Colin Dodds’ cataclysm of phrases and lines, broken by a tough guy making good on his promises, has got the Zarathustra thunder of myth and the You Can’t Win resignation of Jack Black (not the singer, the old grifter-writer who sent William Burroughs to the interzone).
He provides us with sharp knifes of the low life mind and a cathartic liturgy genuflecting for an exit. Spokes of an Uneven Wheel speaks for noses out of joint, joints out of town, and entire towns out of luck. And we are there too, among the overcast of characters. Maybe we’re at the helm of a ship that sunk before it was built. Or maybe we’re prisoners not of walls, but expanse, free to roam forever with zero chance of escape. Being bad at things is the one thing we’re good at. Like a singer songwriter who’s masterpiece depends on laryngitis and a guitar in the pawnshop, in total exile from easy street.
But exile from is also exile to, where despite the bleak economics, overbooked disappointment calendars, and a landscape of scapegoats, we prevail together. Life is uneasy, dark, and essentially impossible, yet here we all are. Under Dodds’ gaze, our existence is the obtained unobtainable which easily surrounds the darkness… sometimes.”
– Brendan Lorber, author, If this is paradise why are we still driving?