My New Paper Shredder

is an absolute dream. For years I’ve hunched over a brown paper grocery bag every few months, laboriously trying to cut my medical reports and payment past due notices into confetti. This year I got a brand new shredder for Christmas, and feeding six months worth of backlogged paper into this hungry little monster was the most fun I’ve had since piling up all those bills and medical problems in the first place.


As I was about to take the bag down to the recycling bin, I spied one cutting that read “on bended knee”. Seemed significant. What on earth could the gods be trying to tell me?

I looked at another that turned out to have a number of Chinese characters. Assuming I could safely disregard these, I sat down right there on the floor and pulled out a few more, continuing to disregard the Chinese characters, lines of seemingly random numbers and letters, and of course those that were blank or had been cut perpendicular to lines of text. What I ended up with was this:


Thank Heavens for my training in Classics, which included deciphering legends stamped onto coins, the handling of ancient manuscripts, and—most helpful here— epigraphy. Here’s what I’ve been able to determine:

[Your] mission is [at] 5:00 on T[itan.] We have the e-Surge, and we claim thy pathways logo are trademarks of Cenall. They are like nomination meetings, or s[oft]ened [skulls], but [oh] how it felt on bended knee! Now is the time, Wanderer—pray tell your fri[ends they] ARE NOT REQUIRED TO PAY.

So there you have it. Not gods, I now understand, but that intergalactic force of aliens from EGS-zs8-1 now hiding behind Planet X. While I appreciate the information as well as sentiments conveyed in that last line via all caps, I’m not sure how I feel about Cenall claiming my pathways. And they may denigrate said pathways as a reading back of the minutes of an annual Rotary Club meeting or Aunt Sylvia’s habit of including herself in the conversation on Fox and Friends, but the point is simply this: these pathways may not be pretty, but the fact is they work. What you’re feeling there is success. You’re welcome.

So I won’t be disposed of that easily. I’m a man of my word, so you can count on me to make that trip to Titan—but you can also expect me to wander by the Cenall HQ on Europa before I do. And then we’ll see about that e-Surge, you can be sure of that.

by Vladimir Nabokov

I was given Nabokov’s Collected Poems for Christmas, a gem of a book with poems that span more than fifty years. Several of these poems reveal concerns of the author that aren’t much in evidence in the novels. For example, who would suspect the author of Lolita of being a kind of gnostic, closeted, Orthodox co-redemptionist? Well, the gnosticism wasn’t disguised, although the charge was very ably mocked. But I think it’s a fair reading of the following poem, at any rate.

The Mother

Night falls. He has been executed.
From Golgotha the crowd descends and winds
between the olive trees, like a slow serpent;
and mothers watch as John downhill
into the mist, with urgent words, escorts
gray, haggard Mary.

To bed he’ll help her, and lie down himself,
and through his slumber hear til morning
her tossings and her sobs.
What if her son had stayed at home with her,
and carpentered and sung? What if those tears
cost more than our redemption?

The Son of God will rise, in radiance orbed;
on the third day a vision at the tomb
will meet the wives who brought the useless myrrh;
Thomas will feel the luminescent flesh;
the wind of miracles will drive men mad,
and many will be crucified.

Mary, what are to you the fantasies
of fisherman? Over your grief days skim
insensibly, and neither on the third
nor the hundredth, never will he heed your call
and rise, your brown firstborn who baked mud sparrows
in the hot sun, at Nazareth.

Posted without comment…

our lady of the rabbit


h/t RC

Oath and Abundance

visitationFor Elizabeth, on her birthday

Elisheba, young Aaron’s wife, saw
The scorching sun and torrid sand
On Israel’s treck avow no shadow
Nor soothe the azure sky – such land
Where all the colors drained from Eden
And drowns a rainbow’s hope for heaven…
The voided desert shades refuse,
In justice, spectrum’s seven hues.

Elizabeth, though, aging wife to
Old Zachariah, sits and rests
And waits to see her promised guests
Descend the everlasting hills now
From heaven’s blue – her mantled earth,
An advocate for mercy’s birth.

“Et Post Dies Octo…”


After eight days, the room begins to stink,
Our sweat and fetid flesh a single stench
That gives no quarter to speak or even think
Beyond this tomb. Our teeth and fingers clench
Around contending bones of fact. One link
Remains. She rests upon a mantled bench
In silence. Thomas murmurs, “Dead! No more
Alive than fish that rot upon the shore!”

