed to Hard Capital and Sales Demographics.

Jasper Kerkau frequently talks about Sudden Denouement writers using the ‘secret language’. What is it?

I can’t tell you.

Tell us about your literary influences?

Iain Banks was an early influence on my writing, particularly The Crow Road and The Wasp Factory.  Jeffrey Eugenides The Virgin Suicides and Douglas Coupland’s Life After God feature sentences that make me want to climb on my roof and punch the air in triumph.  In recent years I have discovered Bukowski and his anarchic commentary on the Down Life, and even higher than Charles B, I need to acknowledge Donald Ray Pollock whose works based around his life in deepest Ohio are beautiful, poetic and sympathetic to people who have been forgotten by society – I rate him above Bukowski and I rate Bukowski high.  Although this smacks of a weird form of nepotism, SK Nicholas has always been an influence.  I am fortunate enough to have been reading his work since we were both teenagers with Livejournals and I’ve always admired his words.  Lastly, I think JG Ballard possessed the finest and most prescient mind of anyone I have ever read.  Although I never attempt to write like him, stories like High Rise and my personal favourite Vermillion Sands are examples of what literature can do when a mind is unshackled and allowed to fly.

Has any of your work been published in print?  How did that happen?

My work has featured in literary magazines such as Gravel, and a few others that have since passed peacefully away.  I have also written for various fanzines and independent publications.

What are your writing goals? 

My desire is to have a novel and a collection of short stories published.  I would also like to see my Sanctuary series republished in a format that is larger and more affordable to showcase my photography.  Ultimately, it is about making connections.  I want my work to be seen by as many eyes as possible, in the hope that I can inspire someone as much as my inspirations have driven me.

Which pieces of your own writing are your favorites?

Painted Fingernails

Oily Jeans

Death Sun

Apples

Sync

Coconut

What else would like to share about your writing, Sudden Denouement, or yourself?

“What am I in the eyes of most people – a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person – somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low.  All right, then – even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart” 

Vincent van Gogh

“It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption.  Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss.  But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow.  We must all hope we find them”

Mark Rothko

 

 

 

 

 

Menace-Jimmi Campkin

 

The cornfield waves and shimmers before us. I have you on my shoulders and we’re having our Woodstock moment, wooping and crying, high and mighty. The angel dust kicked in over an hour ago and my skin still feels electric, sweat turning to pebbles and rolling off my cheeks and arms.

Faced with a blazing autumn sun, we curse all the gods we can remember; we fuck the Christian god, the Greek gods, the Roman gods, the names and faces of our so called creators we motherfuck out of existence. Only the sun matters now; the heat and the light burning our eyes clear of the filth we see every day in town, before we fill our veins and noses with the truth. Out here in this field we are the only junkies; never kicking down but only kicking up, only fighting the glass ceiling, only trying to win… looking for our hill to die on. When that skinny, trembling greasy cunt met us in the stairwell last week, you looked him in his marble eyes and said firmly we are one of you, and I ended up taking a knife slash across the jaw. Yellow and swollen it hums and seethes, weeping like the rest of this cursed society. Even infected with dirt, it is still more pure than the rest of our neighbourhood.

The town has suffered under a never-ending eclipse, where the moon blocked the sun and has remained there to punish us, to leave us sans soleil, but with cruel glimpses around the black edges of a light we no longer have a right to. That’s why we steal cars and Coke cans. We punch in the holes, fill our lighters, drain the sugary garbage into the soil, and go miles and miles find these places where the glowing radiation above can burn away our cancers.

Climb the tallest trees and you can see the monster under the shadow. We know about the rows of terraced houses, like the walls of an old castle, keeping out intruders; like the walls of a prison, keeping everyone in.

Later in the evening the shimmering globe melts the horizon enough to slip beneath and disappear under us. We feel the warmth as we lay on the soil, protected by thousands of yellow shoots now standing guard over us. I slide my fingers into your jeans. From the shining smirk in your eyes I can’t tell if you are soaking horny, or if you’ve deliberately pissed yourself again.


Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.

Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.

I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Fawn- Introducing Jimmi Campkin

Whitby XXI.JPG[Photo by Jimmi Campkin]

Fawn

We’d convinced the girl behind the screen to let us climb the church tower.  We were both stoned beyond human comprehension – only nature could understand us now – but with her bored expression and indigo hair, we could see a kindred spirit.  Arms over shoulders we talked about the coming of the Lord, and how we needed to get really high, because we wanted to run our fingers through the clouds, and you kept spitting on the glass every time you tried to pronounce a hard ‘th’.  Never mind.  Our tickets were punched, and I swear I caught a smile as a lock of dark purple hair curled over an ear pockmarked with empty piercings.

Up the narrow stone steps we wound, tripping over each others ankles, inhaling all the smells of history – damp, dust and decay.  Emerging on a ledge, supported by one  thousand year old masonry, we stared up at the same sun from all those ages ago, and ran our fingers through the grooves left by people long since lost.  No tombs, no bones, no names, just the gashes in the rock.  I carved our initials into the soft stone to continue the journey.

Your lapdance around the spire was bizarre.  Uncordinated.  You stripped like a propeller rather than a dancer, flinging clothes and limbs everywhere.  Quoting The Dane, you screamed into the air; I have of late, wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth…

I sat down, watching you self destruct, what a piece of work…

Jimmi Campkin

[Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I also enjoy art and photography.  Clicking on the photography link will direct you to a few examples of my pictures, or if you prefer you can look at my artwork.  Most of my pictures, art and snippets from my stories also end up on my Instagram account (@jcampkin)
I welcome you to this site, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.]

Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

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Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

Some unstoppable truths.

A sword blade has two sides.

The craft of sword making is an old one.

It takes many true and uncompromising elements to make an excellent sword, the right metal, the dark matter that is elemental carbon, white heat of the fire, cleansing waters.

The sword, a strong and mostly unstoppable implement of war, it has two sides. Without both sides it is nothing, not sharp, not honed, not fit for purpose, be it war, defence, or peace keeping.

But when it is strong, true and honed it has unmistakable purpose. And that purpose is not stopped by shields, maybe delayed, but not stopped, ever.  As long as there is the strength of life in the arm that wields it, it will do its work.

Hold it up in the air, against an intense sunlight. If it be held broad side, you may see it. If it be held cutting edge facing into the sun, you may not see it. But at least in the radiant and uncompromising white light of day, you have a chance of seeing it, in all its very final glory.

A sword wielded in the dark of the night is the most dangerous, even to the hand on the shaft of it.

Be it either side of blade, day or night; done with skilled swordsmanship, or blindly thrust, in the dark, by a near do well, the result to the tender and open parts, at its journeys end, are the same, grievous injury, or death.

Wishing all parts of your being true honourable strength, wisdom and light.

Under the sun.

Jonathan O’Farrell Pantreon

[Jonathan is the newest member of Sudden Denouement. He is a brilliant writer and a photographer. We are honored by his contribution. Please check out my interview with Jonathan. – Jasper Kerkau]

 

Conversations with Jasper: Interview with Jonathan Farrell

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[Photo: ©Jonathan O’Farrell]

[This is an interview I conducted with the newest member of Sudden Denouement, Jonathan O’Farrell. I have had several conversations with Jonathan about his photography and poetry. I looked forward to the contribution he is going to make to Sudden Denouement and will be posting a selection of his poetry in the near future. He is an immensely talented individual, who has wonderful poetic sensibilities. His work is featured primarily on Patreon.]

Sudden Denouement Collective Q & A. – Sunday 13/08/201
Jasper Kerkau: Introduce yourself, perhaps give us a glimpse into what you do as an artist. You delve into several mediums, give us some insight into your art, what motivates you and what are your goals.

