Posts Tagged ‘vespers’

Welcome to the New Secret Vespers

The Secret Vespers website has undergone an overhaul. This new format is based on WordPress. It allows comments, RSS, a calendar archive, and other useful features.

As always, thanks for reading!

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Installments about my Friends

I am doing a series of posts based on a question I asked my friends, “what object represents you?” I hope they will still want to be my friends after I have shared the results with you, Internet! The first one goes live March 10.

The “Not my problem!” Boy

There are new stickers for sale at the Secret Vespers shop. They feature the “Not my problem!” boy, a dancing cartoon character who is just so happy that this is not his problem. I would not be surprised to wake up and find him stuck to the garbage chute of my building.


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Secret Vespers on Facebook

There’s a Facebook Page for Secret Vespers. So if you use Facebook, you can voice your support and make Secret Vespers a huge sensation—with tens, even dozens, of fans. If you have ever wondered what the faces of the other readers look like, now you will know!

You will find the same images you find here, plus there is a discussion section. Right now we are deciding which installments to use in a small print run this autumn. It looks like there is a video section, too. Someday we will have to put something there.

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Lovesick? Lovelorn?

There is a new section at Secret Vespers, called Lovesick. It is devoted to the passionate moments and affairs you are doomed to lose forever, to the desires you can barely name. It is devoted to the crushing realization that there is nothing you can fix, that there is no way to get that feeling back, that there is a world of dreams never to come true. And that they are all beautiful.

Lovesick is a series of confessions to the Internet. Each one is posted live. Each one attempts to capture the loss or impossible fantasy of a lovesick, sleep-deprived character.

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Secret Vespers: I Only Pretend to Hide

The first ever book of Secret Vespers prints is out. Angel House Press was crazy enough to publish them, saying the twenty-eight vignettes are “witty and wistful.” Amanda Earl, who runs Angel House, describes herself as “a renaissance libertine writer publisher bohemian bon-vivant anarchist malcontent troublemaker” and I think that explains why she agreed to print my work.

You can buy a copy for your own, or, for the greatly rewarding experience of giving, you can hand them out to all your friends. Witty and wistful, folks; we’ve got it all right here. Order them from the Secret Vespers Shop, where they wait beside many other delightful items, or at Angel House Press, or by clicking the button below. Thanks so much for reading; you really are the best readers and commentators anywhere on the Internet.

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Quiet Babylon

Let’s talk about scale! My friend, Tim Maly, writes a blog called Quiet Babylon, and in this post he discusses scale:

These Secret Vespers installments are tagged with scale, though many others could be. That crushing sense is one of the hardest sensations for me to put to words. Like love, hope, and so many other pre-verbal feelings, I find I can set it up with words or art, but that’s all I can do. The rest happens in the viewer or reader.

I get sort of dizzy, sort of light-heading, and I feel sort of outside myself when the scale of something big hits me. The traffic seen from above a major highway does this to me. The ocean, especially when stormy, does this to me. That documentary, Baraka, does this to me.

But enough about me. What has given you a crushing sense of scale?

Short Stories and T-Shirts

I hope 2010 is off to a good start for you. Secret Vespers has changed the site layout, and has added hovertext to every episode of the comic. Now you can go back through the old posts and see what shows up when you mouse over them.

There is a new section, Stories, where I post material that has been published elsewhere:

And, there are t-shirts for sale at the Shop:

To Sleep through the Call to Prayer

I have not yet learned to sleep through the call to prayer. It carries over the rooftops, ten thousand loudspeakers just out of sync, a monophonic rondo that sweeps me into the seventh century. The call is both far and close; it is, like the Southern Cross, a whisper from another time.

But no one counts the hours or the years. There are no seasons, the days are unchanging. Nothing dies out, nothing freezes over—not the mosquitos, not the refuse in the river beds. Everywhere we look we find the litter of surplus, the riot of vegetation, the overgrowth of humanity spilling out, as if God’s thermometer has snapped apart over the streets and its mercury dots have become the motorcycles.

Five men sit under a sheet metal screen, quiet as a constellation. They are waiting. They are blank with waiting, waiting for anything to happen. The hours pass uncounted, news and trivia fall into the gutters with the rest of it, with the wastes of humanity.

This peace is mystic, ancient and crushing. They say never to add music to what silence has said best, but this is a peace I want to shatter with a chord. And you—with you I want to rouse the street, not to prayer but to life. I want us to inspire the roofs to lift and the vines to tumble, the city to erupt like the volcanos that surround it, leaving gardens in the craters and love letters in the igneous pillars.

Tonight, love, we will gather up and organize. Tomorrow before dawn we will storm the mosques, fill them to bursting, spill out over their grounds. A choir of thousands, we will sing through their megaphones. We will make an instrument of them, the greatest organ ever built, the throat of Jakarta. Together we will join in a resonance that will rise into the sky and fall onto us, a celestial command that, touching our foreheads, will lift us to our feet.