The seven sins were baying at the door
And through them hissed a slinking doubt;
There’s naught – not even fishing anymore –
To occupy our hearts and heads. We can’t go out;
We loath to show a soul our faces, flout
The laws, the priests. To flee Jerusalem,
We pay with fear to rent this upper room.

“The six days of creation” – Thomas fumes
Suspicion – “has that time now taken place?
But two more days than that have passed!” Presumed
To be upon an errand, no trace
Or word all week, now returned, exhumes
His doubt and doubles down with furrowed face

And five fingers knit within his hair, held
Dissembling without purpose. “Jesus! What
Would he have us do?” The tears shimmered – welled
Within his eyes. In sudden heat he spat,
“No – let doubt make wounds again of each cut.”

These four wounds – bled out – gaped with candle flame
The following dawn – and Thomas too awoke
To take as truth what blessed the heart he broke
And, crumb by crumb, he gave away in shame.

“For three days, the corpse of Lazarus spoke
In silence all that death could not attest.
My Lord, my God, what fire your ashes stoke!

“In twinned apocalypse of east and west,
Once dark broke my fast, thy light became my feast!”

Burning My Fire in the Sun

Bonus feature.


cf. House of Words, p. 44

Lunch in a Hospital Cafeteria

Bird’s Nest in Your Hair turned a year old last week, and in celebration of that happy day I thought I’d post a chapter from about the halfway through the novel. In truth, it was brought to mind by Matthew’s call “to write some stuff” in the Slog, Korrektiv, Slog! post below, and Ironic Catholic’s comment #37910 in particular.

Every Monday at noon (Sundays and Mondays were her days off) Diana had a standing lunch date with a friend, Laura, born Catholic, but as Laura herself liked to put it, a recovering Catholic. They met at the hospital where Laura worked. Laura had been a classmate in school who had used her biology degree to go to nursing school, eventually becoming a Nurse Practitioner, a new title that required more education and brought more responsibility. Laura had originally wanted to become a doctor, but wasn’t able to get into medical school and decided on nursing. Her failure at getting into medical school gave her the kind of experience that Diana had come to appreciate while experiencing her own troubles at the lab where she used to work, while Diana’s adoption of the Catholicism was a subject of endless fascination to Laura because of her own experience growing up in a Catholic family, going to Catholic schools, and coming to see it from the inside as a lot of myth and superstition generated by people out of an irrational fear of living life to its fullest. As she liked to put it.

They each picked up a brown, plastic tray and began sliding their way along the metal rails in front of the salad bar. Diana took a dinner plate and piled up some lettuce on top of it. Laura was right behind her, adding cucumbers, carrots, and broccoli as they navigated their way past all the different selections.

“Don’t understand why you like those things,” said Laura, shaking her head as Diana added beets to the side of her plate. “Makes your shit turn purple!” she said, with all the attention to bodily functions that marked her as a true nurse.

“Jeez, Laura. I just want to eat without having to think about how it’s going to look in the toilet,” said Diana. Sometimes she tried to match her friend’s taste for explicit and crude remarks, but she knew she was at a disadvantage. Laura worked all day long with people who maintained the same irreverent attitude towards the body, all the while in service to it.

There was also a fair amount of irony in their conversations, an irony which both of them had come to appreciate with a sense of the greater implications of that irony, each of them still enjoying new insights offered by a different point of view. And because matters of faith have a tendency to blur into of matters of politics, political issues often became the fulcrum on which their conversation balanced. They scrutinized each other as their voices rose and fell like the ends of a seesaw. The only problem for Diana was that her reasons for becoming Catholic were extremely personal, so that even when she agreed with Laura she sometimes felt as if their conversations were missing the point.

For example, Laura was very much against the death penalty, even for the most hardened criminals. The recent execution of a convicted serial killer celebrated in the national media was a natural enough reason for bringing the issue up. True, this execution took place in Texas, but one of the statements Laura lived by was “all politics are local.”

They paid for their salads at the cashier’s station and moved on to one of the booths. It was over by a window and guarded on one side by number of huge plants. Sometimes Laura liked to gossip about work, and she had to be careful in the cafeteria.

“When you think about it, killing them is really a waste. They should be studying homicidal maniacs to find out what makes them tick. Then they might be able to do a better job of weeding them out before they can do any more damage.”

“Yeah, I agree with you. Executions are wrong. That’s why the Church has come out so strongly against it. But I’m not sure I can follow you all the way when it comes to something like profiling. More information is good, but it can’t be right to convict people even before they’ve committed a crime. That’s not right either.”

She also wondered how well this kind of profiling fit Laura’s generally progressive inclinations.

This made sense to Laura, so they were able to find common ground: profiling is bad, counseling ought to be offered to troubled people before things started to go badly, and contributing negative societal factors ought to be ameliorated as quickly as possible. It all sounded nice and they both felt better for having said these things. Of course, neither Diana nor Laura was a homicidal maniac, so they were on fairly smooth ground there. They both understood that things got a little rockier when the issues approached anything personal.

Another example: one of Laura’s pet theories for Diana’s interest in the Catholic Church was that Diana had once secretly had an abortion, felt guilty about it, and had decided to become Catholic in order to provide some kind of structure for the guilt she (in Laura’s view, unnecessarily) felt. That Diana hadn’t told Laura this only reinforced Laura’s understanding that Diana’s decision was deeply personal, and about this Laura was absolutely correct. As a matter of fact, however, Diana had not had an abortion. If Diana had had an abortion (she had mulled over the matter this much) she probably wouldn’t have told Laura about it for much the same reason that she had not felt like telling Laura that she hadn’t had an abortion. If it’s possible to imagine something more personal than the decision whether or not to have an abortion, Diana felt that somehow this was it. It was true that Diana’s choice to become Catholic was closely intertwined with personal problems, but she hoped these issues weren’t her only reasons for joining the Church, and didn’t like to see her turn toward Catholicism framed in terms such a limited way. Personal problems seemed to Diana a less legitimate motivation than an objectively verifiable truth.

What Diana learned to appreciate was Laura’s refusal to just come right out and ask her, Diana, if she’d had an abortion, if she felt guilty about it, and whether that guilt had been a motivating factor in her choice of becoming Catholic. She respected this reticence on her friend’s part, and honored it by not assuming (out loud, anyway) that this was in fact her opinion. She let Laura maintain this reticence by not telling her the full truth behind her decision, but one result of all this reticence was a certain lack of clarity in this area of their friendship. Another result was that instead of discussing the matter in personal terms, Laura discussed it in political terms, similar to the way she had discussed the death penalty, but with a good deal more circumspection.

“You know, I really went into medicine because of my grandmother,” said Laura. “She worked as a nurse in the fifties and sixties, and she developed a reputation for helping women who had nowhere else to go.”

“Wow,” said Diana, who knew where this was going, but didn’t want to commit to being much more responsive than offering a simple interjection here and there to help Laura along. She found herself less and less interested in politics as she deliberated over the Church more and more, but as Laura talked, Diana found herself holding peace.

“She grew up Catholic, of course,” continued Laura, “and I think she still considered herself a member of the Church even as she was helping women with abortions when nobody else seemed to care about them at all. For her, it was an issue of social justice. She was inspired by Dorothy, you know.”

Laura meant Dorothy Day, who in the midst of the Great Depression founded a magazine dedicated to social justice called The Catholic Worker. Dorothy Day, Peter Maurin, Thomas Merton and a handful of others had by mid-century become beacons for progressives everywhere. She was a pacifist who admired Gandhi for leading his followers down a path of non-violence. She also believed social justice required more than pamphleteering, and therefore ran the House of Hospitality in order to minister to the needs of the poor in New York City. For all this, she was a sign for Laura of the little that was right about Catholicism. True, Laura didn’t consider herself Catholic any more, but this was really the best way she had of talking to her friend about religion. Dorothy had become something of a catalyst for their conversations.

Diana was cutting her circular beets into halves by this time and eating them one at a time. She tried to make her meals last as long as possible, and finished by cutting those halves into quarters, and the last quarter into eighths. She imagined for herself where they would finally end up and started laughing. Laura looked down at her plate and started shaking her head from side to side in mock consternation. Day’s autobiography The Long Loneliness was one of the books that had drawn Diana towards the Church. Although she wondered how Laura could square her commitment to legalized abortion with the strict stance on sexual morality taken by Day towards the end of her life, she never pressed the point.

