I’m not sure about McLu’s connecting Mary with Wisdom here (“playing before God in the beginning” — Prov 8?). But good stuff re. “faith comes from hearing” and his own conversion. “You have to knock pretty hard.”
Remember what I said about Facebook and heaven? Remember how you rent your garments? Marshall McLuhan said the same thing about the telephone in 1965.
I’ve been surf-boarding a McLuhan wave of late and mostly sucking up salt water, but having a good time. Got tubular here:
Look what Wiseblood Books is cooking up:
Wiseblood Submissions: Open Season for Unsolicited Manuscripts
Wiseblood Books, a recently-launched editing and publishing line, is soliciting novels, novellas, and short story collections for its inaugural line of contemporary fiction. To submit a query, visit http://www.wisebloodbooks.com/publishing.html and follow the instructions.
Wiseblood Drive: Secure the Pulse of Cultural Renewal
In order to fully animate our brand new editing and publishing line, Wiseblood Books is holding its first Wiseblood Drive. Donations will helps us to advertise publications, solicit introductions and critical essays from established authors, improve our software, maintain our website, and support our staff.
We are grateful for even the most modest donation; no amount is too small.
Those who donate $33.00 or more will receive a Wiseblood Classic of their choice. Visit our Book Catalogue to view recently released Wiseblood Classics, a line of books that preserves the enduring epiphanies of now-dead custodians of the beautiful-truthful. Through this series we give new form to great works of literature at a price you can afford.
Those who donate $333.00 or more will receive an entire Wiseblood Classic Library, complete with every book we’ve published to date. Donors on this tier may also request a Classic they would like to see us print.
To donate, go to our homepage: www.wisebloodbooks.com
The next day
was much warmer.
– Elizabeth Bishop
A golden finch is singing rain in notes
That fall in desperate distances of cloud –
The agony of rust that sounds a gate’s
Intransigent articulation. Wood
And field are cropping frozen fog and hold
Their tongues to seek relief from winter’s chafe.
This March is hard and time is growing old
While April strives to dream the fallen leaf.
The snow dispersed beneath a chilling rain
Is pocking furrows, mocking shadows’ claims
To death and night and all that draws a line
In time – what ties to stone our names
And dates – what pulls at earth with rusty cry
And rips the frozen hinges off the sky.