Initiation, 1999 by F. Scott Hess (b. 1955)
Dear Jane, 2024 by Robin F. Williams (b. 1984)
From “Mark 14:53-16:20” by Chester Brown. Published in Yummy Fur #14, January 1989, Vortex Comics.
“The Resurrection Morning”
by
Winifred Holtby
When Mr Barrow died, none of us knew quite what to say to Mrs Barrow. ‘Deepest sympathy in your loss’ perhaps was best, because you can sympathise with fortune as well as with misfortune, and loss may be good riddance of bad rubbish.
Not that Mr Barrow was exactly bad rubbish. The obituary notices called him a ‘prominent citizen of Kingsport,’ and he had been a town councillor and a sidesman at St Agatha’s Church, and left a tidy sum invested in War Loan and corporation stock. A pious man, the vicar of St Agatha’s called him, and sent a cross two feet by one, particularly handsome. Mrs Barrow, however, was not pious. After ten years of married life she had abandoned her belief in God. Her husband could insist upon her attending church, but he could not prevent her from sitting down whenever the rest of the congregation stood up, even during the Creeds. What he said to her after the services we never knew; but Mrs Barrow told me that if the Almighty was such that He could appreciate her husband, Mr Barrow was welcome to Him.
I watched her at the funeral. She was over seventy, a worn-out little woman in her new black. But she held her chin up and her hymn book in both hands, and sang with the perfect confidence of stalwart incredulity:
‘On the resurrection morning
Soul and body meet again . . .’
Of course there was no Resurrection Morning, and there was no God, and Mr Barrow was safely hammered down into his grand mahogany coffin with brass handles. Continue reading ““The Resurrection Morning,” an Easter story by Winifred Holtby”
We — that is, my family of four — split a nice spring break between heatwaved Los Angeles and more temperate Santa Barbara last week. I managed to squeeze in a visit to The Last Bookstore, which I hadn’t visited since 2017.
I keep a little list of books and authors to search for; one of these is the long-out-of-print 1987 cult novel Xman by Michael Brodsky. I found it about two minutes in, under “B” (duh) in gen fic for the steep steep price of five U.S. dollars. I also picked up another James Crumely novel, part of the Vintage Contemporaries series.
We — that is my son and I — also visited Skylight Books (after an unexpected pilgrimage to the Figure 8 wall on Sunset — the mural from the cover of that Elliott Smith record — we were just walking by it and my son who is a Fan lost his shit). Skylight Books is very very cool, with a great selection of comix, art books, zines, &c., but I failed to pick anything up, mostly because I was hungry and cranky.
We also visited LACMA, where I was disappointed that the many of the paintings I had seen on my previous visit were not currently on display (including Georges de la Tour’s Magdalen with Smoking Flame which knocked my socks off when I saw it up close all those years ago).
There was a cool exhibit by the contemporary artist Tavares Strachan. One of the segment of the exhibit is a series of painted plates, several of which depict extinct species. I couldn’t help think of Thomas Pynchon’s riff on the poor dodo in Gravity’s Rainbow when I saw this plate:
La Couleur Assiégée (The Besieged Color), 1947 by Suzanne Van Damme (1901-1986)
Detail from Portrait of Isaku Yanaihara, 1956 by Alberto Giacometti (1901-1966)
A page from Man from Utopia by Rick Griffin, San Francisco Comic Book Company, 1972.
Detail from The Orator, c. 1920 by Magnus Zeller (1888-1972)
Pink Devil (Detail), 1984 by Jean-Michel Basquiat (1960-1988)
“Some Dread Disease”
by
Flann O’Brien
from
The Various Lives of Keats and Chapman
Keats and Chapman once called to see a titled friend and after the host had hospitably produced a bottle of whiskey, the two visitors were called into consultation regarding the son of the house, who had been exhibiting a disquieting redness of face and boisterousness of manner at the age of twelve. The father was worried, suspecting some dread disease. The youngster was produced but the two visitors, glass in hand, declined to make any diagnosis. When leaving the big house, Chapman rubbed his hands briskly and remarked on the cold.
‘I think it must be freezing and I’m glad of that drink,’ he said. ‘By the way, did you think what I thought about that youngster?’
‘There’s a nip in the heir,’ Keats said.
From “Catholic School” by Penny Moran. Published in Wimmen’s Comix #15, 1989, Rip Off Press. Reprinted in The Complete Wimmen’s Comix, Vol. 2, Fantagraphic Books.
Sewing Machine, 1978 by Leonor Fini (1908-1996)
Departure, 1988 by Paula Rego (1935–2022)
“The Birds”
by
Emmy Bridgwater
from
Surrealist Women: An International Anthology (ed. Penelope Rosemont)
“The Birds”
One
He pulled the blanket over and he drew up the blind. The yellow mice rushed into their corners. The spiders ran behind the pictures. The lecture began on Christ the Forerunner. Only the very young mice sat still to listen. The blackbirds flying near the window passed the word to each other. “Come on. Here we may find something. Something to put our beaks into.” Snap went the window cord; down came the blind. The birds, disappointed, did the best they could. They flew nearer and nearer the windowpane. It was dangerous. It wasn’t worth it. But they wanted to get the news—to be the first to know—to pass on the news. What had come to the lecture on Christ? Did one still lie under the blankets? The spiders laughed into their hands to think of the birds outside all twittering and over-anxious.
Two
As she walked into the garden the birds flew down to her pecking at her lips, “Don’t do that,” she cried, “It’s mine. I’m alive you know.” “Well, why don’t you wear colors?” She heard them talking. “Dead people walk, but they don’t wear colors. They scream and they talk too.” The birds went on chattering about dead people. They all perched up on the holly bush but they didn’t peck the soft berries. They just stared down at her. All of them stared with their little black beady eyes. They were looking at her red lips.
Three
“Sing a song for the King. Come on, now sing.” The child was shy to start, but her mother, standing behind her gave her a little push which startled her into opening her mouth and she began, “Wasn’t that a dirty dish to set before the king?” “Begin again dear,” whispered her mother, “at the first line,” “O.k. ma,” and she chanted, “Four and twenty black… oooh,” for a peacock had walked in front of her and spread out its tail and croaked “Frico. Frico.” The little girl went very white. “Frico. Frico,” she said. The birds, who had been sitting on the cornice as part of the decoration, flew down into the court and circled about the heads of the King and Courtiers, fluttering as close as possible. All the people flapped their hands helplessly. Suddenly the little girl pointed at the King. “You must get out of here,” she said in a grown-up voice. “This is their Palace.”
Morning, 1971 by John Koch (1909–1978)
Night, 1964 by John Koch (1909–1978)
Biblioklept 