“Yeah, I remember. Your grandma once met Dorothy Day, right?”

“Yep. In the seventies, after a talk she gave in Brooklyn. Grandma says she’s a saint, even though the patriarchy will never recognize her. They can’t afford to. They might appear weak.”

“Yeah. They agreed on almost everything, didn’t they?”

“Almost. Dorothy liked some article she’d written about systemic evil, but she was firm on the old churchy notion of sin. Grandma has always said that when it comes to evil, we always need to take contributing factors into account. Pick your battles. Being good is a luxury that the underprivileged can’t always afford.”

“Huh. That’s something.”

“You know that, don’t you Di? There are always contributing factors.”

Laura was smiling when she said ‘the old churchy notion,’ because she knew that Diana was right when she had insisted that Laura’s grandmother and Day had agreed on ‘almost everything’. ‘Almost’ said more about their most important difference of opinion than everything said about their agreement. She didn’t really mind that Diana did this, because it gave her a chance to say a little more about grandma and score a couple of more discussion points on her favorite topic. Despite their differences, Laura was nothing if not a good friend. It was important for her to help Diana understand that she wasn’t as guilty as she assumed she was—whatever it was she had done, whatever it was that had forced her into the Church.

Diana liked listening to Laura, and admired her for the tenacity with which she held onto her beliefs. While Diana’s own opinions could probably be considered liberal, she was beginning to feel more and more that political ideologies were insufficient when it came to religion. Since religion is by definition bound to tradition, and the preservation of tradition is usually associated with conservatism, it made sense that in the catechumenate she was finding herself engaged with conservative ideas more and more often. She was a little uncomfortable with this, but not enough to say anything about it to her friend.

After Laura finished her salad, they both got up as if on cue, and took their trays over to the bussing station. This was a long counter, behind which ran a conveyor belt that took the trays back to some unseen worker manning the washing machine in the back. Diana imagined how nice it would have been to have an operation like behind the bar at Queequeg’s. One of her least favorite parts of the job was running the bus tub from behind the bar to the dishwasher in the back of the kitchen. After they left the cafeteria they walked out to the main lobby of the hospital, where they both ordered drinks from an espresso stand by a giant aquarium.

It was relief to listen to her friend, whose commitment to political causes gave Diana a certain amount of elbowroom when it came to discussing religion. Diana no longer considered herself as liberal as Laura; but she didn’t exactly consider herself a conservative either. She’d been given several books by her sponsor that were in a more religious vein, including several popular books on theology by an author who had a cartoon doppelgänger in Ned Flanders of The Simpsons. Some of the books on her shelf that had helped lead her toward the Church included Annie Dillard’s For the Time Being and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Others she hadn’t yet read, such as Teilhard de Chardin’s Phenomenon of Man and The Divine Milieu. She had the official Catechism, of course, and a Bible broken up into daily readings. In her progress there she was about two months behind, all the way back to about a week after she started. For the most part Diana just listened to Laura, who seemed so much more steadfast in her beliefs. Diana did worry that this was something of a cop-out, a way of evading the real issue, but as she listened to Laura it became less clear what that real issue was. Diana wasn’t interested in converting her friend back into the fold. She was having enough trouble sorting out her feelings about the upcoming ceremony. She had the sense that pursuing the matter with Laura would only lead to greater confusion.

They stood up from their well-cushioned chairs and embraced quietly before walking towards the elevators.

“Yep, contributing factors. Know all about ’em.”

“Well, what the world needs are more people like Dorothy Day and my grandma.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you ever think about going into some kind of medical work, Di? You’re obviously smart. You should think about it.”

“You sound like my mom. I know I should. I am. Right now I’m just mulling a lot of different things over.”

“Well, we all need to do that from time to time.”

Diana stepped into an empty elevator and turned around to say goodbye to her friend.

“Yeah. I guess this is my time.”

Each managed a lazy wave before the doors closed. Diana pressed the letter for her floor in the parking garage, telling herself how lucky she was to have Laura as a friend.