Jonathan O’Farrell: Hi, my name is Jonathan O’Farrell. My family background, if I think about it has been a curious mix of artists and military, or exploring types. There is, or has been in the past quite a pioneering trait, on both sides of my family. My mother was an artist. I don’t see creative work, poetry and photography as being particularly divorced from my daily reality, or being overly abstract. But ultimately I am happy for those who get to know me well as an artist and person to be the judge of that.
If you ask me as a poet and writer what my core themes are then we are talking about landscape, exploration, weather, seasons, nature, animals. Those, just mentioned, are the iconic actors in my poetry; but deeper still, my writing often alludes to significant influences – relationships, self-conquest, self-knowing, loves and loves lost.

Kerkau: I found myself very taken with your photography. Talk about your process, and what you hope to capture in photos. Do you feel yourself to be a photographer or a writer, or both?

O’Farrell: Okay, good question. I am definitely a photographer, but hey – I don’t currently make any appreciable income from it and am for the most part, utterly unknown. But I am damned if that’s going to stop me. You see my photography is a direct extension of much of what I do daily to support myself and others, working on the land, with trees, trying to keep myself healthy and sane. As for process, let me into just one aspect. I don’t have as good eyesight as some folk. So imagine I am walking quickly through the forest (and I do, I have long legs!). I’m striding along the way, full tilt, and then I stop! Say out of the side of my eye I have just glimpsed a vista, a stone, a shadow, or insect. I will stop, back up if need be and then approach my position, for the photo. If it takes me 20 minutes to circle a fire ravaged old Chestnut, wait for the sun to arc some more overhead I will. Sometimes I will almost stop breathing, it’s, almost, meditative how I am bought together with my subject. I just feel, sense first, then capture the photo. At least that’s my nature photography, a goodly bulk of what I do. But urban, historical and streetscapes is a developing practice for me.

Kerkau: I was very interested in your concept of the ethereal dream state. Can you explain how it is important to you to find stillness and how that impacts you as a writer?

O’Farrell: In its most obvious form a creative needs time and space to create. As for the bulk of my poems they come in the middle of the night or very early morning. They come out dreams, to an extent, or at least that half-wake state thereafter. They come to me with maybe as little as a few words, at the title, or line. In that time it takes to awaken, that is the transition space that I use to let more be channeled. At tops most poems are written in 30 to 60 minutes, the whole process. If I ever do post-edit its light. I did take maybe two and a half hours on one poem recently, but that utilized three languages, English, Low German and Anglo Saxon and spans 1,100 years of ancestral heritage – so you’ll have to cut me a little slack on that.

Kerkau: You seem to have a great deal of freedom, which is essential for an artist. Are you tied to a vocation, or are you a professional artist? If you have a vocation outside of writing/photography, what is it and how do you balance both?

O’Farrell: I am an escapee. I jettisoned much of that which comes with wage slavery last year. So, what do I do and how have I been surviving? Bottom line is I am living off savings, very frugally, living and working on the land utilising what vital life skills I have gleaned over 25 or so years, gardening, forestry, conservation, marketing and publicity – almost in spite of having a former existence in transport planning, sat on my arse, in an office for 12 years! Last ten months have seen me work in two animal sanctuaries, eco-tourism and land regeneration projects, as well as collaborating with a fellow photographer and environmental artist in Portugal, Caterina Costa Cabral. You will find me, so to speak, semi-nomading between Portugal, France, with forays into Germany and Belgium etcetera.

Kerkau: I am interested in finding out more about your photography and writing. Where does one find more of your work and to what degree do you utilize social media to find an audience?

O’Farrell: For now find your way to Jonathan O’Farrell on Patreon, it’s my go to site. I utilize other subsidiary channels like WordPress, therein Misterkaki has a little residence. Also I like to give a big shout out to Jeff Brown, the Canadian writer. I worked with Jeff and many others on his online writing course ‘Writing your way home’ and thus I am still involved in a wonderfully supportive Alumni Facebook group. By the way you can find me on Facebook, there are not all that many Jonathan O’Farrells!

