Heath Ledger’s Joker performs Macbeth’s “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…” for a captive and humiliated Batman at the most recent iteration of Cherie Peacock’s Shakespeare Party, held at the La Mesa home of Tim and Roisin O’Neill.
Archives for February 2017
We’ve got another novel for you to write…
On February 18, 1916, a Catholic priest was executed by the state of New York at the Sing Sing prison — the only priest in America to receive the death penalty for a crime. The New York Daily News today did a look back at the story from a century ago.Father Hans Schmidt was convicted of murder, following an affair he had with a woman. Before he killed her, he also paid for their baby to be aborted.
…comes from my dear brother, and can be found over at Artefact.
Apparently a grad student named Turpin did.
And apparently everyone does…now.
As noted in the New York Times, Whitman once wrote in 1882, “My serious wish were to have all those crude and boyish pieces quietly dropp’d in oblivion.” Later, when he heard someone was interested in publishing his past fiction, he said, “I should almost be tempted to shoot him if I had an opportunity.”
Clearly, Whitman hadn’t expected Turpin…
A diligent striver at an office seeks to rise through sheer effort, despite the lackadaisical behavior of his fellow team members. He does great work, but the hours spent covering for everyone else’s sloth cause him to develop serious carpal tunnel syndrome. As a result, he is unable to grip things without considerable pain. The boss takes notice of his tremendously good work, and calls him in to congratulate him. But at the end of the meeting, the man’s handshake is, of course, painfully weak (and also just painful to the man himself, who winces visibly). The boss, who had been thinking of promoting the guy, begins to wonder if he’s really management material. For that matter, maybe it’s not him who’s doing such great work. Maybe it’s that fellow he works with, who always appears so fresh-faced and cheerful…
Sure, they’re not overturning cars yet – but just you wait until they get their rosaries in women’s ovaries. Then it will be all over!
(And watch that sassy Barbara O’Brien lassie in particular (yeah right – that’s her real name!) – she’s probably hiding a pressure cooker bomb behind that placard she’s holding – and getting ready to set fire to cop cars to boot!)
They blame the weather, they blame your sex,
They blame the fox, the hawk, the panther on the stairs,
The demons in your box, the angels that rushed ashore;
They blame whatever black and white they read
And I blame you – not for dying but for the remnant love
You left upon the table. Selfish. I knew one like you
And she too could love, she too, eyes aware, would look
Beyond her abilities although her abilities were
Enough to keep her grounded in fame and excellence.
Your lips curled at such words. Hers softened
Into a heart, fleshy, wanting kissing, wanting words.
I see her picture as I see yours, her sun-reddened skin
Like peppermint candy as she sits in her bathing suit
And soaks up an open field amid the mountains,
The naked light pouring down and trying too hard
To match beauty for beauty, each blade of grass a lash
From her eyes as wild flowers flush the press of her breasts….
Those were yours, too, the pictures I saw, the words
I heard you say. I wasn’t afraid of your darkened light.
I would love to carry on a love affair with you
But you are dead; pushed away from your mother,
Your children, a whiff of gas escaping through
The cracks in the linoleum. The zoo could not hold you,
The forest knew you but not your spirit. The yew
Alone is no forest and yes, I know, the forest fell
In winter, the wind cracked in winter, the spring
Divorced the worst winter ever – and you are dead.
I blame the weather; I blame the sex we never had.
And a table top candle holding proud its teardrop flame.