Street photography, St. Joseph’s Abbey

Screen Shot 2013-10-16 at 12.20.32 AM

It ain’t HCB, but it was still really cool to encounter a Marian-Eucharistic procession while walking back from visiting Percy’s grave. Word was that the place is awash in young men who want to be monks – the numbers way up from years past.

photo copy 9

The Struggle Between the Profane and the Sacred

Happy Feast of All Saints, everyone.

New Bob

Canticle: A Lamentation of Lamentations

for Jonathan Potter

Telling it ruins it.- Walker Percy

If time’s axes could be measured by x’s and y’s,
Weightlessness would hit the moon and comes up short
As typical astronauts would goof on graffiti
That beats them to the punch – “Clapton is God,”
The lunar lithograph exclaims. The pretensions
Are less than literary and more than time allows.
This message from the stars came back as reverb,
A name renamed, distortion, a bending of chords….
The same for seeing Israel dimly touching goatskin
On a TV talk show – “That’s Esau, or my name’s not Ishack!”
He touches his nose and suddenly all of Egypt knows
The shivering of naked bodies, all twisted by weird news –
Assemble on a hardwood bench before a swimming pool,
Olympic-sized, its water cold with catharsis. A sauna
Awaits an answer, scalding hot with cleansing steam.
The swimming instructor presumes to know their ἕποι
Let’s count them off – a madwoman who bent herself
Into a chimney and another into a ventilation shaft:
Both waited to die, discovering what we’ll never find out
Unless we interpret their deaths as more akin to life;
A man who chewed away at the face of another man,
Strong with the urge to prove that human flesh must eat,
Faceless, drug out from shadows, out into light,
Miami’s hot sun, in plain view, faceless, nothing new….
A boy who burnt his parish church down to see Christ
The night He was born. His innocent match lights the hay,
The statues, altar, body, blood, soul and divinity.
Still another boy who greeted mother as a corpse
Every day for seven weeks after school, alone, together,
And not knowing death, only sleep and love;
He took direction from her ghost until the matrix
Decided enough was enough; then there was the last,
So lost in numbers among forceps and lawful blood,
The airlock of bickering rhetoric, a silent scream,
This one, he or she, counts, observable, if only for Rachel.
Remember Rachel? “Who is Rachel? What is she?”

My guitar gently weeps.

“Do Pre-Persons Dream of Algebra?”

Well, look at that, Alphonse (and other attempts at getting at the infinite mystery and fragile pricelessness of personhood through fiction) isn’t kid’s stuff, after all… At least, not if we’re to believe what the esteemed and delightfully grumpy Thomas Fleming has to say about Philip K. Dick…

image credit


Holy Mother, Thank You So Much.

Adventures in Apocalyptic Marianism

One link leads to another.

Mr. Burrell of All Manner of Thing recently added Bad Catholic to his blogroll, which prompted me to take a fresh look at Bad Catholic. Then I noticed “Heaven Speaks” on the Bad Catholic menu bar. Marc, the proprietor of Bad Catholic, says: “A year ago, my life was changed by the grace of God, through a little pamphlet written by Anne, a Lay Apostle, who claims to be receiving interior locutions (private revelation) from Jesus, Mary and the Saints.” Marc offers to send you one of said pamphlets if you drop him a note.

Marc’s endorsement made me curious, so I Googled “Anne lay apostle” and found Anne’s website, Direction for Our Times: Official Resources for Lay Apostles of Jesus Christ the Returning King. I read Anne’s “Introduction Letter” — a little goofy with the mention of vague illnesses and such, but possibly genuine. She also mentions Medjugorje, which I’m pretty fond of, but which might be enough to cause other Catholics I know to spit on the ground and turn away. So I found my way to Anne’s online library. After poking around a bit, I discovered that the documents overlap. The “pamphlets” and “volumes” are compiled and organized into the “books” — so I gravitated to the latter, starting with the first one, Climbing the Mountain. Now I’ve read the first thirty pages or so of Anne’s account of getting a tour of heaven with Jesus Himself as the tour guide, and involving casual encounters with Anne’s grandmother, St. Clare, St. John of the Cross, St. Peter, St. Bernard, St. John the Apostle, Our Lady, and others. Heaven is vast, with mountains and streams and rooms, gathering places and places of solitude where souls absorb and learn from Jesus, festivals of celebration, and meetings where saints strategize about how best to usher in the renewal of the world and the return of Christ as King. “Jesus said that we live in an age of disobedience, which means that many souls are living in rebellion to God’s will. He says that we are moving out of this time, toward an age of obedience, when most souls will live in unity with God’s will. The time we are in now is a transition period.” It’s pretty heady stuff, exciting, astonishing — maybe even genuine and not just Anne’s own personal excursion into a creative writing project that got out of control … maybe!