Kerkau: I feel that all writers are beholden to someone. For me it was Ginsberg, he was a catalyst for my evolution as a writer early on. What writers are you beholden to?

O’Farrell: Ian Dury, soul/punk/funk wordsmith and songwriter. The chap had severe disabilities, but yet a big inspiration. More conventionally, in literary terms the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke is, I have to say, a fair influence in the genre of poems I might call ‘love letters in transit’.

Kerkau: I found you to be very engaging and intelligent. What is your background in terms of classical education, and how has that impacted you?

O’Farrell: Classical education, he, he, that makes me think – and smile. In short I was semi incarcerated in a series of boarding schools, like my mate Ian D., from 7 to 18 – I could tell a tale or two! I only got mediocre results at school, but did like the humanities and French. I wanted to run away to sea to be a ship’s radio officer, but maths was crap. Art was a love, but it meant I could not take my chemistry studies further – probably just as well, or I’D have blown the gaff sky high! Mature student me, in my late 30s, University of Derby, Tourism and Geography, (Bachelor of Arts, First) and proud of that, as kudos to all mid life learners, with little kids, a job and all.

Kerkau: I have always been fascinated with the concept of home. Thomas Wolfe was an early influence on me. Henry Miller seemed to toil with this issue. Where is home for you, and are you a person looking for his place in the universe?

O’Farrell: Ask me that question when I get there! For now, as we record this I am homeless. Well, not strictly true, I own a house near Leicester in middle England, but I do not live there now, but the kids do, when they are not gadding about at university, or down the boyfriends. Good question though, you’ve just prompted me to finish my slightly travel grubby pocket edition of ‘ WHERE I LIVED AND WHAT I LIVED FOR’
By Henry David Thoreau – respect to that man!

Kerkau: Who are you at the end of the day? Where are you going? Are you at peace with the world around you?

O’Farrell: I am a would-be worshipful lover, of myself, and any other significant others who are brave enough to be in my inner circle, or tribe. Going, well I have to head back down south into the wilds of eastern France in a little while to do a spot of farm work in exchange for storage of a fair chunk of my gear, for up to 6 months in a very rustic barn. After that who knows, probably back to the Mountains of the Stars – Serra de Estrela, central Portugal, where you can drink and bathe in cold, cold, clear waters.
I think the above answers the last question – universe bring it on!

Kerkau: Lastly, do you have a choice doing what you do? What have you sacrificed for your art?

O’Farrell: Yes, I have I have, in theory a choice. But I am very innerly directed in my soul’s vision, so, is that actually a choice, or the unextinguishable light of my given vocation? I have sacrificed a lot, if you think of it conventionally. It is in spite of all the very wonderful people I meet and collaborate with (and may there be more) a solitary life – but there ain’t nothing wrong with that!

Jonathan O’Farrell Patreon

Nothing I Could Do

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It was all so fleeting. The expression on her face says everything. After a terse exchange, I sense that we were both beholden to the past; there is no escaping it.

“Do you think it would ever be different?” She looks puzzled, lost. I am befuddled and confused. Incapable of doing anything. Words become useless ornaments that get discarded. It really didn’t matter what I said.

“I am going to go.” I posit, turning to the door slowly.

“It’s all very sad you know.” I can hear it in her voice. The finality is a haunting presence in the room. She continues, “I don’t know what to say. I just really don’t know what to say.”

“We should talk when I get back.” I suggest, but she and I both know that we will be in a different place then. It would be water under the bridge, just a dark pang that stabs the heart periodically.

“Okay, that sounds great. We will talk then.” Slowly she wipes a tear out of her eye. Embarrassed, she turns as I head to the door slowly, making one last attempt to think of anything that could fix everything.

“I still think of you the same way I did then, that day. It feels like a million years ago.” I walk out the door, silence to my back. There is nothing I can do; there is nothing either one of us could do for that matter. I get a lump in my throat and feel the sun beat down on my face as I walk out.

Jasper Kerkau

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Red with Faulkner

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“…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”  William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury