My main site now is http: //about.me/stephen_jacks58
I was trained in Psychology, Logic & Metaphysics: only later as a lecturer, artist and 'venerable media grafter'.
I've been author or editor of over a dozen books as well as a journalist whose features appeared in The Independent, Time Out, Sunday Telegraph and leading national magazines. I worked in television films, one of which won Crystal Prize at the Prague Festival; and I was cited by the Head of BBC Music and Arts as 'a writer of the Upper-First Division'.
Imagine, then, being lucky enough to find yourself landed in a near-fantasy career: and then nearly losing everything, through what some might have conceived as an accident waiting to happen? The follies of a gratingly naive love affair, I'd rather say; and of too great a predilection for disappointment at the little vicissitudes of things. At the prosaic business of living and learning from fairly witless belated mistakes - you know?
I fell through the cracks in the pavement. But it was only because of this, approaching the Millenium, that I discovered the magical potential of digital imaging to transform our preconceptions of what we imagine the world to be like. The resulting juxtapositions of my art and poetry have been described as 'fascinating and amazing' by a leading US novelist. Elsewhere these visuals found acclaim as 'hauntingly beautiful': the words as 'tight and life-enhancing''(John Hegley) , with a richness comparable to John Donne's.
Mmories of my own darker period, the fresh revelations of a subsequent sort of rebirth, offer endless avenues of inquiry as well as new and welcome pleasures. My latest book Dead People on Holiday is available through Amazon and good bookshops. It has been called 'sublime'... 'visually stunning' and it's also available as an eBook.
Out there, beyond the abyss of night
Beyond the lightlessness that lies behind my own
Eye – worse, my inner eye –
A dog is howling.
...
he span of his gaze was so great
He could not see the generations come and go before him:
Flickering, quicker than motes on a sunbeam.
Growing, rotting, burning at a supersonic pace;
...
It’s night, when one needs love like blood,
And a city is an iceberg of lights,
The air throbs, roars like a distant bear.
The finger of one’s mind, in indolence,
...