Agitation

Alexandrine Ogundimu Agitation (2022)
This approximately continues the story from Ogundimu's Desperate and is, I would guess, at least partially autobiographical by some definition, because the detail seems too painfully well observed for it to be otherwise. I don't recall Desperate as being particularly lacking in any sense, but Agitation nevertheless seems to take it up a few notches, whatever it is, relating a thoroughly grim narrative yet without itself being grim, refusing to push buttons or play the usual sympathy cards. In this respect it reminds me a little of John Fante, although this may simply be because I read The Road to Los Angeles fairly recently.

I'm almost hesitant to mention that Ogundimu is a transwoman and that V, the narrator of Agitation, is an autogynephile, because although this is an element of the story, it's simply one component of the whole, but one which might be seen to eclipse everything else given the current climate of social media - which would be misleading and a disservice to the author. Indeed, the subject is such that I'm reluctant to elaborate beyond that Agitation sheds a refreshingly honest light on the matter; and by honest I mean unflinching and entirely free of the usual one size fits all empowerment horseshit which I doubt really helps anyone. This isn't porn, but neither is it an indictment or even dirty laundry, so thank Christ someone has the guts to write this stuff without doodling pink fucking unicorns in the margin.

Desperate

Alexandrine Ogundimu Desperate (2020)
In which, it might be argued, Amphetamine Sulphate somehow slip a title in amongst the yuletide canon inhabited by A Christmas Carol, Frosty the Snowman, A Charlie Brown Christmas and others by virtue of V, the central focus of Desperate, spending the happiest time of year with family and taking entirely non-ironic delight in all its trappings. V is some sort of student of literature resident in New York, just about getting by, drinking more than seems advisable, and occasionally standing upon a subway platform wondering what might happen should he step in front of the next train.

It would probably be lazy to describe Desperate as stream of consciousness, although that's sort of what it is with its long, long paragraph length recursive, rambling sentences following V through the landscape of his own approximately functional existence; but the effect is a kind of sensory overload which works very well in conveying a sense of the territory, the disorientation, and occasional excursions away from the sexual mainstream. It feels somehow like a map of New York and, for my money, does a better job of it than Steve Finbow's Mindshaft - the last Amphetamine Sulphate title I read - not least because it's shorter and sharper, yet not without a certain tender quality; also because the text somehow lends itself to the cadence of Lydia Lunch.

I'm very glad Amphetamine Sulphate hasn't completely turned its back on the chapbook format because this otherwise might not have seen the light of day, and it's a cracker. Once again I'm impressed by how each new addition to the catalogue seems to bring something different to the table.