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Archives for May 2012

Canticle: A Lamentation of Lamentations

for Jonathan Potter

Telling it ruins it.- Walker Percy

If time’s axes could be measured by x’s and y’s,
Weightlessness would hit the moon and comes up short
As typical astronauts would goof on graffiti
That beats them to the punch – “Clapton is God,”
The lunar lithograph exclaims. The pretensions
Are less than literary and more than time allows.
This message from the stars came back as reverb,
A name renamed, distortion, a bending of chords….
The same for seeing Israel dimly touching goatskin
On a TV talk show – “That’s Esau, or my name’s not Ishack!”
He touches his nose and suddenly all of Egypt knows
The shivering of naked bodies, all twisted by weird news –
Assemble on a hardwood bench before a swimming pool,
Olympic-sized, its water cold with catharsis. A sauna
Awaits an answer, scalding hot with cleansing steam.
The swimming instructor presumes to know their ἕποι
Let’s count them off – a madwoman who bent herself
Into a chimney and another into a ventilation shaft:
Both waited to die, discovering what we’ll never find out
Unless we interpret their deaths as more akin to life;
A man who chewed away at the face of another man,
Strong with the urge to prove that human flesh must eat,
Faceless, drug out from shadows, out into light,
Miami’s hot sun, in plain view, faceless, nothing new….
A boy who burnt his parish church down to see Christ
The night He was born. His innocent match lights the hay,
The statues, altar, body, blood, soul and divinity.
Still another boy who greeted mother as a corpse
Every day for seven weeks after school, alone, together,
And not knowing death, only sleep and love;
He took direction from her ghost until the matrix
Decided enough was enough; then there was the last,
So lost in numbers among forceps and lawful blood,
The airlock of bickering rhetoric, a silent scream,
This one, he or she, counts, observable, if only for Rachel.
Remember Rachel? “Who is Rachel? What is she?”

My guitar gently weeps.

Location Scouting, Somewhere Along the Gulf of Mexico


Man versus the elements

If we do decide to establish regional branches to report back to Korrektiv HQ, I may have found us some prime beachfront property in Florida. Wish you all were here.

“So Much for Vicars and Churches…”

Or, the discovery of the moral universe, done way better than I ever did it.  Longtime Friend of the Kollektiv Santigao Ramos tears it up:

“So much for vicars and churches,” because even when they’re not present, life is still a problem and a question. Even when the marriage plot dissolves, the human drama remains. It resurfaces in a different context.  As far as literature is concerned, the problem is not that liberalism has eroded the materials a writer makes use of. The problem is that no writer has lived up to the challenge of facing his own time, of being a “novelist at the end of the world.” To paraphrase the common piece of advice that conservatives give to radicals: The problem is not the system, man. The problem is you.

And it is not even true that no writer has lived up to the challenge. Modernism was, if nothing else, an attempt to live up to this challenge. I am struck by the confident way that T. S. Eliot uses that very word, “you.” “My words echo/ Thus, in your mind,” in “Burnt Norton,” and “You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/ A heap of broken images…” in “The Waste Land.” In fact, even though it is not a novel, “The Waste Land” is perhaps the quintessential example of the type of work we need today: a work that accepts the ambiguities and fragmentation of its time, and still finds the human heart beating within it. He knows who you are.




Because we are more hip than Santiago had thought.

Don’t look now, but First Son makes electronica.

Artist’s notes: “It’s late, I’m tired, and this track sucks. [Aw, he takes after his old man.] I started out mixing a good kick, which I think I did pretty well, but the rest of the track eventually went to hell, mainly because I used too much reverb on everything. Well, I forced myself to finish it and post it for completion’s sake. It’s kind of Trance-y, which is what I was going for (my favorite subgenre of Electronica), with a signature Super Saw Lead and pulsating bass line. Again, I THINK this is Trance; to me, it sounds like Trance. If any expert wishes to refute that, then, be my guest.”

BONUS TRACK: Apparently, the kids these days like this thing called Dubstep…

Artist’s notes: “So, yeah, This isn’t that great a track. I’m still an amateur. But it is one of my better ones, and I thought, ‘Hell, this is good enough to at least put on youtube.’ I THINK it’s dubstep, according to the original definition of the genre, but I don’t pretend to be an expert. Criticism and hatin’ are all okay and encouraged. At least it’s feedback, and that’s kind of the only way I’m gonna get better. As for the name of the track, well, No lyrics, so I could title it anything and it would sound kind of stupid.”

Whispers of the River Ghost

More here

Bob gets a medal.

Going Pro

Why yes, I did actually get paid to play the Director of the British Museum on a radio drama that is basically the Creationist version of Johnny Quest.  Why do you ask?  More importantly, do you need someone to do voice work?

Giger Redux

Yes, I know I’ve already sounded the bell on Giger and the Horror of Babies, but I can’t help linking to this silliness over at Ye Other Blogge.

Unititled Post











More here.

Happy Birthday Dr. Percy

Walker Percy
Toasts to mercy
And he drinks
To Kate and Binx.

From The Writer’s Almanac:

It’s the birthday of Southern writer Walker Percy (books by this author), born in Birmingham, Alabama (1916). Percy’s early life was marked by tragedy: his grandfather and father both committed suicide with shotguns, and his mother drowned when her car ran off the road into a stream. When his uncle in Greenville, Mississippi, adopted Percy and his little brothers, things took a turn for the better; it was there that he met his lifelong best friend, the neighbor boy Shelby Foote. As teenagers they took a trip to Oxford to meet their hero, William Faulkner — Percy was so overwhelmed that he stayed in the car as Foote and Faulkner talked on the porch.

Percy went off to college in Chapel Hill, and later to New York for medical school. He contracted tuberculosis and spent the next two years at a sanitarium. It was, he later said, “the best thing that ever happened to me because it gave me a chance to quit medicine. I had a respectable excuse.”

Instead, Percy decided to be a full-time writer. He finished two novels—one was based on his experience at the sanitarium—neither of which he could not get published. [sic] But he kept at it, and his novel The Moviegoer (1961) came out when he was 45. A year later it won the National Book Award. Percy published five more novels and many essays.

In 1976 Percy was a professor at Loyola University in New Orleans when a woman called him, asking him to read her son’s manuscript. He felt guilty turning her down—the woman’s son had committed suicide in part because of his despair over not being able to find a publisher for his novel—so Percy agreed, and was so impressed that he conspired to get it published. The Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole, went on to win a Pulitzer.