Check out the animated show Bat out of Hell on Kickstarter!

JOB I ain’t

Look, some people write epic, and some people write doggerel, and then there are some people who aren’t even Irish, so what do you know? Anyway, there was a gathering last night, and there was some Mexican whiskey at the gathering, and there was a great deal of singing, and so naturally, I wrote a song. Apologies, of a sort, to the English in the room. Sung, more or less, to the tune of, “Whiskey, You’re the Devil.”

Oh the English kicked our asses
For seven hundred years
But we have fairer lasses
And we have darker beers
So let them have the courthouse
And let them take the square
And we’ll go back to our house
And take some comfort there

 

Oh, the English fog is yellow
And the English heart is pale
If your friend’s an English fellow
Then your friendship’s sure to fail
So we’ll pay their English taxes
And we’ll speak their English tongue
But when their grip relaxes
Then will Irish songs be sung

 

Oh if I were born in England
I wouldn’t stay at home
I’d get right out of England
And to Ireland I would roam
So for all the English bastards
I feel pity more than scorn
Who wouldn’t be a bastard
If in England he was born?

 

If you have to say it…

IMG_0321

Possible opening shot for Love in the Ruins

Tonight, it struck me that the novel might be filmed in the manner of David Lynch, with an emphasis on the weirdness and horror lurking at the edges of things.

Open on a close shot of Samantha’s deformed face: “The neuroblastoma had pushed one eye out and around the nosebridge so that Samantha looked like a two-eyed Picasso profile.” Her eyes are closed, but it’s only when the camera starts to swing around and pull back that we realize she is in a casket.

The camera completes its swing and comes to rest on Dr. Tom More, who is kneeling at the casket and looking down at his daughter. His expression contains all the complicated emotions of the following passage:

I wonder: did it break my heart when Samantha died? Yes. There was even the knowledge and foreknowledge of it while she still lived, knowledge that while she lived, life still had its same peculiar tentativeness, people living as usual by fits and starts, aiming and missing, while present time went humming, and foreknowledge that the second she died, remorse would come and give past time its bitter specious wholeness. If only— If only we hadn’t been defeated by humdrum humming present time and missed it, missed ourselves, missed everything. I had the foreknowledge while she lived. Still, present, time went humming. Then she died and here came the sweet remorse like a blade between the ribs.

But is there not also a compensation, a secret satisfaction to be taken in her death, a delectation of tragedy, a license for drink, a taste of both for taste’s sake?

It may be true. At least Doris said it was. Doris was a dumbbell but she could read my faults! She said that when I refused to take Samantha to Lourdes. Doris wanted to! Because of the writings of Alexis Carrel and certain experiments by the London Psychical Society, etcetera etcetera. The truth was that Samantha didn’t want to go to Lourdes and I didn’t want to take her. Why not? I don’t know Samantha’s reasons, but I was afraid she might be cured. What then? Suppose you ask God for a miracle and God says yes, very well. How do you live the rest of your life?

Samantha, forgive me. I am sorry you suffered and died, my heart broke, but there have been times when I was not above enjoying it.

Is it possible to live without feasting on death?

More crosses himself, rises, and the camera follows him as he walks down the aisle between the rows of chairs in the funeral parlor. Doris is in the front row. More pauses when he reaches her, his eyes pleading: Why did you insist on the open casket?

Doris senses the unasked question, and retorts, “I want everyone to see what a loving God you’ve got there.”

Defeated, More continues down the aisle and out into the vestibule, where he takes out a flask and knocks back a hefty snort. He closes his eyes. The camera continues out the door to the immaculate exterior of the funeral home. But as it heads for the ground, we see a crack running the concrete walkway — and pushing up through the crack, an ominous sprouting vine.

 

“…to the last syllable of recorded time.”

copyHeath 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.

Kierkegaard Bit

Existential Comics: Kierkegaard Relates to the Common Man

Screen Shot 2017-02-27 at 12.49.18 PM

Click for more

The Last Word on Silence

…comes from my dear brother, and can be found over at Artefact.

Rejected New Yorker cartoons dept.

Photo on 8-11-14 at 4.39 PM

It’s on…or at least, it was on.

A few days ago, I mentioned to JOB that he must be tickled pink to see his former bishop (and the man who gave the green light to Johnsonville’s private chapel) acting a little like the Mariner in “How the Whale Got His Throat,” that is, taking the offensive from a seemingly defeated position. Now the New York Times does a fair job of summarizing the back and forth, complete with The Holy Father’s closing haymaker. In other news that will surely tickle Rufus and Quin in similar fashion, Francis is ordering up a revisit of the Liturgiam Authenticam.

“My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.”

John Hurt (the voice of Hazel) has died. This was my first encounter with that remarkable voice.

Opening Up a Dialogue

House of Words paid Facebook a nominal fee to boost the dissemination of a haiku in support of the Women’s March this past Saturday. And it generated some interesting feedback from outside the usual House of Words demographic.

Screen Shot 2017-01-23 at 10.23.17 AM
Screen Shot 2017-01-23 at 10.24.09 AM