Dirty Halo comes with intimately toned dreamscapes that demand, via
no b.s. exuberance, that my imagination exist and function. His tanks
grow roses; he dreams himself into a palace made of holes; he wears
the mascara of Andromeda; he hallucinates new contexts for hope,
while understanding the mutation of philosophy into style; he does
not assume your brain. What the fuck else does one need?
Welcome to the 'valley of the near yonder
hell, an Out West sort of place," where you will find "Golgotha embellished
in cement" and the "mascara of Andromeda." While you are here, "pay attention
to the words collaborating inside [y]our skull." Geoffrey Dyer certainly
does. So much so I swear that Apollinaire, William Eggleston, and Harry Dean
Stanton have been slipping Dyer some potent Kickapoo Joy Juice. Apollinaire
brought Jesus into the 20th century, and now, in the 21st century, Dyer sees
"Jesus in his panorama." This is America. And, like Eggleston and Stanton,
Dyer is a damned wonderful guide.
Geoffrey Dyer's impressive first book is
filled with beautiful contradictions, its lines turning over into lush,
angelic underworlds. The "rows of corn in her shadow," the little black within
the dream, the convergence of immanent patterns on the other side of a
cardboard panorama. Here, "at certain moments, we stop being different,"
but how does he do it? Be careful when you read this book. It's like being
twice as awake.