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Archives for July 2014

Action Item for Summer


aka Gerasene Northwest, aka Gerasene Guemes

Screen Shot 2014-07-13 at 7.46.50 AM

It’s on.



12 July 2012

A slipper hangs from tiny toes: Our Lord –
A little child – has seen His cross and spear,
Has sped to her whose heart will know a sword.
She holds Him close. Her gaze is dark and clear.
They hang in golden silence…. Twitterings
Of careless birds bring day. Dawn fades the dark.
The clockwork clicks. The hammer hangs, then rings.
The planet turns, and swings along its arc….
The morning sun glides silent up the sky.
The moments pass beneath its sightless ray.
Some few hang solid like an ambered fly;
The rest, like Polaroids, fade fast away….
The noonday sun hangs high. Three things are all:
The point, the palm, the hammer poised to fall.

Surely this has been used.

I didn’t hit forty. Forty hit me.

Potato Salad — Kickstarter

Surfing with Mel (the movie) will be Lickona’s potato salad.



She: Sometimes I think you drink the way you do just so you can stand to be in the same room with me.

He: Well, you know the old saying — “In vino caritas.”

She: “Veritas,” dear. “In vino veritas.”

He: Surely not.

Happy Deathday

More More here.

“Religion is not like baseball.”


I almost hesitate to link to this piece by D.G. Myers on Catholic fiction over at the Books and Culture website, because the print version of Books and Culture is one of the best-designed bits of religious magazine publishing I have ever seen. Maybe subscribe? Anyway, here are some authors who are more successful than you (me):

Neither Christopher Beha nor William Giraldi is a Catholic novelist in the simplistic sense of dressing up Catholic doctrine with what Paul Elie calls “the old power to persuade.” Nor is either of them a Catholic apologist in any form. They are not trying to defend the Catholic religion nor even to make it plausible for readers likely to reject it. They are Catholic novelists for all that, however, with a literary project far more profound—to display religion as inextricably woven into human life, or what the great Catholic poet Gerard Manley Hopkins would have described as its “inscape.” They are nothing like each other, their religious convictions are nothing alike, but between them Beha and Giraldi are redefining how religious fiction, especially Catholic fiction, might be written by those with small need to shout.

Religion is not like baseball. There are no baseball novels; there are only novels about baseball. True, a novel may be about religious faith, although to say this is to say very little about it—crucially, it is to say nothing whatever about the novel’s point of view toward religious faith. The greatest religious novels are written out of a religious discernment much the same way that surrealistic poetry is written out of a particular vision of reality: it soaks the work from top to bottom. Critics may go on complaining of a lack, but those who are looking for religious fiction written from the ground up should find themselves copies of the striking recent novels by William Giraldi and Christopher Beha.


To Chelsea, in My Dreams

electra at tomb of agamemnon

“You said they had found the secret of happiness because they had never heard that love can be a sin.” – O’Neill

I did not tell the world your name but kept
In secret what no government could pry
Away from me: Through warp and weave, I slept
With Chelsea Clinton, never asking why
It would not do us any common good to meet
Beyond the bed of Hypno’s diligent conceit.

In solemn mood you came, a maiden cut
From Browning’s tweedy cloth, a Stanford girl
With melancholy smiles, your bolts of chestnut
Enshrined in flowing lock and plying curl.
(O famous Morpheus! Let poet’s pen secure,
For her and me, obscurity’s own sinecure!)

And smarting as a tragic heroine
From Sophocles, Euripides or O’Neill
You came to me like dawn and stayed till noon
And time again had struck their shady deal:
“But hush!” You said, and sang instead of morning light –
Of origins of day, of  “incense owls by night….”

You thought adultery a privilege
Of presidents – their public moments reek
With blooming adulation’s entourage;
So bitterness commits a couple lines of Greek
To your memory: “No god harkens to the voice
Of lost Electra – no, nor heeds the sacrifice

Once offered by my father long ago.”
The testimony’s dress and legal suits;
The palace intrigue and tabloids’ ado –
Our hearts were met where head on breast refutes
An idiotic world, though wishes borrow time
And count them by the rhyming sense of reason’s dream.

So you’d your life and I had mine; we knew
The world was full of cares that cared for us
Much less than daughters for such fathers who
Inhaled Climene’s venomous nonplus:
I kissed your lips, and heard the Lethe speak your name….
All politics is local in Elysium.

A tiny taste of things to come.


The Body of This redux

Remember The Body of This? Author Andrew McNabb was an attendee at the first-ever Gerasene Writer’s Conference, way back in the day! We here at Korrektiv did our darnedest to push the book, and it looks as if our efforts may have borne some fruit. Lo and Behold, Wiseblood Books is reissuing the blessed thing (this is where you click to buy it), and best of all, there are NEW STORIES in it!