CJ writes from wherever the work happens to be. Raised on a horizon flat enough to watch weather arrive from three days off, the same instinct for reading what's coming now gets pointed at borders, dialects, and the hairline fractures between the self people perform and the self underneath.
What followed was less a career than a long departure — years spent between Asia and Europe, picking up languages, losing addresses, filling napkins and notebooks with lines that eventually became books. A dialect nobody outside one castle town had bothered to write down. A poetry collection assembled from seventeen years of scraps. Longer work now underway, circling the same question from new angles: what does a person become when nowhere is quite home.
No author photo. No hometown. No mention of what pays the bills on a Tuesday. The work is the introduction — everything else stays behind the door it walked through.