Fergus, Weaver of Autistic Webs > Recent Status Updates

What the turbulent, never-say-die Christian novels of Hilaire Belloc were to the Edwardians, so the political, cut-and-thrust Christian novels of Davis Bunn are to our own times. Fasten your seatbelts!

It is hard to believe I am old enough to have a baby. But given the chance, no matter how good it feels to hold one, I would not bring a child into this new world. It is too hateful.

This Naxos audiobook is excellent!

(Papa’s) eyes take on a fierce glow.
‘But we are all together. Many families have been separated in their flight. Whatever happens, we must all stay together.’

HIDING OUT FROM THE NAZIS!
Tell me a story, Mama:
‘There once was a little frog... he loved adventure.... This one day, he came upon a bucket...He jumped up to see what was inside it.... it looked like white water. He jumped in... he was trapped. He kept kicking and swimming... and he kicked again (to freedom). He had swum so much he had churned the milk to butter. So never give up, children.’

This beautiful e-book is FREE today on Amazon!
6 Feb 19.

E-BOOK ON SALE AT A CUT-RATE PRICE ON AMAZON!
6 Feb 19.

A KNOCKOUT of a book!

The dark Nazi storm has reached the doorstep of Hanna’s home. But her family’s undying love continues unabated.

Wonderful, heartwarming book - real human goodness, thriving in the shadow of so much pure evil!
*****

The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to la Rochefoucauld...
And I say, ‘Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.’

FIVE SURE STARS for this one right from the word GO!

Cannon to right of ‘im
Cannon to left of ‘im
Into the Mouth of Hell
Rode Father Elijah!
(Apologies to Lord Tennyson)

*****The Kindle version of this highly acclaimed biography is drastically marked down on Amazon today!
Feb 3 2019

Let go of creatures
and they will fade away
on their own.
Do not think anymore
and allow yourself to go
into God’s inmost place.
Humbly, lovingly, gently,
remember Him,
for he wants stillness for you
and quiet.

A CRYPTIC SIGN
August. The woods are silent.
No sway of treetops, no skitter of squirrels,
no startled bird. Sky fragments
in rifts of canopy,
palest silken blue.

I go, I go
without purpose.
I come, I come -
Why do I come?
If anyone asks the way
I laugh and say
‘Hai, hai!’

Lift your flowers
on bitter stems
chicory!
Lift them up
out of the scorched ground!
Bear no foliage
but give yourself
wholly to that!
Strain under them
you bitter stems
that no beast eats -
and scorn greyness!
Into the heat with them:
cool!
luxuriant! sky-blue!

Now has come, an easy time. I let it
roll. There is a lake somewhere
so blue and far nobody owns it.
A wind comes by and a willow listens
gracefully.
I hear all this, every summer. I laugh
and cry for every turn of the world,
its terribly cold, innocent spin.
That lake stays blue and free, it goes
on and on.
And I know where it is.

My mother (always the reb’s wife) heard her out and said, ‘The best thing is to say Kaddish for oneself.’
‘How, my dear, can one say Kaddish for oneself?’
‘One does deeds of charity. One prays... One does not speak ill of other people. All of this is better than the best Kaddish.’
The old woman pondered this, then left.

Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island...
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven’t let that happen, but after
I’m gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.

Let water run
over the ridge-line relief
on the rock’s surface.
Let yourself be reminded
of wrinkled skin - then live,
as I do, in a reverie of near
silence and time
on nobody’s hands, time that passes
so slowly, it’s not time at all,
it’s water and air.

In the serpentcoach, past
the white cypress,
through the flood
they drove you.
But in you, from
birth,
foamed the other spring,
up the black
ray memory
you climbed to the day.

I’m not a joiner, so I tend to fly under the radar. Whereas my classmates’ club memberships take up half a page by their yearbook photos, my yearbook photo looks like a mugshot... my ‘vaguely grumpy expression’... suggests homicidal tendencies. I’m even an outlier in my own family.

Stop thinking about it.
That’s been my mantra for the past two weeks. Two weeks of scans and second opinions and hushed conversations about right temporal lobes and...
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
Easier said than done....

ARTINE
To the silence of one who sets us dreaming.
To offer a glass of water to a horseman as he passes hurtling headlong on a racetrack invaded by the crowd takes an absolute awkwardness on both sides... Impatient, he was perfectly aware of the order of dreams which would henceforth haunt his brain.