NB- some of you will have seen this update already. I tried a different email distributor and it was a disaster. Here then is the email you should have received last week, with thanks for your indulgence…
Well, this year just keeps getting weirder doesn’t it?
I am underwater on a number of (mostly self-imposed) deadlines, but I wanted to surface briefly to share some bits, lest they accumulate and read like some catalogue in future.
First up, I published this Advent Meditation, thinking about how we might get our hearts, our homes, and our playlists ready for Christmas. Here’s a clip.
If we sing “Come though Long Expected Jesus,” it should not be with a tired longing that only half-believes he’ll actually arrive, but with a giddy joy: Mary is pregnant! All the unbelievable prophecies are about to happen! It’s joyful in the extreme. It’s a waiting still, to be sure, but one completely without sorrow.
It has found many appreciative readers who wrote with encouragements, and some push-back too, as is to be expected when gesturing in such bold strokes. I continue the discussion over on my blog.
Then, a book review that I wrote some years ago was finally published in Romantic Textualities. A snippet:
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s was already a problematic corpus, fraught with fragments, co-authorings, deletions, contradictory manuscript copies and titular revisions, almost to the same rank degree that his was a problematic corpse: decayed, dismembered, sainted, quarantined; all of it dubious and difficult and intensely intriguing.
You can read it here. This piece was fun to write because, when the editor asked me, I demurred. “This is the worst academic book I’ve ever read,” I explained, “how can I say that in a review?” She replied something to the effect of “Oh, I think you’ll find a way.” She was right.
Let’s see. The good editors over at The Mockingbird put out a call for “Sports poems” and at first I thought, yeah right! Me? I don’t even have thoughts about organized sports, much less artworks about them! But then, I thought, no wait, there are metaphors to be mined even there. I made them this poem that was just printed in their beautiful full-color journal, which can be ordered here.
Listening
Jazz, almost entirely. No new pop music this year is giving me any joy whatsoever. I am interested in the new Sandra McCracken and Matt Beringer records, and I wish I liked the new Phoebe Bridgers and Sufjan Stevens, but I’m giving up on both, having done due diligence. You know what I wish? That we could make a chimera, with Sufjan’s lyrics over the melodies/recordings of Taylor Swift or Jeff Tweedy, those vapid tunesters. Or I could just wait for a new Starflyer 59 record to come out. sigh
Meanwhile, here are two playlists that I’ll be cruising through (made by friends) during this, the best season for listening.
Reading
- Breaking Bread with the Dead Alan Jacobs
- History of Anglicanism
- World Beyond your Head Matthew B. Crawford
Okay dear ones, new restrictions in our state mean that my family gave thanks at a mostly empty table, but I will be thankful nonetheless: for my health (such as it is), for the work I am blessed to do, and for all of you readers and friends far and wide.
I’ll send one last missive before Christmas, barring major developments, and wish you peace meanwhile.