So I returned to Google. Hmmm… “Claims of Private Revelation: True or False? An Evaluation of the messages to ‘Anne,’ a lay apostle” sounds possibly useful. Someone by the name of Ronald L. Conte Jr (his CV, of sorts, here) concludes that Anne’s messages are the genuine deal, to wit:

These messages do not contain any of the characteristics of false private revelation. In truth, they show every indication of being true private revelations from God. These messages are entirely in keeping with the messages found in the Gospel. In my humble and pious opinion as a faithful Roman Catholic theologian, the claims of private revelation to Anne, a wife, mother, and lay apostle, are reliable and trustworthy.

Hmm … side trip to his blog … whoa … okay, whacky, but … interesting. Back to Google and Anne. Okay. Here’s something. Semper Fi Catholic’s Letter to Anne’s Bishop. One a them wacky* forums you find on all sorts of topics. This one is an exchange wherein Anne’s real identity is supposedly revealed, someone provides a link to private emails someone else dug up between Anne and someone she was counseling to divorce her husband in 2001, etc. Supposedly this demonstrates that Anne is a fraud, etc. Oh boy. But I’m still leaning towards accepting Anne as the real McCoy.


* Or perhaps not so wacky; see comments below. And why did I spell it “whacky” just a few lines earlier, but “wacky” here? Speak to me, O Spellcheck. “Whack!”

In which the Pope cites a novel that takes place at a time near the end of the world

 …and various Churchmen and Catholic entities with short views on ecclesiology and long views on themselves shuffle their feet and clear their throats.

Take it away, Father Rutler!

Today in Japan

So apparently, someone in Japan made his own version of Augustine’s Member.

Which, for whatever reason, reminds me of this awful passage:

Francis woke in his room, shivering. He had kicked the covers off – no, he hadn’t. Why so cold? Irritated out of his wee-hours grogginess, he glanced over at his window – closed. Then he saw it. In the corner opposite from his bed, just behind the damp city-light drifting through his window, sat a quivering pile of something that did not belong. He tensed and sat up, gripping the sheet with his fists, then leaned forward, squinting into the dark.

Whatever it was, it was about three feet high and three feet across, a rounded, lumpy mound. Lumpy – it seemed to be comprised of nothing but lumps: small lumps, big lumps, firm lumps, flaccid lumps, round lumps, tear-drop lumps, lumps squeezed together, one against another, lumps upon lumps… and on top of each lump, a darkened point… Francis’s face looked he was gagging, like he had just swallowed something designed to make him vomit. What was in his corner was a jiggling pile of women’s breasts.

A voice slipped out from somewhere within the pile: “Hello, Francis.”

Oddly, the salute made Francis feel better. Once the thing had spoken, he had been reassured of his safety – here was something he could engage.

“W-What are you?”

“I’m surprised you ask. Weren’t you at the Timken a few days ago? I never made it into the paintings – a touch vulgar for serious art, I’m afraid – but I can assure you that Bosch was well acquainted with me. As for my name, you may call me Buub-el. I know it’s an awful joke, but it was felt that you would appreciate it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“That’s right. What am I doing here? Why aren’t I in heaven? Wake up.”

Francis woke up; it was morning. Over breakfast, he gathered up the stray bits of lore he had received concerning the fall of the angels. Lucifer, God’s favorite, had rebelled with the cry of Non serviam – I will not serve. Better to be a king in hell than a slave in heaven. He had committed the sin of pride, the root of every sin, putting himself before God. A third of the angels had joined his revolt; there had been a war in heaven, and St. Michael had cast Lucifer down into hell. But why? Why would someone who looked God in the face ever suppose that there could be something better?

Speaking of creating reality…

More here.

Merry Kristmas, Kollektiv and Korrektiv Korrespondents!


Some say the world