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Archives for May 2010

Today in Porn, While We’re At It Edition

Susannah Breslin, the writer behind Letters From Men Who Watch Pornography, also recently wrote an essay about porn auteur Max Hardcore. Soon after, she got an email.

(Both links contain graphic language and descriptions.)

Not only is my work finished, it’s being done better by others.

الصفر

وصوت المجتمع في مدينة نيويورك أمس مجلس لوضع خطة لبناء مسجد ومركز ثقافي بالقرب من البرجين.

Today in Porn, Letters From Men Who Watch Pornography Edition

Letters From Men Who Watch Pornography.

My work was finished ages ago. I really should stop.

Catholic Losties

A round-up of end-of-Lost musings from the Catholic blogosphere and elsewhere:

Mark Shea, Catholic and Enjoying It!: Open Lost Thread and You Can’t Have Too Many Lost Parodies (I like the angle Mark begins to elucidate here, that Lost is a “Catholic Pagan Myth” and that “the storytellers, while pursuing an overall grand narrative of redemption, don’t know how to pay off the huge narrative debts they have accrued.”)

Dorian Speed, Scrutinies: LOST (spoilery but not spoiled)

Amy Welborn, Charlotte Was Both: Lost

Danielle Bean, National Catholic Register: More Important Than Polar Bears

Robert King, Virtue Quest: What got lost in “Lost”

Clayton Emmer, The Weight of Glory: on the conclusion of LOST

Peggy, Southern Illinois Catholic: LOST Finale: Christian Imagery and Message

Mark Davoren, OP, Godzdogz: Finales, Finishes and Theology

Davin Winger, Mary Mail: Lost

Will, Sutter’s Casebook: The LOST Story

Carl Olsen, Ignatius Insight Scoop: I was going to explain everything about “Lost”…

Julie D., Happy Catholic: So It Was Purgatory All Along

Mary Deturris Poust, OSV Daily Take: Lost and Saved

Travis Prinzi, The Hog’s Head: LOST Finale: Why I Loved It

Tony Rossi, The Intersection: The Afterlife of “Lost”

S. Brent Plate, Relgion Dispatches: What the Lost Finale is Really About

Ross Douthat, The New York Times: The ‘Lost’ Finale

Terry Mattingly, ScrippsNews: Lost in the white light [includes a theologically-astute quote from Amy Welborn]

Speaking of OSV…

(Not to mention doctors who know merde when they smell it…)

Looks like the folks over at the Indie-Catholic from Indy will let anyone write for them.

Percy and the Century of Merde

In French, friends, merde is a naughty word, but Walker Percy was not naughty in that respect.

Lost Catholics

I’m still thinking about the last Lost episode, Matthew. I’ve been busy and you told me to take my time. I will reply to your challenge, I promise, and I will rebuke you for your persecution of the show you once loved. In the meantime, here‘s a little something from no less than Our Sunday Visitor, deeming Lost to be a Catholically significant TV show.

This blog has been deemed culturally significant by no less than the U.S. Library of Congress.

https://korrektivpress.com/2010/05/2287/

Leavings

-inspired by a picture posted on Korrektiv

When the rain came down and cooled off our heads,
We realized it was exile after all.
The passage of time – struck off by chord-change,
Explicit rhythms and feedback that scratched
Like a cat’s claws – wanted to be minded.
The chemicals laid their claim; we tripped on
Through to the coming decade in love
With sunlight and our own shadow and though
Our bliss told otherwise, our love warned us
We were unworthy of the world to come…

One morning before all this, we met like fates
On misting moors – except it was sun and drugs
That dulled our acquaintance half way there.
By striking up a small conversation,
You prepared to leave at my arrival.
Instead, you sat back down and watched the sun
Dangle among the trees. It was wartime,
Both of us fresh from college, dressing down,
Rehearsing Eden’s imminent return
With guns and numbers on our side, allied
In summer grass with plenty of future
To play with. Universal college dreams
Became too soft for books, and hardly known,
I asked you your name. You smiled, unpacked
Your music and strummed the melodic spine
Of Delphi’s oracle, no more planned
Than children in 1967…

When I dream of love, you sang to strings,
I can think of nothing good to bring you
And yet, when it dies, I can think of nothing
But what’s left behind.
The augur was in it
And so we decided then and there to leave
For Yasgur’s dairy – a 48-hour drive
Up an empire’s backside into farmland
Faint and blessed with the resembled pleasures
Of Elysium. It’s milk and honey
Would make God shudder; we didn’t even blink.
The rest was summer sex – with autumn’ show
Cancelled until 1979.
(You can’t be thirty on Woodstock Mountain…)
Rain, the crowds and beads, our totem’s joy,
The heartache of having to leave it all
Scattered the moment in acres of mud.
(Though you’re thinking you’re still too young to leave…)

Posters advertised in vulgar colors
The “aquarian exposition”
Which could have been the rain, but more likely
A revolutionary indulgence
Which left the highways jammed, the farms
Unproductive and town folk unwitting.
The poster’s dove – plumb as a catbird – perched
Upon a gripped guitar’s phallic neck and frets.
It would transform our sense in time and place.
But as we turned to listen, it went silent.
Unfazed, the reedy sounding broadcast hum
Was prepared to speak like a bomb in song
As it tuned into the turn-ons who dropped
Out of history for one brief, soggy weekend,
Only to meet it fairly square, right there
On Yasgur’s back forty, conceived
As fetus to the man, barren autumn
Around the corner, the birth preordained
And amplified on music’s cold shoulders.

A vain attempt to recapture the garden
Had brought us here. We lovers, determined
As fools to rediscover our folly
With little more than paraphernalia
And faith in bread and beer. The rain was best.
The mud that followed worst. We conceived
It the best of worst times, the worst yet
To follow, greeting us with Roman excess
And Greek abandon, pipes with strings and pipes
Of smoke – and I cried with recollection
The day I turned to find you entangled
With mortality on the debris field,
No longer immune to life’s deficiencies.
I never forgot you, but never owned up.
I grew up and left you behind, disowned.
In my dotage, stock portfolios
And IRA’s in decline, I had time
To play my life out: I invested well,
Abridgements warring with aggrandizements,
The painful many things that I was so close
To having, the achievements that left you lost…
There was no music at your funeral;
The obsequies had all been played out, spent
As worthless liturgical coin, our works
And days, our only patrimony.
We became a generation – and what
We would stock our faith with could not save us.
We became a generation – but what
We produced now hates what we left behind.

Wept.

Dear Milli by Wilhelm Grimm and Maurice Sendak.